I like the Challenges because they inspire me to write. Sadly my own muse has the attention span of goldfish, hence nothing I ever try to start ends well (or at all). Yet here I can spit out a short poem or ramble on for a paragraph or two and feel accomplished. Strange.

I'm not sure which Challenges grab my attention; I tend to scroll through until one incites an idea. I agree with other Prosers here that people tend to read Challenge entries more, since it seems like a way to gather up similar-themed pieces in an easy area for perusal. Yet I've never been interested in who wins -- just seeing if anyone enjoyed my writing or if I can find any pieces I enjoy myself. I think that's the real success there.

I have realized that despite my best efforts to maintain my grumpy curmudgeon status I tend to write about my partner a lot. I suppose that's romantic after ten years together, but it does seem silly sometimes when I look back at the ridiculous amount of poetry it's inspired. I've decided to finally print some and share them for V-day (I have not shared a single piece of my writing with my lover - it's never occurred to me). They will be titled, "I Never Believed in Soulmates: A Collection of Reluctantly Romantic Poetry" and dedicated to my love, "whose fault it all is". Most likely, they will be glanced at and forgotten; my love is more into numbers than letters.

The only other trends I can see are my random rants about life as a lowly wage slave, which tend to be my most passionate pieces besides those above. Perhaps the two things that drive me most are love and hate -- mayhaps the Challenges that draw those emotions out then draw me the most.

It fell to me -- "you found it, you drown it."

So like an obedient child (with disobedience in my heart), I kicked through the pinestraw until I found the brass handle for the stubbed-up yardwater (like a miniature fire hydrant full-blast) and filled a metal bucket (we didn't have pails when I was a child, just buckets), tipping sideways to accomplish a depth sufficient for drowning a baby rat (that smelled curiously like movie popcorn).

Hesitant and sorrowing for the tiny alleged vermin (its eyes weren’t even open yet), I eased it into the bucket (baby rats can swim!), then poked it under once or twice with a white-oak twig tipped with twin acorns; it just kept paddling and that's when I noticed the wings (well, not wings but flaps of fuzzed skin) stretched between its front and back legs (like the web of skin between my thumb and forefinger that I pinch when I'm nervous).

"It's not a rat or if it is, it's a rat that looks like a flying squirrel," I said (pinching my skin-web), and my Mom frizzled her brows, said "hm" and "here, take it out" and when we did (with her prized avocado green slotted spoon that matched our appliances), she proclaimed me correct in my assessment, produced scraps of baby flannel from a bright-colored cardboard cube, one of many stacked high in our basement (just in case), and the flying squirrel I named Snerl (after Dr. Seuss) and fed eye-droppered evaporated milk lived for two days or three in a flanneled shoebox under the den lamp (left on round the clock for warmth).

It fell to me -- "you name it, you bury it."

Walking through the park at lunch, winter in Chicago, encompassing the benches and outdoor activities hibernating in the bitter cold and snow.

Making tracks through barely walked snow, watching the few embarking on their treks through the now hushed park, bundled in new Christmas sweaters and outer gear of old.

But this winter traveler, who stops and stares across Lakeshore Drive, to the frozen lake where others are seen, in a lovers embrace, takes this traveler to the night before

Where in a night of drinking wine, a lot of mighty fine wine, led to selfies with loved ones, and deep conversations of spells, books and candles, hindsight revealing to this traveler of a picture captured with one who asked "what??"

Only to be responded with a kiss...a forbidden kiss...a kiss reciprocated...

She sobbed into bleak nothing. Her mournful wails bouncing back at her from the echoes of the bathroom.

Although it was never something she had wanted, this wasn’t how she had wanted it to end either.

She didn’t have much confidence. She was shy beyond belief. Making eye-contact was one of the hardest things she had to do in her day-to-day life, and as much as she tried, she often ended up gazing at anything else, rather than another persons face.

She longed for someone to understand her, to break down her walls.

Walking through the corridor one day, she felt someone sneak up behind her, and there he was. He didn’t say anything, but a half smile swept accross his face as he slipped a note into the palm of her hand, as he then in turn slipping away into the crowds.

Her cheeks blushed, and she hurried into the closest bathroom, locking herself in a stall so she could release her excitment without anyone else seeing.

From that moment on, he was all she could think about.

He was older than her. He made her feel special, like she had been hand-picked from the masses; the chosen one. The other girls in her year told her that he was weird, and that she was weird, but that made it seem all-the-more perfect. She fell head-over-heels for him. They would pass notes in the hallway, stealing secret glances through classroom door windows, holding hands at lunch time. She never felt pressured.

It was a quiet relationship. They exchanged numbers, and began to text constantly, despite in person exchanging few words.

She wasn’t sure when it changed.

He began to text less, his hand-drawn pictures and notes dwindled.

She was desperate to keep him, to continue feeling understood in this sea of misunderstandings.

When they spoke, his soft words would turn hard. Anger spilling out from his mouth.

She couldn’t comprehend.

One day, he said he wanted to kiss her.

She was unsure, she didn’t feel ready, but she thought if didn’t, he would leave her for someone who would. All the other girls had had kisses. They didn’t seem to think it was a big deal. So she agreed.

At after-school study, she slipped out, and met him in an unused classroom.

They went to the back of the room, a table up against the door, lights off.

They stood at the back, and he told her to close her eyes.

So she did.

She could feel her heart beating furiously, she could smell his sweet, warm breath, feeling him getting closer. It felt like an eternity, but their lips met.

It wasn’t that bad, infact it felt quite nice! They kissed for a few minutes, her stomach flipping, butterflies flapping their wings against her insides.

He pulled back. He told her what a good kisser she was. How special she was, how special she made him feel. He moved closer, and leant in for another kiss.

He was so close now, their hips touching, her back squashed into a corner.

It was wet, she could feel saliva dripping down her chin, it was getting abit much.

She tried to pull back, but couldn’t. She could feel his penis becoming errect.

She turned her head, gasping for breath.

“What are you doing?!” He exclaimed.

She wasn’t sure what to say, but she asked if he could slow down, saying it was all moving too fast for her to keep up.

He looked hurt.

“Do you not love me?” He asked.

“Ofcourse I do!” She replied quickly.

“Then why won’t you let me show you how much I love you then?” He smarmed.

She had that feeling in her gut, that this wasn’t right, but the voice in her head told her he would leave and nobody else would ever love her.

So they contiued kissing.

He continued to push her further into the wall, grabbing her hand and placing it on his trousers, so she could feel his ’love’ for her..

She was no longer enjoying this. The butterflies in her stomach had turned into stinging wasps, each touch making her wince, each kiss making her hate herself more.

His breathing was hot and heavy, making her skin prick and her head swirl from nausea.

He lifted up her skirt, and pulled down her tights and underwear.

He begged her - “Please, Pleeease just let me put the tip in.. I love you, I just want to show you how much I love you..”

She unwillingly agreed. His love was all she wanted, but not like this.

He turned her round, bending her over the table.

Her mind reeled. everything felt so fake and surreal, like some sort of dream.

Her stomach felt so bloated, so weighed down.

A tear fell from her eye, as he thrusted into her.

It hurt. She wasn’t ready. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not this way, not here,

in a classroom. Her mind just left the room, only her body remained.

A final thrust and a grunt signified that it it was over.

More tears had fallen since the first, and a small pool of salty wetness was left on the table where her head had rested.

She felt ashamed. Heat spread from her cheeks and up behind her ears.

Her eyes swollen from crying silent tears.

He cleaned himself up, and disapeared into the bright hallway, without a single word.

She was left alone, in the dark. Unsure of what had just happened.

She fixed her skirt, wiped her tears, and texted her dad to come pick her up.

Her dad arrived, he asked if she was alright. She said yes, and they continued the journey in silence.

She got into bed, cried, and at some point fell asleep.

The next few weeks passed slowly. Everything was such an effort.

She didn’t hear from the boy again. Discarded like the little whore she was.

That’s what they were calling her, ‘that little whore’.

Word had spread that she’d let a boy in between her legs.

She tried to talk to him, but he brushed her off, saying he just didn’t have time for a girlfriend, or even to talk or explain what was going on.

She was completly bewildered. She zoned out from reality. Just moved through the phases of life. She stopped eating. She wasn’t hungry.

She just stopped everything. all she did was go to school, and sleep.

Nobody questioned anything. Was she even real? Did she even exist?

Is this what life was going to be like?!

She cried at first, deep belowing sobs, but she soon ran out of energy to cry, and was left with a numbing feeling in its place.

A month and a half passed. She still felt the same; dazed and indifferent; deadened.

She had not recieved her monthly gift from mother nature.

Her peiod was late. Super late.

She began to panic.

She skipped school, heading into town to pick up a pregnancy test.

The lady in the shop smiling meakly at her as she selected the cheapest one, paying for it in coins. She went to the public bathrooms. They smelt like urine, grimey and full of sadness.

She read the instructions. It was all so alien to her.

She waited, patiently, wanting time to just stop and the ground to swallow her up.

Her timer went off, and it was time to check.

She was pregnant. Those two lines, such small things, having such a huge knock-on effect.

Her stomach flipped, and she spewed vomit all over the toilet.

What was she supposed to do?!

Have a baby when she couldn’t even look after herself!?

Her head got light, and she couldn’t hear. She fainted. Gladfully.

When she came to, she had decided. She was just not going to tell anyone.

She couldn’t. Her parents would freak. They would be so angry.

Plus, she would have to admit what happened. How she had let him do this to her.

He would get in trouble too, and as much as she hated him, part of her still loved him and the feelings that he had given her at the start of all of this.

She just went about her life as she had before.

With no enthusiasm, or care. Just scraping through the days, barely.

One morning she woke, a pain in her stomach, but not her stomach.

A sharp stab.

Nobody else was home.

She ran to the bathroom, panting and sweating.

It was the most horrible feeling she had ever felt.

Worse than when he had bent her over the table.

Worse than everybody calling her those names.

Worse than the cuts she had given herself to relieve the emotional pain.

She sat on the toilet, her head swimming, beads of sweat dripping down her head and spilling down her neck.

What was happening?

She felt the urge to push.

She didn’t know much, but she knew that under 3 months was too early for a baby to be ready.

She felt the jagged stab again.

A sudden gush, and it felt like her insides were being ripped out.

This went on for awhile. She could see the toilet filling with lumps and blood.

She almost fanited, but didn’t.

It felt like it was over. Exhausted, she flung herself onto the cold bathroom tiles.

She sobbed into bleak nothing. Her mournful wails bouncing back at her from the echoes of the bathroom.

Although it was never something she had wanted, this wasn’t how she had wanted it to end either.

As time moved on, and the years began to pass, she did eventually feel happy.

She found people who loved her, and cared for her. People who didn’t taunt her,

or turn a blind eye. She got all the beautiful moments she deserved, and more.

Although this experience haunted her, it had given her an incredible strength to strive for better. That last day, in the bathroom, she made a promise to herself, and her unborn baby, that they would meet again, under better circumstances, when they were both ready.

It had given her a reason to live, to find something better for herself.

She went to therapy, She spoke of what happened to her, sharing her story with as many other people as she could. She didn’t want a single other person to feel what she had felt, to experience the woes that she had had to endure.

She would not be silenced!

She had used her pain to strengthen herself, to start again.

She would no longer be on trial, she would set herself free.

Free to be all that she could be, for her.

Free to be the person she had longed to be, the person she had needed all those years ago.

A person who cared and listened and would not ignore those in pain or those who were hurting, whatever their reason may be.

She let go of her past, only sometimes thinking of what could have been..

but she didn't dwell.

She was free, free from her past, free from judgment.

She had the power. She had the choice.

And she chose herself.

She chose to live.

I’ve spent most of my life falling apart. Breaking like glass. Crumbling to ash. I’ve fought, and fought, and fought. I talk to myself because I can’t talk to you. If I did I’d know what you’d say. The same things you say when I cry in front of you, when I admit doubt or weakness, pain or angst. Make fun of me, do garish mocks of my face, insult me because I deserve it, and tell me I don’t deserve it. I’m a liar, a failure, a thief, and a con. I’ve spent my life breaking and it’s gone on and on for longer than I breathe.

For every tear, scream, insult, and ounce of pain, I’ve caused and felt I’ve tried to say goodbye. With the words on my lips and tears in my eyes, I’ve tried to say goodbye. With ink puddles and circles on blank pages, I’ve tried to say goodbye. I almost did once for I am a failure, a liar, a crier, a writer, and a thief. The biggest thing I ever stole was your life. I can’t give it back by letting go, by giving up, by asking for help, so I waited. I waited. I screamed. I cried. I waited. Then it came like blossoms in the wind, a new beginning at the tip of my fingers.

With fingers of bone sharpened to daggers, I reached out and tore the blossom to pieces. I break what I love and cry out to the ashes that it wasn’t my fault. Deep within my eyes of green, I see through red noses and wet lashes that my hands were only made to break the ones I touch. I am tired, I am a thief, I am a failure, I am a liar, but most of all I am con. I am a con because despite my awareness of the darkness in the world I believe most people are good, even if I don’t say it. I believe that when a friend offers a shoulder or a listening ear, they mean it even if I know firsthand that most don’t.

I lie through smiles and words to say I’m okay. Fine. Good. Great. Words of poison from a liar’s lips. From my hands come the words that strangle me, burn me, and tie me to myself. A reflection of a partial truth will only give you a distorted sense of who is in that mirror. A liar with a fear of being the only reason that you fall. A fear that is less of a shadow crawling through the abscess of my mind and more of a fear that is me. I am my fear and it isn’t an if, it’s a now. You already said it yourself, that I am the reason that you aren’t where you could have been. So I lie. I’m fine. Maybe I was. Maybe getting that message pulled me from the daggers of my mind far longer than I intended to. Made me forget that I was holding a blossom ready to crumble at my mistakes.

I’m fine. I’m good. I’m less than I ever was before I even existed because I am degrading and eroding to dust and poison that melts and sinks into the souls of the ones I love. So I lie. To prevent them from pouring any energy down an open drain. Yet, I reach out, further proof of the nature of one who isn’t themselves in the way they wish they could be. Because I am a petty, dramatic, thief, liar, observer, con, failure, and I am tired of fighting the weight of who I am.

So In Algebra we were doing IXL.

This one dude was so close to 90 but got the question wrong.

He PUNCHED this chromebook and the screen SHATTERED.

And then on my way to History the classroom (next to the one I was going to) door's window was also PUNCHED and SHATTERED (I have no idea who punched it though). Glass was all over the floor and the hallway was super croweded, more than usual, and everyone was kinda pushing eachother trying to get through.

I just thought I'd share this weirdness.

do y’all ever just think of dates or numbers or people that you’ve never met and your brain just decides “YES, THAT ONE. IMPORTANT NO IDEA WHY BUT. THAT”

it happens to me a lot

the other thing is a super developed space in your mind where you could say your mind’s version of you “lives”

kinda like lucid dreaming while you’re awake/extremely powerful meditation

speaking of dreams, are consistet recurring dreams from around the age of 8 normal? like, how would i remember a dream from then? or something i havent had in at least 5-7 years that i suddenly have again, but only really pay attention to it being a recurring dream once i’m awake again. my recurring dreams are apparent to me because i remember them more than my normal dreams, and, of course, i feel like i’ve been there before. Especially that one dream. It’s a nightmare but you get my point. I was like, 8 when i first had that dream. And i still remember it perfectly, and only recently has it stopped being one of the dreams I have a lot.

does this happen?

is this just psychic game struggles or what,,?

I’m outta the hospital and back at home. Many thanks to the Prosers who wished me well, prayed, etc. Gotta keep my legs elevated, so I’m restricting my computer time. That’ll give me time to finish reading “The Alchemist.” In case there’s an attempt by Prosers to overthrow The World Order, I leave my proxy vote to @Mazzmyrrheyes. In the meantime, y’all take care, God bless, be kind to yourself & others. — Jimbo

Andrew woke up with a start. His head pounded painfully, and he had to lie back down until the room stopped spinning. How much had he drank last night? Last night, he had gone out with a group of his new coworkers celebrating his new job at the accounting firm. They seemed like pretty cool people, and it had been awhile since he had gone out for a good time. After spending so much time studying and chasing various internships had all but destroyed his social life. It was nice to go a little crazy.

But by the pounding in his head and the sickening feeling in his stomach, he may have overestimated how much he could handle. Reaching over to his night stand, he found his phone. His coworkers had been texting him, making sure he got home ok and good-naturedly ribbing him about drinking too much. One text stood out to him. It was a picture of him dancing rather... exuberantly with a girl in a tight blue dress. He had no memory of this, but he had a small sense of pride knowing he still could get the ladies. Another text was from his new boss. It simply said, “I’m glad you enjoyed your night last night. Have a good weekend, and see you first thing Monday.” Was she there? Andrew couldn’t remember.

Andrew was finally able to painfully sit up in bed and rub his eyes. He was surprised to see something written on his hand. Squinting, he read, “Cold?” What did that mean? He looked at his other hand and it read, “Colder.” What was this? He had no memory of writing this. Was it a joke being played on him?

Andrew went into the bathroom, turning on the light. He stifled a yell. Downwards on his neck was written, “Warmer.” It was also written the insides of both his arms. Pulling off his shirt, he read across his abdomen, backwards in the mirror, “Hotter.” Panic started to rise in his chest, his heart pounding. He hooked a thumb into the waist band of his shorts. Praying and hoping, he slowly started to pull down his shorts next to his thigh. A pit opened in his stomach when he saw the beginning of something written there. Pulling them down, he stared in horror at what was written there, “Surprise! Can you guess what I did?”

Andrew turned on the shower as hot as the water would go. Flinching from the heat, he scrubbed at his skin until it was painful to touch. The black letters barely faded no matter how hard he washed himself. And nothing could touch the growing sense of disgust and fear that was growing inside of him.

Coming out of the shower, he ran to his phone, desperately searching the pictures and texts for any clues. Was this some sick joke? Who would do something like this to him? No clues stood out to him. Andrew climbed back into bed and covered his entire body with the covers, trying to block out. This was just a bad dream. It was a nightmare, and he would wake up. After a few minutes, there was a ping from his phone. Groaning, he reached out and looked. There was a single email message to his new company account. He opened it and read, “Did you find it, yet? Do you feel what I left?” No signature. A fake email address. No clue to who it was.

Andrew couldn’t remember the last time he cried like this . He leaped from the bed and clawed at his body, poking and prodding, looking for any scars, any signs, or any possible sign of invasion. He sank to the floor, sobbing into his arms. What did they do to him?

A few hours later, Andrew sat in the cold doctor’s office. He didn’t go to his primary doctor. He was too ashamed for them to know. He went to the clinic in the next town. The nurse walked in, giving him a genuine smile, “Hello, Mr Carson. I do have good news. The rape kit came back negative.” Andrew gave a deep sigh of relief, but the other implications began popping into his head. His relief was short lived. The nurse continued, “While that is the good news, I want to inform you about the other tests if you believe you have been assaulted in some way.” She continued on for what seemed like forever about STD tests, DNA tests, going to the police about charges. How was he supposed to press charges when he had no idea who had done this to him?

Andrew did his best to try to find some type of routine, again. But it was like he had some type of sickness. He felt like even the lady he bought his coffee from somehow knew what happened to him. Strangers on the street stared at him like he was a freak, like something was growing out of his face. He checked in every reflective surface he passed. The only thing looking back was his terrified face.

Going to work on Monday didn’t do anything to alleviate his stress. Even the people he had pegged as ok guys came across as creeps and pervs. Everyone seemed to be talking about him. Everyone was in on the joke, and he was the idiotic victim. He went home early that day. He just laid in bed. It seemed like the only thing to do as he felt his intestines roiling inside him.

He ended up quitting his job. Not so much as he called to say he quit, but after two days without showing up, his boss called to say that if he didn’t show up in the next hour, he didn’t need to bother showing up at all. Andrew stayed in bed. No one could make him do anything. He was his own person, still. Here, under his covers, he was safe from the world. Andrew wasn’t able to sleep for awhile. It seemed like as soon as he closed his eyes, his dreams were full of bugs , tiny creatures, and swarms of germs overwhelming him.

Andrew’s brother, Jerry, had began to worry about him and came to stay for the weekend. Jerry was shocked to see the state his brother was in, and felt helpless when he refused to say what had happened. Jerry stayed for several days, helping take care of his apartment, paying bills, and even just feeding his practically comatose sibling. Slowly, Andrew came out from under the covers of his bed until he was eventually sitting in the livingroom while they watched tv. He refused to come out of his apartment, though.

Before he left, Jerry gave him the last bit of advice, “Look, I don’t know what happened, but it obviously really hurt you. The only thing I can say is that you can either let this thing make you into a stronger person, or let it define you.” Andrew contemplated that for a long time. He finally opened up his job search history and began looking for another job. Andrew eventually found a part time position at a bank that was close to home. The people there were very welcoming and were accepting of his reserved nature. In fact, a few of them thought it was classy of him that he had such self-control when it came to partying. These people became some of his good friends. After awhile, Andrew felt like he was back to a normal life, again.

One morning, Andrew walked into the bank, saying hello and shooting the breeze with the receptionist who was pretty cute. He was even thinking about asking her out to dinner one night. Whistling to himself, he settled at his cubicle and started up his computer. As he set down his bag, he noticed a piece of paper stuck to his monitor. It must be his new password. Andrew took it and read the message.

“No matter where you go. A piece of me will be with you. Do you feel me inside you?”

Finnian’s hands shook uncontrollably. If O’Leary’s threats were true, and he was really coming after them, would he stop at nothing to capture Abbott- or worse? After all, he had seemingly killed this person without a second thought and continued on his way. Finnian wasn’t quite sure how O’Leary knew where they were, but he sure he had ways to find out. He shivered. What if he was watching them right now, with this body as bait? Was this a trap?

He turned to look at Abbott, who was babbling nonsense, his mind working at a hundred miles per minute. “He’s here- and I’m- I’ll be-”

Finnian wasn’t thinking much more coherently, but he knew he had to do something to calm Abbott down before he went into shock. One hand was still pressed over where the branch had broken off in his chest, and Finnian could see where the edges of his fingers were stained from the blood that had crept out from beneath them. He needed to find a doctor, but Finnian wasn’t sure where the closest town was. Besides, even if they did manage to find someone who could help Abbott, what were the chances that they had enough money to pay for it?

He took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm for Abbott’s sake. He turned away from the corpse, lying forlornly in the bushes, and questioned quietly, “Abbott?”

The other boy made no move to show that he had heard Finnian. His face was ghostly pale in the dimming light, stark against the dark waves of his hair, which brushed back and forth with the shaking of his body. Finnian urged with a more desperate tone in his voice, “Abbott, bud, are ya listening to me?”

Abbott slowly lifted his head up, his eyes glazed over, mouth forming unspoken words as he shook his head back and forth. “Not listening.”

Finnian pressed his fingers to his eyes in exasperation. “No, you gotta listen to me. I don’t know what’s going on with-” he swallowed, worrying his next few words would set Abbott off again, but he continued nevertheless, “-with O’Leary, but all I know is that we need to leave. It’s not a matter of getting to the festival at this point, it’s… it’s a matter of getting you to a doctor. Okay?”

Abbott sighed in a small voice. “No, it’s okay. Just leave me here.”

“What? Abbott, no-”

“Yeah…” Abbott rolled this thought over in his head. “Yeah, just leave me here. O’Leary can’t get me, because I’ll be dead.” A raw, crazed laugh burst from his throat, bubbling over into a manic giggle until he was doubled over panting for air, one hand pressed against his side as he sucked in sharp breaths through his teeth. One knee hit the ground, followed by his other hand, as he balanced on the mossy forest floor, the world spinning around him.

Finnian was at his side before he could make a noise. He grabbed Abbott around the forearms, lifting him back onto his feet from behind, hot spikes of worry shooting through his gut when Abbott couldn’t even stand on his own two feet. He sagged against Finnian, smearing blood all over the front side of Finnian’s shirt, but he didn’t care. He could get a new shirt; he couldn’t get a new Abbott.

He frowned when he realized he could feel all of the bones in Abbott’s torso jutting into his own chest, even from behind. He made a mental note to get him fattened up while encouraging Abbott to support his own body. “C’mon, just stand for me. Okay?”

Abbott shifted his weight onto his feet, feeling his knees buckling, but managed to stay standing nevertheless. Feeling the heat of embarrassment over being babied creeping up his face, he said in his strongest voice, “I’m fine, Finn.”

There was an audible noise as Finnian rolled his eyes, snorting a puff of air out of his nose. “Sure, and I’m the king. No, you’re not. We’re leaving.”

Abbott smiled despite himself, but it quickly turned into a face of dismay as he stuttered in a weak voice, “We can’t just leave him here.”

Finnian cocked his head. “Who- the body? Abbott, we have to go. We can’t take it with us.”

Sighing deeply, he whimpered, “He didn’t deserve this. Whoever he was, O’Leary killed him. That’s the mark left behind when he does magic. And for what reason is he dead? Probably not a good one.” He twisted awkwardly in Finnian’s grasp so his body was facing Finnian. “He’d do the same for me.”

Finnian doubted that was true, but inside he agreed that it wasn’t right to leave the body there. They didn’t have anything to bury it with, though, and Abbott was in no condition to be doing any physical activity that could possibly injure him further. Finnian ran a hand through his hair, but regretted letting go of Abbott when he tore free of his grasp, legs suddenly stronger.

He took a few steps across the woods before Finnian could stop him and knelt beside the body. It was horrific to look at, and every inch of Abbott’s body was screaming for him to turn back, but in his heart he knew that wasn’t right. He laid the hand covered in his own blood across the heart of the corpse, right over the mark that had been left behind, extinguishing the dim purple light that still lingered. He knew that blood was a catalyst for magic, and that it would enhance his natural abilities. That being said, he was still largely untrained in the art of magic, and he hoped that he could finish the task that had been started.

Closing his eyes, he felt the familiar heat of the green light fill his irises. Except, instead of rendering control of his consciousness to the entity, he pictured in his mind what he wanted to accomplish. The earth parting, creating a deep pit in front of him as two giant hands from the sky dug into it, dirt collecting underneath the massive fingernails as they dug. Abbott willed himself not to open his eyes, even as he heard the distinctive sounds of the ground shifting in front of him.

He saw it clearly in his head- the shriveled body sinking into the newly formed grave, being laid to rest by soft hands from above. He could feel the pressure underneath his palm lessen as the body disappeared into the earth, swallowed by the ground, forever sleeping in a soft bed of dirt. He didn’t have to worry about being eaten or disturbed by the elements anymore- all he had to do was rest in peace, oblivious to the world around him. Abbott wished he could slumber as well, but he knew he had a mission to carry on with. He would not let this death be in vain.

The tide of earth swept in, sending clods careening down into the hole, covering the man from the gaze of the living one last time. Abbott said a prayer in his head to the gods to carry his spirit into the afterlife. He supposed that being killed by magic, religion’s sworn enemy, had to guarantee him a spot in whatever heaven they believed in.

Abbott manipulated the earth again, smoothing it across the opening when the grave was completely full of earth, willing the bushes to close over the ground again. He saw them taking root, their tendrils curling down deep into the ground, taking nutrients from the body, giving it new life.

He grabbed the moisture from the air and condensed it into a cloud, the water falling over the ground, fresh and purifying, clearing away the sins that had been committed upon the land, forever tainting the woods. Abbott hoped that with the rain, the evils would be purged away from the body, leaving it peacefully for the rest of its days.

A strange sense of calm washing over him, he gradually opened his eyes and found that it was light out, the sky a molten shade of fuschia blossoming with streaks of orange. He could barely feel the pain in his chest anymore, and while he could tell that the injury was far from gone, the cleansing feeling had radiated into his own body, temporarily distracting him from the wound.

He didn’t quite know how the time had passed so quickly, but he knew from experience that reality was different in the vision-world. He didn’t know why it would be any different here. All he was doing was manipulating the visions he saw, which were taken straight from the real world.

If he could do that, what else could he do? He knew that the fundamental rules of magic stated that creating something out of nothing was impossible, but he hadn’t done that, had he? No, the rain had come from the moisture in the air itself, and the earth was already there. He had just simply used his knowledge of his surroundings to manipulate them- simple as that.

He stood stiffly, his legs creaky from crouching for hours on end, and felt the blood rush to his head as sparks exploded in his eyes. He ignored them, and instead bowed his head towards the fresh dirt laid out in front of him. He cleared his throat, and began to speak.

“I didn’t know you. I have no idea who you were in life, or even who you are in death. And I’m sorry about that.

The man who killed you is-was my master. He hurt me too. I wish it had never happened to anyone else. No one deserved it but me, especially not you.

Maybe you had a family, and they’re waiting for you to return right now. But they’ll never get the satisfaction of seeing you return home with open arms.

Maybe you had a special someone in your life who will never know how you met your demise. Maybe they’ll think you left them for someone better, and live with the thoughts that it was their fault.

Maybe you’re leaving behind the promise of a new life, a better life, a life you will never be able to fulfill.

This isn’t fair. One man should never have the power to rob another of the thing most cherished to them- their life.

Alastair O’Leary seems to think he is entitled over others, that he can snuff out a life without another thought. Alastair O’Leary killed you.

I’ll make sure he gets what he deserves. I promise.”

Without another word, he swiveled on the ball of his foot and found Finnian watching him, eyes bleary but alert, looking as if he hadn’t slept a wink. He hadn’t. He had sat and watched Abbott work the whole night, amazed by the power this boy held without even knowing it.

Abbott motioned with his head towards the horse, who was tied to a tree in the clearing. “C’mon, Finn. We have a debt to make even.”