I was born with buzzing in my head. At first I thought bees. I am good at building honeycomb-walls. Little, sticky bits of ache slip through. But most of the happy grows wings to flutter away. It’s easier to leave than stay. I am not honeycomb-shaped. I am no shape at all. It can’t be bees. My mouth has never dripped liquid-sugar. More like oil spills. Still underneath-tacky. Prism-meniscus, bouncing light across its own surface. Things that are pretty to look at, but toxic once swallowed. Spilt-oil. Now that’s a thought. Maybe I have a leak. Engine-ruptured. Hoses, tangled and bursting. Shadow-sludge, dripping off grey matter. Then again. Oil cleans. At some point I would have been grace-filled. Well-kept. And I’m all sacrilege. Polluted. That doesn’t work. Something else. Buzzing. Thrumming. Ceaseless. But also phantom. Could be a hologram. That could fit. Substance-lacking. An idea. Haunting. All electric-shock, humming across my cognitive-cage. High voltage. Explosion-poised. Ready. The only flaw there is the amount of power it would take to sustain that type of operation. I am energy-spent. More of a frayed extension cord than dynamic force. Strong enough to shock but not enough for a constant surge. Like the broken fan-blade throwing everything off kilter. Tick, tick, clank. A window-unit AC. Not a new model. But the ones from a few decades back. Constant-rattle of hot air pulsing against busted metal, cooling-coil. Antiquated, useless. I function at 1,000 BTU. Max capacity. It’s so fucking depressing. Can’t keep up. Never enough. And then I’m crying. So now there’s the possibility of low-power electricity jumping against the rapid current of tears making a quick trek from my eyes to my collar-bones. I’m getting off-track. Track. Trek. And then it hits me. The droning, purring, buzzing vibration that never leaves. My depression owns a treadmill.

Sitting on the porch watching worlds collide

And wondering if the truth will be classified

Sipping a mint julep; knowing I should be horrified

Though I would consider that undignified

Gazing at the players moving their pawns

Fighting against destiny to become icons

Listening to the warriors singing their songs

And to the clanging of iron and bronze

I, the master puppeteer, watch with glee

As I make the once civil act so beastly

I have made them eat the fruit of the poison tree

And bent their will to suit my idiosyncrasy

I am the dulcet whisper in your ear

That tempts and beckons you year after year

I cajole with lies and caress with fear

I am the master puppeteer, the vile engineer

"Kimmy... keep your voice down, love. You'll alert the usher..."

"But Jackie, it feels sticky and hot down here. Let me try to help."

"Th-That's-- oh! Agn, y-you shouldn't touch that..."

"Jacqueline, you're flushed. I'll make you feel better."

"Hah-- oh my; 'll, ngn, K-Kim...!"

In reality, Jacqueline just got gum on the bottom of her trench coat and her loving wife, Kim, was trying to get it off as gently as possible without startling her germaphobe spouse. But the group of college students sitting beside them, who were too mortified to even look in their direction, thought otherwise.

“Daddy, why is Mommy crying? Did you make her sad again?”

Little Cammie startled her dad. He pushed his wife from the crux of his arm. Streaks of black mascara stained the sleeves of his polo.

“Cammie, honey, what are you doing out of bed?” His voice straddled the line of annoyance and anger.

Cammie snuck out of bed when Mommy’s sobbing soiled the quiet night. By her accounts, it wasn’t often, but she couldn’t recall the last time she slept a full night through.

Stuffed bear tucked in her mouth; she watched television from the second-floor overlook although she rarely understood the shows her parents watched from the first-floor couch, it made her feel grown up. Part of the family.

The good family.

Tonight was the first time Cammie ventured downstairs from her second floor perch since that night.

The bad family.

Her arm healed. Crooked for weeks, but the hospital said it would straighten in time. Dad said it would straighten faster if she’d mind her own business and stay in bed at night.

Cammie rubbed the jagged scar on her forearm where the bone poked through to the outside. The doctor gave it a name, but Cammie didn’t want to remember. She only wanted one thing.

“I wanna watch TV with you and Mommy.” Cammie bent her knee, twisted her foot on her toes, and batted her big blue eyes at her dad.

“It’s late, Cammie. We have a busy day tomorrow. You need to rest up.” Her dad nudged her with his open palms. “After some early morning fun, your Mom and I have a meeting. Miss Lily is gonna babysit. I know how much fun you two have together.”

Cammie stroked her stuffed pink teddy bear. “I need to make sure Mommy is okay.”

“I'm all right, Sweetie. Please go back to bed like your father asked,” Mom said through her Kleenex mustache.

“But why were you crying?”

“Just something from the movie.” Mom kept one eye on the screen.

Cammie stared at the fifty-inch screen as a boy placed his hand on a train window. She didn’t understand why her parents watched in black and white when the colors worked perfectly well.

“His mommy is going to be mad at him for getting fingerprints on the window.” Cammie remembered all the times her mother yelled at her for doing the same thing, “And now the girl is doing it on the other side of the window! Oh, they are going to be in so much trouble.”

Tears streamed from Mom’s cheek darkening the light brown pillow in her lap.

A moment later both the girl and the boy on television were crying and shouting words to each other through the window.

“Are you sad because they are getting handprints on the window, Mommy?” Cammie asked.

Mom wiped away the tears from her face and then inhaled what Cammie estimated to be about a gallon of snot, “No, Honey. They were best friends who realized they were in love with each other, but they waited too long to tell each other. He’s on a train about to leave to fight some bad guys and is probably going to die. Them putting their hands on the clear window like that is their way of telling each other they are soul mates and will be together forever in each other’s heart. It’s so beautiful.”

Dad gathered Cammie in his arms, “Alright Peanut, that’s enough love lessons for you tonight. Let’s get you back into bed, so your mother can finish her movie and her bottle of wine, and your dad can get some sleep of his own.”

“Does Mommy have a soul mate, Daddy?” Cammie rested her head on her father’s shoulder.

“I think so, Baby Doll.” Her dad squeezed her tight, “Maybe more than one, but she doesn’t realize it. I’ll be happy when she does. We’ll all be happy when she does.”

The second floor wasn’t as lonely now that her dad slept in the bedroom next to Cammie’s instead of with Mom downstairs. At least tonight, Cammie didn’t think there would be slamming doors waking her.

***

"Rise and shine, Peanut!”

Cammie rubbed her eyes as she dragged her tattered bear down the stairs.

“Eat up quick. We need to get you dressed and down to the pond before it gets too crowded.” Dad flew around the kitchen. He banged pots and pans for no reason while Mom sat with her forehead in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other.

“God, you can be such an asshole sometimes, Pete,” Mom muttered between gulps of coffee. “I should thank you for killing any second thoughts I had about our meeting this afternoon.”

“You should really bitch to tea, you know.” Dad spun away from Cammie as he spoke.

“What did you say to me?” Mom slammed her mug on the counter. Waves of black crested the rim, dribbling onto the marbled granite.

“Switch to tea.” Dad frisbeed a coaster across the counter. “And use a coaster.”

Cammie prepared her breakfast these days and headed for the pantry to grab her favorite leprechaun adorned cereal box.

“Ow!” She screamed, hopping in chaotic circles holding her toe.

“What happened?” Dad asked.

“I kicked an empty bottle.” Cammie continued hopping on one foot certain she now held the Guinness record for length of time.

“Looks like someone’s Mom decided to stay up late last night and couldn’t get the empty into the recycling bin.”

“Stow it, Pete.” Mom held the coffee close to her mouth but didn’t drink. She popped two little white pills in her mouth and swallowed hard, “Can we just get going?”

***

Cammie loved ice skating with her parents, although she couldn’t understand why they didn’t all hold hands any longer. A small part of her didn’t mind. She would be eight in a few months and could skate without any help these days. Stopping presented a challenge at times, but in her opinion, that’s why there were other skaters on the pond. Dad called them bumper cars.

Her parents trailed behind her the first time around the pond. The only words spoken came from Dad who warned her to stay away from the thin ice sign.

After two laps, Cammie noticed a little boy in a red jacket holding hands with both his mother and his father.

“Skating alone isn’t any fun,” she muttered.

Cammie dropped back and grabbed Mom’s hand. On the next pass, she grabbed Dad's hand and refused to let go of Mom’s.

“Isn’t this fun?” Cammie smiled.

“Yes, Sweetie,” Mom raised one side of her mouth.

“Although, not as fun as an entire bottle of wine,” Dad smirked. “A good bottle too. I believe I brought that back from Sonoma last year too.”

“Seriously, Pete? You’re going to bring that shit up again.” Mom skidded to a halt while Dad continued. Cammie stretched like Gumby between them but held on tight until everyone tumbled to the ice.

“If it were just one time, then no, I wouldn’t bring it up. But come on Claire, that’s what, the fourth bottle this week? Not to mention the girl’s day out last Sunday. I’m sure you were good for a few drinks then.” Dad released Cammie’s hand.

Mom fired back, “Maybe if you paid as much attention to me as you paid to your new secretary we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Cammie found her hands dangling alone.

“Well, maybe if you didn’t live in a movie, spending your days pining to your online friends about finding a soul mate, I wouldn’t have to.” Dad crossed his arms and huffed steam from his nose. Cammie imagined him an ancient Chinese dragon defending a massive pile of gold from would-be marauders.

Mom’s defeated shoulders dropped.

Dad pressed on, “Yeah, that’s right. I read your email. All of them! By the way, Y-O-U apostrophe R-E means you are while Y-O-U-R shows possession.”

“Well Y-O-U apostrophe R-E an asshole and you can shove Y-O-U-R wine up Y-O-U-R A-S-S!” Mom shouted.

Cammie couldn’t follow what was happening, but she felt uncomfortable and skated away from the pair along with every other visitor to the pond. The only thing comforting her now was the dark pink Lily Pulitzer jacket her grandmother bought her last year. She missed her teddy bear.

Words and gestured flew between Mom and Dad as Cammie skated off.

A commotion louder than the couple’s insults commanded a temporary truce.

“Pete, where’s Cammie?”

All four eyes searched the worn ice.

Dad stopped an untalented skater as he hurried toward the entrance, “What happened?”

“Someone fell through the ice. A kid maybe.” He tried to pull away, but Dad restrained him.

“Boy or girl? What did they look like?”

“I don’t know man. Young kid. Wearing a red or pink jacket.”

Mom pushed Dad to the ice, “This is all your fault!” She bolted into the crowd.

Dad tried to stand, but his skate pick caught in the ice during the fall and he twisted his knee awkwardly, “Damn ACL!”

“Cammie, hang on honey, I’m coming! Mommy’s coming!”

Dad watched as Mom pushed her way through the crowd. Two skaters fell, and Dad heard the ice groan.

Mom’s shrill faded as the commotion escalated. Dad saw people plunging branches into the water. Folks frantically waved to the shore beckoning for help.

Dad pounded on the ice, sobbing with each hammer fist strike.

The screams became inaudible, and he couldn’t tell where one rescuer began and another ended. Mom escaped his vision in the sea of jackets.

Again and again, he attempted to stand without success. Inch by inch he dragged himself toward the crowd until he caught a glimpse of a little girl out of the corner of his eye. He looked left and saw a girl Cammie’s size kneeling on the ice with mittens removed and a hand pressed against the transparent sheet of ice staring intently into the frigid waters below.

“Cammie?” Dad hesitated, “Cammie, is that you?”

Cammie watched as Dad crawled across the ice in her direction, “Hey, Daddy. I lost my jacket. Please don’t be mad.”

“It’s okay.” Dad sighed and the pain in his leg no longer mattered. “Peanut, are you okay? What are you doing?”

Cammie smiled wide and looked away from the ice for only a second, “Come see, Daddy. You’ll be so happy. Mommy and I are soul mates.”

There she was - dressed in the darkest haze of shadows, with strands laced among her cheeks. She came here for her, but would soon find she was here for them. Her name was Cece; her father gave her the nick-name when she was a baby. He was the typical drunk, loved his family but never showed it. The absent kind. She still loved him. He was all she had left. Cece's mom passed away while hiking; the doctors said it was a heart condition. She did have her art though, her one true love.

Today was her interview. It was the day she was waiting for. Would Ms. Reynolds enjoy her art? Would she hate it? Cece couldn't wait to find out. She scurried into her red slacks, black slinky tee, and her favorite black blazer. It was a tad too warm for the blazer, but that didn't matter. 

Cece began to draw when she was young. She had constant nightmares about the Asylum down the street from where she grew up - the Klein asylum. Her dad would often go on intoxicated rampages about the people there and how they were ruining society. Cece found that the Asylum began to inspire her passion of art. The characters in her dreams always ended up on her paper. Now she just needed to show the rest of the world.

"One more block down" she frantically called to the driver. The building looked as she imagined. It wasn't very modern: red brick layered the bottom to the top, small windows dressed each floor, ignoring any perceivable pattern, and an old mail room was visible through the clear glass door. She dropped her half-eaten croissant and still full cup of coffee in the trash. She lived on coffee and croissants. She rode the elevator with excitement but apprehension. Was this her debut? 

She opened her portfolio slowly for one last glance. When she lifted her eyes, Ms. Reynolds stood in front of her outside the elevator door. Cece just knew it was her.

"Nice to meet you Cece, I'm Ms. Reynolds. Glad you found it ok."

"The pleasure is mine!" Cece shook her hand with delight. 

The office was dank, something felt quite eerie, but rather interesting. She felt passion spark within her. Cece showed her portfolio to Ms. Reynolds and patiently waited to see her expression. She stopped at one of Cece's favorites. It was a charcoal sketch of a man with a sword through chest; his chest made of stone and snakes. Cece drew it after one nightmare and it became a part of her soul, as odd as that sounds. 

There was always a constant character though in her dreams. He was an older man: he wore glasses, had a rusty-red beard, and very pale skin. He always looked suspicious. Cece was scared of him and never actually drew him.

"Well Cece you have the job!"

What....she didn't know what to say.

"You mean, your hiring me? Really?"

"Yes, sort of like giving you your first assignment and we'll take it from there."

"Wow. Thank you!" She was so happy she wanted to hug Ms. Reynolds, but of course she restrained herself.

"I want you to visit the Klein Asylum and meet with the patients. Get some inspiration for our gallery opening. The patients are all agreeable to your visit and excited to talk and share with you. Just keep a journal and let your creativity flow. We will need five pieces created with a small excerpt on each patient, with their permission of course."

Uh... "Really the Klein Asylum?" Cece was obviously hesitant.

"Yes Cece I believe you have what we are looking for."

Just like that Cece was off to the Klein Asylum for her tour. She was welcomed by Mary, the head nurse. From there Cece felt comfortable but stressed. As if she knew why to expect but had no recollection of meeting anyone here before. Cece was shown each dark-lit room along side Mary and met several unique patients. Some appearing normal but when triggered, became completely different individuals. Some were sad. Some were lonely. Some just wanted to die but weren't granted that right. 

Cece always wanted a sibling. She felt lonely often and used her dolls to keep her entertained. Her mom was kind, but couldn't relate well to Cece. Plus, she let her drunk husband call the shots. Cece hated that. On the most lonely nights, a nightmare would be coming. She always left her pencils and paints next to her bed incase she needed them right away.

The tour was coming to an end. She then heard a voice shout her name from upstairs, a familiar voice. She slowly walked upstairs, escorted by Mary. 

"Hi Cece are you ready to paint?"

It was the man in her nightmares: he wore glasses, had a rusty-red beard, and very pale skin. Cece thought she was just having another nightmare; she tensed up and couldnt speak. His name was Mr. Frederick and he was the head Psychiatrist at the Asylum. Cece sat down next to him, as if someone else controlled her body now. He handed her some pastel oil paints and smiled. He placed his hand on her thigh. Cece's temperature dropped lower. She thought his was part of the assignment; perhaps, a test. She began to draw and blocked out the touch of his hand on her red-covered thigh. A few seconds later, she looked down and noticed her pants were no longer the shade of red she slipped on this morning. No black blazer in sight. All she saw was blue. Her hair longer than it was this morning. Cece began to feel the heat come back to her. 

"What the fuck is going on! Get your dirty hands off me!"

"Cece it's okay it's me, Mr. Frederick."

"What the fuck! Is this a test?"

"No tests sweetheart, we are just drawing today..."

She glanced around the art room and realized only her art covered the walls. Smack in the center was her favorite piece; it was a man with a sword through his chest- his chest made of stone and snakes. 

She began to have a flash-back. She had been here before.

"Cece you're okay, it's just a bad day. You're home at Klein."

"Are you fucking crazy, you were just trying to fuck me or something a minute ago!"

"Cece your father was molesting you since you were a child and you have been in and out of hospitals since for depression and PTSD. I touch your leg sometimes because you only draw with physical contact. We have been decreasing that each month your here."

"He never molested me! You are though!" The nurses came up and closed the door so the other patients didn't hear. I saw they had a syringe in heir pocket.

"Cece you were pregnant with your fathers child at eighteen and your mom didn't believe you. You miscarried in your second trimester. I have touched you to help you stay creative and to cope. I know it's not right as a doctor but it was the only way you would keep expressing yourself. I never raped you or made you perform anything on me." Just like that, memories flooded her vision.

She asked "how long have I been here?"

"Since you were eighteen. About seven years."

"Are my parents alive?"

"Your mom passed away several years ago in a car accident. You like to envision her hiking and usually cope with her passing by remembering her that way, being in nature. Your dad, I'm sorry to say, was killed in prison a few weeks ago. We have not yet been able to process his passing, but we will with time..."

Her head dropped. She felt confused but remembered it all now. The truth was now reality.

"But what about Ms. Reynolds? The interview?"

"You often have dreams of showing your art to the world and opening a gallery. These are thoughts we encourage and this room has become your studio."

It was then I heard my favorite voice shout up, it was Mary. "It's time for coffee and croissants everyone!"

“Cross God one time, and you will be depicted forever as a bloodied goat man - but I’m the evil one.”

       She crossed and uncrossed her legs.

       Indeed, the young woman across from me was not unpleasant to look at. She was plain looking, mousy even.

       If I had been told that the devil were a woman, my mind would have filled with a vision of a Delilah temptress, forked tongue slipping in my ear while I quivered with waning resistance.

       Alas - no swirling smoke, no hopping henchmen. Dressed in crimson satin, a woman devil of my imagination would convince me to do vile things with whimsy.

       The woman across from me was buttoned down, no cleavage or flitting eyelashes. She looks like a mom. I try to keep my suspicion, any fool could guess that this was naught but a trick. Blue blouse and khakis did not an innocent make.

“Oh, this isn’t my normal form, this is a rental especially for you.”

       A wink, there it was - the trickster was out to play. Ignoring that Lucifer was reading my unexpressed thoughts - I was filled with disgust. This woman possessed, to be used and discarded like some puppet.

“Don’t you recognize me?”

       Staccato laughter burst from her, drawing the attention of the tables around us. It was that laugh that began the chill, which poured over my skin like oil.

“This is my fault, I tend to indulge in theatrics.”

       She began to change. Sallow shrinking greying meat - half of her face ripped up with a violence, showing bloodless flesh - she laughed again, the laughter strange sounding from behind flapping skin. It was then that I saw the tire marks, which crawled up across her chest before me.

“Remember me now?”

       I had tried to forget. Spread on pavement in the dark - I hadn’t gotten a good look. Besides, I had been very drunk.