Daylight faded, slumber called him into the night,

The undertaker rested, his work now out of sight.

His dreams took morbid turns, as they always would,

Of caskets, graves, and teary eyes— things he understood.

Along a dreamscape's road he walked, tombstones stood for miles,

Shovel clutched, he chose a plot, began to dig a while.

This grave is for himself, he dreamily realized in surprise,

Hate's last breath at your doorstep, in his "Here Lies" eyes.

All and through the evening, his digging did not cease,

Carry on, carve out the hole for tomorrow's new release.

No escape or help, only, I think of scales of truth—

That his life would end right here, not any fountain of youth.

As alternate truth vied, forever in a rush towards his finale,

Nearing the End of Days awaited without dally.

Not just the undertaker's dream—

But unnatural motives there to guide him,

Backward curiosity the reason,

His role a corpse to be would bind him.

On waking he was caught, with his hand in his own till,

The grave before him, really, his own coffin soon to fill.

Getting here, I'd say everyone misrepresents it— cinematically, I mean.

Stale air and concrete walls closed in on me earlier during processing. My autonomy was violated as they clicked cameras at me. I'm unsmiling, naked as the day I was born, and handed scratchy clothes— my identity erased and replaced with a number. The clanging keys and buzzing doors disorient, and I'm led to a sparse mini studio with lifeless grey walls. An uneven, thin cot and metal toilet welcome me. The closest thing I have to a window is the cell-bar door to the corridor, where a guard roams back and forth.

I conceded that I'd be greeted with painful shrieks and howling shouts of others echoing down the cell block, and the newbies would be seated alone, head in hands, mind racing to establish how they got there. I don't think everyone is an irrational murderer like they tell us... some people are probably feeling self-resentfully accountable for their non-violent burglary offense, tax evasions (ironic), immigration mistakes, or their ceaseless drug habits that they've tried to stop a couple of times leading up to now.

Though, I'm sure there are still plenty of inmates who are unbothered, thinking, what's a few years a pause before going back to what got me here in the first place? I would say that life before already feels so distant to the former, whenever they arrived. Friends, family, freedom, namesake— gone. For the latter, I don't think they're thinking about it, just living out this nice little vacation from the exhaustive nature of committing unlawful acts.

At the scream of a whistle, we shuffled to the dining hall, tense and silent. I stared down at whatever the 'making-school-cafeteria-lunches-look-like-a-Michelin-Star-meal' of the day was. I think guilt or indifference would come back into play here again. The inmates who knew they fucked up— though still less culpable than others, look down to avoid the glare of anyone who might see them as weak, while those who firmly and aggressively deserved their sentence had defensive eyes darting around the room, watching over their tough hides especially closely. Then, we were herded back to our cages, heads counted like preschool children after recess. This was surely emasculating for the hardened criminals.

It's difficult not to want to ask what happened to the person sharing my cell or those passing by, but I preferred not to speak if it wasn't necessary. I figured I'd get to that in a few days once I'd processed the new situation. I'm not exactly a guiltless type who fears nothing.

After hours of tedium, a bell rings for yard time and I fast blinked as I stepped into the sunlight, blinded temporarily. It was shocking and the air felt different, almost foreign, even through the chain link fences and watchtowers. Some inmates would be pacing the far end, struck by a heated argument. Others tossed a basketball around or played cards. Mostly, though, faces would be blank with boredom.

At this point, I found an empty patch of dirt to sit down in, staring at the sky, trying to reminisce about the freedom of open spaces and the warmth of a loved one’s touch. But it was a bit like recalling a dream upon waking. Too soon, the bell clanged lazily again, and everyone was lined up and counted. We trudged back inside. I had some time to myself— as myself as I could get. I wrote a bit before lights out. I didn't sleep that first night and long, dark hours stretched endlessly ahead while my cell-mate slept seemingly peacefully. He must have been here a while.

Tomorrow will be the same routine, the next day too. If Hollywood wants to show this cinematically, they'd be better off using a movie like Groundhog Day. After some monotonous days, I knew I'd simply be going through the same motions, now I'd join up with the thousand-yard starers wandering aimlessly within the walls, biding my time until release.

When you said you'd love forever I left my heart in my chest to wait. Sometimes forever means only a few months. But a year or two past. You healed me. Made me whole again. Toke away all of the scars and jagged ends

I started to believe your words. Morphing my trust around you. Letting my heart be yanked from my chest. I let it be pulled up with no pain because of love

But when you broke it my heart shattered like glass when it was halfway stone. My wounds ran deeper, my scars more visible, my ends jagged.

When I licked up my wounds I showed my snarl instead of my smile. You showed me how to change, wether for the better or the worse? I don't know myself. But you sure can guess.

My teeth turned sharp, my nails claws, my heart stone, my wounds hurting. Always and forever.

Not your forever but mine. How I would remember your knife, not a dagger but a sword. Not a gun but a tank.

I turned cold. You wondered why I snarled at your touch now, why I cry instead of laugh? Before you ask why I'm ignoring you, ask about my hurting wounds. Ask how you made this happen, ask yourself one question. Just one. Not how did WE end up here? Because it was all your doing. Rather ask, what did I do to MAKE her be an ice sculpture that can move?

I was just digging through my drive and found my chemistry final from last year. Please keep in mind that I got a 67% percent on this and passed my chemistry class with an A.

Believe in miracles.

Chemistry of Honey Buns

Olive O. O’Tierney

Generic High School Name

Marcus Mendoza

04/27/2023

Chemistry of Honey Buns

I chose to write about honey buns because according to the majority of my peers, it is where most of my nutrition comes from. I’m not saying that is a healthy decision, or even that they are right about it, but I can’t really think of anything else to write about anyways. So now you have to sit and read about honey buns. So buckle up, take a shot (of coffee, duh), and get ready for a load of useless and likely incorrect information.

Basic Description

A honey bun is a sweet bread with a sugary glaze. Many brands sell honey buns but for today I will be describing the ‘Little Debbie Honey Bun’. This one is personally my favorite. They are sold individually wrapped in thin plastic and grouped in long, decorated cardboard boxes. It sucks because I heard Little Debbie products were being taken off shelves, I mean, they have been a staple mark for so long it just doesn’t feel right.

Ingredients

I’m going to be honest, I am not going to pretend like I am actually reading the ingredients, I’m not allergic to anything, I don’t care what I consume. So here is what the Little Debbie website said: enriched bleached flour ( wheat flour, barley malt, niacin, reduced iron, thiamin mononitrate [vitamin b1], riboflavin [vitamin b2], folic acid), water, sugar, palm oil, palm and soybean oils with tbhq and citric acid to protect flavor, dextrose, yeast, contains 2% or less of each of the following: soy flour, nonfat dry milk, dried honey, eggs, cinnamon, cocoa, wheat starch, leavening (baking soda, sodium acid pyrophosphate), corn starch, mono - and diglycerides, soybean oil, salt, calcium stearoyl lactylate, calcium carbonate, agar, titanium dioxide, calcium sulfate, preservatives (calcium propionate, potassium sorbate, sorbic acid), citric acid, ascorbic acid, calcium peroxide, amylase enzymes, natural and artificial flavors (contains lemon), datem, soy lecithin, annatto extract, turmeric

Allergens: Eggs, Gluten, Soybeans

Additives

E171 - Titanium dioxide

E200 - Sorbic acid

E202 - Potassium sorbate

E282 - Calcium propionate

E322 - Lecithins

E322i - Lecithin

E330 - Citric acid

E406 - Agar

E450 - Diphosphates

E450i - Disodium diphosphate

E471 - Mono- and diglycerides of fatty acids

E472e - Mono- and diacetyltartaric acid esters of mono- and diglycerides of fatty acids

E500 - Sodium carbonates

E500ii - Sodium hydrogen carbonate

E930 - Calcium peroxide

Omg Why Did I Choose Honey Buns? These Have Nothing to do With Chemistry

Quick rant paragraph because I already want to cry and I’m not even halfway through. I just know I can’t fail this and I need to turn SOMETHING in. This sucks, like I don’t know chemistry. I wouldn’t have gotten this far if it wasn’t for quizlet and studywhateverthesecondwordwas.us I don’t actually know anything. Now I’m supposed to just manifest all this information about a honey bun? I hate it here.

Biochemistry

Sorry for the breakdown in the last paragraph, I’m back in the gameish. Honey buns contribute to biochemistry because it contributes to my life and the ingredients like the wheat or whatever. Because wheat grows and it was life before, it was alive. So bio=earth/life, life=alive, wheat WAS alive, wheat is in honey buns, honey buns=biochemistry. Thank you.

Industrial

SO honey buns are made in factories which are very industrial so I think honey buns can be grouped with industrial too. I just looked at the thingy, would the bread rising count as industrial chemistry? I think it would. It does, because I say so. SO the Industrial chemistry comes in where the baking process for the honey buns is. When heat is applied to the dough it rises and kills the ecoli in the flour or whatever other bad things you get when you eat raw bread dough? If I’m being honest, I only think that because my dad once said I would die if I ate undercooked bread. I’m so smart. I should get an awesome grade on this.

Halfway There (I hope)

Okay, so I was just looking up some chemical changes that happen when you bake bread like honey buns, and one thing said this: “When dry heat is applied, as in baking, the heat causes the starch to break down by chemical reaction into sugars called dextrins. The dextrins are brown in color and have their own unique texture and taste. This process is called “dextrinization”” and that honestly sounds so cool. It made me wonder though, if there is dry heat, what is wet heat?

Is Wet Heat a Thing?

So it does not look like wet heat is a thing, but moist heat is. It is when things are cooked with water or steam. It can also be used to sterilize things. It reminded me of this one scene from shameless where Frank uses Carl’s toothbrush and he says “now I have to boil it”. So now my question is, if you can boil the germs off of something, can you boil the flavor off of something?

Could I Potentially Boil the Flavor Out of a Honey Bun?

Okay, so what I am looking for is reduction. Reduction is performed by simmering or boiling a liquid such as a stock, fruit or vegetable juices, wine, vinegar, or sauce until the desired concentration is reached by evaporation. This can change the consistency and flavor of your liquid, bun honey buns are not liquid. Their icing can be melted down though. So at a certain point, the icing can be so diluted and melted down that the sugars start breaking up and it could change the flavor, but not really lose it. Huh, interesting.

I’m Blasting Coconut Mall and Crying

I am typing faster than my brain is processing the information I’m putting down. Tears are in my eyes, I still don’t know what a molar mass is. Does a honey bun even have a molar mass? I am about to throw up because I’m pretty sure my headphones died five minutes ago and I still hear coconut mall. I will be bringing this paper up in therapy.

What Have I Learned?

I learned that I have zero focus, hand cramps mean nothing, and I never want to eat a honey bun again. This has been a very beneficial essay for me because now I genuinely believe I will be making healthier life choices. Today I will eat salad. Thank you.

Resources:

Pure willpower.

May Submissions

Full disclosure, I am a SWF, 29.9 years young, and finally of the realization it is time to move beyond Jell-O shooters and Karaoke nights at the nearest college pub.

I want a life of stability. A life with a real man who understands what a real woman needs and wants. I am beyond playing games. I have been a bridesmaid five times (twice for my sisters alone). I am a dog lady (yellow lab) for friendship because I do not want to be a cat lady for pity. I have a two bedroom apartment that all of my friends want to use but not one of my friends wants to share. I can laugh at what’s funny and listen to what’s important. I have cried at both funerals and weddings, but I am always alone when I do.

I know I have a counterpart, a partner, a part of my life, unknown to me, but waiting to be found. However, I want more than that. I want him not to waste time waiting for me. I want him to be actively looking for me.

I am ready to find that man who finds me and all I have to offer when he does. And when he does, I want him to appreciate the Comstock Lode that is me. I learned how to waltz and salsa, how to cook Beef Wellington, and low boil shrimp. I exercise to remain fit and read to remain aware. I expect Mr. Right to be of equally high standard with similar lofty ambitions, which leads me to my recent Gang of Four.

I found Douglas (or rather he found me) one morning in Starbucks at Biscayne Bay. He looked cute and was reading Victor Hugo’s, “Les Miserables”. He drank his coffee with a single sugar. I drank my coffee with a single sugar. He looked my way and I responded with a coy schoolgirl glance where I began to blush, turn my head slightly, but meet his glance and ever-so-slightly bite my lower lip. Even a blind man could read these signals. He rose, took his coffee, and accepted my (not so) subtle invitation to join me.

Introducing himself as Douglas, he offered his favorite book quote, “A breath of Paris preserves the soul.” While not a fan of the forwardness he displayed, I did give him credit for his chutzpah. He sat with me for the next ten minutes until we both finished our coffees. I had to get to work, so I gave him my “dating” email and asked him to contact me if he wanted.

It has been three months and counting on Douglas wanting something other than coffee.

Next came Richard at the Miami Tower. I bumped into him while the both of us were waiting for an elevator and a poor internet connection. He was on Tinder. I was on Tinder. He was left swiping. I was left swiping. He gasped at a few of the profiles he encountered. I gasped at all of the profiles I encountered. He gazed at my progress. I gazed at his progress. Richard chuckled as he turned off his phone before extending his hand and introducing himself.

He allowed me into the elevator first.

Chivalry is not dead.

As the door closed, I needed some time to introduce myself, so I pressed each button for each of the 38 remaining floors.

Then I turned off my phone before introducing myself.

I’ve been told I’ve got some moxie.

By the 20nd floor, I knew his full name, his work location, and his morning work schedule. Doctor Richard DDS could have been my next dentist (I had made an appointment for this morning) or he could have been my next date. Seeing the bevies of beautiful dental hygienists greeting him as the doors opened on the 21st floor sealed the deal, right swipe-able on Tinder.com, left swipe-able in reality.com.

I should not exclude David the banker.

I met David through a friend of a friend of a friend. He did live up to his billing. He was tall (6 feet), slim (college swimmer), polite, charming, and easy on the eyes. I was told he was well off and well spoken. We were introduced while attending an auction of modern art from starving artists. David admitted he did not understand why a canvas with a single blue streak running horizontally represented man’s inhumanity to man, while the same streak running vertically was an obvious postmodernist attempt at a cubism and impressionism fusion. All I heard while gazing into his blue eyes was the word fusion. He understood and soon swept me away to a Thai-Italian fusion bistro he knew about.

Thirty minutes later, he ordered something for the both of us I could not identify, could not pronounce, and would never be able to cook. However, I ate a small portion and felt glad fortune smiled favorably upon me during this night. We talked over coffees and curried cannolis. David had dreams of becoming more anyone ever thought he could be. He wanted a marriage like his grandparents. They were together nearly 60 years with three children, eight grandchildren, two great-grandchildren, and a house rivaling the Biltmore Estate.

I was smitten.

We exchanged phone numbers and called it a night.

Except, that I couldn’t wait, and neither could David.

Just twenty minutes into the cab ride home, just as I exited the taxi, I went bold and called him. I knew he heard his phone because (ironically) his taxi pulled up to the same building as mine, close enough for me to hear his phone. Close enough for the tramp he was with to hear his phone. They ignored my call as they briefly groped each other before walking the stairs up to the second floor to his apartment.

Mr. David, just moved in, lives one floor below me, and has a penchant for fine art, fine food, and cheap women.

Call it serendipity. I was simultaneously crushed and relieved. I debated whether to kill him or just attend his impending funeral resulting from an untreatable diagnosis.

Post-script to the life of David. He also had an eye for married women. One such woman had an overly jealous husband with a sense of commitment and the time for surveillance.

David broke his lease by month’s end and moved to parts unknown.

That leaves Peter.

Peter was shy and nice and kind and oh so gay.

He thought my interest in him stemmed from the latter as a friend.

At least that is what Paul told me. Paul was also interested in Peter and claimed first dibs. I did not put up a fight. Six months later in the RSVP to a gala to celebrate their impending nuptials, I declined the attendance to both the ceremony and the reception. I did, however, purchase a toaster for the two of them.

The card said they were registered at Target.

Nice.

So, tonight, I hold a glass of Merlot, watch my dog watch me, and wonder if I could repurpose any of the five bride’s maid dresses I have (think Sound of Music and curtains) and go sing somewhere at the top of my voice.

June Submissions

I find myself in another carpe noctem moment. Usually, on a first date, I ask that we both meet at the restaurant of choice. Tonight would not be any different. However, tonight I began to feel levels of impending doom I rarely encounter. So, I began to hedge my bets in lieu of disaster.

Tonight, I have a full tank of gas and directions to a quaint taco place that remains open late. My best friend is at her home awaiting an SOS. My dog and his need to be walked is my excuse of last refuge in case tonight’s Mr. Right does not meet my expectations.

I arrive on time with a feeling of trepidation for what might occur.

Apparently, Derrick, my blind date, is just as edgy.

I meet him at the door and shake his slightly sweaty, slightly shaking hand. He does have a wealth of good manners as he opens the door for me and smiles to display a nice set of white teeth. His socks, shoes, and belt match (all black). His coat fits. His shirt is pressed and his burgundy tie is just the right shade to compliment my red dress. I may be able to overlook his hands after all.

We make small talk until the maître d' escorts us to a wonderful table. Derrick pulls out my chair for me allowing for a spectacular view of both the massive fireplace and the river bend at dusk. Derrick takes his seat and motions the waiter over.

I do not speak French, but Derrick does. He is not fluent (his admission), but he knows enough to be functional and asks my preference. I prefer reds and that is all he requires.

“As-tu un bon Merlot?”

“Oui!”

The waiter returned with what turned out to be a vintage Merlot that did double duty paired with an appetizer (freshly made baguette with incredible butter) and our entrée (roast chicken with thyme and onion).

Maybe, just maybe, Derrick could be more than the flavor-of-the-week.

But, I still had that eerie feeling.

Our conversation included the generalities of our employment, a few laughs, more likes and dislikes, a few more laughs, and a nice finishing touch about his parent’s long marriage. Derrick was more of a listener than a speaker. He made eye contact frequently and demonstrated table manners second only to the Queen herself.

But I still had that feeling. Its classification moved from eerie to creepy. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something was amiss. Nobody was this good for this long without having another shoe to drop. His hands might have been a false flag to divert my attention or foretell an imminent doom. Smart money is on the latter.

And yet, Derrick still has his attention on my words. He is both charming and clever. His voice is certain and his speech is that of refinement. From a quick visual scan of the room, I am not the only person who notices Derrick’s visible accoutrements. He can have his choice of dinner companion from the many patrons. That he chose me should make me happy.

But it doesn’t.

Now I have to ask myself, why do I have these negative feelings? I see people in movies that meet and fall in love all within a two hour span of time. My parents met on a date and they are still together. Apparently, the same is true for Derrick’s parents. In fact, I can see another couple (mid 60’s) sharing a dinner in each other’s company without reservations. Theirs is an ease that longevity develops. They have it. Derrick has it. I do not. I should. Maybe I will later.

For dessert, the waiter suggests a small gelato to share for the both of us. I vocally encourage this idea and Derrick agrees. When the waiter returns, I take the first taste and will fight a pack of wolves before I share. This gelato is divine! Coyishly, I ask Derrick if he would like some and he tells me it is enough just to watch me enjoy eating the single scoop all by myself.

Yes, I was selfish and no, I should have let Derrick eat half, but his eyes actually did light up as I devoured this treat. I noticed his hands no longer quivered nor seamed sweaty. Derrick was in the zone and the gelato was not the only treat I had at the table to enjoy.

Similar to a school girl caught eating a small chocolate; I gave Derrick an impish smile as I rested my hand on his. After a four second pause, he asked if he could see me again two nights from now for (possibly) dinner and a movie. I found his demeanor agreeable and offered a supportive “yes” to his suggestion.

Then that other shoe dropped.

By the clamor and disturbance it created, the shoe must have been one of those welder boots with the steel toe, steel soles, and as heavy as medieval armored boots.

What happened?

At the conclusion of a perfect evening, the waiter arrived with the check. Derrick took the check (I assumed he would) with his left hand. From his coat pocket, he removed a pencil and a small pad for calculations.

Using perfect arithmetic skills, Derrick calculated both his portion of the bill and my portion of the bill. My portion included the entire cost of the gelato. Gallantly, Derrick assumed the cost of the after dinner coffees for the both of us.

Note to self, this bistro charges extra for the buttered baguettes. Derrick “prorated” my financial liability by estimating (almost to the millimeter) the length of my partially eaten baguette.

His calculations were correct to three decimal places.

We (I and the other patrons of the establishment) witnessed a seismic shift from creepy to incredible. By the time I went home to speak to my friend, I guessed (not even close to Derrick’s decimal place accuracy) that I had a better chance of being struck by lightning AND winning the lottery than participating in the events unfolding before me again.

Derrick was as serious as a heart attack about separate checks. He even had the exact change for his portion and seemed a bit discombobulated that I didn’t. I, however, did have plastic and could take a shot at how much tip I would have to include preventing the staff from uploading the pictures of the developments at my table.

The maître d' gave me a slight cough to signal that a mere 50% tip would need to be filed in triplicate to avert such a catastrophe. It cost me nearly $150 to learn one French word that means disaster.

It also cost me nearly 3 hours of my life to learn my instincts are always correct.

I called my best friend to tell the story to her four times to prove to her it actually happened.

Over the next two days, I did not call Derrick (or return his four calls) to guarantee it never happens again.

I did manage to call the restaurant to disclose the name of the gelato they serve.

I picked up a small container the next day.

Somehow, I do feel a bit better.

July Submissions

Sunday morning is my time. I have the local paper delivered. I scour the stories over a pot of coffee and a bowl of diced fruit (the store bought, prepackaged type, my guilty pleasure). Next comes a pair of leggings, my hair in a ponytail, and a brisk walk with my dog. This is my “see and be seen” tour of the neighborhood. I make contact with the elderly sisters in the next apartment complex, gossip with the local gossip, and check in with my sister to cat-call the construction workers on their never ending drive to destroy (and then repair) the same section of roadway in perpetuity, all while on double time.

On average, I cover almost two miles on my circuitous route. Today, I added nearly forty feet more.

Coming toward me was a nice looking young man with an equally nice looking black lab. I caught his eye before he caught mine, but caught it he did. It does sound cliché, but I permitted my dog on his leash to be entangled on his dog on his leash as a thinly veiled pretense for the inevitable introduction the two of us would have.

He didn’t seem to mind.

I do believe if I had not taken the initiative that morning, he would have.

He told me his name was Josh and immediately inquired as to my itinerary for the remainder of the day (i.e. for the next 10 hours). Taken somewhat back by his forwardness, I found my yellow lab becoming enamored with his black lab. The tension in the leashes matched the tension of the situation. The dogs pulled us closer into a Gordian knot encounter. Not wanting to dislodge myself via the sword, I hemmed and hawed with polite conversation about his directness.

Usually, I am a much better dancer than I lead on to be.

The leashes became so restrictive, I found myself standing only inches away from Josh making his best elevator pitch for lunch and window shopping downtown. He said he could come by at noon and I could pick the restaurant.

I acquiesced to the delight of the proposal and the upcoming disentanglement scenario which lay ahead.

Upon hearing my affirmative, Josh ordered his lab to sit and then unhooked the leash.

From such a level of directness, the dog obeyed immediately.

It was only a matter of time until Josh (using an unrestricted leash) shed all bonds of physical contact between our canines.

Not wishing to be awkward, I gave him the address to my building (not my apartment) and told him I would wait outside at noon as planned. He folded his leash, told his dog to heal, and walked away. I did the same (walk away).

He did catch me turning back to take another look at him (mortified and giddy as a result).

By the time I returned home, it was almost 11 and I had no time to spare.

If a young man should have the courage to read the next lines, please memorize them, learn them, and divulge them to as many of your friends as possible.

It takes far more than an hour, even under the auspices of the word “casual” to get ready for a first date. The regime includes a shower, shampoo, conditioner, brush, floss, brush again, mouthwash, shave, moisturizing, plucking, tweezing, nail polish touch up, hair (this alone could take hours), choosing what to wear, accessorizing, re-choosing what to wear, taking a photo and emailing it to a friend (or two) to get their opinion, tell my story to each of the aforementioned friends, get their advice, rethink everything, try on an outfit, try on another outfit that has shoes I can find that actually match the outfit, debate which makeup and how much, go with my instinct, question my instinct, and settle on a nice sundress, wedge sandals, and a floppy hat to keep the sun contact to a minimum. All of this CANNOT be accomplished in a mere hour. However, by channeling my inner goddess, I pulled it off and sent a photo to all of my friends to prove I have the right stuff.

The clock read 11:59 and I was walking down my steps in my carpe diem mode.

By 12:00, I should have been in my caveat emptor mode.

My mood change was not precipitated by Josh. He was two minutes early and had the time of his life watching me walk the red carpet of the building’s stairs. True confession time, there was no red carpet to walk. However, if there was one, I would work it until it bled.

My mood changed when I saw Josh.

He was wearing the exact same clothing he wore an hour ago. His hair was uncombed. His shoes weren’t tied. His smile was perfect (bonus points for pearly white, perfect teeth), but his tee shirt was wrinkled and not tucked into his sweatpants. Note to self, is there etiquette for tee shirts and sweatpants?

This was not fair.

I just spent an hour performing Herculean feats to asymptotically approach “appearance perfection”. He (maybe) washed his face. I trained for Olympic gold and he auditioned for “Pig Pen”.

It isn’t fair.

Josh senses a level of bewilderment (obviously not the cause of my bewilderment) and snaps his fingers in front of my face to bring me back to reality.

It still isn’t fair.

He reached for my hand and escorted me to the sidewalk to begin our walk to find a nice place to eat.

If he pitches any place with the word “Burger” in the title, I will jump out into traffic.

Thinking about that, no I will not. Can you imagine me in an open casket, dressed perfectly, and Josh appears wearing that tee shirt?

That tee shirt is the one he currently sports today. The collar looks like fried bacon and is stretched to the point that someone with twice the size of a human skull could easily pull it over.

That tee shirt with enough wrinkles to mimic a spring map of the Amazon River floodplain.

I wanted to scream as we walked. I wanted him to know how angry I was.

I turned to Josh and inhaled. He was going to get it.

Unfortunately, maybe in retrospect, fortunately, I never got the chance.

The minute I turned to face him, he turned to face me.

That’s when he kissed me.

He took my breath away, right there on the avenue I live on, in full display of God and country, ignorant of all PDA protocols developed in middle school and published in Cosmopolitan covering this very contingency.

Josh just laid it on thick.

Not in a sloppy tee shirt way; more of a Rhett Butler “you need to be kissed” sort of way.

I am sure Cosmo covered this, but I don’t have that issue.

Yet.

If I had the chance to rethink the events of the day, I wouldn’t. It would have all played out wrong. My luck, Josh would be a dapper dresser, but a fish face kisser.

The day was still young and I had a solution.

This time, I took the lead.

His lab follows orders, maybe Josh will also.

I told him (not asked) to follow me to a second hand clothing store. Thirty minutes later, he wore a nice shirt and pressed jeans. I will work on the shoes later. The lady behind the counter tossed in a new comb for free.

Twenty minutes later, I ordered salads for the both of us at a little place I know that does not serve Neanderthals.

By 2pm, Josh passed for civilized.

By 7pm, Josh walked me home and passed for “better than average” kisser.

Before he departed, I told him my phone number and ordered him to memorize it.

By 7:15, he called me to prove he did.

I now have a boyfriend and a project.

Both are worthy of my attention. Both are worthy of my intentions. Of this I am sure.

"Actually, we have a theory about your EDS."

The card flicks down onto the table as he says it, and I look up at him, then over to his friends, whom I've just met yesterday but who have received my whole-hearted approval. I was hesitant to meet them, at first. I worried that medical students would see me as lesser - an elementary education major who "plays with kids all day," but I'm happy to have been proven wrong. This declaration, though, throws me for a loop.

"What do you mean by that?" My fingers are running over the jagged plastic of the game piece. Cannons. Ships with guns designed to take down the enemy. "Can you pass me a mast for this ship?"

With no hesitation, Victoria delivers a perfect quip - "You want *more* of those defective Mast Cells?!?"

Laughter around the table. I have to laugh too. It's funny, really. I stick the plastic insert of the mast onto the ship. Mine is army green. Ready to fight or hide, except that instead of existing in the jungle that the shade was designated for, this ship is on a cardboard ocean with nowhere to go and no way to escape notice. I'm trying to focus on what Liam said, though. There's meaning behind it that I can't quite parce out yet.

"So - yeah, wait, what's that mean, what's the theory?"

He exchanges glances with Anu, his housemate. Perhaps it's a silent conversation, a debate on what to say, if anything at all - but it's too late to take it back. He's already started. "Well... we actually have a theory that you don't just have the hypermobile subtype. We think you might have vascular. Or maybe both."

I can't process the possibilities of what this means, so all I say is, "What? Why?"

Blessedly, Victoria and Anu are both silent. Maybe they see that I am not quite understanding yet. More likely, they recognize that it needs to come from him. "Because of the type of pain you have. The way you describe it as someone reaching in and tearing at your veins. And, well, some of the other symptoms too."

I cannot think. I laugh, instead, because the only connection my brain can make is a feeling from way back when I first got diagnosed: the sense of relief I felt when I discovered that my subtype was the least likely to result in major medical emergency. My experience of that relief is pulled to the surface again, but this time it feels as though it's under a microscope. Under questioning. Ready to crack.

"Don't tell me that," I joke. It's light, and I'm laughing, but my eyes are probably begging.

I'm making eye contact as I deliver it. I never look at Liam's eyes, anymore, but they're just how I remember them. Curious, attentive, and a little too excited about figuring out the puzzle of me.

I could try to shake it off, and I would, except for the fact that it's coming from the smartest person I've ever met. You know, the man for whom medical school is the place where he's finally thriving. And, as I look at Victoria, I can see that this isn't just him being cautious or over-zealous. Maybe she can see the fear behind my smile.

This should scare me even more, when the graduate of Johns Hopkins who is already published in Nature (and who Liam tells me is the smartest person that *he* has ever met,) backs it up. "Have you ever had genetic testing?"

I'm looking at my resource cards, now. Two gold. Three iron. One wood. No rum, though. Not quite enough to do what I want. Where's the rum when you need it?

"No."

Anu is speaking now. His tone is more gentle, less matter of fact, a contradiction to my first impression of him as towering far above me. "It's worth getting it done, I don't know if they can order it for you in a different state though. Is Virginia reciprocal?" That last part is directed towards Victoria, who has been knitting at speed between her turns of the game.

The three of them are saying now that the professors they've spoken with agree, and they're throwing out possibilities for treatment and assessment. And I know they've discussed my case with Doctors I do not know before. I know that and I'm fine with it, and have been grateful for it on several occasions. But right now, my certainty that everything will be okay is undermined, despite my easy assurances to the group of students I spoke to earlier of my acceptance about my disability.

Names are tossed back and forth that mean nothing to me, but someone, I think Anu, says finally,

"I wish you lived nearby. So many of our professors would treat you for free."

Liam is nodding, Victoria's knitting needles are clicking, Anu is examining the board. And I am still not quite sure what they're saying. All I can think is that it's a funny joke, for sure. Liam's words are still swirling around in my brain. So I laugh again, this time less convincingly. "You can't tell me that. That's the one where people die."

I finally realize that I do, in fact, have a move. I slap down the three iron and trade them in, courtesy of my ship's being docked at a port, in turn playing the cards I need to buy myself another life.

Wisely, the three of them let it be and move on.

Alone amidst an abounding abyss

and azure aspirations age again.

Agitating already angry airs

and aching, awaiting anxiously.

Anticipating any affection's afterglow.

Always absent.

200 posts ago... https://www.theprose.com/post/762528 - the inspiration

Don't be afraid--I have not come for you. Everyone recoils at first, but you are not nearing the End of Days. You called me by name and I heard. A backward curiosity indeed. Your tepid father walks away while you spit at him with with all the vitriol your mangled heart can fathom, and call to God when deep within, that heart still beats with love for him. I recall a fleshling's clever words: we only hurt the ones we love; but better to have said: they--the one's who love us most--are the ones we hurt, instead.

And so he walked away with little empathy for your pain. You called to me with all your hate and love and loss and rage. Now, walk with me, and for a time, if you leave your bitter heart behind, I promise you that if you look, you'll have a chance to see forever through my eyes. Come... if you dare.

You mortals lack a simple understanding of the gift which we call life. For even your Heavenly Father, my and your Creator, cannot truly comprehend it. He knows life and He knows love, for He is both of these, and through Him, you knew them too; but the one thing He gave you, which He cannot know, is the one thing you despise more than anything--He gave you Death. He gave you... me.

Did you know that there are more humans alive now, at this very moment, befouling the Earth, than the total of all those who have come before? It is no small feat--to be the courier of souls. Most do not go quietly--not anymore. They live loud. They die loud. Foolishly, they seek each other's wishes only to behold the Undertaker's dream. Those who do not live loud--they are the ones who transition well--not for their blind obedience, but for their understanding of their mortality. Fati amor, young one--love your fate. Know that I will one day come for you as I have come for billions before, and live life well.

If you can comprehend and accept this thing--this understanding of one's own demise, then surely you will come to accept and appreciate the things less stern than my arrival at your doorstep, and see them as life's bittersweet and necessary truths... and then you'll carry on.

What is freedom without captivity? What is health without sickness? Indeed, what is life without death? Even your youthful mind knows, you need not test the weights to know why I think of scales when I see joy and pain. And trust me, my young caller, you do not know true anguish, for I have seen and heard far more pain than your soul can comprehend. Why fill your soul with spite when you know the nature of untethered men? You mean to scream with Hate's last breath to set the realm of souls afire, but you consider not the precious balances of un-reciprocated love. Pity those who do not know the crushing weight of love withheld. For they will not appreciate, as you, the majesty of God's love unrestrained.

Quiet yourself now. Cease your inner cries for death's release. Will unnatural motives beget natural changes? You know they will not. Your pleas hold little weight, in truth, among the dead and those who do not die. You would be wise to keep your shoulders set in realms unknown to supernatural souls--those who sought God's lies, an alternate truth, or to see forever in the blink of an overzealous eye. No, here is where you belong--where you are loved.

So you must walk alone for now, but not for long. This gift of yours--it is a gift--because of my promise, but with this time you have, you must hold love's flame and I assure you, it will burn. Embrace it, but know its limits. You have held your share of burning embers. Do not waste another moment clinging to the ashes... and let him walk away. Do you remember--the times you said, as other fleshlings say, "You only live once"? You were wrong, you know? You only die once--you must live every single day.

Alice truly didn't mean to procrastinate sleep.

For an adult— which physically, she was, although her mind may lac the qualifications, it's recommended they have 7 or so hours of sleep. Never over 9, because it bodes the risk of sleep drunkenness, and never any less than the aforementioned 7, because a plethora of health problems could arise.

And she truly didn't mean to. Not really. She felt the exhaustion, heavy in her bones like the settling of a malt liquor, and with the force of having your neck snapped back from a weighted blanket being tossed over your head. Which, mind you, did not assist her in sleeping. It was warm and suffocating but never alluring enough.

It wasn't insomnia or somniophobia that kept her up. It was something else- a true detest for rest. She refuted it most of the time, pulling all nighters and sleeping through the day when her weary body finally crashed because it didn't have the necessary energy supply to keep going.

Alice had done so easily all throughout high school. Going two or three nights in a row with no sleep- no naps, no caffeine. Nothing, beside gas station food stock and grit, and then proceeded to do survive an entire 8 hours of school and a following 6 hour work kitchen job shift. But in her mid-twenties, the fiscal responsibility to let your body be governed by a job and expectations was an exhaustion in itself.

But alas, still, she refused.

One night, she'd gone to sleep early after waking up at 4pm with a headache and a strange twist of irritation in her teeth that beckoned her to scream at everyone. Alice lay there supine, popping melatonin until it left a bitter taste of cough medicine on the back of her tongue, soft music and the whirring of an AC filling the emptiness surrounding her bed plush with blankets and pillows in a bid to seduce her mind to relax.

And she did it. She slept.

A sleep filled with dreams of an actress-- one she couldn't remember, like the answer to a math problem on the tip of your tongue. She hadn't had that particular actress on her mind- yet she remained there, stagnant with soft smiles that blurred, and physical aesthetics that morphed like watercolour on a page.

Because, as she researched as soon as the afternoon had summoned her, a persons subconscious cannot create faces you do not know already. And even still, whether family or a childhood friend, one's sleeping mind will never fully comprehend and recover features lost to the black space of your eyelids.

But these dreams— she huffed about every night and screwed her eyes tight enough until there were stars made of deepest brown eyes and a dimpled smile- weren't one her REM brain made. No. It was in that space before you were asleep, but were nearly unconscious. Liminal dreaming, she had discovered among her google symptoms, was the term. Straddling the waking world and dream. Where you can feel the fabric of your sheets bundled by your feet, and the warmth of your mattress well worn from years of tossing and turning, but where you could reach into your creativity. A world on the edge of your mind, a swirling kaleidoscope where your meandering consciousness mixes memory and thought with visionary imagery.

Except, it wasn't that.

It wasn't a recollection of your day combined with fantasies like a floating briefcase next to yourself grocery shopping.

Because in Alice's new dream world— she existed. Jenna. With soft black hair, pale skin, the exact amount of freckles and two dimples; one on the right side of her cheek and one nestled within the divot of her chin she'd seen blown up onto 120 foot screens.

A famous actress, that spoke back with vivacity and alertness. She soon learned, that Jenna was asleep during these moments. If she fell asleep, fully, before Jenna was, she wouldn't see her. But in that liminal space- like the grey in a monochrome scheme, or the cold-blooded sensation that seeps through you between living and dead, Jenna existed. And it had become the most painful, and comforting experience in Alice's entire life.

The first time Alice meets her, is after a particularly grim week. Her girlfriend had broken up with her the day after a sexual assault, where her supposed friends had walked away and left her alone to rot in her own body. The memory lingers still like a leaded weight in the pit of her stomach, a dreadful anchor in every happy moment.

Her cheeks weren't strained with tears. She couldn't feel anything beyond empty. The floor was littered with empty liquor cans that were growing stale, and the ashtray beside the bed was toppling with every little tap. Red-rimmed eyes move from the TV screen where Pretty Little Liars is playing--a comfort show that carries memories of summer slurpees and laughter-- to the phone on her thigh thats vibrating.

The contact photo is her ex, glaring. June never did smile, especially if you pointed out the liveliness of her namesake. She answers with a heavy sigh, borne on the edge of funeral depression.

"Hey..."

"Hi."

There's a silence that drags between them. Alice's thumb runs along the grooves of the TV remote, desperately wanting to escape into the fictional world again.

"How are you?"

"I'm fine."

Fine. What a mockery of the English language.

"You're not. I know you--"

Alice's eyes screw tight, her jaw working to stop the anger that gathers on the back of her tongue. "--Im really okay, June. I just ordered food." The food was among the liquor minefield on the ground, a cold burger and soggy onion rings. "Thank you for calling, though."

There's something in the silence that they both recognize as a necessity. June had to call. Because the guilt was too much for her poor shoulders to carry. Alice's fingers dig into the plastic shell on her phone, knuckles white with restraint. And she has to restrain, because if she spoke too loudly June would call her abusive.

"You can come over, if you want."

Alice releases her grip on the remote, rolling the thought around in her mind. "Do you want me to?"

June's voice is noticeably forced-- tight and annoyed like she usually got when the other girl needed reassurance. "If you want to you can." And she evades the need for reassurance perfectly as always, "I can call you an Uber. You shouldn't drive drunk."

"Im not drunk. I only had three seltzers."

"That's three too many. Call me when you're here."

The call ends. Alice doesn't even feel the urge to say I love you like she might have a month ago, though it was never reciprocated in their two year stint. Because all you can feel, when you're exhausted and broken, is resentment to the thing that scattered your pieces.

She wears the same clothes she was assaulted in, because she hasn't been able to change, or to even touch her own skin or look in the mirror. She sneaks out through the window, and has to clamour over the fence because her mother would scream if she were caught-- it's too late to be out (it's nine) and she wasn't supposed to sneak out last night, either, and maybe if she hadn't maybe she wouldn't have been assaulted.

Her feet land on the pavement. Her ankles ache with the force at which she lands. It's a torturous cycle. Sneaking out of a window with a broken bug screen, clambering out onto the road, and climbing inside a waiting car. The mans dark eyes meet hers-- and she can't even beg like she usually does in her mind, quietly and desperately, that she arrives safely. Alice wouldn't be upset if he killed her.

He doesn't. Whatever God reigned here was not a benevolent one.

The drive is longer than usual. Maybe because she doesn't have her music playing, but there's a symphony of heartache following each and every turn of the tires. It crescendos when she sees June-- magnificently devoid of emotion in the threshold of the apartment.

"Can I have a hug?" Alice asks, because maybe having the touch of someone relatively good'll help.

It doesn't, of course.

It doesn't assuage the ache, or smash the pieces back together like she hopes it will. Because this is just another devil in sheep's clothing-- or a devil in shitty Shein clothes-- and this is the devil's house. A small apartment with another bed she won't sleep in.  Its covered in crumbs and makeup and certain stains that weren't there before, and there's plates and pots all around the limited counter space covered in mold which is far less charming when they're not under the guise of a happy relationship stretched too thin and vaguely rose coloured.

Alice blinks at the dead roses-- also rotting-- she had bought six months earlier. There are teddy bears she had seen on store shelves and had picked especially for June, to give to her when she'd drive the hour to pick her up from work at midnight every week. Bears, flowers and time, all stolen like her ability to consent.

When she thinks about it, as she carefully maneuvers the minefield of charging wires and dirt, June wasn't even the one that paid for the hotel and dinner on Alice's 20th birthday.

What a mythic bitch.

"I have work early, but you can stay as long as you like." June says, moving the pile of trash from her bed to the never-before-seen floor.

"Yeah, thanks." Alice mumbles, arms crossed over her chest. It's more of a defence mechanism then an act of disrespect, though disrespecting the woman who broke her heart wouldn't be the worst idea. Not like she could trash the crack den she was in. "I'm just gonna get cleaned up."

The bathroom smells like cigarettes. A habit that Alice tried to quit but June forced her to pick up again once-- you know i'm going to be so stressed coming back from my trip and need a pack waiting. You can quit any other time, don't be selfish.

But at least June hadn't trashed her toothbrush and conditioner after her very dramatic monologue--- your assault was cheating whichever way you spin it. Alice is actually shocked that June has any kind of hygiene products, given how she often looked greasy.

But at least her toothbrush was there. That was something familiar in the ruins. Like seeing mount Vesuvius right before it decimated all of Pompeii. Familiar, and horrifyingly so.

She goes through the motions, and no-- I don't need a change of clothes. Yes, I know it gets hot in the night. And then they're settled down for the night, on a mattress that feels like two sheets of paper thrown over a rock, and with June on the absolute knifes edge of the mattress, back faced toward her not for the first time. Had this girl ever wanted her?

Probably not. Because in a weeks time, June would be with someone new and unburdened by trauma and they wouldn't see each other ever again.

Alice's eyes are drawn to the blue and green LED globe that make ripples on the ceiling like water, dancing and dancing the same stupid little dance.

She's stared up at this popcorn ceiling-- at these lights-- so many fucking times and never under any good circumstance. Either her face looked weird when she was thinking, or she didn't want to go out enough, or she was being pressured into sex. All under these stupid fucking lights. And now she has to spend the night next to the body of someone she feels unsafe around, with no Pretty Little Liars to pull her stream of conciousness.

Because, what? What could possibly make a nightmare worse. Unless the girl beside her suddenly unzipped her human suit and revealed to be a monster with a thousand razors for teeth, and then told her she should get her teeth filed down because they were too long.

It always skeeved Alice out when demons were shitty in just the same way humans were.

Her eyes drift shut out of boredom, to the sound of the fan and the even breathing beside her. Alice's mind searches for something to latch onto-- something pleasant and safe. Something better than this stomach churning, dull and uncomfortable reality.

And then... there's Jenna-- in a field that belongs as the landscape to a favourable childhood family trip. She's sitting in the grass, her face is bleary like trying to see beneath the cover of wet eyelashes, and her body isn't a physical thing. It's made of waves, that drag the colour of her to and fro. She sits in front of a sunrise, seemingly doing nothing with a flimsy basis in reality, but too important of a nothing to interrupt.

And she knows it's Jenna-- her mind supplies it for her. And it's weird. Because she feels the harshness of the mattress against her thigh, but she can see the indentations on the earth from where she must be walking because she's getting closer to the watercolour girl. The fan is whooshing in her ear, but there's the chirping of birds just beneath the veil of it. It smells like petrichor, the sun lovingly lapping at pale skin and its lush with life. Nothing hurts. The scars and bruises accumulated over so long aren't here, when she looks down to check that she's real. Only the smattering of freckles and tattoos.

Its home.And its comfort.

The feeling congeals in her stomach with the weight of unsettlement that appeared yesterday. There are apologies pushing at the backs of her teeth; one for disturbing the other woman's peace, another for being an unwanted guest and a third for not finding her sooner.

"Are... am I... is this death?"

The other woman's head raises from where she's looking at a blank canvas that hadn't been there a moment earlier-- and even with the mash of colours and textures, there's something curving in the visage. A smile, Alice thinks.

"Do you want it to be?"

Her voice-- oh, it's like spiced honey. Illustrious and raspy. Alice feels the apples of her cheeks flush with the desire to take and taste and keep.

"I don't wan't... anything." She says.

"No? Well, thats a shame." Jenna points to the trees. "I made you coffee."

Everything shifts, like the world on its axis, or a polaroid camera snapping between film. The field is gone, and the two are now seated in a cafe that Alice recognizes as the one near her dad's house. A sweet, homely little thing.

She inhales heavily. It's smoky and has that old house smell-- from walls well worn  and covered in paintings, to the chairs uneven with the shotty floor installation. It's grounding. That's something she's been lacking.

Alice relaxes into the chair, looking around her.

Mechanical whirring of the coffee blender, brewing a fresh pot for the lunch rush. The soft glaze of the walnut table marred by mug rings and crumbs from previous patrons. The current patrons, idle in conversation. A woman sits to Alice's left with a short, spiky haircut. It's a full orange, with the quaf above her slim-rimmed spectacles a vibrant blue. The largest cappuccino sits in front of her. To Alice's right, an older gentleman with a fleece and jeans. He's currently fiddling with the napkin dispenser to bring his wife one to clean her fingers from the sweat of a microwaved-warm muffin.

Alice blinks.

Jenna spears a potato with the tongue of her fork, looking over the spudded deliciousness at the confused blonde. Waiting, patiently. Quietly holding space for her without judgement. At the apex of a breath, she let her shoulders relax, and for half a second, rested. For half a second, it was peaceful.

"Where are we?" She asks.

Jenna shrugs, spearing another potato that looks coated in the glaze her mom uses for roasted veggies. "This is your dream. We're wherever your sleepy mind takes you."

Alice nods. And then seemingly remembering herself, halfway through she shakes her head.

"And you're here why?"

Jenna places a hand to her chest-- a mix of physical tanned skin and blurry motions like the surface of a lake, feigning hurt. "You wound me." Her hand falls back to the table, drumming something that ,matches the tempo of Alice's heart beats. "I don't know. Ive been stuck here for a long time, I think at least. There's no clocks in this place."

Alice was deeply aware of her hand. Her left hand rested on the table, next to her coffee cup, fingers languid in a gentle arch. It would be nothing to slip her own hand into that gap between palm and table, and then they wouldn't just be having coffee, they'd be having coffee and holding hands , which was a thought so fucking lame Alice wanted to tear it from her eyes. Caught in a gust of beautiful illusion, she reached out with her own right hand, and wrapped her fingers around... air.

Alice blinks down at their hands, separated by more TV static, she doesn't have much time to think about it, or ask about the sympathetic smile Jenna sports because  the patrons within are suddenly shrouded in a darkness that seems to not bother any of these watercolored imaginieries-- Jenna is still happily eating, even around her pity.

Alice forces her body up with much effort, feeling weighed down by something other worldly and stumbles across the room to press her hands to something real—- the cool glass of the window. A large, dark smog is encroaching, swallowing the world into its sundering depths.

"What the fuck is that?"

"Your unconsciousness. You're about to fall asleep." Jenna says.

Alice whirls around-- but it's slow and sluggish. Her body feels drugged. "Im not already?"

"Nope. Not really, at least. Not fully."

For some reason, Alice is swamped with nerves as she asks, "Will I see you again?"

Jenna nods, raising her fork in salute. "As long as you need me."

And with that, Alice falls asleep for the first time in a long time--- content.

Awakens alone in a sorry-excuse for a bed covered with crumbs, and muses idly about how when she gets home she's throwing away those wet onion rings heaped on her own bedroom carpet.

————

Weeks pass where Alice slowly begins to find her missing pieces to put them back together. Scattered within the very things she refused to face, starting with the starts with the clothes she was assaulted in-- burns them in the backyard fire pit.

She cries, then, for the first time. When she decides to block those friends that had abandoned her that fateful night, she cries even more. Alice stops talking to June and... doesn't cry, because the grit of crumbs beneath her nails the last morning she woke up in her bed was vile enough to push past the grief.

Alice's hair has been lobbed off to about shoulder length, too, for the first time in three years, freshly highlighted and deep conditioned. The woman that touches her is the first stranger she interacts with in months— and Alice cries in the swivel chair while the woman offers tentative smiles and you don't need her, I bet she was ugly anyway.

Alice gets a little job-- something to keep her busy but doesn't pressure the healing process. Started up at the gym-- something to keep her active to offset the early arthritis rotting in bed for weeks was likely causing. Started seeing a therapist, which was expensive, but she got the reassurance and pride she looked for in June within the bright-smiled professional.

Best of all, Alice sets a sleep schedule-- soft, to start with. Whenever she's tired she sleeps, which is beneficial to start even if it's regular. It's November now., as she switches off the Christmas tree in her bedroom and closes the blinds that show softly falling snowflakes. She thinks of her mum, who's been much kinder lately, and the holidays. It's always a pleasant time in her family, and they've been watching home videos from when Alice and her siblings were much younger. It's been cathartic to see that she's been loved for longer then she'd been alive. That love will be immortalized long after she's gone, too.

The dreams have changed with the seasons. They've left the coffee shop, with a whirling tilted axis, to end up in Alice's high school theatre, just the pair foregrounded by the incandescent lamps. It's dark, as always, in this little ampitheater built for two. Two leather recliners they never sit on facing each other, in lieu of sitting on the floor or dancing around the room in a fit of ethereal enchantment.

Alice had mastered in her few times doing this, how to change the setting.

It was the rule of three's in the dream world.

The same three places. The huge field filled with the thick brush of tall grass, the dark theatre or the tundra of a castle made of a dark blue ice. You could, if you tried hard enough, feel it beneath your palms. The tickle of blades, or the burning bite of something frozen. And over time, Jenna's face had become more recognizable. Something she could find even in the liminal space of her mind. In one of the same three outfits. Either the outfit she wore in a film Alice had belligerently pressed 'not interested' in a thousand times on social media to stave away the sting of pain, or in something basic and simple. Because that way, in all black, she could focus on the slightest gleam of light in dark eyes.

Tonight was no different, as she flickered off the LED's (always red, never blue or green) behind her bed to snuggle up in the thick comforter. She balled the blanket to her chin, praying she wouldn't have to shift around- because  in that distorted the picture of them together- and quickly casted aside her wayward worries and thoughts so she wouldn't be distracted. And she's transported, always in pale-washed jeans and a orange sweater, opening her eyes to blink up at the ceiling, laying on the floor of the theatre. Jenna's already waiting, giving Alice an appraising once-over.

"I like your haircut."

Alice hums, glancing down to check her own hair length then back to Jenna. "Thanks."

Her dark eyes are alight, looking Alice from head to toe with something soft, something kind.

Alice pushes herself up into a sitting position, asking, "So, how do you figure this all works?" She gestures around mindlessly, desperately trying to hide beneath the beaming sun that is Jenna's attention.

She kindly accepts the bait, "As I've always said-- it's your head. What do you think?"

Alice bites her lip, blushing slightly in the low light.

"I was playing this game-- Assasins creed Valhalla, in case you were wondering."

Jenna snickers. When she looks at her like that, she doesn't need to say nerd.

"And I had to kill all these guards to get to this kinda king guy. I was meant to rescue him but he was dead, like, slumped over rotting in his throne with flies and buckets of something gellatenous near him kinda dead. And a woman was there and I had all these dialogue prompts and one was to ask her oh were you just speaking to him a few minutes ago? And she says yeah and I ask how and she tells me she speaks to him and gets these prompted dialogue lines in her head of what he was saying, and hears it in his voice. And I think... maybe that's how this works. Sure, if it was some crazy woman with a corpse my character would be like okay weird but it was more than that. So... I don't know. Maybe that's how."

Jenna blinks a couple times, though her expression didn't give anything away. Her lips twitch slightly in what Alice hopes is amusement.

"Thats... truly evocative, Alice."

"I... know you-- like, the real, hyper famous one. Well, I don't-- but I've commented on your posts and DM'd you but you never see them... because this you and that you aren't.." Alice's fists ball with the effort of trying to get out a cohesive thought. Her jaw moves-- blue and green lights and accusations drift across the forefront of her mind, only to be snuffed out by a soft smile and a slow, unassuming nod.

"You're not... real." And there's a hope underlying her words-- a quiet plea. A reassurance, that she isn't going completely postal in a time she thinks she's doing good for once.

Jenna just shrugs her shoulders, head canting to the side.

"I like the taste of stale chips better than a freshly opened bag." Jenna takes a deep breath, and speaks her next sentences slowly, like she's carefully considering every word. "I make my room as cold as possible and leave only my hands out of the blankets so they get freezing and I can soothe my head with it. I like to tuck my weight onto my arm when I'm sleeping, and I like to stick my head out of windows when I'm on an upper floor of a building or out of a car window. These are all very basic things about me, but all things that make me human."

Alice pauses. Her eyes flicking over the other girl's body. Theres not a single hair different on this version of Jenna then the one she sees on screen. Not even a mind as twisted and ruined as hers could create such a perfect replica... and even so, it was her psyche, anyway--- she was the one imagining this. What would it matter if she indulged for a moment?

Her fingertips draw mindless patterns on the speckled synthetic flooring. She read somewhere, that if you think of any surface your tongue knows exactly what the texture feels like. Her fingers must be the same in this real... just if there's-- yes! The hole her friend made with a pair of scissors in ninth grade.

"I don't watch anything with you in it, and also have a deep aversion to seeing your name or face pop up on my social media. So, I kinda muted your name and blocked you on everything."

Jenna laughs. Its full, tinkering and fills Alice's chest until she can hardly breathe around the fullness of it. Her own lips curve in response.

"Thats fair. I hate social media. It's all so surface level."

Alice groans, "Don't make this a cliche where you rather be reading."

"God, no. I prefer being asleep than anything else."

"You always are waiting when I get here. Is it a timezone thing? You live in New York."

"Stalker."

"A-lister!"

They're both smiling so much if another third party appeared, they'd think them pathological. But then they would be too. And like that, the dark fog swallows them whole.

———

Alice has been more tired lately. The depression comes and goes, but the PTSD clings to the mind like wet clothes to the skin. You can't get them off without exhausting yourself trying.

It's unbearably lonely, having no friends. None that are close, anyway. Alice doesn't quite remember how to socialize, and usually ends up forcing an awkward smile and shifting her eyes on the off chance someone does try and speak to her. The people she does reach out to, don't answer, or read her messages and don't reply. It's a rotisserie of punishment, and it would probably be a lot easier to unwind herself enough to use the rope to hang by. But then that's not healing.

The holidays have come and gone-- and even her therapist can't do much but be an ear for $400 she can't afford to hand away, because she learned all the skills-- all the coping mechanisms when she was a fucked up teenager. So, really, this is just life now. And it's awful. And all she can do, is cry. She misses not feeling anything-- because trying to get clear air in your lungs when they're being constantly filled with your own tears is so uncomfortable.

She tucks the blankets to her face tonight, sticky with emotion and eyes swollen. Calls out to Jenna, desperately, in the darkened theatre. She appears after a bit, a smile in her eyes as she shuts the book she's reading. She reads a lot, contradictory to her claim of not being a cliche.

"Hi! I've been wondering when you'd show up!" She pushes herself up to stand-- she's shockingly short even to Alice, who's always been small. Jenna approaches excitedly, but stills when Alice raises a hand.

"No. Don't come close- because I want to hug you. But I know all I can do is imagine hugs I've had before- feel the many heart beats and curves of other people and pretend they're yours but it isn't. Because I don't know what you feel like! Should I wait for Vogue's 73 fucking questions to come out?"

The girl hums. Then, sits cross legged on the floor. Alice watches, teary eyed. Sniffs. "What are you doing?"

"Well... if you don't want to pretend, then talk to me. Tell me what you imagine I'd feel like."

Alice sighs, following suite to sit crossed on the floor, rubbing at her face that's expectantly dry. Looks down to her palms and laces the fingers together.

"I don't know. You look warm."

She can feel the soothe of warm cheeks against her hands, smiling faintly to herself but it doesn't quite reach her eyes, tilts her fists like she's dropping the entire idea. "And you have smatterings of freckles, a strong. jaw and a dimple in your chin. You're also really, really soft because I've seen your skincare ads. And you'd probably smell really good cause you have a net worth."

Alice is near breaking. "I want to meet you. I try to- I pretend to, at least."

Jenna doesn't answer. Alice looks up to see the girl smile sadly, nodding. "Okay, then imagine it."

"I don't see you every night. Its a waste of our time togeth--"

"--Your happiness is never a waste to me."

Theres a strong pause. An ebb, and a flow. One girl breaking down, while the other is a pillar of strength. She can imagine it-- has while doing real life things and then forcibly reminded herself its ridiculous.

But... what's indulging just a bit more?

The world shifts.

Alice feels her back on a truncated dome, blinking up at the sky and wondering idly why she can never imagine her standing.

With a groan, Alice pushes herself up on her forearms and glances around the sideroad-- there's gorgeous Plantrees standing tall above her, shielding the cars and pedestrians from the sun. Old colonial house fronts were the giveaway for their location. Alice blinks at the cars horizontal to the one she's on. She looks around, and spots the short, jet. black haired girl jogging on the sidewalk.

Once again, what does she have to lose in a made up world? This was their only meet cute. So, she lays down on the pavement thats warm from the sun and waits.... waits... waits...

"Oh my god, are you okay?!"

Alice tilts her head, smiling at the concerned Jenna that doesn't know her-- thinks she's fucking insane, tugging her earphones out. "Yeah. Why?"

"You're laying in the middle of the-- were you in an accident?"

"No. Lady, you're acting nuts." Alice says, rolling her eyes and her body so she can push herself up. She brushes the dirt off her sweater and jeans, approaching the sidewalk with the clean hand offered. "I'm Alice. Street-tester extraordinary."

Jenna eyes the hand skeptically, taking it after a moment and giving it a single, lame shake. "You're.. what?' She says once the words settle in her already boggled mind.

Alice smiles again, all teeth and charm. "Don't you know?" To Jenna's emphatic shake of the head, Alice clicks her teeth and tugs on their still-joined hands, mumbling about how this just wont do.

"Hey-- what the fuck, lady?!"

"Oh, relax, don't you trust me?"

"No, I really do not."

"Just-- wait here, and watch, and then follow."

Alice drops their hands, praying that the other woman won't pull pepper spray and force her mind to wake up-- collapsing to lay starfished on the ground. Her palms are downturned, rubbing the pavement with an appraising hum. "Yep. This is a good one. But I'll need a second opinion." She says into the collar of her shirt that she holds between a thumb and index, as if more to a secret service then an agency.

She looks up, eyelashes batting comically. "Assistant?" Her hand raises, fingers waggling in a gestures for Jenna to follow suit

Jenna slots her eyes to shoot a cursory glance over her shoulder, just to find brick walls and plants. "No. This is nuts. You're gonna get ran over!" And there's a laughing lilt to her words, her hand flying to her mouth but it's too late. Alice is beaming.

"Come on! These streets wont be safe for others to lay until I get my second opinion!"

Jenna lets her hand fall away a minute later, her lips pursed to try and hide her smile in vain. It's bright in those dark eyes that glow hazelnut here."Fine. But if anything, I'm your co-tester, not your assistant." Then, a little louder for the imaginary comms system, "Got that?!"

The world shifts once more. To a lake, open and pretty in the middle of dark green forestry with a broken dock planted by the waterside. They sit in a boat, in the middle of the green-tinged lake with no oars. It's a metaphor, maybe. Being stuck out at sea-- drowning with no one around. Exposed, raw to the elements.

Jenna-- the dream one, black eyes and a bit fuzzy— sits across from her. Lips pulled up, soft and reminiscent. "I think thats a perfect way to meet someone."

Alice wipes at her face-- but her hands don't touch her skin. She's so, so tired. And so they just drift along the water-- in silence until the fog comes. Something heavy lingers. Unspoken, and then swallowed up into the spanning months of dreamless nights.

———-

Alice finds some kind of peace again. She feels stable, strong. She's still alone a lot of the time, but she's not much lonely. She has her passions, caring friends and a long future ahead of her she knows will be filled with love, just like in those 8mm video tapes that sit prized on the shelf. It's summer again. An entire year since her assault, and it's hot in her house now. Hot enough to wear short sleeves that show battle stripes, but still cool enough in her room to sleep.

She hadn't been back here in a long time; in the world she and Jenna had built with so many landscapes and conversations. And try as she might to force the world to bend— to warp even a tiny bit just to alleviate the pressure that felt borderline asthmatic it won't. It's all dark blue ice.

And it's dim here; Jenna is shimmering though. Like a fictive of a vampire in the sunlight, her body holographic in its sweep of digital static before settling into a materialized state that wasn't quite stable.

She's dressed up in an all black pant suit- snug and then free as water on a body that can't fully materialize. But Alice recognizes, with a tilt of her head and squint of her eyes, that it's from the actress' latest project. She downvoted them in hopes they'd stop frequented her timeline.

The dream world is cold today. Alice feels the prick of winter's nails in her marrow as she weaves through the room that's a disheveled glacier— deep blue spikes twinkling eerily.

It's a world her brain had crafted back when she would lay in bed at 6pm, her mom carding fingers through her coily blonde hair and singing silent night. It remained a pillar of strength. A fortitude that couldn't ever be changed. It was all a dark blue, like a plastic icicle you'd use as an ornament on a Christmas tree, and as frigid as leaving a water bottle in the car and drinking from it when it's turned to a block of ice.

Jenna's face is twisted, once she turns— inverse features and something guarded in her expression once Alice can force it to align.

Her stare is blank, a scowl on her lips and a down-current draw of her tongue when she speaks. It's almost robotic. "I haven't seen you in a long time."

"I know. I'm sorry." Alice winces. "I just... I don't know. My mind hasn't needed to be here."

"Here? Or you just don't need me anymore." Jenna retorts.

Recovery is weird. Sometimes she feels like a newborn. All pink skin and blue eyes, something to protect. Something raw with delicate potential.

Some point along this journey, Jenna decided to be the person to protect that newborn. She nurtured it. She took care of it. Even June's dramatic interruptions couldn't send Alice back to the loony bin after all these months of therapy. There's pride in that.

"I am... thankful for you, you know."

Jenna's face morphs. The hard set of her jaw strong, stare unblinking and unwavering. She doesn't speak.

Alice hums the lullaby her mother would so often, leaning against the huge icicle and willing it not to break. Speaks once Jenna is a little more recognizable in this strange world made for them alone.

"I figured out what you are."

"Oh?"

"Mhm." A moment passes. Then, Alice raises her chin.

"I know, that you're part of me. You're the good parts. The parts of me I forgot for a really long time, and needed to think about just to sleep at night. You're the memories of good stuff that was so overshadowed by that fucking fog— that stupid sadness. Nature, and coffee, and people and childish fun. And I don't come around anymore, because I've found that exists in the waking world again."

Jenna looks down to her feet. Its a show of vulnerability-- something small, and fragile that hasn't ever been present before. It makes Alice want to shatter this little bubble of other-reality and fall to hers knees; I'm yours I'm yours I'm yours. But her knees would get bloody and she would look like an idiot.

"Thank yourself. You made me."

Alice watches. The puff of air that would be following her exhale in such a cold climate doesn't. The letters tumble from her lips-- a messy scrawl in the air. Her sadness is blue, placid and pretty, soft as the sky.

"No, I-I don't think I did. Maybe you're fake, or a metaphor about self love or maybe you're my soulmate and this is some karmic intervention of grandiose. It doesn't matter. I just know you're in me, half my heart and all my soul. Whichever way you spin it, I'm sorry. For not visiting."

"Don't apologize. You don't need me now."

And it's gold-- honest and pure and strong.

Alice swallows her pride. Steps closer, and holds a hand out. It passes over Jenna's but there's a buzz of electricity that tickles up her skin. She wishes she could put her arms out-- catch her as she falls. But she can't. So she smiles, and hopes it's soft, and kind, and offers a languid nod. Quiet reassurance that Jenna gives out in spades.

And Jenna nods too. The ice melts into the earth of a field, bright with flowers where seeds were sown.

It's painful to outgrow something you desperately love. But a fractured mind cannot heal where it was broken. And when it's whole again, it no longer needs the balm to glue the pieces back.

She dreams, still, months later. But of people she's known, that she no longer does. Or of her family. Sometimes, she catches blades of grass between her fists, and other times she can feel the harsh, unforgiving floor below her as she falls. But Jenna isn't ever there. And thats okay.

Its okay to grow.

The liquor flowing through the basement of the Davis house was cheap, lukewarm and flat. The air was stiffling when it was being siphoned by as many soon-to-be Juniors as could fit, the rest trickling out onto the lawn and even into the pool, dressed and sated. There was a low haze over everything, making the LED's and flickering light show that was flash photography dull. Tori took a shallow breath, the haze that was really bong smoke and steam from the overworking tower fan stuffed in the corner suffocating just the bit.

Tori's eyes rolled to the sides, looking to where her little group stood. Xavier, the host, stood animatedly explaining something that definitely did not happen (if the acting of a sword slashing was anything to go by to) to Alison, who watched him with a quiet fondness from years of knowing each other, Alison's sister Amy downing a cup of beer until the imaginary hilt of the sword (an overexcited swing of the hands) hit Xavier in the balls and he keeled over, a fountain of liquor spilling from her grinning mouth. But as always-- like there was some kind of tether in the back of her mind, she was drawn to Faith.

Faith-- all confidence in her gait, sat flocked by more juniors than Tori thought were in their year. She had a knee over the armrest of the beat up leather lounge chair, her leg bent to kick nearly below the belt of a luckily quick reflexed guy, the other spread in a way she'd heard people ruminating as butch. Never to her face. God, no.

Faith is.. an enigma. She had only joined the school that previous year-- deciding to sit at Tori's table without a word one morning, stealing the pancakes she had been looking so forward to. Faith often did little meaningless things without preemptive thought, that tended to hit like a lash toward her victim. Like insult Xavier's glasses, which were circle rimmed and thick prescription that made him look buggy. Or prod at Alison, for looking too much like a dyke when she'd cut her hair too short. Or push, and pull, with all the causticness that just left pale skin charred with the constant ribbing. She couldnt quite remember evrytime Faith hurt her-- with words or actions. But she did remember the lingering pain, between her ribs that shed love to take her fingers to and dig out. Flay Faith out. But then,

Faith could be sweet. She had been there when Xavier's dad took off-- teaching him wordlessly how to fix a tire, and to shave the late growth patching his face. She'd saved Alison from ridicule when she'd fallen at the ankle of one of the cheerleaders, and subsequently broke that same ankle and any want to humiliate the bookworm again. And with Tori ...

Well, Faith was something she couldn't describe. A piece that didn't fit into the puzzle because it was from a completely different image. The cold, guarded Faith wasn't a danger under the guise of midnight star gazing with grass at their heels. That Faith-- Tori's Faith, couldnt manage threats when shed light up with that sunny euphoria while her eyes darkened with – what Tori could only assume would lead to her complete undoing. But it never lasted.

Faith had tons of boyfriends in her brief stint at their school-- always hanging off the lapel of some jock, or found half naked in the drama room atop a theatre techie. She didn't need Tori then, or late night baking sessions with her mom while singing at the tops of their lungs. She didn't need the gentle assurance of her next to her, when she awoke with a panic from long ago that clung to the film of her mind.

But now, Faith was offering a glimpse of that Faith. Her Faith, in a curious little half smile-- because Tori had been caught staring. The curiosity morphed to amusement.

Tori breathes in shakily, the smell of whatever was fermenting in the plastic cup making her stomach twist. Or, maybe it was just Faith's fingers-- puppeteering her with a come hither motion she was helpless to obey. Her feet shuffled across the sticky concrete until she was awkwardly stood in front of Faith like a queen on her throne. But Faith was soft tonight-- offering her hand. Tori weaves through the crowd, her eyebrows inexplicably drawn.

(It feels horribly like she's forgotten something important.)

Their fingers twine like all these threads that leads Tori to splitting in half for this girl, just so she might sew her together and linger as apart of her. She clears her throat.

"Hi."

Faith nods in greeting. "You alright? you're red."

"Alcohol, and all that." Is her lame reply. Faith glances down at the untouched cup shed given her when they'd walked in, eyebrows raised. She reaches out for the cup, to drink it maybe, but just rests it against her thigh and the armrest.

Tori clears her throat again until it's raw. "So... you seem to have quite the fan club."

Faith rolls her head back and forth, soft, glimmering, dark eyes blinking up at Tori. She takes the sip to bite back the burn of Faith's attention

"Please. They're all just a means to an end."

"Am I?" She can't help but ask. The haze is phantom hands around her lungs, now.

Something clatters by, someone, Reid-- a boy from chemistry with mousy curls and a boyish grin with a football and apologetic smile in tow as he sidesteps the mess of empty cups he'd crashed into.

Faith glowers, and he simpers off.

Faith doesnt answer, her teeth digging into he bottom lip, eyes casted off to the game of beer pong going on. Tori tugs on their joined hands. "Faith?"

Faith snaps out of whatever hold she's found herself in, turning that gaze-- that Faith gaze onto her thats one part regret and one part rage. Her smile isn't calming in the slightest. "Come on! We should all take a drink together. Take this private."

"Faith--" But Faith is strong, way stronger than she's ever been with Tori as she drags her along to the little group of friends, sobering up from Xavier's one man show. She mutters something about shots, celebration.

It feels like walking to the gallows, with Faiths set jaw like the desensitized guard that carries the remaining moments of mortality to the big, bold numbers at the end of the timer.

All five of them slip into Xavier's room-- a mess of clothes that Alison immediately sets out to fix only for Faith to clamp a hand too harshly on her shoulder, making the other girl reel back with frightened eyes.

Faith smiles, again, softer but still with every bit ratus ratus that she's shown to many prey.

Tori starts glancing around for any kind of metal pipe Xavier might keep handy to stop those teeth from sinking into any of them.

But Faith sweeps about, in her own search. She finds her weaponry-- four crystal glasses, rimmed with frost from... where, the never used laundry hamper? Tori doesnt question the how, she just watches each of her friends take a chilled glass and waits for her own. But it never comes.

Faith offers her... the cup shed taken from her hand. Still lukewarm, and untampered with. Tori raises an eyebrow. "Where's mine?"

Something feels different suddenly, like when the air grows still and humid before a thunderstorm.

"I have something special for you." It should be spoken with delight-- but it's more manic. Tori looks away from those eyes-- dark and blown and its--

"Now! I have a speech to make!" Faith makes another stop by the bed, pulling out a cooler bag with ice (oh) and a bottle of something without a label but sparkling rose gold. She doesnt cock it yet, giddily stepping over the stray childhood bear Beary to finish the formation of their group. The missing link, so it'd be. Her thumb circles the cork.

Her thumb presses into the divot between the mouth of the bottle and the cork, freeing it. Xavier makes an awkward exclamation, and gives a few pitiful claps but it's just.. it feels off. Tori meets Amy's eyes, wide and unsure, and knows she feels it too. Faith breaks their only line of communication by sweeping the bottle to fill each glass.

She steps back, clearing her throat and her... eyes are clouded.

"And I love you. All of you, so much. I wish I could just.. stay here with you, and the life I made with you, forever. You have all served such an important part in my life." Faith's words are quiet and sincere, and she immediately follows them with a bitter laugh, trying to wash the taste of honesty from her mouth, to clear the air of its sound. "Anyway-- cheers to that!'

And they down them in one. In that same count, Tori wonders if God is real.

Someone had to make the world. Or was it resallly just the colliding of rocks and chemicals, making a point that expanded? How were humans made, beyond skin and bone? What made a personality, feeling? What invoked the urge to build and create. Families, business, trades.

Who led the one individual out of billions-- one specific individual with an instructional manual fixed upon by hundreds others-- to sit at a forge and toil away under hours and hours of they life to form one thing?

(She remembers, now, what she had forgotten. Faith is not fact.)

The fact is the blade in her chest, ebony and glinting where the half inch between torn shirt and skin meet the hilt. Her eyes slot down to a bloody point, that expands with the drag of steel.

Did the artist, wielding hot metal into a perfect, buffed point know it would taste blood? That of a teenager, in the bedroom belonging to her friend-- her friend, choking around the liquid in his throat. She can see the two ginger sister's facing the same fate, on their knees, clawing white and pink strips into their throat in case their fingers might dig deep enough to let them breathe.

Tori wants to call out. Scream for them. Beg God, the Devil, things of myth to spare her bright eyed bunch. But she couldnt. Her throat felt hot with the steel that released its carving into her sternum.

There's a thrill in suffocating. It's that moment right before you panic—- where the air is stolen from your lungs and you feel the thrill of mortality in your chest. It burns from the sternum up, until moths fill your stomach in anticipation for a gory snack.

"Wh... Why?" her voice thick and her words slurred, the blood making her throat pool in to her mouth making her tongue heavy and unwieldy.

Faith doesnt smile. Not that scary, half one that looks like it's going to peel away to reveal bone, or the soft one that promises of brushing hands in the grass. Theres nothing. And thats worse.

Tori forces the blood down, this is very wrong. She can see how tightly Faith's jaw is clenched, her hands balled into fists. Firecracker wick sparking dangerously low.

She wants to call out, to reach out-- but her hands had curled around the blade in her chest, clawing at it uselessly because she didn't have the strength to pull it out. She also couldnt decide whether it was best to leave it in or not, for medical reasons.

Faith reaches up, her face obscured by her sleeve as she wipes act her face but for a second-- a heart aching second, Tori can see the tightening of her lips until they're a line, white line. Her fingers are curled into a ball, white and trembling and this...

It's not right.

Faith pulls her knuckles from her eyes, eyes blearily and cheekbones flushed where liquor would kiss-- but it's not. It's Tori's blood, staining the soft skin there.

Faith looks green noticing it, too.

Like a stone thrown in the ocean eroding with each wave just a bit, is her footsteps. Over the bodies, her friends. Useless, hapless drones that have served their purpose and are set to destruct now.

Tori uses what's left of her strength to roll on to her side, her forearms braced but one thrown out to grab Faith's ankle like a trap that tightens the more you try to escape, reaching her hand into the burning ember wick, dipping them into the wax and forcing those eyes-- a maelstrom of emotions that can't settle in the murderous depths. But Tori knows. Its pain.

She opens her mouth to speak, lips blistering pain and seeing the pooling of blood by her forearms then feels it. "What.. did I do?"

Faith blinks, like shed been lambasted.

"You--" She becomes the embodiment of an awkward ballet recital at the wordless accusation in pooling eyes of blue and water; she clumsily shoves herself away from the grip and almost trips over her feet and pile of clothes as she turns away from Tori and then back, keeping eye contact for milliseconds at a time as she speaks. "It takes evil to know evil. You know me. So, your life for mine, T, and the horrors stop. And--"

She stops. Tori can't see so much, now. Edges from liquor blurred, and centre pitch faded from the steady blood bubbling in her lungs. Faith seems to notice, too, because she pales and stumbles back, guarded and so uncomfortable, as though this wasn't her doing. "There cant be two evils... maybe this is redemption."

And then, she was gone...

...Until now.

Thanks for reading a little piece of my current project! The title is Until Death Does Us, a supernatural-post modern novel following the journey of our protagonist Tori as she tries to uncover why her attempted murderer has returned, and more importantly why her town is suddenly being overrun by the undead. Grappling with how they're all apart of something bigger then their pasts, the antihero Faith teaches the rag-tag group that forgiveness is earned, not expected.

Im a 21 year old Canadian raised horror and fantasy writer, who got her start publishing fan fictions at the tender age of 10 when my ideas began to get too big for my body. A decade later, I have produced screenplays, short stories and poems whilst I worked to receive my undergraduate degree in creative writing, when I then began focusing on writing my first novel. My ability to write across genres has given me the breadth needed to step above myself and create mixed worlds I've never seen in media, as well as bring well loved humour into play that targets the young adult market who rapidly find themselves lost in my works (for better or for worse.) Ive spent countless hours, and 80-thousand words curating the perfect mix of comedy,, horror, heartache and self discovery in this book that I think gives every reader a little something, from touching hearts to killing newly thought out monsters.