“Sir? Sir?! I don’t think he can hear us—someone work on getting an airway!”

No. I can. I can hear you. But please…. please, I can feel it burning. Wait. WaiT. WaIT WAIT WAi—

Oh. Oh that feels better.

“Check under his nose. Good? Thank God; Sir?”

Thank you… but please, it still hurts.

“I’m still not getting any reactions, let’s get a neuro check and see if we can stop this bleeding.”

Bleeding? I… I’m bleeding? Am I? No, that doesn’t make sense, I don’t remember bleeding. I don’t remember but—

Oh. Oh…

I am bleeding.

“Daddy?”

I never used a gun. Never, even when my father tried to take me hunting on Thanksgiving. I’ve never touched one. Never, even during my eleventh grade year, when it dropped from Simon Pernicks hand when the police apprehended him, and slid only a few feet from me.

You became a cop three years after our eleventh grade year; and you brought me along as you were training at the local gun range. I never held one. And I never shot one.

I knew nothing about them, except for tales of the jerking shocks it sent back through your wrists as you fired it; the gunpowder that stained your fingers and hands when the bullet released; the deafening bang that’s shrouded by the headphones they make you wear. I knew how to.

I never used a gun.

“His eyes are open. Sir? We have your wife and daughter in the waiting room, can you try and blink for me?”

I don’t think so.

“Sir?”

Please… I’m tired. And the pain… maybe it isn’t so bad now.

More… more like pressure… like someone pushing down and p r e s s i n g

“His heart rate just spiked—someone bring me a sedative!”

Oh.

It’s dark again.

“Daddy?”

You became my wife next; my best friend, my partner, my love. I’d never been this before. A friend, a boyfriend, but never a husband. But I would be the best for you. As easy as I’d said it, however, it was so much harder than what I’d thought. Because I never had that; someone to see being a husband. Only my father. And no mother.

You believed in me though. Kissed my cheek, and held my hand, only adding more to all the things you’d already been teaching me over the course of five years.

You got promoted to Detective the following week, and when you were dispatched to your first shootout, we both went to bed with thoughts of Simon Pernick.

“Let’s try again. Sir? Your family is here, can you try and squeeze my hand?”

Am… am I doing it? Please, I must be, it burns so much.

“Still nothing…”

No. I have to be doing it. I have to be.

“Sir, I’m going to bring in your wife and daughter now.”

Please don’t. They’ll be so scared. They don’t want to see me burning.

“Daddy?”

I was turning twenty-seven, same as you, when there were a series of doctors appointments added to our calendar. Dr. Mary Kohn. I always liked the name Mary; reminded me of Christmas, though I wasn’t a practicing catholic. I stopped after the eleventh grade.

I still remembered though, everything I’d learned from previous Sunday School activity.

My father wasn’t too pleased with my decision afterwards, and still believed I follow him once a week for sunday. So I sat in the church pews, with my hands folded neatly in my lap, standing and sitting, rising and falling, and pretended to listen.

People prefer when they can pretend; it’s why we have actors, and movies, and television.

Dr. Mary Kohn. OB-GYN.

It’s funny, the things we remember.

“Ma’am, I’m afraid he hasn’t been responsive. It doesn’t mean he’s dead, because there’s still activity being monitored, and he can breathe on his own… but he doesn’t seem to recognize anything. At this time, we can only assume it’s because the positioning of the bullet.”

Bullet?

Like… from a gun? Oh—oh no. No. Oh God. Oh God… a bullet? What—

OH. Oh God! Please! PLEASE! It’s back! Oh God it BURNS! Please!

“Pressures dropping—his lung is collapsing, it must have aggravated his lung tissues when it shot through his chest—someone get a chest tube in case we need to intubate, and let’s get him stabilized NOW!”

“Daddy? Daddy please?”

She was born on a Wednesday, an oddly clear memory. It was raining outside, and the view from the window was level to the city-scape, the clouds shining an allusion through the rain and making the buildings glare with sunlight.

Although the weather was gloomy, the day was beautiful.

She was born late in the morning, appearing tiny and pink. Until she wasn’t.

Not until she was rushed away, that we realized she wasn’t crying.

Then three hours later, after we’d cried, and slept and cried some more, Dr. Mary Kohn came back into the room, with our baby girl, and placed her your arms, with a little tube coming out from her nose, and a pink hat nestled around the small tufts of hair that she had.

Then you called her ‘Hope’.

And ‘Hope’ was beautiful.

“Welcome back Sir, we almost lost you for a minute. There might be some discomfort around your chest, but we’ve given you some medication to ward off the pain.”

Pain… that’s familiar… but why?

Oh. I got shot… I forgot for a moment. And… everything feels tired and heavy. And…. Hope.

Hope was here. But it burned.

And then Hope was gone.

“Daddy?”

You thought she was sick. Because she wasn’t walking yet. I remember being told that I crawled until I was a year and a half, but that didn’t seem to aide your anxiety. I’m so sorry, looking back. I tried to be better… but maybe I wasn’t.

We took her to a pediatric nurse at the walk-in, who told us that she was probably just a late bloomer. I was fine with that, but you still weren’t fully convinced.

Two weeks later, she walked to you for the first time, and you were so happy.

This was the reason I didn’t tell you that she actually walked three weeks earlier.

Because her Mommy never got to saw.

“Sir? He’s still unresponsive… what were his last vitals?”

Tired. My vitals are tired… and everything feels so heavy…

“...ok, I want us to get another set done in fifteen minutes. How’s his wife and daughter?”

Hope…

“Let’s give them another update, let them come in and sit while you do the vitals.”

“Daddy?”

Today. Or yesterday.

You were out, and Hope and I were home making dinner; Kraft Dinner and hot-dogs; and watching Dora the Explorer reruns. We left the back door open, because Mickey kept running in and out into the backyard.

So I didn’t notice when an armed man came in, and raised his arm, calling out a warning.

Mickey attacked first; grabbing onto his leg. The man lost his control on the gun, and that was when I threw myself in front of Hope.

“He’s crashing! We need more B Negative!”

No… no…

That’s not my type.

Jack be nimble, Jack be quick

She sits across from you. She’s in her mid-twenties. Maybe thirties even. You fold one leg over the other and cross your fingers on your lap. You look at her over the rim of your glasses.

“Ms. Anderson, can you tell me what brings you here today?” You ask. You notice how she fidgets. Oh. She’s so precious.

“I’m back on antidepressants, and I just feel really, really empty,” She tells you. You nod. Sympathetic.

Jack jumped over a candlestick

“Can you try and describe that further, maybe try and interpret it in your own way?” You offer. She nods. She fidgets again.

“I don’t really know to be honest. It’s like…”

“There’s no point?” You suggest with a sly smile. She nods quickly and your heart seems to quicken. She looks relieved almost.

“Yeah,” She breathes. You nod.

“Have you ever considered taking your own life?”

Jack jumped high, Jack jumped low

She shakes her head, looking down at her hands.

“I don’t know if I could do it,” She admits. You nod.

“I understand,” You say. “There are numerous incidents each year. Overdoses, slit wrists, hangings, even shootings.” You notice how her lip twitches. She nods. “Most in cases where the individual feels empty.” She looks up. Her eyes are glassed. She nods.

“Is something wrong, Ms. Anderson,” You ask.

“You didn’t refer to them as victims.”

Jack jumped over, and burned his toe

“Is that how you would refer to someone who got what they wanted?” You propose. You see the flicker in her eyes. This is what you want. You mask a smile. “Ms. Anderson?” You prompt. She nods.

“Yes,” She murmurs, her eyes meeting yours. They don’t appear sad anymore. They look hopeful. “Thank you.”

Jack be slick, Jack be prose

You’re notified the next morning. Ms. Anderson had hung herself. Found by her roommate only hours after.

You put on your mask, you nod, say you wish you could have done more for her.

But you add another tally to your list. Another dead, another to go.

Jack they’ll find you, six feet below.

A man is most often limited in the short span that may be his time. Either it be his clothing, his hair, his dress, or put rather quite simply; life. This man is most often a showman. He dances and flips and skips. The children laugh while outsiders scowl, but this man knows it’s to be expected. That’s what the others had told him with one small advantage, a payment throughout his troubles.

His chest burns slightly.

What a thing to desire; a prize or a wish. This man doesn’t lust for fame, just a fortune.

This fortune will solitude his hope, become solace to his heart. The simple reminder of what he could earn, and all the things he could lose.

This Showman looks around the room, eyes flickering as he acts. They’re painted with makeup to look like a clown, and on the inside, he feels just as foul. He watches as the children skip, a light expression to his curb-appeal. He thanks them, but only ever silently, with small gifts such as candies.

The burning becomes more intent.

The makeup on his face begins to reside as the day wears on and on; the children leave, the sun droops slightly; and the man lifts a gloved hand to wipe it. It comes away smudged with white and red, brightly contrasting his fortitude.

The burning reaches his lungs.

The Showman packs his things to leave, when a final child comes wandering.

The boy is small, with hair like his own, in a red shirt clutching his mothers hand. The Showman falters at seeing his face, and behind him, a rolling cart of oxygen.

But the boy is smiling, so the Showman masks his own, handing the boy a bright blue balloon before sending him off with a wink and a skip, and a tender smile from the boys mother.

She almost pays him—it’s what the Showman has been waiting all day for—but he can’t find it in him, not quite at this moment, to accept the boys mothers gratitude.

Because of one small reason; he knows this boy.

He was him, only a few years ago.

The burning doesn’t hurt as much, and he can imagine himself falling asleep.

And for all that talk, of finding a miracle, now he’s not so scared. Because he found this boy again, and he’s watching as he walks into the sun. His chest and lungs are no longer burning, and he no longer puts on a mask. The Showman no longer smiles for others, they’ve all seen through his act. So he doesn’t pretend the oxygen mask is something it isn’t, and that his IV’s aren’t a curse.

He pictures the boy—no, himself—once more, wondering all of what could have been. He’s worked and worked most days of his life, maintaining something that turned into nothing. So he closes his eyes, and to the sound of his flatline, lays himself to rest.

“Sleep, sleep, sleep

Don’t lie too close to the edge of the bed

Or the little gray wolf will come

And grab you by the flank,

Drag you into the woods

Underneath the willow root”

Bayu Bayushki Bayu

The phone rang a little while after 11:06, and out of everything he could have expected, not one of those possibilities involved hearing the voice of his dead daughter.

“Hello Dad,” She spoke, voice silky. It sounded like she was smiling. He dropped the whiskey glass he was holding, hardly noticing how it cut his foot.

“Honey?” His wife, Mary, asked, coming into the living room, a dish-towel draped over her shoulder. He barely noticed her.

“Rue?” He asked, and Mary froze in the entry. He lifted his head to match her gaze with his, eyes reflecting fear in each other from across the room. He heard a bit of soft giggling from the other line.

“That’s right,” She said cooly. “I mean, unless you and Mom had another bastard baby after you got rid of me.” Frank could hear the smugness in her voice.

“Rue,” Was all he could whisper. His eyes glanced to the left as Mary came to stand beside him. He found himself shaking his head. “No, this is a sick and cruel joke. Whoever you are, hang up or I’m calling the police.” The giggling turned into a barking laughter, and a glance to Mary confirmed she had heard it. She looked froze, tears barely leaking from her eyes.

“My God,” She whispered.

“Oh,” The girl sighed. “How sweet. You really thought, after fifteen years, we wouldn’t find you?” Frank swallowed, his throat tight and thick.

“We?” He asked.

“Oh yes.” Frank dropped the phone, his ear ringing from the chorus of identical voices that seemed to echo the simple phrase. Mary let out a small gasp and grabbed his arm.

“What the hell…” Frank sputtered, holding a hand against his ear.

“Sleep well, Mom and Dad,” She said, and Frank swore she was smiling as she said it. “We’ll be seeing you soon.”

Only a few minutes later, Frank and Mary were sitting at the dining table. Franks foot had been bandaged from where it had been cut, and he’d poured himself a new drink, clinking the ice around the glass as he watched Mary, who sat across from her, the dish-towel fisted anxiously against her mouth.

“Maybe we should call the police,” She murmured after a moment, glancing at Frank, whose eyebrows had shot up.

“Are you kidding me?” He snapped. “And tell them what?” Mary blanched, looking down at the tablecloth, and Frank sighed before tipping back his whiskey glass. He swallowed and set the empty glass back onto the table. Mary was shaking her head as he pushed back from his seat, standing and clearing his throat.

“I need another drink,” He muttered, mostly to himself, lifting his free hand to massage his temples. He set the glass on the counter and reached to grab the bourbon, pouring with one hand.

“It’s always comes down to another drink,” He heard from behind him and turned abruptly, dropping the bottle itself this time, it’s contents spilling all over the kitchen floor. Mary had gasped and started shaking in her seat, her lips fumbling and tears brimming her eyes. She was looking into the foyer, where in the arch, stood their fifteen year old daughter, just as they had last seen her.

She was drenched from head to toe, hair matted with blood down the right side of her head and neck. Scratches and bruises around her wrists, and raw nails. She wore her pyjamas, splattered with blood against her shirt, even one or two droplets on her pants. Her skin was white and seemed to cling to her bones, her eyes appearing hollow and bulging. The houses atmosphere seemed to have dipped into subzero temperatures.

“Rue!” He gasped, and her mouth curled into a sickening smile that put the Cheshire Cats to shame. Both parties looked to Mary, who had begun to choke on a sob. Rue’s smile didn’t falter, but she tipped her head to the side, and water dripped from her hair onto the floor.

“Hello Mom,” She said, in the sickly sweet she had used to greet Frank over the phone. His heart was racing, and Mary looked as though she was about to faint. Her face was a stark white, and she was shaking terribly. The dish-towel had dropped into her lap. Frank began to shake, anxiety pooling in his stomach. “Clearly you didn’t count on me coming back, exactly fifteen years away from what would’ve been my thirtieth birthday.” She said, and for a moment, Frank wondered if he was going to hyperventilate.

“This isn’t real,” He was muttering to himself, over and over, even as Mary cried and howled.

“But it is,” Rue said. “So let’s start from the beginning.” Her smile slowly began to shift into a snarl and the scene around them began to change. The archway Rue stood in became thinner and seemed to plunge backwards, herself disappearing with it. The warm lighting of the kitchen flashed a dim red, eventually settling in a grainy sort of lighting, the kind that reminds you of an old movie. The red flashes would illuminate themselves throughout the scene, and with a quick glance, Frank quickly realized the staging was footage pulled from his memory.

The cabinet holding the liquor was mostly the same, except for one small photograph next to the potted decor Mary had insisted on. With a heavy tug against his heart, Frank took the photograph into his hands; Rues smiling face staring back at him. His brow furrowed, however, when the top of the photograph seemed to engulf itself in a deep red ink. From the pooling line it had settled in, it began to drip down the photograph, and once it had began to leak out of the frame, Frank dropped it in horror, smashing the glass. What was coating his fingers was not ink, but rich blood. He felt nauseated.

“Mom? Dad?” He whirled around, seeing Rue just as she was in the photograph, coming in through the kitchen. His heart began to ache at the sight of her, reaching towards her arm with his blood stained fingers, but passing right through her arm.

Oh right, he remembered sourly, this is just a memory. His nausea was beginning to wrestle with his anxiety as he watched Rue walk in through the archway that brought her into the living room, where he quite painfully remembers the events of the night.

There, 2004 Frank and Mary were just getting home from an early New Years party, sprawled drunkenly across the couch, both drunk out of their minds.

From this new angle, new perspective, he could see the fear, shame, and heartbreak that was painted on Rues face. Her eyes were wide, but drooped. Her jaw had dropped, but slack, almost as though she had given up. And her face was red. But somehow, the fear seemed to be everywhere at once. Frank swallows bitterly, reaching towards her arm again.

This time, when his fingers pass through her, she fades; as if he’d blown her away, and around him, the same happened to the rest of the scene. It left a sour taste at the back of his throat, and he swallowed past it again as the room returned to its present state. He and Mary were back in the kitchen, him slumped against the liquor cabinet, and Mary sitting sobbing at the table. He felt his own eyes begin to prick with tears and blinked furiously, shaking his head.

“This isn’t happening,” He said, pushing himself away from the cabinet, ignoring the throbbing headache and lightheadedness he seemed to have picked up. He ran through the kitchen and into the foyer, pulling at the doorknob, and when it didn’t open, he pulled harder. His heart was pounding in his ears, a line of sweat gathering down his back. He looked to the lock and moved to unlock it, but the brass refused to move. He grunted as he pulled, trying to change the lock, and let out a frustrated yell when it wouldn’t budge.

“She’s locked us in,” Mary’s voice came from behind him, and when he turned, she was leaning heavily against the wall, body pale and seemingly lifeless. Her eyes met his. “She’s here to get her revenge.” He looked at his feet.

“Oh how right you are,” Rue said, almost like a sigh, and Mary closed her eyes, a tear slipping through her eyelashes as she did. Frank looked up, and when he did, Rue was standing mere centimeters in front of him. “Do you remember what happened next?” She asked, her voice practically dripping velvet. Frank shook his head, tears falling from his face as his lip trembled. Rues face split back into the cheshire-like smile. “You’re lying.” She whispered, and she disappeared again, the room changing back into the grainy flashback. Frank wanted to close his eyes, but as hard as he tried, it was as if Rue were standing behind him, her fingers keeping his eyes pried open.

The 2004 scene made him sick to look back on; he and Mary were practically naked on the couch, kissing and groping and moaning. Frank whimpered shamefully as he watched himself turn towards Rue, who remained frozen, just how the last flashback had ended.

‘Rue,’ He slurred, planting his hands beside Mary’s head and crowing to his teenage daughter. Mary giggled from beneath him and kissed against his chest, her fingers toying with the bulge against his trousers. He moaned again and Mary looked to Rue with a drunken smile.

‘Baby, come on,’ She preened, and Frank honest to God believed he was going to be sick when he saw Rues face. She looked like she was about to start crying, and her face was red, her hands shaking. Mary didn’t stop though. ‘Come on…’ She moaned. ‘Please, please, let me see you…’

Mary’s voice trailed off as the scene dissipated in front of him, the hold on his eyelids had dropped and he fell forward suddenly, his sneakers scuffing the carpet, eyes blinking back rapid tears.

“I’m sorry,” He sputtered, pushing himself back onto his knees; and hilariously, looked as though he was praying. “I’m sorry!” The lights above him flickered, and when they came back on, Rue stood in front of him, knees bent to tower over him.

“No,” She hissed and shook her head, water droplets falling as she did. “You’re not.” She loomed above him, and he fell back. “You’ll be begging soon enough.” She hissed again, and disappeared again. Frank took in a gasping breath and pushed himself onto his feet, stumbling back into the wall. Mary, from across the living room, was slumped against the wall, close to hyperventilation; her one hand clenching the fabric of her shirt. Her eyes were closed and her lips trembled. Her face was littered with tears, and drafted with the new ones that continued to spill over.

And honestly; Frank wanted to be a good man. A better man. So he shook his head.

“No,” He whispered, shaking as he slid down the side of the wall. “I deserve this…” He trailed off as Rue’s maniacal laughter hovered above him.

“You do,” She mused. “But you’ll see. They always do.” With this, the scene changed to a third, the last. From where Frank was laying against the wall, he only saw the scene from behind Rue, and there was a sickening bitterness in his stomach with the realization he would share her resting place.

Rue was shaking her head, refusing against 2004 Mary’s protests to undress herself. Frank closed his eyes as the rest of the scene played out. Hearing how he had yelled at Rue, for being disobiedent, for being imperfect. Hearing her footsteps staggering backwards when he stood from the couch, and he bit back on a sob when heard her yelp. His eyes seemed to be ripped open, as they were for the last scene, as Rue’s body fell back against his, passing through, as though he laid in a projection of her.

There was no heartbeat.

No breaths.

Only blood, that pooled from the back of his head, down onto the floor, and staining his fingertips.

He closed his eyes, the same sickness resounding in him. The same sickness he’d carried for fifteen years. There was bile at the back of his throat. He blinked his eyes open again, this time not against the wall, but seeing it from his point of view.

The image of Rue, slumped, lifeless, still, with blood matting her hair down the side of her face, running down her clothes, and caking the wall. Frank shook his head again, choking on a sob.

“Stop!” He choked, chest heaving and eyes watering. “Please!” He pleaded. “Please, please stop!” He cried.

“Why?” Rue’s voice snapped, and when he lifted his head to stare up, she towered above him. Her eyes shone like fire. “You didn’t.”

Later, when the neighbours would give their statements to the police, they would all recount the same, single detail.

That Frank and Mary’s lives didn’t end with screams, or cries.

Rather, with a sinful sort of silence.

Almost as though tragedy had never taken place.

I was beginning to fade, but she was beginning to forget. And I don’t know how I didn’t know, after so many years of me and her.

When I first looked up, she was there. I never remembered anything else, and now, my already foggy memories seem like fantasy, which of course, I suppose I am. She never realized, and maybe she never will, that I was only here for her, and for her I’d die a thousand more deaths.

Of course this wasn’t my initial intention, but not knowing, I didn’t understand this whole thing. I know better now, and how could I not? I’m almost gone completely, the only thing left of me being her memory, leaving a cold numbness left for me.

She started getting better, the august before last, when she started seeking counselling. I never went with her, but even as her sessions went on, I felt numb. Empty. Lonely. She didn’t notice how I seemed to be drifting, from her, from myself, from anything really. She just started asking more commonly, where I was, where I went, but she never could ask me myself, for reasons I didn’t know then.

It wasn’t until a little while later, when I realized my transparency. And I don’t mean metaphorically. I mean I could literally see through my hands. After that, pieces of me began to literally begin fading away, and yet I was always stuck by her. Something that broke my heart, over and over again, but I guess that’s when I realized it. She’d always been my best friend, and I thought I was hers. But I was never her best friend.

I was her imaginary friend.

I guess it’s some kind of distorted fate.

I’ll fade into nothingness. I’ll be literally nothing, just empty black space. But I’ll still be sentient in a sense; I’ll remember everything, even though she’ll have forgotten. I don’t understand how that could work, but I guess I never really understood any of this. And it won’t be really remembering, because I suppose I won’t have memories. No. Instead I’ll wander, drifting to and fro each foggy memory. Drowning in the fantasy, that maybe I’d get to see her again.

It’s funny how they tell you, when they first take you, how this is the New World.

This is the real society. These are real people. These are real skills.

Why wasn’t I real before?

I sit and watch my youth, full of shame with what I’ve become

-No -

With what they made me. Crafted me. Poured me into a mold. Cut my hair. Changed my clothes. Burned me. Beat me. Left me with nothing of who I was.

The loss of my native tongue.

The loss I carry on.

We never did anything wrong. We were just as real and civil.

Funny we’re the savages when they’re out seeking wars.

I’ll never forget, and I’ll never forgive.

There’ll never be enough for all the scars I still hide.

Even the ones that can’t be seen.

But never is a long time when you have nothing left.

I never would've known

The haunted hallows of my heart

Until you chained my every cell,

and lit them with a spark.

They say I stayed unwillingly

Until they know the truth

That from that spark I grew my flowers,

and my Mother chose the world to rue.

Life is precious. More than most people realize.

Well, that is, people don’t actually realize just how precious life can be until it’s gone. But what am I kidding? Life is supposed to be precious, like how death is supposed to be brooding (spoiler alert: it isn’t). People just assume that because life and death are opposites, that what they are should also be opposites, but that’s just wrong.

Because Death saved my life.

I wake up to faint light drifting through the curtain and smile lovingly, rolling over and opening my eyes, kissing the face of my husband, who stirred gently as I did so.

“Good morning,” I murmur, and roll over again, pulling the blanket off him and holding it around my bare chest. He pushes himself up further in the bed, laying still and bare, with an amused twitch in his eye.

“Good morning,” He reciprocated, leaning over the side of the bed, most likely to get dressed. I turn away and slip behind the curtain strung around the tub, dropping the blanket and shimmying into my nightgown from the night before. When I pull the curtain back around again, I’m met with a kiss against my lips. I smile against it and pull back gently.

“John,” I say softly and he smiles back to me.

“Alice…” He counters, voice smooth, and I close my eyes again, feeling his hands through the light fabric of my nightgown. He kisses me again before I open my eyes. “I have to go, I’ll see you later.” He says, and I smile cheekily, nodding gently.

“I’ll see you later,” I echo and as I let go of him, wrap my arms around myself in a feeble hug as I watch him leave. Then I cross the tub and go to the kitchen, hanging a kettle of water over the stove and reach for my copy of William Shakespeare's finest works. I flip to my bookmarked page; The Phoenix and The Turtle.

Let the priest in surplice white, That defunctive music can, Be the death-divining swan, Lest the requiem lack his right.

I look up as the kettle goes off and put down my book, lifting the kettle off from above the stove and pouring it into the tub. I smile as steam lifts up from the tub and turn, hanging the kettle again before I slip out of my nightgown and into the tub, sighing as I sink into the hot water.

When on a walk through the town a while later, I jump as a child runs in front of me and stop, dropping my basket with a small gasp. The child looks over his shoulder.

“Sorry!” He calls, and I reciprocate a small smile, bending down to pick the fallen items from my basket when I knock my head against someone else's. We both pull back and I blink, seeing it’s a woman who kneels in front of me, looking sheepish in her now wrinkled bonnet.

“Sorry,” She says, and I smile, leaning forward again to pick one of the apples.

“No it’s fine, I should’ve been paying more attention anyways,” I say. She shakes her head, handing me a loaf of bread as we stand.

“Guess we’re both at fault,” She tells me, smiling. I find myself mirroring her, glancing down as she places the bread in my basket.

“Thank you,” I say, and looping my elbow under the handle of my basket, extend my hand to her. She looks down and shakes my head, and I’m surprised I hadn’t before noticed she wore gloves. She smiles as she shakes my hand.

“I’m Rose,” She tells me. “Rose Sammuel.” I nod, smiling back at her.

“Alice Parker,” I say. “Nice to meet you.” Her smile broadens and she gestures around the town.

“Would you like to join me?” She asks. “I was just going to run a few errands, but I suppose it would be nice to get acquainted.” I nod, my hand retracting back to hook under my elbow, ensuring the hold on my basket.

“That’d be nice,” I admit, pivoting to fall into step beside her. “My husband and I just recently moved.” Glancing to Rose, I can see her nod.

“That explains the unfamiliarity,” She says with a smile. “In that case; welcome to Salem.”

“I want us to have a family,” The boy said quietly, and laying next to him—the girl whom he thought would laugh at his dream—simply turned her head to face him. Her eyes were wide and shining, tears brimming, and her face shone.

“Really?” She asked. He nodded, shifting his gaze from the sky to her.

“Imagine five years from now,” He proposed. “You and I are getting ready to have our first baby. We’re living in our own house, working on painting the nursery, and you go into labour. We go to the hospital, you give birth to a beautiful baby—”

“A girl,” She interrupted, and when he glances sideways at her, the grip she has on his hand has tightened, and she’s staring up at the sky. Her gaze flicked to him. “Charity.” He nodded.

“Charity,” He agreed, the two of them turning back to the sky. “You give birth to a beautiful baby girl named Charity, and she looks so much like you. She has your hair…” She squeezed his hand.

“She has your eyes.”

“She has your nose.”

“She has your freckles.”

“She has your spirit,” He said, and she doesn’t reply with another one. “A year after that, she turns one, and everyone’s there. You, me, our parents, our grandparents, Jess and Kate. Everyone, they’re all there.” She’s crying. It’s okay, because he’s about to start. “And when she takes her first steps, it’ll be towards both of us. And when she starts talking, her first word will be—”

“Love,” She interrupted again. He nodded.

“Her first word will be love,” He said. “Then three years later, we’ll be sending her to her first day of pre-school. Then kindergarten. And after that: Grade one, only she’ll be so scared to go, we’ll walk her into class, holding her hands, introduce her to the other kids, then we’ll leave—” His voice begins to catch “—and then she’ll be fine.” She squeezed his hand, taking over for him.

“And halfway through the year, she’ll have her first playdate, and she’ll start to grow up,” She said. “She’ll start learning so many new things, asking us so many questions, some to which we won’t have the answers to.” He nodded.

“She’ll have a crush,” He said.

“She’ll come home some days crying,”

“She’ll act in school musicals,”

“She’ll fall in love,” She whispered, and he stopped again, closing his eyes only for tears to slip out when he opens them again.

“Yeah,” He agreed. “She’ll be happy. She’ll start junior high, probably get a boyfriend that’ll probably break her heart, and we’ll be there. She’ll learn how to drive, get her learners. Then when she goes into high-school, she’s going to struggle a little bit. But she’s smart, so she’ll know how to figure it out. She’s going to go out on her first date. You’re going to help her with her hair and make-up. And after she leaves, we’ll stay up waiting until she gets back. Then she’ll introduce us to him. And before we know it, she’s going to graduate and go onto college. Or travelling. Or even just spending her time falling in love.” He is crying, started a while ago, but now he can’t seem to stop. His tears are calm though, somewhat understanding, falling down the sides of his face.

“After she goes to college, she’ll go on to do something wonderful,” He breathed. “She’ll be following her dreams, making us proud. But she knows she doesn’t need to, because we love her, so, so much. She’s going to get engaged, and married. You’ll take her shopping for her wedding dress, I’ll get to take her down the aisle, and we’ll give her away. Then—”

“She’ll have a baby of her own,” She whispered, and they both go silent. He swallowed.

“Yeah,” He said, voice trembling. “She’ll have a baby of her own.” He echoed. He looked beside him, seeing her shaking on the blanket. She’d turned onto her side, curled up against his side, letting herself cry. He sniffed, now realizing the extent of his own emotions, and still laying on his back, lifted the hand behind his head to draw a thumb down her cheek, wiping a tear, but she only trembled against his touch. Her bottom lip let out, and she cried harder. He turned onto his side so he was facing her, and dropping each others hands, he wrapped himself around her, crying into her hair.

“She would have a good life. A happy one.” He said, only causing her to cry even more.

“I want it so bad,” She whimpered, and his heart broke. He held tighter to her, his voice becoming too shaky in his attempt to ease his crying.

“I know,” He whispered. “I want it too.”

Above them, the sky had changed from blue to a milky lilac. They laid like that, remaining on their checker striped blanket as the stars rose. When they finally got up, their eyes had dried. He wrapped the thin blanket around the two of them and walking back to the hospital, convinced themselves they weren’t dying.