"How did we get here?"

He asks the question rhetorically, and she watches his face carefully. She's grown accustomed to his monologues, but she's never sure if he's seriously asking until she looks at him.

Her eyes dart from him to her fingernails. They've been freshly painted, but she looks for chips and waits for him to continue.

"It seems like only yesterday." He looks down at her and she catches his eye. She grins convincingly, and he leans down to place a hand on her head.

She ignores that it feels so very like when she used to scratch her dog.

"Do you need anything from the store, love?" His voice is soft, but she knows the kindness is only temporary. She is one missed que, one wrong word away from wrath.

Sometimes wrath pays a visit anyway.

"Could you bring me some peanut M & Ms?" She lays on a little charm, but not too thick. Puppy-dogs her eyes but doesn't bat her lashes. Lips set in just the right amount of pout.

"You've never asked for candy before! Certainly. Anything for my best girl."

She's reminded of that dog again, but she pretends to laugh good naturedly. "Thank you," she purrs.

He sighs. "It seems like yesterday when you hid in my little corner shop."

She nods. It was seven hundred and thirty two days ago, you fuck, she thinks, but can never say. "I love you," is a lie that slips past her lips so often that it leaves her mouth feeling oily.

"Be back soon." He leaves, and she sighs when the padlock clicks against the steel door. While not gilded, the cage is comfortable enough.

Buried twenty feet below the man's Brooklyn bodega, she remembers the night she dodged the cops and became a fly stuck in a far worse web. He let her into the store room, gave her a slushy, and she woke up a literal kept woman.

Her escape is imminent, though. For years, she'd studied him. Learned what made him angry, what made him happy. She feigned hope and good cheer, even though both had withered on the vine and rotted away long ago.

What he didn't know was that she nearly died in the sixth grade when she was at a slumber party. The host never considered severe allergies when she served peanut-butter chocolate chip cookies to the kid who didn't pay attention before taking a bite.

She'd never asked him for candy before, and she felt lucky to know she would never need to ask again.

I did it.

I finally did it.

I killed the bastard, using the same hunting knife he had used on me many times before. My only regret is his wife found me with his blood-emptied body and called the cops.

Now I am running for my life; a life I finally got back. I'll be damned if anyone will ever put me in a cage again.

My lungs are on fire as I harshly inhale the humid morning air, the fresh air almost makes me queasy, I am so accustomed to the rotting musk from the basement, that my body doesn't know how to handle the clean air. The muscles in my legs are protesting, but I push my body, running as fast as I can down the stirring street.

The town I haven't seen in... well I have no idea how long... blurs past me. I want to stop and see if the small cafe my mother used to bring me to every Friday before hockey practice is still there. The buttery chocolate croissant is damn near melting in my mouth from the thought. My stomach lets out a roar and I curse under my breath; when was the last time that bastard fed me? The days I spent in the cage blurred together with no window in sight, and my captor didn't bother to ensure I maintained a healthy diet. I can’t stop, not for nostalgia, not for anything.

The sirens are getting louder. Shop owners begin stumbling onto the sidewalk to see what could be causing such a disturbance in their quaint little town. A wave of desperation comes crashing into me, like a sickly chill, the feeling of premature agony.

I need an escape.

As if I manifested it, a red door appears on the side of a crumbling brick building. I have lived in this town my entire young adult life, and I know before the kidnapping, that door hadn't existed. A large sign on the building's front, "condemned", draws my eyes. The door is out of place. But I don't have the time to stop and ponder its existence as tires screech on the pavement at the curve of the road only a few meters away.

I am panting like a dog in heat. I know my gelatinous leg muscles will give out if I dare try to run again, so I do what any sane person would do in my situation... I yank open the red door, surprised to find it unlocked and slam it behind me.

I move to the side, ducking under a window I know, sure as hell, wasn't there a minute ago.

I hold my breath as the sirens race past me, the police oblivious to my escape. Once it quiets outside, and the only sound is my heart thundering inside my chest, I dare peek out the window. The street is filled with nosey onlookers, but nothing more. I have graced the townspeople with something new to gossip about for weeks.

I let out a deep breath, the window fogging around my lips. I decide to turn away from the window, if someone spots me looking all ominous and creepy they may call the cops back.

The area around me is dark, darker than normal dark if that’s even possible. It's as if the shadows are alive as they morph their onyx forms around the three men staring at me.

Oh shit.

Three beady red eyes meet mine. A look of shock is all I can make out on their faces before the shadows swallow their faces, leaving the metal table they are gathered around visible. Another man is strapped to the table with cuffs around his ankles and wrists, his golden skin is marred with gouges and blood dripping into crimson pools on the cement floor beneath him. Six sets of latex-gloved hands hold instruments of doom above the man, whose impossibly purple eyes meet mine.

What in the actual fuck.

I clear my throat, reaching behind me, feeling the wall for the door so I can escape, but the cold rigid stone bricks are all I can feel. I turn my head in a flash, weary about facing away from the horror-movie-worth-scene in front of me.

The door is gone. The window is gone. There is nothing but a solid wall without any indication of how I got here.

“You are not going anywhere,” a gravelly voice comes from one of the men.

I whip my head back in their direction. The shadows are lining them like a demonic aura, their faces clearer, and their Cheshire-worthy smirks have my gut sinking low in my stomach.

Jail.

Jail is looking much better than this.

Meagan Verstraten.

The only thing more annoying than the wet bullets of sweat running down my face were the real bullets of lead whirring past my face. As I blinked the salty stinging from my eyes again, it flashed on me that it was an overwhelmingly foolish thing to try and pull off an armed robbery at the mannequin store, in the middle of July, and in broad daylight. At the time of planning, I thought it stood to reason that no one would suspect such a rash move, thus granting me the strategic advantage of pure, distilled surprise. The mannequin store being directly next to the police station was another element of reverse-psychology that had backfired. So when one of the patrons lucidly dialed the authorities, I had to bolt with empty hands. I had actually wanted one of the mannequin hands that was posed holding a very large and sumptuous diamond, but I felt I had to stuff something in my pockets.

I was also starting to wonder why I didn’t rush immediately to my car when it was clear the situation ran awry. I even left the engine running for a seamless getaway. I suppose panic makes fools of us all. I dodged another speeding capsule of death. I didn’t think it was quite fair for the police to use real guns when mine was only a squirt gun. I couldn’t even use it as threatened as it was jammed from the time I tried loading it with strawberry jam. I suppose hunger makes fools of us all. I knew there was a dark and dingy ally up ahead I could dip through, sandwiched between two competing delicious sandwich shops. I thought the cops wouldn’t dare thread their multi-ton hunks of metal on wheels through this narrow urban needle.

The bastards did it. The potency of the headlights grew stronger as they ravenously gobbled the distance between us. My first saving grace was that the alley was too thin for them to comfortably aim their pistols out of their windows. The second was the large and over-stuffed dumpster further restricting the clearance of the strip; there was enough for my lactic-acid-logged body but not so much a police car body. I heard a cacophonous crunch as the metals collided behind me. It was enough of a stall to escape the alley alone.

Returning to the sunlight, I knew reinforcements would soon circle the block by more legitimate means of traffic. I didn’t have much time. I did, though, have enough time to pause and flip a coin to determine the next course of my route: heads I head right; tails I tail left. Everyone knows any excellent plan bears the element of surprise, doubly so if the planner is also surprised. I flicked my quarter into the air with my thumb and watched it perform an amount of frantic rotations that would give any Olympic diver tens across the board, maybe with the exception of one nine depending on how it stuck the landing. I caught it and sighted the reverse of the coin. Left it was. So I took off running west down the avenue, only to glimpse a “one-way” sign directing south. I would be running straight into the police’s open, lethal, or optimistically, judicial arms. I suppose random chance makes fools of us all. Still, I sprinted onward. It occurred to me that perhaps instead of running myself into heatstroke, I could try hiding in a nearby building. I could now make out the pitch of sirens around the bend wailing louder.

With urgency, I tried barging into the closest building to me. The door was locked. I ran farther down, trying the next door. It was locked even harder somehow. Why were all of these businesses closed at such a prime, auspicious time of day? I suppose economics makes fools of us all. Now panting like a Siberian husky in a sauna, I reached my third and final option as the city block selfishly terminated after this building. I heaved my shoulder into the glass door as I had figured it was the quickest entrance if the door indeed allowed entry, forgetting to factor in how much pain would occur if it didn’t. Fortunately, it swung in with butterlike smoothness. I toppled down and slammed onto the flooring, undoubtedly bruising a substantial portion of the left side of my body. It couldn’t have been a tighter timing; I saw the nosy nose of a patrol vehicle crowning around the corner as I dove. I made a hasty crawl underneath the windows which were painted with backwards words in vivid, audacious colors that I had neither the patience nor desire to decipher. Tense with a grueling cocktail of anticipation, horror, and prayer to some anonymous god, I listened to the engines and sirens doppler past. I didn’t stop listening until the preying orchestra diminished beyond the horizon of audible perception. Then I sunk and melted onto the floor, plastered with a grin boasting the girth of relief.

“Was that part of the routine?” a voice startled me and my smile dissipated. I looked around the room, the cones in my eyes slowly interpreting the light diffusing into them.

“Huh?”

“Was that part of your routine? I guess if the rest of it maintains the same level of theatrics we can forgive you for being two hours late.”

The room was diagnosably depressed. Matte grey cement comprised every surface, which may have explained why the damn floor was so hard. There was a circle of metal folding chairs entrapping a white plastic folding table. The table was populated with red cups and a rectangular cake with white frosting while the chairs were populated with a range of adults and children. The back wall sported a banner spelling “Happy Birthday Remy!” with a unique hue for each rounded sans-serif letter. Ebbing from my confusion, I was able to process what the crotchety old woman had said. It then flashed on me that I had made a horrible decision in wearing a clown costume as my robbery disguise. I suppose fashion makes fools of us all.

“You are the clown we hired, right? Or were those real police cars that you were running from?” Her words rang with a slight but perceptible echo from the near-unfurnished room. Her eyes narrowed at me in sharp suspicion.

“Uh, no! I am the real clown you paid money for as you can tell by my costume. I am Chauncy the Clown!”

“I thought your advertisement said you were Glimbo the Clown.”

“Oh, that’s just a matter of pronunciation. I hear that all the time.”

“Okay. You best get on with the rest of the show since you took your sweet-ass time getting here.”

This was a sallow, soren destiny to befall me. I abhor the art of improv. I’m a staunch believer that a firm, reliable structure is the key to comedy. I had taken one improv workshop before but that was only because it thought it was going to be be an “improve” workshop centered around self-improvement, the misspelling being an example of something they could improve on. The things presented there were an affront to jokes and good humor everywhere. It was an upsetting experience. I don’t wish to think about it anymore. And now I must improvise a comedy show of the utmost prestige or otherwise risk my painted, colorful hide on the streets. I would probably be captured and hauled away within minutes with my abundantly visible visage. I then considered that a jail cell may be a more favorable outcome. However, I didn’t want to stain my shiny clean criminal record, so I decided to let loose and live in the moment.

“Alright, then. Hello, children! I’m Clancy, or whatever. Are you ready for some good and wacky fun?”

The audience returned quiet, empty stares sterile as a shrink-wrapped operating room doused in rubbing alcohol. One of the children let out a tiny cough, I interpreted as a slight pity to me so the room wouldn’t be completely silent. I appreciated that. I knew I was going to have to tap deep within the rancid, sweaty pits of my one-day improv training to satisfy this crowd.

“Somebody shout out an occupation. It can be any occupation! This is sure to be a very entertaining activity for you all to watch and enjoy.”

“Comedian!” a child wearing a sort of ugly blue shirt on the outside right of the ring shouted. I felt a stab of insult at this, as if they didn’t expect me to be of a comedic persuasion already. I mean, I wasn’t, but the costume I thought was fairly convincing when I bought it.

“Now, someone give me an adjective. Remember, it can be any adjective!”

“Funny!” a child near the middle yelled. Another irrational pang of offense rolled through me. I was really banking on the costume’s inherent context of hilarity to really carry me through this ordeal, but obviously that wasn’t going to work. However, this did give me a shining opportunity to pull some of the finest one-liners out of my bag of jokes, which I imagine is Versace and crafted with black, luxurious leather. With expert pantomime skills (which I learned during the improv workshop), I feigned lifting a microphone and leaned on an invisible microphone stand.

“What do you call a deer with no eyes?” I paused for effect, “No eye deer!”

Confident I stuck the landing, I anticipated the assured wave of laughter. I received nothing of the sort.

“Did you get that joke from a Laffy Taffy wrapper?” heckled a small voice from the left. I did, but that’s beside the point.

“My ex-husband used to tell that joke all the time,” whispered another, more adult sounding voice to another adult. It then flashed on me why the name Remy was so familiar: that was the name of my son’s best friend! Then it flashed on me why the kid with the ugly shirt looked so familiar: that was my son Emit! Then it flashed on me as to why the sound of that aside whisper was so familiar: that was the voice of my ex-wife Melinda!

Damn me straight to Hell right now, I thought, struggling to keep my composure in check upon this soul-hammering epiphany. Our divorce was messy, and not only because she served me the papers while I was at my landfill job. In the end, she won custody of the kid, the dog, the house, the car, and, worst of all, my favorite set of salt and pepper shakers. She left me more ruined than the great lost city of Atlantis. Our marriage had been faring fairly well, or so I thought. At least up until I became fixated on stealing that diamond from the mannequin store, that crystalline fruit plump and bodacious, acutely ripened for my harvest. Five years later, here I am, craving the sweet sensation of the universe subducting me through its fabric and into indescribable oblivion. One solace I had was that it was clear she didn’t recognize me through my expertly applied mug of clown make-up. I learned such a skill as it was a part of the one-day improv workshop.

“Is this the best you got? Your $2,000 deposit is why we had to book this shithole venue. Give me a refund or I’m calling the police,” said Mrs. Crotchety, which had just flashed on me that she was Remy’s curmudgeonly grandmother and guardian, Doreen, with whom I arranged several playdates with. Not between us, but for our children, of course. I wouldn’t want to play with her anyway, the curmudgeon she is. She also denied me the one time I asked.

In a stroke of improvisational genius, I realized I had a wealth of information residing within these people. These people that possessed no suspicion or clue as to who I truly was. Information I could exploit for a stellar psychic act, the likes of which had never been witnessed. I kicked into a high, divination oriented gear.

“Hang on, just wait a dandy moment here! Let me segue into the next part of the show. Now, it is a well kept secret that I, Glimby, in addition to a hilarious clown, am also a gifted psychic.”

“Your website did mention that.”

“Oh. At any rate, I will need a volunteer. I will let the ether guide my gaze.”

I closed my eyes and slowly and gingerly waved my arms in the air, thumbs pinched to my index finger. I also hummed for an added dash of mysticism, pretending that I was a microwave to really sell the character. After a few seconds, I spouted my predetermined target.

“I’m sensing a name that starts with the letter M. I also sense that it ends in an A. There seems to be an I in the middle, flanked by an L and an N. Then I sense that there is perhaps an E and a D, two more complimenting condiments for this delicious letter sandwich. Is it Melinda? Is there a Melinda here that wishes to join me up front?”

Melinda stood up from her seat, a look of genuine surprise on her face. Dare I say attraction? Perhaps subliminally the decontextualized timbre of my voice reawakened buried feelings, warm and fluttering. Does she pine for me as I have pined for her alone, cold and weeping every night on my lumpy mattress, listening to old Taylor Swift CDs? In my wildest dreams I had never imagined to be this close to her again and now the weight of reality was almost too heavy to bear. I had to stifle the welling tears and emerging lump in my throat; the show must go on, unimpeded by petty, personal drama.

“Me- Melinda. I hear a whisper from the ether. It is telling me that it has been five years, three months, and sixteen days since you and your husband have been divorced.”

“Wow, impressive! Scarily accurate,” she said in her tone that I could never recognize if it was earnest or sardonic. I choose to believe it was earnest.

“The ether is now whispering to me that there is a rift in your heart that has never been sealed since. It howls yearning melancholy when the bitter winds of your sundered spirit blow through, only to be hushed and reconciled if you are reunited with your former lover and father of your child, Emit.”

“Uh, I don’t know about that. I actually feel pretty good since the divorce. Great, even. I’ve made great strides in my career and I’ve never felt freer. He would always go on about stealing this stupid plastic diamond from the mannequin store. I thought he was joking until one night I found him hunched over his desk red-eyed, secretly making plans to do so. ‘It will make us rich, I tell you! We shall want for nothing!’ that idiot would tell me. That’s when I knew our marriage was a mistake. And also our child is named Ethan.”

It flashed on me then when I eyed the diamond as I was robbing the store, it did have a distinct plastic-looking quality. Another devastating blow to my already fragile mind. It was a fake; I just didn’t want to believe it. It felt like my tender heart was imploding all over again.

“Okay. Return to your chair.”

Melissa returned to her chair. I was crestfallen. This was the worst birthday ever.

“Could you maybe include the birthday boy in this? It is his special day after all?” barked Doreen.

Any enthusiasm for the show had deflated from me. It was all colluding to be a resounding lost cause. My ex-wife felt nothing for me, the police were probably going to lock me away, and, on top of everything, Glunky the Clown was going to have to refund the $2,000 deposit. Just another reason to despise the wretched art of improv.

“Yeah, sure. The mysterious ether tells me that Remy, the very special birthday boy whom everyone loves, should come and join me up here.”

Remy waddled up to the front, saturated with a mixed expression of excitement and embarrassment. This poor kid. All he wanted was an exceptional appearance from what is presumably his favorite clown. All he got was this unqualified, renegade, bumbling imbecile of an impostor. I’m sure this is all my ex-wife’s fault somehow.

“So, pal. Is there anything you want to ask the mysterious ether?”

“Uh, does it have any cool presents for me?”

Of course I didn’t come prepared with a present, an absence that would be just another brown, insoluble splotch on this catastrophic failure of a day. To humor Remy, I plunged my hands into my deep and billowy pockets; perhaps there would be some spare lint to bequeath. My fingers felt around and identified the unmistakable smooth, hard plastic of other fingers. Interlocked in my own hands, they reminded me of the gentle, meek grasp of Melinda. My trophies from the mannequin store excursion. The only product of my miserable heist. I would be torn to depart from this meager haul, but I sensed the boy would be even more torn without a consolatory birthday prize. In the spirit of jovial childhood wonder, I presented him the mannequin hands.

“No way! God is real!” Remy exclaimed shrilly upon sight.

A buried memory then crawled through the topsoil of my memory like a zombie in a zombie movie; Remy was obsessed with rings. Every time I picked up Ewan- I mean Ethan, I would see Remy outside decked with a shiny ring on each of his short, chubby digits. I recall his adorned jewelry would be different each time I saw him. Even now his fingers were spangled in gold and silver bands. Of course he would want a set of false hands to proudly display his rings when the alternates are not in use.

“Yes, yes! The ether has known of your love of rings and has bestowed to you these hands. Take them in merry peace.”

Remy walked back to his grandmother, babbling on about his new precious plastic hands. Then I heard the front door swing open and I saw a clown crash to the floor, undoubtedly bruising his entire left side.

“I’m so sorry! I got here as fast as I could and I assumed battering myself through the door was the quickest way to get in,” the clown huffed out while getting up and dusting himself off, “I tried my best to be here on time, but I realized I had mixed up my days. When I noticed, I scrambled over but then I was shot at and then arrested by the police. Apparently they were looking for a clown that robbed a mannequin store? No self-respecting clown I know of would do that. Once I was able to prove my identity and that they had the wrong clown, they let me go. I know my website says ‘no refunds,’ but I will fully return your $2,000 for this misunderstanding.”

He then took notice of me and his painted frown turned even more sour.

“Oh, what the hell? So I’m a little bit late and you decide to replace me with whatever old clown that happens to be on the street? You didn’t even call to make sure I was okay! I’m Glimbo the Clown, for Christ’s sake! What happened to community? What happened to kindness?”

The crowd stared at us in silent shock. I stared at Glimbo the Clown, unsure of how to assess my next order of operations. Only Doreen was able to retain some wits about her.

“I’m calling the police,” she announced.

“After all I have done for you? After I single-handedly saved this party? What happened to community? What happened to kindness?”

“Yes, hello? I need an officer, please,” Doreen spoke into her cellular telephone.

So I bolted out the door, turning left, but only after flipping a coin before deciding to do so. I kept running without a set destination in mind. I am still running to this day. Last week I saw my name and face in the paper with a headline dubbing me “The Outlaw Clown” and then in smaller print it said “who loves improv.” What a horrible combination of words, words that were supposed to be describing me. Was this some sort of karmic punishment? Had I transgressed in enough severity to warrant this? I suppose life makes fools of us all.

It was a Tuesday when I found myself inadvertently embroiled in a sequence of events that would later form the cornerstone of my memoirs - assuming, of course, that anyone would be absurd enough to publish them. The day began innocuously enough; I was merely an average person with a penchant for minor acts of rebellion and an unrivaled talent for making poor life decisions.

The incident that transformed my ordinary existence into a spectacle worthy of public exhibition commenced with a seemingly harmless endeavor: I aimed to set a record for the most garden gnomes repositioned in a single night. It was an act motivated not by malice but by a thirst for adventure and perhaps a subtle disdain for the gaudy ceramic figures that had colonized the neighborhood lawns.

Armed with nothing more than a flashlight, a misguided sense of purpose, and sneakers that had seen better days, I embarked on my nocturnal mission. Success was within my grasp until the silence of the night was shattered by the unmistakable sound of a siren. It appeared that in my enthusiasm for gnome relocation, I had inadvertently trespassed on the property of a retired police officer who fancied himself a vigilante of suburban peace.

Faced with the immediate threat of apprehension for a crime as ignoble as gnome displacement, I did what any self-respecting fugitive of garden decor crimes would do: I ran. The chase was less a testament to my athleticism and more an ad hoc obstacle course involving shrubbery, garden hoses, and the occasional startled cat.

My breaths were heavy, my heart pounded against my chest like a drum solo from a rock concert, and sweat coated my brow like a glaze on a holiday ham. The officers, undoubtedly bemused yet unyielding, were hot on my heels, their determination fueled by the prospect of apprehending a gnome bandit.

In a stroke of luck that seemed almost scripted by the fates, an open door appeared on the sidewalk, as if the universe itself had conspired to afford me a sliver of hope. With the police mere whispers behind me, I darted through the doorway, tumbling into salvation’s embrace. The heavy door swung shut with a thud that echoed my racing heart.

I remained still, crouched beneath the window, daring not to breathe as the sound of footsteps and radio chatter passed by, growing fainter with each passing moment. The relief that washed over me was a tidal wave of euphoria; I had escaped the clutches of the law with nothing more than my wits and an uncanny ability to spot an open door.

As my breathing steadied and the adrenaline that had fueled my frenetic escape ebbed away, I let myself bask in the fleeting illusion of triumph. Triumph, however, as I was soon to discover, is often a prelude to tribulation. Slowly, with the cautious curiosity of a cat nearing a suspiciously unattended bowl of cream, I rose from my sanctuary under the window, my heart still performing an erratic symphony within my chest.

I turned, expecting to face a room as ordinary as any other, perhaps cluttered with the mundane artifacts of domestic life. Instead, I found myself in a space that defied all conventional expectations, a room that would have made Salvador Dali raise his eyebrows in both confusion and admiration.

The walls were adorned with paintings that seemed to pulse and writhe in their frames, depicting scenes that oscillated between the fantastical and the macabre. Books were strewn about, their pages filled with indecipherable script that shimmered under the flickering light of a chandelier festooned with what appeared to be crystals, but upon closer inspection, were actually intricately carved bones.

In the center of the room stood a table, upon which was arrayed a curious collection of objects: a compass that spun in endless circles, a clock with thirteen hours, and a crystal ball that clouded and cleared intermittently, revealing fleeting glimpses of unknown places. The air was thick with the scent of incense and something else, something cloyingly sweet yet unmistakably metallic - the smell of blood.

But it was not the bizarre furnishings or the unsettling artwork that sent a shiver down my spine; it was the occupants of the room. Gathered around the table were figures cloaked in shadows, their features obscured, save for the glint of their eyes in the dim light. Each pair of eyes fixed on me with an intensity that rooted me to the spot, a rabbit caught in the gaze of serpents.

The silence was oppressive, a tangible force that seemed to squeeze the very air from my lungs. A voice, smooth as silk and cold as ice, broke the stillness. “Welcome,” it said, each syllable weaving through the shadows like a chill wind. “We’ve been expecting you.”

My mouth felt as dry as a desert, my tongue a useless slab of meat in my mouth. Questions pounded against the forefront of my mind with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Who were these people? What was this place? And, perhaps most pressingly, how had they been expecting me?

Before I had the chance to voice any of these questions, the figure who had spoken stepped forward, emerging from the shadows into the wavering light. The sight that greeted me was so startling, so absurdly out of place with the gravity of the situation, that I nearly laughed.

The figure was garbed in a robe that seemed stitched together from the night sky itself, stars twinkling within the fabric with a light that seemed both impossible and mesmerizing. But it was the face that captured my attention: it was covered by a mask that was nothing less than a giant rubber duck.

“Now,” the figure said, the duck’s beak moving comically with each word, “let’s discuss why you’re here.”

The rational part of my brain, the part that had been meticulously cultivated through years of dull college lectures and an unshakably pragmatic upbringing, screamed that none of this could possibly be happening. The world did not operate on the principles of surrealism and absurdity painted before my very eyes. Yet here I was, conversing with an entity that could only have leaped from the fevered dream of a deranged novelist, its countenance obscured by a façade that sparked an odd juxtaposition of fear and amusement within me.

“Discuss?” I echoed, my voice laced with incredulity, betraying the whirlwind of emotions coursing through me. “I don’t even know how I ended up here, let alone why.”

The figures around the table shifted, a symphony of whispers filling the space between us, their words indecipherable, yet laden with expectation. The duck-masked figure raised a hand, and silence returned as swiftly as it had been broken.

“You are here because fate has woven you into the tapestry of events far greater than the sum of your misdemeanors with garden ornaments,” the figure intoned, the absurdity of the statement doing nothing to diminish its gravity. “Though, admittedly, your choice of pastime is… unconventional.”

A snort escaped me despite the gravity of the situation. Unconventional indeed. Never had I imagined my nocturnal activities would lead me down a rabbit hole that made Wonderland seem like a guided tour of a suburban shopping mall.

“You stand at a crossroads,” the duck continued, its tone somber. “One path leads to redemption, the other to ruination. The choice is yours, but choose wisely. The consequences will ripple through the eons.”

I blinked. Redemption? Ruination? Eons? The words painted a picture so vastly different from my expectations of post-escape hiding that I couldn’t help but feel as if I had stumbled into someone else’s story, a protagonist by accident rather than design.

“And how exactly am I supposed to make this choice?” I asked, skepticism threading my words. “I mean, no offense, but this is all coming on a bit strong. Last I checked, I was just avoiding a trespassing charge, not meddling in the affairs of cosmic importance.”

Laughter, light and lilting, filled the room, emanating from the shrouded figures. It was not mocking but seemed imbued with genuine amusement.

“The bravery you displayed tonight, the willingness to defy the odds, it was merely a precursor,” the figure clarified, its tone warmer now, more inviting. “Your true test lies within this room. Choose an object from the table. It will determine your path.”

I studied the table, the bizarre items now taking on a new light of significance. The compass spun with wild abandon, the clock ticked irregularly, and the crystal ball… I stepped closer, drawn to its mysterious depths. Without fully understanding why, I reached out, my fingers brushing against the cool surface.

The room held its breath.

Then, without warning, reality bent. The walls, the figures, the entire room stretched and twisted, colors bleeding into one another as time and space contorted. I was falling, plummeting through a vortex that defied all laws of physics, the last thing I saw before darkness took me was the duck-masked figure, its eyes gleaming with a light that spoke of untold secrets and imminent adventure.

When consciousness returned, it tiptoed back, hesitant, as if unsure it was returning to the right person. My eyes fluttered open, greeted by a canopy of stars strewn across a sky so vast, so infinitely deep, that I felt I could drown in it. I lay on my back, the ground beneath me neither hard nor soft, but oddly insubstantial, as if I were resting on the concept of ground rather than the thing itself.

Sitting up, I found the world around me had rearranged its features once more, now resembling neither the peculiar room nor the familiar streets I had known. Instead, I was in a place that defied straightforward description. It was as if the universe had taken a handful of landscapes from a dozen different planets and woven them together into a tapestry of bewildering diversity. Mountains that shimmered with an iridescent sheen towered next to forests where the leaves sang in the wind, a melody both haunting and beautiful.

In the distance, a river flowed, its waters a swirling miasma of colors that no earthly palette could contain. The air was thick with a fragrance that was simultaneously new and ancient, filled with notes of jasmine, ozone, and something indefinably otherworldly.

As I stood, a sense of vertigo momentarily overtook me, not from a fear of falling, but from the sudden realization that I had profoundly underestimated the gravity of my situation. The words of the duck-masked figure echoed in my mind: a choice between redemption and ruination, with consequences rippling through eons.

I took a tentative step forward, half expecting the ground to give way beneath me. Instead, it held firm, the surreal landscape beckoning me to explore. As I walked, the reality of my circumstance began to settle in; I was no mere fugitive of a mundane justice system. I had become an unwitting participant in a trial that spanned the cosmos, my fate entwined with forces beyond my comprehension.

The river drew me nearer, its waters calling to me with a voice that was felt rather than heard. As I approached, an object caught my eye, half-submerged in the kaleidoscopic flow. It was a mirror, its frame adorned with intricate carvings that seemed to shift and change under my gaze.

Tentatively, I reached out, my fingers grazing the cool metal of the frame before grasping it firmly. Drawing the mirror from the river, I held it before me, taking in my reflection. But what stared back was not my face, or rather, not just my face. It was a visage that morphed and flowed, reflecting myriad possibilities of who I was, who I could be, and who I might yet become.

Each reflection was me, yet not me—different paths I could take, lives I could live. Each choice I had ever made, or might yet make, played out in an infinite dance of consequences, a reminder of the weight of choice and the power of action.

It was then that realization dawned upon me, as bright and blinding as the stars overhead. This was not a trial of cosmic jesters or a test by extraterrestrial beings. It was a journey of self-discovery, a trial by fire designed to reveal the essence of my being, to challenge me to confront my fears, my hopes, my very identity.

With a deep breath, I looked once more into the mirror, my gaze steady. The reflections slowed, coalescing into a single image, a vision of myself not as I was but as I could be. A version of me unbound by past regrets or future anxieties, free to forge my destiny with the raw materials of choice and will.

Armed with this newfound understanding, I turned from the river, the mirror in hand, and stepped forward into the unknown land that sprawled before me. For the first time, I felt a sense of purpose, a conviction that, regardless of the path I chose, the journey itself was the destination.

And though I could not have known it then, my adventures had only just begun. For in the realms of the infinite, every ending is but a new beginning, every choice a doorway to endless possibilities.

I didn't do anything wrong, I thought as I hopped over old Mr. Hunt's fence and ran down Pine Street. I could hear Officer Stone's heavy breathing. I didn't turn around to see how close he was.

"Stop!" I heard as his partner, Officer Pitt, landed with a thud on the sidewalk.

I kept my head down and my feet flying toward Main Street.

If I was so innocent, why was I running, you ask?

Easy: I live in one of those places where you're guilty until proven innocent. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but no one was ever going to believe me. I know the deal. So, I ran.

As soon as I turned onto Main, I ran into the first alley on the left. A door was ajar so I slipped in. Pitt and Stone thundered by and I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Welcome, my child."

The voice came from behind me. I turned slowly and froze. At the same time the door behind me clicked shut and locked. The room before me was dark, lit only by candles on the wall. And a fire pit in the middle of room above which was...I rubbed my eyes, sure I could not be seeing what I thought. Above the fire there was something...someone, turning like a pig on a spit. As my eyes adjusted, I saw the face and screamed.

It was me.

"We've been expecting you," the voice continued from next to me.

I turned and white eyes glowed beside me.

"Uh, I th- think I made a wrong turn," I stuttered, trying to surreptitiously twist the knob behind me.

"No, it was fate," the voice said as a clawed hand dug into my shoulder. "You've been expected."

"No, really, I have to go," I said, desperately trying to open the locked door."

"We insist you stay," glowing eyes said.

"We?" I whispered.

"Mmmhmmmm," the voice murmured as dozens of glowing eyes blinked around me.

"And do you think that was the right thing to do, Destiny?"

"Oh hell no, not you again--" Destiny plopped to the floor, sighing, her head against the door. She was yet to regain her breath from all the chasing. What is it with cops and their obsession with chasing down petty criminals when there are literal wars out there? And why does she have to bear with this guy on top of all that?

The man plopped down right beside her, swinging his head to the left to achieve his signature long hairstyle, "Tell me, Destiny, do you hold remorse about your act?"

"Please leave me alone." Destiny unwrapped the infinite plastic wrappings of her sandwich, tucking the covers into the pockets of her hoodie. So much plastic, and for what?

"Do you think your concern for the world and the environment justify your other actions? For all we know, that woman could have been going through a really hard day to have bought a sandwich for breakf--"

"That's it!" Raising herself from the ground, Destiny stood her ground against him, "Would you buy me food instead? Okay, just mind your business, alright? What did I ever do to you? Oh my goodness!" She took a significant bite out of the sandwich, filling her entire mouth with fresh bread and-- meat. No, no, she was not going to eat an animal. But it is so tasty. And I'm very hungry. I need this. You're going against everything you believe in--

"So you can't even stick to your own rules, can you, Destiny?"

"What do you want me to do then? Buy that carnivore another sandwich? Apologise for being hungry? Ask forgiveness for being born poor? You understand nothing."

"And do you understand everything?"

"No, no. I'm not taking philosophy on a Monday morning without even a proper breakfast."

The man hoisted himself up, aligning his floor-length, light brown jacket to perfection, and walked towards her. Hand against her hips and exasperated by about two hours since her start of the day, Destiny refused to make any eye contact.

"You're destined for greater things, Destiny."

"Stop saying that, please."

"All you think about is how life is being unfair to you, which it is, but the complaints are not taking you anywhere, Destiny. You couldn't be born into privilege, I understand, but it is not impossible for you to pave a path towards your dreams even now. You are capable of that, I believe in you."

"In this economy?"

"Don't use that Gen Z language with me, please. Talk in sensible sentences like we're all supposed to."

Destiny sighed, eyes closed, "Then you tell me what to do."

"You dream of a better world, Destiny. And not just for you, but for everyo--"

"No, no, not the communist manifesto. Steps you want me to take instead of being a thief and an asshole--"

"You're not an a-hole, Destiny. What you tell yourself is very imp--"

"Oh my god, I'm 21 now, you are still going to correct my language?"

"I'm sure your inner child--"

"Don't start with-- I don't have a child inside me. I can have one. Is that what you want me to do? Be a who-- mother?"

"That's not what I meant, Destiny."

"That was sarcasm, oh my god-- Stop following me around!"

"I can't. I'm a figment of your imagination. I don't follow you, you carry me around in your head."

"Can't you still leave? Please?"

"I'm afraid that'd lead you down a dangerous path, and I can't watch you being that person, Destiny. Let's see what the scales have to say." He reached out to the inside pocket of his jacket to bring out a golden scale that definitely would not have fit in there.

"Can't I, at least, change a couple things about you? That scale being this out of scale is an insult to my imagination--" The man blinked twice, as the scales slowly creaked between them, up and down.

"Look, buddy, I get it. You want me to be a better person, and I respect that. You want what's good for me. But whatever young version of me made you, they had a much more idealistic version of the world out there. But real world isn't like that. It sucks. I gotta do what I do to save myself."

The scale weighed down, quantifying her guilt to be a tad more worse than what she had seen previously, "I can live with that, buddy, thank you for all you do. Maybe someday, I'll actually be able to live upto you. Someday." Destiny patted him twice on the shoulder, and stealthily made her way out through the windows, a half-eaten sandwich remaining the only evidence of her presence. Perhaps that would be her first step to resolving world hunger, but maybe not the hunger of that carnivore. She'll buy another.

#fiction

I'm really not sure why the police are so angry at me. It's not like I hurt anyone. Much. My only crime is being devilishly handsome and trusting my partner in crime. So much for loyalty, Jessica. She had been livid when I'd had that affair, but she really wasn't one to criticize. I slip into the door to my apartment and take the elevator to the second floor. What were the police going to do, follow me onto my private property? Without a warrant? That would be unbelievably stupid. It would invalidate any evidence the obtained, as it would've been done so illegally.

Besides being incredibly clever and currently being chased by the Washington DC police, I was also a domestic terrorist. I can't imagine why they would call me that. All I did was bomb the White House. It's not like there were many people in there, I planned it that way. I was making a statement, not trying to get anyone killed. I had failed however, and there were two people's blood on my hand. And the president's cat, but I hate cats. One scratched me as a child, plus I'm allergic. That's plenty reason to hate the filthy creatures.

Enough talk about me, as fabulous as I am. There is a bigger problem at hand. The police are nearly on me. And there's a cat in here. My worst fear. It's all I can do not to shriek. Damn it. Jail is starting to look like a viable option. Time to get out of here. I don't want to test the private property thing. I drop out of the room through the second story window, rolling as I hit the ground. I duck into the car my getaway driver, who did not betray me, Jessica, has parked across the street. Some

"What are you waiting for?" I shout. "Drive!" And he does, going well above the speed limit, which the police also did. Hypocrites. Add speeding to my list of crimes, I guess. With the city behind me, I head to a farmhouse in the country to lay low for a while. I had no desire to receive the death penalty. A man as remarkable as me should never be defeated in such a humiliating manner. Caught by city police. What a pathetic way to end a movement. And why pretend otherwise, I don't have any legitimate criticisms to levy, but I had made up plenty in case the media asked. I desperately hope they would. Attention is my drug, and it's as potent as any other. For now, I have to lay low. I hate it here.

I ran

I ran like I always run from problems

I ran like a kid who had thought they saw the boogeyman

But this was no boogeyman

This was a crime scene

You may wonder how it all began

He put one shot in my lover

So I put two in his

Oh he will never recover

But now I run

For I knew what to do but not how to flee

How could I escape from what has been done

I see a open door and decide to try and hide

Oh but how I would regret

The thing that couldn't be denied

It had one horn

It had one eye

It flew high and fast without a warn

And all around him

Dead, purple, people

The flying purple people eater made my chance of survival slim

“Hey,” Kyrin said, leaning against the door frame.

I yelped, having just gotten out of the shower. I was so glad I had a towel nearby.

“What do you want Kyrin?” I said, rather annoyed.

Things have been peculiar since he and his mom moved into our house. His mom’s name is Sheila and she is my late mom’s sister. Kyrin has always been a bizarre kid, being 2 years younger than me.

Kyrin snaps his fingers in front of my face, jolting me back to the present. “Hey, earth to Em!”

“Don’t call me that,” I said angrily. Only my mom ever called me that.

He rolled his eyes and shut the door behind him.

He stepped forward and spoke in a heated whisper. “Don’t scream.”

Of course, I tried to, but he was too quick. One minute I was leaning against the counter, the next he was pinning me on the floor, smothering me with his sweatshirt.

I kicked and fought but he was too strong. I felt something pressing against my back and realized I had a pen in my back pocket! Before he realized what I was doing, I grabbed the pen and stabbed his leg with it. He grimaced in pain for a second but recovered quickly. He then slapped me so hard that I passed out.

The next thing I remembered was being jostled around, and the smell of gasoline. I finally opened my eyes and realized I was being tied to a post like a witch in the 1600s! Kyrin was pouring gasoline at my feet and whistling while he did! A group of his friends stood around him watching. I screamed at him, “What the fuck are you doing?!”

Kyrin answered with a wink, the little bastard. “We need a sacrifice, and you're the perfect one! Hot, Perfect hair, Perfect body!” He licks his lips as he runs his hands along my apparently naked body. Fuck, I forgot he joined that dumbass cult last year. Now I was really scared of what he was going to do.

“Kyrin please,” I pleaded, trying not to cry. “Don’t kill me, what will Sheila think?”

“Fuck Sheila! She didn’t care enough to get a job, to love me!”

His hands shook with the match in his hand.

“I’m sorry Em. I’m truly sorry.” Then he dropped the match and the whole world went up in flames.

------------

I realized his mistake before he did. His bindings were made of rope and very easy to push down, just not easy to untie. While his back was turned talking to his friends about the protocol, I bent as low as I could to the rising fire and burnt off my wrist binds. I then untied my other bindings but didn’t realize that I would fall straight into the fire. I screamed in pain as my body convulsed with the heat. Kyrin whipped around and laughed, seeing me struggle. He leaned forward toward me and whispered, “I’m not sorry.”

I gritted my teeth and dragged him in with me, using his momentum to pull myself out. I ran, ran for so long. Could have been minutes, could have been days. All I know is that I ended up at my house, which was empty. Dad had gone on holiday two days prior with my aunt for a month-long trip.

--ONE WEEK LATER--

I had been hiding out in my house for a week now, praying that Kyrin wouldn’t come back.

It was 8 am and I was finally starting to relax, thinking that he had given up. Suddenly I heard a loud knock on my door. A sudden terror enveloped me as I imagined seeing his face again. I went downstairs slowly, dreading my fate that lay beyond that door. I took a deep breath and opened the door. To my shock, there was a policeman there! His badge read Tarrant County Police Force, and he was armed with a gun! “Hello ma’am, are you Miss Emily Tillan?” he said in a gruff voice. “Yes, what do you need officer?” I said confused. Had there been trouble with my dad’s flight home or something? “You’re under arrest for the torture and murder of Kyrin Sagan.” He said pointedly, already putting handcuffs on me.

What? I couldn’t have heard him right, Kyrin tried to kill me! But then I remembered pushing him into the fire to save myself. The police wouldn’t understand what I went through. There was only one thought in my head. Get out. Get out. Get out. So I ran. I ran as fast as I could. I could still hear the labored breathing of the policeman chasing after me. As more men joined him, I thought, oh shit he called for backup.

I was still running fast, but not fast enough. I turned down an alleyway and came to a halt. There was a door in the middle of a supposed dead end! That couldn’t be right, I was sure this didn’t lead anywhere. But, my curiosity got the best of me and I pushed open the reddish door and saw a window. I immediately ran toward it looking out to see if the police had followed me. Thankfully they hadn’t and were splitting up to look in different areas.

I heard a groan of pain behind me and I froze. I knew that voice well. Slowly I turned around and to my horror, I saw Kyrin. He was sitting up on a cot clearly not fully recovered from the fire but his eyes were full of rage. His cult members were standing right behind him, with his left-hand man Angelo holding a longsword that was already stained with blood. I backed up against the wall feeling for the door handle that I came through earlier. All I felt was bricks and plaster. Shit, Shit, Shit! “You’re not going anywhere,” Kyrin said with a smirk.

Jail. Jail would be so much better than this.

A man sits down, slumped next to a wall, a gun in one hand and a rat in the other. His eyes glint as he watches me, mine widened with shock and terror and plain, deafening disgust as I watch him sink his teeth into the squealing animal. What I would give to turn back time, get grabbed by those assholes and taken away in their flashy copcar so I don't have to witness this sickening shit.

Its blood stains his hand, stains his teeth, drips to the floor and gently laps at the edge of my boot.

The pure, dark redness stains us both, now.

No one's born without it, right? Nothing clean, elegant and pristine about being thrown into this world.

I watch him as he bites into its neck, sneaking in littler chunks of flesh past his lips as he keeps his gaze on me. Perhaps I should run. The guy seems like a lunatic. Then again, I remember the story my father told me of cooking and eating grasshoppers during the Nigerian Civil War. No victors, no vanquished... Sometimes it isn't madness but a hunger that becomes our driving force.

We all go about our days dancing about on this human-constructed stage after all, don't we? For a reason, too, one that triumphs all others. You either live or die. One or the other always. You don't get a choice between.

When I inch closer to him, he holds the gun to me. I stare down the barrel and am reminded of every action movie I've ever watched. Those characters would kick it out of his hands with such fluidity - the actors in real life much less likely to.

I'm a human being. I'm right here. So I make a choice like everyone must when faced with death. The emotion I lead with? Not anger, not fear, not horror, even as they boil and bubble within me. Curiosity. Just curiosity.

"I'm not going to take the rat from you."

"Wouldn't have let ya, kid."

"What... Are you doing?"

"Ever heard of the last supper?"

"You're going to die?"

"We all are. I'm expediting the damned process."

"Okay. Okay. That, I get. But a rat? Fuck, I would've grabbed some really good junk food if I knew I was about to end myself."

"I don't have any money."

"Fine. I would've stolen some, then. I mean... Right before taking your life... You really didn't have a better plan than live rodent?"

"I almost killed you just now, you know."

"Yeah. I saw. I was there."

"This is a shit reaction."

"Well, the cops were chasing me down, sir so... I'm all out of fucks to give right now. I guess I'm also waiting for a type of finality too. A kind of decision. Judgement. Except yours is gonna be self-inflicted and permanent. Mine... Who knows?"

"...tell me. What are you going down for? Prison isn't the place for a lass like you."

"Don't worry about me or my gender. What's a dying old man's business with some youngster's life story? You'd get bored. Maybe I would too. No. Better to pretend our meeting wasn't fated and let the coincidence stay as it did. You keep eating your raw meat and do yourself away once you're done. I'll go fuck off."

"...Do you think a change of clothes might be enough to hide you a bit? The poor and homeless style might fit you quite well."

"Let's try it out and see. As a trade, I tell you my story... Maybe you tell me yours. And hey, if we both survive the night not in jail and not dead, suffering but still here, I'll find you a burger. I can't leave you with this as a last meal. I'd feel guilty knowing the sight that made me almost throw up and consider turning myself in was it for you. Do we have a deal, sir?"

"You'll entertain me and get me free food? Sure, I can waste some extra hours on that. Didn't have any big plans tonight, anyway."