East Chase Street ca. 1944

1. After dark,

passing cars spread white sheets of light

on the ceiling of the 2nd floor front bedroom.

How comfy to know I’m put to bed in the room

where my grandmother will soon join me. Plus

I can tell from the headlights that the machinery

of Baltimore keeps going without me doing a thing.

2. Jack Flood’s place

was what my scary one-eyed step grandfather

called the derelict auto repair shop rotting and rusting

across the street. “He used to keep his women

up on the 2nd floor.“ “Fallen women,” Grandmother

whispered. I pictured women in denim overalls

who had somehow been injured in the War Effort

making the fenders and radiator grills that still spilled

onto the sidewalk. The iron sign said AUTOREPA.

I knew it meant AUTOREPAIRS but I still thought

Autorepa would be a swell name for a make of tractor

along with the John Deeres, International Harvesters,

and Cat Diesels pictured in my step-grandfather’s

Camels- yellowed copies of The Farm Journal..

3. The Red Cross Volunteer place

was three or four houses farther down Chase Street.

Each house we passed had a Gold Star in its bay window.

My grandmother and I walked there every morning.

I forget what she did. What I did was so important

the Red Cross ladies made me a kid-size Red Cross cap

and gave me a big magnet for picking up Invisible Hairpins.

Ladies went to the Red Cross place to get their hair done--

permed or blued.. It was also Miss Viola’s Beauty Parlor.

4. Miss Alma

lived on the third floor of the house on Chase Street.

She was one of my grandmother’s church ladies.

My mother would drop me off at my grandmother’s house

every morning before going to School 49 to teach English

to the Accelerated Middle School boys and girls.

Miss Alma was very tall and slim, with black hair slicked

into a bun. In her long black dress she would float

without making a sound down the stairs to the second floor,

to the first floor, down the hall to the front door, out onto

the fancy tiled vestibule, down the marble steps, out

into her world, whatever that was. I never saw her return.

When my mother was in her nineties, her heart doctored

by one of her girls from School 49, I mentioned

Miss Alma to her, thus adding to Mother’s theory

that I was crazy and a liar. Uncle John, my mother’s

much younger step-brother, remembered Miss Alma

and even her last name: Sinclair. Miss Alma Sinclair.

5. The marble steps

to the huge old brownstones on East Chase Street

were not like the ones you see in pictures of the city.

Housewives on Chase Street hired an old lady

with a scrub bush and bucket to do the steps each month.

’Common,” my mother called people who sat on the steps

on summer nights--part of a phrase ending “…as dirt.”

My grandmother even said the family on the steps

a few doors away was Common. But it was common,

to sit on the steps as the July sun moved west all the way

to Howard Street. The marble was gritty from coal dust

and the dirt of the Elevated stop a few blocks over

but cool, for my grandmother and step-grandfather

and especially to me in my shorts. All of us fanned

ourselves with church fans, cardboard pictures on sticks,

6. The castle

you could see from the Chase Street front steps

turned orangey-pink in the summer sunset.

It had towers and turrets and a scalloped roofline.

I knew it was really the Jail, but I wished

people would stop telling me so. Rapunzel herself

might let down her hair from one of the windows.

7. The Funeral Parlor

was a brownstone mansion my mother and I passed

as we headed down to my grandmother’s house. It had

an imposing stone arch over a yard full of black cars.

“Limousines,” my mother said, “and hearses for coffins.

“t’s The William Cook Funeral Home. Think of those

Gold Stars you see on Biddle Street, one per lost son.”

Later in junior high school we sang a song that went

When you die better try William Cook’s.

It’s the best undertaker in the books.

Its coffins are much cheaper

and they’ll bury you much deeper

When you die better try William Cook’s.

We sang it to the tune of a well-known commercial:

When you buy better try Hochschild Kohn

It’s the store Baltimore calls its own. . . .

A few years later I was a very reluctant debutante.

My date for some big party stopped at William Cook’s

to pick up two debutante-boys’ dates. I was shocked

to realize it was the Cook sisters’ family home. They

wore fabulous dresses pouffed out over huge hoops.

Bridal Hoops, that what whose Gone with the Wind

hoops were called. They hiked up and out in front

in the car. They’d have been just right for a black limo.

- - -

8. Street smarts and my life in crime

My parents felt I should get to know my way

around downtown. “Walk west (where the sun sets)

Walk up a block or two. You’ll find Biddle Street

and Preston Street.” I figured that Preston Street

was named after my father, Robert Preston Harriss.

But Biddle? Was that some kind of stupid baby talk?

Farther north was a Read’s Drugstore and a Five & Ten.

Both carried paperback books with guns and bosoms

on their covers. I would walk there by myself and

read those books till I could see it was almost dusk then

I’d take home with me whichever one I was reading.

Nobody ever caught me. I always got home on time.

9. Little Mysteries

that I used to ask my grandmother about included odd items

I’d see in McCrorie’s so-called NOTIONS DEPARTMENT

like the long skin-colored balloons at one of the counters.

She told me that they were to protect the hardworking fingers

of people who sewed. She didn’t seem to hear me when

I wanted to know why she never wore them, even though

she made all my clothes and bled on some of them.

10. Coal Dust

covered just about everything on Chase Street.

Grandmother’s house had brown velvet portieres

and brown upholstery with was a layer of black dust

on top of it all, even her windowsill African Violets.

I liked to sit on the dusty cellar steps to watch her

go down there in a bathrobe and my step grandfather’s

way too big bedroom slippers to shovel the day’s coal

into the furnace. Her ancient Bible Story Book

had a wonderful scary illustration of wicked people

shoveling babies into Moloch’s Fiery Furnace.

Grandmother was only keeping the house warm.

I understood that the Bible Story Book was just

what it said it was, a bunch of tall tales. Stories.

11. Uncle John’s furlough

brought Uncle John home on a short leave.

He stayed in the way-back second floor bedroom

on Chase Street. Often he and his fiancée Jane

would nap in his room. “So sweet,” my grandmother

would whisper to me in the hall. “They love each other.

And the door’s open.” They married when he came

home for good. “John and Jane.” Cute as a kiddie book..

12. My Criminal Life

continued. After the War ended Uncle John came back

to his home on Chase Street. If I happened to be there

he’d take me for a ride in the family’s old DeSoto.

At first I’d merely sit on his lap and shift the gears.

He did the pedals and the steering. When I turned ten

he let me drive on my own around the farm his one-eyed

father owned. Uncle John smoked Luckies in the passenger’s seat

13. Lessons I learned

a few years later when my Ps asked me if those boys

I ran around with drank: NOOOO I howled

thus assuring Mother and Father that they drank like fish.

The Boys’ Latin School where my drinking buddies

from Bolton Hill went had a fraternity called Gamma

Beta supposedly standing for God and Brotherhood

but really for Gin Belt. That was the semi-official

name of the boys’ prestigious neighborhood near

Chase Street. My Ps seemed rather relieved to learn

I could drive. “Grab their car keys if they’re drunk.”

14. I celebrate Memorial Day

thinking about Chase Street. Gold Stars, Red Cross. dust..

All over Baltimore celebrants are driving drunk. Thanks

to my family and especially Uncle John I’m alive. Still.

***

You know how the saying goes: “Whatever can go wrong… will go wrong.”

It's an apt slogan for my existence thus far.

But perhaps that oversimplifies the thing. The phrase shouldn’t end there. A more accurate descriptor might go something like this: “Whatever can go wrong…will go wrong…. except when it doesn’t and goes bafflingly, marvelously right in the most awkward way humanly possible.”

Yes, that’s a better way to surmise my life thus far, because as I sit here and clatter away at the keys, I’m aware that calling my life a failure is a falsehood. I’ve got some pretty great things going on. I’ve got cute kids, a dedicated husband, a home, and a day-to-day existence so sickeningly sweet it’d give your neighborhood pessimist cavities. Alas, you’re not here to read about that part– that part is boring. The things that go right usually are. And hey, I’m here to tell ya that boring isn’t always a bad thing. Boring leaves some space for peace. If you’ve found that (peace, I mean), please let me know– ’cause I’m still searching. So, let’s dive in, why don’t we? I suppose we should start where all good stories do…

At the beginning.

It began before I can remember. It began with a woman much stronger than I, a woman who overcame, a woman who inspires me to be the best version of myself every single day (It’s my mom, duh). Yes, my mother. She is a rare woman. She is the strongest person I know, but not in that harsh, horrible kind of way. She is strength in her gentleness, in her caring spirit, in her meticulous cleanliness, in her arms that encircle with warmest embrace. She is the reason I’m writing this. I hear her soft alto whispering in the back of my mind even now, “You have got to write a book about your life, Pearl– No one would believe it!” But before there was me, there was her. There was him.

He was handsome. He was tall, and lanky but well-muscled with darkly tanned skin and striking blue eyes. His teeth were a little crooked, but he couldn’t help that. He was meticulously well-groomed, almost as if he were trying to make up for something…and, well… he was. His childhood reeked with the hallmarks of parents still caught in the lingering strife of the great depression. Everything you’ve ever heard about the worst-case scenario of growing up poor? It was true for him. He wore it wonderfully well. He drove fast cars and rode motorbikes and blared rock and roll from his custom record setup. He womanized and fist-fought and was recently divorced– twice over. He was a man on a mission. He was a man with something to prove. He wanted so desperately to be what the world had always told him he never would be: a success. A family man. And so, when he saw mama from across the roller skating rink, her auburn locks glittering in the light of the disco ball- so beautiful, so alone... and wrangling three small boys, he just couldn’t pass up the opportunity. He’d tried to start a family with his first two wives, and had one kid by each before the relationships ended, but here was a woman with kids in tow, and boys nonetheless. Instant family. And he could be the hero. They were married less than a year later.

Mama says he showed his true colors for the very first time on the night of their honeymoon. She’d thought she’d found her knight in shining armor, but instead, she’d leapt headfirst into her worst nightmare. When they got married, there were already five kids between the two of them. Mama’s first marriage had ended in divorce, too, and she liked to think of her family with her new husband (my dad, if you hadn’t caught on) as their own little Brady Bunch...But with a darker bent that mama happily swept under the rug, along with the rest of her baggage. The abuse escalated with each day of the marriage, and I think Mama might’ve fooled herself into believing that giving him another baby would fix it. Along came my brother, and she saw a different side of the man with striking blue eyes. She saw him love with reckless abandon.

He loved my brother more than anything he’d ever seen, more than any of his other children, certainly more than my mother or me. But the abuse didn’t stop. Instead, it escalated. Now she wasn’t just doing things wrong with the house, and her clothes, and her hair… Now she was tainting his precious son. She did what she must– she got pregnant again because he didn’t hurt her so badly when she was pregnant. And thus, I came screaming into the world with a tuft of violently red hair upon my brow, more bruises on my infantile body than seemed humanly possible, and a fire in my soul that smoldered, but didn’t burn. And of course, the undeniable truth that guaranteed a torturous existence: I was female, and my monsters equated that to being less than dirt. So begins our story.

I was born on a sinking island under a waning moon. They shrouded me in galaxies and fed me broken stars. I was woven into constellations and named after love.

My fate was etched into the universe and written by the night.

And although I sometimes wish I had remained in the nebulae to be cradled and embraced forever by the moon, I know I am not just another star in the sky.

I am exactly where I’m meant to be; besides, I can always look up and feel the comforts of home.

My parents had me in their early 20s—not too young, but young enough. I once asked my mother if I had been unwanted. "No," she replied. "I wished for you for a long time." She thought she'd never become a mother, but she did—four more times.

I was born first, and the eldest children are the experiments—especially daughters. We're the role models; our job is to teach and guide our siblings through life.

I don’t mind being in charge—sure, sometimes I get called bossy, which I pretend to hate but secretly love. It reminds me of Kristy from Ann M. Martin's The Babysitters Club. Kristy is the head bitch in charge—and like her, I relish it.

Life was simple back then. I have an enormous family and was always surrounded by love. When I say huge, I'm not exaggerating—both my mom and dad have eight siblings, and as a result, I have countless aunts, uncles, and dozens upon dozens of cousins.

When I wasn’t with one side of the family, I was with the other, playing, laughing, and annoying each other, as close family does. We were so close we didn’t consider ourselves "just cousins." We were siblings, and we still are. Some bonds never break, no matter the passage of time.

July 4th: the sky explodes into color as fireworks burst in every direction. Independence Day? Sure, we’ll go with that, but all I knew was that there was a party somewhere and I needed to make my entrance. I still have a doll from that day. It may be stained and dusty but it is still here as I am. A tiny doll made of hardened plastic all around except its central chest; perhaps I see a resemblance. It has no hair but will always be Goldilocks to me. I cannot for the life of me remember how I came to name her, but I wonder if my sense of humor stretched back to infantry.

I was a vivacious child. As the only girl from both sides, being raised among 10 male cousins truly set the stage for the rough and tumble I was soon to face. Don’t get me wrong, it was a blast, but even sometimes a blast gets too loud. However, outwardly, the silence was all too loud. As chaotic as I could be when I’m having fun, if ever an adult was around, I would transform into a rabid rule-follower.

From creepy hallucinations to playing with just about everyone just about everywhere, my childhood was easily a trippy adventure. Any sport, any activity, I’m down. Bike in the woods? Yes. Roller skate down a steep hill? Definitely. Jump off a cliff? You betcha. All that and I still hadn’t had 2 digits in my age.

Social activities too, I crushed them. I would never leave a room without having made someone laugh. Jokes were my identity. I was known for it. My pranks were legendary, we still laugh about them to this day. Life was good.

One fateful morning, my now teenage skater cousins from Brazil were in town. They were the epitome of cool. From rocking backward caps to graffiti, these guys were living the life. Anything they do I had to. There was just no other option. This time, we’re rappelling down a mountain. I’m all fired up and ready to go when the safety instructor looks at me in amazement, “wow you are so brave to be doing this at your age, epic!” All of a sudden like a tidal wave, I was introduced to doubt. Why wouldn’t it be expected? Why am I considered brave? And just when I earned my fearless title, I gave it up on the spot. It was the first time I had walked away from anything, and what a walk that was. As my childhood idols streamed down the flat mountain, their body perpendicular to the wall and caps dripping with even more legendary juice, I walked the whole way down to meet them, ashamed and disappointed.

What was a new feeling for me slowly grew to be my reality as more fear set in in the following years, crippling my identity and eventually almost costing me my life. I became more cautious, more studious, more preoccupied. My jokes became more calculated, more restricted. I had my entire life planned out to the second but that just wasn’t enough. I grew accustomed to that wondrous satisfaction after going through every possible scenario in my head and finding the right solution. I was safe. My life was secure, of course until one day, in the blink of an eye, I was staring death in the face.

I had actually gone through near death experiences, almost drowning in a pond at one point, getting run over by a bike and falling from a front flip straight on my neck. But nothing was nearly as terrifying as that moment. The cruel irony was that in that moment, I had nothing to fear.

OCD. A term used loosely to describe minor organizational ticks and hygiene repetitions, consumed my entire existence to the point where I would spend all the hours of the day battling the thoughts in my head both figuratively and literally, winding up a few minutes later (in my perspective) with black eyes, a bruised face and bloody knuckles when I wasted another day and should have long been asleep. Hours blended into weeks and weeks turned into months and months into years. I remember being given a drug so powerful that it would knock me out before I could even reach my bed. What a joke, right? I kind of wish I could still get that drug prescription today. It would just be a desperately needed rest. I ran all out of laughter.

From chasing dangerous scenarios in real life to running away from non-existent ones in my head, my life turned upside down… and not in the fun way. I lost everything. My friends, my family, my career, and my mind. I lost myself. Everything I had worked so hard to perfect I could see crumbling in my hands as I tried to hold on to the remaining pieces, when what I actually needed was to let go.

I had to lose everything to realize their invaluable value. Their absolute worthless worth. Everything I held sacred in reality ate me up inside. But I soon realized I was the one doing all the eating. I’d like to think I’m strong-willed but that turned out to be my greatest weakness. A fight between me and me would irrevocably see me win. But which me?

I now think back and laugh. Not necessarily because I feel it was a joke life played and is still playing on me, but perhaps at the idea that I might have never escaped it. What helped me heal was realizing that nothing really matters. Nothing really matters. Nothing really matters. Now I’m called reckless, crazy at times, but I’m finally living up to my younger energy. I might have found myself again, but I probably shouldn’t dwell on it. Nothing really matters. Decisions, property, thoughts, pain, existence, life… it is all a joke. It just took me a few punches to find the punchline.

Decorated in velvet with heels too tight, I crouch over a curb maintaining my balance as the rotting garbage provokes me to vomit. My stomach is in bundles, and my eyes begin to water. Not daring to ruin the hours it took to paint my face I raise my nose to the stars, hoping the wind will ease the nerves. Minutes away from my current phobia, my body begins to hum in terror. Unwinding my back I stand to face the bar lights and the patrons milling around lingering in its hue. Who said this was truly impossible?

Before my brain can process the dumpsters are long gone, the music hits and my hands move on their own. Throwing open the curtain to a roar of cheers, the creature who lives inside runs to the light. How did her and I become one?

Growing up shy, I was usually acquainted with the silence. I often chose it, demanding to only be still, refusing to speak. I never truly understood the power of voice, and decided that I deserved to hangout with the shadows. My family often would tell me I did not belong with them. Not from a malicious intent but truly from genuine laughter and observation. The fed-ex baby they'd howl at me during long nights of family mischief and home cooked meals.

It soon became my mission to understand why I felt so far away from my family. Physically we were always close. My siblings and I lingering in the hallways and teasing each other about our newest clothes, we always knew how to share the room.

We never knew how to fill it though. Long pauses and extended breaths, the truth was not revealed often, if ever at all. I could feel the hesitation when each moment came, but all we knew was strength and anger. The shadows held my secrets for me, but I didn't realize at the time they can't always be there. As time continued to pass and I grew older, the shadows nuzzled into my mind, allowing me to find comfort with them there. They pushed me to speak, allowing me to be heard. It was a long journey before they realized how to roar.

I grind my Chevy to a halt on the side of the road, kicking up dust and spinning gravel; a torrent of torment. I am hot for trouble tonight. I fling the door open, ejecting well-bronzed, fishnet-clad gams in flushed fury. My sacral ache is palpable; carnal longings. I side-shimmy from the hot vinyl seat; my pink, satin thong momentarily visible before I pull down my denim mini skirt with one delicately manicured fingernail.

Cocaine and tanning salons are keeping this town in business, I laugh. Everyone here with money is tanned up and coked out. And me? I’m just keeping time with the devils I know: self indulgence and retribution.

Forward motion. I spy the trio of slick-haired, well-tanned men behind the convenience store, talking up a storm. Two undercovers and an informant. I am an agent of change. Or of chance. It’s all the same.

A hush falls over the men when they see me. I stand for a moment, allowing them to absorb me in all my savage glory. I am clad in purple fishnets, chartreuse fuck-me pumps, a short, denim skirt, and a shredded Slayer Hell Awaits tanktop. These men made a grave error, pun intended. They messed with the wrong person’s friend.

Time to act. I walk my pussy like a dog over to the slick men behind the convenient store. I place one foot in front of the other, heels click-clacking; a cacophony on cobblestone. My hips switch like blades as I approach the trio, creating friction under my denim skirt. My inner thighs taught with swagger, I approach the tallest of the lot. I am a wolf in sheep’s clothing, moving in for the kill. Here, sheepie sheepies.

The men start their lascivious cat-calling. They think I’m a sex worker. Fair enough, I’ve been popped for solicitation a few times. I did my time whether or not I actually did the crime. I’m fortunate because I always have money to lawyer up and bail out. Less fortunates are forced to either snitch or get on their knees for the dirty cops running the PD. My friend, Nada, doesn’t have money and isn’t a snitch.

I’ve been watching these men for some time, so I’m well aware of their dirty deeds: the drugs they run, the gangs they supply with coke and guns, the sex-workers they exploit and abuse. I even know which partners are double crossing one other. These thugs arrested Nada twice and assaulted her both times.

I’m counting the moments until they’re on their knees. Begging for mercy. Hell Awaits.

One, two, three…

Inwardly, I recoil. Outwardly, it’s all smiles and subterfuge. The war within! I bite my lower lip as I saddle up next to the tallest man, pressing my body against his. I touch my painted lips lightly to his throat, against his carotid artery, and exhale a warm breath. The man is solid granite from head to toe. I can feel his grotesque protrusion pressing menacingly against my upper thigh. The bile rises.

Four, five, six…

I study the creases around the dirty cop’s mouth as it curls into more of a snarl than a smile. He’s coked out and sniffing wildly. I can smell the blow on his breath as he exhales; a mixture of kerosene and vitriol.

Purrfect. The hungrier he is for it, the more likely to succumb. The man asks how much it’ll cost to take him around the world while offering me a bump of blow from his car key. I inhale; the blow was clearly brought across the border in a gas tank, hence the kerosene aroma.

Blow’s not my jam, but this batch is decent quality. I know it’s better to play into pretense, so accept a second bump. I tell him for an 8 ball of blow I’ll do him and his friend. The more the merrier! The dirty cop made of granite winks at his partner. Clearly, this isn’t their first rodeo.

I swallow back bile and widen my smile, hoping to draw attention away from the loathing behind my eyes. I can’t risk giving myself away. Too much is at stake. Poker face sliding, I pretend to drop my purse, bend over, nice and slow, allowing the denim mini to creep up, exposing my pink, satin thong once more. I stand slowly, make sure not to pull down my skirt too quickly, then walk to my car without casting a backward glance.

Seven, eight, nine…

The two men grin, nudge each other, bump up more blow, then follow. They always follow.

Nada will never have to worry about these two again.

The men won’t make it to ten, I smile.

XxxxX

The trees are zooming by so quickly that Nada can scarcely count the species. Counting is important to her. Numbers matter. The Universe Tells its Secrets Through Numbers. The chaos of the movement is unsettling. Still, the majority are evergreens, so she need not count them all. They are part of a whole. Sometimes, most times, you can only ever know part of the whole. The part that can’t hide.

Since the trees are too chaotic, Nada concentrates on the sounds instead. The drone of the engine is nearly consistent. She’s able to focus on her breath, pulling it deeply into her lungs, then allowing it to expand into her belly and calm her parasympathetic nervous system. She allows her thoughts to pass like clouds, without attachment. None of her thoughts matter. Nothing matters. It’s a realization so liberating it causes Nada to weep.

Nyx would wipe away my tears, Nada laments. It starts raining, and the driver turns on the wipers. The steady, rhythmic swish click of the wipers is a blessing as it drowns out the deafening silence. Nada has nothing to say to the woman driving her away from everything and one she knows and loves; trees continue to whoosh past too quickly to count. Nothing about this feels right.

The halfway house is apparently halfway to the middle of nowhere. Isolation is key to the program’s success in rehabilitating minors, they say. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Nyx will find me and save me, Nada consoles herself. Still, she knows her conclusion is forgone. From the moment the dirty cop arrested her, she’s been counting her numbered days. No one outruns a dirty cop. They’ll find her no matter where the judge sends her. It’s one of the few things she knows for certain.

Still, better to spend the remainder of her days with Nyx than not at all. So she shuts her eyes and breathes. Intrusive thoughts pass, like clouds, as trees continue zipping past the car window. She remembers Nyx’s touch. She counts to ten.

XxxxX

The walls are that special shade of institutional white that causes one to hallucinate if they stare at them for too long. White is the most odious color - reflecting back all the visible wavelengths of light that shine upon it. Pompous dick of a color, Nada sniffs as she resists the temptation to give the walls attention. There is nothing to count and the only sound she hears is the maddening tick tock of the wall clock. She can count the seconds, she thinks. But she knows that’s a trap because then she’ll think about time. She can’t think about time.

If she’s a good girl, if she just settles down, stays calm, and does as she’s told, they’ll remove the five point restraints, they tell her between thorazine injections. They’ll leave her in solitary confinement a few days longer, until she proves she’s not a harm to herself. Or others. Half right, Nada considers. Less than half, actually. It isn’t her they ought to be concerned with. When Nyx gets here and finds out they’ve strapped me to a hospital bed, then. Then they will know true terror. She likes this particular thought. It’s enough to help her return to her breathing.

Thoughts pass like clouds.

Days later, Nada is allowed into the general population. She is a very good girl. They even stop the thorazine injections. When she blinks, the world is no longer hazy around the edges. And there are so many things to count: patients, therapy sessions, picture books, sock puppets, crayons, meal times, nurses and doctors, correction officers and wardens. Her days consist of numbers rather than minutes.

Her thought clouds begin forming a celestial tower. A beacon. This is how Nyx finds me. Nyx will see my cloud tower, no matter how far away they are. How far away are you? Nada wonders without weeping. Only naughty girls weep. She is a good girl. So very good.

She remains calm, and a few days later, they grant her a true privilege: for one hour (that’s 12 sock puppets and 13 crayons) she is allowed to sit in the courtyard. The fence isn’t too high. She can climb it before they catch her. But how far will she make it in a hospital gown and no shoes? She considers this a bit longer, but decides to count instead. The view from the courtyard consists primarily of a dull gray parking lot. One shiny yellow Rolls Royce is parked in its center. It belongs to one of the shrinks. The for-profit, privatized institution is lousy with unethical doctors amassing small fortunes.

There is a basketball court. One slack jawed, doped up patient dribbles the ball idly as drool dribbles down his chin. Nada focuses on the syncopated beat of the ball hitting the court. It’s maddeningly irregular, but enough to count. As long as she can count, she can breathe. As long as she can breathe, she can keep constructing her cloud tower, her bat signal to Nyx. Nyx will come for me soon. This is Nada’s mantra; its repetition holy.

A nurse ushers the dribbler inside, and Nada notices a bush in the back corner of the basketball court. Her heart soars. She knows this species! It’s a bougainvillea - her grandmother has scores of them. Its bright pink flowers call to her. Unable to resist, Nada slowly stands from her plastic stool.

A watchful nurse takes a tentative step in her direction, but is held back by a correctional officer. He hopes Nada will misbehave so he can restrain her in solitary confinement again. Nada doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but she is unable to resist the lure of the bougainvillea. So many flowers to count!

It is a thing of unspeakable beauty, this lone bougainvillea amidst a sea of gray asphalt. As Nada stands, entranced, a ray of sunshine pierces the otherwise dismal day, illuminating the flower's colors in kaleidoscopic cadence. So many hues of pink, she notices for the first time. Strange, how often she stared at this exact species in her grandmother’s yard, yet never noticed its varied hues.

As if orchestrated, three butterflies alight atop three different flowers. Six miracles, Nada muses. She doesn’t know butterfly species, but their wings are bright orange, lined in black, and their entire bodies are speckled with tiny white spots. Nada nearly weeps at their beauty.

The correctional officer is poised for the pounce, but Nada refuses to shed tears and give him cause. She attempts to count the petals of each burgeoning bloom. It’s proving rather difficult. The correctional officer decides Nada isn’t worth the wait and leaves. He can find other patients in need of discipline. Nada watches the butterfly trio, wondering if they’re a family. Or, maybe they’re all butterfly buddies. Just. You know. Hanging out. She suppresses a laugh. She has never witnessed anything as breathtaking. She has never felt more alone.

What if Nyx doesn’t come? She wonders for the first time. Nada pushes the thought from her mind. She returns to counting the flowers and constructing her cloud tower.

XxxxX

On the second floor of the building facing the courtyard, an aggressively mustached man stands nose to window squinting under heavily knitted eyebrows. When the second guy walks in, the mustached man is oblivious. It’s clear to the second guy there’s something out there to behold. He walks over to the mustached man and follows his line of vision.

“What the fuck?” he manages before a figure ducks behind a tree at the far end of the parking lot.

“You see that too?”

The second man shakes his head no but replies, “Yeah. I saw…something. Some. One. ?”

“I know what you mean. Tell me - ” Mustache asks, raising an eyebrow, “What did you see?”

“Someone wearing a denim miniskirt - and ripped up stockings with some kinda yellow-green high heels. Ripped up shirt. Weird hair too, almost the same color as the shoes. Pretty sure it’s a wig. ?”

“Right. Ok. So I ain’t crazy. Maybe.”

“How long they been there?”

“I dunno,” Mustache shrugs, “Off and on for a couple of days. No more than three, far as I can tell. I been calling him - her - it - the Watcher. They seem harmless enough. Just hanging around. You know. Watching.”

“What?” Second guy is dumbfounded, “And you ain’t told no one?” He now seems suspicious. “What the hell? You know you’re supposed to say if you see anyone hanging around like that.”

Mustache man stands upright, a full head taller than Second guy. He looks him in the eye, squares his jaw, and knits his heavy brow. Before he can say anything, Second guy makes a hasty departure. Whether to go tattle on him like a little bitch, or because he’s actually concerned, Mustache isn’t certain. What he is certain of is that something smells rotten.

He doesn’t know why he hasn’t reported the Watcher either. Honestly, he can’t make out their gender. They could just as easily be a perverted man in a wig as they could a troubled mother in a poorly executed disguise. Perhaps Mustache is confused by the ambiguous gender of the Watcher. Perhaps he is confused by his ambiguous arousal. But his confusion doesn’t matter. Something bad is about to happen. He can feel it deep inside his mustache.

XxxxX

I hold my breath behind the maple tree and count to 10. That mustached man and his cohort spotted me. That’s ok, it just accelerates the plan. Same plan, just kicked into high gear. I’m still in high gear from the encounter with dirty undercover cops. I have over a kilo of their blow left. It’s enough to get Nada away from here. We can live for a while together, somewhere, anywhere else. I just need to move the blow. It won’t be difficult. I know all the wrong people.

We’ll sell most of it and head across the border. I’ll keep a small stash for myself, gradually wean myself off. We can live comfortably. For a while. This plan makes an incredible amount of sense as I emerge from behind the tree. The mustached man appears to be gone, so I make a break for the back door to the left of the courtyard. They never seem to have more than one guard stationed there. It’s the weakest point of entry and, as luck has it, close to Nada’s room.

I am going to attempt to open the back door, sounding the alarm, wait for the one dumb guard to open it, brain them, then storm the castle. I’ll rush straight down the hallway, four doors down to Nada’s room, grab her, and head back out the way I came in.

I will kill anyone who tries to stop me.

I see a flurry of movement in the 2nd floor window as I run toward the back door. Purrfect. The orderlies are distracted. They’re all upstairs looking for me from the window.

I send a psychic message with everything I have: I’m coming for you, baby girl.

I kick the door handle, tripping the alarm as I pull the undercover’s gun from the waistband of my denim miniskirt. The guard opens the door as carelessly as anticipated.

And so it begins.

I am taking Nada home.

Where is home? I wonder.

I’m not sure.

I’m not even sure what home means.

I bash the guard in the back of the skull with the gun. The alarm is louder than I expected. The whole place reeks of antiseptic and despair. I see Nada halfway down the hallway. She is standing there in gowns; a heavenly apparition. Nada starts to laugh as she runs towards me. Her laughter is music to my soul. Nada throws herself at me, and I pause for a moment to feel our hearts pressed together, hammering in joyous unison.

“I knew you’d come.”

“Nothing could have stopped me. Now, common baby girl, let’s get the fuck outta here.”

I grab Nada and run for the door, away from this, into the great unknown. I feel Nada’s tears of relief and joy as she presses her face against the nape of my neck.

At this moment, I understand exactly what home means.

THE END

Purpose- The testing of the durability of the Human Spirit under extreme duress.

Research Subject- 815165

Specifications- Species-Human

Type/Gender-Female

Hair/Eyes- Blnd., Hzl

Height-5'5" Wt.- 105lbs.

Life Stage- Pre-Adolescence

Dated: May 05 1986

Time: 1500 (MT)

Observer/Intuitive Perspective:

The subject is in a dark room. Neon red light begins to spiderweb all around her. The floor is splitting open below her. She does not know what to do. So she sits. The web encircles her, weaves into her mind, her thoughts, her psyche. Later, when she seeks comfort, she will re-enact the webs as best as she can, because this is what she knows. And familiarity breeds comfort. She has not stopped falling, but the webs lend her hope in the moments she brushes against them.

Observer/ Reality Perspective(as pertains to Humanoid Environment):

She is sitting on the love seat, her mother on the old cat clawed, raggedy fold out couch.

Next to the couch is the scarred up nightstand with the clock radio quietly blaring baseball stats.

Her mother's mouth stops moving and she snaps her mind to attention. She is supposed to say something here. "Uh-huh", she manages. Then too late, she realizes her mistake as her mother launches into (yet another) lecture on proper grammar that somehow sidewinds into a shaming session on what an ungrateful little slut she is.

This time, when the mouth stops moving, she is ready. Has dutifully paid attention to every single word. She is ready for the pop quiz.

She uses every ounce of willpower to control her facial muscles so the relief does not register anywhere in her expression, as she mercifully, eventually, scores high enough on the quiz to be granted dismissal.

She walks steadily to her bedroom, and carefully closes the door. Her mother values privacy. Another mystery unsolvable.

She lifts her hands to her face with a vengeance, then abruptly re-orients to grab at her hair instead. Mustn't leave marks. She yanks and pulls, grits her teeth, and screams inside her mouth.

She needs blood though, so she raises her shirt, and claws at her chest. Then she calms herself, shamed silent by her outburst.

She then looks fondly over at the pram with her baby dolls, and exclaims brightly, "Let's go for a walk!"

She is 10 and a half years old.

Session 2 concluded.

Observations recorded.

Awaiting analysis reports.

To be continued...

I came into this world two days late, mad as hell. My parents were nine years too far into their marriage. My mom was two years from an overdose attempt and my father, five years from a decade-long disappearance.

My grandfather-- who would later assume my dad's role-- had the quirk of nicknaming all the babies born into the family. Sometimes it took a while, as he needed time to reflect on looks, personality, and memorable moments. Then he would christen them with whatever he found fitting. But mine came in an instant. As I screeched in my mother's arms, wailing in protest, nostalgic for the void, her father pulled me into his age-spotted arms and I settled, growing silent in his embrace.

I like to think that my soul recognized his, that there was some part of me that carried an innate knowing of the traits we shared. But that's a story for another chapter. If you're the skeptical type, then it's a tall tale for another time. My Papa looked at me, and I looked at him, face still flushed with the remnants of my tantrum. On that Tuesday afternoon in the late Southern spring, my nickname chose itself.

Screaming Redcheeks.

Papa was the only one who called me this, and usually shortened it to Redcheeks, rarely calling me by my given name. There was even a paint stick with SCREAMING REDCHEEKS scrawled onto it with a fat-tipped Sharpie, kept atop the china cabinet for the days in which I lived up to my namesake. My tantrums became expected, routine even. I was set off by nearly everything, even trivial matters like the dog not listening or an especially tricky level of a computer game. I was (still am) argumentative and questioned the validity and authority of everyone and everything.

With my history, I find it strange that others describe me as calm or stoic. I was noted as being a polite, intelligent, and motivated child, though that sentiment decreased dramatically in my teens. Anytime I'm complimented on my nature, a montage of screaming fits, unfeeling language, and brazen manipulation flashes through my mind. I think of the year I smashed all the Christmas ornaments during a tantrum, or the time I threw a dining room chair at my mother. I see my children's worried faces and my patterns repeated within them. Then plays a vision of my marriage on the rocks, with my husband wavering on the cliffside, peering into the depths of Irreconcilable Differences.

My temperament breathes in dualities. There's a consistent ebb and flow, tempestuous currents of mood and mentality. There is understanding betrothed to denial. Warm embraces are frozen in a duel with cold calculation. Within hope lives hopelessness. In the absence of mania, comes depression.

I am Screaming Redcheeks. I am Marissa Wolfe.

Somewhere, within the gray of black-white polarities, there have been touches of silver that slow the pendulum just enough to offer glimpses of what healthy, happy, and hopeful looks like. Just enough to strive for. Just enough to snap the paint stick and depart from the path of rage. Anger is birthed from sadness. Sadness is birthed from pain. Pain roots itself, unyielding, into the grooves of the brain and chokes out the chambers of the heart.

And yet, it has been my greatest teacher. My greatest motivator.

The flame-soaked phoenix wails to the heavens, wondering why she's been forsaken, but within her scattered ashes is the chance to start anew. She reforms, entrenched in her cycles, and cries a different song, more knowing than the one before.

Eliza's love for owls had always been intertwined with memories of her mother, whose passion for these majestic creatures was tender and profound. Before she was taken from this world, her mother had been an artist of exceptional talent, devoting her life to capturing the essence of owls in various forms. Their home had been adorned with her creations. Intricate drawings and delicate wood carvings, each piece brimming with the same reverence and wonder she felt for these nocturnal beings. Eliza remembered the warmth of her mother’s hands as they traced the delicate lines of an owl’s feathers on paper or carved out their elegant forms from wood blocks. Each creation was a labour of love, a tribute to her fascination with these enigmatic birds. The walls of their home were a gallery of her mother’s work—drawings of owls perched in moonlit forests, their eyes wise and knowing, and wooden sculptures that seemed almost alive, each with its own story and spirit. But the tranquillity of their lives was shattered in an instant. Eliza’s mother was murdered, a brutal act that left an irreplaceable void in their lives. The once vibrant and artistic home was now a place of silence and sorrow. The walls that had once celebrated the beauty of owls now seemed to mourn their creator. Eliza found herself clinging to the memories of her mother’s work, trying to find solace in the art that had once filled their home with love and light.

Every evening, just as the moon began its ascent, Eliza would draw back her curtains and peer out of her bedroom window to look at the night sky. The night sky was a breathtaking expanse of deep velvet, sprinkled generously with a dazzling array of stars. Each one twinkled with an ethereal light, creating a shimmering tapestry that stretched endlessly above. The moon, full and luminous, cast a gentle silvery sheen over the landscape, bathing everything in its soft glow. Its light danced across the treetops and flickered off the surface of a nearby pond, where it created ripples of shimmering light. The air was crisp and cool, carrying with it the faintest whispers of the night breeze, rustling the leaves and adding a sense of serene movement to the otherwise still night.

Perched high on a gnarled old oak tree that stood sentinel in her backyard was a majestic owl. The owl was a vision of nocturnal majesty, with its commanding presence. Its feathers were a rich velvety brown, giving it an almost otherworldly camouflage against the night.

The owl’s eyes were round, and luminous, with a deep amber glow. They held a profound stillness, their gaze serene. When it turned its head, it did so with a slow, deliberate grace, as if contemplating the mysteries of the night. Its beak was sharp and curved, a dark and polished contrast against the softness of its feathers. The owl's talons were formidable, strong yet delicate in their precision, gripping the branch with an effortless strength. Despite its powerful physique, there was a certain elegance to its movements—a smooth, silent flight. The owl's overall demeanour was one of pride and calm, its posture regal as it perched high on its chosen branch. It seemed to embody the very essence of the night, a solitary guardian watching over the world from its lofty perch. With feathers as soft as midnight and eyes gleaming like twin pools of starlight, the owl seemed to be both a guardian and a silent companion.

Eliza was enchanted by the owl's proud demeanor and mysterious presence. She began to leave small treats by her window—crumbs of bread, slices of apple, and bits of cheese. Each night, she would watch with growing delight as the owl drew nearer, its movements deliberate and measured as it approached the treats. Eventually, the owl became accustomed to this nightly offering, fluttering closer each time, until it would land on the edge of the windowsill, its gaze never wavering from Eliza. Their nightly interactions grew into a quiet ritual of friendship. The owl, once aloof and distant, seemed to appreciate the company, its once-imposing stature now a symbol of trust. But one night, the atmosphere changed.

It was a particularly dim evening, the clouds shrouding the sky and making the night seem unnatural still. Eliza had left her usual assortment of treats by the window but noticed, with a sense of unease, that the owl was absent from its usual perch. She turned away, her heart sinking slightly. After a few moments, she returned to the window, hoping to catch sight of her friend. There, to her horror, was the owl's head, eerily peering over the bottom of the window frame. Its eyes glowed unnaturally bright, but something about them seemed wrong. A chilling silence enveloped the scene as Eliza approached the window slowly. The rustling of the leaves ceased abruptly, and the usual night sounds seemed to hold their breath. As Eliza drew closer, the owl's eyes transformed—what had once been celestial orbs now appeared unsettlingly human, small and piercing. The owl’s skin began to shift, revealing an unsettling texture beneath the feathers.

The window creaked open, and as it did, the figure began to rise. The entity slowly emerged. The entity that loomed over Eliza was a grotesque and unsettling sight. Its body, unnervingly human in shape, was entirely devoid of clothing. The skin was an unnervingly smooth, pale gray, stretched over its skeletal frame. The humanoid form was emaciated, with limbs that seemed too long and too thin. Its head was unmistakably owl-like, with large, glowing amber eyes that seemed to bore into the soul. The feathers around its head were ruffled and dishevelled, their dark and light patterns creating a haunting contrast against the pallor of the humanoid skin beneath. As Eliza watched in terror, the entity's mouth began to open slowly, almost impossibly wide. The opening stretched far beyond the natural limits of any human or owl, revealing a cavernous maw lined with sharp, irregular teeth. These teeth were uneven and jagged which made them appear even more menacing. The mouth gaped open wider and wider as if it were a sinister portal to an abyss of darkness, its unsettling, primal hunger palpable.

The creature's presence was the embodiment of a nightmare.

As the creature loomed closer, a heartbreaking scene unfolded. From the corner of her eye, Eliza glimpsed the true owl, its eyes reflecting sorrow and a single tear tracing down its feathery cheek. The majestic owl, once her nightly companion, seemed to mourn the abomination that had taken its place. In that final, terrifying moment, the owl's gaze conveyed a silent apology, as if it had tried to protect her from this dreadful fate.

“Mom”? Eliza whispered.

The night was silent, save for the rhythmic pounding of Eliza’s frightened heart. The last thing she saw was the owl, still perched on its tree, the tear glistening as a final symbol of its silent sorrow before everything was engulfed by the darkness.

1999: the year my country fell. You can still find it standing, just barely, hobbling along on one leg as serpents nip at its heels. But that's the year everything changed.

Venezuela was a proud country, a rich country, even. My people had grown fat off the rich oil reserves nestled deep underground, had thrived as the epicenter of Latin American media. As with most periods of boundless prosperity, there's always something lurking in the shadows, ready to snuff out its light. There's always someone waiting in the wings for their chance to leech off the power and wealth my country once laid claim to.

No one ever really predicts that their home country will fall. Not just a simple tumble, either, but a chaotic descent into a black pit with vipers squirming around in the darkness below. My people are dying of hunger while up to their necks in the thick tar that once fed them, slowly drowning as it fills their mouths. How can a nation fall into such extreme poverty while sitting on such rich reserves of liquid gold? The answer: greed. Egomaniacs just have to come and ruin everything.

First they brought their promises: promises of growth, of wealth, that all those hungry mouths piled high in the slums of Petare would pull themselves out of poverty if they just elected one man. The populist. The common man. The thief. They donned their red shirts and tagged buildings with political slogans. They campaigned for a man who pledged to take all their worries away if we just handed him a little bit of power. Just a little, to start. That's all he needed, right?

He got his picture taken with the poor farmers in their shantytowns, shook their hands, told them to their faces that things would all be different. I guess he was right about that. Things were never the same once he entered office.

Everything comes at a price. Venezuela was sold to the highest bidder and ransacked until all that remained was hyperinflation and nationalized industries. The landscape slowly changed as the buildings came down. Companies started leaving the country, fleeing behind the first wave of migration.

1999. The year the first wave of Venezuelans first left in search of new homes. Among them, a young couple with a toddler in tow. She was too young then to understand why she had to leave the rest of her family behind, to understand why she had to go to a new school where everyone spoke a strange language she had only started to pick up from international television shows. The kids made fun of her for the rice and beans in her lunchbox. She never did like peanut butter.

As the years passed, the infrastructure back home slowly crumbled. The earth reclaimed power lines, growing thick tangles of vines around the aging equipment. Turquoise waves once lapped at clean, white-powder shores. Now waves of blackouts ran through the country several times per week, sometimes even per day.

The years brought more waves of migration out of the country. Some were more welcoming than others. Some could not possibly understand what it was like to have to start over in a strange land with a strange language, trying every day to forget that they might not ever see home again. As long as I was the "right" skin color, they could pick and choose when to conveniently forget that I was different. But god, they didn't let me forget it when it supported their narrative. Some would look at me like a specimen on a glass slide, marveling at my lack of a pesky accent.

Most of my family is scattered across the globe now. I guess I should be grateful at that fact. At least they're not stuck back home under the thumb of an oppressive regime. But I can't help but think of spending holidays at my grandpa's ranch, collecting eggs from the chicken coop in the morning and climbing up to pick avocados from the tree. We'll never be in one place again. We're doomed to live out the rest of our lives thousands of miles apart.

When things get just a smidge safer, we're able to lower our defenses and visit home once more. It's bittersweet, knowing we can never stay and knowing we'll always leave someone behind. But these times are few and far between as crime continues to take hold of my country. Narco-terrorists rule the land, kidnapping people when it conveniences them. You can't wear brand-name clothes or visible jewelry or it'll be ripped off your neck in the street. You can't pull out your phone at a traffic light, or a motorcycle will drive up and take it from your hands at gunpoint.

What hurts to see is that so many Venezuelans still walk around with their red hats adorned with eight stars of the new flag. When Chavez came in, he changed the Constitution like it was a page in his scrapbook. He added an eighth star to the flag without explanation. My family believes it was meant to represent him. A terrible stain on the nation for the end of time. He's long gone now, but his circle remains in power. The corrupt line continues to pass down governance and an ever-increasing wealth built off the broken backs of my people.

I should be thankful that my parents had the good sense to see Chavez for who—or what—he really was twenty-five years ago. And I am, up to a point. But it's clouded by my resentment for the Venezuela that could have been. The Venezuela that should be today. My country was pillaged and stripped down to its bones, leaving death and destruction in its wake.

It's easy for us now in the first world to put this worst case scenario out of our minds. We're separated by oceans and years from the worst of it. It could never happen here, right? We grow complacent. We plug our ears and cover our eyes to avoid seeing those raiding the national coffers for their own benefit. We think it's just something that happens to other people. I hope to god they're right. Because I can't do this all over again.