Randy spun his father’s Glock on his index finger by drawing circles in the thick air. The repetition of wrapping the trigger guard around his fat finger was mesmerizing for little Randy. He had found his father’s gun case unlocked. The Glock inside was so lonely atop the dark wood and it pleaded with Randy to play. Just harmless play, the Glock had promised. His parents wouldn’t even get mad!

It was a Thursday in mid-April. His parents had hired a new babysitter for the night to look after him while they went out on their weekly movie date. They had rushed out the door to see a foreign horror flick that critics were raving about like the lunes they were. They all collectively sang, “a new cult classic for the beginning of an uncensored cinematic horror revolution!”

This was Randy’s fourth new babysitter of April. He was twelve and Randy scoffed at the idea that his parents believed he still needed someone to look after him. He had been out of diapers for almost nine years and he felt that, despite his plump cherub cheeks, he resembled nothing of a baby.

This babysitter was comparably better than the last. The old lady that had watched him the week prior smelled of stale moth balls and had more wrinkles than he could count. Randy scrunched his nose in disgust just remembering the putrid scent that old hag oozed of. He wondered where all the babysitters came from and where they went after they left Randy. Perhaps some sort of factory that manufactured them by the thousands.

Still spinning the Glock, Randy brought himself out of his thoughts and directed his attention back at the newest babysitter that lay in a heap before him. Randy tried to recall her name, but his memory kept turning up blank. It might have been Ashley. Or was it Camilla? In his mind’s eye he could see his mother’s lips moving when she had introduced them just a couple hours ago, but all that seemed to leave her mouth was gibberish. Randy made a mental note that he should listen better the next time introductions were made.

She had a sizable welt that was peeping through a curtain of pink hair, which had rose in the exact spot where Randy had hit her with the Glock’s grip mere minutes ago. Despite her current state of unconsciousness, Randy couldn’t help but admire her beauty. If only she had worn a dress with pretty tulips or roses like all the other girls in town and not some boxy black ensemble that resembled a trash bag more than anything else.

Randy shrugged the romance out of his pubescent system and stuffed the Glock in the front right pocket of his khaki shorts. He was going to need both hands to be able to lift her in a more desirable position since she was currently snacking on a mouthful of white carpet. He wanted to be able to see Camilla’s face when he pulled the trigger. Or maybe it was Ashley? At this point it wouldn’t even matter if her name was Bob.

After a reasonable amount of struggling with Bob’s dead weight, he finally got her into a seated position and stepped back a few feet to get a better look. He mimicked the way he had seen artists cock their heads side to side when taking in the entire canvas of their masterpieces. His head at a ninety-degree angle, he saw that her head had fallen the teensiest bit to the right. But, he wasn’t too picky and the entire image of her body’s new position sat well with him. Besides, Randy could've sworn under oath that he felt the trigger get warm in his pocket, almost as if it were getting antsy with innocent excitement. Its warmth demanded action.

Randy pressed the muzzle against her forehead and briefly wondered if she could feel the warmth radiating off the gun. This thought re-entered his head as he pulled the trigger and felt a slight kick as the bullet made its introduction and began its journey through her. After a few seconds she melted back to the ground, finally resting where she began: face down.

Randy visually absorbed the contrast the red splatter that now adorned the once stark white walls of his childhood home made. Randy mused that it looked like some of the art pieces that he viewed at the local art gallery that his class had visited just last month. He made a mental note that when he had the chance he ought to add artist to his relatively lengthy list of personal talents that he always kept with him just in case he had the chance to humble brag.

Randy yawned out of sheer boredom, instantly deciding that it was time for his new friend to venture out of the house. As he closed his front door behind him, he didn’t bother locking it. His parents could afford the casual break and entering that might occur in the house’s temporary vacancy. It would only be empty for an hour tops.

Randy skipped down the street, his father’s Glock seemed to be skipping alongside him. The pair of them were buzzing like bees, nothing could knock them off the cloud they were riding.

After strolling for a few more blocks, the pair settled their gaze on a quaint bungalow that sat on the corner of a street that Randy was unfamiliar with. His parents had not let him out to play in months, let alone walk the sidewalks of other neighbourhoods.

Randy went around the back and was content to find that the sliding back door had not only been left unlocked, but was also slightly ajar. Probably to let the nighttime breeze aerate the house. He pushed the door open and thought nothing of the screech the door made that got noticeably louder the further he pushed it.

Once inside, Randy was pleasantly surprised to find five faces staring back at him. Each with their very own rendition of shock. How nice! There was a mother, two twin daughters in matching nightgowns, a brother, and a father all positioned around a television set. Randy noted that they were watching Family Feud and each member had their very own TV dinner in front of them.

The father, who was the only one whose TV dinner was being washed down by a beer, was the first to speak, “Who in the fuck are you and what in the fuck are you doing in my house!” In response, Randy pulled out his friend from the left pocket of his khaki shorts, where he had put it to rest, and opened fire on all five faces until the magazine was empty.

                                                                 …

The family of five’s next door neighbour found him nuzzled between the corpses of twins, still in their matching nightgowns. Although, now the nightgowns were a nice shade of scarlet instead of their original white. He had gotten tired of Family Feud and was now channel surfing.

He was forced out the front door of that quaint bungalow by two white-faced officers, one female and one male. They looked just like ghosts and this made Randy smirk. What sort of adults could be afraid of a twelve year old boy with cheeks like a cherub?

Randy’s parents stood watching from behind the police tape as their only son was handcuffed and guided towards the back of a squad car. His father was crying into an off white hanky with gold trimmings that usually rested in the pocket of his blazer and blew snot into it about every 30 seconds. Whereas, his mother stood stiffly beside her husband, her right hand resting on Randy’s father’s left shoulder in some sort of limp comfort. Fresh scratches adorned his mother’s knuckles instead of rings. Those scars were all the jewellery she needed. From this far away his parents looked rather comical. A deep laugh erupted from Randy’s belly and he made no attempts to supress it, bellowing at the picture of his parents. 

Randy turned his head to the left and met his mother’s eyes, a genuine smile plastered across his face. Finally she would be proud of him.

Luna kicked around the dead leaves on the sidewalk with her worn in, converse sneaker. Usually she felt most at peace when the leaves began to fall, but this year all she felt was contempt towards the changing seasons. She had suffered a earth-shattering loss, yet this earth went on as if nothing had change. It's apathy left knots in the pit of her stomach. Luna stopped abruptly and stared up at a tree. It was nearly barren - all except for one single, green leaf. How stubborn it seemed in its blatant ignorance of its changing surroundings. Before the tragedy Luna had personified this leaf to a t. Everything about her screamed indifference from the cowlick on the nape of her naked neck to the muddy heel of her shoe that left an unapologetic trail wherever she went. But most of all, she was always resolute when it came to her dreams, which were always plentiful. Now more than anything Luna felt like all the other fallen leaves. She had given in to the inevitably of a cold and lonely upcoming winter just like everyone else. There was no sun to melt around her freshly frozen heart. The sun had died with her father. 

I kept living for the small joys and everyday adventures.

I kept breathing for the calm of falling asleep to the sound of rain.

I kept going for the satisfying crunch of leaves under the soles of my shoes in Autumn.

I kept existing for the sound of my favourite song playing in the coffee shop around the corner.

But mostly I stayed alive for the chance of passing you by in the market and feeling your eyes on the back of my head as I walk on.

Alone.

Yet somehow stronger than before in my resolve.

He always had stars in his eyes.

That is to say that he always seemed light years away.

All I wanted was to know him.

I yearned to get under his skin, inside his mind.

But it seemed even when I laid next to him I was always an arm's length away.

I was short-sighted by "love."

He only ever allowed himself to be a stranger to me.

Yet I was enamoured by his every move, his every word.

He was a prophet and I was his disciple.

We had become a cult fit for two.

He was Manson and I was the entire family.

Every statement he spewed I took as fact.

Every opinion, every stance he took I seized as law.

Every suggestion he advised I accepted as commandments.

He sat across from me tossing his father's gun from hand to hand.

Our knees were touching.

He looked at me with those starry eyes.

He began to speak, his speech was barely audible.

"We spend all this believing that we are different, but in reality we are all the same. We all bleed the same. It doesn't matter if you bomb a fucking hospital or dedicate your life to the needy. We all bleed. We all fucking die. We believe in steeples and books, all so that we will be saved. But guess what! There is no fucking point! No one will ever save you."

He had never spoken this much to me.

I noticed his shirt was soaked in blood.

He aimed his father's gun at me.

"Do you love me?" He said.

I leaned forward until my forehead kissed the muzzle.

I looked into his eyes, but he appeared to be looking past me.

I looked past him and saw shattered pictures of a father gone.

I heard sirens coming from outside.

I opened my mouth to speak.

Before I could make a sound I heard the trigger cock.

I think his eyes resembled black holes more than stars after all.

Daddy,

Sometimes I can't breathe.

Daddy,

That's a lie.

Sometimes I don't want to breathe.

Many nights I wasted silently willing you to me,

I prayed that you would make a life preserver out of your arms and hold me until the raging seas calmed.

Daddy,

All I needed was for you to hold me.

But Daddy,

You never did.

If my bedroom walls had holes to hear with would they hear my screams when they begin to close in around me?

Would they hear my shallow breathing as I push against them, pleading with a higher power I never believed in for an exit? 

Would they hear my cries as they pressed against my skin, crushing my bones and making my mortality more evident than ever before?

Too soon I know I will grow tired and weak; my hands will go slack and I will quit fighting against the walls that are now pressing against my ears.

Suddenly I'll think that it has been so long since someone has heard me.

I don't know if anyone has ever truly heard my voice. They are always much too distracted with their own whines and wants.

It have been on mute for too long...

My ears are beginning to bleed from the wall's pressure.

All I hear now is radio silence.

Would my walls hear my final sigh as I let go and let be as I allow the shadows to overcome me?

Everything is you.

Every scent. Every sight. Every sound. It all reminds me of you.

The ticks and tocks of the clock reminds me of your laugh and it makes me feel like the bird in the center, cuckoo. It makes me crazy.

Every window that I pass I swear on the stars that your smile is reflected back at me. It makes me dizzy.

I smell your cologne on every stranger and when I gaze into their face I see you again. You are they. They are you. It makes me feel so damn ill.

At night when I try to rest, visions of you swim on the insides of my eyelids.

When I finally get to sleep you are the star in all of my dreams. You are the focus in all my nightmares too. They is no limelight to share. It's all you.

When I wake, the first thing I see is you painted on my ceiling. I turn over and catch a glimpse in the mirror. Instead of my reflection it's you.

Everything I write is about you. You are the exposition. You are the climax. You are the resolution.

All the characters meld into you. You are the hero. The foil. My antagonist.

I want to be free. I want to be wild. I want to be carless.

But I can't move on when all I feel is you watching me.

When I turn around to catch you there is nothing behind me. Not you. Not anyone.

I want apathy.

If only one thing all I have to say to you is fuck you.

Fuck you for keeping me alive when I wanted to be six feet under.

Fuck you for leaving me.

Fuck your disinterest in me.

Fuck my interest in you. 

Fucking help me. I am fucking drowning. I feel the fucking water fill my lungs. My arms are fucking tired and I never could fucking swim well.

Please tell your ghost to stop fucking with my brain.

You never cared much for my mental health anyways.

I'm fucked.

Just fuck you.

Independence.

It has no face.

It is an idea that differs from person to person.

Perhaps independence is camaraderie. It is a battlefield painted with the blood of nameless soldiers, soon to be forgotten, who open fire and lay down for the independence of a nation. Their nation.

Or maybe it is autonomy. It is the single mother of two that lives down the street who is finally able to pay her bills without having to borrow a cent from any bank or passerby.

Independence has everything to do with the self. It is you forming your own thoughts, beliefs, and conduct based on only your thoughts and experiences.

But, it has more to do with others. It is knowing full well that your neighbour or your friend will have alternate beliefs.

In its purest form, independence is acceptance. To be independent is to accept the beliefs of others even if they contradict your own.

In acceptance, we can begin to cohabitate peacefully on this one planet that we have. Earth.

There is no need for warfare or superiority when we can all live together independently, yet cohesively.