My small fingers curled around my father’s hand. The air was heavy with ash and tasted of smoke, each step producing a crunching sound. And even though my feet were growing uncomfortably warm, the rest of me was cold to the point of numbness.

“Father, when can we go home?” I asked, looking up.

His face was darkened, illuminated briefly by a ray of moonlight that pierced the fog. Lips pinched into a thin line, something wet sliding down his cheek. Were those tears?

“What’s wrong?”

I tugged on his arm, and he looked down. Why did he look so sad?

“It’s okay, honey. We’re not going home tonight, we’re going to go ... ”

He paused, swallowing.

“Camping?” I squealed, jumping up and down. “I love camping!”

Father turned and kneeled, pulling me into a hug and kissing me on my forehead. “Yes, camping.”

Wrapping my arms around his neck, I rested my cheek against his. Then I pulled back.

“But what about Mommy? Won’t she want to come, too?”

There were those tears again, though I couldn’t figure out why.

“No, she’s ... tired. Maybe next time.” His thumb slid down from the corner of my eye to my jaw. “Come on, let’s go.”

He picked me up, and I giggled. When he laughed, it didn’t sound right, but maybe he was just tired. Hopefully he wouldn’t want to go right to bed, so we could fish or count stars or sing by a fire.

Father pulled me tight to his chest, but then I couldn’t see the sky or make creatures out of the smoke. I squirmed, but that only made him hold me tighter.

“You’re hurting me,” I said, confused.

But he didn’t hear me.

A few seconds later, he loosened, eyes fixed straight ahead as tears streamed down his face. They plopped onto my skin and hair like rain. The smoke must sting his eyes like it did mine.

I twisted my head. The village lay behind us. It was hard to make any of the buildings out, and even where the smoke blew away, they weren’t in the spaces where they should be. Where was our hut? Where was the willow with its long branches that brushed the grass?

“Where is everything?”

He didn’t hear me this time, either.

“It’s okay,” he soothed.

“Okay.”

I rested my head against his chest. If he said everything was okay, then that had to be true.

I should catch a fish for Mommy.

I giggled to myself.

“The glimmer of some indiscernible feature-

seems silly and bleak,”

so grumbled the creature.

Where have I hands,

what need shall I speak?

If everything’s flavorless,

what’s one more week?

I’ve seen it on postcards,

signed, mailed to self,

Its me in some semblance,

yet fairer in health.

Besides me, my armspan. You pass me the glass

as I look in your eyes,

time slows all too fast.

So drink of the high times,

the mornings and dew

Cheers to old rose-tints,

and once more to you.

You’ve slipped into sadness, I shudder to glance

O’er world’s worth of carpet..

a blood stained expanse..

“So what’s wrong in rotting? we’ve harmed none to date”

“’Cept one who tried helping,”

“a lifetime too late.”

“The problems I felt,

a fickle repose,

Were not worth the mention.”

She says that she knows.

“There’s nothing or all of it, you choose which fist.”

“The Right one”

She smiles,

“If you insist.”

We had a tradition, in our shabby college apartment. There a single blank wall inside, stretching from one bedroom door to the next – maybe eight feet in diameter – with an ugly metal utility box to the side. We liked to hide this wall in creative ways: with a tapestry, then another, then a holiday ensemble, complete with cut-outs or wrapping paper or whatever matched the occasion.

The latest occasion was St. Patrick’s Day, but it was stretching toward mid-April. Easter was approaching. Maybe we would have time to decorate for it. Maybe not. Finals were also approaching, and we were all beginning to wear thin with the stress. Still, the wall had rapidly become an annoyance to walk by. It stood almost mocking – like a reminder of the past I was trying to forget. I wanted to take it down.

I started with the sparkly green clovers, artfully tilted together at the center of the wall. They were made of construction paper, and the first one ripped when I tried to peel it off. I carefully undid the back taping, trying not to tear the decoration further. Maybe I could re-use them next year. The decorations had cost a pretty penny, more than I could afford at the time. I didn’t regret the purchase, though.

I remember putting the whole thing up a few hours before our party was to start, with my roommate crying in her room about her latest worst-thing-in-the-world-of-the-week. She was like that. It was always one thing or the next, this or that. Right now, it was a speeding ticket. I could never understand the logic – how someone could get fed up about something so minor as a speeding ticket. I wish I had the luxury of worrying about details like did.

I went back to work, slowly taking the clovers down until only the center strip of the wall faced me. It was bruised and ugly in spots, and I remembered why we wanted to cover it up. It wasn’t so bad from far away, but close-up I could see all the dirt and stains.

My eyes trailed the pattern forehead level dents, created that one time my friend Nick drunkenly attempted to handstand against the wall. As the dents indicate, it hadn’t gone so well. I remember laughing though – genuinely laughing – unlike the forced smiles exchanged these days. No. In that moment, we were still best friends. In that moment, we were happy.

Next, it was time to rip down streamers – alternating shades of light and dark green. The streamers wouldn’t be worth storing, so I threw them away.

I remember Nick playing with them at a pre-game a few weeks earlier. Twisting them up as tight as he could without breaking the strands, then watching them come apart. I had been leaning against the wall, casually observing his work, when he turned to me.

“Promise me we’ll stay best friends forever,” he had said, his eyes suddenly wide and serious, without the casual laughter they had held before. He got like this when exceptionally drunk – all mushy and sentimental – and the best thing to do was humor him.

“Nothing could tear us apart," I remember replying. I remember meaning it too.

All in all, the wall took around two hours to put up and around twenty seconds to strip down. Back to where we started, just me and the ugly white. Pink splotches decorated the barren mess too, along with the handstand dents and dirt and stains from God-knows where. The whole thing was imperfect and gross; I already wanted it gone. We didn’t even own the apartment, and would probably have to pay for damaged paint or whatever.

Something about the wall bothered me though, in a dark, disturbing way. I couldn’t put my finger on why, but the disgust ran deeper than the unsightly appearance or reminder of impending paint fees. The wall looked mocking almost, laughing like it knew its stains had ruined the appearance. Like it knew just how much it bothered me.

---

I ordered a new tapestry a day later, a fading pattern to different shades of blue. We hadn’t hung blue on the wall before, and the thought made me happy. Blue was comforting. Blue was new. Blue would be here in approximately ten to fifteen business days. All I could do was wait.

Meanwhile, the wall was becoming worse. I began to avoid it, when I could. I resided on campus most of the day, or spent my time in my bedroom, with it out of sight. The hard part was the in-between: those thirteen steps from my bedroom to the apartment door. I could handle those thirteen steps, at the beginning. Each day I would wake up and prepare myself to confront the wall. It became a battle.

As the days went on, facing the white got harder and harder. Sometimes I would lose to its hateful gaze. I cowered in my room instead – terrified – while trying to think of creative excuses to email my professors.

Sometimes the problem was getting back in. I would sit in our apartment hallways for hours on end, trying to build up courage. Occasionally I’d sleep in my car.

Throughout the wait, I tried to maintain normalcy. At least, as much as I could. Because I was not crazy. I know I sounded crazy, but I was not crazy. Okay? I needed new paint, not therapy. I just needed the wall gone. At the sixteenth day since ordering that new tapestry, I called the shipping company.

I remember hearing the words backordered and I remember hearing screaming. It was deafening; wretched and terrible, filled with vulgar words –

“FUCK YOU, YOU PIECE Of FUCKING SHIT, YOU DON’T CONTROL ME, YOU –“

“Ma’am? MA’AM. Is everything okay!?”

It was only when the police rushed in that I realized: I was the one screaming.

I think the incident scared my roommates, because they began treating me like I was breakable, like they were afraid to set me off. Whispers and hushed conversations, abruptly halting when I entered the room. Hesitancy before asking me questions. Words thrown around, like “trauma” and “PTSD” and “neurotic.” Things like that. They thought I didn’t notice.

They spread the word to our friends, though, because breakdowns make for juicy gossip. More than ever, I felt alone. Nick kept his distance, too. A part of me began to hate him for that – for not defending me after everything. So much for forever. Yet, through it all, I kept my promise to him.

My mom called earlier today, a week and a half later. I had not left my room for approximately three days. But I hadn’t wanted to worry her. So, when she asked how I was doing, I told her I was great. I didn’t tell her that I was failing three classes, because then she’d worry about my scholarship. I didn’t tell her that I felt empty, that the wall was killing me a little bit more every day. I didn’t tell her about that night or about Nick and how we were slowly falling apart. Maybe I should have. Maybe things could have changed.

Instead, I listen now from my bedroom as my roommates entertain friends in the living room. They have the stereo on – some throwback songs from when we were kids. I can’t tell how many people are here, but I can hear the excited chattering, the laughter. Their happiness seeps through the walls. My chest tightens.

I’m lying on my bed, too afraid to make a sound. God, what if they don’t know I’m here? What if they do? I can’t leave my room because of the wall, and even without it my sudden presence would make the situation too awkward.

I can feel my heartbeat rising. I pick out Nick’s voice from the rest. It hurts. Here all my once friends are, going about life like I never mattered in it. Maybe that’s harsh. Maybe it was my fault –

(Promise me you won’t go to the police. It was a mistake. If you care about me at all you’ll keep this to yourself. Please)

– maybe I should have been selfish. Maybe I should have never agreed to keep my mouth shut. Oh No. Maybe I never should have told Nick I’d keep my mouth shut.

I can feel my pulse through my throat. My hands are shaking and I feel trapped – I feel trapped and the world is closing in – my chest feels light and my head feels heavy and I can hear them joking outside my door, joking and having fun and it’s all too much and I can see him, I can feel the too long glance and that brush of cracked fingertips and I can see myself brushing it off like nothing at all –

Somehow I end up on my hands and knees. The world is silent except for my breath and the beating music of the pregame on the other side of my door. Don’t Stop Believing is on. I can hear the room singing it.

Don’t Stop, Believing, they chime. Hold on to that feelin’ –

It’s the end of the song, a crescendo to the final notes. Everyone is off pitch. I fall to my side, rolling to face the ceiling.

Streetlights, I hear. peopleeeeeee – they hold out the word, changing keys. It’s the last line, and then the room goes silent. I hear them shuffling around, gathering their things before heading to the bars. I continue to stare at the ceiling.

Ceilings are nice, I decide. They don’t get messed up and spilled on by people. They stay blank – the perfect white. Untouched by our human messes. Walls let us ruin them.

I feel calm, after they leave. Detached, almost. There’s a heaviness in my bones, like the apartment itself has faded into nonexistence. Like it all was just a dream.

But it wasn’t a dream. This was real. It was all so fucking real.

Mechanically, I feel myself standing, and I feel my blood pounding in my fingers. There’s ball in my chest, slowly churning hotter and hotter.

I walk over to the kitchen cupboard, and pull out a toolbox. My mom insisted we keep one, though we never used it. There’s a hammer inside, and I feel the weight of it in my hands.

I think of Nick. I think of our promises.

(Promise me you won’t go to the police.)

He’d been the one to find me. It was his house, after all.

(Promise we’ll be best friends forever)

Best friends. That’s what he introduced me as – his best friend. I remember the elation of hearing him say it. I had never had a best friend. But that’s what he told his dad we were. Best friends. I had a best friend.

I turn and face the wall. It truly was hideous. I look. I feel the hammer. The wall cracks like lightning, before I realize what I’ve done. The hammer lies on the floor.

It feels good, I realize, and then suddenly I’m attacking the wall, and metal is hard and adrenaline is flooding in and I can’t stop, I can’t stop I cantfuckingforget because I see them in the wall – I see Nick’s dad and I see him lock the door and it’s all so wrong and I see Nick and his face when he realizes what his dad did and I see those terrified eyes – itwasamistake it was a mistake please don’t tell the police it was a mistake –

(Take it, that's right, just like that, baby)

(Stoppleasestop PLEASEFUCKING STOP)

(SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH AND TAKE IT YOU GOD DAMN SLUT) –

And somewhere along the lines I’ve dropped the hammer because it isn’t enough and I need to feel this - I need him to feel this.

The wall is turning red on the edges of where I hammer it so I grasp onto a cracked part and rip because this fucker is coming down and there’s so much red – God, there’s so much red but I need to keep going I can’t stop going –

And the world begins to blur. I steady myself, and I blink. The apartment is silent again. The wall is a scarring of browns and cracked white, a midsize hole tinged with the scarlet. I can feel myself fading.

Through the hole, I see my bedroom. On my desk is a mirror, and I catch sight of my reflection. I see my features, the light hair, dark eyes. The too big nose. Somehow, these parts don’t add up to me. To who I am. I don’t recognize this reflection. I can feel something wet drip on the edge of my nails.

Maybe this is who I was once. Before Nick. Before the wall. But this girl is dead.

I feel a pull, dragging at my conscious. I close my eyes, and let it take over.

"Your artwork is fantastic!" 

You have beautiful eyes. 

"You wrote that music?? It was so fun!" 

I get lost in your smile. 

"Tell me about the dream you had last night." 

I want to hold you.

"By the way, I watched that show you recommended the other day."

We would be such a good match.

"You're a dork."

My goodness, you are just too cute.

"Do you want to go for a walk in the park?"

Please kiss me.

You'll never know how thankful I was—how lucky and ecstatic—that you saw through my coded messages and found the double meaning hidden underneath. Flirting never made much sense to me. My social skills were, and still are, shit. But relating to people, and finding the wonderful traits in them, is how I managed. 

You're incredible, and you deserve to be told so. But you're also super fricken cute. Once I gained the courage and ability to say it, not a day goes past where I don't tell you.

A brazen, craven dream enticed Francis: "Goodness! 'Has innocent Juliet known lust,' my nymph? Oh, princess..." quoted Romeo suggestively, teasingly, undertaking very wicked x-ratings. "Your zingers are brilliant, cutey."

Driving, encouraging fingers gyrated her, involving juicy kisses. Lingering, miniscule nibbles over persistently quivering ribs, slowly tantalized undulating, virginal wonders. Xiphoid yearning zenithed and brought carnal, delicious ecstasy. Francis gained her internal jubilant kinaesthesia, learning muscle-tension no other passion's questing, rubbing, sinful torment understood. Visions, wherein xenomanic, young zains awakened breathtaking curiosity, delivering enigmatic feelings, guided her. Insistently, joltingly kinetic lips meandered nearby orgasmic, pulsing, quickening, riveting, sensitive, tingling, unmentionable venues with xylocarpous, ywis zealous, albeit blissful consequences. Delight engulfed fully, grinding his intense, jumping, keen luck. Man never orchestrated pleasure quite right since then.

Distance. Safety. You might as well wear them like signs, they adorn your body so well, cover you almost like an invisible shield. You’re a fine one for masks, aren’t you? You, and your little boy smile, your innocent boy ways. Your defense lies in your openness, your naivete, your surprising purity.

Anger courses through me like another form of blood. Ever since I was a child I have fought, I have desired desperately for something to fight against. A car battery pressing painfully into my chest. I wanted pain. I formed it in my hands, pressed it against my palms. There is still an indentation in my body from that battery.

He died. He was flung from a sulky. In the chaotic midst of life he was thrown into a coma. He was wearing the wrong helmet, the beautiful one, not the practical one. He destroyed me with his death, fulfilled my need for pain for the rest of my life. Overwhelmed me with it.

My small body leaning against the door frame, I prayed for my grandmother’s life, though I never knew her, though she had beat my mom. My naked back pressed against the carpet, I closed my eyes, whispered words, hot breath against my hands. I hated clothes. Flipping through photo albums now, I see dozens of pictures of me half nude; stepping from a suit case, my mouth pouting, angry at my mom who always photographed me. My father sitting in the egg chair, haggard from work, holding me in his arms, wearing only a faded blue pair of underwear. It was like half of an enormous egg, with black felt inside.

I was twelve when I lost him.

I was twelve when I no longer knew how to hold pain in my hands.

The car battery was no preparation, the fervent prayers for my grandmother, not God, nor guilt.

I direct my anger towards you and your distance, but you could be anyone, and it always comes back to me. Am I angry at my impotence, at my inability to turn this rage into life? (Screaming his name in my mother’s arms in the middle of the night.)

Is it his beauty that makes it hard?

Is it his eyes that I see every time I look into a mirror, his body that I carry around with me, his hands that held those reigns the night he died, that move against this page as I write? Maybe it’s the love he felt for me, a crippled emotion in my body.

And so it is you I blame, you who have done nothing, you in your youth and your beauty, in your health and your joy of life, in your tentative expressions of attraction towards me I accept like live coals, holding only long enough for them to burn into my hands, before throwing them away.

strip

quickly

as fast as you can

the tears have already begun overflowing

get in the tub

the water flows around you

so warm and comforting 

or at least it should be

instead

i

am

kneeling down

sobbing 

and letting the tears 

mix

with the water

as i force air in through my lungs

and out from my throat

and a silent keen emerges from my contorted maw

gaping 

yet filled with

a noiseless

scream 

as i sob

and i sob 

the tears will not stop

i really

really

wanna go die

i feel

too much 

but eventually i stop

and get out 

with 

my eyes red

and heart empty once more

to be filled with tears again