She was being followed.

Neha felt something twist in her stomach as she came to the realization; and the helplessness of her situation dawned. She'd refused her friends' offer to call a cab as she left the party, pointing out that she lived less than a kilometre away and laughing off their concern, but the roads were deserted at this time of the night and there was some kind of a power outage, plunging most of the streets into eerie darkness – her apartment might as well be on the other side of the earth, for all the safety it offered. And, beyond any doubt, a dark shape was slumping along the lane, far behind her.

She plunged an arm into her bag, feeling the handle of her pocket knife, and the feel of solid steel in her hand reassured her somewhat, though she did not slow down.

I should've listened, she thought, berating herself, better safe than sorry, isn't that what her mother had always taught her? And with the Hunchbacked Killer all over the news and still at large – "sorry" was a situation no woman wanted to be caught in. Why hadn't she listened? She'd dismissed everyone's worry, and it had been easy to shrug off the news, thinking that would never happen to her. But that wasn't true, was it? Clearly. It could be her face on the television tomorrow morning.

Neha tightened her grip on the knife and turned as she walked, and, sure enough, the shadowy silhouette was still there, barely visible under the light of the full moon. For one mad moment, she felt like stopping there and confronting whoever it was, brandishing her knife and threatening them to go away. Neha pushed the idea out of her mind as soon as it manifested. It was foolhardy – what if he was innocent? Worse yet, what if he really was the Hunchbacked Killer, and was armed with something worse, like a gun? She quickened her steps. And then a distant rumble reached her ears.

She paused. No, it certainly wasn't her imagination. Definitely an engine, going fast, coming closer.

She turned again, and this time, felt her heart give a leap of relief as a bright headlight cornered around a faraway crossroad. The rumbling grew steadily closer as it approached. The man on foot following her slunk back into the shadows as it went past, and as it came close she held out her hand with the thumb stuck out in the universal hitchhiker's sign.

There was a loud grinding of brakes, and a sleek, red-and-blue motorcycle came to a halt in front of her. Its rider was wearing a t-shirt, jacket and helmet, and he surveyed her through it for a moment before raising the visor.

"Are you all right?"

"Can I get a lift? I live nearby, it's not too far."

"Sure, I guess… what're you doing out here all alone?"

"I was walking home, like I said, I live close by, but…" She approached the bike and looked past him, frowning. He followed her gaze.

"What is it?"

"Someone was there, just a minute ago. They were behind me for a while."

"Someone was following you?" She saw his eyes narrow behind the helmet.

"I don't know. Nobody's there now."

He twisted in his seat to take a good look, but he, too, apparently, could see nothing. "All right," He said eventually, leaning forward and taking hold of the handlebars again, "Wait here a moment." The motorcycle turned on a dime as he pointed it back the way he had come.

"No, wait," she said, getting a sudden vision of him getting murdered and then her getting chased down by a monstrous figure, "Don't… can you just… get me out of here? Please?"

He must have noticed the panic in her voice, because he studied her face for a moment, and said, "All right. Hop on." The bike turned again and she mounted, a little awkwardly because of her skirt.

"I'm Jai." He said, closing his visor with a snap, muffling his voice.

"Neha."

"Well, hold on, Neha."

She could sense his warmth as she put her arms around him, and as the bike took off and the cold night air whipped up her hair, she felt herself calming down. It was difficult to feel afraid of a stupid dark shape when she was seated on a powerful engine, zipping through the streets.

"Where'd you say you lived?" He yelled over the roar of the bike.

"City Central Apartments. Take a left off of M.S. Road," She called back.

"I know that place. Get you there in a flash, don't worry."

As if on cue, the power came back on, and the streets lit up with the buzz of electricity. "Oh, thank God," She breathed. He chuckled, and the bike slowed down in front of a 24-hour diner.

"Coffee?" He asked. "I need one, I'm cold as hell."

She looked behind them apprehensively and he said, "They have a security guard, come on."

This was certainly true, and she sighed and nodded. Jai pulled his helmet off, revealing long hair that came down to his shoulders, and shook his head like a lion shaking its mane. She was relieved to see that he had a kind, handsome face.

The diner was empty except for an old man working on his laptop in a corner table. The waiter came over and they both ordered coffee.

"Not altogether safe, you know." He said as they waited for him to come back, "Walking around like that on your own."

"I know." She smiled apologetically.

"Especially with this Hunchbacked Killer thing going on… didn't that make you hesitate, going out by yourself?"

"A bit. But I've been saying for weeks that the Hunchbacked Killer isn't real. And I didn't want to seem worried in front of my friends."

"That's a silly reason to put yourself at risk."

"I know that now."

"What makes you think he isn't real?"

"I think it's mass hysteria. You realize nobody's actually seen him?"

"But there has been a rash of disappearances in the city. All young women, according to the papers. You should be more careful. Better safe than sorry."

"That's what I was thinking to myself back there. Lesson learned. Thanks for being all manly and protective, though."

His lips twitched, but he managed to refrain from smiling.

The coffee wasn't good, but it was hot, and she sipped it gratefully. Jai, who seemed unconcerned by such trivial things like the boiling heat of the liquid, finished his in a few gulps.

She yawned and stretched as they stepped back outside into the night air. She was sleepy. The rumble of the bike felt comforting, as did the feel of his strong muscles against her as she slipped her arms around his waist. She rested her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes…

When she opened her eyes, it took her a few seconds to be sure that she was even awake. It was pitch dark; she blinked and realized that she was blindfolded.

And bound.

To a cold, metal bed.

She tried to scream, only to find out that her face and lips felt numb; she had been injected with something. Only a feeble noise came out.

"Ah," a voice said, "I had a feeling that would wake you up."

Footsteps. A pair of strong, muscular arms. The blindfold was slipped off.

Jai smiled his kind smile. She looked at him, horror-struck.

"You know, you were right about one thing." He said, explaining things as though he were answering a question about the weather, "Mass hysteria. The whole 'Hunchbacked Killer' headline – I mean, you understand I didn't coin the term, right? The press did. Out of thin air, too; it's not like anyone who meets this side of me ever lives to tell the tale. Do I look like an ugly hunchback to you?"

She could not move her lips to answer.

"I suppose you're wondering what's next. Well, we start with this."

He had taken a seat at a chair next to her and pulled a small coffee table towards him. She saw a plate with a fork and knife, and some kind of pink fruit on it.

"Well," He said again, "It's best to show you."

His hand reached out for something on the side of the bed, and Neha felt herself straightening up. It was a hospital-style bed, which could be elevated according to the patient's needs. As her upper body was pushed up, she came face to face with a mirror. She tried to scream, but no voice came out.

Staring back at her was her own reflection – but if it hadn't been for her outfit, Neha would not have recognized herself. There was a giant hole below her nose. Her lips were missing. They had been expertly carved out of her face and the wound sewn up, leaving her teeth bared in a permanent grin like a ghoul. Somewhere in the back of her head, something dawned, and she turned back to the plate with the pink fruit on it.

Jai picked up the fork and skewered a piece with it, raising his hand and popping it into his mouth.

"Cranberry-flavoured lipstick," He said, chewing thoughtfully. "Delicious. And the rest of you will be too, I'm sure."

Profile: Demi McKinsey

Kilojoule Allowance: 3500 + 100 extra granted from output

The end of the world tasted like strawberry ice cream.

It takes an approximate average of twenty-three minutes for the body to realize what it has been subjected to, or that is to say, what it has been poisoned with, but it takes considerably less time for the brain to realize the crime that has been committed. So before she even felt the ice cream inside of her, Demi reacted. She opened her mouth.

At first, no sound came out. No ice cream came out. Then the scream found its way past the horror, and it was so goddamn loud that she couldn’t believe it came from her, couldn’t believe that the glass wall wasn’t shattering. In a way, she wished it did. That way the kitchen would be destroyed, and then she would never have to step foot in this miserable place again. What was she doing in the kitchen three hours before dinnertime?

Right. Out of the corner of her eyes and through her tears she saw a beautifully pink tub of strawberry ice cream, except she had savagely ruined the milky expanse that was its smooth surface. She wished she could fix it, go back just two minutes. That was all it took really, for the world to end.

Out of the other corner of her eyes, she saw her mother and father and little sister. Her scream died out when something like a cotton ball was stuffed into her mouth.

“Oh my god,” her father, the perpetrator, said.

Demi let him pry the spoon from her fist.

“Honey,” her mother said, staring at the ice cream. “Where did you get this?”

Her pretty little mother, who was now looking at her with a look of fear, or was that disgust? What did she do? Well, she found a tub of strawberry ice cream in the fridge; if only that was all she did.

Her little sister’s voice piped up. “Demi ate that? Wow.”

Her father’s incredulity, unfortunately, was not in the same vein of wonder, and a little too roughly, he spun her around and unzipped her shirt to check her back.

“It hasn’t caught up yet,” her father breathed a sigh of relief.

“Her system hasn’t processed the ice cream.”

“How long until?”

“Soon enough,” her father groaned. “We’re going to have to sedate her while we figure out what to do.”

“What’s going to happen to Demi?” Cora asked, from where she stood in the doorway.

“Nothing, sweetie,” he answered. “Mags, could you take Cora upstairs?”

“I'm fifteen,” Cora said, crossing her arms.

“That you are,” he said.

Demi took the cotton ball out of her mouth and resumed screaming.

Profile: Cora McKinsey

Iron: Abnormal Low 15 ug/dL

RBC: Abnormal Low 3.22x10(6)/uL

Cora didn’t know why she asked. She knew what was going to happen to Demi. In the case one’s consumption levels exceeded the daily allowance, the violator would have to go to the hospital and get the body pumped. Intense gastric and intestinal suction and all sorts of things going through the guts. But she couldn’t imagine anything that vicious happening to her sister.

“Your sister just had . . . a binge,” Mom said. “She’ll be okay though.”

“Is she going to be taken away?”

“No!” Mom said, a bit too loudly, given that it was just the two of them in the upstairs hallway. She calmed down. “No. The alarms haven’t rung, so Dad’s going to fix this before the hospital is notified.”

“Okay,” she agreed, not sure how Dad was going to fix anything with his daughters if he only worked with computers. 

“But she didn’t even have that much.”

“She shouldn’t have eaten any in the first place, honey.”

“Then why was it in our house?”

“I don’t know.”

“What does it taste like? Why did Demi eat it? Isn't it, like, way too sweet?”

“Stop asking so much!” Mom snapped, pushing Cora into her room. Then she took a deep breath and rubbed Cora’s shoulder in apology. “Demi’s going to be okay. No need to worry about her.”

“But—”

“Just worry about yourself. The school said that they’ve noticed you gained weight.”

Cora flushed, but it was true; so she went to her desk and opened one of her textbooks just as Mom closed the door.

Maybe she wasn’t as beautiful or as small as darling Demi, but she was undeniably smarter and more obedient. And if you asked her to recite any of the Mindfulness Mantras, she could, word for word. Too bad intellect didn’t quite translate over to appearance. She didn’t need the teachers at school to tell her that she was looking a bit . . . big. Good discipline shows on the outside—she wished. And I am in control of my mouth. She laughed at that one, though, because she wasn’t really, not when it came to her mouth. Even as a child, she would bite her own palm when Mom or Dad wouldn’t let her eat, simply because her teeth just needed to gnaw at something.

But that was the furthest she went. Cora never, ever broke any of the rules. It just wasn’t fair that everything just showed up on her body. Unlike Demi, who . . .

Well, even if her parents hadn’t seen it happening, Cora did; thinking about it, however, only made her stomach hurt. Maybe that was just hunger. Did gastric suction hurt more than this?

There was still two hours to go before dinner, so Cora reached for her water bottle and swallowed a few gulps before repeating Mantra 4, her favorite. Hunger is sin leaving the body.

Profile: Reade McKinsey

Height: 185.42 cm

Weight: 8 stones, 8 pounds

His wife would surely demand a divorce if she ever found out, but his foremost thought was who in the world had the audacity to bring ice cream into the house? He couldn’t say he was mad; but really, he felt betrayed. If word were to get out that there was ice cream! of all things contraband! in the house of a managing officer!

But luckily, that thought was for but an instant, and soon, he was all business. He had to save his daughter, or at least protect her from being detected. He inserted a glass tube into the metal syringe in the first aid kit, and when Demi’s scream died out and she fell limp against him, he hurried to get things sorted out. Still on the floor, he turned her body so that she leaned forward against the wall, and by the time Mags was crouched next to him again, he had hacked into his eldest daughter’s Intake Log, luminescent figures running a long, comprehensive list down her back.

“The kilojoule count,” he inhaled as he watched the number shoot up past the five-thousand mark.

“Make it stop,” his wife said, pressing her fingers into the number, willing it to disappear. “Reade, can’t you do something?”

“I did,” he frowned. “This sedative slows down her body processes. She’s not registering her binge as quickly. Damn.”

For a girl of Demi’s height and body type, if the number even hit six-thousand, the doctors would be notified. An act of grace, the number tapered and stopped a mere 300 hundred below it.

“Oh! Thank god she ate so little this morning.” They could always count on Demi to undershoot.

“It’s going to wear off in two hours,” Reade said seriously. “We have to figure out how to get the ice cream out of her system before then.”

Mags understood what he was saying almost immediately. 

But she hesitated.

“Demi’s always had a fear of gagging.”

“I have some medication that will induce it. It’ll come up quickly.”

She bit her lip. “Can’t we just put her on restriction?”

Reade looked down at his beautiful wife. So small, so petite, like a little bird. And so worried. Demi took after her.

“Honey,” he began, then cleared his throat. “That was a lot of kilojoules binged in one go. It would require restriction for the next two days.”

“That sounds better than your idea,” she said. “I’ve done it for three days once.”

The number on Demi’s back crept up two digits, and Reade pointedly looked at his wife. “We don’t have two days. Not even one.”

The two of them sat there with bated breath, like little children, with an even littler child between them. Maybe he could find some way to reconfigure it so the officers would think that his daughter consumed a lot of strawberries and drank a lot of milk. But what would he say about all the added sugar? He struggled to calculate how many grams he would have to account for.

Mags’ thin arms and delicate hands extended towards their daughter, wrapping themselves around her carefully. Reade couldn’t tell which one was going to break.

“At least let her wake up naturally. Let her enjoy her ice cream.”

Reade let a few moments pass before he knew he had to ask. As a husband, he shouldn’t have; but as an officer, he was going to.

“Margarette,” he said, watching her back stiffen. “Did you buy the strawberry ice cream?”

Profile: Margarette Yue-McKinsey

Body-Mass Index (McKinsey-Allan Model): 15.6

She remembered rice.

She was not yet fifty, yet she couldn’t believe that three decades were all that separated then and now. Her name had been two syllables long, not seven, and she had been a world apart from this savage country and Reade. In that world, she knew she ate many things, but there was nothing she remembered as fondly as rice. She kept it a secret from her family. Seven hundred kJ for a meagre quarter cup—not worth it. And god forbid she thought of the carbohydrates. She was changed now, a better woman, and she didn’t feel a desire to go back to that world.

And if Reade found out that she still thought of these things . . . that was almost as bad as cheating. It was cheating—emotionally.

But there were nights she dreamt of a table, of ceramic plates laden with . . . laden with life. Like fish, a whole fish with the head and eyes and mouth slightly agape, topped with long green onions and finished off with oil so hot the skin of the fish cooked a second time and gleamed an iridescent black pearl. Or thick slices of pork belly stewed so long that they shrunk to half their size, marinated in its sweet braising sauce. The white layer of fat on the meat would quiver if you poked at it, and she quivered thinking about how she used to eat it. And the bulbous dark green vegetables; sliced down the middle and quartered so that their hearts revealed neat layers; the ugly bitter melon that had the green, warty skin of a witch; stir-fried with beaten egg—why, she could probably eat that now, if she took away the egg yolk!

Then inevitably she would wake up, and when she did, she folded away from Reade and lost everything, all over again.

And she was the mother now. With Demi limp in her arms, Margarette couldn’t shake the feeling that in between her being a daughter and being a mother something had gone terribly wrong. Thoughts like these were harder to swallow and tamp down. Like when she looked at her daughters and saw wild, animalistic looks in their eyes; when she realized that Cora was probably never going to begin menstruating; when she looked at Demi’s grown-up body and her own childlike one and realized there was no difference between the two—it occurred to her then that maybe Reade only married her for the physiological advantages she would’ve passed down to their daughters. Asians, after all, were rumored to be genetically blessed, "naturally smaller." She scrunched her face and thought of Cora.

“You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you cannot fool all of the people all of the time.” 

― Abraham Lincoln

✹

THERE IS BLOOD on the walls.

Not human blood, unfortunately, but cow blood. While the texture is similar, it still does not meet your needs as it does not reciprocate the deep red color you had originally wanted. Alas, the town was rather crowded and breaking into the hospital again seemed such like a hassle so you grabbed the first cow you could find, slaughtered it, stored its meat, and took three buckets of its blood. It was quite savagery (you even admit) but at the same time, it was dreadfully necessary. For a cause like the one you were fighting for, some innocent deaths were inevitable. Save for in the end, it would be the guilty that would pay the most.

A sly smile danced on your lips at the thought. You had waited too long for this. Countless nights spent plotting, planning, making certain that every ploy was not to fail and now, it was all going to pay off. You let your eyelids fall as you played out scenarios in your head that would most likely happen. You knew that they – the people you planned to trap – would immediately assume it was a game they were playing. Much like chess, they would think that they would make one move and you would make yours.

Albeit a good assumption, there was one little thing wrong: it wasn’t a game at all.

It was an illusion.

For what is a game if the opponent is the architect that designed the board, assigned the players, created the obstacles, and already decided the ending? What is a game if the opponent has already won? No, it wasn’t a game. Not for you, at least. Instead, for you, it was a movie. You had spent countless nights planning each scene, writing out the conflict, the setting, the rising action, the climax, the falling action, the resolution and now, at last, you would be able to see it all acted out. You would be able to see your designated actors run across the stage, trying to make sense of the plot, taking decisive steps thinking it would lead them out of their situation only to later discover that no, it was never their plan after all. It was all yours. You were the initiator, the mastermind, the puppet master.

And they were just puppeteers.

Starring in your movie, playing your game, working to your planned finale.

You opened your eyes. The devious smile on your lips broadened as the thought settled around you. A feeling of omniscience rushed through your body as your grip on the paintbrush dipped in cow blood tightened. With agility, you continued writing out the message on the walls. The strokes were harsh and callous and by the end of it, the belly of your paint brush was in disarray. Not that it mattered, though—you wouldn’t use the brush anymore anyways. A tired sigh left your lips as you stepped back to admire your handiwork. You were done. At last, you were done and at last, you could lie down and watch the movie.

Correction: your movie.

And it had just begun.

INTRODUCTION

If we use the suffering of our past to help others, we turn our pain into purpose.

I cannot speak for all addictions, but I can speak with much experience on the addiction of alcohol; you know that whispered expression, “She’s an Alcoholic.” Except I’m not ashamed to be an Alcoholic, so when you tell others, say it loudly. I am extremely proud of my struggle with this disease and all the beautiful scar tissue it has developed through my soul. It's been several years since I last had a drink; I consider my disease in remission—since at any point in time the obsession to drink can return.

Some people argue about “Recovered Alcoholic” verses “Recovering Alcoholic,” which is basically an argument of semantics. The basis for this debate is rooted in the book of Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), which is sweetly nicknamed The Big Book. However there is absolutely no reason to argue with the AA bible—just state your angle and move on. For me, it is essential that I never let go of the reality that I am and always will be an Alcoholic (more to come on this necessity when I illustrate the nasty trial and error of relapsing). Once I assume I am a “Recovered Alcoholic” my mind will talk me into drinking again. So, for sobriety sake (forget semantics), I consider myself a Recovering Alcoholic, and should I drink again, I would be a Practicing Alcoholic. If I still have an allergy to alcohol, if I cannot drink, then I am in fact still an Alcoholic—I have not recovered from the disease, nor do I believe that is possible.

I avoided the rooms of AA for one reason: it was a God-Bible-Thumping-Cult. And I do not join groups or clubs or cliques. Period. I have some paranoia of becoming “one of them” dating back to Junior High when I realized everyone had a “group” but me, and I felt safe that way. Without labels I can be myself and not have to break any group norms or rules, and “myself” is allowed to mold and mend any way my heart so desires. I very much dislike rules and any establishment that forces them upon me, all of which will soon become quite obvious. But let me be the first to say, I was wrong. I was absolutely, completely and wholeheartedly wrong about my God-Bible-Thumping-Cult perspective of AA. I am still not officially “one of them” but yet I am one of them. I have a homegroup that I go to every week, and I believe in the program; without it, I would be dead, no doubt. I am not sharing my story to be an example of AA, but I am definitely sharing my story to offer a solution to others on the same painful path of a living-hell that I was once on.

You do not need to believe in God to read and digest this story. All you need is to be wise enough to remain open-minded on any front presented. If I read something with boxing gloves on, I will always find a fight to participate in. Yet, when I read something as a simple spectator, merely amused by what is going to come about, I can digest what is presented and later decide what works and what does not. A hard lesson in my young life was knowing when to yield and when to battle. But I’ve learned that to grow, I must always yield first in order to witness and then battle when, and only when, it’s appropriate. My sharing this story is me intentionally choosing to battle with the darkness of addiction. I learned the hard way: there is no happiness at the bottom of any sort of bottle.

I am either open-minded or blind—I cannot be both.

CHAPTER 1

If there is a devil, it exists in addiction. And if the devil has a lover, it's society's lack of comprehension on the matter.

The connotative definition of an Alcoholic is someone that doesn’t know how to control their drinking. This is society's understanding of the word Alcoholic and it is harmfully inaccurate. The denotative definition is a person with an addiction to the consumption of alcohol or the mental illness and compulsive behavior resulting from alcohol dependency. This is a hereditary disease and it is absolutely not a matter of self-control. The common misunderstanding that Alcoholism is just a lack-of-control issue is exactly what keeps people from not only entering the rooms of recovery, but from staying sober once there.

I was listening to NPR recently and there was an interview that made my heart sink, or my academic mind flare, maybe both. There was an interview of a man, a famous chef of some sort, and also a recovered/ing Alcoholic. He was asked by the interviewer if when he was drinking and almost losing his wife, kids etc., was his restaurant [which he kept successfully running] just too important to him, "Was that the one line you wouldn’t let yourself cross?" the interviewer asked. So essentially, the interviewer is asking, or rather implying that Alcoholics can in fact control their drinking, IF the reason is important enough for them to control it.

Anyone one else see a problem here? There is no controlling drinking for Alcoholics, and when we drink, there is absolutely no line we will not cross; if we drink long enough, we will cross them all. The interviewers question is a clear example of his ignorance on the subject of Alcoholism. With his question he tells us that he believes Alcoholics have some amount of control over their drinking, IF only the matter is important enough to them. So in other words, his wife and children were not important enough to him, but the restaurant, now that was a line he wouldn't cross. "Hmmmm" said all who were really listening.

NO MATTER HOW IMPORTANT something is, our drinking will take it down if we don't stop it. Like a raging forest fire, it will not stop on its own.

Much to my relief the chef answered just as I hear in the rooms of recovery, he said something along the lines of: “If I had continued drinking, I would’ve stopped at nothing . . . I would have stolen if I had to.” And he went on to say that during his first year of sobriety he didn't drive and was never left alone; because that is the reality of this disease. There are no lines we won’t cross, for it is progressive (that means the addiction and reaction to alcohol gets worse and worse over time), and eventually this thing takes over all aspects of our life—no matter how important to us.

People that believe we can control our drinking convince us that we just need to try harder to do so, and many of us try to control it, over and over and over. But in reality, Alcoholics are allergic to alcohol—when we drink, it controls us, it is NEVER the other way around. Society's lack of understanding on the subject of Alcoholism not only keeps people out of the rooms of recovery, but it also decreases their chance of staying there.

In the beginning, most, if not all Alcoholics resist the idea that they have a problem with alcohol. We tend to be a group of like-minded individuals, many of which have immense pride and assumed self-control. We do not like rules, we rarely fit in and we always want more. More of whatever it is. So, when our spouses or mothers, like both of mine, tell us it’s just a matter of control and to try harder, we are quick to believe them. We are quick to say, “Ok, I don’t have a disease that makes me a loser—I just need to try harder.”

I told my mother in January 2007 that I had a problem drinking, she told me to get it together and learn how to better manage it. It wasn’t until 2010 when I lost my job that I considered once again that I had a problem. My then boyfriend, now husband, didn’t even believe Alcoholism existed. He believed too that is was merely a control issue that only weak people are talked into having a problem with. And so, from 2007-2010 I drank more and more and more, until I lost my job due to drinking. In the three months from the time of losing my job of five years to going into rehab, I managed a lot of damage. My son decided he had enough and left to live with his dad, I had three hospital stays, one in which I pulled out my IVs (twice) trying to escape, and a mysterious black-eye while at home alone in a blackout. I would lose three days at a time—I would have a drink and wake up three days later, half alive, dehydrated and hungry. I began to believe something was literally taking over my body and I went somewhere else for the duration. Each time I was simply trying to control it, I can do it this time, I really can. And then I would wake again, with my first thought being: “Damn it, I did it again.” And then I’d swear off alcohol for hours, days or weeks, and inevitably I would try again. After my 28 day stay in rehab I managed another month of sobriety, and to reward myself, and also to prove I can control this thing, I drank again. And this time I managed my first, and hopefully my only DUI.

I spent the next three years relapsing. I would get some time and I would either reward myself or test the waters again. I consider myself an intelligent person, I have degrees to prove it! Yes plural, I have a Master’s and a Bachelor’s and two Associates degrees; doncha know I can lick this drinking thing on my own—my mother and boyfriend told me so? I thought I was proving that I could control drinking, when in reality, I was proving that it controls me.

It may not look like it on paper, but rehab saved my life. Rehab introduced me to another perspective of AA, not one in which they praised God and Bibles, but one where they all shared a common struggle and a common goal. It was the first place and time I raised my hand, with no shame, and said “Hi, my name is Tara, and I’m an Alcoholic.”

Needless to say, I had a hard time with Step 1: We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable. But my time in college taught me to never give up, so I kept going to meetings. I didn’t believe in a God (graduate school made me a hardcore Agnostic), but I could somewhat get on board with a "Higher Power." I questioned and doubted everything everyone said, but I had eyes and ears—it was clear something in those rooms was working.

For a long time I believed they said it was a “progressive disease” just to scare us into not drinking again. I had to learn everything empirically, the hard way. In many ways I was trying to prove them wrong and show them how very different I was—that what worked for them, just wouldn't work for me. But I was desperate and so very broken; I had tried everything and everything kept getting worse. So I listened when I showed up, and I heard them say "Keep Coming Back" and "Don’t Quit Before the Miracle Happens." I mostly doubted all their bullshit, but I kept coming back anyway; they had something I wanted: sobriety and joy. And still much to my surprise, a miracle did actually happen. And eventually I found the old me when I had some real sobriety, and I remembered: the old me can handle anything, even Alcoholism.

There was once a kind, noble and sexy prince who wanted to marry a pea.

The kind, noble, sexy prince was called Henry. The pea was called Pea. The prince was just the right size, quite attractive, very interesting and supremely funny. Everyone said he was a catch. The pea was small and round and green, it kept itself to itself and always ate its veg. The prince was a veg connoisseur. The wedding date was set and the guests invited. But the king wasn’t happy. The king was rarely happy. The queen was agoraphobic.

The king was a good king; he loved his son too much to see him throw his life away on a pea. He asked him why he was doing this. Why did he want a pea as a consort, a pea as a wife? But father, I like Pea; it doesn’t contradict me very often, maintains a consistently pleasing shape and colour and is pleasant to be around. I feel like the best version of myself when I’m with Pea. 

Preparations continued and the day of the wedding drew close. The prince was measured for his bespoke suit and the pea for a designer pod.

“As I walk the streets of red, stained with the blood of both the dying and the dead, I realize that I, too, though still alive, am constantly dying.” These were the words that ran through Traugott Hollis’ mind as he entered yet another burned out city. He’d repeated the phrases so often, and for so long that he truly couldn’t even remember where or when they had come from. He seldom even tried to any longer. But they were such a part of who he was that he couldn’t ever quite put them out of his head. They were always there, itching, like a deep wound that had finally almost healed. They didn’t describe this particular city at all, though. Everything here was only black, various shades of gray, and dirty white; the color-drained hues of ash. Exactly like every leftover husk of civilization he had wandered through since his journey began.

Exactly what his destination would be, he hadn’t a clue. But even without being able to know where he was headed, he always knew he was on the right track. Lately that track had been taking him west. Always west. For so long that, had he begun with a map of his homeland, he long ago would have crossed over its edge into uncharted territory. Maps, like everything else, it seemed, were distant relics of the past. He remembered them well from the classrooms when he was a boy, though. And he had studied them so closely that he knew within himself that he was no longer within the borders of his childhood territories. He had left that familiar land when he crossed the half wrecked bridge over the Tethys River. That had been two full moons ago.

Although he knew he wouldn’t find much of use, he still had to search the buildings ahead. While the provisions in his pack weren’t exactly low, he always heard the urging of his mother’s voice telling him he needed to eat more. He had always been one of the smaller boys in the village growing up, but that had never concerned him. His strong faith and the longing to follow his uncle into the priesthood made him curious as to his mother’s concern about his physical stature. Traugott’s brothers had always been the warriors of the clan. For them, size was of paramount importance, at least to hear them tell it. But up until recently, Traugott had never seen the destruction and desolation of war. “Honestly,”, he muttered quietly to himself, “I never really even thought about it.” That was the blessing of growing up in a society that had been devoid of any major conflict for over 230 seasons. Traugott still wondered why that had changed. Why had such a sudden end come to the peace and security he had always known?

It seemed like this end of town was the business district. At least, it had been, in its past life. As always, when he entered another ghost town, the nagging thought, “What did they do with all the bodies?” wisped its way through Traugott’s mind. He had passed a partially melted signpost 1,000 girahs back, which had at one time announced the settlement’s name. But the fires had burned so intensely here that all traces of paint had been melted from the now twisted metal. “What sorcery could have possibly caused this kind of destruction?”, he asked the purged ruins. Like all of his questions, this one, too, remained unanswered.

The first building he came to appeared to have been some kind of warehouse or factory, a very old one, judging by the masonry. Just like in all the past villages he had ventured through, the only remaining ruins were built like the citadels he had read about as a child. Fortifications built to withstand prolonged siege or attacks that had been all too common in times long past. Although these stones still stood, they had by no means survived the mayhem of this place. Every trace of wood, whether architectural or furnishings, had been reduced beyond the level of common ash. A smooth, almost oily, soot covered every surface of this place. Yet, surprisingly, Traugott’s clothing and boots remained untouched by the evil blackness of the stuff. It was almost as if it had bonded with the surfaces it covered. Even his blade and his pick couldn’t coax this mysterious soot to part from the stones or the metal to which it adhered.

With nothing but the stones and the soot remaining in the factory, Traugott decided to move deeper into town. He wanted to be back in the countryside before twilight arrived. Although it was only early afternoon, he feared being in this place after dark. He knew this trepidation was unfounded. “Probably unfounded,” he whispered half convincingly to himself. Perhaps he didn’t believe in ghosts, yet still he sensed the evil in this place. If not of the place itself, then of the being or beings who had caused the life to be burned from it. Although the ashes were long cold, the Destructors’ presence still lent heaviness to the air here. It had been the same throughout his recent travels. He always felt more comfortable in the open spaces, where nothing could reach out from a doorway or window to snag his tunic.

The town revealed only more of the same, soot-covered emptiness street after street. Then, suddenly, Traugott caught a brilliant glint of sunlight from a blue street sign. The sign read “Galicia”. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of the word. He spun in a full circle in the middle of the street to assure himself that he was, indeed, alone. A chill ran up his spine, as this had been his younger sister’s name. She had been just twelve when she disappeared. That had been, what? Eight seasons ago? Yes, that was right, eight long seasons had passed since the girls in the village had started going missing. Galicia had been the third child who had simply vanished. Despite his uncle, Elishima’s, warnings that the Forloreniss would begin with children disappearing mysteriously, and despite all of Laniobre taking precautions against it happening.

Traugott knew the street sign was the Destructors’ doing. For some unknown reason, they wanted him to continue his pursuit, and by placing this sign here, painted with this particular name, they were taunting him, attempting to make him race recklessly after them. This was the first time he had seen tangible evidence that they actually knew about him and his travels. Never before had he seen anything so untouched within the destroyed zones through which he had passed. It was as if the sign had been carried in weeks after the fires and bolted to the signpost by some handyman with a twisted sense of humor. He had often wondered, especially in the darkness of night , if they were aware of his hunt. “At least that question has been answered.”, he said. The quaver in his voice belied how much this answer terrified him.

The presence of the sign also made Traugott wonder how much more they knew about him and his family. Had they chosen Laniobre because of him and what he knew about them from the prophetic dreams Uncle Elishima had told him about as a child? He had certainly been correct about the disappearances. And the attacks. The horrible attacks in the dead of night when it sounded like the entire world was exploding all around them. When it felt like the gates of Halja itself had been split open to spill its tormenting flames into his realm. He had even perfectly described the horrible, banshee-like screams of the Destroyers. Screams that seemed to come from everywhere at once, that were so loud and so horrific that even Traugott, with his unwavering faith, had momentarily prayed for the flames to claim him so the sound would just stop. Those screams had haunted his dreams, both waking and sleeping, more days than not throughout the long, tormentingly slow-passing seasons since he had first heard them.

Although he tried desperately to remain calm, he half ran to the corner beneath the sign. As he crossed the street where the sign was, he glimpsed an entire house that had been left untouched by the blaze. Even more miraculous was the fact that it was a small log cabin with shake shingles. Not a single shingle even looked dry, let alone singed. The logs were a beautiful red, and were perfectly hewed and joined, as if a group of master craftsmen had felled the trees themselves, and then brought them into town only days ago to build this cottage specifically to confound Traugott. There were even robin egg blue shutters at both sides of each multi-paned window. Although the house’s appearance was troubling in itself, even more concerning was the impeccable lawn and gravel walkway leading to the front door. Every detail was frighteningly familiar to the traveller. As well they should be. This was the very house his grandmother had lived in, surrounded by the fir woods just outside Laniobre. At least, it appeared to be. But that was impossible, wasn’t it?! The cabin had been completely destroyed, along with the woods themselves, in the first wave of attacks against the township 6 seasons ago. Of course, he had to go inside. As much as he feared what may lie on the other side of those eerily familiar walls, he felt himself slowly walking between the perfectly shaped hedges that lined the front edge of the lawn. As shocking as seeing the familiar house was, what bothered Traugott even more was the crunching of the small stones of the walkway under his heavy boots. The sound caught him off guard, as, suddenly, he was transported back to his seventeenth summer, walking up the same path toward that small, yellow door. Surely, that time, his heart hadn’t been hammering such a racing, staccato rhythm as was being sounded by it now.

Good Morning, Prosers, 

Challenges have been updated! New options are available and you can now attach prizes and entry fees, in the form of Prose Coins to your challenges. Winners take home the purse, and entry fees serve to either increase the prize pool, or reward you for writing a great prompt.

Entry Limits: You can now specify the minimum and maximum number of allowed entries. Minimum entries determines the minimum number of entries required, before the end date is reached, for a winner to be declared. If the minimum number is not reached, challenge entry fees and prizes will be refunded, and the challenge will be marked "expired." Maximum entries determines the maximum number of entries allowed. If the number of entries reaches the maximum before time runs out, the challenge will be resolved early and applicable prizes will be distributed.

Judgement: Winners can be chosen in one of two ways. 

Democracy challenges automatically choose the post with the most likes at the time of the challenge resolution, either when the end date or the maximum entry limit is reached. 

Monarchy challenges require the creator (you) to select a winner when the challenge ends. You will be notified by email when it's time to make a selection, and can select a winner by pasting the URL of the winning post on this page. 

*Premium challenges (challenges with prizes), require the winner to be selected by the monarchy rule, and for the selection to be confirmed by Prose.

** You can now check out the winners of previous challenges from this day forward by visiting the following link theprose.com/challenges/archive. The winners will only be displayed for challenges created from this point onwards.

Prize Rule: The prize rule determines how entry fees and winner prizes are used. 

Flat Prize challenges require the creator to provide the prize purse up front. If the challenge does not reach the required number of entries in time, that prize will be returned to the challenge creator. If it resolves successfully, the winner takes the prize. Entry fees for flat prize challenges go 100% to the creator until the prize is fully reimbursed, at which point the creator splits entry fees with Prose 50/50. 10% of the prize is charged as a non-refundable posting fee when the challenge is created. 

Compound Prize challenges add 70% of each entry fee to the purse, 20% goes to the challenge creator, and 10% to Prose. Compound prize challenges cost 100 coins ($1) to create.

Prize: The prize only applies to challenges with the prize rule set to "flat" or "compound." For flat prizes, the prize you enter is the prize the winner receives. For compound prizes, the prize you set is just a starting point. 70% of each entry fee is added to the prize until the challenge resolves.

Entry Fee: Entry fees are paid by participants to enter the challenge. Entry fees are optional for flat prize challenges, but are required for compound prize challenges. For flat prize challenges, the entry fee is used to reimburse the challenge creator. For compound prize challenges, 70% of the entry fee is added to the total prize purse, with 20% going to the creator, and 10% to Prose. Of course, you can still set a free-to-enter challenge with no prize either. The above applies to 'premium challenges' only

Posting Fee: When you post a premium challenge, you pay the baseline prize up front. That prize is stored until the challenge resolves, at which time the prize is sent to the winner. If the challenge expires before reaching the minimum number of entries, the prize will be refunded to you. In addition to the prize, you will be charged a small, non-refundable posting fee, equal to 10% of the base prize.

Along with this huge update, we have fixed a handful of bugs and cleaned house. 

We've got a couple more challenge extras we want to bring you, and then we shall be moving forward with our goals for improving your experience. 

Until next time, Prosers, 

Prose.