What the fuck was I doing here? Living on the side of a highway on borrowed land on another man's land was there a better life? There must be somewhere pushed from pillar to post all my life so many houses to live in so many lives lived who was I back then?

A lover a fighter and adventurer a poet a painter a seeker.

What am I now? a writer a son the good son? Always the good son.

How would we end up? Us so fragile and broken yet searching for peace and light.

Was the fight over? No not in this life not in this world not ever.

As long as you give it a go give it a shot be true that was what mattered.

Pass fail not the point as long as you tried.

I look at myself in the mirror. Pour over every inch of my eyes, clutch the tabletop as I lean forward to search for any blue. Because if I saw it, it would be a punch to my already restless soul. But I search.

My own fingertips don't want to trace the reflection. I know my features don't match my mothers. I see it when I dip into her bathroom as she gets ready for bed and see us standing side by side, and I see a warped mix of you and something somehow worse.

I see it in family photos. My nose may dip like those I love, but that is the extent of similarity.

I am pale, and my eyes aren't dark enough, and my feelings aren't quartered enough to be my mother's.

I feel hesitant in my own reflection, sheepish,— like an adopted child its unknown sibling.

But I am glad I'm not.

I share my brothers half dimple, and their heart.

It is my mom's.

Always trying, always wanting more, never finding it but seeking regardless and terribly broken when it is never achieved. At least a few weeks is devoted to each of us. Never at the same time, but a constant.

My mother gave up years of her own pain so we could feel ours, while you felt nothing hut selfishness in the bed of someone that didn't resemble my mother. Treated a girl my age as a daughter. Goaded my brother to be interested in her.

Pain is the only constant since you.

They told me my golden curls were yours— so I dyed and straightened them to submission— through burns to my scalp and neck and a constant chemical itch to the tender skin of my skull you never kissed. My mother did. My brothers did. Your own brother did.

You don't question it when you see it; the change. Maybe you like me better this way. You always mention when you see me that I look slimmer; fitter. Ask me of my diet. Ask me of my diligence to working out, and frown when I say less then four times a week.

When I straighten my unruly curls, you chastise me. Tell me I'm beautiful natural.

I say nothing. Because you were not there when I first straightened my hair with my mom, cousin and aunt in my childhood kitchen. Felt relieved to be rid of the curls, though the blonde stubbornly didn't burn off.

I take your slamming of cupboards when youre angered. I grimace when you offer my brother a fifth beer but won't offer me a second, because I shall permanently be the little girl you left.

You were not there.

I tilt my head later at night during movies when he asks about my maternal grandmother, outliving his own mother. Glance at my closest brother if I'm so lucky he's there; the only one willing to hear my stories, to ache alongside me, to come to his baby sister with questions of our father I have poured over and studied for half a decade now.

And I sip my second beer, curls free, calories two thousand in the negative. And I grimace when he says I'm underdressed in sweats at eleven at night, when they are dressed similarly.

And I understand his anger. His dependence on alcohol, because it cools me in his presence.

The unknown has been a constant source of fear for me. My mind generates varying storylines involving “what if” tangents when I don’t have a clear vision of what’s going to happen. I lean towards pragmatic when dealing with the future by making informed decisions based on past data with the hope it results in happiness. And since Life requires swinging at all its pitches, even the curve balls thrown from time to time, I’m always looking to steal a sign from the first base coach to increase my chances for a hit.

But there are situations that can’t be prepared for by using the knowledge gained from those who’ve already experienced it. Death falls into this category. “What happens when we die?” is a speculative question asked by those who are alive that can only be answered by those who are deceased. And the dead aren’t talking.

That’s why I’m formulating a preemptive approach to kicking the bucket utilizing the limited information gathered from my time spent so far on our glorious planet. This is the rationale for the two explicit instructions I left to the executor of my estate regarding my funeral arrangements.

First, I am to be buried in modest business attire and comfortable shoes with the New World Translation of the Holy Scripture Bible in one hand and a Watchtower pamphlet in the other. This ensemble is a strategic move using other people’s prejudices to my advantage. It’s a last-ditch attempt to nudge redemption in my favor on the outside chance I’m standing at Hades’ threshold after I pass.

Because, if it’s not Heaven’s door that I’m knock, knock, knockin’ on, I’ll do whatever it takes to prevent admission to a neighborhood eternally consumed by fire and brimstone. I’d favor not residing in a community ruled by a satanic HOA requiring the successful rolling of a stone to the top of a hill before I can paint my house any color other than perdition red.

Successfully impersonating a Jehovah Witness might be my ticket out of Gehenna. Because when the Grim Reaper swings open the portal to Hell in response to my incessant rapping, he (or she, don’t want to risk insulting the Angel of Death by misgendering) will see my literature and assume the basis for my visit involves evangelical overtones. Instinctively, this will elicit the curt response of, “I’m not interested” followed by an unrestrained shutting of the door in my face. Just like what’s been executed thousands of times previously by inconvenienced homeowners throughout history.

This burial outfit buys me additional, precious time to avoid Beelzebub’s Welcome Wagon. Getting a delay, even for a few moments, is a last-ditch effort to prove my worthiness. Any spare minutes I get will be used for an appeal to a higher authority. Hopefully, my desire to dodge the Devil will garner a favor from the Man Above, who will appreciate the effort I put forth and then reward me with a Speed Pass to the Pearly Gates.

If I’m fortunate enough to end up in Heaven in the first place, then I’ll nonchalantly tuck the brochure in my back pocket and patiently await St. Peter’s roll call. Either way, wherever I end up, I will finally know what happens when you stand at Death’s door.

The second directive for my memorial is that my coffin has a split lid so it can be an open casket service. But there’s one precondition. While I’m lying in state, the lid over the lower portion of my body is raised while the upper section over my torso remains closed. This has no benefit for me in the afterlife. It’s solely for those who have gathered to say farewell. This configuration would catch everyone off-guard and instill some levity in an otherwise somber occasion.

I accept that the circumstances I went through after dying cannot be relayed the living. But maybe just viewing my legs will give those who knew me another reason to grin or chuckle. And isn’t replacing tears with smiles the gift a departed loved one can bless you with to make an uncertain future a little less daunting and little easier to deal with?

An empty abyss. Quiet knowing shadows. 1 door. And a body I can no longer control. Sounds don't exist. Memories come and go in a series of waves, hellos, stories and goodbyes.

Confusion fogs my brain at first then denial sets in for a moment or 2. Slowly as if coming out of a deep sleep I see and spend a moment chatting with memories from not too long ago and realize it's over. No more memories, no more laughs, no more tears, no more sighs and no more… anything.

Just a door, plain and deceptively simple, but it will seal my fate the moment the hinges creak and the door swings. During the walk I reminisce on good old memorise, have chats with moments that hurt but made me stronger. Everything feeling surreal and not quite real. The smoke and shadows seemed to hold their breath as slow dragged-out footsteps carried me towards the plain white door.

My family… I hope they're ok. Promising myself I think, "I WILL watch over them." Guilt hits me like a punch to the stomach. I have left my family and friends to mourn my passing. "How could I? No! Please no let this not be true!"

I wonder what's behind the door as I'm still slowly approaching to knock. I wish I could go back and tell everyone it's ok and I'm fine. I regret nothing though. I don't think I'd redo anything if given the chance. Just maybe say I love you to my family and friends and then fall into the sleep of eternity. They said this was the easy part of life; I've got mixed feelings on that statement.

The door loomed and became larger with every slow, dragged-out step. It finally dawned on me, toe to toe with the door. I'm not going back. The need to crumble, cry and mourn my family and friends takes over my heart. Why? Why did I have to put them through this? I, of all people, the one with the fear of grief and loss had to be so selfish as to put my family through what I feared most.

IM SORRY! The words tear at my throat as my traitorous body ignores me. it raises my hand and slowly brings it down. Tears build against dam walls I wish I could open.

A new wave of guilt pierces my soul and makes me wish that I would just knock already and not knock at all.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I am so so sorry.

The door opens after a single knock and resignation overcomes me and my mantra of guilt and self-loathing quiets as I take my last breath.

I'm sorry I went first, my friend.

I'm sorry I made you weep for yet another family member.

I'm sorry my body didn’t hang on. I wasn’t ready either.

I'm sorry I didn't know it was over, maybe I would have said I love you one more time.

I'm sorry for being selfish. I’m glad I didn't have to watch you go first. I will be having tea with Papa, and we’ll await your turn. I’ll be the one on the other side. Waiting for you to knock so I can open the door.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry I had to say Goodbye

When he was growing up, everyone used to say, what a strange kid that Robbie Stephenson. If his head wasn't in a book, he was writing --in the margins, on his hand, a napkin, toilet paper, desks, the walls, tiled floors. Yes, he was unusual, but his constant scribbling eventually paid huge dividends. At merely 30 years of age, Robbie is an award winning, New York Times best-selling author of erotic romance novels publishing multiple times a year. He has authored over one hundred fifty books over the last ten years alone. (He published his first novel at 18 through Harlequin.)

As soon as he could string words into sentences, Robbie was making up stories. When he learned to write, he wrote and illustrated stories on the ruled writing paper his mother bought by the pound at the local teacher supply store (anything to keep him from writing on the walls). He wrote about a little boy having adventures in the woods or scoring the winning runs, baskets, or goals in pivotal games, and being celebrated and adored by all. By sixth grade, his main character was a loner who solved crimes the police couldn't, a brilliant boy detective who garnered success and adoration by solving the most difficult cases that would stump even Sherlock Holmes (he'd read the complete collection of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories by the age of ten).

In middle and high school, Robbie became an avid runner and swimmer garnering several medals for his efforts. He claims he only participated in sports because he got some of his best ideas for stories in the silence under water or running around the track.

Until Alys Duprey.

Alys (whose name has been changed to protect her privacy) invited Robbie to the Sadie Hawkins dance his senior year of high school. Later that night they sneaked into her bedroom and he discovered his greatest inspiration and new (second) favorite past time. It was then that he began his meteoric rise to celebrity status. Apparently, Alice was not averse to giggling about a good time with her girlfriends so Robbie remade his writer's haven in his parents' basement into his personal lab where he began experimenting with willing young women the climactic scenes of his novels.

His draw was more than the bedroom gymnastics, however. Each of his paramours received her own story written with a feathered pen--that served other purposes as well, of course-- anywhere and everywhere he felt inspired to write on her person. No longer limited to paper, napkins or his own hands, Robbie expanded his writing surfaces to include flat backs, warm bellies, firm thighs... For him, it was fulfilling a need to write when inspiration struck without having to disengage from his second favorite activity. For her, something to remember him by...at least until the ink finally washed away.

Robbie Stephenson is one of the greatest erotic romance novelists of our time. His dedication to his craft is commendable.

Did I just die? Most centurions decline quickly in their final days. Why am I so elated to lie still while I can’t feel my breath or my feet?

What I’m seeing is “pure heaven.” The lush turquoise door reminds me of the sparkling waves of the Caribbean. The metallic door knocker is shaped like a precious sand dollar. I hear angelic voices singing my favorite oldies tunes – all about love.

Still, I’m hesitant to see what’s on the other side. Surely my Mom and Dad will be there with open arms, and it’s been forever since I’ve had a hug from Grandma. What could possibly go wrong?

The alarm clock goes off.

She thinks me good.

Calls me kind, and gentle.

I read the message with a bitter expression— somewhere between a scowl and a frown and a smile all at once. I could not replicate it with a gun to my head.

Could not replicate these emotions in text, or art.

Couldn’t replicate how I see myself in reflection, eyes dark and held up by bags of pure exhaustion though I sleep fine every night. I lick at my thumb and pointer for the left and right respectively, presuming it’s makeup.

Nothing comes off. Nothing changes.

My body trembles, elbows on knee, upper arms working to do something. Anything. Type back. Say something funny she will not laugh at, because she is pure and innocent and does not know what it’s like to undergo what I’ve gone through.

It would be easier if she did. But I would sooner undergo it for eternity then have it happen once to her. Warm hazel, green in the light, blue in the wounded.

I look in the mirror jaw flexed, and horrifyingly, I do not recognize myself.

Skin splotchy, sagging where it shouldn’t at my early twenties. Flaws blossoming the longer I look at each area. Uneven. Scarred. Sickly.

I continue on my way, back to the bar in my closet that is littered with the hydro switch and empties, and a box of twenty four I bought two days ago that is fourth of the way done.

I like at my bottom lip. Assure myself it will inspire me. That I deserve it because it is a Thursday, and tomorrow is a Friday, and then when I buy more to fill the empty spaces in the box that I deserve it.

I think of people I shouldn’t. Hurt. Ache. Pangs similar to hunger that cannot be satiated no matter what I put into it.

But to her I am good. And it is maddening, and angering, and I want it at the same measure that I wish it would leave.

It's rather disconcerting to wake up and realize you are not in your bed, indeed, all signs point to your being dead. You remember going to sleep, maybe. Or were you driving down the highway? Was there an accident? Or perhaps you were in the hospital with pneumonia again? Did you drive off that narrow mountain road while on vacation? Was the tumor not benign? Was the surgery unsuccessful?

All those moments when you cheated death are a tangled mess as you wonder which one did you in.

And as you wonder, you wander.

No fire. That's good, you think. I wasn't that bad. Really, I was quite good, all things considered...but there is also a dearth of clouds and angels singing joyously...so not as good as I thought.

You may be wandering, but you realize you are not walking...or flying or floating or crawling. You may have cognizance of your existence, but you are no longer within that aging body that had begun to fail you more often than not.

Ah yes! You had begun to age...perhaps you died peacefully in your sleep...home in the arms of those you love...or alone. That sounds rather sad and all too true. You remember the acute pain of loss.

As you remember, you become aware of something appearing...a door? A black hole so devoid of light you realize you are in a place of pure light. Indeed, you are an infinitesimal part of the light.

But you are moving towards the door. Towards the darkness that seems to whisper come. And you seem to know that way lies oblivion. And you want to reverse course, stay in the light where you still are, where you still know, and you can remember. But you realize you have no control of anything. The movement is chaotic, perhaps, but ever forward, towards the door that is a hole that leads to...to what? You don't know. You'll never know, you think.

And so, you spend what moments remain remembering the days of your life, that autobiographical movie people say you relive just before you die.

It might be seconds or minutes or hours or days or centuries -- for time does not exist in this place of light.

You are filled with peace as the door draws nigh.

You needn't knock. The door is open.

The movie becomes a swirling kaleidoscope before it all goes black.

But you are not afraid...because you no longer are.

**Based on true events, involving myself.**

…

It was day three of the refrigerator letting out a wheezing cough as I opened it. My stomach yearned for the taste of something other than the back of my throat. The night I spent, fighting the churning pangs, forcing sleep on myself before I inevitably gave into incessant hunger. I couldn’t do it any longer. The white walls—the white refrigerator. The droning noise in chronic silence. It was dizzying.

I managed to find a pair of clean clothes—I wasn’t able to wash in at least a month, my allowance of quarters simply fizzled away into nothingness—just as I did. A forgotten thing, a discarded item, simply another leaf in the wind—except, unlike a leaf, I had no purpose. I couldn’t melt into the ground and become life-bringing mulch, to nourish the scavengers, to produce any fruit. I couldn’t fly and plant a seed far away, and somewhere a tree could remember my sacrifice. I was nothing—and was to be, nothing.

After an unsatisfying shower, I donned my mask and clothes, and went into fresh air. The smell of the grass, the warmth of the sun, though during the fall it felt as if the Sun slipped away into the wind. I felt nothing. Looking into that blue sky—I felt no freedom. I still felt that cage of those walls closing around me. My freedom wasn’t to last. I had to be quick, my hunger wouldn‘t allow time to pass.

Briskly I walked, knowing my destination wasn’t far. I knew of a place that could provide what I looked for. I knew what my plan was. The grocery store loomed on the horizon, the letters captivated me—it felt like I hadn’t seen civilization in years, though really, it hadn’t been but a month. I remained indoors in fear that the ever-looming eyes would lash out again, accusing me of god-knows-what. I wasn’t to be seen or trusted. I was a thing, a thing to be forgotten.

It felt like forever, but I finally walked through the doors of my salvation. There were voices and sounds, smells that I missed—produce lining the aisles, reds, greens, blues—candies, cakes, cookies, it was bliss. The white walls of the refrigerator were forgotten in this place. In the past, the grocery store was my bane—now? —It was my only friend.

I scanned the place quickly, eyeballing any cameras, security and anything that would get in the way of my goal. I made it a point to remain as conspicuous as possible, acting innocently, carefully checking each item as if I were another clueless shopper. I casually walked to my left, and straight ahead to an area obscured by shelves, and unironically removed from people. A yellow box of lemon cookies caught my eye. I felt my stomach turn again—I needed this. Days of being abandoned took my senses into overdrive, the explosion of taste taking my fantasies into reality. I couldn’t wait, every hesitation abruptly left as I thought of the fullness of my stomach. I grabbed them, and stuffed them within my coat, making sure to avoid contact with anyone. Thievery wasn‘t my strong suit. I held my breath as I made my way back to the entrance, my heart jumping through my chest knowing what I just did. A teenage thief. Who would’ve thought?

I passed with deceptive quickness, passing security and managing to escape undeterred. I released my breath, letting out a silent chuckle, feeling a sick happiness as I clutched those cookies in my coat. The plastic surrounding them couldn’t be any louder, but I didn’t care—hunger was calling, and I needed to sate it.

Walking toward “home”, I knew that I’d be had if I returned with an item that no one knew where I’d originally obtained it. They would take what was rightfully mine—and like an animal, I claimed possession—rabidly thinking, “they’ll take this from me! No! I can’t—they’ll found out, they can’t find out, they’ll hurt me!”

I remember walking until I saw the park. It was casually placed by the local library I visited before my isolation. The gazebo stood as adequate shelter. My ordeal was almost over and I could finally eat!

I took myself and my prize and sat on the cobalt blue park bench. The seat was cold and uncomfortable, the metal felt like it was jutting into my bones. I didn’t care—nothing was more discomforting than the hunger. I removed the package from my coat and sat it on the similarly colored table in front of me.

My stomach angrily groaned. Oh I needed this—but then… I hesitated. I looked up from the yellow package, and saw… Life.

The sounds of the children playing. A group of men, engrossed in a game of basketball, sharing laughter. A mother with her children, a father taking them into his arms. A couple lazily enjoying the Sunset.

I saw Life. Life passing me by. That park bench stood as an anchor, holding me in time. Everything that was dull became full of color. I remembered the warmth of the Sun—remembering that it loved me.

—something fell down my cheek. I reached up a hand to clear it. Tears formed in my eyes as I watched Life from this park bench.

There was beauty in this humanity. But… I could find none in mine. On that bench—I was reduced to an animal. Clawing, and scavenging for a meal.

And then, I ate. Wiping salty tears away, mixed with the tang of lemon. The park bench and I stood in time.

Catholic school. The uniforms. The weight of our parents expectations. The silence we were expected to keep to preserve the atmosphere of the fear of God, and the petrified respect of ages; mirrored in the carved wall art of saints and their stages of struggle depicted in the stain-glass windows haunting us from above. All of us students had received the 'Body of Christ' and were all dutifully praying in our designated kneelers as the priest ushered the homeless in for the first time I had been aware of in my experience. One after another, these humble shabbily dressed souls received the bread from the Priest, until one black man with kinky hair and a crinkled up smile exclaimed:

"Damn, this shit taste like Ritz crackers!"

It echoed like a smack in the face, down the pews, and off the waxed wooden walls of St. Andrews church. It wasn't necessarily true; the taste of the Eucharist was more like a stale, papery potpourri, but it needed to be said to snap us out of the leaden shackles of our habitual ritual. The response was immediate. We all burst out laughing.

Years after this experience I began to taste the granules of cracker in my mouth; the buttery texture, the satisfying crunch, but also the undercurrent of salt that permeates so much through the thread of American snack food.

I would taste this cracker themed concoction always as an introductory signifier of a waking nightmare where I would be cruising through a maze of sorts and suddenly be alarmed by a scream that would be blood-curdling, morphing into a high pitched laugh that would evolve into a fear-inducing scream again. This anxiety ridden experience would quite often culminate with an anxiety attack that froze me in a state of terror where I was stricken with the undeniable feeling where at any moment someone was going to walk into my bedroom, (when the experience happened to occur in my bedroom)and murder me on sight. The final phase of this mind fuckery would be when I would promptly vacate my body in an uninhibited out of body experience. This began happening with enough regularity that I began arousing and adding kindling to the cycle of nightmarish sensation. I began to revel in the taste of the cracker and become excited when the fits would begin to possess me; inciting these mysterious cerebral states.

2/28/25

Bunny Villaire