Crying

(Trigger Warning: Themes of suicide.)

The morning is crying. The alarm pulls me out of sleepy stupor, a little babe screaming me out of bed. I look out the window. I give sound to the world with a sigh that millions share. I’m sure the sun would chuckle if it just peeked through the sky’s grey veil. But it can’t because the morning is crying.

                My bones feel the storm as I lift a spoonful of processed grains and milk to fill my belly. I ignore that bulging belly I hope to shrink as I dress in business casual. Willing my body to wake, I hurry out the door, almost forgetting the packed leftovers the fridge half-killed. I almost forget to kiss my family’s cheeks, too. But honestly, did they really care?

                The morning is crying, tears hitting my windshield. I drive past signs and scenery as gray and bland as I feel inside. I sing loudly to music hoping to drown out my thoughts and the nervous anxiety over the cars driving next to me. Despite my nerves, part of me wishes that someone hits me.

                I reach a parking lot and kill the engine in a yellow lined stall. I look up through the windshield at the greyish white building looming ahead. It houses a prison unlike any other. The work office. Most mornings I’m ambivalent about the sentence I serve, the job I am locked in. But today is different. The morning is crying.

                I take the elevator knowing every stair would feel like a mountain this morning. I walk into the office limply waving at co-workers with a sticker smile under my nose. I reach my desk and plop into my chair with a sigh. I hunch over and begin to work. Or at least try to look busy. I steal glances out the window and try to not be too bored. I’m not very successful. Boredom encases my brain while responsibility chains me to a swiveling chair.

                My thoughts begin to wander as I stare at the soulless computer screen. I stare so long that my eyes begin to cross and I hallucinate my thoughts being typed out before me. I shift uncomfortably at what they say.

                “What’s the point?” I think. “What’s the point of using precious breath and space to prolong such a pathetic life? Why when the most exciting thing most every work day is when you give your leftovers to be murdered by the microwave? Only to return to your desk with the heated remains of last night’s dinner and work through lunch?”

                I close my eyes to stop reading, but that doesn’t silence the thoughts.

                “What have you done with your life? You thought you’d be in such a different place by now. Where are the dreams? Where are your plans? Once so vibrant, they have crumbled like dried out rose petals and scattered like ashes.”

                In silence I hang my head. What have I accomplished? I had so many dreams once. Each shining gems in my hands. My wife and I would share and admire them together under the stars. Then reality sucker punched me over and over. One by one, the gems slipped from my fingers and sank into a sea of mediocrity.

                I look to the office window. I stand up and walk over. With my hand o the glass I stare down at the parking lot. Neat yellow lines on black asphalt box in rows of cars. I feel as boxed in and unexciting as those parking spots. Even worse, I feel like an undesirable empty space so far from the building that no one really wants to park there. The kind of spot that only gets filled when there’s no where else left. I’m that sad little parking stall that everyone in my life settled for.

                Tears drip on the windowpane. The morning’s been crying since I woke up but not just outside. It’s been crying inside me. I guess I already knew before realizing it.

                I turn to my desk and sit back down to quickly type an email. I write a quick note on a lined notepad then fold it up and put it in my pocket. I log out of my computer and walk past co-workers towards the door. To those who question I give some answer about feeling sick. Not a complete lie.

                Silently, I make it to my car not too far from the building. Not very close but even I prefer a parking spot more desirable than me. I start the car. I don’t even bother turning on my music. What’s the point unless to play some sad song, theme music, or anthem to match the atmosphere with my insides.

                I drive without any real destination.

                “Where to go, where to go?” I mumble to myself. I could go home but that would bring to many questions I’m not strong enough to lie to. Maybe a park? Nah, too public. I need somewhere mostly private, quiet enough for peace but not so quiet as to drown me in silence. And high. I feel a strange need to be somewhere high enough to look out over things. I drive towards the mountains.

                I drive up main roads as far up the mountains as I can go. I turn onto the first dirt road with a sign that says “Overlook Trailhead.” By now my ears have popped from the change in elevation. I reach the end of the road and the beginning of a hiking trail. I pull to the side of the road and park.

                I’m not really dressed for it, but I get out of the car and set on the trail through the trees. I keep my eyes out for any place where I can possibly sit and look out over the valley. But I can’t find a place until fifteen-twenty minutes have passed. I find a large boulder overlooking the valley, sticking out like a wart on a fair lady. The view is breathtaking. The opposite of my insides.

                I take my wallet out of my pocket and open it to pull out a small photo. It’s of my family. My wife and son smiling next to me. I heave a sigh heavy with decades of human experience. I set the photo down on the rock next to me and stand up. I close my eyes and tense up as I prepare to step forward.

                “That’s a very lovely family.”

                I flinch and open my eyes to see someone crouching down to look at the photo I left on the ground.

                “Excuse me?” I say.

                The stranger is a young man, probably in his twenties. He’s dressed in hiking clothes and boots with a red backpack. A red and blue Boston Red Sox baseball cap sits on his head. He looks up and smiles.

                “I said that’s a very lovely family,” he says.

                “Um, thanks,” I reply.

                “How old is your son?”

                “Almost five.”

                “That’s cool. He looks like you.”

                I shrug my shoulders.

                “Not really. He takes after his mother.”

                “I can see that. But he’s got your expression and smile down pat.”

                He hands me the photo. I look closely at it. He’s right! How have I not noticed that before?

                “I guess you’re right.”

                The stranger smiles.

                “He must really love you. Why else would he be smiling like that?”

                I about laugh.

                “My son was yelling at me and throwing a tantrum about wearing a button shirt just two hours before that was taken.”

                “Oh?”

                “Yeah. He wanted to wear a Batman shirt and cape instead. My poor wife was at her wit’s end and I was just trying not to lose my temper.”

                “How did you get him smiling for the picture then?”

                I actually laugh this time.

                “Notice how only his upper body is in the photo?”

                “Yeah.”

                “I let him wear his dinosaur slippers.”

                The guy laughs.

                “I’m sure your wife was happy with that.”

                Actually she was. I remember it quite clearly. Not only had I let my son wear his dinosaur slippers, I also let him wear his Batman shirt under the buttoned up one. He was so happy that he drew me a picture later that day. I also remember my wife’s smile as she thanked me for the help. After taking photos we all went and got ice cream. The waitress gave my son an extra scoop for being polite which he in turn shared with me.

                I smile.

                “What is it?” the stranger asks.

                “Oh, nothing. So you really think he has my smile?”

                “Definitely. He certainly got one of his best features from you. Oh, by the way I’d get away from the edge there. Don’t want to take that a shortcut.”

                “Oh, yeah.”

                I step away from the edge and step back onto the trail. They guy smiles at me then gets a serious look on his face.

                ”I know what you were doing there. Man, I get it. But I don’t know if that son and wife of yours would. I know it’s hard and you probably feel like you’re worthless, but they need you. The smile and expression on your kid’s face tells me you’re worthwhile to him.”

                He turns and begins to walk away.

                “Oh, and so you know every spot is important in a crowded parking lot.”

                I watch him disappear around the corner and into the trees. I then realize I hadn’t talked at all about parking lots. With this realization, I hurry after him. I go around the bend and… he is gone. Confusion blooms in my mind like ink in water. Where did he go? How did he know?

                Unable to find him, I walk back to the boulder and sit down. I gaze out over the valley. It really is pretty. By now it’s afternoon. My stomach rumbles, complaining that I never did let the break room microwave murder my leftovers. I ignore it. The morning was crying. Now the afternoon was overcast, not sure whether to start crying, too.

                I take out the note I had written earlier from my pocket. I unfold it and hold it up next to the photo of my family. I read the note.

                “My dear, I love you. I’m really sorry. Please, give our son a hug for me. Good-bye.”

                A simple note. Few words. But heavy all the same.

                “What am I doing?” I wonder aloud. I drop to my knees and begin to shout to the skies.

                “I know I shouldn’t, but how can I go on?! When I’ve done nothing! When I am nothing! Who needs me?! I don’t deserve them!”

                I bend over and put my forehead to the stone sobbing.

                “I don’t deserve them…”

                I kneel there for an eternity of minutes. My subconscious begins to whisper.

                “Maybe you don’t deserve them. But you have them. You want them. You love them.”

                I lift my head and stare at the wet rock where my tears fell. I begin to speak to the air again.

                “I have them. I want them. How can I throw them away?”

                I sit up and look down at my hands. The photo in my left and the note in my right. Both crumpled in anguish. Wounded by the battle raging in mind. Which should I save?

                I open my left hand and smooth out the family photo. My wife and son smile up at me. I fold it up as neatly as I can and stick it in my pocket. I take a deep breath and stand up. I close my eyes and let my other senses take over.

                Quiet. So quiet. Barely a rustle. Barely a distant bird song. I smell nearby grass and slightly damp trees and soil. I feel cool slightly humid air mixing with the tears on my cheeks. Goosebumps dot my skin. With my eyes closed, I feel my world rotating beneath my feet, anxiously anticipating what comes next.

                It suddenly stops. I snap my eyes open. I wind up my right arm and throw the note with all my mustered strength. It feels surreal as the crumpled paper ball slips through my fingers towards the horizon. It flies over the edge and disappears. Suddenly I feel numb.

                I feel empty. Not bad or good. Just empty. Like a space inside had just been vacated and silence pervades the air people left behind. And all I can think is, “What now?”

                I stand there for who knows how long. Finally I turn to return to the car. When I get to the car I look towards the sky. It’s still swathed in sad gray clouds. But off towards the horizon I see a tear in the blanket of dreariness. A patch of sky blue winks at me. I guess not even the sky can cry forever.

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Death’s Therapist

I recently started following a subreddit on Reddit where people can post various writing prompts. Well I found one I really liked:

“You’re the maiden of the goddess of Death, sacrificed to her long ago when the god of Life didn’t answer the town’s prayers. People think you’re suffering. In reality, you became the poor goddess’ therapist. Who knew gods couldn’t handle rejection like that.”

Well, I feel really good about what I wrote in response so I’d like to share this. Oh, and one more thing. Mom, Dad, if you’re reading this only keep reading if you’re okay with swearing and innuendo. Seriously, Mom and Dad, please don’t be too shocked about my work. Ahem. With that being said, enjoy.

“I don’t get it! I feel like you’re the only one who gets me, Rachael,” she said.

                The Goddess of Death, or “Alyssa” as she preferred and I’ve come to know her as, was sprawled out dramatically on the couch. Honestly, I didn’t really get it either. Alyssa was a vibrant woman who sometimes fit the stereotype of the bubbly ditzy blonde. But under the façade of the eternally 21-year-old looking woman was an intelligent sincere person who desperately wanted to be loved.

                “It makes no sense. Why are they so obsessed with Chad? If they only knew what the God of Life and his methods were like they’d probably call him a perv,” Alyssa continued exasperated.

                My training told me to remain as unbiased as possible but that was my initial thought of the God of Life, “Chad”, when I learned about him and gig. Plus Alyssa had really grown on me over the previous 5 years. I liked her. And Chad’s way of doing things was… well…. I didn’t really care for it. Nor for his misogynistic ego. Thankfully, I wasn’t his therapist. I was sorry for the poor schmuck who was.

                My name is Rachael and I am a god therapist. Ten years prior I was a frightened sixteen-year-old girl getting sacrificed to the Goddess of Death. My town, like many other nearby towns, had been plagued by low birth rates and struggling crops. They had offered dozens of animals along with pleading prayers to the God of Life without answer. They eventually began to think maybe it wasn’t Life’s withholding blessings, but an actual attack by Death. Alyssa later told me that it was actually Chad throwing a tantrum that was the cause. Go figure.

                Either way, my town leaders got together with the leaders of neighboring towns and decided they would round up the unmarried sixteen-year-old virgins (it’s always virgins, isn’t it?) and offer them up to Death as human sacrifices. Neither Alyssa or I get why being virgin was such a big deal and why it had to be girls. Then again, Alyssa didn’t even get why they had to be human. Humans, particularly male humans, assume the worst weirdest things about the gods, according to her.

                 There was a whole ridiculous ceremony where a priest made a show of deciphering runes that would tell him which girl Death wanted sacrificed. And, of course, it was me. Why me? Alyssa told me that she actually had no say in who was selected. The Goddess of Foresight and Chance made the choice. Damn goddess still won’t tell me why.

                I was laid on an altar and about to be sacrificed when suddenly the Goddess of Death and the God of Life appeared above me. Death wore a long black dress with a purple cloak and a death mask. Life was bare-chested and muscled with only leaves serving to cover up his naughty bits. Death claimed appeasement and that she would no longer bar Life from the land (as if she had done that in the first place). Then in a flash of light I was whisked away.

                When I opened my eyes I was standing in a strange room full of clothes of a fashion I’d never seen before. I later found out it was clothing from the future 21^st century. Apparently there are no time constrains on gods and goddesses. That was where I met Alyssa.

                I was shocked when she took off the mask. I had expected a skull or a pale ghostly face. Instead I got rosy dimpled cheeks, long golden locks, full lips, and diamond eyes. Her first words to me were, “You thirsty? You want a coffee or something? Let me change into some sweatpants first and we’ll get some.”

                I had no clue what coffee was, but hey, if a goddess offers it then you drink it, right? I was stunned speechless and just nodded. She smiled and snapped her fingers. Instantly her clothes changed from formal black dress to some slumpy pants and a very simple shirt. I won’t lie, it looked very comfortable as opposed to my ceremonial dress.

                She caught me looking and smiled. She snapped her fingers again and my clothes changed to look like hers. They were… cozy. I definitely could see the appeal of… What did she call them?… sweatpants. She smirked at my awe.

                “Coffee, latte, or cappuccino?” she asked.

                “What are those, goddess?” I responded.

                “They’re hot drinks.”

                “Ummm…”

                “You seem like a latte girl to me.”

                She nodded her head and two tall steaming cups appeared in her hands. She handed one to me.

                “Thank you, goddess.”

                “No need to be formal. Call me Alyssa.”

                That was around ten years ago. She explained a lot to me then. Told me I was still alive and free to join her entourage in any position I wanted. I didn’t even have to join if I didn’t want to. I could even go pursue the education I wouldn’t have gotten in the century I was born in. There was only one rule. I couldn’t leave the gods’ plane of existence. I could never walk among my people again, but I could live among gods and the humans they brought here. And that was a surprising number. People sure enjoy human sacrifice. Remind me to tell you about the Mayans sometime.

                Anyways, I experienced a lot in that first year. Met a lot of gods. Figured out the deal with Chad. Yuck. Everything was taken care of for me. Every opportunity was open to me. Eventually settled on pursuing an education. I went to a school run by the God of Knowledge. The guy could just pour info into your head like water but said he preferred old-fashioned teaching.

                As I studied it didn’t take long for me to realize that gods have issues. Not just Chad, though he is certainly a piece of work, but other gods, too. The Goddess of the Moon was scared of the dark. The God of Love was a complete player (never date a god, kids) to cover up his insecurities and fear of commitment. God of War had some bad post-traumatic stress. And the Goddess of Motherhood was always tired and wanting support and alone time from the God of Fatherhood.

                It was obvious to me there was also a shortage of help and support for the gods. So naturally I became a therapist. Alyssa was my first client. Now here I was in another session with her.

                “Like seriously, you know what I’m talking about,” she was saying. “Chad humps the ground and plants sprout. He’s always up people’s private business. And he enjoys it! And OMG, is he horny! He’s probably got hundreds of demigods running around. And the humans think he’s so great and praise him for all he does when in truth he just can’t keep it in his pants half the time.”

                “Well,” I started. “Don’t forget you once thought he was great, too. After all together you helped make humanity.”

                Alyssa cringed.

                “Don’t remind me. He was a bastard who used me to create something that could live, worship him, and die.”

                “I know that. But I remember you telling me that was the one good thing that came out of that relationship. Do you still believe that?”

                “Well, yes, I guess.”

                “And that was eons ago. Remember what we’ve said about the past?”

                “My past mistakes helped me grow but do not define me.”

                “Exactly.”

                Alyssa sat up, grabbing her head, and huffing in frustration.

                “Grrr… But they give him credit for everything. When they wouldn’t even exist how they are without me. They’re all so scared of me when all I do is take their souls to wherever the God of Judgement decides. Everyone hates me!”

                She gave a wail. Her wails were probably the only cliché that was true about the Goddess of Death. They ranged from haunting to blood-curdling. I lifted my latte to my lips and sipped thinking. I set it down and jotted a few notes on my notepad.

                “Alyssa, tell me why you think that. I don’t hate you. The majority of the gods don’t hate you. And there’s even humans who don’t hate you.”

                “Yeah, death cults. The crazies really love me,” she said sarcastically. “I guess the really old don’t mind me. They’re so tired they almost welcome me. But they still fear me. When I’m worshipped it’s either out of fear or they want someone else dead. I’m so tired of being feared for just doing my job.”

                “Does it feel like you’re being rejected for being you or for your position?”

                “Maybe a bit of both? I just don’t deal with rejection well.”

                “Yes, we’ve discussed that in regards to other relationships. I understand it didn’t go well with Robert, the God of Love.”

                “Oh, that’s right. He’s one of your clients, isn’t he?”

                “I can’t tell you who any of my other clients are, Alyssa. You know that.”

                She rolled her eyes.

                “Rachael, you’re like one of eight therapists who counsel hundreds of major and minor gods. Plus you’re considered one of the best. Chances are he’s one of yours.”

                “I still can’t say. Confidentiality and professionalism.”

                “Blink twice if he is.”

                I gave her a flat stare. She stared back hopefully. A minute passed. Gods don’t have to blink. But they do avert their eyes when things get uncomfortable. She broke first.

                “Fine,” she huffed. “But whatever Robert says I didn’t get Shakespeare to end Romeo & Juliet that way.”

                “Isn’t Shakespeare the famous playwright who will be born in a few centuries?” I asked.

                “Oh, I forgot again that time work differently for you. Sorry.”

                “That’s fine. But I’d like to talk more about your feelings of rejection as a goddess and as a partner in a relationship.”

                “Okay,” she said with a shrug.

                “Do you think that maybe how humans view you is affecting your self-esteem which shows in your relationships with others?”

                “Possibly… I’m afraid to be feared. So I kind of try not to be intimidating. That’s probably why others take advantage of me.”

                “Is that possibly why Chad was able to get his way when you dated?”

                “Maybe. But that doesn’t always happen. I’m always myself around Bruce and he doesn’t seem afraid.”

                “The God of War? Huh. Have you considered asking him out?”

                “Bruce? Well, we’ve definitely flirted from time to time, but I like our friendship the way it is. I’m afraid that it would just go wrong like any other relationship I’ve had.”

                I furrowed my brow and looked at the notes I had.

                “I’ve noticed you’ve only dated gods and a couple of demigods. Have you ever considered a relationship with a human?”

                Alyssa raised her eyebrows.

                “Seriously? They’re all scared of me.”

                “Then help them not to be. I’m serious. Maybe it’s time you stopped hiding behind the death mask and introduce yourself as Alyssa. Forgo the title and let them get to know the real you.”

                She appeared taken aback.

                “But how? I know nothing about dating humans. They’d probably die at just the sight of me.”

                “That’s why we leave the death mask and illusions here in the pantheon, Alyssa.”

                “But, but…”

                I shake my head.

                “I’m telling you this as your therapist and friend. You need to come out of your shell and enjoy your eternity. You can do that by taking control of your love life.”

                Alyssa casted her diamond eyes down.

                “But my anxiety…”

                “Do you remember your coping skills? Do we need to go over them again?”

                “No, I remember. Breathing, personal mantra, meditation, and focusing on my senses.”

                “And if those don’t work?”

                “It’s okay to remove myself from the situation.”

                I nodded in approval. She still seemed nervous, though.

                “If you want to prepare,” I said, “you can ask for advice from the humans here in the pantheon. I’m even willing to help you get ready.”

                She brightened up.

                “Really? You’ll help?”

                “It’s kind of part of my job.”

                Alyssa began bouncing up and down on the couch.

                “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Rachael! I owe you big time!”

                “Says the goddess who saved me from getting sacrificed.”

                Alyssa smiled. I looked at my human watch. This session was almost over. I had a meeting with the Goddess of Health after this, and Maggie really hated to be kept waiting.

                “I’m sorry, Alyssa, but I need to end a little early today. I’ve got a meeting. But meet me in three human hours at Hermes’ Espresso Café. We can get to work there.”

                “Sounds good to me. Can’t wait.”

                She blinked and vanished from the couch. I took another sip of my drink. Alyssa was right all those years ago. I really am a latte girl.

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“You’re Beautiful”

“Grandma?” a boy asks.

“Yes, dear?” an old woman replies.

“Why does Grandpa still call you beautiful?”

The old woman thinks for a minute as she looks in her dressing table mirror. She is sitting in her room doing her hair while her grandchild watches. It was understandable the boy would ask. Her teeth were tinted yellow with one or two missing. Her sagging skin looked like it threatened to slide off her face. You could see her scalp through the thinning white hair she was curling with an iron. She sets the curling iron down to look at her slightly trembling hands. They are as dried and cracked as the desert with canyon lines crisscrossing the backs of them.

Her eyes move to a picture on the dressing table. An old black and white photo from her wedding day. Such a lovely happy couple. She was certainly a looker, any person that could see would say that. She looks in the mirror again. The crucible of life had certainly not been kind.

Still after over fifty years of marriage and five kids her husband calls her beautiful. Her eyes move to another photo on her dressing table, this one much more recent. You could see it in the handsome old soul’s face. He couldn’t stop looking at her. She knew why but how could she explain it to her grandson?

“Let me ask you something, honey,” she started. “What’s beautiful to you?”

The boy thought for a moment.

“Mom, sunsets, bright red new shoes, my dog Chloe, and… and…”

The boy put his fists to his head trying to rack his brain for more things to add to the list.

“It’s okay if you can’t think of everything now. So tell me why they’re beautiful to you.”

“Um, well… Chloe is a beautiful dog. I really like to watch her run and play. And you can tell when she’s happy. She has a big smile. I like that smile.”

“Do you love Chloe?”

“Of course! She’s my best friend!”

“So tell me why sunsets and bright red new shoes are beautiful.”

“I like sunsets. The colors make me happy. I feel good inside when I see them when I’ve played all day. And I love bright red new shoes. It feels good to show them off to my friends. And I like how fast they make me feel. Sunsets and bright red new shoes are beautiful because they make me feel good.”

The grandmother nods.

“And why is your mom beautiful to you?”

The boy thought a moment.

“I’m not really sure. I just love her and she loves me. And her smile is really pretty. “

“So what do all these beautiful things have in common?”

“They’re beautiful?”

“Besides that.”

“Um…”

“Do they make you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Do they make you feel good?”

“Yes.”

“Do you love them?”

The boy smiles.

“Yes. But what does it have to do with why Grandpa still calls you beautiful?”

The grandmother smiles now.

“I’ll let you in on a secret. I still think Grandpa’s handsome.”

The little boy gives a confused look.

“Really? Why?”

“He makes me feel good and happy. I love him and he loves me.”

“I see.”

The boy thinks hard for a moment.

“Grandma, do you make Grandpa feel good and happy?”

“I like to think so.”

“So… because you love each other and you make him feel good and happy he still calls you beautiful?”

The old woman smiles wide.

“Yes, honey. And want to know something else?”

“Sure.”

“I think you’re handsome, too. “

The boy perks up and beams.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

The little boy gives his grandmother a tight hug.

“Michael! Time to go!” a woman’s voice calls out from the other side of the house.

Michael lets go of his grandma.

“Go to your mom, honey. I’ll see you later at the party,” Grandma says.

He turns and walks to the door. He pauses in the doorway and looks back.

“Grandma?”

“Yes, dear?”

“You’re the most beautiful grandma in the world.”

Grandma smiles.

“Thank you. I love you, too.”

Michael runs from the doorway almost bumping Grandpa in the hallway.

“Whoa, look out, buddy.”

“Sorry, Grandpa.”

Grandpa walks into the room and smiles at Grandma.

“Ready to go?”

“Almost.”

He walks over and plants a kiss on her cheek.

“Mary?”

“Yes, Jack?”

“You’re so beautiful.”

The End

Dedicated to my grandparents and great-aunts. You really were beautiful.

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Bloody Queens

Little girls dream of princesses,

I dream of bloody queens.

Queens such as Anne Boleyn,

beheaded on the Tower Green.

Mary, Queen of Scots,

beheaded by Anne’s daughter,

Marie Antoinette of France,

taken like a lamb to slaughter.

Then there’s Katherine Howard,

another Tudor wife.

She entered Henry’s marriage bed

and paid with her life.

I dream of queens tragically bloodied

and queens who bloodied others.

Queens like Bloody Mary,

who loved to play with fires.

Empress Anna Ivanovna,

colder than Russian winter.

Her acts of cruelty could make

the very summer shiver.

So many queens,

echoing screams through history.

So few understood,

so many a mystery.

Their hands reach out,

voices screaming disembodied,

haunting my nightmares,

shivers running through my body.

Fingers outstretched,

stained red as wine.

Pale cold faces appear,

dead eyes staring into mine.

Some scream for mercy,

mercy they never got.

Others laugh cruelly

for sins the world never forgot.

Hands grasp onto me

to drag me to Hell’s depths,

blood smearing over face & body,

smothering my breath.

That’s when I awake,

skin slick with sweat.

I look out through the window

where the sun had previously set.

In my ivory tower,

I breath a relieved sigh.

Sure that I am safe

I look upon a moonlit sky.

Tomorrow I will be crowned

and the hour is getting late.

I must get some rest

or I’ll be in a sorry state.

I refuse to lose sleep

over history’s ghosts.

Theirs will not be my fate.

I will be adored by hosts.

I have no need to be cruel,

no reason to be afraid.

My position is secure.

For this I was made.

I go to return to rest

when something catches my eye.

I look out on the courtyard

and can’t believe the sight.

A ring of ghostly women,

translucent, cold, and pale,

robed in crowns and ermine

with eyes that burn like Hell.

They surround a scaffold,

a sight that makes me gasp.

For there in the center

lays a bloody axe.

The women look to me

and point with bloody fingers.

I want to turn away

but my gaze still lingers.

Then they vanish into the dark,

and a voice speaks in my head.

“Dear sister, you’ll be one of us,

heed the words of the dead.

A woman with power

is something men hate.

Open your eyes to wisdom,

you can’t escape your fate.

There’s so much you don’t know

going on behind the scenes.

Friend and foe will use you.

Become a bloody queen!”

For a second time I truly wake.

I am left alone.

I lay there in my bed,

Trembling with fear & cold.

I can’t go back to sleep,

mind racing with the queens’ warning.

Minutes grow into passing hours.

Finally it is morning.

The day I had waited for

was finally really here.

I shake my head of thoughts

that fill my soul with fear.

Rubbing my eyes,

I leave the safety of my bed.

This exciting day of joy

now fills me utter dread.

But no, I won’t give in!

The queens don’t know me!

I refuse to be a pawn!

Just they wait and see!

Determined to not be used,

I’m readied for the day.

In elegant splendor,

to the carriage I make my way.

The day is filled with all the pomp

and ceremony the kingdom could muster.

With the grace expected of me,

I avoid all disaster.

My moment of triumph comes.

I kneel in a resplendent gown.

The bishop comes forward,

bearing the golden crown.

I can’t help but smile,

as it’s put in its royal place.

I make my way to the throne,

with queenly poise & grace.

“Long live the Queen!”

The crowd all cheers.

Shouts of adulation

ringing in my ears.

That’s when I see them.

Phantoms dressed like me.

The bloody queens are haunting,

ghosts only I can see.

I stare at the women,

standing amidst the crowd.

All their lips are moving,

but the hoards are too loud.

But I choose to ignore them.

I whisper, “You have no power.

I will be beloved by all.

Be gone this very hour.”

Pasting a smile upon my face,

I take the arm of my escort,

who guides me to the carriage

that will take me to my court.

I wave to the masses of people

crowding along the street.

Suddenly I see a queen

in the other carriage seat.

Her lips begin to move

but I will not let her speak.

“I will not listen

for I am not weak.

I do not need your guidance

for as queen I am strong.

I will not sully my hands.

I will prove you wrong.”

Expecting a rebuke,

much to my surprise,

the wraithly queen smiles,

a devilish gleam in her eyes.

With a respectful nod,

she vanishes away.

No spirits bother me

for the remainder of the day.

But for years to come,

they loom over my reign.

Visiting me day & night

to tell me of all pain.

At least that’s what I assume,

for I never let them speak.

What good are specters’ words?

What havoc would they wreak?

But a few words I heed,

I refuse to be used.

I secure all power,

determined not to lose.

I trust in no one’s wisdom

except for my own.

I take no husband or lover.

I refuse to share my throne.

I never can be too careful,

I won’t let anyone close.

Yet I’m never lonely,

being surrounded by ghosts.

One day I hear whispers,

not of ghosts but men.

Treasonous words they utter

of how my reign will end.

“They say the Queen is going mad,

she sees the dead everywhere.

She’ll send the nation into chaos,

talking to thin air.”

Servants gossip too much,

how else would courtiers know?

I must nip it in the bud

or the rumor would surely grow.

I assemble my court

and prepare to address them all,

when I notice her

against the farthest wall.

A spectral queen so terrifying,

unlike any seen before.

Her head a grinning skull,

her crown of blazing fire.

Tears of blood stain her cheeks,

dripping like melted wax,

in her arms a severed head,

face hidden by a mask.

The wraith glides towards me,

I’m paralyzed with wicked fear.

I scream at the queen,

“Why now?! Why torment me here?!”

The demon smiles a horrid grin,

and removes the mask from its place.

My scream rings through the court.

The head has my face.

“Why?! Why are you here?!”

I exclaim with a shriek.

“Why would you hold my head?!

I tell you I’m not weak!

Why do you queens torment me?!

What would you have me do?!

Who are you really?!

What hell hath spawned you?!”

With my ranting and raving

I almost fail to see

the frightened faces of the court

all staring at me.

I tremble in my throne

as the apparition draws quite near.

She speaks in a whisper

so low I can hardly hear.

Before I can make out the words

my lady-in-waiting comes to me.

With a face confused & upset

she drops into a low curtsy.

“My Grace, shall I call a physician?

You seem taken quite ill.

Shall I take you to your chambers?

To rest until you’re well?”

I see the demon vanish at her approach

making me oh, so furious.

How could the dolt no see?

Was she really that oblivious?

“What have you done, you wretch?

You made her disappear.

I’ll have your tongue for this,”

I reply loud, cold, and clear.

“Guards take her away.

To the rest let it be known,

I’ll have the tongue of any

who speak of madness on the throne.”

With that proclamation

I sweep out of the room.

Furious at my lady,

Unknowing I might’ve sealed my doom.

From this day forward

nothing will be the same.

Spirits won’t leave me be,

but I refuse to play their game.

True to my word,

I take the voice of every man,

servant or lordship,

who dares defy my ban.

But my efforts are futile

for news of my courtroom scene

make it to the masses.

I’m called the Mad Queen.

When I toured my kingdom

peasants use to flock and cheer.

Now they stare and whisper.

Love has turned to fear.

Everyone talks behind my back

that visions visit nightly.

As they lose all faith in me

I grip my power tightly.

I see them everywhere,

ghosts and people judging.

Though they want me stepping down,

from my throne I won’t be budging.

Unrest flourishes in the kingdom,

threatening my rule.

I put down all defiance.

I will not be taken a fool.

Still the people murmur,

still the spirits mumble.

Still I carry on

as my position crumbles.

Then comes the morning

before I’m fully dressed.

I hear commotion outside my door,

someone dares disturb my rest.

Forcing the door open,

In comes guards and advisors.

Seeing me in my nightdress,

they beg pardon for the hour.

“Dear Queen,” an advisor starts,

I quickly put up my hand.

“I want to know the meaning of this.

Your answers I demand!”

The leader steps forward,

either stupid or brave,

beginning to insult me,

not even bowing, the knave!

“Your highness,” he begins,

“We know you’re not well.

Whether you’re mad or sane,

we simply cannot tell.

We think it prudent to rest

starting this very hour.

We suggest you stay here,

no need to leave your tower.

And in your absence

we’ll tend to all affairs.

Matters very urgent,

such as naming heirs.”

“Heirs? Rest?” I laugh,

“That’s putting it nicely.

This is an attempted coup!

You think to depose me!”

“Call it what you will,

but matters stand as thus.

As long as you speak to air,

you can’t be ruling us.”

Shocked I sputter out,

“Then it is treason!

I will show you I am queen.

Guards seize them!”

Not one moves to action

and now I see the truth.

I have no power.

I will be removed.

I am truly alone.

I never bothered making friends.

No one loyal to help me.

I know how this ends.

“Fine,” I say through gritted teeth,

“I’ll make no fuss or scene.

I’ll even share my power

as long as I stay queen.

I’ll do my duty

and preserve the monarchy.

Choose a husband, produce a son,

prevent all anarchy.

Tell me what to do,

give me your demands.

I’ll do whatever it takes.

I’ll even dirty my hands.”

The lead advisor clears his throat,

and looks amused at me.

“We’ll consider your words.

We’ll weigh them carefully.

In the meantime,

stay in this tower.

We’ll send up your ladies,

and be back within hours.”

With that they leave,

posting guards at the door.

A servant brings me breakfast,

but I hunger no more.

My ladies enter in,

I bid them bring my finest dress.

I may be imprisoned,

but I’ll look my queenly best.

They help me dress then depart

leaving me quite alone.

Sure that no one can hear me,

I let out a sobbing moan.

I turn to my mirror

and jump in surprise.

Inside the glass I see

a pair of gleaming eyes.

A woman bathed in crimson,

glowing with ghostly sheen,

seeming to bleed from every pore,

the bloodiest queen I’ve ever seen.

She gazes from the mirror,

a steely stare unyielding.

For hours she watches me,

the tension always building.

I try to ignore her

as I pace to hear my fate.

But hours seem to stretch,

giving me time to contemplate.

I try to keep occupied,

I try to dismiss the mirror.

I sit down to pen and parchment.

I begin to write with great vigor.

I write of my reign,

I write of my dreams,

I write of all my life

haunted by bloody queens.

I write with fevered speed

until the sunlight grows dim.

I hear a knock at my door.

I bid them enter in.

A guard enters the chamber

looking rather grim.

He bows respectfully

asking me to come with him.

“This is it,” I think.

“They took time to deliberate.

Now I’ll see if I’ll stay queen

or endure a harsher fate.”

The guard escorts me out,

walking past the mirror.

The bloody queen smiles at me,

her eyes seem to glimmer.

I’m led to the council chamber.

and stand before them all.

I look upon all the faces

too eager to see me fall.

“Your Grace,” the leader starts

looking far too smug to me.

“We’ve drawn up our demands

to which I’m sure you’ll agree.”

He continues to drone on,

but I don’t seem to hear.

For behind each man

a bloody queen appears.

All the queens I’ve learned about

seem ready to attack.

Each with hands like claws

ready to plunge into men’s backs.

“No!” I scream,

my eyes wide with fear.

“Run, run away!

The bloody queens are here!”

“Your Grace?” the leader asks

but suddenly he stops.

Yelling, he grabs his chest,

from his place he drops.

The Skull Queen appears

behind where the man stood.

In her hand the man’s heart,

stopped from beating for good.

The advisors leap from their seats

but it is far too late.

Though they finally see the queens

they all meet the same fate.

Shocked by the gruesome sight

I flee from the room.

Now certain the queens are demons,

I must escape my doom.

The queens chase after me

calling, screaming, wailing.

I fly up flights of stairs,

my strength and courage failing.

My breath comes in heaving gasps.

My heart pounds in my ears.

Knowing I cannot stop,

I run with streaming tears.

Through galleries & battlements I run,

pursued by every queen.

My lungs feel about to burst

when I make it to the castle green.

Seeing the wraiths close behind,

I make towards the river.

I stop at the water’s edge.

I can go no further.

I spin to face them

bracing to meet my death.

Certain it will be my last,

I gasp and hold my breath.

Yet nothing happens.

No one tears me limb from limb.

They stop just feet away,

faces looking grim.

Two step forward,

queens I recognize.

The one bathed in crimson red,

the skull with weeping eyes.

“Demons!” I scream.

“What are you going to do?!

What is your purpose her?!

Have you come to kill me, too?!”

“No,” comes a soft voice,

Surprisingly gentle and kind.

I search for the source.

It’s the blood-soaked queen I find.

“We’re not here to kill you,

or at least I am not.

I’m the Queen of those who suffered at other’s hands.

Mercy they never got.”

She gestures to the other queen,

the skull weeping blood.

“This is my sister queen,

one to be frightened of.

She is Queen of those whose hands are scarlet

from sins they committed.

No follower of her path

to Heaven will be admitted.”

“Is she here to kill me?” I ask.

“Why did she kill those men?

If you’re not going to kill me,

why torment me then?”

The Skull Queen says nothing,

her tragic sister sighs.

“My sister wants you for herself,

she sees every soul a prize.

Every wicked queen is for her to keep,

to make her slave.

Every tragic queen comes to me,

their soul is mine to save.

She thought through fear she’d make you mad,

through madness make you cruel.

If everything went according to plan,

you’d be hers to rule.

But you tried to defy her,

so she revealed herself to you.

And when you took that girl’s tongue

there was little hope, too.”

“Then I am lost,” I moan,

but the Crimson Queen holds up her hand.

“My sister has not yet won.

Let me help you understand.

Yes, you would’ve been my sister’s

if it wasn’t for those men.

Their plan was to use you

then give you a bloody end.

My sister would not have it,

to see you go to me.

To make you truly mad,

she killed those men with glee.”

“But I’m not insane.

Neither am I truly free.

Now those men are dead,

my deeds have still damned me.”

I fall to my knees in despair.

“What is the point of listening to you.

There is little hope for me.

What am I to do?”

“Listen to me,

you’re not yet truly lost.

My sister may be merciless,

but I am not.

You have paths before you.

One leads to doom.

Another leads to salvation.

It’s up to you to choose.

You can wipe out the red in the ledger.

Attempt to right every wrong.

Be forewarned though,

that path is hard and long.”

“Or,” a new voice says,

the frightening soul finally speaks up.

“You can follow my path.

It’s not so bad for the corrupt.

You’ll be awash in power,

do whatever you desire.

It is an easy path.

My sister is a liar.”

She continues on, grinning,

her voice chilling me to the bone.

“I’m trying to spare you a tragic fate,

dark or worse than any known.

Dare you trust my sister?

Her merciful kindness is fake.

Would you believe her honeyed words?

Is that a risk you’re willing to take?”

I gaze upon the sisters,

both terrifying to behold.

One’s voice warmer than blood,

the other’s dripping ice cold.

I ponder upon their words.

Who do I believe?

Both queens have haunted me,

causing me to grieve.

I know what I want to choose,

what path I want to take.

But first, I must ask a question

before the decision I make.

“If I make a choice,

will you leave me be?

When I choose a path

will ghosts stop tormenting me?”

The Crimson Queen sighs.

“It depends on what you do.

If you don’t choose her path,

my sister won’t stop haunting you.”

The Skull Queen’s smile widens.

“Dear sister, you’re such a liar.

If she chooses me

you’ll haunt her every hour.”

“So you mean to tell me

no matter what I do,

no matter the path I take,

there’s no escaping you?”

The Queen of Tragedy says nothing.

The Queen of Cruelty smiles wide.

Their silence speaks volumes.

I take it as a sign.

“No,” I moan from the depths of my soul.

I plead from my knees.

“I can’t take it anymore.

I beg of you, please”

“There is another way,”

the cruel queen purrs.

“One my sister failed to say.

It makes you one of hers.”

I turn to the bloody queen,

feeling quite confused.

Her expression is sorrowful.

Her cruel sister seems amused.

“Yes, there is another path,

one you can’t walk back.

To set yourself free of this life,

you must walk into darkness black.

You cannot waver

if you wish to leave this mortal coil.

You must end your life,

and be buried under soil.”

“Suicide?” I whisper shocked.

I look at the river behind me.

“Is this my only hope of escaping

the queens who show no mercy?”

I rise up from my knees

and make towards the water.

I feel myself trembling

trying not to falter.

I reach the water’s edge

prepared to jump and drown,

when I see the reflection

of me wearing a crown.

“No, I’m not a coward,”

I whisper much to my surprise.

“What?” the Crimson Queen asks.

I turn to look her in the eyes.

“No,” I say more loudly.

“This is not how I’ll die.

If you say this is my only hope,

then your grace doth lie.

I am no coward!

I am a queen!

I’m not weak I say!

I’m the strongest ever seen!”

“So you choose my path,”

the Skull Queen cackles.

“You fool!” cries the Crimson Queen.

“You’ll end up in her shackles!”

“No, I belong to no one!

I will clear my sins!

I choose my own path,

where neither of you wins!”

At that the queens both scream

and begin to transform.

They seem to melt into each other

frightening me to my core.

A new demon queen stands before me,

shrieking to the skies.

She has a crimson skull,

dark smoke weeping from hate-filled eyes.

Blood drips from everywhere,

Including her gnashing fanged teeth.

She has fiery claws and flaming hair,

a daggered crown like an iron wreath.

She turns my way,

Her eyes piercing as thorns.

She speaks to me,

voice dripping with scorn.

“You should have listened to us,

followed us willingly!

Instead you defy us, wretch!

You’ll regret it undoubtedly!

I’ll chill the marrow in your bones,

as I give you a watery death!

You’ll find no mercy now

as you gasp your final breath!”

She lunges at me with claws outstretched.

I leap backwards, a fatal mistake.

Into the rushing river I go,

unable to escape my fate.

The next day the servants find my body,

resting on the riverbank, blue and cold.

Wondering what befell their queen.

Oh, the story I could have told.

They tell stories of the expression

found on my queenly face.

Some say it was wild with terror.

Others say it was serene in death’s embrace.

They also make up stories

about the gruesome council chamber scene.

Some say it was murderous beasts.

Others say it was assassins of the queen.

Many fear without an heir

the kingdom will fall into disarray.

War for my throne will erupt

unless they find another way.

As for me I do not care

who becomes the kingdom’s head.

I am now beyond those cares.

Who worries when they’re dead?

Now I’m in a limbo,

too wicked for Heaven and too good for Hell.

I’ll forever haunt this plane,

on earth I’ll forever dwell.

But I do not despair,

I keep my queenly pride.

For I belong to no one.

I went to neither side.

So hear me now, oh, living,

From my story all truth glean.

And may you never have to face

the wrath of a bloody queen.

Read Full Post »

The Hospital

The hospital sits on the hill, despairingly derelict and deserted. I creep inside, curious. Dust covers the floors of the dark abandoned halls, only disturbed by the footprints of spiders. The facility was probably state of the art once, perhaps a century ago. Now it just lays mostly forgotten by the outside world. Probably for the best. The sanitarium once housed hundreds upon hundreds of screaming tormented minds. Now only supposed ghosts of the past remain.

My trusted flashlight illuminates the past. It traces the graffiti covered walls. Words left behind by those brave enough or stupid enough to enter. “Marty was here.” “Satan lives!” “Don’t look behind you!” Countless messages, mostly full of expletives, meant to scare or memorialize an excursion into the building. I wonder if any of the vandals really understood the history of what transpired inside these cursed walls. Do I even understand?

I continue on, morbidly fascinate with the dark history. I find rusty patient beds stripped of their mattresses. Old wheelchairs overturned as if a patient had spilled out on the floor and left there. There’s abandoned medical equipment littering the building almost everywhere. And locked poorly padded isolation rooms. I see from the shattered window in the door it didn’t hold someone in or out too well.

I finally find an operating room. Shivers creep up my spine, one vertebrae at a time, at the sight of the bare operating table. Leather straps dangle at the sides. It doesn’t take much to guess what they were for. Disturbed by the knowledge of what likely took place in the room, on that very table, I rush out the doorway.

As I wander I am struck by a thought. Decades ago I might have ended up in such a place. Just for being different, anxious, and depressed. Maybe I would’ve been lobotomized. My head hurts just thinking about it. And I’m suddenly grateful for modern day mental healthcare. It’s not perfect, but it is far better than the history that surrounds me.

I spin around as a noise breaks the silence. I thought I was alone. I shine my light in the direction it came from. Maybe it was a mouse? Old places like this are bound to have a few critters. But no, that didn’t sound like a squeak. More like a creak. Like the sound of an old gurney being wheeled somewhere.

A draft blows cold. The hair on my arms stand up as stiff as soldiers. Maybe someone opened a door to sneak in and spray paint some more stupid sayings. Someone as stupid as me to ignore the “NO TRESPASSING” sign. Then I remember. I’m on the third floor. No draft from the front doors could reach up here. I race through the rooms searching for an open window. I find none.

My mind is racing, but I refuse to give into superstition. I feel curious, like someone is watching me, but I believe I’m alone. I chalk it up to paranoia and too many ghost stories in my youth. Still I decide it’s time to leave. I’ve spent enough time satiating my curiosity. And who knows what’s in the air I’ve been breathing. There’s probably asbestos in the old walls or lead in the peeling paint.

I begin retracing my steps, but it doesn’t take long to realize I’m lost in the winding halls of the old hospital. Anxious, I hurry my pace, but my search for a way out is fruitless. Eventually, I find my way back to the operating room from earlier. Just outside it, my flashlight dies. That’s when I notice it. A dim light spilling out the door into the hallway. Maybe someone actually is here with a flashlight of their own. I enter the room and…

There’s no on there. But the atmosphere is different. It feels full of static electricity touching every nerve in my body. Apprehensive, I look around for the source of light. In the far corner I see what I can only describe as a misty glowing orb. It starts floating towards me and I quickly back up to leave, but instead back into something. I turn to see the double doors, previously hanging off their hinges, now closed and locked. I pound on the doors frantically yelling for help. Seeing it useless, I turn back to the orb. It’s floating closer now. I don’t know what it is or it’s intentions, but every ghost story and horror movie tells me that I don’t want to find out.

I close my eyes, wishing it away, but aware it won’t help. I open my eyes just in time to see the orb float into my chest. It disappears and suddenly I feel different. My terror feels muted, like I’m supposed to be afraid, but I can’t feel the full extent of it. I feel compelled to go lay down on the table in the middle of the room. I don’t resist. In spite of everything screaming inside me to run, I calmly walk forward and lay down. I don’t even fidget. I’m completely still and silent. Even as I feel leather straps slither across my body and buckle by unseen hands.

It isn’t until I hear the voice that I come to my senses. Quiet yet piercing in my ear. A voice feigning kindness and calmness to cover up cruelty. A voice so cool that it paralyzes me.

“Hello. Is the patient prepped for the procedure?”

I begin thrashing in a panic as I see disembodied hand reach out of the darkness. I have to escape! I start yelling but one of the hands covers my mouth. A sudden stabbing pain erupts in my skull. Agony. Pure agony fills all thought. I scream. Blackness.

I open my eyes. Something is wrong. I’m in the operating room. But it’s full of people now. I’m no longer on the table. I’m standing to the side of the room. The people all look somber, standing around talking, some taking photos. Some are crouching down putting things in little plastic bags. In the center of it all I see the table. There’s something covered in a white sheet.

Something is wrong. What is it? Then it clicks. My senses. I can hear and see, but I can’t smell or taste. On top of that I don’t feel hot or cold, my entire being is numb. My head doesn’t even ache. That’s a surprise.

I turn to the person closest to me.

“What’s going on?” I ask but my voice sounds muffled. Doesn’t matter. The man doesn’t even acknowledge me. I look around and spot a woman who looks to be in charge. I walk over to her when someone else in a police uniform steps up to her first and starts talking.

“It’s another victim. Same as the others. No visible wounds except from the restraints. I’m sure the autopsy will show brain damage again, though…”

They don’t seem to even notice me listening. In fact, no one seems to pay me any attention. Except for one person. A man, dressed in a doctor’s white coat, stares at me. I walk over to him, cautiously, still feeling strange.

“What’s going on?,” I ask. The man gestures towards the table. I look and see the policeman lift the sheet to show the woman what’s underneath. It’s me. I gasp then realize I’m not even breathing. I spin towards the doctor who nods.

“I’m dead,” I whisper in shock. The doctor nods again. “But how? Why?”

The doctor says nothing. He takes my arm and guides me out of the room, past yellow tape in the doorway. In the hall there are dozens upon dozens of people. Some are in hospital gowns or staff uniforms. Others are in street clothes from different decades. They are all grinning at me.

I turn to face the doctor and ask again, “But how? Why? Was I murdered?”

The doctor sighs.

“The procedure failed again,” he says.

“Procedure?”

“You suffered from mental illness, correct?”

I shrug.

“Just anxiety and depression. It’s hard, but I manage.”

“Well, it’s my job to cure those sick in their minds. But no matter what I do, very few people survive the procedure.”

Horror fills me as realization dawns.

“You lobotomized me?!”

The doctor nods.

“Why would you do that? I was fine!,” I shout angrily. I gesture to the crowd of souls around me. “And what about them?! Were they your patients, too?! Did you perform your crackpot ‘cure’ on them, too?!”

The doctor holds up his hands.

“There is no progress in medicine without experimentation,” he reasons.

“Progress?,” I scoff. “We’re just experiments to you?”

“No, you are my patients. Or at least many of you are. And I’m willing to push boundaries for progress. And you are definitely progress. You at least possess your faculties still.”

“I’m dead!” I roar as I leap to strangle him. Before I can two men dressed as orderlies jump from the crowd and tackle me. Struggling, they lift me up to face my murderer.

The doctor adjusts his glasses and sniffs.

“Maybe you’re more damaged than I previously thought,” he says with a haunting smile. “After all, you should know how futile it is to strangle a dead man.” He gestures to the men holding me. “Take our new patient to an isolation room for observation. They’ll be with us for an indefinite amount of time.”

As I’m dragged away, I start screaming.

“Damn you! Damn you to Hell!”

The doctor laughs.

“Don’t you realize? We’re already there!”

My screams, unheard by the living, echo forever in the hospital on the hill.

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Scar

I know why they stare. I know why they steal glances at me, hoping I don’t see the thoughts in their eyes. I know why every time I walk through the halls of the high school, they gaze at me with pity and morbid curiosity. I know it’s my face.

I also know why they only stare and never ask me their questions. They’re afraid. What frightens them so? The scars. I know they are staring at the scars on my face, but they are too scared to ask for the story behind them.

They look and see the old cuts on my face. Jagged lines on each cheek coming down from my eyes as if my tears had sliced my skin. Another line runs down the center of my face from the top of my forehead to the tip of my chin. So strangely symmetrical, these are the marks I see in the mirror.

Every face tells a story. My name is Myra and my face tells a tale that so few could imagine. My mind is seared with the memory of what happened. This is the story of my scarred face.

It was ninth grade, my freshman year in high school. As I walked through the halls on my first day, I could tell I was already attracting attention of the older guys. I knew I was pretty. I had been one of the lucky girls during junior high that seemed to never hit an awkward looking stage to the jealousy of many girls. Now as I entered high school, the guys seemed to confirm that I was something to look that. With my thick chestnut hair, sparkling dark green eyes, pink heart-shaped lips, pale blemish-free complexion, and slim hour-glass figure, I never doubted why the boys looked at me.

There was one guy in particular that I noticed casting his eyes in my direction. He was tall, I guessed at least six feet, and was obviously very strong from his large muscular build. His hair was the color of rich soil, his serious eyes were dark blue, and his face was a tan complexion. I figured he was probably a junior. At first glance I thought he was cute, but then when I looked a little more carefully, the strange stare and expression on his face gave me chills. But I quickly shrugged it off and forgot about it.

Soon I discovered I had two classes with him. He sat at the table next to mine in art class, and in gym, he stood in my roll call line. In each class I caught him staring at me with the same strange look. For the first couple weeks, I often could feel his eyes on my back. Every time I would turn around he’d be there gazing at me without trying to hide. I’ll admit I felt a little crept out, but at the same time, I don’t know why, I felt some form of apprehensive excitement.

Finally, one day in art class I asked Ashley, the junior girl sitting next to me, about him.

“Him?” she asked, taking her eyes away from her sketch and craning her neck to look where I was pointing. “Oh, that’s Chad. He’s a junior.”

“How well do you know him?”

“Not a whole lot. I sit next to him in another class and he can be a little quiet. You wouldn’t expect a big hot guy like him to be that quiet, but I just don’t hear him talk unless he has to. Most of what I know about him is by word of mouth.”

“That doesn’t tell me much.”

“Well, I know you can’t trust everything high school students say, but most of the stuff I’ve heard has quite a bit of fact to it. Last year, he dated this really gorgeous girl named Alana for a while. After a month of dating, she went missing. A few days later, she was found dead in the woods not too far from some hiking trails. Her face had strange cuts all over it.”

“Really? What happened?”

“Nobody really knows. Chad seemed absolutely crushed. With his girlfriend dead, and being a prime suspect in her murder, there were so many awful rumors that ran around the school that made it even worse.”

“I bet.”

“Yeah. He was eventually cleared as a suspect by the police, but many people around the school still have their suspicions. Especially Alana’s friends.”

“Why?”

“They claim that Chad was controlling in the relationship, and would get jealous whenever Alana talked to other guys. They also said she had been planning on breaking up with him.”

“What do you think?”

Ashley paused and looked back over at Chad with thought in her expression. After a few seconds she turned back to me and said, “I have a hard time believing he would really murder Alana. I don’t know if he was as controlling as Alana’s friends say he was, but everyone knew he practically worshipped the ground she walked on and he seemed so devastated by her death. Yet at the same time, who else could’ve done it? The police still haven’t solved the murder and they’ve had no other suspects.”

I sat there thinking for a moment before Ashley asked, “Why the interest in Chad?”

“I keep catching him staring at me. It’s been going on since the first week of school.”

“Maybe he likes you. It’s no surprise that he keeps looking at you. You are really pretty for a freshman.”

“He is really cute…” I mused as I rested my chin in my hands and looked back over to Chad.

“Be careful, Myra. Don’t be jumping into a relationship with an older guy as soon as you enter high school.”

“Don’t worry. I will,” I said carelessly.

Unconvinced, Ashley sighed and muttered, “Well, it’s not my job to keep you out of trouble.”

I paid her no attention and zoned out for the rest of class as I sat deep in thought.

The next day, in my gym class, I found myself thinking about the conversation with Ashley. Could it be true? Could Alana’s murderer have been her own boyfriend? Or was it just the hyped up version of casual comments made by her friends? I was so distracted that I kept missing passes and messing up to the disappointment of my basketball team.

“Myra, what’s the matter with you?” asked my teammate, Sarah, after chasing the ball after another failed pass. “You seem so out of it today.”

“Sorry. I have a lot of stuff on my mind,” I gasped, trying to catch my breath.

“Then just get into the game and play. It will help get your mind off things.”

“Okay.”

So I did. After a few minutes, I completely forgot about Chad. I just kept making play after play. Then as I knelt down to tie my shoe a shadow passed over me. I looked up and there he was, towering over me.

“Hi. I’m Chad. What’s your name?”

Slowly, I stood up with my eyes fixed on him. Gone was the strange look and in its place was a warm smile that could’ve turned any freshman girl to putty. If it wasn’t for the fact that he had been staring at me the past few weeks, I would’ve melted right then and there.

“I’m Myra,” I said hesitantly.

“I’ve been meaning to introduce myself for some time now, but I’ve not had the chance.”

Not had the chance? I thought. You’re in two of my classes and you’ve been staring at me since the first time you saw me. How could you have not had the chance?

“Oh, that’s alright.”

“Myra! Look out!”

I looked in the direction of Sarah’s voice just in time to see Chad catch a basketball one-handed inches from my face. Without skipping a beat he tossed it back and turned to me as if nothing had happened.

“I would like to get to know you better. Would you care to go on a date with me this Friday?”

I just stared at him. He just single-handedly saved my head from getting smacked with a basketball and he was acting like it was nothing. Instead he asks me on a date! I was taken aback. The guy didn’t really know me and he was already asking me out. But how could I say no?

“Sure,” I answered trying to hide my discomfort.

“Great!” he said flashing a big smile. “I’ll pick you up at 6:30. May I get your cell phone number?”

After we exchanged numbers he said, “Thanks! I’m really excited! I’ll see you in Art!”

As I watched him walk away I couldn’t help but feel a pit in my stomach. Yes, he was good-looking, there was no doubt about that, and he seemed nice, but there was something about him that didn’t feel quite right.

“Myra!”

Wham! Ow.

“So how was it?” Ashley asked. It was Monday in Art and I knew after Ashley’s reaction when I told her Chad had asked me out that she was going to ask me about it the first chance she got. I looked up from my sketch pad and smiled.

“So how was it?”she repeated.

“Well, obviously I’m alive.”

“That’s good, but how did it go?”

“Oh, it was great.”

Of course, it went better than great. It was awesome! He took me out to dinner and we really hit it off. Our conversation ran so long that we missed the movie he had planned to take me to. So instead of a movie we went for a walk in the park and talked for hours.

Seeing my smile Ashley exclaimed, “He asked you out again, didn’t he?!”

“Yes!” I squealed.

The teacher turned and gave me a death glare for the outburst. I quickly quieted down.

“So when?”

“This Friday.”

Ashley sighed.

“Be careful, Myra. I’ve seen a lot of freshman girls get hurt when they get into relationships with older guys.”

“I’ll try to be careful, Ashley. I promise.”

So I went on another date with him. And another. And another. By the end of the fourth date I had completely forgotten about the chills he had given me a month before.

“Myra?”

“Yes, Chad.”

We were sitting on my porch after he had taken me out for the fourth time.

“May I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Myra, I know you’ve heard the stories about me and Alana, so I understand if you say no, but would you be my girlfriend?”

I turned to him and smiled.

“I was wondering when you would ask.”

He smiled his warm melting smile, and squeezed my hand. That was the night of my first kiss.

“Myra…”

“Please, don’t judge me, Ashley.”

I tried to ignore her as she looked at me with one eyebrow raised and a you-told-me-you-would-be-careful-look written all over her face.

“I’m really worried for you.”

“I know. The whole freshman girls getting hurt by older guys thing. You told me that already.”

I turned back to my art project and heard her heave a sigh.

“It’s not just that, Myra. You’re going to become the topic of a lot of gossip. I wouldn’t be as worried if you were with anyone other than Chad.”

“Let people think what they want. It’s none of their business.”

“You’re going to have to put up with a lot of crap.”

“I thought about that already and I don’t care. I’m really happy with this. I love the boy and he loves me.”

“I know you’re probably getting tired of me saying this, but please be really careful. I don’t want you getting hurt in any way.”

Of course I just shrugged it off, thinking she was overreacting. If only I had listened…

For the first few weeks, everything was wonderful. But then things slowly changed. I discovered Chad had been going through my phone when I wasn’t looking and he confronted me about some of the people I was texting.

“Who is Jason?” he demanded while we were taking a walk one evening.

“He’s one of my friends from middle school who goes to another high school,” I said, slightly taken aback by his tone.

“Why do you text him so much?”

“How do you know who and how much I text?”

“It’s in your phone.”

“You’ve been looking at my texts?!” I was offended and quickly yanked my hand from his.

“I was just looking at your phone out of curiosity and saw how much you were texting Jason. Why?”

The look on his face bothered me.

“He was one of my best friends in middle school. What’s wrong with talking a lot with one of my best friends?”

“I think it’s better if you kept it to small occasional friendly talk. No more long conversations every day.”

His expression was nothing like anything I had seen before. For once, I didn’t want to know what he was thinking even though I already did. His face was one of possession. I couldn’t say no.

“Okay,” I sighed.

“Good. I’m glad you understand,” he said flashing a smile.

But the truth was I didn’t understand.

After that I kept my phone on me at all times, always making sure there was no way Chad could find it and invade my privacy. Then things began to get worse. He was always calling me, getting jealous when I talked to other guys, and getting annoyed when I hung out with friends instead of him. It wasn’t until he threatened me one night that I decided that I needed to get out of the relationship.

“Myra, you better listen to me. We don’t want you getting hurt now, do we? It would be such a shame if something happened to that pretty face of yours,” he had said.

I was frightened and stressed. The only person I found myself running to with everything was Ashley.

“Myra, I—“

“I know, Ashley. You told me to be careful, but now I need help,” I whispered.

We were in Art class trying to keep our voices as low as possible so Chad wouldn’t hear. If he heard what we were saying things would’ve not gone well for me.

“Myra…”

“What?”

“You need to tell your parents. If things are really as bad as you’re telling me, then he’ll scare you into not breaking up with him. I’ll try to help, but I think you need to tell an adult. Otherwise you’ll stay trapped in this relationship.”

“I don’t want to do that yet. I’m going to try to break up with him on my own first. If that doesn’t work out then I’ll tell someone.”
“You better do it soon.”

“I’m going to. He plans to do something with me this Friday.”

“Myra, I know I’ve said this a million times, but please be really careful.”

“What else can I be?”

“Mom, I’m going with Chad somewhere! I’ll be back later!” I yelled as I walked down the stairs and opened the front door.

Chad was there standing on the porch with his usual smile on his face. Except it wasn’t his usual smile. It somehow seemed pasted on.

Closing the door behind me and putting on my jacket I asked, “So where are we going?”

We walked down the steps and towards his car. I sensed something wrong from the way he was acting. He seemed to be hiding something and putting on an act. I didn’t dare ask, though.

Unlocking the car door he said, “I thought I’d make it a surprise.”

We got in the car and drove off. The conversation seemed dry and too formal. I could definitely tell something was up. We kept driving until we reached the head of the wood trails near town.

“The trails?” I asked as we got out of the car. “We’re taking a hike?”

“Only a short one. I want to show you something.”

It was not a short one. We hiked for a long time and I was surprised when Chad led us off the trail and into the trees.

“Chad, where are we going? Isn’t it smarter for us to stay on the trail?”

“Just wait and see. Don’t worry. I know where we’re going.”

We hiked for probably a mile and I noticed the light was getting dim. Then I saw something in the distance.  As we got closer I saw that it was a large wooden shack.

“What is this place?” I asked turning to Chad.

“This is my old fort. I built it when I was little. I still come here when I need to get away from the world. Let me show you what’s inside.”

We walked up to the door. It had an old chain and padlock on the door. Chad pulled out a key, unlocked it, opened the door, and motioned for me to go inside. The lighting was even dimmer inside.

I looked around in the dim light, taking in my surroundings. It was all one room filled with stuff I guess I would’ve expected. There was a wooden chair and a short stool in the center of the room, a cooler in one corner probably filled with snacks, and a crate in another corner filled with rope and various tools.

But what really caught my eye was something I didn’t expect. On the far wall there hung dozens upon dozens of pictures. I walked over to take a closer look and to my horror saw they were all photos of me. I shivered as I looked at each one that had been taken without my knowledge. Slowly, I turned around and saw Chad standing in front of the door and staring at me. He wasn’t smiling.

“Um, Chad, I-I-I don’t know what to say,” I said, smiling nervously. “Where did you get all these pictures?”

“I took them with my camera,” he said, walking towards me. He stood in front of me and pointed to a few pictures on the wall. “I took these ones before I met you. Honestly, when I first saw you I thought you were one of the most beautiful girls I’d ever seen. I had to have a picture of that pretty face of yours.”

“Um, well, that’s really nice, but…”

I laughed nervously and started to move past him. Suddenly, he grabbed me by the shoulder and pressed my back up against the wall. His face was a breath away from mine and as his eyes stared intensely into me I got the image in my head of some sort of predator. That made me the prey.

“Now Myra,” Chad spoke softly, “I heard a bit of a rumor that you were thinking about breaking up with me. Now we both know that isn’t true, don’t we? If you left me, who would protect your pretty face? A face like yours could get you in a lot of trouble. But of course, you’re not going to leave me because you would never dream of it. And I would do anything for you to stay with me and no one else.”

“Chad, please, let go of me! Your hands are hurting my shoulders!”

“What’s wrong, Myra? I thought you liked it when I get this close. I always can feel your excitement when I lean in, waiting for the kiss. Why should I let you go when I know you’re dying to kiss me?”

He closed in on his prey and roughly kissed me, breathing heavy with passion. Frightened, I kneed him in the gut, making him grunt in pain, and pushed him off me. I dashed for the door, but he grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me into a struggle.

“Chad, let me go! You’re hurting me!”

“No, Myra,” he grunted through gritted teeth, “I can’t let you go. You’re just like Alana. I can’t let you be with anyone else.”

He threw me to the ground, my head slamming against the crate. Everything went black.

It’s interesting the first things you notice when you wake up. For some it may be a sound, a thought, a smell, or a bit of color. Well, for me, it was the pain in my wrists.

The shack was dimly lit by late afternoon, early evening, sunlight. I was tied to the wooden chair, my wrists screaming in pain from the rope cutting into their skin. I groaned as the headache hit me and I remembered what had happened. Starting, I raised my head and looked frantically around for Chad. I didn’t have to search far. He stood brooding in the corner, staring eerily at me with his arms folded across his chest.

“It’s nice to see you awake,” he spoke softly, a hint of tension in his voice. “It’s too bad you’re going to wish you weren’t.”

Slowly, he stalked toward me, once again looking like a predator closing in on his prey. Frightened, I struggled weakly in vain to break free. As he got closer, he slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a knife.

“Chad, please,” I whimpered, feeling tears begin to roll down my cheeks. “What are you doing with that knife? Please, just let me go. It doesn’t have to happen like this.”

He grabbed me by my hair and put his mouth close to my ear, whispering, “But it does, Myra, it does. You were leaving me, just like Alana was.”

I felt a chill frost my heart. I gasped in pain as he pulled me even closer.

“I’ll tell you a little secret, Myra. I killed her. That’s right. I killed Alana. She was beautiful and I loved her. But she was going to leave me just like you were. I couldn’t stand the idea of anyone else looking at her lovely face and calling her theirs. I came to the decision that if I couldn’t have her then no one could.”

“So I brought her up here. She saw her own wall I created in homage to her and she tried to run away, too. I tied her up in this exact same chair, with this exact same rope. Then I used the same knife I’m holding right now to carve up that pretty face that I couldn’t let anyone else have, even in death. Finally, I slit her throat. I dumped her body near the trails and I covered up any evidence leading to this shack.”

“Now I’m going to do the same to you, Myra. You’re mine and no one else’s. If I can’t look at your pretty face and call you mine then no one can.”

He roughly let go of my hair and put the blade of the knife against my cheek just under my eye.

“Chad, please, don’t,” I pleaded, feeling the coldness of the blade against my skin mix with the warmth of my tears.

“Myra, you look so tragically beautiful when you cry. I think we should start with imprinting the memory of it. Yes, I like that idea. We’ll start with that.”

With one hand keeping my head still, he pressed the blade into my cheek. I gasped in pain as the blade sliced through my skin following the trail of my tears. By the time he finished doing the same to my other cheek, I was sobbing, feeling blood, sweat, and tears drip down my face.

“Stop it! Stop it! Let me go! Help!” I screamed in terror.

“That’s it, Myra. Keep screaming. No one will hear your cries, but I do relish in them. My pain has been screaming inside me for years. I like to hear someone else take a turn.”

He smiled a sick sadistic smile that sent goose bumps up my arms like tiptoeing spiders and fear crawling up my spine one vertebrae at a time. He took the tip of his now bloody knife and set it at the top center of my forehead. Slowly and steadily, he slit my skin down the center of my forehead, over the ridge and tip of my nose, across my lips, and finally the tip of my chin, with me whimpering like a wounded animal the whole time. Crimson red began to trickle into my vision and mix with my tears. Through my blurry eyes I could see Chad flashing a wide brilliantly chill smile at his grisly art.

“Now I’m going to kill you. It will soon be over, Myra. Maybe in heaven you’ll bless me for setting you free from this mundane existence. Or maybe you’ll be cursing me in Hell for sending you down there to burn for your sins. It doesn’t matter either way to me. I’ve never been much of one for religion.”

He leaned his face towards mine smiling as if he had some juicy little secret.

“Any last words, Myra?”

“Yeah, I’ve got something to say to you,” I spat out venomously. I spat blood in his eye, blinding him. “Go to Hell, Chad.”

Quickly, I thrashed in my seat, tripping him over, landing him face down on the floor and knocking my chair on its side at the same time. Slowly, he stood up shakily, his face waxed pale. The knife handle stuck out of his chest.

“I feel cold,” he sputtered, a dazed look on his face and blood trickling out of his mouth. He took a step towards me and fell to his knees. Rich dark blood seeped from his chest as he pulled the knife out and let it clatter to the floor near me.

Staring at me, he gave a warm human smile and said, “I love you, Myra.”

He collapsed to the floor and never moved again.

That was two months ago. After I managed to free my wrists with his knife, I used my phone to call police. I don’t remember much after that. I passed out from the combination of blood loss and my earlier concussion before they arrived.

From my eyewitness testimony and evidence from the shack they concluded that Chad had indeed murdered Alana which gave her family the closure they needed. I became good friends with them and they practically accepted me a member of their family.

They now have a fence to keep hikers from wandering in the areas off the trails and there’s rumor they’re going to tear down Chad’s shack. I’ve visited there once since the incident after police finished investigating it and before they put the fence up. I was surprisingly undisturbed by the stains in the wood from my own blood. It was Chad’s bloodstains that got to me.

And of course, there are the scars. I’m not just talking about the ones on my face. I’m also talking about the ones on my mind that intertwine with the ones I see in the mirror. I’ve been in counseling for post-traumatic stress disorder and I’m learning to cope with people’s reactions at school. Ashley seems to be the only person who isn’t unsettled by my face. She is saddened by it, true, but she’s been kind enough to never say I told you so.

My family hopes one day to get me plastic surgery, but right now we can’t afford it. It’s a goal we’ll work towards and in the meantime I use make-up to cover the scars as best I can. People still notice, of course. They stare, they gossip, they steal glances and wear guilty faces when I catch them. It upsets me how they assume without asking, but I deal with it. They’ll soon know my story, though.

Tonight, they’re holding a vigil at the school in memory of Alana. It’s the anniversary of her murder and her parents have asked me to speak. I’ve been told so much about her and I feel somewhat close to her. I hope to give justice to both our stories tonight.

Tonight, scars will heal.

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Stick It to the Mat

Swish! Thwump! The sound of newspapers making their mark was satisfying to Jared as he pedaled along his route. The sunny summer day was warm and inviting as he rode his bike carrying the bag loaded with newspapers. With one fluid motion he snatched the paper from his bag and tossed it where it flew in a smooth arc onto the porch of a house. Jared was pretty well known in his neighborhood and everyone knew of his good arm and aim. A thirteen year old boy wearing a Red Sox baseball cap who rides an old red bike isn’t hard to miss especially when he’s your newspaper boy.

            He flung another newspaper towards Mr. Steppings house. Mr. Steppings was an old man who often forgot to grab his newspaper so after some practice Jared had gotten his aim so good he could hit the doorbell with the paper before it landed on the welcome mat. As he rode his bike past he could see the elderly man shuffling outside and waving in gratitude.

            As he continued onward Jared began to daydream about the new bike in the window of Mr. Richard’s store on Dayton’s main street. A shiny blue beauty built for speed with handle brakes, Jared had been saving his money for it since he fell in love at first sight. He desperately wanted a new bike with his old one having seen better days as you could tell from its peeling paint, slightly bent handlebars, and its creaky pedal brakes. While in this train of thought he absentmindedly threw a newspaper onto the lower step of a porch.

            “Hey, Jared!”

            Pulled back to reality Jared slowed to a stop and turned to see his friend, Neil, and another boy Jared didn’t know pedaling their bikes toward him.

            “Nice throw, buddy,” said Neil with his usual toothy grin. Jared was always jealous when his best friend flashed his smile because along with his sky blue eyes and light blonde hair they could attract girls like bees to honey.  With freckles, grasshopper green eyes, and a nest of straw for hair Jared didn’t stand a chance against Neil’s angel face.

            “Just doing my thing,” Jared replied modestly.

            “This is Mark,” Neil said introducing the boy next to him. “He just moved into the neighborhood and I was introducing myself when you rode by.”

            Mark was a pipsqueak of a kid compared to Jared who was really only average height for boys his age. His feather soft brown hair had a funny strand that stuck up in front and natural highlights in it from hours playing in the sun. His face showed a look of innocence but his hazel eyes stared at Jared with slyness.

            “Hi, Mark. Welcome to Dayton,” Jared greeted warmly.

            “Thanks,” Mark said as he stared at Jared’s newspaper bag. “Are you the paper boy around these parts?”

            “Jared is the best newspaper delivery boy in town,” Neil boasted, proud to be associated with someone who could toss a paper like Jared.

            “Really?” said the new boy skeptically.

            Surprised by his tone Jared said, “Well, everyone else says so.”

            “I wonder why. From that last throw I saw I wasn’t that impressed.”

            “Who are you to judge?” asked Neil annoyed that anyone would dare question his friend’s honor.

             “For your information, I was the best paper boy around in my town before I moved. It’s going to be awful hard for them to get along without me.”

            “What makes you so sure about that?” Jared questioned.

            “I was the fastest and most dependable paper boy with the best arm and aim. I often took over other routes when guys got sick and even with extra deliveries I still finished before the other boys.”

            “Well, Jared here is probably ten times better than you,” Neil said back. “He could land a paper on the welcome mat with any shot from any angle.”

            “Really, I just try to get the job done right,” Jared commented shrugging his shoulders at Neil’s boasts.

            Ignoring Jared’s modest attempts Mark said, “Obviously you can talk the talk, but can you toss the toss. I challenge you to a competition to see who really the best paper boy is.”

            Wishing Neil had kept his mouth shut Jared answered, “I’m not sure.”

            “What’s the matter? Too chicken?”

            “No, it’s just…”

            “How about I make you a little deal? If you win you get my bike.”

            Looking at Mark’s bike Jared gained a quick desire to own it. It was a sleek black mountain bike that looked almost brand new and was a speed devil in its own right. Jared looked at his own bike with shame.

            “What if you win?” Jared asked already knowing from the sly look in Mark’s eyes.

            “If I win then I get your paper route. So are you in?”

            Jared knew he had no choice. If he accepted he risked the chance of losing his route and a new bike, but if he refused he risked losing his honor. Having honor he didn’t ask for heaped upon him he now had to defend it.

            “Alright, I’m in.”

            “It’s settled then. Meet me in the circle at the top of the street at two o’clock tomorrow. Neil will oversee everything. See you there, loser.”

            As the shrimp rode his wicked awesome bike away Jared said, “Thanks a lot, Neil. Now what am I going to do? If you hadn’t been saying those things I wouldn’t be in this mess and running the risk of losing my route and reputation.”

            “Don’t worry, pal,” said Neil shrugging it off. “You’ll cream the little weasel. No sweat.”

            “Dude, if you are wrong I’ll kill you before Kyle sends me to the grave. You know this was his route and that he entrusted it to me when he entered junior year and had to focus on school. He’ll skin and boil me alive like a potato if he found out I lost it to some outsider.”

            “Well, just tell him the truth before the competition and ask for his help. Trust me, Jared. How hard can it be to beat a puny guy like Mark?”

            With that Neil sped off leaving Jared to finish his delivery and feeling a little less confident with each throw.

            That night Jared lay on his bed in the room he shared with his older brother, Kyle. Kyle was an older version of his brother except without freckles and with the presence of muscle. Having graduated from high school at the start of summer he was now packing a suitcase for his freshman year of college with Jared watching.

            “Have you seen my sports jacket?” asked Kyle looking around.

            Jared jumped off the bed, searched on the messy floor, and then in the closet where he found the jacket in a pile of clothes. As he handed it to his brother he said, “Kyle, may I ask you a question?”

            “Shoot away, little man.”

            “Well, I’m sort of having a little trouble involving the paper route.”

            “Is Mrs. Leary’s dog chasing you again?”

            “No, she always remembers to lock the gate now. The problem is a boy who moved into the neighborhood who claims he’s a better paper boy than me.”

            “That doesn’t sound serious. Seems like a kid making trouble for attention and really deserves to be taught a lesson in how to talk to others if he’s looking for some friends.”

            Realizing his brother didn’t completely understand Jared told Kyle the entire story of what happened that afternoon.

            “You know, Jared,” said Kyle when he learned the whole story, “I like Neil and I think he’s a great kid, but he can be downright stupid sometimes. You should have given him an elbow in the ribs when he was saying those things. That would’ve sent a message. And you’re saying if you lose Mark gets the paper route. Well, that raises the stakes a little even though we know you’re going win anyways.”

            “Actually, Kyle, I’m not so sure. I mean I’ve got a lot to lose and I don’t know how good Mark is. It makes me nervous.”

            “Jared, what are you worried about? You learned from the best.”

            It was true. Kyle was a legend around the neighborhood and Jared had learned from him. Stories spread from kid to kid about how he’d defeated Mr. Kennett’s five rottweilers by jumping Dumpster Ditch and leaving the dogs to fall into the smelly garbage. Supposedly Kyle had also during his paper boy days saved Davie Stevens from certain peril when the Headline Hecklers gang had him against a wall for not deflating Kyle’s bike tires. With a hero like Kyle for a teacher what did Jared have to worry about? Apparently a lot.

            “What if I’m not like you? You taught me everything but I’m still not you.”

            With a sigh Kyle sat on the bed next to Jared and put his arm around his little brother’s shoulders. Looking him in the eye he said, “You need to trust yourself, buddy. You’re turning into a teenager and I won’t be here a whole heck of a lot of time to help with the paper route or anything else. Just remember to stick it to the mat.”

            “What?”

            “Stick it to the mat. When I first started out on the route I really wasn’t the kid with the best aim, thank goodness no one remembers. A lot of newspapers ended up in a bush or flower bed. Then I discovered every time I tried to aim for the welcome mat or where it would be on the porch it would nail spot on. So I started telling myself to stick it to the mat and since then I’ve used the phrase in everything I do. Whether it’s a grade on a test or a deadline for a project they are all welcome mats I aim to stick the landing on. Just remember that. Stick it to the mat.”

            “Stick it to the mat.”

            “That’s right. Now don’t you lose tomorrow or else I might have to hitch you by your pants to the school weather vane,” Kyle teased.

            Smiling Jared got in bed and whole time while falling asleep repeated the positive phrase over and over again in his mind.

            The next day he met Neil and Mark in the circle at the top of the street. Standing behind the short smug boy was a small group of kids including a couple of representatives of the Headline Hecklers gang. With Neil were many of the local paper boys and his usual posse of girls stealing glances at him and giggling. Each of the two boys had a bag of newspapers and on the ground was a bucket of sidewalk chalk. As Jared looked around he noticed large dots made with chalk on the street in front of each house on both sides of the street. Neil saw him riding up and flashed a smile making the girls titter even more.

            “Hey, man. You ready to win?” said Neil giving Jared a fist bump.

            Before he could answer Mark swaggered over with some huge punk Heckler boy close behind.

            “Ready to lose or do you want to forfeit now and save yourself the trouble?” Mark taunted.

            “Speaking of saving yourself some trouble why don’t you strap on some stilts. That way you don’t have to stand on tiptoes to look down on someone,” Neil threw back.

            Turning to the Heckler boy Jared said, “I haven’t seen any of your gang in this area for a while. What are you doing here?”

            “My boss is looking into expanding territory and gang earnings. Not to mention, he wants to get a firsthand report on the downfall of Kyle’s kid brother.”

            “Fat chance. You can tell your boss to go stick his head in a thorn bush for all I care because he’s not getting his hands on my route.”

            “You better watch it, Jared. You’re going down,” Mark threatened.

            As Mark and the punk walked away Jared turned to Neil and said, “You know, if I lose Kyle’s going to hunt you down.”

            “I know, but I’m planning on not having my head mounted because you’re not going to lose. If I didn’t really believe you could win I wouldn’t have placed my money on you. When you’re risking as much candy, baseball cards, and allowance money as I am you either got to really believe your cause or have a hollow cranium.  I would go with the first.”

            With it being time to start Neil walked to where everyone could see him and raised his voice above the chatter.

            “Ladies, gentleman, and uglies,” he yelled looking at the Heckler boys, “give me your attention, please! Welcome to Dayton’s greatest showdown of large and small proportions!”

            Jared could tell Neil was having too much fun pushing Mark and the Heckler boys. Mark was almost bright red at that last comment.

            “What a treat we have for you today, folks! A battle over one of the greatest and most legendary paper routes in town! In one corner we have proof that big things come in small packages! It’s the newcomer, challenger, and supposed hero from his hometown, Mad Mark! And in this corner is evidence that legacies do live on! It’s the great, the magnificent, and the so totally wicked Jared the Jet!”

            When the cheers died down he continued, “Now this is how it works. On each side of the street are five houses. Both boys are required to deliver a paper at each house by throwing it. If they land it on the porch correctly they get a point. Each house requires the delivery to be thrown from a certain angle and in a specific way. A chalk dot on the ground will show you where to stand while tossing the paper. Whoever makes the most deliveries wins. Now let’s flip a coin to see who throws first.”

            Mark won the toss and stepped onto the dot of the first house. He was facing the low one step porch from a diagonal direction with a large bush in his line of fire.

            “Now Mark you have to make the paper over the bush and onto the porch,” explained Neil.

            Just as if he had been born throwing newspapers, Mark tossed the paper with ease and it landed as if the porch was a magnet. Mark turned to look at Jared with a satisfied smirk on his face and held his head high as he walked a couple of feet away to watch. Jared stood on the dot with a look of pure determination on his face while in his mind he kept repeating his brother’s motto. Stick it to the mat, stick it to the mat, he thought. He then tossed the paper with such grace that it looked natural for it to be flying through the air and landing on the welcome mat. Turning with confidence Jared shot Mark a What-Do-You-Think-Now look which left him speechless.

            Soon recovering from the shock Mark continued on with the contest making each delivery with Jared staying neck and neck with him. Each delivery though perfect was also difficult with one even being made from behind a tree. Finally they reached the last house that would determine to fate of the paper route.

            “This is it,” Neil announced. “The moment we have been waiting for where the contestants are tied and one delivery will decide it all. Who will win?”

            “Shut up and tell us what to do,” shouted an impatient Mark.

            Obviously annoyed by being interrupted Neil continued, “Your daunting task is to throw the paper so it hits and rings the doorbell before it lands on the porch.”

            Too confident, Mark drew a newspaper like a cowboy with in a western tossed it towards the door. A gasp rose up in the crowd. Mark had missed the delivery! It had been so close, but hit the door instead of the button before landing with a thud on the porch.  Stunned he stepped off the dot leaving it free for Jared to be in the limelight.

            With heart pounding, he stepped onto the chalk circle aware of all the eyes on him. Slowly he pulled a paper from his bag and poised himself for the toss.

            “Stick it to the mat,” he whispered softly.

            Time seemed to slow as he threw his hand forward and the paper flew from his hand sailing towards its destination. Then in with one magic moment with everything so still and everyone holding their breath they heard the clear ding-dong as the paper made its mark and then stuck it to the welcome mat. The kids stood in stunned silence and then suddenly erupted in cheers as they crowded around Jared. It was a couple seconds before through all the confusion he noticed a small lonesome boy walking away with his head bowed in shame. Fighting through the congratulations he escaped the crowd and made his way toward Mark.

            “I guess you want the bike now,” said Mark sadly wheeling his bike towards Jared.

            “No, you better keep it. I get to keep my route so I can finish saving my money for a new bike.”

            Mark’s eyes lit up and almost seemed to be brimming with tears.

            “Really? That means so much to me.”

            “It’s no problem.”

            “I’m sorry I was such a jerk before. I just really want to impress people and make new friends. Instead I humiliated myself and messed my chances.”

            Jared was surprised to see this side of Mark, so sad and lonely. Thinking he said, “Well, not all of your chances.”

            With that Jared rode his bike to his house with a finally happy boy following close behind.

            A couple weeks later Kyle pulled his car into the driveway when he saw Jared zoom by on a shiny blue bike doing his paper route.
            “Hey, little bro! What you doing?!”

            With a smile Jared shouted back, “Just sticking it to the mat!”

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Mirrored Memory

The moonlight pours through the window into the dark room. Standing alone the thief surveys the surroundings of the chamber, looking for treasures. The walls are covered with dark red velvet, a canopy bed sits in one corner, a large mantled empty fireplace sits in a wall, and an ornate wardrobe stands near the bed gathering dust. The man’s eyes follow the moonbeam’s path to where it reveals a large gold frame. Small shards of glass stick out of the edges of the frame and on the carpet are more shattered pieces bathed in moonlight. Curious, he creeps closer when the flash of something catches his attention. On the ground is a shard of glass large enough to be a handheld mirror. Picking it up, the image draws a shriek. Instead of a familiar face gazing back, a pair of ice blue eyes stare coldly from the broken piece of mirror.

“Don’t break me,” a chilling voice commands as the eyes move.

“Don’t be alarmed. I have no power to harm you,” the eyes say more gently. “Before you throw me to lay in shatters listen to what I say. I can see you’re curious about what transpired in this room that broke the looking-glass.”

Despite the feeling to smash the glass and flee the room the thief stares intently at the eyes as if entranced by their gaze. When he gives no reply they continue.

“Mirrors are mysteriously amazing things. Have you ever noticed how remarkable their memories are? A mirror never forgets a face. They reflect the good and bad, and though some distort it, most mirrors tell the truth. As for myself, I was once a grand looking-glass with mystifying properties until smashed by someone who didn’t appreciate my talents. Now all that is left are phantoms of my wondrous abilities; a shadow of what I was. My tale may be long, but I am blessed with a gift that can conjure up the images of the past. I will reflect them to you as I share my memory.”

The eyes fade to transparent phantoms as the glass fills with swirling mist. As dark images appear the mirror begins his tale.

“Don’t judge me for what happened. What’s past is past and there is no way to change it. It began countless years ago…”

I shall start when I first arrived at this mansion, for I do not remember when I came into existence. At first I was placed inside the entrance hall where I witnessed many comings and goings and gleaned bits of information from conversations. Eventually I was moved to a study where I gained a bounty of knowledge from reading over the master’s shoulder, and then finished my education when moved to the sitting room where guests were entertained and the children often met with their tutors. I found life quite pleasurable and was content to observe the happenings in the rooms I occupied.

When the master died and his eldest son married I was transferred to the room of the new mistress. What a foolish woman! Her name was Amelia and her face might have been more amiable if she hadn’t thought it the greatest gift from God. I found that her vanity and haughtiness seemed to poison her countenance over the years. Her nose became too sharp, her onyx eyes a permanent glare, and her mouth was often firmly set in a disapproving sneer. Yet everyday she would gaze at herself for half an hour, gloating over how fine she looked.

How much I loathed that woman and her vain notions! One day my disgust became too great and for the first time I began speaking aloud my thoughts. The perplexity and fear on her face was so enjoyable I continued to throw insults at her. When she fetched her husband and they found me as silent as any commonplace mirror, he fetched a physician. For weeks I tormented her with my voice and finally came a day I discovered I could display what I really thought of her. I must admit it was gratifying to plunge her mind into insanity when she saw that hideous face glaring back from the looking-glass. As Amelia was carted out of the room I gave her a glimpse of my eyes for a parting gift that sent her into hysterics.

Even though Amelia would never have anything to do with me again, her son, Alden, was intent on investigating her claims of a possessed mirror in her room. When he discovered me, instead of proving his mother sane, he kept me secret, realizing I could be used to his advantage. He moved me to another room where I would be rarely disturbed and have remained in to this day.

What was I used for? My talents were put to use in the torture and punishment of Alden’s enemies and disobedient servants. At first I didn’t savor the task; for most of these people had done nothing to provoke me, but as years passed I became devoted to my work and perfected it to an art. My methods were actually fairly simple. First, I would hypnotize them with my gaze so no matter how hard they tried to pull away, they couldn’t break free from me. Next, I would display a series of disturbing and maddening images that gradually grew worse as time wore on. Eventually the victims would either lose their minds or waste away and die.

Alden came to know what his enemies went through when I grew tired of him as a master. Once again I felt satisfied with my handiwork as I gave him the nudge that pushed him over the edge of his sanity and into the maddening abyss of his twisted mind. After his demise I endured a long line of masters and mistresses who all came to a similar fate after using me the same way.

Then I met Anabel. She was fifteen when her father bought the manor and my room became her residence. Like Pandora she seemed forged by Hephaestus himself, with hair that flowed like liquid sunshine, sparkling sapphire eyes, and skin so fair pearls seemed dull against it. More gentle than a lamb, as kind as any missionary, and so innocent she put children to shame, I couldn’t help revealing myself before ere long.

I reached back in my memory to the days before Amelia, trying to remember things gentle and human. I succeeded and soon became her friend and confidant. Days passed blissfully full of conversations between my Bell and I, with my love for her growing at each word she spoke.

Then when she was eighteen I noticed she was acting strangely. She was spending more time outside her room, she was often singing in her nightingale voice, and I often saw her with flowers in her hair or wearing a new piece of jewelry. One evening I inquired about these things and in reply she opened her new locket showing me a miniature portrait of a young man.

“Who is he?” I demanded.

Perhaps I had spoken too sharply, for she quickly shut the locket and replied, “His name is Peter Redmond and I love him.”

The words seemed to pierce my glass heart and crack it into pieces.

“Why, Bell? It might not even be real love.”

“I know it’s real. He loves me. He truly loves me and I truly love him. I’m going to marry him.”

It ripped my soul apart to hear her utter those words with her beautiful face beaming with joy. She was so happy, but as much as I wanted her to be, I could not stand losing her to someone else. I just couldn’t allow it.

Formulating a quick plan I said, “My sweet Anabel, if that’s the way you feel then may you have a long and happy life with him.”

She relaxed with a smile and a sigh, telling me the ruse was working so I added, “It just hurts, though, that you haven’t introduced your sweetheart to me. After all I’ve only been your closest friend.”

“Oh! I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t realize you’d feel that way. I’ll let you meet him tomorrow.”

I agreed and wished her pleasant dreams. As she slipped into slumber I sang to her a gentle lullaby, confident my Bell would always belong to me.

The next day she lured Peter into the room and made him wait there while she left the room, for we agreed it would be better for him to meet me alone. The sight of this man who dared to steal Anabel from me filled my soul with such fury! I could see how Anabel could love the face of this tall man with charcoal black hair and deep forest green eyes, while every time she gazed at me her face stared back. I had to commit the deed I was about to do.

“Peter,” I whispered. “Look in the mirror.”

Confused, he turned towards me and with one glance at my eyes he was in my power.

“Peter,” I said in an icy voice, “you dared to marry Anabel. I simply can’t let you.”

With that, I unleashed an intense assault of horrific images to scar his mind worse than any victim. So focused was my rage on Peter, I didn’t see Anabel until too late. With a frightened, tear-streamed face she raised a candlestick and brought it down smashing me.

As I laid in pieces I pleaded, “Why, Bell? Why? I loved you.”

She glared at me with contempt not of her nature and left the room silently, leaving me alone to weep.

“Memory. Mine is made up of years of pain,” says the broken glass in the thief’s hand. “Yes, mirrors never forget a face, but as remarkable as memories are, to me they come at a price. I am filled wisdom of the ages, but the shadows of past tortures poison me. And because of that I’ll never forget the glare of pure bitter hate from Anabel.”

This had not been what the thief had expected when he broke into the mansion. He was just hoping to swipe a few precious valuables and instead found a broken talking mirror. He stares at the blue eyes when suddenly the glass fills with disturbing images behind them that he can’t break his gaze from.

Filled with demonic pleasure the eyes say, “Yet who says I can’t enjoy insanity once again. This is my true love.”

That night screams become a mirror’s memory.

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