I'm in love.

A criminal.

That’s what you were, at least in a different country.

A year ago, in America, you were arrested for shoplifting at your local Walmart. It wasn’t a felony, and you only had to go to court, but the experience was enough to make your parents embarrassed by you. Once you were released, they kicked you out of their home and sent you to live with your grandparents in Russia. You had dual citizenship and were technically an immigrant, so being sent back was no issue—legally, at least. Mentally, it was draining. You watched as clouds zipped past your plane, and soon you were brought to a home that you barely recognized. Your grandma greeted you with a loving scowl, and your grandpa side-smacked your head so hard, your ears rang.

They weren’t happy to see you, and it showed.

You spent your time reading and polishing your Russian. Your grandma sat you down daily to test you over and over. After that, you were expected to clean the house. Even though you were an adult, it felt like you were a kid again. You had nowhere else to go—no connections or money. Forever stuck with your grandparents in their boring ass hometown, in a country that felt like its own jail.

For the first few months, your grandpa refused to speak to you. Maybe it was your elementary-level Russian. Every time you tried to speak to him, you could tell it pissed him off. After seven months of nonstop practice and cleaning, your grandpa spoke to you at breakfast. He asked if you wanted to start exploring the neighborhood more. You said yes, expecting him to scold you for some reason. Instead, he simply nodded and finished his coffee.

That evening, he came home with a bike. It looked slightly dated; maybe it’d seen better days. However, it had a sturdy basket and was a nice baby blue. And now it was yours. You spent the rest of that year riding around the area, exploring and running errands for your grandma. Russia wasn’t too bad, especially now, since it felt like your punishment was over. However, some days it felt too warm. You’d often come home sweating hard, needing to take a cold bath. Your grandpa asked once if you were ok. He told you to wear lighter clothes and take water next time. You could tell that seeing your face red after only a short bike ride made him nervous.

Three days before New Year’s Eve, your grandma sent you out to buy tangerines. Even before getting on your bike, you felt remarkably hot. You could see the heat waves warping the air as you rode to the market. Everyone was sweating just like you, and you could see and smell the sweat of the poor people who had to bake under the sun to make a profit.

But it was December—December in Russia. Why the fuck was it so hot?

After you came home and had a bath, you could hear your grandparents at the kitchen table. They had the radio on, listening to the local news. It was about the weather. You could hear a man on the station talk about the increasing temperature. It sounded like he said it could reach 98°C soon. You became cross.

Around 200°F? That’s like, impossible.

You came out into the kitchen in your pajamas and sat with them. Your grandpa looked at you and then back at your grandma.

“Maybe we should send her back.” He whispered in Russian.

“What? Why?” You blurted in English.

“It is getting too hot.” He replied, looking concerned.

“You think it’s gonna be any better in America?” Your grandma retorted.

“I want my granddaughter here.” She continued.

They looked at each other for a second. The air felt tense to you.

“Don’t you think they’d want their daughter back in a crisis? We should send her back before it gets worse!” He cried.

“So you’re going to bake her in a plane?” She scoffed.

You stood up from your chair and walked to your room as they continued going back and forth, wondering if the planet could really get that hot. You found yourself in the kitchen, an evening later, peeling potatoes for dinner while idly watching what your grandpa had on the TV. It was a Russian crime show called Streets of Broken Lights, or something of the sort. It was quite fun, and you enjoyed finding things you could later bond with your grandpa over. You’d pretty much forgotten about the heat until an alert came blaring over the TV. Your grandpa cursed as he jumped in his seat. It was a warning not to leave your home for any reason during the day. Tomorrow, it was going to be 86°C.

What the actual fuck.

Your grandpa looked at you and then cursed again as he leaped from his seat and ran to the house phone. You stopped peeling and went to find your grandma. Frantically, you ran around the house, calling for her. There was nothing. Your grandma was gone. You started to sob as you ran back to your grandpa. He told you that he was leaving to find her. You panicked as he started grabbing his keys and his gun. You’re not sure why he’d need his gun, but before you could ask, he was halfway out the door while yelling at you, demanding you keep the lights off and the doors locked.

That was the last time you saw both of them.

You spent the rest of that night blocking all the windows. You didn’t know if that would stop the heat, but it was worth a try.

You kept the TV on the entire time, trying to catch any information that might help. While listening to the news at the lowest volume, you heard some other, if not more horrific, news.

Alien-like humans. Monsters. The reporter landed on the word visitors.

Why visitors?

You stayed sat on the couch, waiting for one of your grandparents to come home. Being alone was starting to stress you out. Hours flew past, and soon the adrenaline in your body died down. You fought the sleep as best you could, but suddenly you woke up, not remembering when you had fallen asleep.

You looked at the windows that you’d covered. Through the black fabric, you could see that it was daytime, and nobody had returned.

Every step you took felt heavy, not just from the sweltering heat, but from the mental strain that had you overcome with anxiety. Time felt unbearable to comprehend. The thought of perception or the very action of thinking about anything at all was suddenly too strenuous. Did the heat melt your brain like it was now trying to do with your skin?

You knew this would be survivable. You checked the thermostat, and it was 30°C in the house. It wasn’t the worst you’d been through, but suddenly you felt like you were being hot-boxed—just bathing in your sweat as it cooked you like ham. You kept pressing your finger on the dial until it reached the lowest temperature it could go, praying the heat hadn’t destroyed the AC.

You ran the water in the bathroom, hoping to start a cold bath, but it was already steaming. Even though you wanted to cry, the heat made you too exhausted, and you ended up just turning the water off and whining your way to your bed.

You could only imagine how hot it was out there. If only you could gather yourself enough to take a look outside. Then again, you realized that one look might be enough to burn your retinas permanently.

You only managed to get out of bed once. For a while, you laid on the floor after stripping off your pants. The fabric was damp, and your thighs felt cool from the moisture that had been stuck to your skin. Maybe you were being a little dramatic, but it really felt like it was getting hotter. Being in 30°C weather outside was manageable. When you biked, you had the privilege of feeling the cool air that hit you every time you went downhill. However, there was nothing to cool you off in your tiny room.

You stayed on the floor for hours, eventually falling asleep. Once you woke up, you noticed the air was slightly cooler. You looked at the clock, and it was now 10:36 at night.

You got up to look around for your grandparents. Your back was damp from being on the carpet. After a look around the house, they still hadn’t come home. You decided now would be a good time to peek out your curtains. In hindsight, you truly had no idea what you would’ve seen; if you had the option to know, maybe you would have hesitated.

All across the road were the crisp bodies of those who had cooked in the sun. One of those could have been your grandparents, but it would’ve been hard to tell, since everybody’s skin was practically evaporated in the heat. You could only wonder how bad it smelled out there.

You noticed that people were starting to walk around. Some awkwardly averted their eyes from the bodies. Others looked normal as they continued their daily lives, just at night. You wondered how they could already adapt to such a horrific situation. You took a step back from the window, making sure to pull the curtain back into place. You felt you needed to come up with a plan because you doubted you could stay here forever.

As you stood in place by the window, someone suddenly knocked on the door. You jumped from the sound and, for some reason, didn’t hesitate to make your way to the peephole.

It was a young woman, maybe around your age. She looked eerily normal—nice straight brown hair, clean face, healthy eyes. She smiled through the peephole like she was actually looking at you.

“Hello? I saw your face through the window.” She announced with a clean smile.

What the fuck type of greeting is that?

Her teeth were dramatically white. Like, supermodel white. It made your stomach ache.

You didn’t give her a reply, but instead kept staring at her through the tiny glass. In your head, you wondered where she came from and why she picked your house.

She inched her face towards the peephole and searched through it, all with that same smile.

“I see you!” She cheered.

You shot back from the door in horror. She began knocking violently as you staggered back. Your legs trembled, and with every bit of strength you had left, you hid back in your room, hoping that she would eventually just leave.

Luckily for you, she did.

It became completely silent after an hour of hiding under the covers. You felt like how you did when you were a kid. Just an anxious little girl on the brink of tears, hoping Momma would come soon to wrap you in her warm arms and soothe your fears.

You sobbed again, thinking of your mistakes and how if you hadn’t done what you did, maybe you would’ve been able to hug your mom or at least not be alone.

You knew you couldn’t stay here. Soon, more would come back around and target your house again. But where would you go? It was already almost midnight; you would have about five hours left before you’d start to roast.

I need to find someone to stay with.

You gave it some thought. In reality, there was no way you’d make it out of this situation alive. You would either die here, starving to death, have your house broken into, or die in the daytime trying to make it to shelter. Survival, at that point, was slim. But truthfully, if you had nobody, was there really a point? You had no idea if your parents back home were still alive, and the possibility of them actually being such seemed incredibly low.

You curled your body up more under the blanket, and suddenly, you felt so small and fragile. How could it be that your entire world could collapse in a week? Everything that you’d ever known—jobs you’ve had, mouths you’d kissed, hands you’d held, experiences, good and bad, they would all be discarded soon. There was nowhere to store them; no capsule to put them in. No one to tell all of your experiences to, and hope they keep your memory alive. You’d lived your life, and suddenly you felt that there was nothing to show for it.

Nothing. There would be no proof of your existence except for your charred skeleton. And then where would that skeleton go? Who would know that skeleton’s name?

You cried as you slowly unraveled yourself from your cocoon. You looked around your room, deciding what to take. It was hard to tell which items were which because your tears blurred your vision.

In the end, the only things you packed were clothes, a journal, and a picture of the last family trip you’d taken.

If nobody would remember you, at least you’d die remembering yourself.

You changed and then left for the last time. You wondered whether anyone would cherish this house the way your grandparents did. At some point, it will probably be burned down. It terrified you to think of that.

You looked out every window; there were noticeably fewer people out. The dwindling numbers intimidated you for a minute. Where did most of them go?

You couldn’t sit on it because time was running out. You hadn’t listened to the radio in a while, so you figured that maybe there was a survivor’s camp nearby, and that’s where everybody went. Going out the side door, you picked up your bike and locked the door behind you. The air was incredibly stiff. You felt slightly suffocated as you kicked the break up and began your journey out of the neighborhood.

Not to mention, it smelled horrific.

Your senses made it feel like you were prey. You tried to calm yourself down by telling yourself the worst thing that can happen to you is getting locked out in the sun.

You had no idea what was really out there, because there was so much worse.

There wasn’t a lot outside. For the most part, it was just groups of survivors walking. Some were playing; others were acting pretty normal. It felt like a busy night. One thing you noticed was how many were knocking on doors, asking to be let in. They looked terrified and on guard. You could understand, for the most part. The sun was literally about to come out in a couple of hours. But, they were looking behind themselves, like they were searching for something, or someone.

You continued down the road until it was completely empty. You were on a new path to a neighborhood you hadn’t been to yet. The road was semi-clear, if not for a couple of bodies. You looked out into the field on your right and gazed at the uncut grass, which swayed in the warm breeze.

Your eyes widened.

What the fuck is that.

There was a freakishly tall man in the weeds. He had this thick white smile, almost as white as his entire body, and was looking directly at you. You almost crashed into a body on the road while keeping your eyes on him. You passed with no issue, but it shook you up. You knew he was the person whom the people knocking on those doors were scared of. Suddenly, you didn’t want to be out there any longer.

You kept on and soon entered a new neighborhood. The houses were farther apart, and you could see the residential apartments in the distance. You slowed your bike down as you surveyed each house. There was one in particular that caught your attention. It was a white family home, and by god, you hoped there was a family.

You rolled your bike up to the door, shaking a bit. You looked behind your shoulder. There was no one, but the stretch of land that connected to the field where you saw that man still made you question if there was really nobody in your field of vision.

You parked your bike on the side of the porch. You knew this was probably the last time you’d see it, because unlike your house, this one had nowhere to hide it.

You walked up to the door, and with one shaky breath, you awkwardly knocked. It took you a second to get an answer. You were starting to get a little antsy when a man’s voice spooked you.

“Yea?” He said through the door.

“I’m from two neighborhoods down. I just need somewhere to stay before the sun comes up.” You knew you had more to say, but you kept tripping over your words.

You involuntarily kept looking back. Your heart was beating so fast it almost hurt to breathe.

He said nothing for a beat. At some point, you wondered if he had just left.

Then the door opened.

It was a man who looked to be in his late twenties. He had short brown hair with a high hairline, and he was wearing a blue turtleneck with the sleeves pulled up and grayish slacks.

And he looked annoyed.

I definitely chose the wrong house.

He motioned you in with his fingers, and you hurried in. It felt good to finally be in a home where you weren’t the only one inhabiting it. You closed your eyes and just breathed. It still smelled sour, but now the scent was dulled by the smell of wood and cigarettes. You’d take that any day over dead bodies.

“Show me your teeth.” He suddenly commanded.

You turned back to the man and noticed a rifle in his hands. You started to panic as he came closer. He squinted his eyes at you and made a confused expression.

“Why?” You squeaked.

Was he a serial killer? Did he collect teeth?

He stopped.

“I need to know if you’re a visitor or not.” He replied.

You remembered the news mentioning the visitors, but you couldn’t remember exactly what it said. Was this the ultimate test?

You trembled as you brought your hands to your mouth and pulled your lips apart. Your saliva was warm, and you could taste the salt on your fingers.

He glanced at your teeth for a moment and then scowled.

“Fucking white.” He began to lift his rifle.

You removed your fingers and shielded your face with your hands. He smacked your left hand away. You cried out as the pain stung your knuckles.

“You’re screwed.” The man mumbled as he shoved his rifle in your face.

The grooves of the cool metal sank into your sweaty face as the pressure from his gun forced you against the wall. You could still see his agitated face through your cheek fat now being pressed up against your eye. He was about to blow your head clean off for having white teeth of all things.

“Please. You can’t just…” Your voice began to falter as the fear froze your body.

You felt him reposition his gun in his hands, and instinctually, your hands began searching against the wall for something to hold.

“They’re slightly yellow!” You sobbed.

The tears from your eyes began to soften where the barrel made a suction on your cheek. You felt your body give out. It was like you were a baby bird, desperately scratching at the trunk of a tree, hoping to fly. You began to regret leaving your home. If you knew some freak would’ve pulled a gun on you, you would’ve stayed put under those covers and rotted.

“One chance. Please.” You croaked.

You closed your eyes, ready for the worst, and then he put the gun down.

You looked at his face and knew your reaction had shaken him. You had a feeling that he was going to shoot, but couldn’t find it in himself to pull the trigger. You fell to the floor with your back still against the wall. All of your senses were heightened. You’d nearly died, and now every sight, sound, and smell was about to make you throw up just by how overwhelming it was.

He dropped his gun on the ground abruptly. It made you yelp out. Before you could say anything, he rushed down the hallway and slammed a door.

Dr. Lecter's office is a bit cluttered. It always is. Not messy. Just cluttered. It makes you feel even more uneasy. You could tell from the slight tilt of his head that he didn't understand where you're coming from, why you're so upset at yourself.

You did everything you could to ever gain forgiveness for your past wrong doings, you tried for even the small ones. You forgave yourself and acknowledged that some of your past situations weren't your fault. Still... the anxieties continues. Like a knife tapping against your ribs, a drowning feeling in your lungs, a dropping of your heart, and a heat from panic that you can't make go away.

Guilt persists.

You don't know why or how to fix it. You just want it to go away. Objectively, you know you're a good person, but that ringing in the back of your head whispers that guilt on repeat in your quietest moments.

Speaking of quiet, the silence has dragged on for a while. You stare into space while Dr. Lecter watches you almost unblinking.

You take a deep breath and finally find your voice. "I'm not making any sense, am I?"

"You make perfect sense, child. I simply can't comprehend how someone so sweet can see themselves in such a cruel light." He tells you without missing a beat.

"It's not that I don't know that I'm a good person... I know I do good things, but I feel like a- a..."

"It's all a lie you tell yourself to feel better." He answers for you.

Your heart seizes and your eyes grow wet far too quickly making you feel embarrassed.

"I can tell you now it is not a lie. You are in fact a good person."

"But how do you know that?" You ask shakily. "I mean, you're my therapist but I don't tell you everything."

He tilts his head a little, kind of like before, just a small quirk most people miss. "Even if you do not tell me everything I know you quite well. Every time you have ever done something even remotely wrong you express remorse and do your best to remedy what you have done. That is proof enough."

You remain silent, hearing him say it feels nice but you still hold doubt.

His expression becomes stern. "Do not doubt me, dear."

"I'm not trying to." You whisper out.

"Tell me," He leans forward in his seat. "Have you thought more about our conversation from your last session?"

He changes the subject so quickly and easily that you're caught off guard, unable to stay on your previous course of the conversation.

"I have." You murmur.

You remember that conversation clearly. Age regression. A psychological oddity where a person mentally reverts back to a younger state of mind. Something that could be both involuntary and voluntary. Something that could be used as a coping mechanism.

Something that you already do. Something you're still hesitant to tell Dr. Lecter that you already do despite him recommending you try it.

He calls out your name gentle but stern. "Focus on me, not your thoughts."

Your eyes land on him and you can see a small, minute, smile grace his lips.

"Good. Now did you try it?"

Emotions scrape at your chest like a saw. "I'm sorry." You choke out.

He remains silent, waiting for you to elaborate, blue eyes watching you intensely.

"I shoulda told you when you recommended it, but I was too embarrassed, and now I'm even more embarrassed, and I'm so sorry, but I already do regress sometimes by choice sometimes not, and I get really small, and I know it's not something to be embarrassed by but I am, and I just didn't know how to say it, and-" Before you can finish your rushed out, rambled, apology and explanation he interrupts.

His voice is soothing. "It's alright, little one."

Your words die in your throat.

"I recommended it because you already acted as a regressor would. I do appreciate that you've told me the truth. I'm very proud of you."

"How can you be proud! I lied!" You cry out.

Tears start to dribble down your cheeks.

"By omission. Yes, you did. However, you came clean and told me the truth almost immediately, pushing aside your fear in order to do so." He says quiet and almost... fatherly.

You rub at your wet cheeks. "Don't- don't talk like that."

Dr. Lecter stands and kneels in front of you. "Like what, little one? Like I care? Because I certainly do."

"You- you can't just..." Your words trail to nothing. You don't know what to say.

You clench your fists and screw your eyes closed as you feel that unwilling slipping in your mind. Not now, you think, just not now.

"It's okay. You're safe, child. You're doing so well." Dr. Lecter encourages.

Your quiet tears turn into loud sobs. "No! No! 'm not doin good! 'm bad!"

He hardens just a bit and takes your hands. "Do not let your anxieties lie to you. You are a very good child." He pulls you down and into his arms.

He rocks you softly side to side, ignoring how you try to push him away. He hushes you softly and whispers gentle affirmations to you.

"Such a good baby." He coos ever so quiet.

"I'm so proud of you, little one." He murmurs against your hair.

"That's it, let it out." He rubs your back.

"Such a brave little lamb." He holds you closer.

"You're safe here." He reassures.

When you calm down he continues to speak soft but steady. "Can you tell me how little you feel?" He questions.

You stiffen and let out a whine, hiding your face in his chest.

"I see."

Dr. Lecter scoops you up and sits with you in his armchair. He continues his soft rocking motion as he cradles you close. He pulls out a pacifier from somewhere you don't even see. Carefully he offers it to you, ensuring you take to it. Once you do he smiles a bit to himself.