Naeryandere

Finally, breathing heavily, she managed to take stock of her immediate environs. The setting was obvious enough. This was clearly the school, a definition which narrowed further to Room 113. Everything was just how her addled mind managed to remember, and why shouldn't it, after all? The familiarity tetherered her to this here and now. Her heart calmed and her breath slowed to a normal pace. 'Sera Salamen, are you paying attention?' The irritated and gritty rasp of Mrs. Loren soured her ability to enjoy the sensation of being alive. 'Well, we'll find out soon enough, won't we?' Mrs. Loren's sneer was filled with the toadlike pleasure of proving oneself superior to someone caught in a bad siutation. 'Why don't you answer this next question then, hm?'

Sera wasn't worried. Loron the moron was known for trying and failing to humiliate students, and Sera knew that she was one of the brighter ones. In fact, it was a little point of pride for her in public, and quite larger in the privacy of her own thoughts. She wasn't one hundred percent sure why she had fallen asleep in class, but, she was absolute on the fact that she would be safe. But something was wrong. Even though the rest of the class was nodding, making faces as if to say 'yea, that's ol' Loron for ya', Sera suddenly couldn't manage to understand the words coming out of that old crone's crooked mouth. 'Uh, what was that again?' she said tentatively, hoping for Loron to repeat what was probably just a garbled no-brainer. Mrs. Loren's smile grew wider. '--------------'

Sera didn't understand a word, and even worse, she had this horrible feeling that it wasn't a trick being played on her by the class and Loron together. She was the most hated teacher in the school, and she was popular enough, surely someone was going to tell her, or break the veil of this miniature nightmare. No such repreive came.

'So, Miss Honor student isn't quite so bright after all?' Loren managed to redouble her Cheshire sneer. These words were again, comprehensible. 'Maybe I should give you something easier.' Sera knew well enough when she was being taunted by tone alone, even as Loren rambled into another string of goobledegook.

You all come to me willingly, even though that's only what you all think. You can't really call any of us mere mortals willful, after all.Still, by some twist of contrived circumstance you all find yourselves entering this place

It's a happy place, I like to think. It's where my best work is done, well, all of it, actually, and there are so many happy faces. Were. I meant were. I don't really think of myself as an artist, like some of the uninitiated might call me. You actually might have heard of me, the 'painter of ash station', but I find that to be an injustice to my work, and what I'm trying to accomplish.

Artists, you see, fumble around in the dark trying to answer the deepest questions, well, question, about our condition with their useless degrees. That's not just visual art, that would be any of those soft, feel-y subjects. I don't mind, they put some great stuff out, but for the really important stuff, it just seems sort of badly organized, you know? Like a mismanaged tech company, but it's time for them to go out of business. The wave of innovation is here. I try to answer the Question with a bit more of a clinical methodology. This is the new millennium, after all, and we've applied science to everything else in our lives, so why not this. I'm sort of surprised no one else has thought of this before, really.

OK, so, I guess my work is sort of still art, but only in subject matter. I am a scientist. Ha. It's funny, you see, because I don't have any of that fancy training or anything, but that's how the real pioneers did it anyway, right? Trial and error, empirical observation, the good old fashioned tried and true scientific method.  Did you know they don't teach it anymore? But with my way, it's just me, some minor mechanical assistance, and my subject.

Now, to breach THAT subject, ha, if you'll excuse the pun, You're here because you're supposed to be. Me too, actually. I'm pretty sure that all of our human history just might be in anticipation for this, our little encounter right here. Isn't that exciting? All of this! War, love, countless generations of breeding and an infinite number of stories to get to this moment, this single quantum state, this single possibility out of all the rest. It must be like, a bazaillion to one odds of it being me, but that's just the way Fate works.

I bet the Big Guy is watching with baited breath, dying, ha, awkward, to know. I mean, why else would He have set this game in motion, with so many tears and dead lovers and maimed children? What a bad joke! It's really heartbreaking, don't you think? So the crux of the matter, of course, is. 'Where is the soul?' Like, either He doesn't know either and we're his computer simulation about to bear fruit and he gets the answer for His Omniscience 101 final, or else it's been a metaphysical game of hide and go seek, him against us. Well, eat your heart out Jesus and Buddha and Kant and Heidegger, because I've got the foolproof, one hundred percent guaranteed methodology. It's taken a while, sure, but you know what they say about eggs and omelets, right?

Whew. I guess I'm just nervous, my hands are literally shaking right now. I just can't believe that it's be, that I'm about to do it. I can see yours are too, so I guess you must now how I'm feeling, right? Our lives were just a warm up for these next few hours. I mean I'll be able to die happy if this goes the way I think it will. You too, I hope, right? Well, I mean, I guess we'll both see about that! We don't want to count our chickens or whatever, knock on wood.

OK. It's alright. We'll both get through this just fine. I know it. Uh, could you calm down a little? You're kind of freaking me out. Right. Thanks. Do you mind if I keep talking? It helps. I find it relaxing. Right. So, where was I? Uh...wash between the fingers, check for holes in the gloves, great! The Soul. How can we feel it? I mean, come on, we've all got the tight feeling somethings, or that sense of like, urgh, like when someone talks at the movies, or says like 'you dum fag' or something. Classless, I know, right? Like, excuse me, trying to be a decent person over here. That's how we know we've got one, right? It's totally ineffable, cause we can't see it, but it has to be there. 

So the better question to ask is, how do you know when you don't have one. Is that death? Should we send some subject to like, those Baptist nutjobs down south and see their reaction, measure it with electrodes and stuff? No, because we can't trust any of that, we know because we, as human beings, know. That's it. I mean, correlation and causation, I may not be degree'd up and everything, but even I know the saying about how one isn't the other. No, I think, and my entire work is based off of a much simpler hypothesis. See, life and death, out machines can measure, and in today's day and age, even control. This one here, for instance. We're really good at building really clever, efficient machines. It's really elegant, actually.

Anyway, my way of thinking is, to tear out a soul from it's natural resting place, that's got to be the worst crime against nature, right? The absolute worst. Like, not even against the laws of nature, but the laws of metaphysics or whatever. There needs to be some sort of reaction. Something maybe even beyond the capabilities of our eyes and ears and machines to perceive, but something we can feel. In our souls. Kind of like a resonance. It just makes sense, you think so, right? And following from that, sort of, the more natural, the closer to the original state it is in, the bigger the adverse reaction has to be, right, all the easier for measuring, or at least picking up on. I'm flying a little blind, so I need to build some sort of idiot-proofing into my experimental design.

'Loving someone means caring about them enough to let them go.' That's what they all said to me as they gathered in my house, my living room. They brought bottles of wine and vodka, comfort foods of all sorts. I wouldn't put it past Vanessa to have hired a stripper, all the name of cheering me up. They're good friends. I think I'd do the same for any of them. But they're wrong.

Actually, Vanessa didn't say that. She said, 'He never deserved you, you should be glad to get him out of your life. Oh, and don't listen to Leslie, I didn't hire a stripper. I didn't think it would be a good idea, at least not tonight.' She put her hand on my shoulder, offering her body as a pillow. We had stepped away from the group for a moment. She's my best friend, and she knows that I wouldn't want to cry in front of the others. Actually, I don't want to cry in front of any of them. I don't even think I have tears left. 'I'll be OK.' I said this to her in a manner which I hoped she would believe, but I think we know each other well enough that she knows that's a lie. But then again, she lied to me too. That's what best friends do, after all.

Because it really was my fault. They don't know the whole story, why he tried to leave. I thought I was the perfect partner for him. He'd rub my head, and I'd squeal with joy. I'd make him coffee and eggs and toast, and even if I burnt it a little, he'd accept it gratefully. It was love in the truest sense, that much I believe with all my heart.

But I guess I was wrong. Something about me wasn't enough. He started to stay out late, citing 'working late' as an excuse, coming back with the smell of other women on him. I found suspicious texts on his phone. I tried following him once in a rented car, but he just stayed at work. Even in spite of that, I was sure that he was seeing other girls.

I asked him, but he denied it, saying 'It's only you I love', and I believed him. In fact, I still do. He loves me, that much I know. With those words, all the mistrust in my heart and doubts in my head melted away. He rubbed my head and said that he was happy I got jealous, and that it was cute. Although, I still did kind of wonder what he was doing out late.

One night he came home and told me. 'Listen, I want you to be happy forever. And I have a plan to do it, but I need your help. Will you do it for me?'

Without hesitation, I agreed. I'd do anything for him. It wasn't even because it was for my sake.

'I'm going to trick some bad men. I don't want you to get too involved in this, but what I need you to do is to pretend that I've gone away. Tell that to all of your friends. Maybe tell them I broke up with you, or something, OK? But I'll be hiding, here, ok? Some of the bad people will come by to make sure I'm here, and you have to let them in to see me, and I have to pretend to be dead then, ok? It's all part of the plan. Once they believe I'm really dead, I can be with you, forever.' He had a little tear in his eye, like he was sad to have to leave me for a little while. I was crying. I didn't want to have to pretend that he didn't actually love me. That was like pretending that up was down. But, because it was for him, I did it. I followed all his instructions. I shoved a knife into his heart, just like he told me to. It didn't kill him. He told me that I couldn't ever do anything to hurt him, so stabbing him over and over for the bad men was just an act. It looked real, but it would work out. I told my friends that I was left by him, even though it pained me even to say the words.

note: this is a story i wrote about a year ago. I can't think of anything really good, so you all get old stuff.

~

And so here I am. As to where, I have never been sure, but I have come to think of it as a garden. It surely resembles a garden, with winding dirt paths laid down chaotically amidst flower patches, eternally dressed in a panoply of color; forests and idyllic clearings garnished with soft heather and moss. Everything here is edible, and conveniently color-coded. For example, blue petals from the softly drooping flowers make my mouth tighten up a little, as do all blue colored things. I wonder if the sky tastes the same way, or if it changes its taste as the days pass. The pond may seem blue, but its taste is crisp and clean, much like itself in mornings.

In the center of the garden, there is a gazebo, naturally constructed by trees, winding their branches amidst each other, and it is here that I have made my home. When my time was spent walking the now well-trod paths, seeking new colors to sample, or new places, it was here to which I returned. I can say center, because I once walked a path, uncharitaristically straight, until it would end. It took me two days, and I slept, not cold, but exposed, on the ground that night. After that second day, I had returned to the gazebo, so hence, I conclude that this place is a sort of circle, and after another day of thought, I decided that I did not care to explore any further. I admit I had accepted my life here, and so the days passed.

In that gazebo, there is a statue, made of solid stone, gray, dead, and cold. The statue is a mirror of myself, it displays what is best about me, and reflects my worst characteristics The sculptor, long before I was here, saw my essence as only a lover could, and painstakingly actualized the accomplishments and flaws that I know are mine. Some days, I gaze at the statue for hours at a time, trying to catch some hint of myself in it, studying each detail, and trying to eke out a memory that I do not have, but must have had in the past, before I came to this garden. Other times, I throw myself at it, attempting to shatter the mirror into infintesinimal pieces, if only to allow myself a moments rest from the eternal self-reflection the statue provides. When I inevitably fail to destroy my effigy, I leave the gazebo to wander the garden's paths, until I can bear to look at myself again.

And then, not so long ago, there was you. At first, you were all but inpercievable to my senses. I knew you as a tightness in the air, a breath gliding over the pond, or a rustle of wind in the leaves on a still day. Ordinarily, I would account these phenomena to coincidence, but at the same time, nonsensically, perhaps my chest seizes up, mimicing the tension in the air, or I feel passages being traced in my hair as if by gentle fingers. So, from that moment I accepted that I was not alone here in my garden. Even though you were unseen, those subtle fingerprints you left in my world were enough for my faith.

I am walking with you, down one of the many dirt paths. I know you are near me, because I feel that tightness in my chest, making breathing a concious effort, and because I hear your laughter in the leaves of the trees as the rustle with the wind, your breath. Once, before you, when I walked these paths, I would keep my head down, internalizing, and meditating on any number of topics, such as “Does the sun taste like the salivatory sweetness of the yellow bulbed flowers or the nose dripping heat of the red plants.” Either that, or I would keep my head up, looking straight ahead, keeping my eyes on what ever new place I hoped to find. But now, while walking with you, my eyes wander from side to side, looking for any indication of your presence in my surroundings. I see a hint of your face in a pattern of leaves, and I marvel how it seems so similar to mine, until one key leaf drops from the bough holding it in place, and the mirage vanishes, leaving me only with the knowledge that you were once there, and now I must find you again.

Why are you so capricious, running from me at every turn, hiding behind trees then fleeing, like a child playing games? Don't you think it would be better to walk these paths together, talking, or if it is so that you are simple an illusion, unpercievable to my senses, why not just walk together in silence. I think that I would enjoy that. So, please come out of the shadows, and let us be together.

I repeat this, for days, in my heart, from the top of a tree I've climbed, from every spot I've known you to be, hoping that you will hear this, my plea, my confession to you. This brief history of my life, and what you mean to me. When I look at the statue now, in the brief times when I am not searching for you, I wonder why it does not reflect my longing. Why does it not itself move from its pedestal and search the garden with me? I'm not sure how exactly I would feel about if it did. Perhaps I would jealously try to push it into a pond so that I would be your only seeker, but now that I know that it does not share my search, I cannot think of it as an extension of myself any longer. This statue is no longer my mirror, and now all I see in its eyes is tranquility blended with the little sadness that a forced seperation long ago would have brought to someone once in love.

An interval of time passes, and then, you are with me, in a different way. I see you for the first time, clearly, with my eyes. I know it is you, because who else could it possibly be?

So, I run into your arms, and you run your fingers through my hair, just like you did when they were the wind. We whisper together “ I...”

And then the world stopped.

For the longest time, I've been sort of annoyed by how people just throw around terrorist. Like, they call this person and that person a terrorist, but I mean, do they even know what the word means? Sure, they might be using fear as a tactic, but from what I hear, all of them want something.

Some people want freedom, or whatever, for their ethnic group, and some people just want money. Some want power, and really, it's all the same. But it is not terrorism. What does a terrorist want?

Nothing. Nothing except to make people afraid, otherwise, he, or she, is nothing but an extremist. Certainly, they aren't nice people, but they aren't terrorists.

So, you might ask, who then, fits my definition of a terrorist? No one. No one is a terrorist to date, at least not one who has been caught. What do I mean by this?

Let's assume many people fear death. It's by no means universal, but people fear the unknown, and death is one of the greatest unknowns known to humankind. Ha. So then, wouldn't a terrorist be someone who simply kills many people? Yes and no. They have to kill for the sole goal of spreading terror.

Going one step beyond that, the truly effective terrorist would not have to kill everyone. At a certain point, it becomes inevitability that a person would die, the terror becoming dilute, because it isn't just death that people are afraid of, it's dying before their time, without the chance to know about it, to go on with no regrets.

Of course, getting caught at it is bad. Once our prospective terrorist is found out and captured, the fear ends. So to be a quintessential terrorist, in every sense of the word, a true professional (without the connotations of wealth attached, of course), the core problem would be that everyone needs to know that they are a potential target, but at the same time, it must be done in secrecy.

And to make it even more difficult, each and every time you kill, it has to be crystal clear that it wasn't due to natural causes, or even by alternate artificial ones. And there has to be no way to mitigate the threat.

So, I can only propose this. Our terrorist flies from city to city, country to country. He does this randomly. More than one person could even be involved if you wanted to add a degree of volume to the case. There, they choose a passerby at random. Actually, it's better to go through the census data or something, so that people couldn't get passed over by not going outside. It needs to be random. That's important. And then, that person needs to be killed, in a consistent way. If possible, in a dramatic way, so it will garner the attention of the media. It could even be self-reported, if you're careful. And then you move on, from now until eternity, continuing this.

There are no demands. No compromises. No negotiations. All this person wants is to watch the people start to worry, to avoid going outside, to start to mistrust one another. Still, the work goes on. It's not like it will kill the species off, the rate of reproduction is far greater than any one man can overcome. But just knowing that there is a chance that one's life could be cut short in one more way each day will be enough.

'I've cornered you at least, murderer.'  Erika glared with hatred at the woman on her knees in front of her, hair dirty, skin daubed with blood and sweat and grime. The woman's body was a study in misery, and her face paralleled it. Erika saw a strange look on the woman's face.

'Is that regret then? It's too late for that, I hope you know. The police might let you go, but I'm going to make sure that possibility never comes to pass. You will die here.

'Please...you can't...you have to...you have to forgive me! For both our sakes! Do you understand? Please!' The woman cried out in desperation, tears mixing with blood seeping from gashes on her face. She seemingly struggled to find the words, but then choked, and ceased to be intelligible.

'Do you think that's going to help you? You KILLED MY DAUGHTER. I'm going to kill you. I'm sure that poor Bella begged for her life too, didn't she? Just before you ended her life? Well? Didn't she? Didn't she? I want to hear it from you. Tell me her last words! TELL ME!' Erika was nearly equally incoherent at this stage. The two figures looked like a mirror reflecting the visage of sorrow.

'I...I can't...please...forgive...me...'Through sobs now that were tearing her vocal chords, the woman screamed out, over and over again, but in Erika's mind, there was only silence. Erika pulled out a gun from behind her and pointed it at the woman's forehead.

'You're going to die here. I hope they have a special spot in hell for you.' She pulled the trigger. It was soundless, but at the instant the trigger was pulled back, something ineffable broke, and Erika felt a chill, like an egg being cracked on her brow, at the same spot she had aimed.'

The woman looked up. 'There is.'

'You understand, I hope.' The well dressed young woman in professional attire bored her eyes into his own, maintaining eye contact until he himself was compelled to look away uncomfortably. Damn, that was effective. Already he was on the defensive. If anything, the employees of the Department of Persuasion were well trained.

'So. What is it you want me to do?' He asked flatly. He didn't expect an honest answer. He really didn't even expect an answer at all. What reason would she have to give him one? They held all the power, all the cards. There were rumors of people going missing after a visit from an agent very much like her. In fact, he mused, it would be kinder for them to send a letter. He really didn't expect her to be so human. Her eyes were passionate, even behind her professional demeanor, and he noticed that one of the papers she held in her hand was dog-eared. He wondered if she'd be reprimanded for that.

'Here. These are the official papers, but I'll summarize it for you.' SHe handed him a set of documents littered with fine print and references to other forms. His head started to hurt just looking at it, but it gave him an excuse to avoid eye contact. 'You heard, right? About the break in at the Department of State? Essentially, we would like you to confess to it.'

'What? That's absurd!' He looked up instantly. I was on vacation at the time. Many people saw me in...'

'I know.' She cut off his protests, leaving him to choke quietly on his words. He started coughing uncontrollably, more a result of surprise than indignation. 'In fact, your name was chosen by lottery out of all citizens in the area.'

'The truth is, we know who was behind the break-in. It was the Ambassador from Washington. However, we cannot accuse them of this. It would literally cause an international incident. On the other hand, you know that our nation is built on the precept of justice. No matter how small the crime, it must not go unpunished. Therefore, as an act of patriotism, will you confess to the crime?'

He thought. 'All you would need to do is sign this confession. It has all been prepared by the Department of Justice. Of course, the sentence for a treasonous act like this would be death, and disgrace for your family.'

'Why though. Why do you need my consent? Couldn't you just forge my name there? Couldn't you torture me or something? Why this?! How can you just...just ask for me to do this?'

'That's simple. In this nation, we value the freedom of choice. If you decline, we will ask someone else. In fact,' here her eyes flashed, 'You are the thirty-fourth candidate. So once again, will you do this?'

He thought about his daughter, who would be forced into the streets, and his wife, who would be unable to apply for any respectable job. He thought about his life, and the things he wanted to do.

He reached for a pen after a few moments.

I'm so glad! To be honest, I've been in a bit of a rut, having just finished a few novels and anime with really wtf'y twists, so trying to sort out those influences from my own ideas, so they don't come like, directly from them. Never fear though, once I find a thing to write about they'll come flowing out.

(In fact, this is probably gonna get me trying to write something tonight)

Don't you see him there? That person who just pushed you out of his way, as if you were insignificant, as if you were less than an annoyance? If you were an annoyance, after all, he'd yell at you. Or pick a fight. Or slap your phone out of your hands, sending it spiraling to the ground where the screen would snap. But he doesn't do any of that. Because you're worthless.

She too thinks you're nothing. Wouldn't it be at least natural for someone to nod at you as they walk by? Wouldn't it be polite to return your wave, even if it was on accident, and your impression that you knew them peripherally from somewhere was entirely mistaken? Instead, she stared at you a moment with blank, inexpressive eyes, as if to say, 'Urgh. A worm', and then passed you by. In fact, she most certainly was thinking exactly that.

Those people. How easy it would be to end them. You could follow that girl home, from a distance, and find the first object with enough weight to break bond and bring it crashing onto her head. You could follow that boy and surreptitiously push him into the street, just as that taxi would be speeding by. The number of ways to end their existences is endless.

And that's because you're the only person who matters, the one true human, the hero of the story of the world. The rest of these people are only extras, merely non-player characters, here for your convenience, to add a little flavor to the world in which you exist, or should I say, Exist. They exist, you Exist. There's a difference.

Still, she had been warned not to chatter too much, because any movement on her part might disrupt some of their careful measurements. Instead, the lead surgeon recited each and every thing she was doing, while Jennifer watched. It was fascinating.

'This is the memory center. Of course, your memories are disseminated across the entire nervous system, but a huge core of them are situated here. When we stimulate it, like this,' Jennifer suddenly got a flash of sensation. 'You might experience something interesting.'

Jennifer couldn't place it, but it made her feel nostalgic. Somewhat inappropriate, she decided, but somehow very fitting at the same time.

"And this machine records the patterns of neurons,' the doctor continued. Jennifer blinked, that being the agreed upon signal for well, anything, from 'how interesting!'(once) to 'I want to be put under' (three times quickly). That way, her head wouldn't move.

'Did you know, that you keep every sensation and every thought you've ever had?' The doctor, who had always had a tendency to like to explain things was secretly pleased to have a chance to explain her work. 'What people think of as memories are only a fraction of what's kept in your head.' Jennifer blinked again.

A strange pressure was building up in Jennifer's head, which she hadn't noticed before. It was becoming partially uncomfortable.

'Are you alright? Would you like to be sedated?' Jennifer blinked slowly twice, which meant no. Her curiosity was still stronger than the discomfort. 'Alright. We're about to start the process anyway.' Jennifer heard an electronic set of beeps. 'This is the really cool part,' the doctor said, smiling down with her eyes, her mouth covered with a mask. 'We're going to record each and every sensation and thought you've ever had. It's a lot of data, but it all fits in one of these!' She held a cube the size of Jennifer's fist in front of her eyes to allow her to see it. Jennifer's eyes started to twinge, her head starting to feel a more serious pain.

'The best part is, that once we have it all, one of the Biographers can go over it and interpret it. You'll live on forever, isn't that amazing?' Jennifer blinked once, and then, after a pause, blinked three times slowly. She felt a significant pain in her head, like someone was pressing down on her temples.

'Dr Harrison!' The doctor called out to the anesthesiologist, who turned a lever and twisted a dial. Jennifer soon forgot about the pain in her head. 'Hm...that's not supposed to hurt. It must be some sort of side effect from her condition...' The doctor muttered to herself, thinking about how she was going to write this up.

I woke up in the night, jolted out of my dreams by a sensation of wrongness. This is an inconsistency with my recent memory, I was in no fights. I'm not ill, nor was I injured doing one of a hundred daily tasks. Of course, I should examine the area.

The light switch is all the way across the room, but all I need is the desk lamp. Aching, I reach my arm out to pull the cord. My motion isn't impeded by that anomaly of my anatomy, but as I move, the ephemeral pain in my gut as I stretch out becomes more real.

The light disturbs my eyes, but that's not important. Instead, I look downwards, to look for some mark on my body which would indicate a bruise, or even a cut, but as my eyes scan over my skin, there's nothing out of the ordinary. Pale and slightly unhealthy, yes, but nothing abnormal.

It must be on my back then. I reach around gingerly to touch each part of my back, to check for some tactile inconsistency, a growth, a fissure, a spider bite, but they find nothing. Panicking, I rise, heading to the full length mirror to look for it on my back. Nothing strange shows up, not even with the room light on.

Could it have been something I ate? It hardly feels like it, but it's possible. Tea might calm me down. I prepare a pot, working through the once again subdued but present ache.

It doesn't help. Clearly I must have caught something, perhaps from Jim at the office. I buy over-the-counter drugs at first from my pharmacy, and when that doesn't work, I go to the doctor's, and have her look me over. I give blood, but two to three days afterwards, my lab work has come up clean. Still, the pain persists.

OK, so it's not a virus. It's not food poisoning, for that would have ended a while ago. Perhaps its something to do with the alignment of my back. I go in for a chiropractic appointment. This person is very good, he's recommended by all my friends, but still, nothing, even though the rest of me feels great. I should do that more often.

Could it be...cancer? I go back to the doctor's, beg her to look again. I give more blood, and she says she'll get her oncologist friend to look at it. If there's anything, they'll find it. In the meantime, she tells me to take more aspirin. I've already given up on that.

But a week later, nothing. I go into the hospital for a biopsy. It's a good thing my in insurance is very good. But apparently I'm as healthy as a horse. Except for the persistent pain. They mutter words like psycho-somatic and Munchhausen's. But I'm not crazy. I just hurt.