OkamiKami1996

In From it has been realized that there is something that has caused all the chaos and death that the people stuck in the alternate universe are experiencing. We may have met it at the very end of the season finale in season 3. It was the voice on the phone that spoke to Jim near the end of season 1—“Your wife shouldn’t be digging that hole”—his voice is identical. We have also learned from Fatima that the creatures that are coming out at night are the parents of the children whom they sacrificed for eternal life. Okay, so, my parents have watched the Lost and believe that this is going to be one of those “they were already dead and in purgatory” endings. I refuse to believe that they would make the same mistake, but just in case, here is what I think should happen in the last season-- or seasons...

One possible backstory:

Once there was a happy little town full of good, law-abiding people—however, some were not so happy with their stations in life. One of them is a milkman, another looks like she may have been an outcast, and the signature old woman who killed two characters in the first five minutes of season 1, episode 1. All of these are people who certainly could want eternal life—people who have a major ego, believe they deserve more in life. The fact that they sacrificed their kids like that showcases that ego and also desperation—and those are two things that demons feed on. The seven fallen angels want to claw their way from the depths of hell, but they can’t escape unless they have sacrifices. I’m thinking that they tried to escape from hell by using the bodies of the children as vessels to walk upon the earth once more. There’s a problem though, the children-- whose hope and faith had been kept alive by Jade and Tabitha's past lives-- had strong wills. Not only that, child spirits have always been pretty horrific after they die and haunt the world they left behind so early. So, when they died and their bodies were taken over they created an alternate dimension to imprison the newly reincarnated fallen angels and the people (now immortal) that sacrificed them. The reason that the parents become mummified during the day is because the fallen angels are angry that they failed to complete the ceremony properly. There are movies where spirits are able to create alternate dimensions to entrap others; Gehenna or Nirvana are two terms that have been used before to describe these places. Nirvana was used in the Corpse Party franchise to describe the dimension that Sachiko created to entrap students who failed to complete the “Sachiko Ever After Charm”. Gehenna was used in a movie of the same name to describe a space where five people got trapped after they trespassed on holy ground. One person had to stay behind and live in a hellish immortality until the characters entered again and the process started once more. In any case, the child spirits create their own nirvana (or Gehenna) to entrap the evil that was brought into the world. Their spirits are acting as seals to keep everything trapped inside. The reason that there are random buildings in the town is because the newly created gehenna either took the shape of things that the child spirits are very familiar with or because some of the town had been sucked in while they were creating the dimension. If some of the town had been sucked in with them, it might be a nice flourish that these buildings had already been tainted by miasma and were therefore unfit to stay behind. As for the song Jade played; it is the song that summons the heavens to come and purge evil. When Jade played the song in his first life, he nearly succeeded in calling down the angels to defeat the newly resurrected angels, and Rafeal had thrown down his spear-- it hit the earth and shattered a part of it. These pieces of rock were imbued with holy energy and became the talismans we all know and love. However, the song that Jade played is incomplete, therefore unable to completely call down heaven. The boy in white was originally going to be the vessel for Lucifer, however Michael ends up getting entrapped in his body instead. The reason the boy in white doesn’t look like the rest of the children is because his consciousness has combined with Micheal- an archangel. As for why everyone gets sucked into their gehenna, it is either at the will of the children who want the cleansing of evil to be finished (in other words Jade has to finish the song) or at the will of the fallen angels who are biding their time and feeding on the fear, misery, hatred, and despair of all the poor souls who get trapped there.

Another Possible Backstory

We have pretty much the same elements as the last except the parents are actually attempting to help the fallen angels escape and in order to do that, they set up their gehenna to suck the vitality, hope, and goodness out of the victims. The children’s energy is what is keeping their gehenna active as they are being kept in a perpetual nightmare. The children’s nightmare is what gives the strange phenomenon life in gehenna.

The present:

Okay, so those are the backstories, now we get to the present. Tabitha, Jade, Ethan, and Julie need to find the missing scores to the song so that they can call the angels and cleanse evil. Meanwhile, Boyd finds out that he is the newly chosen vessel for Lucifer who is trying to corrupt and break him so he can take over his body. The new police officer, Dani, begins to be manipulated by the evil creatures of gehenna to turn the townspeople against Boyd. Jade finds what he thinks is the missing score and calls down the angels, but it is interrupted by the creature that killed Jim and ends up calling upon Armageddon. The score he played is for the trumpets of the revelation. Julie tries to master her storywalker power to save Jim because she believes that if she can prevent his death they may be able to alter the future so that the apocalypse doesn’t begin. She doesn’t know exactly why her father might be able to stop the apocalypse, however, she goes back in time enough times to try and find the answer. See the “Bucketful of River” from Buddhism for reference. We find out that Jim’s mother (who taught piano) knew the true score for the song that calls upon heaven to cleanse evil. Jim ends up surviving just long enough to give Jim the true score. Fate unfortunately cannot be completely altered, and Julie only manages to extend his life. It turns out the Julie’s power has to do with the new set of apostles. The other apostles are: Victor, Sarah, Elgin, Fatima, Marielle, and Randall. Gehenna continues to try and corrupt the others. Beelzebub is the one who has been tormenting Randel. The only apostles who haven’t been succumbed to the torment of the fallen angels yet are: Victor, Marielle, Julie, and Randall, as they haven’t sinned yet. Boyd is falling out of favor with the townspeople as Dani has begun to turn them against him. Kenny remembers a legend about Gaki (hungry ghosts) and believes that the monsters who come out at night are a type of Gaki. See the Origins of the Segaki Festival. He tries to lead a ritual to cleanse the souls of the monsters, but it fails. Jade plays the song that calls down the heavens and the cleanse begins, but the fallen angels—who have thrived in the tainted dimension—try to pull the entire town into hell where they can bide their time and try again in the future. Kenny tries to have the people cleanse the spirits again, however this time, they try to cleanse the child spirits. They all chant different prayers and offer up something of importance to them, cleansing the spirits. The spirits all revert back to their form before they died, and they create a nirvana to keep the townspeople safe therefore saving them from being taken to hell. The fallen angels manage to escape, but all the evil that tainted the earth is purified and everyone appears outside of a forest. Everyone is exhausted, but in the distance they hear a search party looking for some of them. They all call out and are found by the search party. Fade out as everyone is brought to safety

Do you ever feel like your drowning?

In the darkness, in a lake, a bog?

And you know that,

if you want it all to stop, then you should leave the lake?

But, do you ever feel that something is keeping you from leaving?

Do you ever feel scared to leave the place that is suffocating you,

like, maybe, even if you make your way out

of the darkness

to shore

or pull your way up from the reeds that

you'll be met with something worse? Or maybe it is better, and you are afraid that if what you find is better, that you have been drowning all this time

for absolutely nothing, and you will no longer want anything to do with the embracing dark, the crystal lake, or the ever-lasting bog...

Okay, so I've gone into my life with several disabilities. I've given you a small sample of my school life. Now I'd like to give you another shade of my life: my daddy issues. Enter a man who is a mixture of Latino and Chinese. A doctor. Narcissistic, prideful, smart, good looking, a natural leader, a prick, and: my sperm donor. My biological father was never married to my mother. My mother got pregnant with me before she got her Master's Degree. Great time to have a kid right? In your golden years. Not if your boyfriend is my biological father. He threw both my mother and me as an infant out of his apartment-- my mother in her boxers and t-shirt without a bra. She went to live with her family where she could raise me supported. My uncles were both great. I loved them a lot. I remember having a lot of fun when I was being babysat by them. What I would find out later: my biological father wanted nothing to do with me until I was four and developed a personality. He would drop me off at his mother's house as an infant and go party with his college friends. My mom wanted me to know my father. I went up to his house often for a few weeks in the summer. I should have had it easy since that was the case.

Remember my first therapist, Susan? Yeah, he was a huge reason why I even went to her. I was often homesick as a kid. I cried when I went to Texas to visit him. According to my mom, there were a couple times where I was in such distress they almost had to kick me off the plane. Needless to say, I cried at his house too. I was not allowed to cry at his house. He married a woman who had apparently loved him for years. He could no longer give her children, and like a shit load of bad dramas: she hated me for being his biological daughter. He would more than often work for entire days while I was there. I rarely went when he wasn't working at his clinic. Most of my days were spent in the backroom of his office watching movies or playing with toys alone. Visiting Texas was like a flash flood. Everything was mostly fine unless I cried. He hated it when I cried and would scold me. I'm not sure how bad it got, I might have been to young to remember.

There is only one time I can vividly remember when things got bad at his house. I cried in his pool. My older sister born of a different mother (who step mom also hated) both saw me, and I made them promise not to tell. A few days later, as I was driving home with my father, he all of a sudden brought up that I cried. He told me he didn't like it when I did that. I was in 4th grade at this point. I had no where to run. I wasn't even at home where I could run to a friend's house. I entered the house in a daze and saw them both sitting at the coach. The betrayal, anger, and sadness burst through and I wailed and retreated to my room. No where was really safe for a kid to cry. He came in and we argued.

Now, the thing with kids at this age and arguments on this level: you take everything you hear and conversations you have had and you throw it at the adult in order to win. There was no winning. In less than 30 minutes, a twelve year old me realized that I would not emotionally survive in that house unless I sucked up to the person in power. I went and apologized, telling him I was the bad one and I was wrong. I stood there for a long time being told that I was a spoiled brat and how bad and disrespectful I was. I nodded and apologized over and over, like a mantra. I was finally forgiven. Forgiven for needing a safe place to cry at my father's house.

This was around the time when I was beginning to have trouble in school because of my hearing disability. The next year in 5th grade, I had developed a kind of phobia when it came to my biological father. Kids didn't understand why I didn't want him to visit. Susan wanted us to all have a family therapy session, where she only threw gas on the fire. She brought up all the things that I had said, prompting everything since I refused to complain about my biological father or his wife with them in the room with us.

He called one night. I do not think I will forget this night as long as I live. I had thought-- despite my apprehensions-- that my relationship with my biological father would be fixed after the family therapy. It had gotten a little better. I was excited when he called that night, very excited. I started babbling about school, and some crafts we had done. I babbled about my best friend and something we had done together. He waited for me to be done, and he asked for my mom. I tried to hand the phone to her, she didn't accept it at first. However, when I told her that he wanted to talk to her, she begrudgingly accepted. I could hear him screaming on the other line and cursing. My mom yelled back, "Don't you dare talk to me like that."

I thought it was my fault. Everything with him was my fault, and I fully believed it at the time. My dad came out, the man who had taught me how to ride a bike, had tucked me in every night, who hugged me when I cried, who said he loved me, who took me to bookstores, and had Daddy & Munchkin days with me, and drove me to school, and held my hand when I was in the doctor's office and told me that there was nothing wrong with me. He made me laugh when I felt scared of what was happening in the doctor's offices. My dad who is my family, came and sat next to me on the stairs and listened to me apologize and tell him that it was fault my mom was fighting with my biological father. He hugged me and told me that it was not my fault.

This is probably the shortest of my segments because just two years after that, my biological father did the first selfless thing since becoming my father and had given me a real gift: freedom. He abandoned me (something I felt horrible about for the longest time) and gave me a chance to be with a father who really loved me and could raise me well. My biological father still keeps in touch with my older sister, and as for his wife: I found out that they divorced.

This is my last chapter on my disabilities, for the most part. I had decided to go over each of the overlaying problems in my life and bring my life failures to light shade by shade. I figure it will be a lot less confusing if I don't give you everything at once.

College was not as bad as high school. I was still a mess, I was still depressed, suicidal, and blurted out "I hate myself, I deserve to die" all the time. My relationship with my mom was rocky at best. My relationship with my little sister had deteriorated behind redemption. I was failing all my classes. Fs and Ds across my report cards. I did not think anything of my life. I was worthless, I was destined to live under a bridge and die, I hid in my room most of the time.

There was only a few saving graces that were heavy doses of medication: writing, reading, and running.

I had a mattress. Same one since elementary school. It has served me well. My mom knew it was time for a new one, I did too. However, my room was my only safe haven. I did not want anyone in it and did everything to keep others out. I went through a period of time where I was in so much pain, I would wake up trying to roll over at night. Every. Single. Night. I obviously complained to my mom. I could hardly move up and down the stairs. I could hardly drive because my arms and shoulder was in terrible shape. My mom was convinced it was the mattress. I wasn't as sure. I thought that my back should hurt too if it was my mattress. We went to the doctor. I didn't even care if I was being told I was messed up, I just wanted to stop the physical pain. About a week later, I was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis (RA). I could not walk, let alone run. I needed running like fish needed water, it was the only thing that kept me sane. Now, my body had taken that away from me too. I thought I'd get by with writing, drawing, and reading. Soon my fingers began to freeze up when I held a pencil and when I typed. My hand would freeze in place when I read a book. I could hardly walk to the parking lot to a building less than 100 feet away. People would ask me if I was alright. Unless they had a golf cart, then they just passed me by. I now had nothing. It was painful to even hold my iPhone for prolonged periods of time.

For someone already depressed, I pretty much prayed nightly for god to just kill me already and be done with it. On top of it, my doctor who had prescribing my medication was retiring. We needed a new one. One day, I had an especially bad fight with my family, and went to walk the dog. I had sort of sorted out the pain by then with more medicine. My liver is lucky to still be up and running at this point in time. I called my mom, my fingers struggling to speed dial her from my favorites section, and I told her,

"I can't do this anymore. I can't live like this anymore. I have to get help. I need a therapist, I'd even take a shitty one at this point."

Before I continue, because I think I've hit you all with enough doom and gloom to depress an upbeat, go getter with an abundance of energy and a sun shine smile. I'd like to say I am alive enough to write this, so please hang on for a while longer.

We had a family friend who had worked with a lot of kids like me. I was obviously not a kid at the time, but she would have been our saving grace during my time in elementary school. She directed me to both a doctor and a therapist. I'll get to my therapist in one of the next segments, but for now, I'd like to focus on the fact the doctor.

I went in with my mom, we only needed one appointment for her to tell us that I had been misdiagnosed. I was never bipolar, I was autistic. The reason the medicine didn't work was because it was for people with bipolar disorder. Back when I was first diagnosed, bipolar disorder was a popular thing for people to have. You have depression, you have some of the symptoms? You are bipolar. My mom didn't think this was right, but my parents had basically been threatened by the doctors that if they didn't follow their directions I would be knocked up in a strip club when I was older.

I'm going to say two words and almost all of you will probably not even need to read this chapter: Middle School. Let me say two more that will probably have half of you running for cover: Girl Drama. One word: hormones. Last word: disability. I'm pretty sure most of you already know what I'm getting at: my failed middle school career.

My family may have had a little-- or maybe a lot-- of trauma from the response to my 504 plan in elementary school, to the point where we didn't even try in middle school. We were too afraid of disappointment. So we shut up and allowed ourselves to suffer in silence. My school placed me in algebra. If you've read chapter two and how I have dyslexia, I'm pretty sure you already know that math was not going to be my favorite subject. My first year of middle school I flunked my math class. God awful. Math became not only my worst subject, but my least favorite subject. It also became another thing that was wrong with me. My ego was the equivalent of an egg that had been dropped, had cracks, but had somehow managed to retain its ovular shape. My math teacher saw I was trying-- and God knows I was, lunch periods, asking questions, getting tutoring, trying to get seating that was away from chatterboxes, asking for more information-- he gave me a C, instead of the D that my grade most certainly was. My mom had me retake the year. Guess what? I got an A. Weirdly, it didn't give me that "Oh, I actually am smart feel", instead I felt like I just got lucky. Self worth was almost a zero. I wanted people to accept me as I was, but it isn't that easy. I should have understood that, but I think I was desperate for someone to like me despite having four disabilities: I told people that I was ADD, I told them I was bipolar, I told them I took medication. It didn't go well. I still had friends, thank god. However, if I'm being honest, I'm not sure how healthy some of the relationships were. Two of my friends thought I was an attention hog. Can't blame them, how many disabilities did I have? How hard was it to have them? How many boys bullied me? To them, I probably was fishing for attention. It's kind of like Trump says: "There's no such thing as bad publicity". Maybe that's what they thought I was doing?

I had another friend who argued with me about whether it's sadder to get a puppy and watch it get sick and die, or have a dog your whole life and have it die. How many times did I tell her that I thought both were sad? I also had a super amazing friend who stayed with me from the 5th grade. She was literally my saving grace up until high school when we went to different schools. Middle school was mainly a development of extreme depression that was kept hidden by my friend group. In all honesty, I was lucky to have a friend group at all with how disabilities and taking medication was seen at the time.

I was taking 90 mgs of Abilify (no idea if that is how it is spelled) and 900 mgs of Seriquiel (no idea if that is how this is spelled either). For any of you who don't know: these are dangerous amounts of drugs to take. Like really, really dangerous, and my doctors probably should have lost their licenses. The reason behind my taking so much drugs was simple: if 60 mgs don't work increase it to 90 mgs. Yeah. According to them this was the only drug to treat bipolar disorder we HADN'T tried.

High school was absolute hell. My friends all went to the other high school, and I went to the new charter school. Fun, right? I had learned more or less what a shit idea it was to announce that I had disabilities. Well, just being depressed for now reason was no better. Or not being able to hear people. Let me be straight, Da Vinci Charter Academy was a school that valued group projects. We had no choice but to talk to each other and communicate. Everyone at the small community school thought I was just being difficult. That I was faking not being able to hear. After a few failed attempts at taking direction for my peers I was cut out, even if I asked for them to write it down.

"Nevermind." That is all I got back. Finally, I closed myself off. Completely from everyone at school. I'm pretty sure high school was also when I began to hide away in my room all the time. I began to see kitchen knives and stand in front of them for ten minutes just trying to get myself to kill myself and be done with it. I had an impulse I could not control where I would blurt out, "I hate myself and I deserve to die". I almost blurted it out in the middle of a lecture more times than I can count. There would be times where I was actually happy and laughing with my family where I would all of a sudden just say, "I hate myself and I deserve to die". I ruined a lot of happy moments with that. It was an impulse that I could not control. I couldn't go to therapy, my first and last therapist, Susan, was a mistake my family could not afford to repeat. So we just followed what the doctors said and added more drugs. I was numb to almost everything but my own pain. I didn't trust people, I couldn't take compliments. There was a boy who tried to hang out with me, but I told him to just leave me alone because he was friends with the boys who hated me. Imagine walking up to a table or being invited by another girl and have the group stop talking when you came to sit down. Imagine trying to join the conversation that started back up and have everyone just be silent. Imagine having people tell you to just "go the fuck away" when you came to talk to them. By year two, I didn't speak to anyone unless I had to. I had to constantly remind myself that my classmates were not to be trusted.

I had a teacher named Mr. Milsap who was pretty nice to me. We had moments of awkward silence when I answered questions, but I really liked his class. Loved it. I surprisingly don't remember very well when I got my 504 plan reinstated. I should, but I don't. I know it had to be in the second year of high school, when I was so depressed and miserable at school that I was literally barricading myself in my room so I didn't have to go to school, that my mom had enough. She thought that the kids would at least stop leaving me out of conversations if they knew I had a hearing disability. I was against it, at first. Terrified of what would happen if everyone knew I had a disability. We held a meeting. I had to sit and listen to teachers compliment me on my strengths. That was torture. I had a physical aversion to being complimented, like I needed to leave the room right away if someone did. It was painful to be complimented. I remember my teacher Maestra Rameriez was the teacher who I owed the most to. She was a woman who never treated me inferior to other students despite my butchering of the Spanish language in class and my endless need to repeat things. She was the most accepting of my 504 plan. If she ever reads this, and knows who I am: thank you so much, you have no idea how much you meant to me in school.

Mr. Milsap was not. In fact, he argued against it the whole time. I remember nothing after the first part of the meeting when the teachers all went around the table and complimented me. I do remember almost word for word the conversation afterward where my mother spoke to me about her less than spectacular impression of Mr. Milsap. I only know that he was the only person to argue against my 504 plan through her retelling. I don't think I actually remembered even as we drove home that day. After that, my time in his class became terrible. God awful. He would often yell at me randomly in my TA class with him. Then, there was that project. We were told to give a presentation on how someone had discriminated against us. I used my hearing disability. I had been given hope, finally. It was true, the kids no longer left me out of conversations now that I had a 504 plan. I thought maybe this would further turn the tables. At least twice a week I took the project into Mr. Milsap until he told me I was sure to get an A. Full credit. I got I C. Why? According to him, I went five minutes over the time limit. Two grades lower because I went over the time limit?

When I was in elementary school I was diagnosed with four disabilities: dyslexia, bipolar disorder, auditory processing disorder (APD), and ADD. Much of my elementary school years included going constantly to the hospital, clinic, doctor, specialist, to figure out what was wrong with me. As a child in a time where disabilities were not as accepted as they are now in the US, it was a huge blow to my ego. Every time I went to the doctor, it was further proof that there was something wrong with me. Why do we go to the doctor? Because we don't feel well, why don't we feel well, because something isn't right. This train of thought leads to the obvious for a child who doesn't understand the conversations between doctors and my parents-- conversations that happen regardless if I'm in the room or not. None of the facial expressions were any help to my crumbling reflection of myself. Mind you, I was a child who still didn't quite understand the concept of death very well. So when a doctors asks a child who does not understand the concept well if there was anyone I wanted dead, my natural answer was the school bully. He would no longer bully me, harass me, say horrible things to me, make fun of me, and the teachers wouldn't just shrug it off with the typical: "He's just bullying you because he likes you." nonsense! I shudder at that memory now. The idea that I could have said something so horrible is frightening, but also makes my point: how is a kid who doesn't quite understand the severity of death- of how final it is- truly understand what a disability is?

Truth is: I didn't. I just knew it wasn't good. Lots of things aren't "good". It isn't "good" to fart inside a car with other people. It isn't "good" to drop your lunch. It isn't "good" when you loose your way. All of these things aren't horrible though, and aren't things you keep a secret. So obviously, the child that I was at the time, thought it might be smart to tell my friends (who are equally oblivious to what a disability really is) that I am taking drugs ("medicine", I know, but at the time I didn't understand the difference between those either). Within a week, I think neighboring classes knew about it. I had been called retard in my elementary school years a lot. I still have no idea if it's related, but who knows. Some of my classmates treated me differently. Boys were relentless in their bullying. It felt like the more upscale girls who used to at least be pleasant towards me, stepped away. Now, this is all in 2nd and 3rd grade. The clinic and hospital visits dwindled a lot by the time I was in 4th grade. 4th grade. Yes, that was a fun year. Mind you, the law states that kids with disabilities should get help and be offered the assistance and help they need. It also existed when I was in 4th grade. I did not receive mine back then.

APD. Auditory processing disorder. You know it's funny; I had no idea it was auditory processing disorder until reading an article recently. Back then, I thought it was auditory processing system disorder. That right there is part of the disorder. APD is when one of your ears is slower in relaying the information that sound waves deliver to our brain. One side will hear at the normal pace, while the other will process at a slower speed, creating an echo of sorts. For the longest time, I thought the phrase "I stand corrected" was "hy-stand corrected". Had no idea which one was correct until my second year of middle school. The funny thing is that I had read that same phrase constantly in books and novels-- I was an avid reader-- but still couldn't figure it out. Problem was that I had little ego to trust myself emotionally, mentally, or physically. Opening my mouth to speak was and still is terrifying. What word will I mispronounce? What will I not hear? How far off is the common phrase that I could have heard wrong? And what will the people around me think? Unfortunately, that just made me babble.

In 4th grade, I was given a special headset that was paired with a separate microphone. The teacher would wear the microphone and I would wear the headset. Almost like a walkie talkie or some sort of toy; needless to say I was already excited that I was going to be able to hear like everyone else in school, the fact that it almost seemed like a toy was an added bonus. The first time we tried to use it, the teacher could not figure it out. It didn't seem to turn on. The second time the two didn't connect together. The fifth time it just took too long to set up. The twentieth time it was too hard to even take it out of the basket on time. All of these were excuses that I got from my 4th grade teacher. Ones that I parroted back to my mom, and got the brunt of the blame. I know now that my 4th grade teacher was not "nice". Would a nice adult who was on your side leave a child to suffer in a class that they could not keep up in because the adult could not be bothered to use the headset? No. I know that now. We gave up quickly trying to get the school to accommodate me in 5th grade. At the time, we had no idea what the law said or how far we were able to go in getting our needs met. 5th grade was not much better. Again, I thought my 5th grade teacher was super, and did EVERYTHING to get him to accept me, to like me, and to just feel like a part of the classroom. I was met with a lot of cold attitude from him. He had his favorites. I think one of the only times he really seemed to like something I did enough to compliment it was when we were allowed to write fiction stories. I wrote "Mr. Martin and the 7 Dwarfs". He was laughing so hard he was banging on the desk.

APD in the classroom was utter hell. There was this one incident where Mr. Martin had told all of us to put our heads on our desk and wait for a surprise. I did as I was told. I had my head down on my desk for ten minutes or so. It was weird, I was wondering what he was talking about those ten minutes. I kept my head down, afraid of being scolded by him if I didn't follow directions.

"Why do you have your head on the desk?" he didn't sound happy that I followed his directions. I lifted my head gingerly, and tilted my head, confused. Why was he angry when I had followed his directions.

"You told us to put our heads down and wait for a surprise." I wonder what my face looked like that day, as my classmates all laughed at me, and instead of telling them not to laugh at me or repeating whatever directions I misheard, or really just kindly redirecting me, I was scolded? Not fun.

Failure. Is there any word that is more unpleasant, more heartbreaking, more frustrating than the word failure? I'll give you a few: neet, homebody, good-for-nothing, slut, nerd, antisocial, otaku, fugly. What do all these words have in common? One thing, they stem from the idea of failure-- that we failed to live up to what society has told us we must be. I'll give you another few types of people who we deem failures: people who live with their parents, people who do not have jobs, people who have children way too early, people who have to take medicine to overcome disabilities. We expect the members of society to abide by the common definition of success: from the beginning to the end, including all of the roads and paths we take to get there.

-Keep Reading-

Let me give you an example that is not about me: it's about my dad. His mother died early on, his father remarried a woman (my grandmother today) who was also a widow and had two daughters (my aunts). His father died early in his life, he went through a stage of depression and he had trouble socially. He had a dream, he wanted to be a pilot. How did he do it? He went to the military academy to be in the air force. Back in the day, this was not seen as an auspicious thing. In fact, some of the bias his family seems to show stems from the fact that he did not go down a "normal" path. He is often told by his adopted mother (my grandmother) that, she has "no idea how he managed to be successful, but he did it". I will give her that. How did he even manage to get into the military? You need to be appointed by the fricken' senator! You need to have top grades. Think top of the line college except for free so long as you put your life on the line in the US military. My dad did not take a commonly used road, but he is successful. My dad is now a pilot for Delta airlines and has traveled all across the world-- even Antarctica! Why is this man still considered not good enough by his family? That's because he did not take the common, accepted route. He didn't become a doctor or a lawyer or anyone they could respect.

Another example: kids who don't potty train at the "normal" age. Parents, your kids will learn to use the toilet before school, kids always manage to learn. How do I know? I was one of the kids that was a late bloomer in the bathroom. See? Even in my toddler stage I could already be described as a failure.

*Warning: this could set off some sort of problems, so if you don't like horror or anything that could be counted as scary, or if you hate the doctors office, don't read. I wrote this scary story and let someone who didn't like horror read it, big mistake as this would be rated R if it were a movie. So please, please, if you are weak to anything horrible happening to children and people, DO NOT READ THIS. This is purely fiction.*

This is a story that I wrote a little while ago, that I'm thinking of turning into a book. Let me know what you think and if it's worth pursuing...

The Story of Little Susie

Her name was Susie Abigail Bennetts. She was a child who was very loved. Her mother and father were very happy. Their little girl was growing up to be a very kind young lady. She was only five years old, but loved to help where she could. What better joy to a parent than watching their child grow up sweetly? Her teacher adored her, she had many friends, even the neighbors thought very highly of her. And everything was perfect. If only it could last. It was Friday; Susie walked home with two of her very good friends. They laughed and skipped together down the path. It was a day where the sun loomed over the land; it was very hot- almost brutal. The young girls didn't mind. No. They didn't notice. Not even their surroundings were at all noted. Maybe it was that innocence that make children so obedient- almost moldable. Martha had touched Zoe on the back and bolted forward.

"Tag!" She cried, laughing as she ran. Zoe and Susie had not even stopped to watch her go. Immediately they chased after her, it was- after all- an age old ritual: if you are tagged you must tag another. The children weaved through the park, their delighted giggles rippling across the area. Susie rushed into the brush, determined to win the game. She waited eagerly to be found. 

I have a story. It's not Halloween anymore, but I still think it's interesting enough to post...

This all started when I was back in California. I had watched a few movies and wanted to try out the Ouija Board. Stupid, fun stuff you do because it's only a movie. None of it is real, right? Thing is, I love scary movies, for some odd reason, I still do. In any case, I tried out the Ouija Board. I bought it from Barnes & Nobles of all places, took it home, and when my parents, my sister-- everyone-- was out of the house, I took it out and began to ask it questions. I know, I know, usually you do this with a group of friends, right? Problem is, I had almost no friends at the time. I was in a period when I was feeling depressed, and most everything I did, I did alone. The only other living being with me at the time was my dog.

I began with the usual shtick: "Is there anyone here who wishes to communicate?" You know, the usual shit, right? Well, it goes to "Yes". The thing is, I wasn't really expecting anything to happen. Yes, I know the theory behind the Ouija Board. Everyone is trying to keep their fingers still, but the oculus still moves because either our fingers aren't ever completely still or because a good friend (who is also in the circle) wanted to scare the shit out of everyone else.

Again, I'm all alone. So, halfway intrigued, halfway thinking my fingers are doing this on their own, I ask some questions. My dog was trying very hard to remove my fingers from the board. He kept nudging me and whining, and would sometimes knock the oculus off the board with his nose. I always went and picked it up and kept playing with the spirit board. I even apologized to the "spirit", if you can believe it. What can I do? I've been raised to be polite to everyone, plus I hate feeling rude. Anyhow, the "spirit's" name was something simple, "John" or something. To be honest, I can't remember the name anymore. As they continuously listened to my questions, I became more and more convinced that I was talking to a spirit. My family came home and I quickly cut the link.

Another night, I was alone. Completely alone, in fact. My family had gone away for a weekend-long trip somewhere. It was for my sister's sports activity. First thing I do when I have the time is break out the spirit board. I again start with the usual stuff, "Is there anyone who wishes to communicate?" Again, a spirit moves the oculus to "yes".

I ask, "Are you the same spirit from last time?"

"Yes."

I ask, "Why are you here?"

Before anyone says anything, I know you usually ask things about your own life (Does my crush like me? Will I get into an ivy league school?), but I was more interested in this person. Why them? Why were they here? In my house? They started talking about a flood of some sort, and so I looked up floods in the area. For some odd reason, I got a couple floods that had to do with the supernatural. I was like, "Huh. Didn't see that coming." I also didn't think much of it. I mean, the internet has been tracking what we eat, buy, and look up for a while now. I thought that because I bought the Ouija Board and looked up how to use it, that maybe that was why is brought up something supernatural.

I continued to question the spirit, but then my dog came in again. He nudged under my arm, trying to get my attention. I thought he wanted to be petted, so I disregarded him.

"Don't worry. I play with you in a minute, I promise."

Then, something strange happens. The oculus moves to "z" then to "o", then to "6". "zo" "6". "zo" "6". I'm not completely ignorant, I know about 666. Needless to say, I was freaked. But like a deer in headlights, I just watched the oculus drag across from "z" to "o" a few times before going again to the six. I probably sat there for a few minutes before my dog got my attention again. This time he was barking. I snapped out of my stupor and yelled,

"Any spirits who wish to do me or anyone in this house harm are not welcome here! Go away!" and moved the oculus to "end".

Later, I was scared and looked up "zo" on the internet. I knew what 666 meant, but was curious about why the spirit was so interested in "zo". There was nothing when I typed in "zo". So I tried typing it in twice. Zo. Zo. Zozo, a demon who is contacted through the Ouija Board. I knew that sometimes mean spirits could be contacted, that's why I always started with, "Any spirits who would do harm are not welcome", but a demon who dedicated its time to people using a spirit board..? Did not see that coming. Obviously, I was freaked. I'm Jewish, so I got out my Star of David (Since I have no cross) and burned a bunch of herbs. I went around the house saying whatever prayers I knew (not that there was a lot that I knew, I'm not the religious type nor the type to believe in demons or ghosts) and I even tried that one prayer you hear in movies all the time. You know, "Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name"..? That one.

I don't know if it helped, but I do know that my Uncle-- most reasonable, logical, math-loving guy in the world-- didn't want to be in the house alone after that whenever he visited.

A year or two later, my family moves to New York. A few months ago, I had a strange experience that brought back all of this in my mind. I had not thought about the spirit board (now rotting in some dump somewhere back in California) since I had tried to chase the "demon" or whatever out.

That night when I woke up to a feeling of utter dread, sometimes it happens-- waking up in the middle of the night from a sound-- however, my house is old and things creak and groan and go bump! in the night. I never think much of it, sometimes it'll startle me awake, but there's no dread, no fear, no need to worry about my safety. This night... this night was different.

I woke up feeling incredibly afraid, I didn't know why, but I felt as though something was in the room with me. I thought maybe I had a nightmare or something. I always remember my dreams, but sometimes I don't remember everything. I don't know why, but I was intent on pretending that I was asleep. I tried to keep my breaths even, didn't move, didn't open my eyes. I could only hope that whatever I was feeling in my room couldn't smell fear, because I was terrified. I felt like something would happen if I acknowledged what was in the room with me.

A part of me thought that it was nothing, but no matter what, my body refused to do anything but feign sleep. Then, I heard the totally mistakable sound of something making it's way across my floor. 1 step. 2 step. 3 step. I say mistakable because, again, my house is old. It creaks and groans all the time. It stops right at the side of my bed. My back is to it. Then, I feel hot breath on my ear... Have you ever had a horse breath on you? This felt similar. Something was breathing on me. My hair was moving each time it breathed out. It was hot, like it had come from something living.

To my credit, I kept still. Desperate to continue to feign sleep. I thought maybe it would loose interest if I did. Nope. I felt it move from my neck, to my face, to my ear, and then, it snarled at me!

I've never heard anything so menacing before. It was like a lion or wolf or some horrible, big animal was just letting loose in my ear! I was absolutely terrified. My breath stopped and eventually it stopped roaring at me. Somehow, I had managed to keep my eyes closed (though they were squeezed shut now instead or playing possum), I had managed not to bolt from my room (and into Mommy's room), and I hadn't screamed. For some reason, it left. I didn't hear the door open, didn't hear the footsteps, no shuffling, no noise. It was as though nothing was in the room at all. I finally opened my eyes and let out the breath I had been holding.

After everything, I felt angry. Something had come into my room and scared the shit out of me. My house is my sanctuary, the place where I should always feel safe. I sure as hell didn't that night. The next night, still boiling, I said to my empty room:

"This is my room, my house, my rules. You do not get to come in here and bully me however the **** you like! You will not come back, you are not welcome here! You WILL get gone, and stay gone. Are we clear?"

Was this all a dream? Was the thing with the spirit board real? Was I completely loosing it or maybe I just wanted something exciting to happen so my brain concocted this entire thing? Was I stressed? Or... was it all real? Is there something else that humans can't explain and can't touch or capture out there? I don't know. For now, I haven't been bothered by my unwelcome guest again. Was it because I told a spirit off or did I tell my imagination that it wasn't allowed to step out of line?