Because you weren't planning on sleeping anyway.
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Let me tell you the secret of the century: being a single parent is hard. Yeah, of course itâs worth it and all, but Iâm not sure how anyone does this for eighteen years. Shift at the hospital, hurry home and check on Tommy, four hours of shut-eye tops, then another eight hours working retail, rinse and repeat. Itâs awesome.
With a schedule that tight, you think Iâd froth at the mouth for the chance to get some extra sleep, but lately my insomniaâs getting real bad. The circles under my eyes are starting to look like a permanent fixture. When Tommyâs crying is ringing in my ears and I feel like Iâm about to shatter into little pieces, thereâs only one outlet: late-night TV. Infomercials, to be exact. More infomercials than you can count.
Sitting in front of the ghostly blue glow of the screen is just about the only thing that helps distract from a one-year-oldâs incessant wailing. Yeah, yeah, before you revoke my âgood parentingâ card, Iâll have you know Tommy cries over nothing. The kidâs fed and watered, but heâll scream like itâs the end of the world.
Thereâs no feeling quite like slipping into a near-fugue state at two in the morning with the words buy now, and weâll throw in a free pack of refills! ringing around in your head, like ping-pong balls ricocheting in an empty room. At some point, if youâre lucky, youâll slip into unconsciousness and wake up with your face mashed into the couch.
Iâve pretty much seen them all by now. Catalogued in them head. Thereâs the blender that promises to make meal prep 5000% more efficient, the hairdryer from heaven, the neck-cushioner thatâll cure your arthritis, the vacuum cleaner that connects to Bluetooth and probably can sleep with your wife. A hundred perky men and women going on about weight loss pills and makeup and kitchen knives and towels thatâll revolutionize your life, no really, we promise or your money back.
Well, all except one. Last night, I saw a new infomercial that Iâm still not quite sure if I hallucinated or not. It was maybe 3AM, and my mind was throbbing, pulsing inside my skull. Iâd all but given up on sleep. The blonde woman on the screen had just finished her spiel about cubic zirconia jewelry, and then this way-too-catchy jingle was blaring from the TV:
Spleeno! Spleeno all your worries away! Spleeno! Spleeno makes a better today!
It was a chorus of high-pitched voices, I think, something childish like youâd hear in a toy commercial. The lyrics to the jingle flashed across the screen in fat, cartoonish letters.
Next, there was one of those âbeforeâ montages. You know, the clips of people cracking eggs onto the floor or groaning about their bad back, before the miracle product swoops in to save them. It was pretty standard: a black-and-white shot of a young woman applying mascara in the mirror, making an exaggerated mess of it by smudging it all over her eyelids. She frowned at the finished result. The camera zoomed in on her clumped-together lashes. The whole time, this glum, almost comically sad tune played in the background.
It transitioned into a full-color scene of the woman beaming into the mirror. The words SPLEENO! hung above her head, and the music was now generically upbeat. Look. I hadnât slept in around thirty-six hours, and Iâd started to feel like my brain was melting out of my ears, so I donât know what I saw. But it sure as hell looked like this pretty girl brought a pair of tweezers up to her eyelids and began plucking out her lashes, one by one, all with a TV-ready smile splayed across her face. No time lapse or anything. It might have gone on for five minutes or fifteen. When it was finished, she almost looked normal, but if you looked close, you could see her completely bare lids.
The infomercial ended with the SPLEENO! jingle playing again while the woman beamed into the camera. She picked up a tube of mascara, looked at it, then tossed it aside. It was so strange that I figured it had to be a parody, complete with an âafterâ montage of overacting and smiling. I know this sounds crazy, but afterwards, I felt almost relieved. Like some small weight I didnât even know was there had been taken off my shoulders.
Then Tommyâs crying started up again, and the feeling was lost.
February 13th
I saw it again last night. Honest to god. I actually did pass out for around an hour before waking up, feeling like absolute crap. I peeled myself off the couch to check on Tommy. He was sleeping for once, and I promptly returned to the living room to tune in to my favorite channel.
I watched the same toaster infomercial twice before it came on again. When the jingle started, my heart sped up: Spleeno! Spleeno all your worries away! Spleeno! Spleeno makes a better today! Whatever this was, it had one hell of a catchy tune. The kind that crops up in your mind at the worst of moments.
Call it morbid curiosity. I wanted to see what was going to play this time. It was too early to be an April Foolâs prank, but maybe it was all a joke by someone with a seriously weird sense of humor, or promo for an upcoming movie.
The jingle ended, and the colors quickly faded to black and white. I watched as a middle-aged man came on screen. He was dressed in his pajamas, his hair tousled in a TV version of a messy bedhead. He stood in front of the mirror and cupped his cheek with a grimace, then opened his mouth to inspect his teeth: they were yellow and crooked, some of them sitting at angles that looked downright painful. I could see black spots of rot on his molars. He poured a cupful of mouthwash and gargled, but his face creased as if he was in agony and he quickly spit it all down the drain.
The scene shifted, and the now-technicolored man was dressed smartly in work clothes, his hair slicked down with gel. SPLEENO! danced across the screen in burning pink letters. The counter was littered with teeth. He looked into his mirror and smiled, revealing a completely toothless mouth with raw, bloody gums. I should have been disgusted, but that reaction never came. Instead I was... fascinated. The man didnât look to be in pain. He seemed almost elated. And why shouldnât he be? His pain was gone. I wondered how he feltâlight, carefree. I felt a little scared for feeling the way I did, but I couldnât deny it, either.
Afterwards, I stuck around to watch a mattress commercial, but found that my eyes closed of their own volition, and I finally fell into shallow, dreamless sleep. I woke up feeling unsatisfied, like Iâd had some unfinished business in a dream, but couldnât remember what.
February 17th
Iâve stayed up every night since Tuesday and it hasnât come on a single time. I know what I saw, but at the same time Iâm starting to doubt myself. Maybe I dreamed it all up. Either way, I havenât slept a minute in three nights.
I almost crashed the car during a milk run for formula and diapers this morning. Tommy is driving me up the wall. I could swear he wakes up and starts sounding off the minute I get home, and shuts up once Iâm at work. God, I wish I had the money for a sitter. Just one night of peace and quiet might be enough. Nothing around me seems solid, anymore. Itâs like the world is slipping away, and thereâs only me, a sack of blood and bones dragging itself to places that feel like hollow imprints. I know I look like shit, but Iâm finding it hard to care.
I wonder if this is how people lost in the desert feel, when they see that last mirage of cool water.
February 18th
It came on at 1AM. I canât explain it, but the moment I heard the first notes to the jingle, I felt a wave of relief crashing down on me. The world felt real again.
I kept my eyes glued to the screen. There was an elderly woman this time, walking down a set of stairs to that same sad tune. With her coiffed gray hair and red sweater, she looked like a character out of a Christmas movie, the sweet old lady about to serve her grandkids chocolate-chip cookies with a smile. She wasnât smiling now, though. Each time her right foot made contact with the steps, she winced, quickly shifting her weight to her left. Bad knee. Once she got to the bottom, she rested on the banister and caught her breath. The next few clips showed her hobbling around the houseâI realized it was the same one the others were shot inâand clutching at her kneecap every few seconds.
Right then, it was as if I could feel the pain shooting up my leg, too. I wanted her to be free of it. I wanted to feel light again. I watched as the TV cut to a close-up shot of the old woman sleeping in bed. Her gray hair was spread out on the pillow like a halo. The camera slowly pulled out, revealing the rest of her nightgown-clad body and the smooth, round stump of her right leg. I noticed itâd been severed just above the knee, and it looked to have healed completely, the skin intact except for a line of white scarring. I examined her face. With her mouth curled into a smile, she was the picture of tranquility. I couldnât help but smile myself. Her pain was gone now, discarded with the unbearable weight of all that putrid flesh. For the first time in a long time, I felt at ease, perfectly content, even. I kept smiling as the jingle ran again.
Spleeno! Spleeno all your worries away! Spleeno! Spleeno makes a better today!
I didnât sleep for the rest of the night, but I kept grinning anyway, enjoying the way those words rolled off my tongue.
February 20th
Yesterday was the best one yet! I didnât go to work, just in case Iâd miss it while I was gone. Tommy was crying as usual, and he was annoying as ever, but I didnât let him distract me.
I kept my attention on the TV. The infomercial came on around midnightâearlier than usual. It featured a man and his dog. A golden retriever. Even with the grainy quality, I could see that it was a beautiful specimen, its coat sleek and its eyes bright. Too bad it just wouldnât shut up. Its barking went on and on, all through the night, and my heart clenched with sympathy as the man groaned and clapped his hands over his ears. The barks seemed to grow in volume until it was unbearable. I shook my head as the man tried a pair of earplugs to block out the noise. I knew all too well those didnât work. Tommyâs cries could penetrate through anything.
I was on the edge of my seat waiting for what came next. The black-and-white gave way to color, and the man went from tired and groggy to well-rested. He got up from bed and stretched, then went to the kitchen to fix himself a cup of coffee, humming the whole time. As a stream of coffee poured into his mug, I noticed a large yellowish mass lying on the kitchen floor. The dogâs body looked broken, and its head was stained with a bloom of red, but the manâs newfound happiness was so infectious that I hardly paid it any attention. The now-familiar SPLEENO! hung above the pair. I realized my face was wet with tears of joy. The man had gotten what he wanted: silence. The tears kept coming even after the screen went black.
Spleeno. Itâs a wonderful sound. A wonderful word. It takes all your worries away. It makes you realize you have to hold on, and if somethingâs standing in the way, then you have to get rid of it.
On The Russian Ice Road, You Always Help Your Fellow Travelers
by TheCityOfS
When people hear my wifeâs Russian, they imagine a tall blonde girl with a funny accent who wears heels for every grocery run. Reality couldnât be farther from the stereotype: Lana is dark haired, speaks better English than I do, and is completely obsessed with sneakers. She does meet ONE stereotype, though: she never gets cold, seeing how she lived in Russia until she was eighteen.
Not in Moscow, of course. Did you know that Moscowâs actually pretty warm? There are entire states in America where winters are far colder than anything Moscovites ever have to deal with. No, my wife comes from a tiny town far up Russian north, on the tundra. A dark, gloomy, and a very cold place inside the Arctic Circle, with extremely harsh winters and even harsher people. A place that meets the stereotypes.
Iâve met my in-laws all of two times including our wedding, both times as they traveled to the States. Frankly, I never had any intention of visiting my Lanaâs hometown, until she got that fateful call nine days ago. My mother in law had had a stroke. While her condition was stable for the time being, the local doctor expected the worst could happen at any minute. Transporting her to a better hospital was out of question as she was in no state for the kind of a journey that youâll see described below.
My wife made travel arrangements immediately. I had a valid Russian visa from a business trip to Moscow a few weeks prior so I decided to go with her. Now, getting to my wifeâs hometown isnât easy. Youâre in for a flight to Moscow, then a connecting flight to Norilsk, one of the biggest cities in the Russian tundra. From there, itâs an hour long trip down the Yenisei river, by barge in summer and on cars over ice in the winter.
Urgently getting to Moscow wasnât that hard. There, however, we faced additional difficulties. First of all, apparently I couldnât actually fly to Norilsk with Lana as the city was closed to foreigners. Before we could even process that, we were told that Norilsk airport was closed for all aircraft due to poor weather conditions and the weather wasnât expected to improve that week. I tried to console Lana as best as I could, but news of her mom getting worse drove her crazy. Soon, Lana suggested an âalternativeâ: it was possible to fly to a city a fair bit south of Norilsk which was safe from the storms. For a modest fee, a family friend living there was willing to take a dayâs journey up the ice road to Lanaâs hometown. Well, more like a nightâs journey since according to him, it was better to travel at night by carâs lights than by what passed as daylight.
I told my wife she was insane. She, however, was adamant on her plan, saying sheâs done zimnik (how Russians call their ice roads) many times with her dad and it was perfectly safe. She wouldnât budge no matter how I pleaded and told me I was welcome to stay in Moscow. Obviously, that was not an option, and in the end I gave up.
We flew to our next destination, and the cold hit me as soon as I stepped out of the plane. It was a different kind of cold, invasive and ruthless, and it didnât care about layers of sweaters and socks I had on. I shivered imagining how much colder it was going to get.
We met with the trucker who was to take us up North. He called himself Kolya, and my wife âSvetaâ, the Russian version of her name. Me, he didnât call at all, instead referring to me derisively as âMister Amerikashkaâ whenever he spoke to my wife. Lana told me with a chuckle she didnât tell Kolya I could understand Russian, although I donât think he wouldâve cared.
Kolya was supposed to be a few years younger than my wife but looked much older, his skin and posture worn down by the harsh conditions of his homeland. He laughed at our American shoes and coats and said he would pack extra jackets, woolen socks and valenki for us âjust in case.â His brother helped load his truck, which looked like it had seen the fall of the Soviet Union, and then Kolya sat down to enjoy a shot of vodka. One for the road.
My wife saw me blanch at that.
âThis isnât New York, or even Moscow,â she said quietly. âPeople here are a bit behind in terms of DUI. Donât worry, he wonât drink enough to get impaired, heâs seen that kill people on the road.â
Well.
Indeed, the first shot was the last and Kolya hopped into the truck. He offered my wife the shotgun seat which, as far as I understood Russian macho culture, was basically equivalent of throwing a glove in my face. Whatever. As long as he got us there.
The road was a dark stretch of ice and packed snow powdered by the fresh snow that had fallen that morning. Snowdrifts bordered both sides of the roads and leaked onto its surface a fair bit. Otherwise, it was the same barren flat surface for miles. In the first couple of hours, we saw a few cars going the opposite way to us. Then a car going in the same direction as us overtook us and disappeared in the darkness ahead at surprising speeds. It was a freaking tiny, rusted-through Subaru. I gave up on understanding Russians then and there.
Shortly after the Subaru guy, it started snowing. Just a bit at first, then more and more. Kolya didnât seem bothered and I tried to stay calm as well, which I managed mostly successfully until the wind joined in. Unlike the snow, it started hard from the get go.
Have you ever heard wind howling and become unsettled by the sound? Now imagine the same, but in the depths of a black night lit only by your carâs headlights. Except for your own vehicle, the world around is silent and devoid of life, frozen until the spring. Not that you can see much through the thick snow that is now the windâs plaything, flurrying around the car, blanketing the windows.
Our pace slowed to a crawl as Kolya swore colorfully in Russian. âMaybe stop and wait it out?â I suggested nervously.
âWe canât.â Lana said without bothering to ask our driver. âIf we stop thereâs a good chance the car wonât start up again, and we are stuck here waiting for someone to pick us up. And itâs been⌠empty today.â
The realization we were at a very real risk of freezing to death hit me like a ton of bricks. I leaned back into my seat and closed my eyes, wordlessly praying for the best. The only response was the wind howling â and it sounded so strange. It would start low and quiet and then get louder and louder until a yowling crescendo, then cut off abruptly. Then start again. And the sound came from different directions, each starting at a different time, like a pack of wolves howling.
I opened my eyes to obvious tension in the car. Lana and Kolya were both hunched forward, peering intently through the glass for all the good it did them. Kolya glanced back at me.
âDonât worry, be happy!â Kolya proclaimed with a horrible Russian accent. âIt is all OK! Donât worry, America!â
He was lying. I might have been useless on the ice road, but I was a criminal defense lawyer, and a good one at that. And Kolya was a bad liar. There was sweat beading on his face and neck, and his voice was forced. He was very much scared â and that made me scared, too.
Kolya murmured something to my wife, too quick and quiet for my distracted mind to decipher. She nodded.
âWhat was that?â
âThereâs a village maybe half an hour up the road, if we keep this pace. We get there and settle down until the morning.â
âI see. Sorry about the delay.â In reality I was extremely happy to hear that. âBad wind, huh?â
Lana grabbed my hand, quick and sudden as a snake. âDonât. Mention. The Wind.â
Another sound came through the storm. A long, tinny wail that sent shivers down my spine. It took me a few moments to recognize the familiar sound of the wind whistling through walls and chimney. And then another moment to realize there were no fucking walls around for the wind to whistle.
I opened my mouth to comment, and my wifeâs grip tightened on my arm. In that moment, I knew to keep it quiet.
We drove in tension-filled silence as a cacophony of sounds erupted through the storm. Wails and shrieks, howls and cries â no way no fucking wind was producing all of that.
The sounds grew closer, grew louder. I grabbed my wifeâs hands as we both stared desperately ahead. Through the flurry, we barely made out something â a large, dark shape reflecting our lights, or maybe piercing the darkness with lights of its ownâŚ
Kolya swore and swerved to the side. We were passing another car stuck in the snow. Its blinkers flashed.
âStop.â Lana said, sudden and harsh.
âWhat?â Kolya asked, in Russian. âYou insane?â
âStop.â My wife repeated. âOn the ice road, you help. Thatâs the rule, remember?â
Kolya gave her a long, hard look that I didnât like at all. âThatâs the rule on the road.â He echoed, and hit the brakes, slowing the car without actually stopping. I opened the door and peered outside. The driver of the stuck vehicle was already running towards us. I recognized the car itself as the Subaru that passed us earlier.
âThank God you people wereâŚâ the driver began. âGet in, idiot!â Kolya shouted, and the guy shut up and jumped in. He was just a kid, no older than twenty, with dark red hair and a patchy little beard. He looked cold and terrified.
âThank god!â He repeated, in a hushed whisper. âI was sure theyâd get me.â
âThey?â I asked, confused. Kolya and Lana turned to look at the kid in unison, and their looks could kill.
âThey, yeah, I mean the wind and snow,â the kid corrected quickly. I had a sudden abrupt feeling that it was too late for that⌠even as I still had no clue what was going on. We drove on, and the interplay of howls and shrieks outside the car became unbearable in the silence.
âWhatâs your name, dude?â I asked him in my best Russian. He blinked.
âSergei. Sergei Molchanov. My parents are⌠anyway, it doesnât matter. I shouldnât have been driving, but I wanted to make it to my girlfriendâs birthday, andâŚâ
âBoth of you shut up.â My wife barked, and we did. Immediately I noticed the change in surrounding sounds â they were much louder now. The highest pitch shrieks rang in my ears. The low, insistent howling seemed to surround the car. And every now and then, something that sounded like an actual roar cut through the night.
The car picked up the pace. I looked at Kolya and realized he was absolutely flooring the gas pedal, poor visibility be damned. His truck was lurching along as fast as it could manage in the conditions, and yet the encroaching racket made it obvious we were nowhere near fast enough.
Then the car hit something. We were all jerked forward as the truck came to a staggering halt. I hit my temple hard on the back of my wifeâs seat.
âWhat⌠was that?â I groaned.
âMust have hit a chunk of ice or something,â Lana's voice sounded strangely muffled. I remember focusing on her lips, and how pale and thin they looked. The dull resounding pain in my head exploded into something hot and overwhelming, and I collapsed into the backseat.
âHeâs passed out!â Sergei called out. I wanted to correct him, but my voice wouldnât obey me. My lids seemed to weigh a ton each â I could barely open my eyes enough to see the trio of Russians huddled together, the carâs flickering light illuminating their pale faces.
âWhat now?â Sergei asked nervously.
âWell, letâs see,â I donât think I wouldâve been able to understand complex Russian in that state, if it wasnât my Lana speaking, her voice so familiar down to every inflection. âWhy donât you go out and check what we hit and if we can clear it out somehow?â
âWhat?!â
âWe helped you, didnât we?â In the carâs light, Lanaâs green eyes seemed very blue. âSo why donât you help us back. After all, on the ice road you help each other. Thatâs the rule.â
Kolya grumbled in agreement. Then he reached over and pulled out a rifle, and aimed it at the boy.
Sergei whimpered. âYou know theyâre out there!â
âWell,â Lanaâs voice was impeccably calm. Cold. âI guess youâd better not speak about them out loud, then. Better not even think about them, really. â
My eyes closed against my will. I heard a door swing open, and a rush of cold air. Finally, I passed out for real, and in my unconsciousness I dreamed of horrified screaming and a single terrible roar that filled the night.
I came to during the day, on a couch of some local family that agreed to house us for a bit of cash. My wife fussed over me. Once she was sure I was conscious and lucid, she rushed me into the car saying we could do the rest of the drive by day, and an actual doctor could look at me in her hometown.
I settled in the backseat of the car. Vague memories haunted me.
âWhereâs the kid? Sergei?â
âWhat kid, darling?â Lana asked, in sincere surprise.
âThere was no kid, we traveled alone,â Kolya added, in Russian. And I wondered how he knew what I was asking about, or that Iâd understand his answer. But aloud, I could only say: âThis young redheaded guyâŚâ
âSweetie, Iâm getting really worried. You mustâve hit your head harder than I thought. We gotta get you checked out as soon as we get back to the States. Maybe even a good checkup in MoscowâŚâ
I didnât really know what to say after that.
We made it the rest of the way uneventfully. Unfortunately, my mother in law had slipped into unconsciousness before we even set out for our drive, and she passed away several hours after our arrival. Lana didnât even get to say a proper goodbye. She is absolutely devastated right now, so Iâm trying my best to focus on comforting her. Weâre staying here until the funeral, and I canât stay Iâm looking forward to the ride back.
My father in law graciously gifted me a proper Russian winter coat, so I went ahead and packed my American camel coat that proved terribly insufficient for the weather. As I was folding it, I noticed a few curly red hairs stuck to the light beige fabric.
There Was A Series Of Unexplained Deaths In My Town In 1988
by crystakat
In the winter of 1988, bodies began appearing on the border between my town and the surrounding woods. A group of campers had stumbled upon a man in his early thirties, completely nude and almost perfectly preserved by the cold weather. By the end of the day, two more had been found within a quarter-mile radius. All three were naked, found lying on open ground as if thereâd been no attempt to hide them. One woman and two men. None bore any visible wounds.
The news exploded. It was a little backwoods town where not much happened, so when three strangers turned up dead hardly a mile off of Revell Street, it became all anyone could talk about. I was just a kid then, a few months into sixth grade, and the rumors that spread around school were ridiculous.
Family breakfast that morning was quieter than usual. Mom was horrified, poring over the newspaper as she wondered aloud if it was safe to send my eight-year-old sister and me to school by ourselves.
âJesus,â she said, gesturing at the paper. âLook at this, Michael. They put their photos in. Thatâs just not decent.â
Dad glanced over. âIâll bet you itâs drugs, and this whole fuss is for nothing.â
âCan I see?â I asked, reaching out to take the paper from mom.
She pursed her lips. âFine, but donât show Mandy.â I grabbed it and looked it over: three grainy pictures of nondescript faces. It was kind of disappointing, though I didnât dare say that out loud. While mom was washing the dishes, I let my sister have a peek.
Mandy stuck her tongue out as she looked them over. âThat one looks like William,â she giggled, pointing at the leftmost photo, a man with dark hair and a rasp of stubble. âHeâs a boy in my class.â It was so innocently morbid that I couldnât help but laugh. I got up to help mom with the dishes, though even as I occupied myself with chores, I couldnât help but linger on the strange deaths.
My dad insisted there was a logical explanation for it all. Three young people, drunk and stumbling lost in the woods on a below-zero night⌠well, he said, you can imagine what happens next.
In the following week, he was proven wrong. The autopsy was published: no trace of drugs, medicinal or otherwise, in their blood. No alcohol either. The cause of death couldnât be ascertained; there had been no physical trauma, no blood loss, no pre-existing medical conditions. The article in the newspaper declared it most closely resembled death by shock: a sudden, massive rush of adrenaline essentially stunning the heart into inaction. That only seemed to open up more questions. One person might have been explainable, but three? Whatâs enough to shock three people like that?
A chunk of the woods had already been put under police patrol when a new body turned up, nude yet unharmed like the others. Itâd been snowing pretty heavily that winter, blanketing the woods in a thick white layer, and at night Iâd lay awake and think of how awful it was to die like that, freezing and alone with only the shadows of trees stretching over you.
Before the week was over, there was a fifth body, sprawled in almost the exact same spot. Somehow, nobody had seen where itâd come from. One police officer interviewed by the press said heâd been passing through the area just minutes prior, and in the time that he was gone, it was like it'd just âblinked into existenceâ.
A fresh wave of rumors emerged at school, though now they were less nervously excited, more tinged with fear. Though the evidence was frustratingly nonexistent, the unspoken consensus was that they had to be murders.
When a sixth body popped up, a 10 pm curfew was imposed on adults and children alike. If I remember correctly, that was around the time the FBI caught wind of the case. The whole stretch of forest had already been cordoned off with police tape, the perimeter constantly surveilled by a flock of solemn-looking officers who made sure no one got in or out. Iâd used to play in that forest all the time with my friends, and seeing it suddenly made into the site of six bloodless deaths was surreal, to say the least. That was what the media started calling it: the Bloodless Murders. Sometimes the bodies came in pairs, sometimes alone. By the tenth or eleventh, there was a definite pattern: while they varied in ethnicity and sex, they were all relatively young, twenties to forties, and all found nude. Some even looked as if theyâd had clothes on minutes before, with the indentation of a watch or waistband still etched into their skin at the time of discovery.
Have you ever been in a room where everyoneâs holding their breath? Every person just waiting for the ball to drop, the silence so bad that you could almost drown in it? Now imagine a whole town.
You want to know the strangest part about all this? Weeks dragged on, and none of the bodies were ever identified. Their fingerprints were intact, but there were no known matches. DNA testing came up empty. A public campaign to find the identities of the Bloodless victims turned up nothing. It was like these people had emerged from nowhere. Deprived of their names and backstories, the victims went unmourned, blurred into one murky entity.
Shit really hit the fan about a month into the case. Some up-and-coming journalistâa guy by the name of Walton, I thinkâclaimed to have uncovered the truth behind it all, and wrote a tell-all article divulging the details that hadnât been released by police or FBI. Apparently, the Bloodless Murders werenât so bloodless after all. It was true that most were found untouched, but four of the dead practically had had bites taken out of them, whole sections of their bodies just gone. One guy was missing almost half his right side, and one of the women was short an arm. âBitesâ might be a little misleading, though. The missing pieces had been removed cleanlyâalmost too cleanly. In Waltonâs words, they looked as if theyâd been âscoopedâ out, or simply magicked away.
Walton claimed he had the records to prove the area was under even more intense surveillance than most wouldâve guessed. Besides hundreds of cameras that had been covertly installed in trees and rocks throughout the forest, there were also loads of temperature data loggers and state-of-the-art recording equipment, along with a whole host of other devices that I couldnât even wrap my head around. Stuff that measured radiation and minute changes in the composition of the air. If he was right, it mustâve cost a ton. Supposedly the data showed âclimatological deviationsââbasically weird spikes and dips in temperature corresponding to the times that the bodies were found.
If Walton was right, there was a good chance that the FBI was in possession of video and audio recordings showing the origin of the bodies. It sounded like a crazy conspiracy, even though Walton hadnât been able to come up with a solid theory for the reason behind the cover-ups. That was the part that drove me crazy. I mustâve re-read that article a hundred times.
What happened next was total lockdown. The newspaper was pulled from publication in the blink of an eye. Walton publicly apologized for having made fabricated claims and trying to make a spectacle out of the deaths. Not much was heard from him after that. The case was under the full jurisdiction of the FBI, according to my parents, and local police were all but shut out of it. I donât know what happened, exactly, but suddenly the media coverage dropped to zero.
At school, the teachers gave a talk about it, how we were all safe and there was to be no further spreading of rumors. I remember thinking about the weirdness of that whole day. While Mr. Russell was going on and on about the importance of following the curfew, thereâd been a team of adults who quietly escorted kid after kid out of the room, ushering each one back in about ten minutes later. One of them was my friend, Sophia. After the assembly, I quizzed her about what had happened over a lunch of stale pizza.
âIt was really weird,â she said, picking halfheartedly at her food. âThey took a sample of my spit, and some of my hair and nails too. You think theyâre checking for diseases?â
I didnât know how to answer her. The whole thing left a sour taste in mouth, and I felt helpless and scared. The parents mustâve been encouraged not to talk about it either, because whenever I brought it up to my mom and dad after the whole Walton fiasco had gone down, they shut me down fast.
In hindsight, I probably never should have attempted the plan. On a Friday night, I snuck out after curfew, armed with only a handful of granola bars and a flashlight. I biked down to the woods. It didnât take long; it was one of those childhood routes that you know by heart. I wasnât even sure about what I was hoping to find. Chalk it up to mix of curiosity and senselessness.
There were patrols standing around, but I managed to make my way to a dense copse of trees and snuck in from there, feeling my heart racing a hundred miles an hour as I ducked under the yellow police tape. The sheer stupidity of my idea hadnât quite settled in yet. If what Walton had written about the surveillance had been true, there wasnât a chance in hell that I wasnât going to get spotted, but being a kid and all, I hoped Iâd get off with a slap on the wrist. I turned my flashlight on to the dimmest setting and began my trek, praying that I knew the path through the woods as well as I thought.
Time passed differently that night. Maybe I was walking around for thirty minutes; maybe it was three hours. The sky was inky black, and in the darkness, the trees distorted themselves into more and more monstrous forms with each step I took. All I know is, when I stumbled across the body, the world came to a shuddering halt.
Under the cone of artificial light, the body looked fresh, the skin still pink. I remembered thinking if Iâd touched him, he might still have been warm. His eyes were wide open, glassy as a river, face set in an expression of determination. There was a tattoo on his bare chest, a sentence written in a shaky scrawl:
You know the kind of girl Iâm talking about. She looks like life chewed her up and spit her back out.
You can see it in her eyes, if you could even see her eyes. Her loose tangled hair covers most of her face, and sheâs always staring at her feet. You can see it in her hunched shoulders, hear it in her mumbling voice. Sheâs both desperate and afraid to be heard, hating herself for everything she says and everything she doesnât say.
She doesnât live in my building, but I see her almost every day when she visits her boyfriend in the apartment next door. Iâve said hello to her a few times â she always flinches when I talk to her. The first thing out of her mouth is inevitably an apology â sorry for being in my way, or for being here too often, or for taking up one of the dozen empty parking spots. I asked her name once, but she said it didnât matter.
âWhy not? What am I supposed to say when I see you?â I asked.
âNothing. You donât need to. Iâm nobody.â
âWell my name is ââ
But she just kept walking. Head leaning against my neighborâs door, hands in her pockets, looking like an ostrich trying to disappear into the sand.
âBye nobody!â I chimed as the door opened to let her in.
I couldnât be sure under the hair, but I think she almost smiled. âBye somebody,â she murmured, disappearing into the doorway. My neighbor Jeff poked his head out â scrawny fellow with a soul patch and a beanie which seemed permanently fixed to his head. He nodded sharply at me like a fighter paying insincere respect to his opponent, slamming the door.
I liked watching Nobody from my balcony when she was parking her car. I liked the fluid grace of her movements which transformed regular motions like opening doors and stepping over obstacles into a choreographed dance. I must not have been the only one to notice either, because there always seemed to be someone hitting on her whenever I saw her. Not the charming kind either â fat oafs jumping out of their car like they were waiting for her, or pushy street rats backing her up against the building. I thought she was a prostitute at first, but she always rebuffed them so vehemently that I figured that wasnât the case.
Often at night Iâd see her leaning on the railing of my neighborâs balcony, smoking a joint and staring off into space. I got the feeling that she was staring into a world that only she could see, but looking at her face, I also got the feeling that it wasnât a very pretty world. I wish I could see it too. Sometimes Iâd go out onto my own balcony and try to make an excuse for conversation, but sheâd invariably duck back inside the moment she saw me. If I was lucky and she seemed to be in good spirits, Iâd hear a âBye somebodyâ before she went. A stupid joke, but it always made me smile.
She couldnât have been happy, but I suppose it wasnât any of my business. Iâd hear her boyfriend yelling at her through the walls sometimes, although I never heard her say anything back. I figured that she was her own person with her own choices to make, and if she was being really mistreated, then she wouldnât keep coming back. Itâs not like I had proof that she was being abused or anything â and what I did guess, I quickly dismissed as petty jealousy, resolving not to interfere with her life.
That resolution lasted for about two months, but it ended last night. It was after dark and I was getting home late when I spotted Nobody pressed up against my building. Two men in leather jackets were several inches too close for innocent conversation, practically pressing themselves on her while she squirmed to get away. I honked my car horn at them, and one looked over his shoulder. Fat stupid face, mouth hanging part way open, he stared at me for a few seconds before turning back to her.
âI got to go,â I heard her say. âSomebody is waiting for me.â
I honked again. Fat-face turned to walk over to my car. âCool it, asshole,â he shouted. âThis target only has 11 points left anyway. Get your own damn girl.â
I rolled down my window. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âYou new or something?â he asked, fishing out his phone. He showed me the screen which depicted a GPS map of my neighborhood. Scattered throughout were little targets, each with a name and a life-bar like a video game character has. The target against my building was named âCilliaâ, with 11/100 life remaining.
âI donât know what the fuck that is, but Iâm not playing,â I told him.
He laughed. More like a guffaw really â deep and guttural without the slightest hint of mirth. âYouâre after that piece of shit and youâre not even getting points? Hey Mark â he actually wants this bitch.â
The other guy â presumably Mark â still had the girl against the wall. He made a half-lunge at her as she wriggled free, but it was just to scare her. She looked like she was about to run toward my car, but seeing the fat one over by me, she sprinted to her own vehicle instead. We all watched as she tore out of the parking lot, the biggest smile Iâd ever seen plastered across her face.
âDonât waste your time. Somebody already broke her.â Fat-face slammed my car with the palm of his hand as he turned to leave. âLetâs go Mark. Thereâs two more of them on this street.â
I was so relieved to see them go that I didnât try to ask more questions. Nobody had a name. It was Cillia. And something was tracking her location and broadcasting it out to these creeps. It didnât feel like I was meddling in someone elseâs business anymore. I couldnât just play dumb and let her sort this out for herself.
A few minutes later and I was hammering on my neighborâs apartment. âHey Jeff, you in there?â
âBug off,â came the muffled reply.
âItâs about the game youâre playing with Cillia.â It seemed pretty vague to me, but if he was involved then heâd know what I was talking about.
Loud shuffling like someone crossing the room in a hurry, and the door opened a moment later. He was wearing nothing but his boxers and his beanie, skinny body blocking the door.
âYeah, what about the game?â he asked. I hesitated, unsure what to say next. He must have misread my silence, because his face became animated and hopeful. âHey did I win the prize or something?â
I nodded stiffly. Jeff threw the door open to welcome me in, practically dancing with excitement. âHoly shit I knew it! Iâve been on the leader-board for weeks â it was only a matter of time. Seriously competitive shit, you know? Iâve got everything ready for you, come on in.â He rushed to a cabinet under the sink and began hauling out cardboard boxes. I still didnât know what the hell was going on though, so I had to play along to get more answers.
âHow many points are you at now?â I asked.
â723,â without hesitation. â19 separate targets, although Iâve been getting most of the points from Cillia, as you know.â He plopped two cardboard boxes on the coffee table beside me, flaying them open for inspection. The greasy smell of stale sex was nauseating. âThis oneâs got all the condoms in it,â he said. Hundreds of them â all used â neatly tied off into little balloons. âThen this one has all the recordings.â
â723 is a lot,â I said, pretending to be impressed. âTell me how you were keeping score.â
He looked suspicious for a moment, but it passed. If my question raised any red flags, then he was so pleased with himself that he didnât dwell on it. âItâs legit, I swear. I used the âBreak Herâ rulebook and everything. 10 points for humiliating her. 15 points for taking a personal item or making a big decision for her. 25 for unwanted sex or something physical. Then Iâve got a bunch of the small ones Iâve been building up â the daily criticisms, isolating her from friends and family, that sort of thing. Whatâs the prize going to be?â
âHold on a minute, I got to ask all the questions first. Standard procedure, you know.â
âHow come you never told me you worked for âBreak Herâ? You must have known that I played,â Jeff asked. Again the suspicion, this time lingering on his face.
I shrugged, making notes on my phone as though I was dutifully recording his answers. âWhat do you think the purpose of the game was? And how did you get into it?â
âIsnât it obvious? You just got to break her. I started playing when my buddy got dumped by his ex. He paid to have her registered in the system, and I thought it would be fun to join so I could start harassing her. At first it was just to support my buddy, but it was pretty helpful seeing where all the vulnerable chicks were. Turned out I was pretty good at it, so I decided to try and get enough points to win the prize.â
âUh huh.â I typed as he talked. My fingers were literally shaking. âAnd Cillia? Did you ever love her?â
He laughed. It wasnât a pleasant sound. A pause, then: âOh, are you serious? Come on, man. Itâs just a game. So whatâs the deal? Am I getting the prize today or not?â
I didnât look up from my phone. I was so disgusted that I couldnât even look at him. The silence was excruciating.
âIs this legal?â I breathed. Silence again, as both of us digested what I said. My cover was blown.
âYou lying piece of shit,â he grunted, protectively ripping his boxes away from me. âYou trying to steal my points or something?â
He was on me before I even realized what was happening. Bony arms wrapped around me, the momentum flinging me to the ground. He got in a good hit to my jaw before I flipped him on his back. I was bigger and stronger than him, but he twisted under me like a feral animal.
âSheâs mine! You donât know how much work I put into that bitch!â he roared. I punched him to shut him up. He spit blood at me, and I hit him again. I never thought it would feel so good to hurt someone, but now that I started, I couldnât stop myself. Next I knew my hands were so soaked in blood that it ran between my knuckles like rivers. Jeff wasnât moving. And I was okay with that.
Jeffâs phone beeped where it lay on the ground. Somehow the weight of what Iâd just done didnât hit until I heard it. It beeped again, and I lifted it to see what was going on.
It was a notification from âBreak Herâ. I opened the app, and saw a short questionnaire. Humiliation, abuse, control â a daily checklist for him to go through to get his points. What the hell did I get myself involved in? And who was I to think I could make any difference when a whole world full of terrible people were trying to destroy her?
At the bottom of the form it asked: âDid you see her smile today?â Numb and overwhelmed, I clicked âyesâ. Immediately Cilliaâs life-bar jumped a point, up to 12/100.
Well thatâs some difference at least. Not much, but itâs a start.
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You would not believe what kind of shit Iâve pulled out of people.
Hi, Iâm Mike. I cut into dead bodies for a living. Itâs not exactly the kind of job that gets you laid, but it pays the bills. Anyway. Back to what I was saying. Fucked up shit in dead bodies. The weirdest ânormalâ thing Iâve pulled out of a person was a hairball out of someoneâs stomach. And when I say hairball, I mean it looked like the woman had swallowed a cat. She was a suicide victim. Probably bit into her hair because of anxiety. I get it. My little sister has issues with that sort of thing.
Wow. Off topic again. Clearly Iâve pounded those beers a little faster than I thought. Iâm not here to talk about hairballs. No. Iâm here to talk about something really weird.
Over the course of three weeks, I got three cadavers that have topped the weirdness scale. I swear, everything Iâm saying is true, and I got no explanation as to how the things got into their bodies⌠or why they were in there in the first place.
Forks up a vagina. Yup. Forks. Up. A vagina. Yowza.
When I uncovered the body, I made a few notes. One, she was in her late teens, probably a senior in highschool and not much more. She was probably pretty, when she was alive. Iâm not a freak, I think dead bodies are hideous. You really see all the flaws when someoneâs dead before theyâre made to look pretty for the funeral.
Anyway, apparently sheâd just dropped during algebra with massive bleeding out of her crotch. She didnât even make it to the ambulance before they called it. They sent her down to me, in my cold, dark basement morgue, and I let my sister know I wouldnât be home until late and she could stay at Annieâs house tonight.
When I saw the silvery prong starting to edge its way out of her âlady spotâ I wondered if sheâd been stabbed and just hadnât gone for help. Iâve seen things along that line before. I got ahold of it and eased what appeared to be a bloodied, metal dessert fork outta there. I dropped it into the tray and felt nothing but confusion. How the hell had a dessert fork gotten up there?
When I opened her up, I found nine more, all the way up to her cervix. One had even gotten trapped in her uterus. Iâm thinking she mightâve confused it for the worst motherfucking cramps of her short life- she was on her period.
When I told the investigator that cause of death was massive bleeding caused by a fork up her vag, he laughed in my face. When I showed him the evidence though he changed his mind.
In the end we had to put the cause of death as something self-inflicted as there wasnât any evidence of someone forcing them up there. Honestly though. Forks. Like the ones my mom used to eat her little cheesecakes and tarts with while laughing with her friends.
The second one was just as weird. Another teenage girl, around the same age. She had a more athletic build though, probably was in the gymnastics or swim team. Sheâd started vomiting blood in the parking lot after school. And a little something extra.
Pins.
When I cut open her stomach it was jam packed with sewing pins. I swear it was bulging with them. Iâd never seen so many in my life, cept when I snuck into my granâs sewing room. Old women have a million pins, I swear.
I canât even tell you the final count up. Far too damn many. But again, there was no evidence sheâd had them forced down her throat⌠although this is where it takes a step farther.
There was no evidence sheâd swallowed them at all.
I had no answers. Somehow this girl had a porcupine of pins in her stomach and I had no idea how they got in there. The hospital literally brought in three other dudes, some who have been doing this for a decade longer than I have.
We all turned up squat. I think one of the guys went straight from the morgue to a bar. It was pretty heavy shit.
But the last one is the one thatâs going to give me nightmares.
By the time another teenage girlâs body turned up, I wouldnât have batted an eyelash if I had cut her open and fucking Jennifer Lawrence turned up in there. I was done.
This girlâs death wasnât so bloody. Sheâd just asphyxiated in class. Some students claim they saw something sticking out of her mouth, but at the moment she was on the slab, there wasnât.
Not until I cut open her throat anyway.
The slit Iâd made split wide open and the brown patterned head of a ball python poked out. Like it was breaking free from the egg.
I mightâve screamed like a little girl and fell back on my ass so hard I bruised my tailbone.
By the time I got back up, the python had mostly squirmed free. The sucker had to be about five feet long, and it was now curled up across the girlâs chest, looking entirely unbothered about where it just crawled free from.
Nervously, I extended my arm to the scaly creature. He slithered up and made himself comfortable.
I clocked out early and told the nurse Iâd caught the stomach flu. I snuck out the snake in my lunchbox. Lil guy was always good at not making a fuss.
When I got home, my sister had cleaned up her little âritualâ site, but the dribbles of wax on the ground and the smell of burnt blood still lingering on the air gave away what sheâd been up to. I put the python back in her tank and pulled out a few beers from the fridge.
When I get back to work Iâll have to play dumb again. Not like thereâd be much to prove there was a snake in the girlâs throat in the first place.
For a week I kept waking up at 4:27 A.M. I couldnât explain it and I never tried to. I had thought to myself that it was because my internal alarm clock, that my body was waking itself up at that same exact time every night. Again, I couldnât explain it.
I talked to my mom about it and she didnât seem worried. I tried talking to my friends about it and they hadnât had a similar experience. I accepted that it would always happen until something would break the cycle. Well, last week, I woke up at that same time, and everything changed.
I didnât want to post this considering that I knew nobody would think it was for real, that I was making it up, but I believe that when I woke up at 4:27 last week, I awakened in a different, darker place.
I went to bed at my usual time at roughly 10:30. It wasnât awfully late, and it gave me time to procrastinate throughout the night. I thought it suited me well and I never had a problem with it. So I went to bed expecting to be awakened at that same exact time. My eyes drifted off to sleep.
Sometime later, after a dream I donât even remember, I awoke, looked at the clock, and there it was: my iHome read 4:27. I sighed and put my head back down and drifted off to sleep once more. But then I heard something. It was a small noise, not really noticeable, but it sounded like a whisper. It was quiet, and it was definitely coming from one single voice in the direction of my closet. I shooed away my increasing heartbeat and closed my eyes again.
The whisper slightly increased its volume. I opened my eyes again and looked to the closet. I still couldnât figure out what it was saying, but it was definitely there. I closed my eyes again and it suddenly picked up into a âRyan!â I could make out the voice saying my name, and it sounded familiar. I got out of my bed and walked toward the closet. My heart was beating out of my chest as I slid the sliding door to the left. Sitting on the ground was a figure, and I could tell it was staring right back at me. A few seconds later my eyes adjusted and I could see that it was my brother, Andrew.
âWhat the hell are you doing in my room?â I asked him, still in a whisper to not awaken my parents and my younger sister. Andrew was two years younger than me, and he usually is asleep the whole night.
I squatted on the ground and saw that tears were rolling down his face. He looked toward my door, which was closed. Considering I never closed my door before bed I found this odd. He mustâve closed it when he came in.
âWhat are you doing?â I asked again. âGo back to bed!â
His lip quivered and more tears fell down. âI...I canât.â
I rolled my eyes and knew I would probably have to go wake up my parents to figure this all out. I got up from my squat position and walked toward the door.
âNo no!â He yelled in a whisper. âDonât do it!â He was sobbing at this point, and considering he was fourteen I was kind of shocked. Something was really wrong, and I knew it.
I walked back over to him. âWhat do you mean âdonât do it?ââ I asked him.
âMom and Dad are...sick.â
My heart dropped. My spine shivered. The hair all along my body stood up. The way he said it...I knew he wasnât joking around. Something was really wrong.
âWhat? Are they hurt? How do you know?â
He put his head in his hands. âYou need to come into the closet with me,â he sobbed, âwe have to wait until morning.â
I got up and walked toward the door again. If something was really wrong, I had to figure it out right now. Andrew detested as usual. âStay in the closet. Iâll close the door when I get out. Just shut up and stay there, okay?â He seemed to obey and closed the closet door.
I took a deep breath and twisted the knob on my door and pulled the door inward. I looked outside and it was quiet. As quiet as you would expect a house to be at 4:30 in the morning. I walked down a narrow hallway and into a larger area with two doors on either side. One was my sister Annaâs room, and the other was my parentsâ. I opened the door to my parents room and peered in. Their bed sheets were crumpled up, which meant that they werenât in it. They were...gone. I walked into the room and it smelled terrible, and I noticed something on the ground...
It was my sisterâs doll which she always kept by her side. I walked out of the room immediately and into my sister Annaâs room. I entered it and found her sound asleep in her room. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. I knew I had to go downstairs and settle this mystery, but my fear kept me from moving another inch. I had to get the truth from Andrew or else I was gonna call the police.
I walked back into my room and shut the door. I walked to the closet and opened it again. Andrew was in the same position. âHow do you know theyâre sick?â I asked him. âWhatâs going on?â
âI heard them,â he said. âThey were talking weird. I was walking to your room when I heard their door open. I ran into your room.â
He was crying, and the big brother instinct was beginning to kick in. I closed the closet door, exited my room, closed the door, and walked to the stairs. I looked down it and saw my mom at the base of the stairs, looking up.
âMom?â I asked, my fear putting a quiver in my voice. âWhatâs wrong?â She didnât respond, but I knew her eyes were staring into me. âMom...why are you awake?â
She began to walk upstairs toward me, and the vibe of it all was off. She was acting so strangely. She was sick. Maybe my dad wasnât doing well either. I ran down the narrow hallway, past my room, and to the door at the end of the hallway: the bathroom. I swung it open, closed it, and locked it. I didnât turn on the light, and instead bathed in the darkness of the windowless room. I heard her footsteps, and then I heard them stop outside the door.
âCome on honey, itâs time for school!â She shouted in her usual, upbeat voice. âCome on!â
I didnât answer. I thought she would move on if I didnât answer. The she began to kick the door. The door shuddered with each blow until it fell silent. Her footsteps indicated she was running away from the door. I didnât know if it was a trap or what, but three minutes later I opened the door and saw no one around. I immediately ran back to Annaâs room and opened it.
When I didnât see her in her bed, I panicked. I looked around in the hallway, and then I saw her walking down the stairs, her blanket clasped in her hands. âMommy?â She asked.
I gasped and ran down the stairs. I grasped her in my arms and rushed back upstairs. I entered my room, shut the door, and opened the closet. Andrew was crying as usual. Anna was confused.
âAndrew, keep her here. Iâm going to go see if momâs okay.â
âDonât,â he told me. âDonât. Sheâll...sheâll...â
âJust keep her here.â
I walked out of my room, closed the door, and walked down the stairs. I looked through the dining room, through the kitchen, and then I saw her sitting on the couch in the living room.
âMom, whatâs wrong?â I asked.
She turned to me, and I turned on the light. She was covered in blood and an orange-red liquid poured from her eyes, which were giant holes. I gasped as she got up and walked toward me. The strange liquid still rained from her eyes.
I turned around to run but instead found my dad hanging from the ceiling. Blood poured from his mouth like a fountain on to the floor. I screamed and ran toward the stairs. My mom ran after me, and before I could reach the stairs she got to me and pushed me down on to the stairs. She forced me down and I could feel the ice cold liquid from her eyes touching my back through my pajamas.
She flipped me over and I could see her eyes, which were now showing a strange vision. My mind was filled with images of people being murdered and I could feel a dark force pulling me foreword.
âThis is Hell,â she said in her regular voice. Her face began to morph and change until it stretched into a terrifying being, one with eyes so dark, I can only describe them as a true void.
I pushed her away from me and she fell back on to the floor. I ran up the stairs and got into my room. I shut the door and moved my dresser in front of the door. I turned around and saw the closet door was open. Andrew and Anna walked out as another person walked out. My mom. She was crying and had blood all over her.
My heart almost died out, but I could tell something was different. This wasnât the creature downstairs. This was my actual mom. She was crying and she hugged me when she saw me. âDid you see them?â She asked.
âWhatâs going on?â I asked.
My mom wouldnât let go of me. I began to push on her until she let go. Something was wrong again. She began to stumble backward until she went back into the closet. The door shut, and Anna began to scream in a high pitched voice. I turned on the light in my room and saw her tearing at her throat. Blood eventually escaped and began to pour on the floor. I screamed and tried to move the desk. It wouldnât budge.
I looked back at Andrew, who was just staring at me with his usual blank expression. Anna passed out on the ground and bled out. Tears were forming in my eyes as I watched Andrewâs face turn into a smile. What happened next was terrifying. I can only explain it as him dislodging his jaw and pulling it out of his mouth. Blood drained from my face as I began to lose my balance. This wasnât Andrew, and it wasnât Anna. And my house wasnât my house. None of this was real. It couldnât have been.
Blood poured from Andrewâs mouth as his stomach began to move and convulse. He fell to the floor as something emerged from his stomach. I saw the orange liquid pouring from her eyes and I knew. The floor began to feel hot and the room stretched into a larger and larger space until the beast that was acting as my mother looked dead into my eyes.
âHell.â It was in a deep voice, so deep that it changed something in my head. I screamed.
The next thing I knew I woke up in my bed. I was sweating profusely, and I looked at the time. 4:27 AM.
I didnât go to sleep after that, and I swear I could hear that creature telling me I was in Hell throughout the night. When the sun came up and it was time to go to school, I was ecstatic. I havenât woken up at 4:27 since, but soon after I heard of my dad telling my mom he was waking up at the same time just yesterday.
I donât know what dark forces were in my room that night, but I believe that I had gone to Hell that night at 4:27. I hope I never go back.
"It'd be easier on everyone if you just fucking died Jimmy!" was the last thing I ever said to my brother as I slammed the door to his apartment behind me.
The words echoing in my head on a constant loop, drowning out our friends and family offering their condolences to my parents and I as we sit beside his open casket.
I can't stand to look at him. Half out of guilt, the remainder his appearance. Drugs took his life but it robbed him of his looks long before that. Death has not redeemed him of this quality, it's amplified it.
"Alan, please" he said with an outstretched hand beckoning me to sit beside him on his dingy couch. "Don't leave." The lump in his throat as audible as the welling of his eyes were visible.
Despite his pleading, I just left him there. I should have done something. I could have done something. Instead, I told my own brother he should die and either he, or God, or both agreed with me because later that night he did.
We didn't know exactly what substance it was that he was abusing that did it. We were still waiting on the toxicology report for that.
People will tell you that it's not my fault. People will insist that I loved my brother. People will say that I'm a good man. People are wrong.
This is my fault. I own it. I abandoned my own flesh and blood in frustration when he needed me most. Hours passed before my conscience finally got the better of me that night and by the time I made it back to his home to make amends, it was too late.
I stood at his entrance practicing my apology. Testing the best sentences I could use to tell him how sorry I was but in the same breath, truly get through to him that his demons were tearing our parents apart.
My rehearsal was interrupted by a squishing sound from beneath my feet as I paced. The industrial carpet lining the corridors of the run down complex were wet. The dirty beige colour now a dark brown in an uneven half circle where it's been saturated most at the foot of my brothers' door.
I apprehensively used my spare key to gain entrance. Cool droplets of water dripped down from the ceiling. Puddles pooled deep in sections on the uneven floors. My guilt morphed into anger instantly as I wondered how much my parents would have to pay the landlord for the damages my little brother has caused to his property.
It builds into blind rage as I jerk in surprise as one of the drops from the ceiling falls onto my face.
The emotion fades faster than it came when I turned my body towards Jimmy's living room preparing to give him hell.
My voice catches in my throat when my gaze finds its destination.
There he sat, lifeless on the sofa where I left him. His mouth agape, eyes wide and nearly completely white. His soaking wet t-shirt molded to his skinny body revealing the contour of his ribcage. His hand outstretched at his side resting on the unoccupied cushion as if even in death he requested my companionship.
"Jimmy!" I shout as I scramble towards him splashing in the puddles as I ran. I held him in my arms screaming his name and tapping his cold face with my hand. "Please, wake up!" My voice cracking in terror.
I recoil in surprise as a drop lands on my hand breaking my daydream as I sit slumped in the funeral homes' chair. I instinctively look to the ceiling as if I were still at Jimmy's apartment. Realizing too late that I was the source. I've been silently crying this whole time.
The rest of the viewing was as hard as you would expect for a family bidding a 26 year old member farewell. The burial was even worse. There's something about the finality of the closing coffin that leaves you so empty you'd swear a piece of you was in there with your loved one, never to see the light of day again. I wish I could tell you that it became easier on us in the weeks that followed but I won't lie to you. I can't find it in me to care enough for that.
It's been especially hard on my mother in the six weeks that have passed. She had spent most of it watching old home videos of my brother as a child. Birthday parties, piano recitals, graduations and the like. Her nights however are filled with quiet weeping from her upstairs bedroom, clutching a photo of him in a frame she keeps by her bedside. My father being the war veteran that he is, copes with trauma as he always has with quiet strength, a cigarette, a stiff upper lip, and if need be a stiffer drink. I've never seen so much as a tear form in my father's eye my entire life, not even as we carried my brother's casket to be buried. You could sense his sadness as it hung heavy in the air around him, its weight could be felt by every single person in attendance. But to him, crying was weakness in a man and not an option while he had a wife and surviving son depending on him.
It's the reason I was so shocked to see him sitting on the floor next to his cellphone, sobbing like a child when I let myself into their home.
"Dad?" I say as I make my way toward him, leaving the front door open behind me. I knelt as fast as I could to rest my hand on his shoulder. "What's wrong?"
He wipes his face ashamedly "Hey Alan," he says trying his best to conceal the agony in his voice and shifts his body abruptly to stand.
I keep him down, he doesn't resist.
"Dad, it's ok." I soothe, "What happened?"
Fresh tears well in his eyes as he stares into mine. It's my turn to be strong for him as I fight back tears of my own.
"The doctor called," he whispers. "All of Jimmy's results came back negative."
"What?" I blurt, failing to conceal my surprise.
"There were no drugs in his system. Hair, blood, saliva... nothing." he whimpers, "what... what killed my boy?"
I feel dizzy at this revelation and use my father's shoulder to steady myself as I sit with my back to the wall beside him.
Both of us staring off into nothing.
Both of us now weeping.
We had all been so sure that Jimmy overdosed that we had refused an autopsy. Confident that sending off Jimmy's various bodily fluids would reveal the culprit. The police found no evidence of foul play and they attributed the water and damage to the apartment as a drug fueled hallucination. "He probably thought the place was on fire!" were the exact words used by the officer. Yet here we are in a reality where Jimmy not only did not overdose, but had no trace of narcotics in his system whatsoever.
More time had passed since I found my father on the floor and its passage has done nothing to heal my wounds. I became obsessed with my brother's death, and vowed to find out what it is that killed him not only for my sake but for the sake of my parents who have deteriorated into shells of their former selves without this closure. I found my answer among his possessions which lay in storage boxes in my parents garage.
Jimmy was an avid reader, and owned more books than an underfunded public library. So it was easy for everyone involved who didn't know him to overlook the leather bound journal that was tucked away between Wilde and Poe. Even if it had garnered any amount of attention, it would be short lived. Its pages were seemingly empty.
When we were children we nicknamed my father the Colonel because he took all of his military style bootcamp training and transitioned it over to his parenting. When one of us broke something in the house, or just generally disobeyed him we would be sent to our rooms which he called "the hole" for a pre-set amount of time.
"Come here boys!" He would bellow, his deep voice reverberating throughout the house and my brother and I would drop anything we were doing and scurry to get to him as fast as our little legs could carry us. We would stand up straight before him with our hands at our sides like mini soldiers.
"Which one of you broke your mothers vase?" He'd say to us sternly, my mother cooking in the background trying hard not to smile. My father never hit us so the "little soldier routine" as she called it made her smile through her mock grimace everytime.
"I did sir!" Jimmy would shout.
"Takes a man to own up to his mistakes." my father would say, "but he's got to face the consequences too, don't you think?"
"Yes sir!" He'd say standing up straighter.
"Good. One hour in the hole!" The Colonel replied with my mother behind him smiling blatantly now hoping to at least surpress the giggles.
It wasn't uncommon for Jimmy to take the fall. It's just who he was and would always be. I had broken the vase that evening but Jimmy couldn't bare the thought of someone else being punished if he had the power to prevent it. He gave anything and everything he had to those he loved and as he aged that quality only grew stronger.
Jimmy was a better man than me.
It was during those hours in the hole that we devised a way to communicate with eachother, undetected from the Colonels' watchful eyes. We would pass notes under the door written in lemon juice or milk. Once dry the paper would be clear, the ink unseen. The only way to reveal the message was to apply heat either with a candle, or the burning hot incandescent lightbulb of our bedside lamps, turning the transparent ink brown like magic. As soon as the message was read, the paper was destroyed and if it were ever intercepted before the heating process as they sometimes were our parents would simply command us to pick up after ourselves seeing only a blank page. It was our very own invisible ink. We briefly tried with urine once but neither one of us was willing to touch the paper afterward which defeated the purpose.
Holding Jimmy's leather journal in my hand and leafing through its pages, I smiled at the memory. I took it with me to my father's workbench in the corner of the garage. Reaching to take the propane torch from the top shelf. I twist the nozzle releasing a hiss of propellant, and pull the trigger igniting a blue flame.
He couldn't have. Could he?
I travel the flame carefully over the first page as to not combust it and stare in bewilderment as words do indeed begin to surface.
LET ME GO ALAN.
BURN THE BOOK.
-Love, Jimmy.
With my heart beating out of my chest I don't know whether to laugh or cry as I read Jimmy's message from beyond the grave so I do a bit of both as a swallow hard, composing myself before turning the page.
I PRAY THAT NO ONE IS READING. I HAVE DONE MY BEST TO CONTAIN WHAT I HAVE FOUND SO WHEN I DIE, IT DIES WITH ME.
"What the hell is going on, Jimmy?" I whisper aloud. For the very first time, the thought that the toxicology report might be mistaken emerges in my mind. Who else but a man intoxicated could ever write such things?
The sense of smell is so closely linked to memory that the aroma created by the flame eminating from the paper triggers happy flashbacks of when we used to do this as children.
A stunning contrast to the morbidness of my discovery. How did we end up here?
Another page, another message.
PLEASE, IF ANYONE IS READING THIS ESPECIALLY YOU ALAN WHO IS THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS ABOUT THE INVISIBLE WRITING, JUST BURN THE BOOK! PLEASE DO NOT BRING THE POEM BACK INTO THE WORLD.
"Poem?" I think to myself as chills run up my spine.
I LOVE YOU ALAN, TO THE MOON AND BACK. IF YOU ARE READING THIS, HUG MOM AND THE COLONEL. THEY'LL NEED YOU. IM SORRY I COULDN'T TELL YOU. I COULDN'T RISK IT. I DISCOVERED A CURSE. A CURSE THAT ONCE READ BINDS YOU TO IT. IT WONT LET ME DIE ALAN, UNLESS I WRITE IT.
I flip the pages as fast as I can to continue my brother's message.
IT CAN'T BE STOPPED. I'VE TRIED. I'VE DESTROYED EVERYTHING RELATED TO THIS CURSE THAT I'VE FOUND SO THAT IT CAN'T BE SOUGHT OUT. THE INVISIBLE WRITING IS MY LOOPHOLE. A WAY TO END MY SUFFERING BUT PROTECT THE NEXT VICTIMS.
The next fifteen pages consisted of only three words repeated over and over.
DO NOT READ.
My heart breaks at my brother's mental state. If I had known his mind was so fragmented I could have gotten him the help he clearly needed.
The words on the sixteenth page burned darker than the rest. No longer the golden brown of its predecessors but a deep black. No longer bold capital letters but a fine script.
*Each flash of lightning will reveal its form.
*It preys on the cursed in the eye of the storm.
Every page that followed was empty.
I clutched the journal to my chest. "I'm so sorry Jimmy." I mutter "I love you too."
I couldn't bring myself to tell my parents about my discovery, it would do them no good. Upon exiting the garage, I tuck the book into my jacket sleeve and lay it on the couch where I take a seat next to my mother watching her daily dose of home videos.
"Hello sweetheart." she smiles, leaning in to kiss my cheek.
"How you doing mom?" I respond.
"I'm alright I guess I'm just trying to remember happier times." She smiled, "These videos just remind me that I did tell you boys I loved you a million times a day." and points to the screen.
I chuckle because she speaks the truth. At this moment, in the video labeled "Jimmy's 8th birthday" she can be heard from behind the camera asking her two sons her favourite question. "Boys! Boys! How much does mommy love you?"
Jimmy and I sat on the backyard picnic bench surrounded by presents and other children, red as tomatoes and rolling our eyes.
"Mom, not in front of our friends!" We hushed in embarrassment.
"How much my little monkeys?" She squealed with glee.
"To the moon and back" We muttered in defeat.
To add to our horror, the other children surrounding us were ooing and awing in unison.
"See?" my mother says drawing my attention away from the television and back to her.
Both of us share a laugh. It was so nice to see my mother smile again that it helped me to forget Jimmy's journal. So when she asked if I would like to see another video, I agreed without hesitation.
"Do you have my clown birthday party?" I inquire.
"Oh I sure do!" she says jumping up from the couch to retrieve it. "That's my favourite!"
I remember that damn party like it happened yesterday. "The party from hell" Jimmy would dub it later on. My mother thought it would be a tremendous idea to have a clown perform at my 9th birthday, completely unaware that clowns terrified both my brother and I. It was a particularly hot July day. We had already been delirious from too much sun and sugar when Twirly the clown made his entrance holding my candle topped cake. Dancing instead of walking toward us with grand exaggerated kicks of his legs. There's a particularly funny scene in this video where my mother pans the camera from Twirly's theatrics and laughing family members in the background, to where my brother and I sat holding eachother, eyes shut tightly with our faces turned towards the sky crying in fear.
But that's not what played on the tv. The setting hadn't changed. The people in attendance were the same. My younger father before his hair began to grey, stood at the barbeque flipping burgers just as I remembered only he was dripping wet in the rain.
"It wasn't raining." I think to myself confused.
"Look how handsome your father is." I hear my mother say at my side. I can't find my voice to reply so I just nod never taking my eyes off what I'm watching. "Here's the best part!" she claps with joy.
"Bring on the clown!" My father says, but it's difficult to make out over the ever increasing ferocity of the storm. The screen goes white with a flash of lightning as if it struck within meters of where we were standing.
My pulse quickens as I perceive everything in near slow motion. The camera moves from my father to Twirly the clown, his large red shoes splashing in the mud as he danced. The white make up on his face running down onto his orange coloured jumpsuit. The large red painted on smile associated with clowns, sagged into a grimace. His eyes completely blacked out as his drawn on eyebrows did the same.
The happy family members in the background clapping and cheering as the water pooled around their ankles. Heavy winds tossing the womens hair every which way as they applauded, seemingly unaware of the hurricane that raged around them.
Lightning illuminates the scene that has made my family laugh for the better part of two decades. I stare in horror, paralyzed with fear. The camera finally finds its way to young Jimmy and I as we sit holding eachother. However this time only one of us was crying with our eyes shut. Jimmy was staring directly into the camera wide eyed, head vigorously shaking from side to side.
His lips move but I can't make out what he's saying over the ripping thunder. Another flash of lightning and I gasp as a figure materializes behind us out of nothing. Its skin is stretched tight around its tall, skinny body almost translucent in appearance. Its oversized hands resting on both of our shoulders. Its long fingers traveling almost almost the entire length of our torsos.
I can't make out its face through no fault of my own because it doesn't have one to speak of. Only a mouth that makes up the whole bottom portion of its oval head.
Jimmy jerks his shoulder away from its clutches running up to the camera and grabbing it with both hands to bring it up close to his face.
"You let it out!" He shrieks. " Alan, you let it out! He repeats himself until his voice is hoarse. The hands of the figure coming into frame behind him where they rest on his shoulders.
I taste the salt of my tears at the corner of my mouth and recoil violently as I feel a hand on my shoulder.
"It's alright, Alan" my mother says with both her hands held out in front of her trying to be as soothing as possible.
"I'm sorry mom." I respond and start wiping my face with my sleeve until I turn back toward the video. The sun is shining and the clown is dry. His makeup impeccable as the young me reluctantly blows out the candles.
"I miss him too." she says rubbing my back.
"I gotta go." was all I could muster in my dazed condition as I kissed her cheek, picked up my jacket and headed for my car.
I sat in silence on my drive home. Silent enough that the soft swishing of my windshield wipers in the rain were infuriatingly loud. I kept going over what just happened in my head. Overwhelmed, I switched on the radio to the most mindless dance music station I can think of to drown out my thoughts. The vapid radio disk jockey addressing his audience in the typical fashion.
"Yo, yo, yo party people" he begins, "This is MC Mookie Mayes, the flyest DJ on the east coast coming at you live on this beautiful Saturday evening."
He has the desired effect of distracting me at the very least because I roll my eyes and mutter "douchebag" under my breath.
"There's not a cloud in the sky today." he continues, "so I want to see all you beautiful people dancing to my lit beats under the stars tonight!"
I laugh aloud at this. "Hey dj dimwit!" still chuckling, "it's rainin-" my voice trails off as I pull off to the side of the road. I reach to the passengers side seat to retrieve my phone. I open my weather app, warm and clear skies with a zero percent chance of precipitation.
My blood runs cold as thunder rolls in the distance. I look up from my phone to see the silhouette of a figure far in the distance and all I can do is stare as each flash of lightning transports him closer to me.
I floor the gas pedal and speed down the road my tires spinning on the slick surface. My wipers struggling to keep up with the ever falling rain making it difficult to see. "I gotta get out of here." I speak to myself to try and calm my nerves constantly checking my rearview mirror in hopes to catch a glimpse of the figure behind me. But I was mistaken when another flash of light brought the figure directly in front of my car. I swerved to avoid it losing control of my vehicle, spinning out as I try to compensate the steering. When it finally grinds to a halt, I sit gasping for air and listening to my wipers squeaking as they pass over the dry glass. I exit my vehicle and notice the stars in the sky and not a cloud in sight.
When I got to my apartment, I headed straight for my bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. What greets me in the mirror causes me to stare. I've begun to age just as Jimmy had. My cheeks are sullen and the dark rings under my eyes are the worst I'd ever seen.
At first I questioned my sanity. After all, the apparitions left no evidence of their visits. When the storm passed, I was able to carry on with my days. Even my appearance could be reasoned away with illness or the depression caused by the loss of my brother. That luxury would be short lived. As its bond with me grew stronger, its effects became more apparent. Each passing storm would leave its mark. The wet clothes on my body or the welts in the shape of handprints underneath them.
It's been weeks since my first exposure and I can't carry on like this anymore. I hope you can understand, I don't want to die. The figure comes with a higher frequency than ever before. I awaken in the middle of the night to thunder and my apartment is now rife with mold from water damage. I've lost 30 pounds and two teeth since then. It's here with me now both hands resting on my shoulders as I write this. I tried to hold off for as long as I could, but I'm going to give in to what it wants. The largest audience it's ever had in the who knows how many centuries it's roamed the earth. I think in passing it to you I can save myself. I can't be sure but it's worth a try.
Jimmy was selfless. He wrote the curse in a way that no one could ever read it. He gave his life to protect the world.
No one uses radio anymore, let's face it. We still listen to one or two stations for car ride music, but that's it. No one gets their news or entertainment from radio shows.
That's exactly what I was thinking when I got a portable radio last Christmas, but of course I was too nice to say it. "Thank you so much," I said slowly, trying to think of something to add. "You know I like music."
Strangely enough, that radio was all I had for entertainment when my internet went out last weekend. I don't know why I kept the radio that long, really.
I turned the dial lazily. I was bored out of my mind, laying on my bed and holding the radio above me with my arms extended. There were hardly any stations even broadcasting. Staticky country music, boring. Christian music, I got enough of that every Sunday. Boring. Basketball game, not interested. When I turned it again, a little past 70 I believe, I heard a noise so jarring that I rolled over and set the radio down. It was followed by a little jingle, a section from some old waltz song. The static distorting the song and the out-of-tune piano sound put a feeling of discomfort somewhere in me, but I couldn't exactly place where-- or why. It was creepy, in an innocent but menacing way, like a music box in a horror movie trailer. I didn't like it, but I was too curious to turn the radio off.
The jingle was followed by a few seconds of dull noise, just cracking static. Then there was a voice.
It was a female voice reading a list of numbers and random words, interrupted every so often by a bell tone. Her voice spoke plainly and monotonously, but something in it sounded condescending, conspiratorial, and vaguely mocking, like she was smiling while she spoke but had no real emotion. The whole thing freaked me out.
The next day, I heard the same thing at the same time. Noise, song, same voice reading off numbers and nonsense words. It repeated for a week.
The jarring noise woke me up last night. It never happened at night, only 3:07 pm every day. The voice came right after the noise this time, no song. She sounded different. Distressed. I heard a shuffling of papers. "Tw- two. Five. Sailboat. S- seven. Conifer. I- oh god. I hope they aren't listening."
She took a breath. I pulled out my phone and started recording, incase I needed to reference the audio later. I did end up listening to it, several times in fact, but nothing is clearer for me. I referenced it to write this too, to make sure I got everything right that she said.
"Okay." Ding! "Twenty left. Okay. Listen, if there's anyone listen to me, please-" ding! "Who am I kidding. No one will be listening to this. Ah- if there is anyone listening, I-" ding! "S***. Remember this. Uh, alpha. Twenty-two. Not that. Remember this: a bird in the basket is worth three hundred twelve in the oak. Show me." Ding! "Please. I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to work for these people, I don't- I don't want to be here. I- I know what's going on." Ding! "Please. Please. Pl-"
The broadcast ended. From then on, the station was just white noise. At the time of the usual broadcast, the noise went off and the song played, but there was no voice of bel tones, just silence. I turned the dial once and turned it back, and the station was replaced by loud crackling. I haven't heard anything else from it since.
Please guys, I don't know what's going on. I want to help that girl with whatever is going on, but I don't even know if it's real, or if it is, where to start.
Thereâs an unpleasant truth that few of us like to admit, but Iâm going to say it anyways: we all hate who we were in high-school. From the bad decisions, to the awkward haircuts, to the even more awkward crushes... if given a second chance, most of us would go back and redo it. That being said, Iâm in the minority that wouldnât. Itâs not because I was some kind of hot-shot back in school, far from it in fact. I was, what you would call, a loser.
I was 300lbs and my skin was terrible (probably from all the sweets and greasy foods I ate). Girls wouldnât take a second look at me, hell, I was lucky if they even gave me a first look. Whenever they did though, it was usually because of disgust and never because they were interested. There was this one girl, Courtney, who I had the biggest crush on all throughout high-school. She was a pretty, delicate thing, with long blonde hair and eyes as blue and deep as the ocean. She was probably the most popular girl in school and waaay out of my league... still the heart doesnât choose who it falls for.
I donât know why I held onto that crush for so long, Courtney was terrible to me (Almost all high-school girls were actually). I remember the first conversation I ever had with her:
âH-h-hey Courtney!â I greeted as I approached her at her locker, a nervous wreck. She was talking with her friend Betty and they both looked at me as I interrupted their conversation.
âOh...hey...who are you?â Courtney said.
âD-David. Itâs David. We have Family Studies together and Iâve seen you around...so I just wanted to, you know... say hiâ
âOh....well hi. Sorry I actually gotta get going to class now.â she said as she slammed her locker door and grabbed Bettyâs hand to pull her away.
âOkay...bye! It was nice meeting you!â I called out after her.
As they were walking away I overheard Betty and Courtney laughing. Betty turned to Courtney and said âH-O-L-Y shit. What the hell was that?â
âOh my god, I know right!?â Courtney replied. âTalk about creepy!â
âSeriously gross. He said he was in your Family Studies class?â Betty asked.
âI guess. Iâm not sure why heâs taking that, by the looks of it, he ate his entire family!â Courtney laughed.
Iâm not proud to admit it, but I didnât learn my lesson even after that. Throughout my 4 years in high school, I tried over and over again to impress her. Needless to say, it didnât work. She would call me names like âpiggyâ, âpizza faceâ, and of course, the ever so classic âfatassâ. There was this one year where I got a complete makeover: new clothes and a haircut that was all the rage back then. A faux hawk I think it was called. When I went to speak with her, she said to me âOh shit, look who just escaped from whoville. Did you run out of food to eat there or something?â with the most condescending laugh Iâd ever heard. Still, as the years went by, I never could seem to forget her. It was probably because she was my first crush, and Iâm sure all of us hold onto memories of our first.
So, given all of that, Iâm sure youâre probably thinking âWow, David, sounds like you had it rough. So why wouldnât you go back and do it all over again?â Well, itâs actually pretty simple. Going through all that hardship gave me purpose, a drive to work hard and move forward. I channeled my love of food into my cooking and became a very renowned chef. I now own my own restaurant in New York and am quite wealthy. I started hitting the gym religiously and am sitting at a very lean 160lbs. Seriously, you could grate cheese on my abs (although as a chef I would advise against it cause itâs kind of a huge health code violation) . My skin cleared up as I got out of my teen years, and not to brag or anything, but Iâm quite the looker now. Careful who you call ugly in high school I guess eh?
The universe has a plan, it turns out. Remember that girl I was crazy about? The one I could never forget? Well I ran into her recently. She had just moved to New York from Toronto for her new job. Coincidentally, she came into my restaurant one night and wanted to pay her compliments to the chef. My waiter led her into the kitchen with my permission, where I greeted her.
âOh my god! David Smith?! Is that you??â she said.
âCourtney! Itâs been so long!â I exclaimed.
âMy goodness, you look...amazing!â
âThanks.â I smiled. âWhat are you doing here Courtney?â
âMy co-worker said that I had to try this place out. I never expected to find you running things here.â
âI suppose itâs a bit of an added treat to your dinner thenâ I joked.
âMore than a bit!â she laughed. Courtney then fell silent with an awkward expression on her face as she prepared to say something else. âHey, listen David...I know I wasnât the nicest to you back in highschool... I mean we all do stupid things that were not proud of and -â
âCourt. Stop. Itâs forgotten.â I interrupted with a smile. âIt really is good to see you.â
âThanks David. You too.â
âI hate to cut this short, but I have to get back to work. Hereâs my number, hit me up sometime. We should catch up.â I said while handing her my business card.
âDefinitely! Iâll give you a call.â she smiled.
A few hours passed and while I was closing up my restaurant, I received a call from Courtney. I picked up the phone to find her in a complete panic.
âDavid, my god, someone broke into my house! The place has been ransacked and I canât find Barkley anywhere!â she cried.
âJesus Court, have you called the police?!â I responded.
âYeah, theyâre on their way here now.â she sniffled. âDavid, I know this is an awkward request, but Iâm new here... I donât know anybody in this city and Iâm terrified and...I just need someone.â
âDeep breathes Court, deep breathes. Text me your address, Iâm on my way!â
Itâs been 7 months since that incident. The police never ended up finding Barkley. Oh, Barkley was Courtneyâs pet chihuahua by the way. The police figured that he must have gotten scared and ran away when someone broke into the home. Although it was a tragic incident, some good did come out of it. Courtney and I started dating not long afterwards. We made it official 6 months to this day and weâre now living together. Call it the romantic in me, but I planned a little surprise for our 6 months.
I told Courtney that I would be in Toronto for business all week. This was only partially true. I really did go back home to Toronto because I was currently in talks to open up a restaurant there. I didnât stay there the entire week though, no, I came back a day early to surprise Courtney. While she was at work, I lit some candles, poured some of her favourite wine and cooked her a gourmet meal. Once everything was set, I waited for her to come back home.
âDavid? Is that you?â Courtney called as she entered the front door. âI saw your car in the front.â
âHappy 6 months babe.â I replied as I emerged from the kitchen. I grabbed her hand and led her to the kitchen and into a scene straight out of a romance novel. âYou hungry?â
âOh my goodness, you are just the sweetest!â she replied with a huge smile.
âHave a seat. Dig in before it gets cold!â
âWell, Iâll help myself then!â she smiled as she grabbed the steak knife and started cutting into her meal. âHow was the trip? Did you manage to land the deal?â Courtney asked between bites.
âYup, youâre looking at the proud owner of a restaurant chain! Iâm opening up business in Toronto next month.â I replied
âSee! I told you not to worry! Youâre so talented they were bound to love you!â Courtney said as she took another bite. She must have noticed that I wasnât eating because she looked up at me and said âyour not gonna eat?â
âIn a bit.â I replied. âI just want to remember this moment. To think, Courtney Silver is eating MY cooking. Itâs like a dream come true.â
âOh, youâŚâ she blushed âIâm the lucky one.â
âI thought you might be homesick so I hand picked these ingredients from Toronto. Thought I would give you a taste of your home.â
âAww babe! You are actually the best boyfriend ever!â she exclaimed.
I watched Courtney as she wrapped up her meal. She finished the last bite of her steak and let out a huge sigh of pleasure. As she was wiping her mouth with a napkin, I asked her âHow was the meal Court?â
âSo amazing David! You really outdid yourself this time!â she replied.
âWas it better or worse than Barkley?â I asked with a huge grin on my face.
âIâm sorry?â Courtney replied confused.
âYour dog, Barkley. Did this meal taste better or worse than him?â
âI...David what the hell are you going on about?â she asked still confused but now noticeably concerned.
âYou know, I never forgot about you Court. Ever since high school, Iâve always had you on my mind. The way you treated me, the way you made me feel...I hated you for it...but the hate gave me purpose because I thought maybe one day Iâd be able to have my revenge. One day, as I was stalking your Facebook profile, I saw that you were moving to New York City. Not even a week after, I saw you tweet on your twitter âGoing to [redacted] Restaurant tonight! I hear itâs the culinary hotspot of NYC!â. God had handed me my revenge on a silver platter.â
â...â Courtney was speechless. She was hanging onto my every word. The despair and tears in her eyes told me that she knew where I was going with this, but she needed to hear it from my mouth. The mouth of the man whom she came to love.
âI tracked down where you lived Court. While you were at work, I broke into your house and kidnapped Barkley. I made it look like a robbery so you wouldnât think twice about it. Then, when you came to my restaurant with your co-workers, I fed you Barkley on a silver platter.â
â...I...what...I donât evenâŚâ Courtney stammered as she tried to process what I had just said.
âThe best part was that you gave me compliments for feeding you your dog!â I roared, no longer able to contain my laughter.
âOh my god⌠youâre sick!â she cried, tears streaming down her face. âYouâre a sick twisted freak! What the fuck is wrong with you!? Iâm calling the police!â
I watched her search frantically for her phone as a twisted sense of joy welled up inside of me. I couldnât contain what I wanted to say next any longer âBut babe, I went through so much trouble to prepare this meal for you.â
âDonât you fucking dare call me babe!â she screamed while crying hysterically.
âI went through the trouble of getting the ingredients straight from your home. 579 [Redacted] Avenue.â
âTell it to the fucking pol-â Courtneyâs voice trailed off as she realized what I had just said. â579 [Redacted] Avenue...my parents houseâŚ?â
âThatâs right, Good Olâ Mr. and Mrs. Silver, served up on a silver platter. True to their namesake I suppose.â I chuckled.
â....W-w-what are you saying?â
âIâm saying that you were wrong Court. I never ate anybody from my family, but you sure as hell have.â
âOh my god, oh my god...â Courtney repeated those three words over and over again under her heavy breath. I could tell she was on the verge of snapping and I couldnât resist pushing her over the edge.
âYou should know they squealed like pigs when I gutted them. Or wait, what was that nickname you had for me? Thatâs right, they squealed like a goddamn âpiggyâ.â
âNo, no no no no no, my god noâŚâ she repeated, like a broken record stuck on the same few notes. Courtney was now a complete wreck, with tears streaming down her face and muffled screams escaping from the cusp of her hand. In a moment of anger, she looked up at me and then to the steak knife. Before I could react, she stood up from her chair with the knife in-hand and pointed it towards me. âYou...you sick freak.â
My body immediately shot upright and I raised my hands over my head while backing away to create some distance. âWhoa, whoa, whoa, Court.â I said. âWhat are you gonna do? Are you gonna cut up the man you love? Just like you cut up your parents?â
âI...Mum...Dadâ Courtney cried out in only a hoarse whisper. She then turned the knife towards herself and at her stomach. She let out a deafening scream, and then, she stabbed herself. Over and over again she stabbed herself in the stomach. It was as if she was trying to extract what little remained of her parents. Her attempts, however, were futile, as she soon went limp and slumped over - dead.
A small chuckle escaped my lips. As I stared at Courtneyâs body, my chuckle grew louder and louder until it filled all of my home. This went better than I ever could have imagined! Be careful who you call ugly in high-school.
I sat back down on the chair opposite of Courtneyâs limp corpse. I pulled out my phone and thought to myself âI wonder what that bitch Betty is up to.â
Facebook Messenger
Thursday, March 15 At 21:42
David: Hey Betty, how have you been?
Betty: Oh my god! David Smith?! Is that you? My goodness, you look...amazing!
David: Thanks! Iâll be in Toronto for work soon. Wanna grab a drink and catch up?
Betty: Definitely! Hereâs my number: 416-[Redacted].
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by 15thought. Trigger warning for sexual violence.
I just realized Iâm not a time traveler.
Iâve made a lot of mistakes. I didnât know what I was doing, I swear. Iâm still trying to comprehend the magnitude of the damage Iâve caused. The sheer amount of lives I've destroyed.
To anyone affected by a short, scruffy guy named Axel, Iâm sorry.
I just hope that writing it all down can perhaps absolve me⌠even just a little. Iâll give anything for some forgiveness. I donât think I deserve it, though. Not after what Iâve done.
Iâll start at the beginning.
I first realized â or rather, thought â I was a time traveler when I was about eleven. My mom had just fallen and broke her neck, and I remember everything coming to a stop. I remember her head twisted around, the sound of the snap echoing endlessly, a muffled âohâ underneath. My âohâ. The oh started to reverse, though. As if someone pressed the rewind button of a VHS tape. And, sure enough, the visual followed the sound. My momâs tear rolled back up, her neck untangling, her body being pulled up like a marionette back into standing position, back in front of the spill.
Press play.
âMom! Stop!â The words erupted from my mouth before I had any time to lasso them back. My mom jumped, stumbling forwards, landing with her temple on stone. The moment paused again, Momâs mouth agape in a startled âohâ, the counter corner embedded in her skull.
Rewind.
Play.
This time, I dove forward and pulled her into a hug. The roast she was holding fell to the floor, joining the grease stain she hadnât noticed.
âHon? Whatâs wrong?â
I guess the fact that her ambivalent and withdrawn preteen son hugging her for the first time in years overrode the shock of a spilled dinner. I started to cry, I probably wept, and the next few weeks all blurred into one continuous smear.
My mom didnât believe me when I told her about seeing her die right in front of me. She took me to the pediatrician first, who then referred us to a psychologist, who pointed the way to a psychiatrist. I was medicated, thought to have early onset bipolar, in the middle of a mixed episode. I heard words like âmanicâ and âdelusions of grandeurâ, but I didnât care. I was having the time of my life. Sure, the sedatives made me feel fuzzy, and I was still too young to really object to the medications, but it couldnât get in the way of using my new found super power.
I could rewind time.
Anytime my mom said something condescending, or when my little sister refused to let me have my turn on the game, or even just because Iâm bored â Iâll go wild. It felt so good to be able to just slap Eva when she bugged me, or knock the meds out of my momâs hands. Sometimes, Iâd even throw everything not bolted down outside my window. I could always rewind, and just not be a little shit. Everything was fine. I never dealt with consequences.
I was an angelic teen. The perfectly behaved straight-A student, dating the most popular girl in school, in line to be student body president. I knew every word to say, every test answer, everything I needed to coast through life.
I found out I could travel forward in time when I lost my virginity.
Iâm not going to bore you with the many failed attempts I made at a fumbling first time, but letâs just say that on about the fourth take, I was euphoric. I closed my eyes from the sight of Lily under me and opened them to the same thing, only she was older. Her eyes had crowâs feet, and I could see gray hair snaking across our pillows.
Where before she was screaming in ecstasy, this Lily was in agony.
âStop! Baby stop, please!â
Before I could stop the words, my mouth spoke: âYou cheating cunt! Iâll fucking kill you!â
Before I could stop the movement, my hands wrapped around her throat. My grip tightened. Her thrashing slowed. I closed my eyes in relief
and opened them in tears, still over Lily, still in the back of the car. âAw baby, was I that good?â She said, chuckling, wiping at my tears. I broke up with her that night.
I didnât know if I needed to have sex again, or just reach the same state of pleasure, so I put on some porn and went at it. Nothing, just a mess.
So I asked a friend for something to feel good.
I heated a spoon, lay in bed, and tried to let go. I thought of graduating high school, college, getting my first house. I thought of my future partner, maybe some children, definitely a cat. I was transfixed on the imagery of my eyes aging.
âBaby wake up, youâre lying on my shit.â The voice was scratchy, like they were fighting a head cold. When I opened my eyes, the person looked just as wretched. I almost gagged at her breath. Looking down, we were both naked, track marks as common as stretch. I felt bile rising, and flipped over on the bed to vomit three bean soup back onto the three bean colored carpet.
âFucking finally.â That voice, Celia, my first college girlfriend. I fucking hate her. âWell?â She said. âDo you want any or not?â
Rewind.
I never went to that party, I never let myself meet Celia. I didnât even let myself have pain killers. Not after that path I saw.
So maybe youâre getting a bit of a picture of what Iâm capable of. I canât travel forward at will, and however long I travel backwards I must relive everything after the point I stop at. Itâs not perfect, but it made for a hell of a good life. I wasnât always a good person, though. I swear, I didnât think it would have repercussions, not like this.
There was this one girl, Juno, who denied me at every turn. I tried time and time again to win her over, but she was adamant that she didnât want to be around me, let alone date me. I wasnât used to this kind of rebuttal. I was used to getting what I want, after a few tries.
So when she didnât give me what I wanted, I took it.
I felt so guilty that I couldnât even finish before rewinding and scuttling off, but I kept dreaming about it. I couldnât help but think I could have anything, anyone that I wanted.
So I did it again.
So, yeah. I was the time traveling rapist. But it gets worse.
There was a kid in my grade, Paul, who bugged the hell out of me. Something never seemed right with him, and he could make my hair stand on end just by looking at me. I grew to hate that weaselly little creep over the years. That was my state of mind, when I heard that he had eyes on my sister, Eva. And not just his own eyes, but othersâ too. He apparently found a tree outside our house that his bony ass could comfortably sit on while he jerked off to my preteen sister changing. He sold the images online. I may be a rapist, but at least I can undo my actions. At least Iâm not a fucking pedophile.
I beat him to a pulp. I threw him out windows. I slaughtered him and his entire family. I was furious, and no amount of murder satisfied me. Eventually, I settled on dumping him in the ocean, still writhing under the cement blocks. I covered my tracks.
It wasnât enough, though.
Suppose the entire world froze, except for you. Every person, every bird, every tree; completely still, still alive. What would you do? Donât toss any bullshit like âeat all the ice creamâ or âsteal all the moneyâ, youâd fuck everyone youâve ever wanted to fuck. Youâd kill anyone who ever pissed you off. Youâd wreak havoc. Youâd be absolutely and utterly free to do what you pleased.
And so I did. My entire adulthood was riddled with mass murder, destruction, making art out of agony. I loved going just long enough to let the newspapers come up with a nickname for my alter-ego, then rewinding to switch up my methods. I was particularly fond of âMr. Spliceâ, but âZodiac Killerâ had a nice ring.
But I digress.
You see, I swear I thought I was doing no harm. These people, this timeline, it would all be erased. They would never know the pain I caused, the deaths my hands. Theyâd just see Axel, just a humble mechanic, taking care of his sick mom.
I thought every time I rewound, so did time. But Iâm older now, too weary to go back to my youth and try again. Iâm pretty damn tired. And after my heart attack, I saw something I can never forget.
I saw everything. Every thread, every line, every divulging path that I thought was demolished was firm. Real. Devastatingly real.
The aftermath to my musings were tangible, and every time I rewound, the scenes continued. I looked confused, as if I knew I was meant to be somewhere else. I understood. Every single time I reversed my actions, I made a duplicate. My consciousness must have copied. Transferred. Not even aware that it was a clone, carrying the power with it.
So I saw every single one of myself being ravaged by police, avenging parents, fires I started. I saw the funerals of the inhabitants of homes I burned down, ignorant of whoever was in there. I saw myself the father of countless children, with countless battered wives, with countless beatings by fathers. I saw myself covered in the blood of my little sister, her guts ripped open when I tried to play zombie that one time. I will never forget the look on my motherâs face when she entered the room to see me, confused, Evaâs liver still in my mouth. Or the feeling of her beating my face in with her bare hands.
So, I sit here now, old enough to realize that even the slightest change could cause damage not even I can predict. Iâve stopped rewinding. Iâve stopped trying to prevent disasters. Iâm just trying to atone. Trying to make up for the wrongs Iâve done. Maybe, somehow, by some great chance of fate, some timelines may converge, and the people Iâve hurt can all read this.
So, to you. If you were ever hurt by a short, scruffy guy named Axel Ponderosa, Iâm sorry.
Iâm so, so sorry.
Iâm not a time traveler. Iâm a multidimensional piece of shit. And Iâm making sure I never hurt anyone ever again.
Maybe the bullet wonât be fast enough before the rewind kicks in, but maybe it will. I guess weâll see.
My grandmother told me this story. Her name was Charani. She was born in Poland and came of age as Hitlerâs Reich swept across Europe with all the inexorability of the tide.
Her father, Kem, was a cobbler of extraordinary talent. He could create a pair of good, strong shoes from garbage. This was an unusual gift, and even though they lived in a more enlightened age, many of his neighbors believed it was at least partly magic. At some point the neighbors collectively decided that Kem could enchant shoes. So they came to him, asking for luck, wisdom, and â as that terrible death tide ebbed ever closer â safety.
Kem was such a successful cobbler that he and his wife, Zofia, began to hope that they might one day be wealthy. They dreamed of a large shoe shop for Kem, of purebred dogs for Charani, expansive gardens for Zofia, and a large, airy house for all of them.
It seemed not only possible, but certain. That the sheer force of Kemâs devotion and talent would effortlessly create a happy ending.
But as they would soon learn, there are things even a fatherâs love cannot prevent or overcome.
Now, Charani had many friends, so she naturally heard rumors of her fatherâs benevolent sorcery. These stories both frightened and excited her. One night she went to Kem and asked, âPapa, is it true you make magic shoes?â
He pulled her onto his lap, laughing. âMaybe I could.â
âBut do you?â
He ruffled her hair. âI think I did once, and I suppose I could again, but only for those I love.â
Charani found this answer deeply unsatisfying. âWhat does that mean?â
âIt means that love is the only real magic, my darling.â
He then ushered her off to help Zofia. Charani did as he bade, even though she felt annoyed and dissatisfied. Her father always spoke in riddles and nonsense poetry. But that, she supposed, was the price one paid for a kind and gentle father. And it was quite a low price, when all was said and done.
Because her father was so talented, her childhood passed unblighted by his heritage. Not until her eleventh birthday did the neighbors begin a campaign of harassment. It built so slowly that they hardly noticed it, until finally â one terrible, hot day â the butcher refused to sell meat to Kem. âAll out,â he said gruffly. âCome back another time.â
Kem thought nothing of it, and moved on to the next shop, where he received the same dismissal. He tried other stores, other shops, and each one turned him away.
At first, Kem refused to believe that something was wrong. You see, Kem was a terribly sweet and loving man, hardworking, honest to the point of naivety. All he wanted was a good life for his family. Each day, year in and year out, his only goals were to keep their hearts happy, their bellies full, and their bodies warm and safe. Charani told me, always, that Kem was the perfect father.
But even perfect fathers cannot turn bad neighbors into good, brave men, and the shunning of Charaniâs family continued.
At first, they assumed it was because Kemâs family was Romany. Outsiders, undesirables, rat people, gypsies, so low they were beneath even the Jews, who Hitler called the ârace tuberculosisâ of the world. As food became scarcer and people became more afraid, they turned on each other, casting even their kindest neighbors out of the fold.
And maybe Kemâs Roma blood was the problem at first. And it would have been bad enough.
But then a neighbor â some cruel, petty, panicked neighbor â reported that Charaniâs mother, Zofia, was a Jew.
The Nazis came soon after, violently tearing Charaniâs family and dozens of others away from the city and forcing them into a cold, filthy ghetto far away from home.
Zofia and Charani wept every day, and so did Kem for a little while. But a good fatherâs love and duty knows no bounds, so he pulled himself together and plied his trade within the confines of the ghetto. He had no materials with which to make new shoes, but with a few scraps and pieces of rubbish he could make any shoe as good as new.
Now, because of Zofia, the family had gone to a Jewish ghetto. Most of the people there refused to associate with Kem since he was a gypsy.
A few didnât mind his gypsy-ness, however, and they brought their shoes to Kem regularly. They asked him for blessings, for magic, and - because it couldnât hurt, because it created hope and hope is a beautiful thing, sometimes the only beautiful thing we have â Kem happily blessed each pair brought to him.
Whispers persisted of gypsy magic and dirty fraud, of course. But customers still came, intent of buying one last piece of hope. Prayer wasnât working, you see, and gypsy magic had become their last defense against the hideous rumors coming out of the east.
Charani didnât know how long she lived in the ghetto, only that it probably was not as long as it seemed. Toward the end, Kem became more obsessed than ever with shoes â specifically, new shoes for Charani and for Zofia. Back in the city, it wouldnât have been a problem. Here in the ghetto, though, there was almost nothing to work with. So he improvised. Charani didnât have the stomach to confirm it, but she suspected a few rats and cats sacrificed their skins for these shoes.
Kem worked for weeks on the shoes, frantic and feverish. âYou need them,â he told Charani. âYouâve outgrown your old ones. Winter is almost here, and Iâll be damned if I donât fulfill my duty to you.â He said this often, at least once a week, and wept every time.
Finally, on her thirteenth birthday â just as the seasonâs first bitter snowfall drifted down from a cold iron sky - the train came for her family.
The Nazis stuffed them into crowded, icy cars with hundreds of other people. There were no blankets in the train cars, no straw, not even solid walls. Holes bored through the cheap wood, and the planks fit together badly, leaving large cracks around which ice blossomed.
By this time, all three of them were terribly ill. Zofia had it worst: a deep, wet sickness had settled in her chest, squeezing her lungs and stealing her air each time she drew a ragged breath.
That illness claimed Zofa on the second night. She died with her frail body curled around Kemâs. Charani desperately held her motherâs hands and breathed on them, praying the warmth might revive her.
But it didnât, and Zofia died as the moon rose over the hills, spilling heartless cold light through the cracks and holes in the siding.
Charani wept helplessly as Kem â in his own way, equally helpless â began to work. Charani cried herself to sleep. Kem labored into the night, working his stiff, withered hands to the bone.
Sometime midmorning, Charani awoke wrapped in her motherâs stiff arms. She disentangled herself and noticed that Kem had removed Zofiaâs shoes.
Charani screamed and used all her strength to try and pry her motherâs shoes from her fatherâs hands. But Kem was far too strong for her, far too determined; no matter what she did, he continued to work, impervious to her rage.
So profound was Charaniâs pain that she didnât even know what Kem was doing, nor did she care.
On the fourth day at sunrise, the train stopped. Around her, surviving passengers wept and screamed and clutched the dead bodies of their lost loved ones. Despite her anger and deep sense of betrayal, Charani crawled to her father as the doors shuddered open, blinding them with clear morning light.
Kem held her, whispering nonsensical assurances as the guards boarded the car and threw everyone off.
Theyâd been deposited at a rail junction. Their train, newly empty, chugged off the way it had come. Two other trains waited, engines sending stinking clouds of exhaust into the otherwise pristine air.
Charani noticed none of this; she was only painfully, deliciously aware of the frosted grass under her feet, of clear yellow sun and the dramatic interplay of light and blue shadow on the mountains around them. A stream burbled nearby. She ran to it, heart aching; Charani hadnât seen running water in what felt like a hundred years. She collapsed by the stream. Grass and soft earth cushioned her fall. In spite of her sickness, she dipped both hands into the stream and splashed her face. It was terribly cold, so cold it hurt her skin and stung her eyes and sent sharp pains rocketing through her skull, but it was beautiful. It was clean.
Kem came up beside her and swept her hair back from her face. âCharani. Charani, my darling. They are going to separate us.â
Horror and desperate sorrow seized Charani.
âI heard them,â he continued. Tears shimmered in his eyes. Charani began to cry. âThey are separating the men from the women. Take these.â He presented the shoes, her motherâs shoes â only they were not her motherâs shoes, at least not entirely; new leather and sturdy soles gleamed in the morning light. As she wept, Kem slipped her old shoes off and laced the new ones on. âDonât take them off. Not for anything or anyone, not until you are safe.â He tied off each shoe, then grabbed Charaniâs hands. âI love you, Charani. More than anything, more than my life, more than God.â
Before Charani could answer, the guards came and pulled them apart, because there are things even a fatherâs love cannot stop.
She screamed and kicked as they dragged her away. Her father stood by the stream, watching her with haunted eyes. Only then did she see that her father, her poor helpless father, was barefoot.
She struggled, shrieking at the top of her lungs, until a guard hit her in the head with the butt of his rifle. Stars rocketed across her vision, and darkness overtook her.
Charani never saw Kem again.
She woke aboard the new train, only fifteen minutes from the camp.
As the prisoners exited the train, guards sorted them into groups. The vast majority of the women and children were shunted toward low grey buildings belching smoke into the sky.
Charani expected to go with them, but one of the guards â narrow-faced, with luxurious black hair - pulled her aside with an appraising look her. Then â even though she was frail and white-faced, half-starved and clearly ill - he shoved her toward the other line. Toward the strong-bodied workers.
Guards took rings and papers and trinkets and all remaining belongings from the other prisoners. Charani expected they would take her shoes, but they merely shoved her through without a second look.
Life at the camp was a frozen, lonely hell, although it quickly became apparent that Charani was decidedly less frozen than her companions.
Though the cold, deadly winter subsumed the camp, the Nazis gave no quarter; every inmate, no matter how ill, hungry, or frail, was forced to work. Even as shoes wore down to nothing and clothing drifted away thread by thread, the Nazis made the prisoners perform pointless - and pointlessly cruel - labor for hours each day. Infection and frostbite ran rampant. On the worst days, Charani watched in horror as women and men, delirious with fever, snapped their frozen toes off one by one.
Charaniâs toes never froze; her fatherâs shoes made sure of that. In fact, no part of her froze. She was not comfortable, not by any means, but she was all right. Even on the worst days, the coldest days, the days she woke up to the frozen corpses of her fellow inmates, she barely even shivered.
Most amazing of all, the nights were tolerable. Charani rather believed this was the hallucination of a deluded mind, however. Because on the nights when she was most comfortable, she would feel something warm and liquid creep up from her feet and spread up over her head. As winter raged on, visions began to accompany this creeping warmth: translucent fur, smooth and short, like the house cat sheâd fed in the ghetto. Even more strangely, dim stars shone within the fur: tiny yellow pinpricks, twinkling in the soft, warm darkness.
She could still see the barracks through this queer invisible skin, still hear the cries and screams of the women around her, even the wails from the menâs barracks. But she felt insulated from all of it. Separated.
Protected.
Delusion or not, this warmth allowed her to rest when no one else could, and kept her reasonably healthy even as people withered to frozen revenants around her.
It made Charani sad, but distantly so; she had no friends in the barracks. Sheâd seen the way they snuck and stole from each other, the way they raided the fresh corpses every morning. Sheâd seen the other inmates eyeing her shoes, seen the covetousness in their eyes, and was deeply afraid that she would be killed for them.
One brutal winter morning, during a pointless mission dragging logs all the way across the camp, she heard something so beautiful she thought it was a hallucination. A soft, sweet voice, drifting up and down in a beautiful, wordless song.
Charani glanced around her. The guards paid her no attention. They were miserably cold and deeply disgruntled, stamping their feet and conversing amongst themselves as the inmates toiled. The black-haired guard was there. He glanced at her once, then returned his attention to his companion.
Charani saw her chance and ducked away.
She found the singer pressed against the fence of the farthest barracks. He was small and frail, barely taller than Charani. His face was terribly pale and monstrously thin, but his eyes were beautiful and kind. Like her, he wore a threadbare uniform. Unlike hers, it was emblazoned with a faded pink triangle. Charani thought it rather pretty, and told him so.
He shook his head blearily, then smiled. Charani scanned the area. The guards were still occupied. So she leaned in, curling her fingers around the frozen wire of the fence, and said: âYou have a beautiful voice. What is your name?â
The man shook his head and made nonsense sounds. When she still didnât understand, he sang a swift, liquid scale, holding his mouth open. Thatâs when she saw: he had no tongue.
Deep sorrow crushed her, the worst sheâd felt since they took her away from her father. She thrust her bony wrists through the fence and impulsively grabbed the mute manâs hand. He grasped it with both of his and squeezed. Tears spilled down his face, and he smiled again. He held up a hand, ensuring he had her attention, then reached down and raked a fingertip through the dirt, spelling out his name:
Lukasz
Then a guard finally noticed them. Flat gray sky glimmered off familiar black hair as he surged forward, breaking them apart and dragging Charani away. By this time, Charani knew better than to fight. She couldnât help but look back over her shoulder. Lukasz of the pink triangle rose clumsily to his feet, looking stricken and angry.
That was how Charani met her only friend in the entire camp.
Every day she went to see him, bringing scraps of food â at first pieces from her own bowl, and later gifts from the black-haired guard. Lukasz couldnât speak, but he wrote well and quickly. He was a singer from Berlin, only nineteen years old. Heâd been incarcerated for homosexual behavior. When he disclosed this to her, he glanced up at her anxiously, awaiting judgment that never came. Charani did not care. Love was the only real magic in the world, and it didnât matter to her who shared love with whom.
The men with the pink triangles were tortured and subjected to hideous experiments, more so even than the other prisoners. Lukasz had been injected with all manner of chemicals and poisons. When that failed, the Nazis had boiled his manhood away so that he could never practice his perversion again. Others had been used as targets for trainee SS officers. Lukasz himself was not sure why or how he was alive. He was thin, sickly, and crippled now. He proved this by pulling off his thin slippers, revealing several missing toes.
Every day, Charani held Lukaszâs hands and wished, from the bottom of her heart, for a second pair of magic shoes.
Their friendship was quickly noticed. The black-haired guard didnât like their bond, and soon enough stopped sending her to Lukaszâs side of the camp. The guards found other women, sicker women, to perform their pointless chores, and confined Charani to the barracks. It angered her, but it was also a relief. She was able to sleep more, able to lose herself in the soft sleek fur and warm stars of her invisible shoe cocoon. The more time she spent inside it, the warmer it seemed.
One night, on impulse, she extended her fingertips and nervously began to stroke the air around her. He fingers touched nothing, but noticeable warmth grew around her. After a while, a low, comforting hum reverberated through her bones, a physical lullaby, and lulled her to sleep.
Still, Charani found little joy in her plight. She was forced to lounge about, wallowing in relative comfort she couldnât share, as sicker women suffered and died.
And it got worse. Food became sparser, yet the black-haired guard insisted on slipping her scraps of food from his table. She hated him for it, and every day resolved to toss the food on the ground and grind it into the dirt. But every day she was too hungry, and every day she accepted his little favors, even as the other inmates starved.
It was worse, somehow, that anything else she had gone through.
Her only comforts were thoughts of her parents; her memories of Lukasz; and of course her strange, invisible shoe guardian. Sheâd taken to stroking it every night, thanking it â and Kem â for its protection.
As winter bled slowly into a crisp, bitter spring, her fellow inmates continued to die. At first the barracks refilled, but even that trickled to a stop. Whether it was because the Nazis had truly managed to finally kill all the Jews, or because they were diverting new prisoners to other camps, she didnât know.
All she knew was one night, her last companion died, leaving her alone in the frosty barracks. As she lay on her thin, cold bed, dreamily stroking her invisible protector, the door clattered open and the black-haired guard entered.
Charani sat up, willing her heart to stop pounding. The familiar warmth evaporated, shrinking down to her shoes and disappearing.
Cold broke over her like a dark, cruel tide, and for the first time since entering the camp, Charani began to shiver.
The guard approached, boots snapping against the hard ground. Moonlight reflected off his black hair, turning it to blued silver.
He stopped before her bed. âYou bitch,â he said softly. Charani recoiled. His voice was strange, almost dreamy. âYou filthy, teasing little whore.â Each word produced a heavy cloud that stank of cheap liquor. âYou know what I want. Every day I show you. Every day I give you food from my table. I go without, so that you can have something.â He angrily indicated the empty barracks. âDo you see? You are the only one left. That is because of me. I saved your life. I am still saving your life.â He wrapped a hand around her throat, a gesture that was falsely tender and gravely threatening. âYou have never thanked me, but you will tonight.â
The guard pushed her down.
And suddenly, Charani was flooded with warmth. Blazing, purifying heat. The guard screeched and reared back, falling to the floor. He stood, eyes blazing in the clear spring moonlight, and charged. The warmth disappeared from her suddenly. Panic immobilized her. The beautiful warmth had been her guardianâs last stand, and it was finally over.
She closed her eyes, waiting for the end as the guard screamed with rage.
Or was it terror?
He screamed again, but fell silent far too quickly, almost as if heâd been cut off.
Silence followed.
After a long time, Charani finally opened her eyes.
Before her, barely visible in the darkness, was an undulating shape covered in soft dark fur and glimmering stars. The guard was nowhere to be seen.
After a while, the starry fur wrapped itself around her. Warmth, beautiful and soothing and hot as a summerâs day, enveloped her, along with profound tiredness.
âThank you,â Charani whispered, and fell asleep.
The camp was liberated not long after. Charani was still the last in her barracks, but far from the last in the camp. She exited the gates, shouldering her way through the chaos trying to ignore the horror on the faces of the soldiers around her as she scanned the crowd for Lukasz.
Finally she saw him. Her face broke into a smile and she ran over, but quickly saw that something was wrong. Her smile turned into a frown when she understood: Lukasz was on the wrong side of the fence. Still imprisoned. He stared out at her with fear and a serenely profound sadness.
Panicked, Charani ran to one of the soldiers and tugged his sleeve. He reluctantly faced her, unable to hide the revulsion in his eyes. She pointed desperately to Lukasz and mimed unlocking a door. The soldierâs face hardened. âNo. Criminals,â he said. âCrim-in-als. You understand? They stay here.â
Then he patted her head awkwardly and walked away.
Charani ran to a hundred guards, just as her father had gone to a hundred shops an eternity ago. Some laughed. A handful hugged her. Most, however, gruffly repeated the word: âCriminals.â
Soon, far too soon, it was time to leave. And still, Lukasz languished behind the fence. Charani would escape. She would survive. But Lukasz, poor sweet frail Lukasz, would continue to suffer.
She ran her hands along the fence, scrabbling for a weak spot, a hole, anything she could tear open. But there was nothing. After a while Lukasz gently took her hands and began to sing. Charani sobbed. Soon Lukaszâs fine wordless voice wavered, then broke, and then he was crying, too.
Suddenly, Charani had an idea.
A soldier came to her nervously. âTime to go,â he said.
Charani sat down and feverishly began to untie her shoes. The soldier watched, nonplussed, as she pulled the shoes off and heaved them over the fence at Lukasz.
âPut them on.â It was a battle to keep her voice steady, one she almost lost. âDonât take them off, never take them off, not until you are safe.â Lukasz stared at her, frightened and hurt and terribly confused. âPUT THEM ON!â she screamed. This broke his paralysis, and he did as she asked, shucking his worn slippers and lacing the boots over his feet. Even though they were womenâs shoes they fit him because his feet were narrow and he had almost no toes.
Then the soldier led her away. Unable to help herself, Charani looked back over her shoulder. Lukasz clung to the fence, watching her go. Maybe it was her imagination, but it didnât look like he was shivering anymore.
A few years later, Charani married an American soldier and emigrated. I am happy to say Lukasz survived and that Charaniâs husband, my grandfather, helped her bring him to America. Lukasz was still crippled and frail, and though he died long before I was born, he lived with my grandparents the rest of his life. My own father remembers him with utmost affection as Uncle Luke.
When they found him, he no longer had the shoes. With great hesitation, he wrote that he had passed the boots along to a friend, one destined to remain imprisoned long after Lukasz himself was released. He was afraid Charani would hate him for it, but she only smiled, because love is magic and magic is love, and even though a fatherâs sacrifice cannot always save the world, it can save the lives of his children and their dearest loved ones.
When my Amazon Alexa started laughing, I thought it was just the bug that people have been talking about. But then it started doing other things. Terrifying things.
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The first time I saw you, I was surprised I could see you. You had a small turtle in your hands. You kept calling it Michaelangelo, which I assumed was a nod to the Ninja Turtles. You tossed your long, brown hair behind your back and knelt down to place the turtle on the ground. You were excited to see it wobbling on the grass. It reminded me of my cat and how I used to play with him when I was your age.
I witnessed your entire childhood from my small window. Your first ride on a bicycle. Your first day of school. Your first real friend Brenda. Your first day of middle school and the cute uniform you got to wear. The time you won the science fair and you brought home a trophy shaped like a cell. You were such a happy girl.
I saw you grow older. Your body changing. You grew taller, your body slimmer, your face as beautiful as ever. I witnessed as others started to notice you in a different way. The stares from the jealous girls. The googly eyes from the young boys. As all this happened before my eyes, I noticed myself changing too. I got older. I got weaker. I got disillusioned . Bruised. I lost my will to escape my painful life. All I had was this window to your life to keep me going. I lived my days through yours. Watching you was enough entertainment for me. You couldnât know the different ways you saved me from bad thoughts, bad days and all the pain I had been suffering from.
I saw the day that handsome young man came to pick you up in a red convertible. Your mother wasnât happy about it, but she knew she had no choice. You had to start spreading your wings at some point. You left in a gorgeous floral dress that matched the summerâs flowers. You came back late that night. You had a stuffed bear and some leftover cotton candy. I imagined you had gone to the fair. I imagined all the rides you must have gone on. All the fun that must have been for you. I was so happy that you had enjoyed your first date. And then came the magical kiss. He leaned in, blushing, and kissed you. Your cheeks were so red that I instantly knew I had witnessed your first kiss. I closed my eyes, imagining what that must have felt like. For one second, I imagined it had been me wearing that dress, smiling so big, with butterflies in my belly and a kiss on my lips. But I was happy for you.
I wanted to thank you for allowing me to live again. For allowing me to dream again. I wanted to thank you, but just couldnât bring myself to you. I couldnât go talk to you. I didnât know how. If only you knew about my window.
But then, one day, I heard him talking about you. The man I live with. He noticed you. I heard him complaining about how pretty girls like you shouldnât show off their legs like that. The moment he mentioned your legs, I knew it was over. I knew you would become his next trophy. I had to keep you away from him. This was my chance to thank you. I couldnât let you turn into me.
I had been lucky. I donât know why he liked me this much. Most other girls came and went, never to return. But amidst all the years, he always kept me down here. I think itâs because he saw that I still had a light in me. Because I had you. All the other girls died long before he killed them. I could tell that they were already dead in their eyes long before he viciously murdered them in front of me, showing off.
But not me. You kept me going. I had my little window. A little crack high up on the wall of this basement I call home. He didnât like that he couldnât break me down. He didnât know about the little crack. So he kept me to see how long I could stay like this. It was a sick game. But Iâve been winning it thanks to you.
But then he noticed you. And I knew, I knew what fate awaited you if he laid his evil hands on you. Whatever strength I had left, I collected it and prepared myself to finally do something about it.
I want to thank you. Because if youâre reading this letter, it means I did it. I gathered my courage, packed it neatly into action, and went through with my plan to escape once and for all. I will make him believe Iâve died. I donât know if itâll work. But if it does, he will reach to pick me up. Iâll immediately kick him as hard as I can where itâll hurt the most. As hard as I can. I will then steal his keys and run as fast as I can and drop this letter off in your mailbox. I have a feeling he will chase me and get a hold of me eventually because I am weak... Iâm very weak. Battered. There is barely a human left in this body of mine. But if that is the case, Iâve been prepared to leave this world for a long time. I doubt anyone will hear or see me. This street is so desolate. Youâre the only life here it seems sometimes. But so long as you get this letter, I know that I did my part and that youâll be safe.
Monsters are real. This one is named Ryan Morehouse. He is your front door neighbor. I have been kept captive in his basement for a very long time now. Iâve lost track of the years but I believe I must be in my late twenties by now. I was fifteen when he first brought me here. My parents must have looked for me. Please donât tell them about me. I donât want them to know about the tortures he put me through. I donât want them to see me broken down this way. I just want you to report him to the police. His evil nature and depraved mind can only be stopped if he is caught behind bars.
They will find bodies dangling in the walls of the basement. Iâve learned to live with the smell by now but they will notice it the second they step down here. There are a lot of young girls in the walls of my room down here. Tell them to treat them delicately. They were good girls. Theyâve been my companions. My friends.
Most of all, I want to thank you. Youâre the only thing that kept me going. You were my light. And now, Iâm escaping thanks to you. Escaping this awful room. Escaping this awful life. Even if it means I finally get to die.
With love,
The girl who watched you grow up
ââââââââââ-
We found this letter in our mailbox. After contacting them, the police entered the home of our neighbor across the street. Over a span of five days, they found a total of fifteen bodies hidden in different parts of his house. He had plans to kidnap our daughter, but thanks to this mysterious stranger, his plan was intercepted. We still have not found the girl who wrote this. We like to think she made it out alive, but, sadly, it isnât likely as Ryan Morehouse is also missing. We donât even know her name. But we did find the little crack in the wall, the one where she saw my daughter grow up from.
When my friends got a Facebook invite from Darren White, I was pissed, I didn't get one.
I remembered him from school. He was the guy everyone bullied. They called him Wiggy, because he was already going bald by age eleven.
"Did you know Wiggy invited me to his stag do?" Stuart said to me while we drove to work.
"Really?" I said, "he didn't invite me. Are you going?"
"Yeah, I think so, I owe him an apology for how I treated him in school."
He wasn't wrong there. I can't even count the amount of times Stuart and our friends made Darren's life hell. There was the daily robberies of his lunch money. The time they tied him to a tree, which resulted in him being punched and kicked by students in the year above, and even the younger kids. I remember finding him on my way back to class, undoing the knots as he tried his best not to cry. When the ropes relented, his facade broke down and he ran home. I shouted after him, he didn't respond.
There was this other time, in Chemistry class, when Josh distracted him and Eric set his bag alight using the gas taps.
"Darren, your bag!" I shouted.
His face crumbled as he tried his best to put it out. And to make things worse, the teacher gave him detention for messing around.
Christ, was high school not kind to him. You may ask why did I hang out with people that were so horrible? I admit it, I was a coward. They were friends to me, really good friends at that. On several occasions they saved my ass, whether it was from the bigger kids or others in my class, they protected me. I wanted to tell them to stop bullying Wiggy, but I couldn't, I was a coward.
"When's the big day?"
"Next week," Stuart said.
"That's a bit last minute, isn't it?"
"I guess so, but I owe it to him."
"Who else has he invited?"
"No idea, I only found out yesterday."
"Can you ask him why I'm not invited?"
"I don't think that's appropriate, do you?"
"What do you mean? I was always good to him."
"Yeah you were a little snitch."
"Hey!" I said irritated.
"Come on, I'm just joking. Does he even remember you?"
"I'd hope so."
We arrived at work and all I could think about was Darren and how pissed off I was I wasn't invited. Stuart went to do some optimisation in the server room and left his phone. Idiot didn't even keep it passworded. I opened his Facebook, looking for the invite. There was a short chat conversation from Darren.
*"Hey man, long time no see. I'm getting married next month and wanted to know if you want to go to my stag do?"
"Wiggy?"
"Still using that name, are we?"
"Sorry man, couldn't resist. Yeah, I'd love to go. Been a long time since I tied you up. A stag do seems like the perfect excuse ;)"
"Very funny. It's next week. I'll send you the details later."
"Cool."*
That was it.
I remembered his username and quit the app. Thankfully just before Stuart returned.
"Forgot my phone," he said, picking it up and leaving.
Later that day I tried to add Darren to my Facebook friends. Hours passed and nothing in return. I was so confused. I checked his profile. Only a couple of photos were public. He looked the same as before, but now completely bald. To my surprise, there was a mobile number. I punched it in and waited.
It rang for what seemed like minutes before a voice I barely recognised answered.
"Hello?"
"Is that Darren?"
"Speaking, who's this?"
"It's Karl. Karl Westfield, from school."
"I don't want to speak to you."
"Please don't hang up!" I said.
The line was silent.
"I have just one question."
I heard nothing in response.
"Why did you invite Stuart to your stag do and not me? I was good to you!"
Heavy angry breathing was the response.
"If you don't want me to go, that's fine, but please tell me why?"
"Fuck off," he said, and the line went dead.
I tried to phone again, but it just rang until the voicemail picked up.
"He's hired a minibus," Stuart said, as we drove to work.
"Sounds like fun," I said, still upset from the call I had the night before.
"We're going to Dover. He says he has a cottage there and that he's hired some strippers."
"Great."
"Come on, man, don't be upset. You were never really one of the cool kids, you just hung on to us."
"Fuck you," I said, irate.
"Chill out, man, it takes a lot to be as cool as me."
"You're 34 years old, how can you still feel that way?"
"You're just jealous. He's invited Eric, Gaz and Topshelf too. You're the only one he hasn't."
"That makes no sense, he hated you lot."
"We've all grown up since then, Karl. Look, I know we weren't that nice to him, but time heals, doesn't it?"
I didn't reply. We didn't speak for the rest of the journey. I did my best to avoid him until the shift was over.
"Hey man, remember to do the server backups tomorrow. I'm not going to be around to do it," Stuart said on the phone.
"Yeah, I'll remember," I replied, still pissed off at him.
"Darren's picking us up early in the morning, so I won't have time to do it. But, it won't be a problem for you, will it, you've got nothing planned."
I wanted to shout at him, to tell him he was being a prick, but I didn't.
"I won't forget."
I parked my car a few roads down from Stuart's house. I got there around six in the morning. I drank from the thermos of coffee I'd prepared. I was tired, I never got up this early.
I almost fell asleep before I saw the mini van park outside the house. Immediately I perked up. The others were already inside, drinking and laughing with the man they bullied as a child.
They thumped on the door for at least fifteen minutes until Stuart emerged. His hand already held an open beer. Anger filled me, but I bided my time. A couple of minutes later the minivan left.
I followed. I stayed as far back as I could in my rental car. Not wanting to arouse suspicion using mine. The van took left and right turns around the suburban roads until it entered the motorway. The vehicle didn't break sixty as it cruised down the highway.
The van left the M2 and onto the M20. We were definitely heading to Dover. They pulled off at a service station. I parked at the back of the car park. I watched them leave, entering the small building. I was busting for a piss, so I relieved myself in a bush. By the time I finished, the minivan was on the move again.
I kept my distance, trying my best not to get too close. After around thirty minutes, the van left the motorway and joined the A20. The road snaked along until I could see the ocean to my right. I hadn't been this far south since I was a child, it brought back childhood memories I had long forgotten.
The van stopped at Avcliffe, and so did I. Stuart, Eric and the guys got out. They were drunk, singing songs and trying to get Darren involved, who in turn ignored them.
This was my time. I left the car and strode towards them.
"Hey!" Stuart said, "What the fuck are you doing here? You weren't invited!"
"I want to speak to Darren," I demanded.
They swarmed around me and said, "He doesn't want you here. Do you know what he called you? A coward!"
"Eric, please let me talk to him."
Darren left the vehicle.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" he asked.
The rest of them laughed and replied in unison, "Ooooooo."
"I don't understand, why did you invite them? I was the only one who ever looked out for you."
He shook his head.
"Please leave, Karl."
"What did I do?" I lamented.
"Fuck off and go home, please."
His face was serious, it was obvious he'd not been drinking.
"I hate you, you know that right?"
Everyone laughed again.
"Enough sight seeing, get back in the van," he demanded.
When he stared back at me, his face appeared sad and lost.
"Go. Check my Facebook," he said to me one last time and got in the van.
The others followed.
Confused and upset I returned to the car to see the van pull away.
I sat for what seemed like ages, staring down at my phone. I was angry at Darren. I was never Darren's friend, but it was me that untied him from the tree. It was me that stopped his bag from going up in flames. Always me. But his hate, it was aimed at me.
I unlocked my phone and navigated to his Facebook page.
"Today is a great day," it started, and that made me more upset.
"Today is the day I get my vengeance."
*"Today I right the wrongs that have bothered me since I was a child."
"I love my family and I love you all."*
Beneath the post comments asked if he was okay, and to not do anything stupid.
Before I finished reading I heard distant screams.
I started the car and raced forward.
The van was no where to be seen. A group of people gathered on the edge of the cliff. I stopped the car and got out.
"He just drove off," I heard someone say.
I approached the edge, my stomach dropped as I saw the white minivan in flames on the beach below.
I realised why he didn't invite me. He wasn't getting married. It was his vengeance. It was his closure.
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He ate while laughing. He defecated while laughing. He actually slept, though fitfully, awaking every hour or soâlaughing.
For a few of my coworkers, he was the only fun part of their day, but he terrified me.
This was probably because I was the new guy, the green psych tech who still thought he could make a difference. Apparently most psych techs (psychiatric technicians) lose their compassion barometer after a while, and eventually a patient who spends every waking moment laughing is no longer disturbing because he seems harmless.
He terrified me also because, for some inexplicable reason, there was something familiar about him.
To this day, my family still doesnât understand exactly what my role as a psych tech was. Itâs simple: keep crazy people from killing themselves or others. But what did I do all day on the job? Well, sometimes I sat in a chair watching some insane person lie on a bed in a small white room, and if they became agitated, I would lock the door. Sometimes Iâd lead âart hourâ and weâd paint, or make papier-mâchĂŠ (no scissors allowed, of course). Sometimes Iâd turn on a yoga video for âexercise hourâ, and sometimes I pinned psychotic maniacs down so my coworkers could apply the restraints and the nurse would inject 2mg of lorazepam right in their gluteus.
I never got used to it, I kept caring, and thatâs why I only lasted a year. The laughing man laughed me right out of that acute psych ward.
Allow me to explain this: there isnât much that is funny about mental illness, and I donât mean to be insensitive or flippant about psychosis, about how it can rip the individual and their families apart. But to my fellow psych techs, many of them at least, it was all that these patients were: psychos. Crazies. Maniacs.
I tried to see them as peopleâthey are peopleâand their illness isnât the only thing that defines them, but in the acute psych ward, their illness is in full swing, and itâs the only side that psych techs like me saw of them. They were mostly bipolar patients in the height of their manic phase, or schizophrenics having a mental break.
The laughing guy, Iâll call him Aaron, was a schizophrenic in his early 50s, with an atypical form of âcatatoniaâ. Most catatonic schizophrenics will sit motionless, staring off for days without eating or sleeping. I recall one patient there who would stand in the middle of a room, maintaining an impossible pose for several days. When his catatonia subsided, this patient explained that during those frozen moments, he fully believed that if he moved, the world would end. But as in Aaronâs case, (his psychiatrist explained it to me) some catatonics donât remain motionless, but have repetitive, purposeless motions or actions, and Aaronâs catatonic expression was laughing non-stop.
Aaron had been in and out of the psych ward for years, alternating between the state mental hospital and the local hospital, for there were some âlegalâ stipulations that didnât allow him to stay in a long-term facility. (Later I found out it was because no facility could handle his laughing for more than a few months at a time.)
When I started my job, Aaron had already been in this psych ward for over three months, but, according to some of the seasoned psych techs, he had been laughing like this for 10 years.
Like I mentioned, most psych techs found him amusing, and more than once I saw a tech putting his arm around Aaron, laughing with him, mocking the way his high-pitched, almost screeching laugh nervously drowned out any conversation in the room. But Aaron took no notice to them when they did this. His eyes looked straight through anyone who faced him, and he kept pacing in place when a tech tried to hold him, like there was some motor inside him that never shut off.
He paced all day like this, and to get him to eat, Iâd have to pace with him, placing bits of food in his mouth as we went. We scheduled bathroom breaks for him every hour so we didnât have to change his clothes, and this worked 50% of the time. All the while, he laughed his piercing frantic laugh.
It grated on me. Only after a week of being there, I dreaded going up those elevators, greeted by his incessant laugh as I entered that dismal psych ward.
Aaron wasnât the most frightening patient I had there that yearâoh the stories I could tellâbut perhaps the strangest, maybe even the most tragic, certainly the most personal. I understood that most catatonics had progressive worsening schizophrenia until they just shut off, but it killed me to know why this guy just started laughing and no one knew why.
Before I quit, I asked nearly everyone about his story and no one knew...until I met Dr. Greenwald, an ancient psychiatrist who hadnât worked at the psych ward in years. I heard stories of this doctor, and from what I gathered, he was a kind, highly-esteemed man who loved what he did, who didnât judge these tormented patients. Dr. Greenwald was probably my strongest inspiration to become a physician myself, and to this day, I remember the compassion he showed patients. The older nurses loved him, and when they found out that he was taking a break from his private outpatient practice to round occasionally in the acute psych ward, they were all thrilled.
Meeting Dr. Greenwald actually exceeded my expectations, and I admired how he valued every interaction, genuinely caring about each person in front of himâeven lowly psych techs like me.
One night, a few weeks before I quit, I saw Dr. Greenwald exiting Aaronâs room after his evaluation, and I had the feeling he would have answers about Aaron, answers about how he came to be the way he was.
Graciously, he told me. As Iâve mentioned in a previous post, there are many things Iâve seen in my career in medicine that donât make a lot of sense, so many things that bother me until this day. Aaronâs case is yet another case in point. Iâll never forget his story:
The first time Dr. Greenwald met Aaron in the hospital, he recognized a few things: Aaron was a good-natured, caring guy who, not surprisingly, loved to laugh and make others laugh. Dr. Greenwald remembered him capturing audiences, telling the most hilarious stories that would have the whole room in fits. He hadnât had an easy life, but he weathered his burdens well, easily laughing at life ironies, both big and small.
Dr. Greenwald was unaware of any previous psychiatric history, though Aaron had married a beautiful women who suffered from life-long depression and anxiety. Because Aaron had such a strong desire to care for troubled people, these feelings drew him to his wife. Aaron wanted to fix her, and through it all, he fell in love with her. She quickly became pregnant after they married, and in time gave birth to a healthy baby boy. Her mental illness worsened after the birth, thought to be postpartum depression, and Aaron became nearly obsessed with the study of psychology.
Despite his efforts to fix her, she deteriorated, developing postpartum psychosis, and she began hearing voices telling her to do violent things. Everything changed when Aaron found out his wife had killed his infant son. She hadnât smothered or drowned him, but had eaten him. Upon hearing this, Aaron started laughing and never stopped.
After Dr. Greenwald finished the story, I sat there speechless though not in silence, as Aaronâs shrill laugh emanated from his hospital room. Dr. Greenwald sat there with me, and I caught a glimpse of emotion on his face.
âIsnât it odd,â I finally said, âThat he broke completely all of the sudden? I thought most catatonics have a long history of schizophrenia or something.â I felt like an idiot as soon as my words left my mouth. Certainly Aaron had some mental disorder to have been a patient of Dr. Greenwaldâs.
Dr. Greenwald smiled at me like a loving grandfather. âSomethings are too much for a human mind to handle.â
I guessed that something so tragic could make just about anybody snap.
âWhat was his diagnosis when you met him, sir?â I asked.
He looked at me puzzled, âWhat do you mean?â
âWhen you met him, what were you treating him for?â
âSon, he wasnât my patient,â he paused. âAaron was a psych tech here. I worked with him for years. I was here the day his wife was brought in, strapped to a stretcher, that babyâs blood covering her face and clothes. She was completely psychotic, uncontrollable. Aaron was working here that day.â
I gaped at him, my mouth open, and all I managed to squeak out was a bewildered âWhat?â
Dr. Greenwald sighed heavily. âI imagine that Aaron knew he was about to lose his mind then, and suddenly he became what he tried so hard to fix. The irony was, I guess, too much, so, he just had to laugh.â
Dr. Greenwald stood up and patted me on the shoulder. He had stayed much longer than he expected to, and I slowly stood up watching him walk away. As he exited the secured door, he turned to me and said,
âStrangely, you remind me of himâbefore he, you know, started laughing. You care a lot about these people, I can tell. Theyâre lucky to have you.â
Mortified, it suddenly washed over me, the realization nearly drowning me: there was something so intimate and familiar about Aaron. And I could never explain it to even myself how I saw a piece of me in that lifeless shell of a man, that laughing insane man.
I had no response for Dr. Greenwald in that moment, but bursting from my lungs came a terrifyingâtotally involuntaryâlaugh.
Leprechauns Are NOTHING Like The Way They're Portrayed In America
by Dariuspilgrim
I own a pub in Boston, but St. Patrick's Day is honestly my least favorite day of the year. Sure, itâs great for business; but I just canât stand all the drunken assholes draped in green, swigging Guinness, filling the jukebox with Dropkick Murphys songs, and loudly proclaiming their Irish ancestry to anyone who will listen. âPlastic Paddiesâ we call call emâ. The kind of people who go to Ireland as tourists and get mad that it isnât âIrishâ enough, as if they expect the entire island to be a theme park of stereotypes.
I just canât stomach it. So I have a little tradition of my own. On March 17 of every year, I leave my pub in the capable hands of my manager, go to the LEAST Irish bar I can find, and spend the day alone getting drunk and watching NCAA tournament games.
This year I choose a little sushi bar in Chinatown. Thereâs a few green streamers above the bar and a Celtics poster on the wall, but thatâs it. The music is quiet, the TVs even quieter. The staff barely speaks English; itâs perfect.
I settle into a stool, order a bud heavy, and stare at the TV. The bar is pretty much deserted. An asian couple sits a few seats to my left, sipping heineken and scarfing sushi. To my right, minding his own business all the way at the end of the bar, is a guy in a red hoodie with a glass of wine in front of him. Itâs an idyllic setting to pass the time on my most hated holiday.
But my peace doesnât last long. About a half hour in, the door to the bar bursts open and a parade of twenty-something women stream in. Theyâre all decked out in matching green âKiss Me, Iâm Irishâ shirts, covered in green beads and wearing those headbands that look like alien antennas with shamrocks on the end of springs.
âOh fer fucks sake,â I hear the man in the corner groan.
âOhmigod...sushi and shots!â one of them yells, and they all start shrieking. The room breaks into chaos as fifteen women simultaneously try to explain how to make an Irish car bomb to a bartender who barely speaks English. Then the selfies start. They strike up a round of âShipping Off to Boston,â ⌠but the chorus is the only part of the song they know. And they sing it over, and over, and over while each of them takes turns filming for snapchat. Theyâre completely oblivious to anyone else in the restaurant.
I watch the asian couple to my left pay their bill and flee, and Iâm ready to do the same, except Iâve just ordered a new beer and donât want to waste it. One of the girls slams into the back of my chair as Iâm trying to chug it down and I spill all over my shirt. No one apologizes or even acknowledges me. I pick up my beer and retreat to the corner, plopping down next to man in the red hoodie.
âQuite a crowd,â I say to him.
He scoffs: âBunch of Manufactured Micks. These tarts couldnât find Ireland on a map if their lives depended on it.â He speaks with a slight brogue.
âAre you Irish then?â
âAye, I suppose you might say.â
âYou donât have much of an accent.â
He takes a sip of of his wine. âBeen here a long time, long enough to lose most of it anyway.â
On the other side of the bar, one of the girls, now quite drunk, yells at the bartender to turn off the music. She plays âKiss Me, Iâm Shitfacedâ at full volume from her phone speakers, and they try to sing along. None of them know the words.
âOh, that shites terrible. No Irishman would listen to that. Plain awful that is.â
âIâm with you. Came here for some peace and quiet, but it seems the green terror follows me everywhere I go.â
âMan after me own heart. SlĂĄinte,â he says, and we clink glasses. âThing these young wans donât realize is in Ireland, St. Patrickâs day is a solemn religious holiday, lacking in all this debauchery. Or at least it used to be. I hear they ham it up now to keep the tourists happy. Theyâve americanized and Irish holiday in Ireland. Ironic, no?â
I nod.
âNot that I go in fer any of it,â he says. âItâs all a bunch of horse shit. âSaintâ Patrick⌠pah. He wasnât even Irish! He was a bloody Roman citizen from the province of Britannia!â
âDonât like the Catholics then?â I ask. âAre you Protestant? Is that why you arenât wearing green?â
He spits on the floor. âYou colorblind, mate? Does my shirt look orange? No. Catholic, Protestant⌠theyâre all a bunch of cunts. I follow the old ways.â
âSorry, I meant no offence. Let me buy you a drink,â I say. He nods. I wave over the bartender.
âTwo more please?â
â...Two?â he says.
âYeah, two. A bud for me and a wine for my friend here.â
â...OK.â
I turn back to my new friend in the red hood and extend my hand. âThe nameâs Sean,â I say. He shakes it.
âIâm Ălta.â
âThat must be an Irish name?â
He laughs.
âItâs a Gaellic word, aye. Watch this though.â He nods to a young woman down the bar. She hoists a giant mug of Guinness and just as the glass reaches her lips, a leak springs in the side, pouring a fountain of the black stuff straight down her blouse. She screams, slams down the cup, and starts yelling at the bartender. Ălta and I have a good laugh.
âHow did you know that was going to happen?â
âBecause I caused it,â he snickers. That doesnât make much sense, since he hasnât moved from his stool, but I let it go. âSo what do you do for a living, Sean?â
âI own a bar⌠an Irish pub actually. So this right hereâŚâ I wave my hand at the chaotic scene around us, âis my life 364 days a year. Iâve made it a personal tradition to escape on St. Paddy's and find a quiet bar to drink and watch the basketball games.â
âNo joy this year, eh?â
âItâs pretty tough to get away from it in this city.â
Suddenly thereâs a gleam in his eye. âWatch this,â he says. He nods at another drunken young woman. She leans back in her stool and the whole thing comes apart. She tumbles to the ground screaming. Her friends flock around her like geese and help her from the pile of broken stool and spilled Guinness. They start yelling at the bartender again, asking him what the hell kind of place heâs running. Ălta and I are cracking up.
âWell, this is proving far more entertaining than I expected⌠how about another round?â I ask.
âAye, Iâll get this one.â He pulls a small red purse from his hoodie pocket. It looks like an old antique of some sort. From it he pulls a large silver coin which he slaps down on the bar. Itâs covered in writing I cannot read.
âUhh.. I donât think theyâll accept that,â I say.
âNo?â He waves his hand over the coin, and now itâs a fifty dollar bill. He slides it over to me.
âYouâre just full of tricks, arenât ya?â
âYou have no idea,â he says smiling. âAnother round, and how bout some shots of Bushmills. And tell him he can keep the change.â
I order. The bartender seems confused, but his apprehension disappears when I tell him the left over cash is his.
âAnd hereâs the kicker,â says Ălta. His hand is on the bar. He lifts it to reveal the silver coin, still there under his palm. He flips it into the air and catches it in his purse, which he slides back into his hoodie pocket.
âHow the hell did you do that?â
âEasy,â he says. âIâm a Clurichaun.â
I laugh, and decide to humor him. The Irish are known for their wit. âWhat is that, like a Leprechaun?â
âWhy, are you after me lucky charms?â he says, chuckling.
âNo, I--â
âJust kidding. No, mate. Weâre different. Leprechauns are like our⌠cousins. We donât mend shoes or grant wishes; instead we drink.â He raises his shot glass and downs it.
âBut not Guinness? Or red ale or something?â
âYou bloody Americans and your Guinness⌠No, thatâs a myth. Ale is for peasants. You leave a pitcher of ale out for me and youâll find all sorts of things start going wrong in your pub. We drink wine; have been for thousands of years. Grapes were the one good thing the Vikings brought with them.â
âI see⌠so, the pots of gold at the end of rainbows?â
âAnother myth, obviously. Though Leprechauns do like themselves a hoard of gold. But try and take it from emâ and youâll be in for a big surprise. They arenât as cute and cuddly as the cartoons make them out to be.
âLeprechauns, Clurichauns, Far Darrig⌠weâre all Aos SĂ--âThe Good Neighbors,â the âFair Folkâ--like elves or fairies I suppose you call them here. Descended from the mighty Tuatha DĂŠ Danann. Defeated and chased into exile in the mounds by the Milesians, your ancestors, the mortal forefathers of the Irish people. We are a majestic and noble race and⌠wait, watch this.â
He nods at the bartender, who holds a glass under the guinness tap. When he pulls the handle, the entire tap breaks apart and guinness shoots from it like a geyser, hitting the bartender in the face and sending him careening backward into the back bar. A cascade of bottles fall, shattering everywhere. Cooks and the manager come running out from the back and everyone is screaming at each other in Chinese and trying to stop the flow of guinness as the girls laugh and lean over the bar, refilling their glass from the raging spout.
âOh yes, so very noble,â I say to my red hood-ied friend.
He shrugs. âHey, gotta have a little fun once in awhile.â
âSo, I see the mischief making part is no myth?â
âNo mate, thatâs best part.â
âSo youâre a fairy?â I say.
âWell, not in the way you Americans use the word, but aye.â
âArenât you supposed to live in the Otherworld? Only visible at twilight on halloween or something?â
âOhh, an educated man I see,â he says. âMostly right, but I get a pass for St. Paddyâs. Something about reparations for the thousands of years or persecution and genocide perpetrated against my people by the Catholic church. And only those of Irish descent can see me. Which is why the bartender keeps looking at you funny every time you order two drinks.â
I had noticed that. This was starting to get very strange. âOK⌠if you say so. But, youâre a lot bigger than I expected.â
âOh, I can shrink if I want to.â
âShouldnât you be wearing green and dancing a jig.â
âFew more of these,â he raises his wine glass, âand Iâll start twerking if you want me to. As for the wearing of green: itâs another common misconception. Trooping fairies wear green. Those flamboyant poofs, trouncing around in big processions wearing fancy costumes, ya ken?. Clurichauns are solitary fairies--like Leprechauns, Brownies, and Hobgoblins. Solitary fairies wear red. Weâre the ones you donât want to mess with. You takinâ notes boyo?â
âRiiiight,â I say. I stand up and put on my coat.
âWhere ya goinâ, mate?â
âItâs been fun, pal. But I really canât listen to any more of your delusional bullshit. It was entertaining for awhile, but youâre clearly insane. Iâm going to go check on my bar, and then Iâm going home to sleep off this buzz. You have yourself a great evening.â
âWell, great. Letâs go,â he says and stands up from his stool. Heâs got to be four-foot-eleven at the very most.
âWhere do you think your going?â
âIâm coming with you of course.â
âOh no youâre not.â
âI most certainly am. You seem like a good bloke, and youâve got a pub! Sounds like Iâve found my new home. Make sure you leave a bottle of red wine uncorked for me every night, and no cheap shite! Iâm talking top shelf. And Iâll take my dinner at 8PM, sharp like. I prefer beef, but mutton will do in a pinch.â
âWhatever pal,â I say and walk out the door, letting it slam shut behind.
Ălta walks right through the door and matches my pace.
âListen, you wonât be coming anywhere near my bar.â
âOh yeah?â he says smiling. âJust try and stop me.â