#ttmmfafot

She swallowed her accent, feigning an American woman's voice the best she could. “I had to leave due to an emergency at work.” Nacha smiled, watching as the doorman triple-checked her ID, Entry Request, and even looked her up and down with scrutiny. The room smelled like stale cigarettes and linoleum, a nauseating combination. As the minutes passed, Nacha began to fidget with her hands. Tick, tick, tick. Nacha's weight shifted from right to left, sweating from anxiety. Finally, the doorman groaned, waved Nacha off, and clicked a button. The gate buzzed open. Nacha gathered her ID and walked through, greeted by the sounds of her neighbors. Lois’s vacuum whined in 01-01, while Selenne and Elenois laughed loudly at the end of the hall just outside of 01-04. As Nacha walked past, the sisters, nearly identical, looked her up and down. Elenois smiled from ear to ear. Selenne made a face. Walking up the stairs, Nacha could hear Arnold's typewriter clacking, which drowned out a gnawing dread of Anastacha being flawlessly imitated by a doppelganger.

As Nacha approached her room, she put her key in the door, it stuck. She cringed, hoping the key wouldn't snap as it bent inside of the lock. Money for a new key wasn't in her horizons. Sweat forming on her palms, she shook the key, twisting it in every direction possible before the door opened with a loud creak and sent her to the ground. Elbows cut, blood on the cold tile of the apartments, she stood up instead of dwelling. The key slid out with ease after that.

Entering her apartment and closing the door, she walked to the bathroom to clean up her wounds. While she applied some iodine to a small cotton ball, she thought of how hard it was to see what she was doing in the mirror. It would be easier to have Anastacha help, or better yet, a man. Nacha hadn't had a boyfriend since she was thirteen or fourteen years old. Anastacha Mikaelys, thirteen years old, was the only thing in her life probing she had ever gone all the way. A man wasn't a be all end all in her life, but it seemed pretty appealing. Warm arms to lay in, a father for 13 year old Anastacha, and Nacha's dearest love. The thoughts stung much like the iodine, the piercing medicinal, metallic smell only making her more upset. After applying the iodine on her wounds, Nacha gently carried the cotton to the kitchen trash.

She began looking for whatever she could to feed Anastacha, and hopefully herself that night. All they had was a couple slices of old bread sitting on the cool countertop. In the fridge, there was an egg and three empty bottles of milk she hadn't turned in to the hot milkman on Wednesday. Now, it was Friday. Hopefully he will come by again today. Unfortunately, doppelgangers of that milkman had been let in more often since the new doorman came along.

Anastacha came in the door. She kicked off her shoes and closed the door, dropping her schoolbag by the wobbly kitchen table. Their buzzy fridge accentuated the silence. Nacha sighed, no longer needing to hide herself.

"How was school, baby?" Nacha smiled, looking up toward Anastacha.

"Mmm… fine," Anastacha barely looked up from the floor. "Whatever."

Nacha's throat tightened, hand clenched into a tight fist. She ruffled her daughter's hair before Anastacha walked away and sat down on the couch tiredly. She had such tired eyes for a thirteen-year-old, similar to someone Nacha used to know.

Anastacha was curled up with a book on the couch, pretending to read when she was actually watching her mother cook. Midway through, there was a hard knock on the door. Upon opening the door, there was the milkman. Brown hair, about 5'11, tired eyes and a little container of milk. His accent was music to Nacha's ears. British?

"Mmm.. here, ma'am." He went wide-eyed after looking up at Nacha's face, freezing to lock eyes with her. The curly brown hair, freckles, mismatched eyes, food-stained dress... it all caught his eye. Something about her made sense. He saw her nameplate on the door.

Nacha & Anastacha Mikaelys, 02-04

Nacha, just to stall for conversation, grabbed her three empty bottles from the fridge and held them up to the man. The man looked at her knowingly but didn't make a move. Not yet. Speaking quietly, she hoped the man wouldn't notice anything ‘off’ about her.

"Would you be able to take these for recycling, sir?" Nacha looked up. "I forgot to turn these in on Wednesday."

The milkman nodded. "Mmm... Thank you." was mumbled flatly. As he reached out to grab the bottles, Nacha kept her hand on his for a little bit longer than someone else would. For sure, he noticed. A blush spread across his face.

"I'll see you soon, Sir." Nacha said, removing her hand from his. He looked almost sad when she moved, but looked at her eyes again before leaving.

"Mmm… Have a nice day."

He walked away, and Nacha closed the door. There was a mumble behind it, before footsteps led away. She leaned against the door, Anastacha staring weird at whatever the man had said.

"Mmm... He thinks you're just the cat's meow, doesn't he?" Anastacha said with a raised brow.

"He does not, Anastacha."

"Whatever."

Time was spent rummaging through the fridge before she decided on what she could make for Dinner. However, while she cooked, her mind wandered. That milkman was incredibly handsome. It was agonizing trying to shove the thoughts to the back of her mind, especially when all she could think about was his hands on her hips and his lips on her sharp jawline. As soon as she snapped out of the trance, she noticed that there wasn't much food left. A bare fridge awaited her and her daughter, and this was only one portion of food. Both Nacha and Anastacha were very thin, and Nacha knew inside that Anastacha needed food more than her. When Nacha finished cooking, she threw away what was left of the trash and just went and sat down instead of eating. Anastacha noticed this and looked over at her mom. "Why aren't you eating?"

'I'm not hungry, sweetie." Nacha said, covering her stomach with her arms.

"Mmm... You sure?" Nacha nodded, prompting a response from Anastacha. "...Whatever."

Hopefully, this would be the last night she would have to do this, but Nacha had to skip many more meals to feed her girl.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Anastacha Mikaelys spent much time with her best friend.

One night, she found a note dated four days earlier in her locker. The dull pink paper had beautiful, smooth cursive with a drawn heart next to it.

“Could we have a study group on Saturday night? I know how your mom is, don't tell her there will only be us. I don't like lying, but I would do it for you any day.”

Carrying the knowledge she had never responded to her friend, Anastacha carefully folded the small piece of paper into her uniform skirt's pocket (That she had sewn in herself using lessons she got during home economics, despite headmaster's strict orders about "Uniform Regulation.”)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This night was two months after the two began talking again.

Nacha didn't know how to tell Anastacha about Francis.

Every night for the past couple of months, the milkman would swing by. However, he never had milk. Anastacha noticed the issue, but didn't bring it up. One night, some groceries. Another, a bottle of wine that was never opened. A spring wreath of orchids, carnations, and roses with a note written in messy print with blue and green ink. Nacha would get teary eyed, kiss him on the cheek, and invite him in. Hushed whispers, kisses, and eventually, a goodbye when it was too late.

“You look and sound like a boy I used to know.” Nacha whispered. “Anastacha's Father.”

Francis cradled Nacha's head in his hands. “Mmm… She's a wonderful girl to be around. I think he's missing out.”

“I hope you love my girl the way I do, Francis.” She cleared her throat. The carefully placed mask of her nationality slipped. “I lo-”

Francis jumped. “German?”

She felt her heart drop to her feet, hands shaking, sweating, breath heavy, when he kissed her forehead instead of running away.

“I don't think of you differently. I'll be dashed, you sound beautiful.”

She stuttered. “I do?”

“You're quite the doll, Nach.” Francis smiled awkwardly, pressing his hand against her thin hip. “You sound like the woman I've been waiting for.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Mmm... Mom?” Anastacha opened the door, hoping Nacha was home from work.

Nacha shouted back. "Ja? Come, I'm in the kitchen.”

Anastacha's cheeks were dusted slightly darker than normal from embarrassment, maybe something else. She opened her mouth to speak, and heard rustling. "Who's in the apartment?”

Nacha blushed. "Don't worry about it. Would you be more comfortable talking normally?”

"Mmm… Ja, mama. Das ist mir peinlich." (Yeah, mom. This is embarrassing to me.)

"Was geht, Anastacha?” (what's up, Anastacha?)

Anastacha went on to explain that her friend wanted to have a small party, her parents would be home, and it was on the east side of town. When Anastacha mentioned the east side, Nacha dropped the towel she was holding.

“Östlich? Wo Östlich?” (East? Where east?)

“...Washington Park.”

Nacha's breath stopped.

Washington Park was a notorious area just east of Anywhere, where the Mikaelys’ lived. Washington Park was home to the largest high school in the state, with the highest tax bracket as attendees. They had the best programs, the best sports, and most of all, that's where Nacha's high-school boyfriend, Beau Mosses, went after she became impregnated. The name was a kick in the face.

„Und wie sieht es mit dem Bus aus? Fährt der Bus nach Osten?“ (What about the bus? Does the bust go east?)

“Nein. Das ist sehr teuer. Wir wohnen in Anywhere.“ (No, that is too expensive. We live in Anywhere.) Anastacha sighed.

“Sie wohnt in Crystalline, Washington Park.“ (She lives in Crystalline, Washington Park.)

“Wie viel?“ (How Much?)

“75 Cent. Und die Busfahrt dauert eine Stunde.“ (75 Cents, and the bus takes about an hour.)

Nacha said nothing at all. She was worried, scared even. She couldn't see their house again. Not after it all.

“Gehe zu Opa Roman und Oma Lois's. Du kannst gehen. Wenn?" (Go to Grandpa Roman and Grandma Lois’s. They can bring you. When?)

“Morgen Abend…?” (Tomorrow Morning?) Anastacha looked at the floor.

“Ja. Gehen zu Oma und Opa.” (Yes. Go to grandma and grandpa.)

“Danke, Mutti.” (Thanks mom.)

“Ich liebe dich, Ana.” (I love you, Ana) Nacha smiled, grabbing Anastacha's schoolbag as she ran out the door.

“Ich liebe dich, Mutti!” (I love you, mom!) Anastacha whisper-yelled, Shutting the door loudly behind her.

After footsteps turned faint, Nacha stopped pretending to wash dishes. "Darling? You can come out now. My daughter is with Lois and Roman downstairs!”

As the door shut, Francis came out from Nacha's bedroom closet, covered in Nacha's signature red-purple lipstick, cheeks, lips, and neck covered in kisses.

“Should I run home?”

Nacha laughed loudly, walking over and kissing Francis's forehead.

"Do you want to? She might beg to stay with grandma, if I'm being realistic.”

Francis smiled for the very first time. Awkward, crooked. "I thought you would never ask. I want to stay.”

“Let me -”

Anastacha burst through the door. She saw Francis, but not the lipstick. The room was dark.

“Mama! Hi, Milkman- Grandma and Grandpa-”

Nacha smiled warmly. "Yes, Ana. Your bag is in my bedroom.”

Anastacha seemed weirdly excited. “Lois pulled out a box of her little VHS Tapes, and found the movies she watched when I was a baby - When you were working, and an old video of all of us!”

“You lost your 'Mmm's, Ana! Grandma must be so excited. Have fun, Ok?”

"Ja, mama! I love you!” Anastacha ran up to Nacha, giving her a huge hug. Nacha kissed her daughter, leaving a small lipstick print on her forehead. "I love you, too, baby.”

A small flash of light from the window reflected off of the lipstick on Francis, which caught her eye.

“I'll be back after the Party.”

She walked out, pigtails bouncing with each step.

For some reason, her looks made Francis sick.

“I can make you dinner now!” She walked over to the barren freezer, and opened the door.

Francis got a sudden look of concern on his face, but shook it off. "Mmm... Well, I brought things to make us dinner."

"Us? Well, I'm not-"

"You're eating." Francis grumbled. "I know you haven't eaten in days."

Nacha nodded.

"Mmm... you're going to sit there and look pretty while I make you food. Do you understand?"

Nacha nodded. Francis smiled. He hugged Nacha and reached for his bag to unwrap groceries.

"I'll be right back!" Nacha smiled and ran off to go change. She emerged a bit later wearing an old pink sweater and an ankle length skirt. Francis stared a bit, eyes drawing from her thin legs to her prominent collarbones. Through his worry, he was very attracted--ring ring. Phone call. Nacha walked to the landline, slightly annoyed that the caller interrupted her moment with Francis.

"Hello, Nacha speaking."

The doorman cleared his throat, speaking with an unnaturally slow tone. "That's all I needed to know. Thank you." Click. Confusion spread across her face. Why so abrupt? Francis's hand ran down to Nacha's waist in a comforting hold, the warmth of his palms reminding her of her bed. Nacha set her head against Francis's chest, listening to his heartbeat--then a familiar shrieking alarm went off. The two inside of the apartment jumped apart and covered their ears, hearts pounding.

What really set hearts dropping was banging on Nacha's door.

"NACHA!" Francis leaped towards her as her hands and legs began to shake, knowing she'd be horrified by those pounding footsteps across the hallway. A gentle, sickly sweet voice waded through the door. Exactly like Nacha, but a little raspy.

"Sweetheart? Oh, Anastacha, Leibling, The D.D.D is coming. I'm scared, let me inside…”

He grabbed the smaller woman in an iron grasp, leading her towards the peephole. The Doppleganger, pacing outside the door, looked exactly like Nacha, except for one thing. Her eye colors were swapped. The real Nacha was wide-eyed, sweating, covering her mouth as if she was going to gag. Sirens blared, feet paced, and Francis held Nacha firmly in his arms while she shook. Before they knew it, silence followed the crack of a D.D.D gunshot. A Doppleganger of Nacha had nearly gotten through the door--if the doorman hadn't called (even though he DID let her in) they'd both be dead.

Francis looked down at the woman in his iron-tight grip, and shuddered. He had only known this girl for a couple of weeks, and yet he felt a need to protect her. Not just that, he felt a want to protect her. He held her right after noticing her mascara beginning to run. Something had happened previously for her to act like this. Even then, all of the neighbors had experienced a scare at some point. However, Nacha was too scared for this to be a one-time occurrence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A week before he had met Nacha, Francis was lying on the couch, reading a local magazine paper. The apartment was silent except for the ticking of his living room clock.

The magazine had something about a single mother epidemic, which made his stomach feel tight. As he crumpled the newspaper in his hands and threw it in the nearby wicker basket labeled “rubbish,” there was a knock at his door. He jolted excitedly, thinking his buddy was coming over for boys’ night and beer, as promised. When he opened the door, his smile faded. It was a little girl, maybe 5 feet tall, accented voice, medium dark skin, big lips, pigtails, and a face covered in deep, bottomless holes. Her voice was raspy and strained.

“Dad?” The figure wheezed, reaching a small hand towards him. “I'm so cold…”

Francis inhaled hard. “I'm not your dad, kid.”

Her hand grips the door, pushing inside. The voice of the creature went deep, with a weird, gurgly undertone.

“I said let me in.”

Francis’s stomach dropped to the floor. He kicked the Doppelganger in the ankle. She flew back, hitting the doorframe with a thud. As she got up to sprint for him, smiling, the door slammed, Francis locked the door, and immediately dialed 3312.

“D.D.D? Yeah, a Doppelganger was at my door. 03-02. She did call me dad. Why? I don’t have any kids.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Francis knew that something had to have happened to Nacha in the past. Maybe she was sensitive hearted, but she had probably had some things go on in her life he didn't know yet. Francis didn't want her to feel that anymore, he wanted to save her from what has happened and could happen in the future. Not out of just simple care. Francis began to ruin his fingers along Nacha's teary cheeks, wiping away bits of mascara and tears that streamed down to her neck.

"Goodness. I'm crying all over you, Francis.." Nacha sobbed, cracking a smile. "Let me clean you up."

Francis shook his head. "Mmm... No, really. It's okay. You're so scared."

"I'm tired of these things breaking into my apartment. I can't afford rent anywhere else. The rent is 60 dollars, I make 35 per week–i have a daughter." Nacha began to break down, hiccuping violently between words. "Between taxes, a new ID, feeding myself or Anastacha? I can't take it. I'd be so much better off as a man, Francis. As a woman, if I go running down the hall, screaming that I'm gonna die, what are the chances of someone hearing me and actually helping?! This city is overrun and I can't move away!"

Francis blankly stared. He could help with payments, he could support a kid, and more. He wanted to help. He wanted to be around Nacha and her mysterious daughter he had only just seen. He wanted to be the father he knew her daughter didn't have, and most of all, he wanted to be the husband Nacha so strongly begged for. He wanted to be with her. He felt helpless before, but now he knew what he needed to do. He wanted to help this woman get back control of her life. But most of all, he wanted her for who she was on the inside. A talented chef, a loving mother, an immigrant, and a scared woman who just wanted love. When she smiled, he became rosy-cheeked even through his stoic, quiet demeanor. When she cried, Francis would run to her. He had only had one other person in his life he felt like this for, and he hadn't spoken to her since 1940. No matter what, he was ready to be hers, if that's what she wanted. Now wasn't the time to ask.

"Mmm.. Nacha, I'm not going anywhere." Francis traced circles along her lower back. The two leaned in a bit, Nacha's sobs beginning to slow... When there was another call. Nacha picked up the phone once again.

"Hello, Nacha Mikaelys speaking."

The doorman cleared his throat. "Is Anastacha there?"

"My daughter is not at home."

"Thank you for notifying me."

Click. The call dropped.

Francis's eyes went wide. "Mmm... Anastacha. Is that your daughter's full first name?"

"Yeah. She doesn't know you're my boyfriend, Francis." Nacha said, heart beginning to race. "Either I hide you in my closet, or.. something."

"I don't think you're a threat. I think she'll react poorly. My daughter is very closed off and quiet, she's also very mature. She'll assume something was going on."

Francis's stomach dropped. Assume something was going on?

Nacha began to get dressed for her date. She was so excited, putting on red lipstick and a short dress that she thought Francis would love. She waited, getting everything cleaned and ready, when there was a suspiciously hard knock on the door. Despite Nacha knowing that Francis wasn't that hard of a knocker unless something was wrong, she stupidly opened the door wide without checking the peephole. Over her stood an exact replica of Francis, but with hollow eyes alongside a white pupil and a gaping mouth. Nacha felt her heart start to race. In horror, she stepped backward, just for what was at the door to make a noise.

"Hooooon...." The noise was extremely loud, like a lawnmower. Nacha screamed, alerting her neighbors who only locked their doors instead of helping. Nacha heard loud, running footsteps, and a shout. “NACHA!”

Seconds later, she heard a thump, like a body hitting the ground and glass shattering.

“Oh, bloody hell-”

An older man's voice erupted. “Francis! Ay! stay down. You can't go intervenin’ right now, boy! Yer gonna get yerself eaten!”

The creature limped closer,. picking up speed and widening its awful, empty eyes.

"GET AWAY FROM ME!" Nacha screeched, slamming the door directly into the beast's face.

"Hooooon....."

The creature recovered, pushing the door open, resulting in Nacha landing on her back, hitting her head on the floor with a loud thud.

"Hoooooooooon....."

Dizzy, she slipped into the kitchen, tears streaming down her face, as she grabbed the landline, dialing 3312 as fast as she could. The cold metal of the phone felt uncomfortable to hold against her palms, but she knew that she had to call.

"D.D.D, how can i-"

"D...DOPP... I'M GONNA DIE."

"Miss, calm down--"

"IT'S GONNA KILL ME!"

"I think you're overreacting ma'am. What room?"

"FLOOR. 2. ROOM. 4. " Nacha yelled at the operator. "IT'S MAKING AN AWFUL SOUND-"

The operator nearly hung up before hearing the same, familiar "Hoon" sound, and then finally it stuck.

"We're on our way."

Nacha grabbed a vase she had in her living room, which nearly slipped out of her fear-weak hands. The cold porcelain was thrown into the Doppleganger's head, smashing against its face. Water and soggy wilted flowers fell all over the figure. The weight of the flowerpot sent the hoon's body into her doorframe. Nacha kicked, dug her nails into the Dopple's skin when he eventually grabbed her, and nearly went limp trying to strangle it to death. After minutes that felt like hours, Four men showed up at Nacha's apartment door.

"D.D.D, GET OUT OF THE WAY!" one of four men grabbed nacha out of the arms of the doppleganger while the other 3 pulled guns, shooting and killing it two feet from Nacha. Nausea struck as the Dopple's warm blood hit her dress and face. Nacha couldn't hold it in, crying before accidentally puking on the dress she had just bought and the D.D.D official, who just shrugged off the grossness. Dopple blood and vomit. The dress was ruined. The men in those ugly yellow latex suits left the room, dragging what was left of the creature while Nacha went into the bathroom to dispose of the new dress. Sobbing, she cleaned off the rest of her makeup, got into a nightgown, and waited for about twenty minutes before the real Francis knocked.

"Mmm... Nacha? Are you okay?" Francis was clearly panicked, wrapping the woman in his arms while still in his work uniform. One of his hands was bloody.

"I almost died." Nacha grabbed the bloodied hand and winced. "What happened to you?"

"I cut myself on a returned bottle when I heard you scream. Mclooy nearly sent me into the whole box stopping me from running down the stairs."

"It would have killed you too, Francis."

Francis paused uncomfortably. It likely wouldn't do much good if he made many big actions right now.

"I thought I was going to die," Nacha sniffed, pushing herself as close to Francis as possible. "I thought I'd never see you again."

Francis said nothing, kissing Nacha on the forehead and ruffling her hair.

"Francis, why won't you say anything?"

"Mmm... You need silence. Don't you?"

Nacha sighed. "I suppose I do."

The two hugged in silence, before Francis got a cloth and began to wipe Nacha's face and arms from the blood. After cleaning her, he wiped up his own hand, breathing heavily as it stung. He decided not to ask about what was on the corner of her mouth, but made sure it was cleaned.

"Where's the dress you told me about?" Francis looked at Nacha confused, but not mad.

"Oh. The dress." Nacha looked at the floor. "I..."

"Mmm... Is it ruined?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry."

"That's alright... You look just as beautiful in this." He ran his hands down her sides, landing on her waist. "I'll get you a new dress."

An awkward laugh escaped Nacha's mouth. "It was fifteen dollars. That's way too expensive."

Francis leaned down to her neck. "I don't care."

A warm kiss fell on Nacha's lips. She reciprocated. Francis kissed her again, and this time, she melted into it. Then, he kissed her jaw, holding her head up with one hand while the other was on her shoulder.

"What a gentleman." She smiled, ruffling the man's hair.

"It's what you deserve."

“You're too nice to me…”

“It's because I care about you. Deeply.” his voice was smooth and deep, making her feel safe just by his presence.

“That's sweet, Francis. I care about you too.”

“Mmm… I hope you're not scared of me after that.”

The Hoon man looked like Francis to a T, except for the face and voice. It didn't scare Nacha to look at Francis, but she wouldn't lie and say he didn't startle her just a little bit.

“I'm not, love.” Nacha flips her hair, looking a bit more scared. “It just… tried to kill me. After impersonating the man that I. L…”

“Llllluuuhhhh what, Nacha?”

“I love you, Francis.”

“Mmm.. I love you too. You know this.”

“I have a hard time saying it after my childhood.” Nacha looked away, coughing to cover up whatever was showing from behind her veneered personality.

“I'm a safe person, sweetheart. Mmm… I could never hurt you.” Francis smiled, rubbing his hand against her shoulder.

“Its what they all say. That's the thing.” Nacha looked up at Francis angrily. “It doesn't help that a Doppleganger could walk through that door at any time because of our incompetent doorman.”

“Mmm.. I can agree. I think you're being too hard on yourself, though…” Francis lost the smile, but leaned in closer. “I have no desire to hurt you.”

“I want that to be true so bad, it's nearly arousing me.”

“Let it.” Francis's voice turned to a gravelly whisper. “I promise, you won't regret it.”

Nacha seemed taken back. “You're forward.”

“Mmm… I like being blunt.”

She smiled. “You're not too bad, huh?”

“I hope not.” Francis finally smiled again. “I'm not here to get in your pants, Nacha.”

“You're not? That's a nice change.” She started to laugh. “I don't mind it though. I didn't get all dressed up for nothing.”

The two began to laugh, before Francis's hand slid to Nacha's hip. “Mmm… I'm glad to make use of your outfit, though. Just let me know if it's allowed to be on the ground.”

“…I would love for it to be off.”

“Come here, gorgeous.” He leaned down, kissing her on the lips. Within seconds, lips turned to jaw, which lead further down the road.

His lips found her neck, emitting a gasp.

"You sound so pretty."

Again. Kiss, gasp.

His lips fall to her collarbone.

Then he stops.

"Why'd you stop, Francis?" Nacha seemed expectant, maybe needy. Almost like she needed more.

"I don't know if I'm allowed to go further. I would have to take your shirt off."

"You are allowed to take off my shirt."

Francis gently took her shirt off, sending the shirt onto the floor. Nacha had on a bra that was training-bra like, way too thin for what Nacha was endowed with. He continued to kiss down, cradling her breasts in his hands.

"Mm... They're heavy."

“That’s blunt… on the other hand, that really feels nice.” She arched her back. “My back hurts all the time.”

“Can I try something?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Mmm.. Do you want to continue?"

"Yes, I do."

"Are you going to be strong enough? You're very... Mm.. frail."

"I'll be okay."

Everything continued in a blur. Nacha's pants fell to the floor, then Francis's. Her panties, his boxers. Until they both wore nothing, and Francis was breathing heavily just on top of her.

"Mmm... We'll forget about this. I'll make you feel good."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~(I'm not writing that~)~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I’m done.” Francis was genuinely worried about Nacha, knowing that she, in theory, couldn't really say no to him. It was really a horrible time to be alive. Anything he did he would get away with.

“I wanted you to.” She smiled, breathing heavily.

“What if I get you pregnant?”

“I've had some problems with conceiving ever since I had Anastacha. I wouldn't worry about it.”

Francis sighed deeply. “Mmm… do you need anything?”

“Well,”—Nacha fixes her hair, looking Francis up and down.—“All I really want is to be held. I'm quite the physically affectionate girl. A lot of people find it overwhelming, so don't worry if you don't want to.”

There was silence. No. Did Nacha screw up?

“Mmm… Let me clean you up, Darling.”

Francis got Nacha some water, even though he didn't fully know where her cups were yet. He cleaned her with a wet rag he found on her bathroom counter and a towel he had on hand. He even grabbed her more clothes before handling himself. His idea of “aftercare” for himself was drinking out of Nacha's tap and just throwing clothes back on. However that didn't last long, and Francis's shirt was off as the two laid together on her couch. She smelled like beautiful flowery perfume. He smelled like musky cologne. Accidentally, they both fell asleep, Nacha's head in Francis's chest.

As the morning crept in through the blinds, Nacha's last memory was laying on Francis's soft, warm chest. However, she had woken up in her bed with a sticky note on her chest. Nacha's stomach fell. Did he think it was too much?

The note read: "Nacha, I had to leave for an earlier shift. Your daughter is safely home, I made sure to check. I carried you to bed. I'll be back soon, don't worry." Signed Francis BJ. Mosses.

What a sweet boy.

When Nacha walked to the living room, Anastacha noticed something off about her mom, and vice versa. Anastacha smelled like cigarettes, Nacha had a few huge hickeys on her neck.

"Anastacha Mikaelys, I thought you were going to your friend's house." Nacha had inquired, walking right up to where her daughter sat.

"Mmm... I was at my friend's house." Anastacha mumbled, fidgeting with her hands.

"Why do you smell like cigarettes?"

"Because her parents smoke."

"I know how smokers smell."

"... Whatever."

While she decided not to press further, Anastacha looked up at her mother's hickey and let out a quick breath of air, almost like she was trying to suppress a laugh. Rolling her eyes, Nacha walked to her bedroom to get ready for work.

Those silent little flings turned to Francis staying for a couple days at a time. The milkman brought groceries and covered rent when he could. Over time, Nacha's sunken in cheeks and small body went back similar to her high-school looks, and promptly, a little past that. Anastacha gained healthy weight, and had a bit more energy. Nacha gained quite a bit, and the resemblance began to show for Francis. Just three months later, the three were a happy but non-nuclear family.

On a cold night in the city, Francis found a bunch of photo albums from his high school. Both of them. In one was photos of his freshman year, hugging a girl who looked weirdly like Nacha. Her eyes were closed, though. Upon looking more, there were eight other photos of him with Nacha, the same beautiful green and blue eyes as before. Strange, especially because he moved his freshman year.

Francis moved two cities away to another highschool sometime in October 1940, however, now he remembered why.

A project that started in late June. Nacha and "Beau" had been assigned something to work on that would be presented in November that coming school year, regardless of if they weren't in the same class. They had bonded through that presentation, documenting their summer break. Around the beginning of August, Nacha had decided to spend the night with Francis against her parents’ better judgement. They documented the dates day by day, and that night, one crucial detail hadn't been documented. One full day, unwritten. July 27th, 1940.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nacha threw her arm over Francis. “You're being so funny.”

“What, love? What did I do?” Francis giggled, pulling Nacha closer to him. Her eyes locked with his in a loving embrace.

“I just fall deeper for you every time we lock eyes.” She was running her hand up and down his arm at this point.

Despite her parents having a bad feeling, the two had a sleepover. One thing led to another, the two had sex, and "Beau" had accidentally gotten her pregnant.

Beau was Francis's second middle name that he used as a nickname through high school, due to a family member having a similar name.

Nacha's parents wanted a marriage so there would be no baby out of wedlock.

Francis's mom wanted the young "whore" away from their son.

Unfortunately, the Mosses family reigned superior, leaving Francis without his girlfriend and Nacha with a baby and no boyfriend.

"Wir werden Ihr Baby nicht großziehen.” (We won't raise your baby.) Nacha's parents stared down, her mom taking the lead. "Du solltest dich damenhaft benehmen. Du warmest erzogen, eine Kind Jesu Christi zu sein." (You should behave like a lady. You were raised to be a child of Jesus Christ.)

"Wir werden Dinge kaufen," (We will buy things,) her father said, his deep voice shaking the 14-year-old. "Aber dieses Baby gehört Satan. Wenn sie eins, bist du raus." (But this baby belongs to Satan. When she turns one, you're out.”

Three months pregnant, Nacha read over Francis and her assignment in front of the class alone. Everyone knew what happened once Francis had been forcibly withdrawn, and It was now Nacha's job to turn her life around. She did. Francis didn't know that she did.

Nacha Mikaelys taught herself to cook and bake, making a small fortune when she was young before becoming a chef in her city, moving away from her parents that had a long time hate for Anastacha, her young daughter. Nacha barely made ends meet, but could afford a milkman. She didn't forget what Francis looked like, but he grew into a young man, and looked almost entirely different.

After Francis began attending Washington Park High School, rivals with Sunview High School (Nacha's school) he couldn't speak of her to friends for the most part. Every day, he hoped his child would be born safely. On another hand, despite scholarships from extensive extracurriculars, Francis decided to refrain from going to college. Something told him that he would never find his way in life with where he was going. Ultimately, he stopped going by Beau and started to work as a milkman in his hometown. Of course, his parents weren't the happiest bunch hearing this, but couldn't do anything. He never forgot Nacha, but after thirteen years, had forgotten her face, her full name, and his baby. That's the explanation on how the news didn't come out sooner. In those thirteen years, he didn't date a single girl. Every time he was asked out, he responded with the same sentence.

“I'm saving myself for a special girl.”

Things began to piece together. Anastacha's tired eyes, and lean body that genetically run on Francis's side. Nacha's big lips that passed to that little girl. Why Nacha hated talking about her past and her highschool boyfriend that disappeared.

Anastacha was Francis's daughter.

That didn't scare him, though. He loved Anastacha. Honestly, his paternity made a lot of sense.

He couldn't tell Nacha. Not yet, he couldn't risk her leaving.

"Baby, I have a surprise for you!" Nacha hid behind the bathroom door while Francis stood there, waiting with no shirt on. They had been together while Anastacha was still at school, and a couple of minutes earlier, Nacha disappeared to put something on.

Everything felt fuzzy.

“Oh, Romy, come here. I think she's hurt.”

“Lois, what are you talking about?—dear god, maybe she is.”

“She can't be any older than fifteen, and I think she's pregnant, what do we do?”

“We wait for her to wake up, talk to her, and go from there. How did she even end up on our doorstep? With all these dopples around—”

“I think she fainted!”

Shuffling around her. A hand touched her temple. Roman’s hand was soon covered in a red, watery substance.

“Looks like she's bleeding. She must have fallen by us.”

In a moments notice, Nacha shot up, panicked, speaking rapid German at Lois while Roman checked to make sure she didn't pass out again.

“Sweetheart, calm down. How old are you?”

She thought she understood the question.

“Vierzehn.”

Roman understood. He could understand basic German from friends of his.

“She's fourteen.”

“Ich bin schwanger.”

“She's pregnant.”

Lois immediately hugged her. “I've gotcha, sweetie. Nothing's gonna happen to you here.”

“You'd take in a wolf If you thought it wanted tea, Lois.”

“Maybe it does.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nacha woke up, groaning. Another flash from the past. Getting kicked out and finding the Stilnskys, who immediately took her in while she was pregnant. Her parents wanted to be at the birth but abandoned her otherwise. They didn't wanna see the “illegitimate child.”

Roman helped her get her first apartment, meet Francis, and find out how to take care of things that all adults had to handle. Lois taught her how to be a good wife and how to take care of a house. Those weren't by normal 50’s standards. Lois kind of had Roman on a leash and neither of them would admit it. Nacha learned the majority of her English from Roman and Lois, but the amount she knew previously was just enough to keep a conversation with someone. Lois was a better mom than Elke Mikaelys. Roman was a better father than Leopold Mikaelys. But they weren't her real parents, just close, close friends.

Speaking of, she should probably call them.

The phone rang a couple times. Lois picked up, annoyed.

“If this is the doorman again, I already told you my husband and I are in the apartment. We don't want visitors!”

“It's actually Nacha.”

“Oh, hello sweet girl. Sorry. They've called eight times already.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So much has been going on these past few days.” Nacha sighed, twisting the phone cord. “Something is up with the Rudboys’, I'm having childhood flashback dreams again, Anastacha's been off. Has it been the same for you?”

Lois sighed. “I had a dream about the night you fainted in front of my doorstep. I remember it like it was yesterday.”

“I had the same dream last night.” Nacha awkwardly laughed. “I heard the Rudboys' got into some kind of fight. I heard a glass bottle smash and some yelling, but that's about it.”

“Steven probably got smacked again.” Lois frowned.

“I wouldn't be surprised at all-”

“I think Anastacha's gay.” Nacha blurted.

“You what?”

Shit. She shouldn't have said anything.

“I know you're supportive of the LGBT. You always have been.” Nacha sounded scared.

“I am. Even if it's illegal.” Lois had a more serious pang to her voice.

“I found a bunch of lesbian articles in Anastacha's room. Magazines. She's had a girl over a lot. Sometimes I pick up the landline to hear them talk, and they're talking in some kind of girl code.”

Lois didn't say anything.

“Don't tell anyone. I don't want Ana getting hurt.”

“You know I won't tell a soul, Darling. I'm here for you and your family no matter what happens. I promised that the night you came into my home.”

Nacha started crying without realizing, the warm tears trailing down as she held the phone shakily against her face. “I just don't want my little girl getting hurt. She's always going to be my little girl, no matter how old she gets. If someone finds out, and God forbid I'm right, she could get so hurt.”

Lois made a small sound.

“They call the D.D.D. I know. I won't let anyone do that to her.”

“Thank you—God. Thank you. I can't do this alone. Not when my Ana's life is at risk. I know she can't control it, and that's why this whole code is a thing. I heard her and the girl earlier. I heard them confess and everything!” Nacha’s voice raised higher and higher, panicked.

“Everything will be okay. You're a good mom, Nacha.”

“I…”

“You shouldn't tell a soul. I know, not the best thing to hear after you told someone. But my husband and I won't do anything. Don't tell Francis, Elenois, or anyone else. Not until you know without a shred of a doubt that they're safe people to talk to.” Lois kept her voice low and steady. “Most of all, do not let anyone figure her out. I know you won't hurt her, but you don't know who will.”

Nacha gulped, hands weak on the phone.

“I understand.”

“That's good, dear. Do you need to confess anything else?”

Silence.

“I don't, no.” Nacha started to ease up, regaining her grip.

“Anything else you want to talk about?”

“I don't think so.”

“You come down to my room any time, okay dear? I'm never busy.” Lois sounded safe, like someone Nacha could actually talk to. It was wonderful. And she may take Lois up on that offer.

“Alright.”

“I Love ya.”

“I Love ya too.”

Click.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On the way to the city bus on her way home from school, Anastacha still had to force her natural voice down her throat. When finally feeling comfortable to speak, she felt a shove against her back, almost knocking her off her feet. She whipped her body around to see Otto standing there, alone.

“Francine! Yeah, I'm talking to you!” He yelled, a poorly executed intimidating laugh leaving his body.

Anastacha didn't respond, and instead turned around to walk faster. He only yelled louder.

“FRANCINE!”

As she stopped to push him away, she felt the loop on her backpack get tugged to the ground. Her head didn't hit the ground, luckily, but some part of her arm smacked against the concrete, emitting a sickening pop and radiating, excruciating pain.

“Gotcha, Queer!” Otto cackled in her face. “Look at you, all scared cause I called you Francine!”

Anastacha was filled with fear at that moment. She was a girl, defenseless, with a teenage boy in her face.

“How did you find out my middle name, Otto? Only two people know that name, and neither of them would tell you.” Anastacha's hand ached as she pushed off the ground. The pain was sharp, piercing. Tears welled in her eyes. “Besides, I'm not a queer!”

Otto continued to get inches away from her. “It doesn't matter what you are or you aren’t. Everyone thinks the same. Are you gonna go home and cry to mommy and daddy about your achy hand like the little sissy you are?” Otto flips his hair out of his eyes. “Oh wait, you don't have a daddy, do you? Just a mom."

“My family is none of your business.” Her voice shot from a scared whisper to a shaky shout. “You can't say anything about my mother.”

“But I can, can't I? My dad owns her job.”

Tymann Diner was owned by Franklin and Diana Tymann, Otto’s parents. For the majority of the time Nacha worked there, Franklin's little brother Anthony had control over everything. Wages, scheduling, everything.

Diana owned the restaurant, but it was a pain because of her gender. Franklin had to co-sign. Alongside that, Tymann’s was huge in the city. Nacha was lucky to even catch a job. Diana hated how her son acted, and was the one to promote Nacha in the first place. Franklin let everything pass, because he had no idea just how awful his son was. Not just that, but the Tymann's were filthy rich, making Anastacha's mother seem like an ant compared to them.

“I need to catch the bus. My mom will get worried.” Anastacha barely steadied herself before Otto talked over her once again.

“Why can't you walk home?”

“I live in the West district. I cannot walk four miles with-”

Otto grabbed Anastacha by the collar of her uniform, voice turning sick and low.

“Yeah, you're poor. We get it. You look it. Maybe you wouldn't have to take that dingy bus if you had a father's income. It's her fault. I bet she was too busy going all the way with your milkman to think about your future, or the fact she was raising a faggot.”

He kicked her backpack, which knocked open a small bag. At least a month’s fare worth of dimes tumbled all over the sidewalk. In a moment's notice, Anastacha stopped pretending. As she bent over to clean up the coins, her accent slipped from under the mask.

“What is your problem? I didn't do anything to you, neither did my Mutti-”

Otto’s face twisted into pure disgust. “Tell anyone and I'll get your mother fired, Nazi. Don't get killed by Dopplegangers, Anastacha! Bet a three eyed ‘mutti’ is waiting for you at home!”

Anastacha tried to stand up, slipping over her untied shoelace. She gripped onto her wrist, feeling the burn of her injury. Tears spilled over, but she stifled her breathing the best she could. Sobs still escaped her mouth once she stabilized. Her tears were hot, rolling down her cheeks into her shirt. Anastacha searched for Marigold's presence, but found no-one. Marigold hadn't come to the bus today, because her father insisted on driving her home.

Otto walked away, listening to Anastacha's quiet sobs. He swiped a couple dimes too, just to make it hurt more.

When Anastacha finally made it on the city bus, her vision was severely blurred. She stumbled into a seat before truly noticing her arm. Her wrist looked wrong, and her forearm was bruising. She needed to get home, fast.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“My god!” Nacha shouted, running toward Anastacha as fast as she could. “Hast du eine Unfall?!” (have you had an accident?) this may have been written and translated incorrectly

Anastacha's quietness turned to shaking, gasping sobs. “Mm… m… mom-”

“What, baby? What happened?” Nacha felt Anastacha's wrist, and looked at the bruised arm. “Your wrist! It’s not supposed to look like that!”

Anastacha remembered what Otto said. That he would get Nacha fired if she said anything. The frozen look in her eyes said it all.

“Who did this to you? Your wrist is dislocated. Your arm is a mosaic of blacks and blues—You have to tell me, Anastacha!”

“Mom! I can't!” Anastacha's tears began to quicken, body shaking.

Nacha’s whole body froze. Anastacha had begun bawling, which made her mother's heart drop to the floor.

“Ana, dear, please tell me! Why can't you?!” Nacha shouted, grabbing her daughter's shoulders firmly.

“H..he.. he said he'd get you FIRED!”

Her mind began to race. Every single person she had ever met,every interaction, replayed. Until she remembered one sickening detail. One voice that made sense of it all.

“I bet she'll laugh hearing about Tubby bothering us about our order.”

Otto Tymann.

Anastacha had stopped talking to Otto that day. She finally stood up for herself, and he began to bully her after that, sometimes physically. It had never been this bad.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marigold's voice was shaky. “Anastacha… maybe don't try to hang out with Damien right now. He's with Otto, and-”

She was stifling her accent. “Mmm… Otto's an idiot. He's rude to my mom, too. I don't care what he thinks of me. And… What about Damien? I wasn't going to hang out with him, I was gonna go find out what that smell was.” Anastacha walked into the hallway to see Otto and Damien. Marigold had requested the door be shut, since Damien was usually quite crude.

Otto had a pack of cigarettes. Damien, Marigold's brother, was smoking one out in the hallway like it was normal. Otto turned to Anastacha, holding out the pack.

“Oh look, it's a little piglet. Come try.” Otto laughed, harshly. Marigold couldn't hear them.

“Why am I a piglet?!” Anastacha barked, offended.

“Have you seen your mom?” Otto snapped back, laughing again… which was not intimidating whatsoever.

Anastacha grunted angrily. “Why is it always about my mom's weight or whatever? My mom is worth more than her weight. Insult something else like a man.”

Otto grinned. “Like how you're too much of a girl to smoke a cigarette? I'm sure your mom has.”

He wasn't wrong. Everyone smokes nowadays. Marigold's parents, Marigold's brother, Francis, Angus, the Rudboys’, Selenne… even Nacha after rough nights, but never often. Whenever she did, she'd go on the porch, shut the door, and immediately stomp it out if Anastacha needed something. Never in the apartment, never around a kid. Anastacha always wondered what her mom was thinking about on those nights where she'd go out on the porch alone. Maybe Francis, maybe Roman and Lois, maybe the grandparents in Germany she never got to meet. One of those nights was when Anastacha counted their age difference, and realized exactly why her mom kept to herself when speaking about giving birth. Fourteen years old.

Anastacha looked at herself through her nightgown in the mirror. It was before Francis came along, so her body was thin, and you were able to see her ribs through the nightgown when the light hit just right. She had frail fingers and a gap between her thighs, and only one thing swirled in her mind.

My mother looked like this when she was carrying me.

The guilt ate her alive, digging into a section of her heart that she didn't know was there. Her mother was just a baby. Now, with the thought returning, the idea of a cigarette seemed so comforting. Maybe then, she'd be more like Nacha.

Anastacha took one. Damien held out his hand to hand her the matches.

She would regret that decision forever.

Stumbling back into Marigold's room later, it had become apparent that she had smoked half, threw up, and immediately gotten made fun of. Marigold held her while she cried.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Otto Tymann.” Nacha stated, pulling back.

Anastacha nodded. “He said he'd get you fired.” The pain in her wrist was agonizing. Heat and a sharp ache spread all throughout.

“I need to pop that into place. I'm so sorry, Ana. This is going to hurt.” Nacha grabbed Anastacha's hand and pulled, using her body weight to pull the misplaced, uncomfortable bones in her frail wrist. There was a loud, sickening pop. The pain reduced to a dull ache. However, Anastacha's wrist was beginning to swell, fast. The only thing Nacha had on hand was a dish towel.

“That'll do for now.”

The door swung open seconds later. Steven, Elenois, and Francis. They saw Nacha's mess of a kitchen, Anastacha bruised and crying with a dish towel on her wrist, and Nacha's shaking, worried form in the middle of it all.

“Krasivy, what are you doing?” Elenois didn't notice Anastacha's tears yet.

“Anastacha! Oh, poor love, come here-” Francis already jumped to her defense without a second thought.

“Am I the only one here wonderin’ why Ana's got an ol’ rag on her arm?”

"Steven, SHUT YOUR MOUTH FOR ONCE. This is your Niece.”

"Aw damn, What's the matter?” Steven looks at Anastacha's arm. “Nacha, I've seen this hundreds of times. Her arm is broken.”

"WELL I THINK IT’S IN ONE PIECE.” Francis yelled.

Nacha started mumbling frantically in German, voice from clear, steady sentences mushing into jumbled German-Sounding gibberish between heavy, stressed Sobs.

"We need to take her to the hospital so she can get the help that she needs!” Elenois shouted.

"They won't take Nacha or Elenois seriously, due to their Immigration to the United States of America.” Steven chimed in, unhelpfully.

"I'll do it.” Francis stated.

"Aber, Francis, Liebling, you're not … “

"No, Nacha. They'll let me bring her in.”

Anastacha made a small, pained noise.

"Mmm... but Francis, The doctors only allow Mutti or My father inside. You're not my Father, or whatever. “

“Anastacha, don't be difficult.” Francis snapped. “They'll allow me in.”

“What about Mutti?” Anastacha whimpered.

“Love, I'm your dad!”

The room quickly became silent.

Anastacha leaped. "What?!”

"I want you to meet her. She just doesn't quite know you're around yet. But you would be a beneficial man to have in her life." Nacha looked up at Francis with wanting eyes. "Wednesday night, I want you back here. Anastacha will be gone to a study group, and we can get in on a proper date. I'll tell her about you and get her ready to meet you in case of this again. Is that good? You can still visit every night."

Francis was a little awkward about the idea, but agreed. Francis left, a soft hug and a very close hug between Nacha and Francis. As Francis walked upstairs, he saw Anastacha. Unmistakably Nacha's daughter, but she looked a little familiar. A little bit similar to himself. It was strange, stinging Francis like an angry bee, over and over until he fell asleep that night.

"Anastacha?" Nacha whispered, as Anastacha walked in the door.

"Mmm... What Mom?" Anastacha responded, overly tired for a simple hangout.

"I have to talk to you about something," Nacha said. "Someone."

Anastacha stayed quiet.

"I've been talking to someone, Ana. Someone you probably will recognize, and I'd like you to meet him soon. However, he'll be here Wednesday, if you want to meet him.

"Mmm... Okay. Whatever." Anastacha sighed and just walked off to her room. That was the best response that Nacha could've gotten.

Tuesday night, Francis decided to show up with flowers for Nacha, a proposal of his love. However, Nacha was in the bathroom, so Anastacha answered. Seeing the man, she felt something weird inside her chest. He looked so familiar, like someone she could trust. But she wasn't sure why.

"Mmm.. who are you?"

"Francis Mosses."

"Do you have a thing for my mom?"

"Mmm... I don't know."

After that, the two looked at each other with a knowing expression, not entirely clear on why.

"My mom's in the bathroom. She'll be out in a second."

"Mmm... Thank you."

"Whatever."

Francis entered the apartment and stood outside of the bathroom. Nacha opened the door, jumped, and then smiled. "Oh, thank you.. who let you in?"

"Mmm... Your daughter." Francis said, smiling.

"I hope she likes you." Nacha giggled.

"Mmm... Maybe. I have to do some orders, so I'm here to drop these off and then I have to go." Francis yawned.

Nacha hugged Francis, looking into his soft, tired eyes. "Thank you, honey." Then, Francis's face turned from stoic to softened, wrapping his arms around Nacha and running his right hand through her curls.

"Your eyes are very pretty, Nacha."

"Thank you."

"Mmm...I have to go now. I love you."

I love you?

"I love you too, Francis." Nacha began to tear up. "So much." Francis laid a gentle kiss on her forehead, set the bouquet in her hand, and walked out to the living room. Anastacha looked up at Francis expectantly, and he suddenly began to focus on her face, her eyes, and her demeanor. Nacha's body with Francis's face. His eyes. His patterns of speech. Francis really did enjoy being around the two of them, and he could see a life with Nacha and Anastacha. Now, it was time to deliver everyone else's milk bottles. Just three more tenants.

Nacha fell asleep on the couch, and in her dreams, a familiar scene played. Being a young teenager, in a hospital bed with the weight of a baby on her chest, while doctors scramble. In 1941, this was highly disapproved, and Nacha's parents were, frankly disgusted. Nacha was fourteen years old with a screaming baby that bore no father. Exactly 5 pounds, 8 ounces, that fit into Nacha's small arms like a puzzle piece. She named her baby girl Anastacha, and told herself she'd spend every waking moment making sure she had the best life she could. Nacha got pregnant while studying for a presentation with a friend of hers, and once she became pregnant and broke the news, the father wanted to be in the picture, but his parents forcibly pulled him from all classes with Nacha. The entire school knew, and Nacha had to present a month's work thirteen, three months pregnant, all alone. Nacha cried constantly, praying to whatever God would listen about her pain. Anastacha was thirteen now, near fourteen, and had no idea what had happened in her mother's past. Neither did Francis. The dream ended with baby Anastacha screaming in hunger, which woke Nacha up, sweating profusely.

Now that she thought of it, the father vaguely looked like Francis, and he was the most loving... Almost father. Nacha secretly hoped Francis was the father. Francis would be an amazing father.

"Mmm... Mom? I have to go now." Anastacha mumbled, walking out the door with her backpack. "I love you. Whatever."

"I love you, Ana."

It took about seven months to learn this language enough to execute his plan. Francis went back to the Washington Park bookstore a few more times. Three, he actually bought something. Two, he left immediately because his former friend was working. He didn't mind the 20 minute drive there, or constantly being stopped near communities because they didn't recognize his old car. It was for Marigold and Nacha. He had listened in on Nacha's conversations with Anastacha, understanding every word. It was then he realized he still needed to get up the courage to call Leopold personally to get his blessing. That, and Marigold was coming over to study and spend the night with Anastacha after work. Her parents finally loosened up, assuming that Elenois would be teaching her things, not Nacha. Because a Russian was better than a German, for some dumb reason. 

A key jingled in the door. Nacha?

“Hey, British boy!” That was not Nacha. It was Steven. If the deep voice and country accent didn't give it away, the clinking bottles he was carrying definitely did.

“Where is Elenois?” Francis said, looking around.

“She's at a magazine shoot with her sister. She'll be gone all night, I think. So I brought us beer.” 

“I forgot I gave you a house key, cowboy.” Francis muttered, pulling out the science textbooks from under his and Nacha's couch. He was still unsure of how nobody had found them yet. 

“Woah, what's all that? You been reading?” Steven was a little surprised.

“I've been tutoring Anastacha's girlfriend. Elenois's idea, but… Mmm…it's nice having someone to talk to about science.” 

“I could probably help some. Maybe. I really do hope it's not just me, you, and the girl. That would be awkward, and her parents would probably freak if they found out she was alone with two men.” He set down the beer and walked to Francis. “You really like this girl, huh?” 

“I do. She's ambitious, and kind to my daughter and girlfriend. That's what I care about.” He stretches. “My route was long. I had to deliver all the way out by Sunview High at five this morning, and you know how the orders over there are.”

“I'm glad you got off when you did, though. I have a flight to somewhere in Europe in two days and I'll be there for a bit, and then it's who knows how long back.” Steven sighs. “Ellie wasn't happy, since I've been pretty free for a while. But at the same time, I get bragging rights.”

Francis mumbled something, and then looked over.

“Mmm… Europe? Where?” He went to sit by Steven on the couch.

“I'm gonna go off on a limb here and say Berlin. Somewhere in Germany. I forget, but they tell me the second I'm clocked in anyways. Why?” Steven had his arms up against the couch.

Francis mumbled. “Nacha's from Berlin. I need to call her parents. I haven't bought the ring, but I want to.”

Steven groaned. “Man, just do it. How bad could it be?”

“Mmm… her parents don't like her or me.” Francis fidgeted with his hands. “I'll just do it. Rip off the bandaid, you know?”

“That's my boy.” 

He walks over to the phone. He's gonna keep it as short as possible, because he knows they'll send Nacha a bill. She can't find out.

He dials a number. The phone picks up. These annoying D.D.D phones always have to talk at you forever before you make a long distance call. 

“In case of a doppelganger emergency, this call will be automatically rerouted to the Department of Dopplegänger Detection without notice. If a doorman calls this number, this call will be rerouted to the Doorman's office without notice. We do not take responsibility for any extra charges. To immediately clear your charge without a mailed bill, Visit the Anywhere Apartments Leasing Office within 24 hours of your call. You are calling from the phone of NACHA JUNE MIKAELYS, to Berlin, Germany. The rates for this call will be $4 USD an hour. Do you accept these charges?”

Steven was laughing his ass off.

“Yes, I accept.”

“You have accepted this call. Please wait while the phone rings.”

“Mmm… That's what I was planning on doing…” 

The phone rang four times, before a man picked up.

The man's voice was deep, terrifying. “Hallo. Wie heißt du?” (Hello. What is your name?)

“Francis Mosses.” 

“Francis. Äh.” 

Francis's voice shook. “Ich habe eine sehr wichtige Frage an Sie, Sir. Ich rufe an, um Ihnen eine Frage bezüglich Ihrer Tochter zu stellen.” (I have a very important question to ask you, sir.  I am calling to ask a question about your daughter.)

Steven’s jaw opened slightly. When did Francis learn this language?

At first, Leopold seemed annoyed. “Wann hast du Deutsch gelernt, britischer Junge?” (When did you learn German, British boy?)

“Ich habe sieben Monate damit verbracht, deine Sprache zu lernen, um dir eine sehr wichtige Frage zu stellen.” his voice evened out now. (I spent seven months learning your language to ask you a very important question.)

“Fragen.” (Ask.)

“Darf ich um Nachas Hand anhalten?” (May I have Nacha's hand in marriage?)

Shock filled Leopold's voice. “Nacha? Anhalten?” (Nacha? Marriage?)

“Ja, sir.” (Yes, sir.)

The line went quiet. He could hear faint, but rapid German, and followed by a woman quietly crying. Something about it screamed that it wasn't in a bad way.

His voice broke, but he didn't cry. “Ich dachte, du wärst bloß so ein gehässiger Junge. Da habe ich mich gewaltig geirrt. Ja, du darfst um die Hand meiner Tochter anhalten, Francis.” (I thought you were just some spiteful boy. I was terribly mistaken. Yes, you may ask for my daughter's hand, Francis.)

“Danke.” (Thank you.)

“Ruf an und sag uns, wann die Hochzeit stattfindet. Ich werde einen Flug organisieren. Ich will dich nicht länger aufhalten, da Anrufe nach Deutschland teuer sind. Danke, Francis.” (Call and tell us when the wedding is taking place. I will arrange a flight. I don't want to keep you any longer, since calls to Germany are expensive. Thanks, Francis.)

“Natürlich. Auf Wiedersehen, Sir. Grüßen Sie Frau Mikaelys.” (Of course. Goodbye, Sir. Please give my regards to Mrs. Mikaelys.)

“Ja. Auf Wiedersehen.” (Yes. Goodbye.)

The most important call Francis ever made was under four minutes long. He now needed to run down to the leasing office as fast as possible and pay the $12. He just spent $12 on a three minute phone call. The ring he wanted to buy Nacha was $45. He had $40 saved in a jar under their bed. Just $5. He got paid tomorrow, luckily.

“Steven… I'll be right back.”

“Are you not gonna explain the German?”

“I'll explain after I spend $12.” 

He ran down two flights of stairs into the lobby, running into the door right past the doorman. The woman in the leasing office had seen him come in, panicked, and just looked annoyed.

“What are you here for?” She said, flipping through papers. 

“I just made a call to Germany off of my girlfriend's phone and I need to pay before she gets home.”

The woman looked at him like he was a freak. “Germany?”

“Mmm. Yes. Germany.”

“.... Were you the caller to Berlin?” She squeaked out, unable to believe herself. The carrier company had called as he started the call, as nobody from the Apartments had made a call that expensive before. They were baffled.

He nodded, threw $12 down. She didn't argue. “What room did you call from?”

“02-04. Nacha and Anastacha Mikaelys.” 

She filled the payment seconds later, marking the freshly typed ticket as PAID. “Hurry upstairs. I can see the doorman's office from here plus the line outside, and there's three women.”

Somewhere in Berlin, Nacha's father was rubbing his temples. He was so proud of Francis, so guilty for kicking Nacha out, and so annoyed that that British boy just spent 50.52 Deutsche Mark on a phone call, and didn't let them pay. Nacha's mother was still crying, eaten by the guilt that she had hurt her daughter so severely, and the joy of knowing she would be the first woman in the family to have successfully immigrated and found a life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Steven was only alone for five minutes. Francis was that fast. At that time, he had opened a beer and was taking a huge sip when Francis burst through the door again. Steven spilled it down the front of his shirt.

“Darn, you tryna beat a world record? Sit down.” Francis was breathing heavily.

“Steven, Nacha was handing her ID over when I walked by. That was CLOSE. Oh, and Elenois is in line.”

“Are you sure it was Elenois?”

“Mmm… what are you talking about?” Francis picked up a beer. 

“... The mole?”

 “It was on her left.” 

“She'll be up here in five minutes flat. Unless you forgot your lefts and rights again.”

Francis scoffs. “I know who's who.”

“Sure.” Steven said, taking his sunglasses off. “Like you didn't call Selenne ‘Steven’s bird’ last week and then get slapped. Give Elle a bit. She'll be up here soon.”

Francis shudders. “Yeah, if the doorman notices that your dad doesn't have a hat.”

Steven fake gags. “Not that one again. It thinks it's slick.”

Elenois, Nacha, Marigold, and Anastacha walk in. The German textbook is scooted out from under the couch. Steven looks down, sees it, coughs, and slides it back under with his boot. Selenne is seen walking down the hall, looking exactly like Elenois, down to the outfit. Not her signature red. The only difference between the twins were the moles on their cheeks. 

“Ah, my boyfriend. Look at you, beer all over.” Elenois gives him a kiss on the cheek. “Messy.” 

He laughs. “Well Francis spooked me! Just came in from work like a ghost!” Francis wasn't at work.

Nacha gives Francis a kiss on the lips. Marigold is holding Anastacha’s hand. 

“I missed you, Baby.” Nacha whispered, running her hand along Francis’s arm. “So much.” She leaned in closer, so close nobody could hear her words. “I was thinking about you my whole shift.”

Francis went bright red, kissing her back. “Easy, tiger.”

Anastacha, still in uniform, had pulled Marigold to the table. Marigold was talking about science; the human body, medicine, common illnesses she had learned all from Francis and the library books at school. Marigold was extremely intelligent. Anastacha knew where she'd end up. Just another Tymann's waitress, like Nacha used to be. She had always wanted to work with farm animals, but the wannabe cowboys of this era wouldn't trust a girl with a cow. They were ignoring Nacha and Francis–Anastacha jokingly called them gross.

“I just like the idea of helping people, I suppose.” Marigold said… after a ten minute ramble using terms Anastacha had never even heard of.

Elenois and Steven were talking about her modeling shoot. He was looking at her like she was the only important thing on earth. 

“The photographer confused us for each other probably six separate times. I'm Selenne now, I guess…” Elenois laughed, sitting next to Steven, and snatching a sip of his beer. Nasty. She was used to different types of alcohol. He showed her the bottle of vodka on the other side of the couch, plus a glass he had used earlier. He poured some and handed it to her, expecting something simple. She drank it in one sip and exhaled slowly, placing her wrist near her nose for a moment, and then pulling away. A little bit of bright red lipstick residue was left on the glass.

“That was nothing, country boy.” She snickered. 

Steven made a face. “I don't even understand how you did that.”

When the girls looked over to Francis and Nacha, they started laughing. They couldn't tell what Nacha was saying. It was too quiet to hear, but Francis's face was beet red and he had lipstick spreading from lips to neck. They didn't want to know.

“Anastacha, your Aunt just…” Marigold trailed off.

“Mmm… She does that. She won’t get drunk off that bottle.” 

She continued. “I've never seen anyone do that. My dad drinks a lot and he would have choked to death with that much all at once. She just sighed, rubbed her nose, and made fun of your uncle.” 

“She wasn't rubbing her nose. She does this weird thing with her wrist.” Anastacha’s glare towards them was more calculating now. “Selenne does it too.”

“Selenne?” Marigold cocked her head.

“Mmm…. Her twin sister. Identical, except for a mole on their cheeks.”

“How does Steven not mix them up?” She scooted closer to Anastacha.

“Selenne is mean, and has a heavier accent.”

Marigold's eyes shifted to Elenois, Steven, and then back to Anastacha. “Doesn't that get confusing?”

Anastacha laughed, almost mocking. “Just wait till they get in an argument. It just looks like a lady yelling at herself. It's terrifying.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that night, the apartment phone for Nacha's apartment was freaking out. She was in a different room, and it clicked on as usual. Francis ignored it, until the small speaker on the bottom blared. 

“Incoming call from Berlin, Germany. You will not be charged for this call. Caller accepts the rate of 16.86 DEM per minute.”

He immediately picked it up. An older woman responded, German accent heavy, struggling through her words.

“This is Francis… right?” She was hopeful. “My name is Elke, I am Nacha's mom.”

“It is Francis. Just to warn you, I'm at her apartment on her phone.” He spoke slowly, not wanting to rush her through words.

She made a small, accepting sound. “We made a mistake years ago. I never should have let your parents run off. I never should have kicked out my daughter. She must not like her dad and I.” 

“I don't think she hates you two.” Francis responded, fiddling with the phone cord.

“I'm okay if she does.” Elke said, voice low. “I wanted to call you.”

Francis’s tone shifted from relaxed to confused. “Why?”

She shuddered. “My husband and I were so wrong about you. You learned German to speak to him. And.. I assume for Nacha. Didn't you?”

“I did.” He replied.

“You asked for his permission to marry her!” Elke interjected.

“I did.” Francis continued toying with the phone cord. 

“Why, Francis? What made you want to do all of this for her?” her voice was full of shock.

He laughed coldly. “She deserves it. So does my daughter.”

Elke made another small sound. “Mm-hm… I'm sorry. I learned English in 1930, I had hopes of staying in America talking to my daughter and granddaughter. I assumed–”

Francis suddenly got much happier. “Oh! Anastacha’s first language is German.”

“Really? Nacha taught her that?” All the joy came back into her voice.

It had been five minutes. The call was getting more and more expensive. $20. $24. $28. This woman talked a lot.

“Okay. I can hang up now. Thank you, Francis. Please call us and tell us when the wedding is. Goodbye.” 

“Mmm… Goodbye.”

Click.

That poor woman had a $32 charge.

Francis set the phone down and walked into the bedroom where Nacha was waiting. He smiled awkwardly, before shutting the door and locking it behind him. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a nightmare. But it didn't feel fake.

…

“Nacha? Nacha! Aufstehen, jetzt!” Her father was shaking her awake, hard, telling her to stand up. Was this a dream? Or was she really ten years old again?

He yanked her out of her bed. She was still in pajamas, holding a small stuffed tiger. She was disoriented from sleep, unsure of what her parents were screaming about. Something about going. Something about her taking forever. Before she woke up enough to ask, her mother grabbed her, lifted her into the air, and was yelling again.

Life had been really scary lately. Nobody would tell her what was going on, or why she heard her neighbor's windows being smashed one night, why that little shop down the street had been up in flames, or why her parents would argue about elections. That they had never wanted to vote for that freak, that he was a psychopath, a destined murderer. They just didn't want to be poor. No matter what, he was a maniac. 

Some nights before his election (and Nacha's birth), Elke would sit in front of the fireplace, throwing the contents of Leopold’s wallet into the flames. Piles of nearly useless Marks, all on fire, so the couple could be warm. What other use did they have? Nacha's parents had told her about that so many times. 

Nacha stayed in her mother's arms, scared, trembling, only wearing those little pajamas. When she woke up enough to understand what was going on, she started crying. They were leaving their house in Berlin to go to America to live with Tante Emelia, and they would never return. In the middle of the night, September 1st, 1939.

The Mikaelys had gotten on a train, but Nacha’s dream blacked out before they got on and off again at a port. The three got on a boat with some money and a couple bags of clothes. They didn't look back. People were yelling, her mom speaking so fast she couldn't understand a word of her own language. The last thing she saw near her house was that house next door, with the Jewish family that lived there. The door was wide open, and the house was empty. Years later she would come to find out that just three days after the Mikaelys fled, some evil person had bashed the house’s windows into a million tiny shards and ransacked Nacha's childhood bedroom. Now, years later, their house had become a bakery, her childhood room turned into a poor excuse of a dry ingredient storage.

The last thing Nacha had in her possession from Berlin was that little tiger. When her parents ran to the dock, Nacha felt the stuffed animal slipping out of her small hands. As she gripped on, her fingers missed, and she watched as the tiger gracefully fell into the sea below. Hot, stinging tears ran down her cheeks, poorly stifled. When her mother noticed the tiger’s absence, she hugged Nacha tighter, listening to her daughter sob and mutter something like “Oh, meine kleiner Tiger…” 

On the boat, people were screaming. She couldn't make out much until she slipped out of her mother's grip, falling harshly to the wooden floor. Her knees filled with painful splinters, her mother and father gone from sight. A captain and his colleague were speaking quickly, hushed. The crowd started to make more sense as people calmed down. Nacha finally began to understand what was going on when she heard frantic voices. “Nazis.” “Killing Communists”

“murdering Jews.” 

Burning buildings down. Murdering people. Complete seizure of Germany. They fled because of a new war that would later be known as World War Two.

Her neighbors didn't move like her parents said. They were gone. Put in camps.

She started learning English on the boat from letters on the ground she would find. She didn't know what the words meant yet. News articles about Hitler, about the state of her home country. She couldn't sound the words out, but knew something was wrong. Eventually, her mother ran toward her, swooping the thin child into her arms and sobbing. Her father was trembling…. Then everything faded to black.

Nacha shot up, looking around, thinking she was still on the boat. Instead she saw Francis turned towards her, his gray shirt discarded on the floor, face still smeared with her pink lipstick. Francis was snoring. Her daughter was safe in her room. Nacha's body couldn't process what was happening, and immediately she started sobbing. Quietly at first, but building. Sniffles turned to full blown, violent heaves that nearly made her vomit. Francis stirred, but fell back asleep.

Memories flashed in her mind of her childhood before that. Click, click, click, click. Remembering the nights of smashed glass, screaming, how her neighbors moved but were now, without a doubt, dead. How Tante Emilia was actually just some friend of her mom's that taught her mother english. How she heard from the news about the camps, the murder, the pure insanity, up until that beast ended his own life. 

Photos flashed in her mind. Memories of school, where kids would shun her or physically harm her for her heritage during the war. Each memory of every little thing that unfolded from Kristallnacht to the night she found out she was pregnant played out vividly in uncomfortable detail. Giving birth to Anastacha alone, and then living with some strangers. The thoughts didn't stop, not until Nacha stumbled out of bed, sinking to her knees in front of the window, registering the light outside instead of Berlin's blackout. Gripping the windowsill with all of her strength, Nacha let out an animalistic, agonized wail, body shaking. Anastacha shot up in her sleep, waking up Marigold. In fear. Francis jolted at the sound, looking over to see Nacha on the floor, shaking. He threw his feet over, slid off the bed, and ran over to her. 

“Nacha?! Are you okay?!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Steven had locked himself in the Sverchzt apartment bathroom an hour ago. 

He had another dream of his mother, who had died from a Doppleganger attack when he was three years old. One that looked like his father. She was injured, bleeding out from the wounds. She had told Steven that she loved him as her very last words before her death. 

“Mama's here for you, sweetheart. I love you.”

Nobody had called him sweetheart since. It reminded him of his mother, but he never told anyone.

Mclooy and him always had a bad relationship after that. Steven blamed himself. He left the apartment door unlocked. It was his fault, wasn't it? Neither of the twins were home, so he cried, back against the wall, letting his chest shakily rise and fall. He knew not to go bother Elenois, because she was doing something for his best friend. Selenne was with his dad, of course. Then there was a key in the lock, jingling, before heels clicked against the old tile. He waited for a voice, some kind of implication that it wasn't Selenne. If it was Selenne, he'd be hearing every Russian insult under the sun and would have to run out as fast as possible. If it was Elenois… Well, he didn't know how she'd react. Especially because he had never been even slightly sad in front of her before. Freshly polished nails clinked against the door. 

“Селенна? Если ты там снова со своим парнем, я вытащу тебя за щиколотки.” (Selenne? If you're in there with your boyfriend again, I'm going to drag you out by your ankles.) Elenois knocked harder. 

Steven leaped, wiping his tears. “No! What are you saying?”

“Oh! Steven, come out! What are you doing?” Elenois opened the door, seeing him with tears spread all over and dripped onto his shirt. “Oh, have you been crying?” 

He sniffed, wiping his tears on his shirt. “...No.”

She hugged him, getting on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. There was lipstick smeared. “What happened, baby?” 

Steven trembled, knowing he had to tell her. He wrapped his arms around her tighter. “I had a dream about my mom again.” 

“Your… mother?” Elenois looked up in confusion.

“She was murdered when I was three by a doppelganger. It looked like dad.” He sighed, tears pricking again. “I didn't lock the door coming in…” 

Elenois made a small sound, hugging into him harder. “I have dreams of the night she died all the dang time. The screaming, the blood, my… actual father coming into the aftermath, and finally, her last words. Everything up until she passed with me laying on her chest.” He was crying now, trying to hide it. “I miss her so much. I'm acting like such a softie.”

“Oh, it's okay, Sweetheart.” Elenois responded. In that moment, his entire world paused. Sweetheart? He hadn't even mentioned her last words. He hadn't heard that name since 1933. In that moment, he just burst into tears, sinking into her thin arms like a life source.

“Ah.. did I say something?” She was confused, startled at her normally stoic boyfriend sobbing.

Steven sobbed back, poorly catching his breath. “Y..you… she called me that!” 

She paused, confused now on what to do. “Is there anything I can do for you? To help you numb pain?”

He sniffled more, breaking into sobs again. “Just listen. That's all I want.”