I opened my eyes, a hooded figure stood before me. “Welcome to Hell.” the figure boommed. I was confused “Where am I? And who are you?”The hooded figure spoke again “I am death, and like I said before, you are in Hell.” “What have I done to be here!” Suddenly memories of my life flashed before me, I understood now. “Where are we?” I asked. “Hell, duh,” replied the impertinent spirit. “ No, I mean what is this room, I thought that Hell was going to be all firey and scary and stuff.” Death replied “Man, you are really bias aren’t you? Does everyone think that? Well anyway, we are in a chamber that I call the room of judgment.” I was speechless. Death kept going “I have to give you a test then if you pass it you go to heaven and if you fail, you stay here Hell” I finally understood, “Then let’s get right to it.” After what seemed many days I was done, and death gave my an answer “Well looks like you just barely managed to pass.” My body suddenly felt as light as a feather and I was lifted up to heaven.
“Oh my god! Drive David. He’s got a gun,” she shouted frantically. He stepped on the gas, and the car immediately thrusted forward. Gunshots left Selena’s ears ringing in pain. When the gunman was out of sight, the car continued to speed towards the end of the street which seemed to go on forever. When the road diverged ahead and they had to turn, it seemed as if the car was going too fast to make a turn either way. That’s when Selena looked next to her to see David’s head laying limply backwards over the head rest. She lost all sense of consciousness throughout her body. After what seemed like an eternity she reached her foot over to the driers side and slammed on the breaks bringing the car to an abrupt halt.
“911, hello? I need help. My husbands been shot. We’re on Woodland Dr. I think he’s in shock.” She cried.
“Okay, we have an ambulance on the way. Do you see him breathing?” Asked the operator.
“His chest is raising up and down but his neck is bleeding profusely. Someone help me, I need help!” She Shrieked.
“Maam, I need you to remain calm. We can’t control this situation until the ambulance arrives, but we can prevent it from worsening. I need you to find something to stop the bleeding. Without moving his body, I need you to apply pressure to the trauma.”
Tearing off her t-shirt leaving her dressed in only her bra, she pressed it against her husbands neck. She couldn't understand why this had happened to them. Why now? She realized her hands were shaking. The blood was still pouring out from the gunshot wound, and rolling down the small of her arms. She could feel the warmth of the blood tickling her palms. As the ambulance arrived, Selena felt a bit of relief as there were now professionals there who knew what was going on.
When the professionals arrived, they acted as if it was their job to ignore questions and focus solely on keeping the victim alive.
“Is he going to be okay?” Sel asked the team of paramedics.
“He’s still breathing, and he has a pulse. Both are good signs, however, we need to monitor his pulse closely as it continues to rise and fall,” quickly answered one of the paramedics as he closed the door of the ambulance and told Selena to follow them to Bricksburrow Hospital, about 10 miles away.
David fell in and out of consciousness in the ambulance, fainting each time he looked down to see blood covered bandages smothering his neck. The sirens terminated as the ambulance halted at the hospital entrance. David was immediately removed from the ambulance, and was being rolled towards the emergency room. Sel was trying to keep up but was covered from head to toe in her husband’s blood. At the hospital the doctors were assessing her husband’s state to determine whether to send him immediately to the E.R., or to remove the bullet and stitch up the neck.
Once again, David was being moved from the hospital room. Sel got up to follow the nurses in the middle of all the chaos.
“I’m sorry maamm, you’ll have to wait here. He needs heart surgery, the bullet grazed his heart,” said a nurse.
Falling weakly onto her knees she covered her face with her bloody palms smudging her makeup to reveal her age. She made her way back to the waiting room, she felt like she was someone else trapped in her own body. Her body was trembling in fear for her husband’s life. An older woman in the waiting room saw how distressed she was, sat down next to her, and put her hand on her shoulder.
“Are you okay?” She offered empathetically.
“It’s my husband…”she winced, “he was shot and now he’s in surgery.”
“I’m going to tell you something hun,” she said as she walked Selena to a chair next to hers.
“It was about four years ago I was in your current position,” the lady she had just met started. “I was sitting on a hospital bed next to my husband covering my face to hide the overwhelming fear and pain that had taken over my body within seconds of the new of our doctor. I tried to hold it together best I could. I wanted to be the strong one for both of us after all I wasn't the one who’d been summoned to a possible death from cancer after fighting through hell to stay alive. I never lost hope though and when they told me he had a 50/50 chance of surviving, that was the day he told me he couldn't undergo the treatments anymore.”
“I remember him telling me in exactly these words, ““I want you to know how much I love you, I want to be with you until the day I die, but these treatments are taking the life from me faster than the disease itself.”’ Now when he spoke these words to me I know it was selfish of me but for me his death was not an option, if it were up to me he'd fight until he was cancer free and I’d be next to him fighting with him. I researched his cancer type and found out there was one more option we hadn't yet explored. I brought it to his attention and he agreed to at least talk to the doctors about it and stay optimistic.”
“The next visit we went to, he told them he was done with the treatments. He brought up the surgery I told him about and they said that it was a possible procedure for the type of bone cancer he had however, they do not like to operate on people his age due to possible health conditions. I remember when they said this my husband was quick to respond, “”What health conditions, I’m dying.”” The doctor said that they would consider the procedure after checking his vitals, and medical records. When the doctors agreed they explained first. They would make an incision in his arm where the cancers were located and remove some of the bone in his arm before the cancer had a chance to spread. They told us that even after the surgery they could not be positive that the cancer wouldn't spread.My husband said he wanted to go through with it so thats what we did.
“The day of his surgery I was just like you were today. I was a wreck sitting on the ground not caring who was watching me cry. I was praying for my husband’s life, I promised myself I would never give up. A while after he was released from surgery the surgeons gave us the news that it looked as if the cancer cells had all been removed however, he would have to come back a week later to make sure. My husband kept asking me why we hadn't done the surgery in the first place. The doctors never told us about it because of his age. He has been cancer free for three years and today we are here because he ate some of my cooking and got food poisoning.” She laughed. “I want you to know there is always hope, don't give up trying. Your husband will fight but he needs you to fight with him. Be strong. If you want, you can sleep and I’ll wake you up if a doctor comes in asking for you.” The older lady offered. Selena smiled and whispered, “thank you,” as she leaned her head up against the wall, “for everything.”
Sel opened her eyes screaming, “help me, he’s been shot, help.” The lady who’d told her the story was sitting next to her trying to calm her down. “You’re okay, he’s gotten help honey.” Sel came to the realization that she was no longer in potential danger but was wondering when someone was going to tell her about her husband. He’d been in surgery for about four hours before they came and told her that he was in a room for recovery. The surgeon asked, “would you like to see your husband now?” Without answering she stood up following the surgeon, she quickly turned around and told the old lady thank you realizing that she hadn't needed to stay, her husband sitting next to her. He had probably came back during the time Sel was asleep.
There he sat five feet away from her. “David I love you,” she whispered with a drop of salt at the crease in her lips. When he didn't answer her Sel looked to the surgeon. He said, “he is still under from the surgery, he will be up in around an hour.” “He’s okay though right?” Asked Selena. “Yes, the surgery went well, however there was spinal damage from the surgery and your husband will no longer have full function of his legs, i’m sorry,” empathized the doctor.
Sel was lost, confused. She sat there wondering what to make of the situation that was instantly thrown her way.
No doubt their lives would be different from now on however, Sel decided her feelings for Dave would never change. As life goes on things are bound to change. There is no such thing as long term consistency though many people would like to believe so. Sel heard David shuffle in the sheets of the hospital bed.
"My legs," he said, "I can't move them."
Sel looked at her husband unsure how to inform him that he would never move them again. That kind of news could change even the strongest person. It was something that would take time to get used to and all Sel wanted him to know was that he wasn't going to go through any of it alone.
The Doc came in and Dave knew something was wrong. Actually he knew something was wrong the moment he couldn't feel his legs. He was trying to convince himself it was still an effect of the drugs in his system.
"The surgery was a little rough Dave, you will be alright however, your spinal cord was injured in the process. This means that you will have no movement below your hips. I am so sorry. Im going to give you a moment with your wife." Said the doctor leaving the room ashamed of his work.
David began to cry, Sel sat next to him on the bed holding onto his shoulder. "I love you," she whispered. Dave replied, "I'm so sorry." Sel looked at him with tears in her eyes trying to be strong for both of them. What did he have to be sorry for? It could have happened to anyone. It's crazy how dramatically things can change within a matter of seconds, in half a blink of an eye.
The shooting was investigated but, there was no evidence left at the crime scene so there was nothing the detectives could use as a lead. The couple didn't get a look at the shooter either as they had a mask covering their face and besides that it was late at night so they couldn't see much anyway.
Despite the shooting it made Sel and Dave even closer. Though they weren't able to have children of their own, they adopted two children, two little girls. They taught their childen not to take what you have or time for granted as both are gifts which can be taken quickly away.
Everytime her nightmares tricked her by beginning off like a normal, casual dream.
It was daytime and she was outside her school — Calibri High School sitting in the middle of the the big, wide lawn that was next to the parking lot.
Rowan looked all around her at the vacant campus. There were no cars parked in the parking lot or students on campus or teachers or anyone.
She didn't feel anything in the dream, the air around her was temperature-less. Huh? Was all that Rowan could think. When she made her way off the lawn and walked through the school’s double doors she instantly looked all around her and could tell that it was empty. Stupid place
Rowan was sort of growing paranoid. Usually when she was in a dream, for her was like watching an already filmed movie with the inside of her eyelids serving as the white movie screen up against her eyeballs. THIS time it felt like her entire, whole physical body had been PLACED inside the movie, like it was happening live or something.
She walked down the very empty hallways, past the main office, past the school’s trophy/award display, and up the steps to the top floor. As soon as she stepped foot on the top floor she felt a looming presence— or maybe that was just her expecting somebody to be there?
Stupid boring school.
When she turned down a hallway suddenly she knew where she was going.
Mrs. Myers room.
Room 216.
And the presence no longer felt uncertain, she knew there was someone or something waiting in that class. Rowan didn't know who and she didn't make that much assumptions either.
Mrs. Myers?
She expected to walk in and see the French teacher doing something on her computer at her desk in the back of the class. But she enters a simply empty classroom
Why this room? Rowan thought
Goosebumps raised on her arms.
Rowan blinked and everything around her disappeared and reappeared in 2 quick flickers. Quicker than you can snap your fingers.
Kids.
The classroom was full of students. And noisy.
It was like an average school day suddenly. Kids chatted loudly while sitting at their desks, some sitting on their desks. A dozen were on their phones while a few threw paper balls & airplanes across the classroom at each other.
Rowan looked all around her.
Whaa
she felt surprised to see them along with a pinch of awkwardness
Something that wasn't exactly a thought raced through her mind that went a little like
Are these people real?
Not knowing what else to do, she slowly walked to the closest empty desk next to her and sat down very puzzled. That's when she noticed that she was dressed in her boring usual black and white school uniform.
“Hey Row!” said a voice
She brought her attention to the desk to the left across from her. Forestt sat there with a smile on his face and his hands clasped together in front of him on his desk.
Okay this seemed cheesy to Rowan.
He literally showed up out of no where she thought. How could she have not noticed Forrest, her best friend sitting down when she walked across the classroom a minute ago? She would've said hi.
Rowan didn't say “hi” though, she just narrowed her eyes and stared. She believed everything that was happening around her just as much as you would believe that it was your grandmother lying in that bed if you were put in Little Red Riding Hood’s position in the fairy tale. If you had a brain of course.
Eyes aren't enough obviously (take a look at little red riding hood!)
Obviously not wanting to engage in conversation with Forestt she turned in her seat studying the students around her. She came to focus on a student dressed in all black standing to the side leaning against the wall. She had coal black hair and pale skin, a round chin and wore a lace string choker around her neck. Her expression was cold and her arms were crossed and her attention was torwards the other side of the room.
For some reason she stood out to Rowan more than anyone else in the class. Could she have been the reason for that odd feeling Rowan felt before?
There was no way of knowing but the girl did look cold-blooded. Rowan turned her attention to the students she was staring at behind her
It was four boys who were insanely annoying and disruptive in French.
To the teacher mostly anyway.
Carl, Rick, Jones & Blake all stood together by the table chatting their butts off and making each other laugh hysterically.
Carl & Rick, best friends; were really popular for simply being super cool jokesters in class. They were naturally hilarious and constantly making everyone laugh. Everyone secretly appreciated having them in room 216 no matter how many times they rudely blurted out while the teacher was talking or disrupted the class. It was fun to have them in class for everybody except Mrs. Myers. The two boys gave the old lady headaches.
Ro simply knew this because she saw her taking aspirin at her desk several times a day like it was a lifestyle for her.
Jones was also really popular and liked too. Not just for being a hottie but he always dressed like a million bucks 24/7.
When he came to school his clothes were always neat and clean with his hair in the same sexy oiled back hairstyle (like Link from hairspray.)
Ro watched him eating fries at lunch and always wondered how he could eat them all the time without making a mess and getting ketchup on himself (like she happened to do a lot).
And he smells like hairspray and blueberries. (That's what the girls say anyways.)
Jones’s smile was cute enough to light up a Christmas tree.
Rowan, like anyone else heard the rumours about him kids spread
“He comes from serious money”
“Dude I hear his grand parents are loaded”
“Probably spoil him down to the core”
“I hear he dips his candy apples in gold instead of chocolate”
“Dude, shut up”
“No, really dude my uncle has a friend who's a fisherman who said he sees him down at the docks on his old folks yacht every summer.”
“What, no way”
Rowan found the gold candy apple thing ridiculous but couldn't help but imagine Jones posting a selfie of him with a golden candy apple on his instagram.
Blake, the last out of the crew was as equally popular as Jones and even cuter. He knew a lot of people around school. He was a super friendly guy and he had this hypnotic, dreamy smile that could make anyone feel super special; whether he was talking to you or simply just smiling at you in the hallway. He made friends super quickly and pretty much never gets any beef with anybody.
You'd have to be totally brain dead not to like him and go to Calibri. That was Rowan’s opinion atleast.
Ro had had her eyes on Blake since 5th grade. It was a crush, she just was too afraid to admit it because it downright annoyed her how much she was crazy for the guy.
She couldn't help getting extremely shy around him and she hated it. Rowan was not a shy girl
She gave him an attitude for some reason in school and she didn't even know why.
You’re so stubborn! You treat your crush like a big “AVOID ME” sign Ro sometimes said to herself without meaning to.
It's not like she felt like he was too superior & popular compared to her. Maybe it's the other way around!
You’re not special. You're not too good for him! Stop acting like it.
Rowan noticed the girl in the corner of her eye move she turned to see that she had stopped leaning on the wall and watched her uncross her arms.
She blew a strand of hair away from her face with a huffy breath if finally making a decision. Her cold expression never left her face.
Ro wanted to know more about her so she grabbed her arm when she walked by her desk. It was clear she was on her way over to the group of chatting boys.
Round chin paused and looked at Rowan’s hand on her arm as if it was the filthiest thing that could ever touch her on the planet. Her facial expression changed to a snarl.
“Hey, what's your na—”.
The enthusiastic voice Rowan tried at dropped.
Rowan paused and stared at the girls shoes as the ends of her vision blurred mystically and her ears filled with the sound of whispery hisses and whispers that were words that weren't English that she could barely make out.
Huh?
They seemed to be a warning; trying to give her info, let her know something about the girl. She was definitely sure she could only hear them
The girl paused at first acknowledging Rowan then brutally head butted Rowan making her gain a dizzy headache. She fell to the ground on her knees, then to her side and laid down on the floor like she was going to sleep as she blacked out with the dream world she was in fading away all around her, she could feel it dismissing slowly along with the room full of talking kids.
It made her glad the dream was over.
It was surely telling her to watch out her the girl’s existence, right? Or just to not approach crabby, goth dressing girls.
He stares at me.
“She punched me,” he says.
“Do you have anything to say?”
I look down.
I can’t.
He’ll hurt me.
He told me horrible things.
He whispered them into my ear as I was on the ground.
“Don’t tell,” he said, his breath smelling of beer.
I tried to punch him. I tried to use the tactics I could remember searching for on those late nights.
He swore at me.
Told me I was fat and ugly.
He left soon.
Eventually, I got up.
I didn’t say what happened.
I bought pepper spray.
I now have insomnia.
I stay up all night, typing in the same things.
On the nights I sleep, they fill with nightmares.
My heart speeds up every time I see him walking through the halls.
Does he know this?
Does anyone know this?
“Cathy!” He barks. “What do you have to say?”
He’s staring at me, his eyes wavering at me.
Don’t tell, they say.
I see something in his eyes.
Hidden.
Fear.
I am the predator.
He is the prey.
“Yes,” I say. The words form in my mouth.
My words.
His eyes fill with terror.
“I do have something to say.”
Beckett Stowe didn’t make facial expressions. His face was always kept in a neat, neutral position. We nicknamed it “The Beckett Face,” because no matter what he was feeling - sad, mad, angry - his face was the same. One time I saw him cough, and his face hardly moved at all. Imagine a mouth, opening as if to stretch the jaw, and then close back together as if nothing happened. That was what it looked like. If there was not the distinct coughing sound, I would have thought he was trying to yawn, to no avail.
I sometimes wondered if he didn’t feel anything, or if he just didn’t outwardly show it. For some people, not feeling anything is the usual, so that when they finally do feel something, it is exciting, new, and exhilarating. That was what I thought about Beckett.
I came to know Beckett through the skatepark. It was an indoor place, big, with only two windows and a garage door kept open at all times. The place used to be an auto body shop. There were ramps, rails, bowls… you name it, this skatepark had it. Every day, I would see Beckett across the way, working on tricks with his inscrutable face on. He was talented, and he, among everybody else, knew that he was going to become pro someday. But when he was not on his board, his poker face would make him look like a stuck up loner.
Then one day it happened. I was working on ground tricks, in a flat section of pavement nobody really used. The park was almost deserted; I could count the number of people there on my one hand. Annoyed that I couldn’t stick any of the tricks I was working on, I started staring into space at the broken drinking fountain in the corner. The occasional skater--the high school kid with the cliched dragon tattoo on his forearm and his buddy who came to the park stoned every day-- would take me out of my trance for a couple seconds, but it was none other than Beckett himself that made me really snap out of it.
He and his friends were playing tag, on their boards of course. It intrigued me. Watching them have fun, with each other, made me realize how lonely I was. I came to the park by myself every day because I didn’t have one friend that wanted to spend time at a sketchy, run-down park. Beckett and his friends raced around the park, hiding in corners and then scooting away as fast as possible when anybody came near them. It was funny to watch them, their arms moving fast as their leg rapidly reached out to push off of the hard concrete. It also looked fun; everybody’s face was smiling, eyes crinkled up in delight.
Everybody except for Beckett, that is. His face was in a deadpan, as it always was. He whipped around corners, always keeping a couple paces ahead of those that were ‘it.’ His kick turns were smooth, his transitions effortless. As an outsider, somebody that was clearly not involved, it seemed that he was winning this game. If it was even possible to win at the game of tag on skateboards. He had this aura about him, also. He knew that he was doing fine, that there was no way he was going to be tagged. The way he skated from side to corner and back again around the park, he looked relaxed, fluid, in control.
Some other skaters didn’t look as unclenched as he did. There was a skater directly to my left who was trying to drop in for the first time. I found out later that his name was Kyle. He stood, at the top of the ramp, eyeing the tight angle of it reluctantly. He went to the bottom of the steep incline, to the side, in the back, all to eye it up. I could tell that he was very scared. It seemed like, for him, to know every inch of the ramp would make it less scary. So there he was, staring at that one ramp, for an upwards of twenty minutes. His frightened, anxious persona seemed to roll off of him in waves.
He stood on the back wheels and tail end of his board at the top of the ramp, his left foot floating in the air indecisively. Upon first glance, I decided that he probably wasn’t going to end up going through with it. Then, with a sudden burst of movement, Kyle slammed his left, front foot down. The front wheels of his board slammed to meet the ground in the way that he did not expect.
Even though that’s typical of a drop-in, Kyle obviously didn’t know that. He let out a sound that had to be a cross between a yelp and a squeal as he sped off down ramps, his board wobbling slightly because of his speed. I started to feel a twitch of excitement inside of me. Somehow, I knew that he and Beckett were going to intersect with each other. I started to come out of my daze, instead focusing on scene in front of me.
Beckett, in his own zone, had only just started to turn around the corner of a small bowl when Kyle hit him, full on. I’m not sure who I felt worse for: Kyle, who was scared shitless at this point, or Beckett, who got hit so hard the entire skatepark stopped to see what had happened. Beckett didn’t have time to react before Kyle’s board ran into his and both boys went catapulting away. Beckett was facing Kyle, his hands sandwiched between their bodies. I watched as he didn’t even have time to pull his arms out and under him before he crashed. Kyle had his hands out, his right arm straight towards the floor. I cringed. Kyle landed, his right arm touching the ground first. His arm bent under his weight. He rolled a couple times and crashed into the hard pavement. Beckett was not as lucky. His hands weren’t underneath him, and there was nothing to cushion the fall.
If I was spacing out before, I definitely wasn’t now. With the loud cracking sound following Beckett’s body being thrown to the ground, shivers traveled up my back. If there was a sound that I associated with this new, haunting noise, it would be the sound of somebody cracking their fingers.
In Beckett’s case, it wasn’t his fingers. The point of impact affected the most was his back. The moment seemed to pause, my whole conscious zooming in to the sound of bone hitting pavement loud enough to silence a crying baby.
Nobody moved. Even the kids in the corner wearing goth clothing and listening to rock music stopped everything, leaving the park silent. I was leaning forward, watching the scene with heightened senses. The boy that I was having fun watching was now on the ground, maybe even dead. The only sound was the soft scratch of Kyle and Beckett’s boards lurching away.
After Kyle’s fall, he was laying there, eyes up toward the ceiling, as if he could not believe that he had just crashed. His right arm was bent oddly, but looking at him, he didn’t look in too much pain. It was Beckett that looked bad. He too was looking upwards, but for a different reason. I hadn’t seen him move at all since the initial fall right on his back. Even for his usual, neutral expression, there was a slight grimace of pain. I could see him calculating if it would be worth it to try to stand or not. It seemed unreal to me that the skillful skater I had just been watching dominate the park was now on the ground.
Kyle staggered awkwardly to his knees, then his feet. He put his hands in hair, and I saw him mouth many profanities while assessing the state Beckett was in. If everybody wasn’t so horrified with what had just happened, specifically the noise, it would almost be funny watching him not know what to do. He contemplated the situation, before reaching out his tentative, wavering left arm to Beckett.
There was a second where I thought Beckett wanted to kill him, but he then grabbed Kyle’s open hand and pulled himself up. The two of them stood there, and I was sure that one of them was going to start throwing fists for knocking the other over.
Then Beckett smiled. The instant I saw it, I knew it was genuine. His eyes scrunched up, and all of this teeth showed, even the ones in the back. The sound of him laughing, really laughing, broke the silence in the skatepark. I didn’t understand why he was happy after the fall, and don’t know still to this day. That was the one time I saw Beckett Stowe grin, and I haven’t seem him smile since.
“Three,” she says. “Only three today.”
I feel her wipe my neck with the cold green cloth she carries. She scrubs my neck down before I hear her pick up the first one.
It should hurt. I know it should hurt.
I’ve done it too much. Too often, each time too soon. The sharp pain feels weak now. I feel it spread through my neck, suffocating me for a second before it slowly diminishes.
I used to be scared of this. The pain, the suffocation. How much was added in. How quickly she did it, always to return the next day with more.
It used to scare me.
It still does.
I hear her throw the remains away, along with her cloth. She washes her hands before she pulls out a new cloth from a box. She picks up another tray before walking over to the next child.
I rub the edges of my neck, feeling the bruises and lumps that have formed on the sides. I stare at the lumps that have formed on my hands. I swallow, feeling the clump of saliva that falls down my throat.
I do this over and over.
I shut my eyes.
I wish I could see myself doing this. Seeing myself swallow the lump that falls. Seeing the purple and blue bruises that sit on my neck, just like they do on other children.
What do I look like?
I asked Rosa this once, the girl who lay next to me in her own metal bed. She shrugged weakly.
You look like yourself.
But what color are my eyes? My lips?
She stares back at me, her eyes slowly turn soft.
Don’t you think if I knew I would say? She whispers.
Then I realized the reality again.
Something was wrong with all of us who lay in these beds.
Rosa was nearly blind.
I had one leg.
The boy next to me had six fingers and could not speak.
We did not look or seem like those who stared back at us from the TV.
Why do they keep us here? I asked her.
She sighed.
We are different from the other kids. We are dirty they say. Contaminated.
She said these words harshly. She spited them out. For a moment I stared at her before she looked away.
I turn over to see the bed where a new child lies in the bed where Rosa once lay. She wails softly for her mother.
I feel bad for her.
Yet I cannot relate.
I did not know my family.
Maybe I didn’t have one.
Rosa told me its because they took me away early.
It’s easy to tell the difference between having two legs and one.
They knew who I was from the beginning.
I imagine my family on some days.
I would have a sister like Rosa, kind and sweet and soft. A brother who would let me play all his games. I would greet my mother and father, both so loving and sweet. I would not live here. I would live in a home. Even the worst of homes could not be as bad as here.
At least homes don’t numb your neck.
“Lights out!” The woman barks.
There is no reason for this. No one talks or even gets up here. Everyone begins to breathe less though, to breathe quieter as if one loud breath could harm you.
I hear the girl next to me sleep in short and quick breaths.
The boy on the other side of the room snores.
A sudden wave of exhaustion begins to pour over me, though I have done nothing to exert my energy.
I shift over to my side, shutting my eyes.
I let the wave of exhaustion take over my body.
I remember the day Rosa left.
She wore the white gown she’d worn every other day, except it was now fresh and clean. She had no luggage with her like the people who travel on the TV do. Her bed had been made, clean and sharp, a corner slightly folded over for someone else.
Rosa, are you leaving to return to your family?
She looked over at me; her back still turned away, craning her neck over her shoulder awkwardly. She glanced at me before her head turned away again.
No, she said quietly. I am leaving for good.
What do you mean?
I could see her shaking the back of her head.
Rosa, I continued, speaking louder. Why aren’t you going to your family?
I could see her walking over to my bed, now in long strides as she crossed the floor.
I have outlived my purpose here.
I tried to speak as she stopped me.
You will understand one day, she whispered. She began to walk away when she stopped. She turned around.
Leave. She said. Promise me you’ll leave here one day.
What do you-?
Promise me.
Her eyes stared at me, filled with hope.
I nodded at her. I promise.
She hugged me tightly.
I watched as she walked over towards beige door that stood in the corner of the room. She paused there for a moment when a woman with a green cloth came out, motioning her through the door, which then shut behind them.
Five minutes later the woman came out and began scrubbing her hands under the sink furiously.
A sudden wave of panic rose over me.
Rosa had not come out.
I was seven at the time.
I did not understand this.
I thought Rosa had left.
The woman would not have allowed her to leave, let alone help her escape.
I sucked in my breath as if I was now suffocating again.
Rosa was dead.
She had been killed.
My eyes flew open, my head throbbed, my heart beat frantic as beads of sweat began to form, and then running down my face.
I stared at the TV above the sink.
3:46am.
I crawled down under the covers, slowing my breath.
Rosa.
Rosa.
Rosa.
Her voice echoed in my head.
I have outlived my purpose here.
She had lost her purpose here.
But what purpose did any of us serve?
I felt hot and sweaty underneath the covers, my chest still pounding.
I pulled the covers up, spotting a glance of sunshine beginning to glow through the window that stayed near the ceiling. A ray of gold and red flickering through.
Rosa.
The sun began flickering more, glowing brighter and hotter, its shadow growing bigger.
I turned over once again, avoiding the sun that now began to creep over my sheets. A sharp pain thudded through my neck.
Bruises.
Welts.
Scars.
The shots and the medicine.
I shut my eyes, squeezing them shut.
I wish this would all go away.
But I knew.
It all made sense.
We were being tested.
None of us could be cured of our differences.
The differences we had between the people of the screen.
We were tested for others.
I remember seeing an old man walk in one day.
It was the first time I had seen an old man.
He had mumbled something to a brown-haired woman as he pointed and observed the child in the corner.
The child had had blood drawn from her.
She had entered that room a week later.
Rosa had become that girl.
It made sense.
Rosa had died.
She was no longer useful as a test case.
She had outlived her purpose.
They would never let her leave.
A wave of anger and disgust flew over me.
Rosa had died for others.
She’d been a sacrifice.
That meant the rest of us would die the same way.
A sense of panic arose in my chest.
I couldn’t breathe.
My heart began pounding as my head began to feel lighter. My arms began to weaken.
I tried to scream but all I could hear was the pulse in my ears.
A woman came out of the beige room, looking over at me for a second before groaning. I could hear her pick up something, the deep ache once again returning to my neck.
The feeling of suffocation disappeared as she gripped my arm, she was gritting as she began dragging me out of the bed.
She dragged me to the room.
I screamed, my arms and legs flying.
She smacked me in the face.
I could feel blood pouring out of my nose as she dragged me in, shutting the door behind her.
I gripped the handle as she pulled me away, my grip slipping from the metal handle. She threw me onto a table, stabbing something into my leg.
I groaned.
You don’t understand, do you? She says angrily. This is hard for me too. Killing children one after another. They don’t deserve this.
Then why do you do it? I mumbled.
She shook her head. I did something a long time ago.
I felt her push the trigger; the ache seemed to worsen the harder she pushed.
She let go, pulling the needle out.
I’m sorry, she whispered. But none of the children can know the things we do.
We can’t risk it, Her faint voice murmurs.
The world began to fade dark into the edges.
My throat began to contract.
The darkness began overflowing my vision as I watched the woman go blurry.
I gasped as the world had disappeared.
The woman.
She had pulled her arm off, a prosthetic I believe
Only the rich could afford such a thing.
And the woman had pulled hers off, her left arm remaining.
The woman had one arm.
I stared at her as the world vanished from my sight.
The darkness seemed endless.
am i dead?
A light began to glow in the corner, slowing forming into words.
Continue system shut down?
Yes.
No.
I shut my eyes.
I now realize what this means.
I was a robot.
I had not been born like those on TV.
They had made me a robot.
Now it’s up to me to decide whether to shut down or not.
Whether I die or not.
I glance at no for a moment, wondering if I should do it.
The pain. The hurt.
I could die in peace.
I was nothing but a mere robot.
But then I would have no meaning.
I think of Rosa.
The promise I made to her.
She would’ve chosen yes.
The children. The woman. Everyone.
Yes.
I think of the man who walked in.
The children that died.
No.
No. No. No.
The system was flawed.
It gave no purpose. No meaning to the life we lived.
I stared away from the two letters.
I would live.
I would choose yes.
I would live for them.
I would live to see the day this monstrosity would fall and die.
Where we could all be free.
I stare at the words that glow in the corner.
Yes.
They flicker before the words go dark again.
A glowing ball appears, growing and growing, blinding me.
I howl in pain as the lights burn my eyes.
Then it stops.
The ball gets dimmer as it spreads, creating texture and feeling.
I see Rosa’s face.
For a moment I believe I am dead.
Then I see the shadows of the beige room behind her.
She grins at me, kissing my cheek quickly.
Am I dead? I whisper to her.
She shakes her head.
No. You are alive. You chose well.
I sigh with relief.
What happens now?
Rosa laughs happily.
We leave. We are free now. The children are free. Free from wrath. Free from the inequality in which these people had forced us into. We will prove our worth them. Show them who we are. We will fight.
I smile at Rosa.
The door creaks open as the woman walks in.
She grabs Rosa’s hand.
Rosa grabs mine.
Are you ready? She asks.
I feel my heart beating quickly.
I nod.
The woman takes off running towards the wall as Rosa and I follow.
We run.
Faster.
And faster.
We begin to rise, over the wall, our feet no longer touching the ground.
We begin to fly.
Jess was quite a small mouse. Although he was quite a smart one too. As a child he would climb up the tallest pine tree he could find. The wind would sway him back and forth; Jess could see where the trees of the seemingly endless forest met the sky. The young mouse often searched the sky looking for something else to meet the horizon. Yet the trees dark tops were the only things that it met. This left Jess wondering if there was something else, past the forest.
It is now winter and Jess’s childhood has left him. He resides at home reading book after book; waiting for the day he leaves for auxiliary school. His novels contained fables of lands beyond the dense woods. He had read of deserts, mountains, and the tundra. Each night he dreamed more of visiting those places, but each day he was reminded of his commitment to acedemy. When the date of departure came Jess exited his home to begin his journey to the institution. Jess remembered the trail to the academy was east; however, after some thought he turned west and smiled. I hope there are mice in the mountains, he thought.
The night sky above me holds the silver stars and great darkness but holds no moon. The fact that the sun drowned in the canvas of blue just to let the moon come up for air amazes me, but the luminous pearl is not afloat above my petals tonight. Without its opposite, the sun must feel incomplete, causing the night sky to seem flawed and empty.
Just like the sun and the moon, without my menacing thorns, I feel incomplete. And just like when the sun yearns for the moon every night, I long to let my weapons escape the veils of my petals. Without my perilous features, I can’t be perfect nor can I be real.
Perfection within me is only possible with all of me - not half of me. I can’t be perfect without my colorful petals, nor can I be perfect without my menacing knives; I need both. When they come together, they create me; a dangerously beautiful rose that just like the sun and the moon, feels incomplete without the other. Perhaps, we can only become perfect when our unique imperfections come together to create something beautifully united in the flaws of this divided world.
Death is an odd being. Most expect Death to be an intimidating skeletal creature with a midnight cloak draped across their bony shoulders. To be cruel and precise. But this is not necessarily true. Death is a young girl, her piercing blue eyes full of curiosity and recklessness. Her soft blonde hair reaching past her waist, she walks with a sort of grace and innocence. Humans may as well be her playthings, toying with their precious lives. Coming unexpectedly, about to snatch their life away, then deciding against it at the last second. Death doesn't know what she is doing. She is simply curiously prodding, messing with us, not aware of or even caring about the consequences.
Oakley is a small old town. The roads are dirt, and the buildings a dull gray stone. The only ornate structure is an exquisite fountain lying in the center of the buildings, though it hasn't worked in years. The little water that still rests at the bottom is frozen over. A fifteen year old boy, Breslin, stands in the middle of the street. There is laughter surrounding him, joy warming the ice ridden town. There are children knocking on one door, then another, their cheerful caroling filling the frosted air. The streets are crowded that day. Breslin thinks it is strange, as people should be inside in the midst of the deadly of winter, but deep down he knows why all the families are flooding out into the snowy streets; it is Christmas Eve. Christmas means friends and family, laughter and generosity, lights and smiles.
Oddly, this doesn't seem to apply to Breslin as Christmas holds painful memories. While trudging through the mobs of rosy cheeked children and smiling parents, they automatically cringe away as if he was the Black Plague. He tries to not let it bother him.
Breslin knows he is so hated because of this exact day last year when some of the boys he went to school with were childishly taunting him. His younger sister, Freya, had passed away unexpectedly the night before.
Breslin remembers it clearly; she was not ill, nor was she cursed with some injury. She was sleeping in her bed like any typical night; the fire was going, making her chamber comfortably warm. No one knew the reason for her death, there was no reason. He remembers the next morning; a morning he would do anything to forget. Breslin was putting on his coat when he heard his mother's cry piercing the silence of the stone house. He leapt up the stairs, his thunderous footsteps echoing in the frigid hallway. When he reached Freya's room, his sister was being cradled in his mother's shaking arms. Freya looked as if she were sleeping. Her mousy brown hair was tangled and she had on a thin, white nightgown. She looked peaceful, too peaceful to belong to this world of cruelty and destruction, but now she belongs to another world. He remembers pain;oh so much pain. He remembers hollow sadness. He remembers helplessness. He also remembers rage. A burning, uncontrollable, reckless madness. When he walked the white powdered streets the next day he remembers glaring at every passerby. Throughout the day the townspeople seemed stunned. Breslin was known for being a meek intelligent boy, a teacher favorite, a gentleman. When walking back home, a group of boys had the nerve to taunt him. Breslin wheeled around and punched the leader of the group, Desmond, in the nose. He remembers punching and kicking and wrestling. He remembers blood and foul words being spit in each other's faces. It took three large men to pry Breslin off of Desmond.
Now, the whole town is wary of him. Breslin glares at the ground while recalling the memory. He takes in his surroundings, too happy, too cheerful. His innocent six year old sister died on this day, happiness should not be present, but it is. Breslin stalks off, away from the smiling crowds. He starts to run, as if he can run away from this town, from his memories, from reality. He doesn't know how long he runs but his muscles burn and his limbs are numb from cold, he can no longer recognize his surroundings, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't even halt when the stone town fades behind him and he finds himself in a ice coated forest. He sprints deeper into the unknown tangle of trees. He finally stops. His heavy breaths produce white clouds against the chill. A tear rolls down his face as he gazes at the landscape of the winter forest. Freya would have loved it here. The sky is darkening and logic is screaming for Breslin to go back, but his heart tells him to stay. He lays down on the cold ground, gazing at the black sky. All he wants is to be with his sister again. A thin layer of snowflakes now coat his entire body and the cold feels like a million needles plunging deep into his flesh. Logic starts to scream even louder but he doesn't listen. He couldn't even if he wanted to, it's like he is frozen to the forest floor. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye Breslin spots a little girl peering at him from behind a tree. When she approaches him with cautious, yet purposeful steps, he sees her eyes. They are wide and curious, their color a captivating bright blue.
"What are you doing?" she giggles
Breslin does not answer.
She starts to approach him and offers him a hand. Automatically, Breslin reaches up to take it. He seems to float up from the ground, standing with inhuman ease. He peers behind him to find his body still lying on the frozen earth, motionless. He stares at the innocent looking child in horror.
"Who are you?" He whispers, stunned.
"Death" she responds with a mischievous smile.
It would normally be difficult to believe that this small child clutching his hand is Death, but under his circumstances it is quite convincing. His body is lying behind him and he feels lighter, as if in a dream. This girl seems to be the only thing holding him in this trance. Breslin then remembers the reason why he was lying on the cold ground: Freya.
"Please take me" he begs, "I need to, I need to see her"
"See who?" Death questions, tilting her head.
"Freya! My sister, Freya! Please please please take me!" Breslin's eyes are full of insanity and he is shaking with anticipation. He will see his sister again, he will.
"Hmm" Death pretends to be thinking.
"No" she responds coldly as she lets go of his hand. Breslin falls. He hurtles back into his frozen body. The pain of the cold pierces him once more.
"Please" he whispers with the last of his energy, "take me"
He sees the little girl again. She is smiling, "Why should I take you? I think I should just go find someone else." she declares while skipping away from him.
"Wait" he calls in a strained voice.
Death turns around and smirks. She's playing with him, they both know that.
"I need to, please. Please take me." he pleads in a strained whisper. It is hard to speak, as it seems the cold had transformed him into a block of ice.
Death strides towards him again, "Maybe I will, maybe I won't" she taunts, reaching out her hand once more, "but do you really want to leave now?"
Breslin was about to screech 'yes' as loudly as he could, but a sudden thought stops him. Did he really want to leave now? Abandon his widow mother? Give up his future, his life? Or did he want to join his young sister so badly that he would give up all of that? He opens his mouth to answer. Death smiles and nods along to his words, and does as he wishes. Though she knows that he will come to regret his choice.
Then she skips away to find another soul to play with.
Trapped
4:20 a.m. I sit up from the bitter, cold concrete floor. I’m greeted by a steel wire bed with a twin mattress delicately placed on top. My heavy panting breaks the steady silence, while tons of panicked thoughts pour into my head. Where am I? Why am I here? Where are my friends? That doesn’t bother me. I just know I want to get out. Out of this horror. I silently step towards the door and jiggle the doorknob. Its locked, of course. I immediately whip around and look for an object that could bust the door open. A hanger. Yes! I jab the hanger into the keyhole and it quickly unlocked, creaked open, and I couldn’t believe my eyes.
Flash forward. My name is Lindsey, I’m 17, and I disappeared 2 years ago. I’ve been here, underground in this cellar for the whole time, trapped. Living off minimal food, water, and almost no showers whatsoever. I have found small clues about the person who abducted me. He is middle aged, maybe 35. Dark, greasy hair, pale skin and chapped lips. I have no sign of any other identification. Nights are hard here. Loud screams wake me up in the middle of the night. I’m rarely fed, and boredom always lingers around. I’m becoming impatient for the day that I get out. If I ever do.
Things are always coming back to me about the night when it all went down. It was 3 of my friends and I. Nate, Oliver, and Lydia, walking home from a Friday night football game in early October. The quickest route was through the woods, so we took it of course. Suddenly, a dark figure jumped out and injected Lydia with some sort of drug. She passed out. My immediate instinct was to sprint. He was too fast and caught up with me very quickly. The rest was a blur. Every now and then I would wake up and see the man unlocking doors and stepping onto elevators, dragging the cart I was on behind him. I was extremely puzzled the whole, yet my friends were the only thing on my mind. Besides surviving, of course. Then, I awoke to this horror. To my surprise, I haven’t gotten hurt in any way by him. I’m still unsure of what he’s planning, if he’s planning anything at all. I hope he’s planning nothing at all.
I really miss all of the people and all of the luxuries I had back home. I’ve been starting to regret what I had said to everyone and how mean I was to them. I wish I could go back and apologize for everything, but I can’t. I feel so bad about it.
How fun. Another day in this prison cell. My singular meal today: a slice of aging wheat bread, plain oatmeal, and water. I try to keep it down, when I just want to throw it all up. At this point, I want to die. Whether I kill myself or someone else does. I just want it all to stop. My brain, my heart, my kidneys...my life. I can’t live in these conditions much longer nor do I want too. I could never imagine myself to be like this. Why would you ever want to keep someone cooped up in one place for so long with nothing to think about or do? If you tried to do that to someone, I would consider you as a sick, nasty person. All I can do is sleep, and wait. Sleep and wait, on a continuous cycle. Tonight, I chose to sleep. But this time, I don’t want to wake up.
I have no clue what time it is. But the pounding at my door both startles and wakes me. “HELP ME, HELP ME!!” an unfamiliar feminine voice yells. I yank open the door, startled by what I see. An individual girl covered in crimson colored blood. “Come with me.” she says. I swiftly follow in her steps. We walk through the hallways and come to a run down wooden door. She opens the door and it leads to the outside, which leaves me in shock. It's been 2 years since I’ve seen grass or sunlight. Happiness floods my senses. It's almost too great to handle. The sun warms my skin, putting an immediate grin on my face. Then I notice what it actually was. It was all a dream. I wake up back in the same place I’ve always been. This drives me insane. I need to get out.
I sprint to the door and rip it open. I run to a dark red antique wardrobe and stop. I stand silent for a few seconds, when I ask myself “Do you hear that?” Noisy footsteps thump down the cement corridor. I was so scared. I frantically hop in and gently close the door. The small space was uncomfortable and itchy, plus I probably got a few splinters. But I just had to deal with it.
After what seemed like hours of short breaths and waiting, I don’t hear anything. Which is a green light to finally move. I step out to stretch my legs, amazed to see a handgun in the mid-section of my forehead. The culprit? The man who abducted me. If you were in this situation, what would you think in this moment? To scream? To kick or punch the man? To cry in terror? I didn’t do any of those. I just stood there, dumbfounded in shock.
“Please, please don’t pull the trigger.” I begged. Seconds passed. “Too late, princess.” He says. And his thumb pushes the trigger, giving me no time to make a move. I’ve never been in so much pain. Not just physically, but emotionally. At this point, I knew I would never see the light of day again, or my family. It all happened so quick. All I had to do was walk in the forest. An average, everyday thing. And then I ended up here. I’ll never get out now. Goodbye.