Station North

The radar pinged once again as a large mass passed by. I peered out of the window, vainly searching for the frozen hulk of a dead planet. As the small planet passed beneath without a trace I returned my gaze to the main portal of my pod. Framed in the center of the portal was a single speck of light growing ever larger as the moments passed. As the single light of Station North grew, additional lights blinked in and out of existence, branching like webs from the central spire. I switched over the comms, donned my headset and prepared for landing as my pod coasted closer to the fluorescent end of the spire.

“Pod beta nine five requesting docking clearance from Station North, lower docking tower, over.”

“Request acknowledged, pod beta nine five you are clear for docking. Lower pad gamma four open for docking, lower docking tower out.”

I tapped the thrusters and my pod drifted forward. The glow of the station enveloped my pod as I into the docking bay nestled between two larger vessels. The docking clasps locked on to the exterior of the pod, slowing it with a gentle shake. The door slid open and I stepped into Station North.

I stood for a moment blinking in the harsh light as the pressurization of the small chamber gave off a light hissing noise. After a moment, I stepped through the loading bay and into the maze of brightly lit hallways towards the central living areas. As the hallway I was traversing slowly converged with the larger corridors, large groups of people passed me. A soft yellow light began to filter in from the archway ahead and the foot traffic grew steadily heavier. The tunnel opened into a large courtyard with rows of flat, tan buildings extending up to where they connected to the ceiling above. Several windows looked out over the courtyard. Surrounding the buildings was a variety of low plants and flowers. I looked up to where the buildings joined the ceiling to witness a scene similar to the one surrounding me. Above, similar to those surrounding me, people moved about, winding between the buildings. Framing the buildings was a sunset glowing brilliant shades of red and pink. A gentle breeze brushed the leaves of the low plants as well as my hair as I made my way through the crowds toward one of the buildings marked with a sun above the door and flanked by two guards in official black uniforms. As I stepped up to the door, I reached into my pocket and pulled a rhombus shaped card of thin metal. The guards nodded their assent and I passed through the door. Upon crossing the threshold, I was greeted with a broad, white desk in front of a set of glass elevators. Occupying the desk was a guard with the same attire as the guards outside.

“Find anything out there?” he asked.

“All there is to find” I replied with a smile.

“Best report to the colonel then”

I nodded and continued around the desk into the glass elevator. The moment I set foot upon the elevator it began to rise gliding up to the sixth floor. The doors opened to a spacious anteroom with an aluminum coffee table in the center, synthetic leather couches against the right and left walls, and double doors on the opposite wall. The double doors opened to a large, open wood paneled room dominated by a large wooden desk presided over by a large figure. I stood straight and saluted as the colonel looked up at me.

“At ease,” I dropped my salute “any news?” he asked

“Several category six planets of which scans indicate could yield structural resources as well as biological samples” I declared.

“Alright, I’ll get someone on it,” he said nodding “anything else?”

“One thing you might want to take a look at sir” I replied while pulling a glass tab from my pocket and set it on the desk. Upon it was imprinted the image of a single pinprick of light surrounded by a faint nebulous glow. The colonel’s eyes widened.

“Well why the hell didn’t you start with that? Here we are drifting through the emptiness of space surrounded by millions of dead planets and stars and you stumble upon one of the few remaining stars. I feel like that should have been what you led with!” he said with his eyes transfixed upon the speck.

“Does that mean I’m getting a promotion?” I asked with a faint smile.

“You smug son of a…. Go buy yourself a drink, you’ve earned it. We’ll be in touch” he said collapsing into the chair.

Minutes later I sat in the corner of the nearest pub, oblivious to everyone around me, gazing into the emptiness of space crossed by the bright trails of pods.  My view out the window slowly shifted while the station rotated in place. As time passed my glass emptied, along with the pub. Soon the lights inside dimmed and I stood, straightened my uniform and wandered out of the pub. I lingered, standing in the center of the courtyard. For some time I simply stood, gazing up at what was now a simulation of the night sky, with a sliver of a moon hovering just above the buildings. The dark sky soon grew lighter as the moon sank behind the buildings and a faint glow began to illuminate my surroundings.

I turned from the buildings and once more began traversing the halls through which I had passed earlier. The halls were lit by a softer light and now empty, allowing me to move quickly. Soon I arrived at my pod. I typed a few commands into a console on the wall and my pod door slid open. I entered my pod with the door sliding shut behind me and sat down at the controls. As I sat down the docking arms began to extend, propelling me away from the station. I gently weaved my way around the pods around me until Station North was only a modest speck in the distance. A small indicator showed up on my communications array. I glanced down, it was a transmission from the colonel. I pushed the thrusters forward, ignoring the call, coordinates set for what might be the last star in the galaxy.

This past Tuesday was the first time I was picked up from school after the next day had begun. I walked out of the school’s glass and metal doors toward the headlights of my dad’s champagne Ford Focus, piercing through the near pitch blackness of the night. As my dust covered Converse All Stars squished from puddle to puddle on the soiled cement, I raised my left arm and trained my focus onto its small illuminated digital face. 12:15 a.m. I was exhausted beyond measure. That was the longest school day I had ever been through, clearing a little over nineteen hours. But I gave myself a weak smile; I knew my job was done.

            Lincoln High School’s robotics team had been preparing for that long night for the prior six weeks. In early January we met other schools’ robotics teams in the University of Michigan’s engineering buildings to live stream the official launch of the 2018 First Robotics Competition (FRC). The comical animation we viewed outlined the challenge objective we were to meet and gave us insightful tips on how to effectually design and build a competitive robot.  In this year’s competition, the challenge is for the competing robots to pick up yellow fabric cubes that are roughly a square foot and place them onto a scale-like structure. This structure will act like a scale, tipping in the direction which contains the most contents. The team who can place the most cubes on the scale in a two-minute match will tip the scale in their field direction and gain the most points to win the match.

            As a freshman, this was my first year apart of my school’s robotics team. But I didn’t feel out of place. I was a newbie joining a had been rookie team. Last year, an algebra one teacher decided to start up a robotics team and named it the LincBots. It consisted of no more than ten students, some of which had skill in computer aided design (CAD), or electrical or mechanical engineering, and then some who were there to gain these skills. The team also included those who are called mentors. Mentors are adult volunteers, usually the parents of student participants, who have background knowledge in different STEM-related categories. The mentors are there to aid the students in the designing, building, and testing of the robot.

            In their first year, the LincBots rose to the challenge of building a functional and competitive robot in six weeks. Most of the work was done on the fly. There was little planning as the robot was being built and little testing after the fact. The team didn’t know what to expect once the district competitions went underway. What astonished them however, was that with their little knowledge and planning, they had built a magnificent robot. Through the competition, they rose in ranking. As they passed from districts to states, into the world competition, they began to trust in their unknown skill instead of brushing victories off as luck.

            Now, it’s a new year. Seniors have said their goodbyes, and freshmen have been welcomed, but the team is still relatively composed of the same small number of students. We have mechanics, electricians, and CAD designers. And very importantly, this year we have me – a programmer. I’m surrounded by few people who fully understand what programming really is, and I know even fewer who can do it also. For most, when ‘programming’ is mentioned, an unrealistic spy movie may come to mind that includes a teenage nerd hunched over a laptop in an unmarked van, infiltrating a secure database within seconds. Or perhaps a recent triple-A videogame will come to mind, and of the large multi-aspectual team that spent years creating it. The latter impression is closer to explaining the concept of programming, but it acts as a descriptive scenario rather than a definition of the actual noun. What many don’t consider is the ludicrous amount time and dedication that one single person must put themselves through to sit in front of a computer display and type out hundreds to thousands of lines of a semi-English language that a computer will compile into strands of 0s and 1s that it can understand to perform a task.

            I have been programming since the sixth grade. I don’t know why, but I don’t see it as work, but rather as a constructive pastime. Most of my friends spend their free time playing the latest videogames, but I spend my free time programming my own simplistic, but exhilarating arcade-style games. The hobby gets to be lonely though. As I’ve stated, I don’t know anyone who I can have a deep, intellectual conversation with regarding a recent project that I’ve been working on, or over a problem that has risen in my code. The only thing that can assist me in my software struggle is Google, and only then when the Wi-Fi is up. That’s why I have been looking forward to this robotics season, not because there would be other kids who knew how to program, but because I would be immersed into an atmosphere of like-minded, technology influenced creative construction.

            Last year, the LincBots didn’t have a student who knew how to program. Thankfully, one of the mentors had some experience in programming from college, and by the end of the six weeks, had a working program to drive the robot around, switch between cameras, and push objects with air pressure. That mentor however programmed in an unconventional way. He used a graphical user interface (GUI) to drag pictures next to each other to allow for logic flow instead of typing code out in a standardized professional computer language. My language of choice is Java, and that’s what I had decided that I would program the robot in. Even though my experience lay solely in videogames and there would be a slight learning curve to program a robot, I knew that I was more than qualified for the job, and I couldn’t wait to get started.

            Unfortunately, I had to wait. For the first two weeks out of the six weeks we were allotted to build the robot, the team strategically designed how the robot should look, move, and operate. Three-plus hours a day, six days a week, our small team sat in a spacious classroom, debating on how to build the best robot for the competition. Each of these days, I slumped in my blue, hard plastic chair, my eyes half open, my brain half comprehending the debates regarding ease of construction and price which were flying over my head. I was genuinely bored and took little part in the discussion. Planning out the robot to the last detail didn’t seem important to me, especially since I wasn’t the one who would be doing the building. My only focus at that time was planning how I would accomplish programming the necessary functions the robot had to do. It had to move via wheels, pick up boxes using some type of claw-like structure, and it had to lift itself up to a bar using some type of extendable arm. These three tasks were sloshing around in my brain, waiting to be put into action.

            By the end of the first week, I had grown impatient with the slow progress, and I could tell my peers had too. It wasn’t our idea to spend so much time planning. I was told by the previous year’s LincBots members that last year, they barely planned at all. They just considered what the robot had to accomplish in the arena and started building. They did experience mechanical problems along the way but were able to come up with quick and effective solutions. By the time the robot was done, they had plenty of time to test and make needed changes to it. This year, it was evident that the time to test the robot would be close to non-existent. The time we had to build the robot was depleting fast too. My friends tried making this argument to our mentors, and some of them agreed, but others were adamant that the best way to make it to the World Championships again was to plan the robot out down to the physics of its motion. And so, we did; listlessly watching the days pass.

            Then the day came. Tuesday, February 20, 2018. The last legal build day before the FRC competitions began. As predicted, the robot still wasn’t completed or even moderately tested. However, down in my school’s robotics lab, the team’s dreary attitude had changed. No longer were we bored, wishing to accomplish something worthwhile. Instead, our hearts were pumping overtime as we frantically jumped from task to task, racing against the clock to finish our robot. Thankfully, we had all-hands-on-deck. Throughout the past couple of weeks, attendance at afterschool build sessions had been shaky, but today the whole team was there, even graduated seniors who came to volunteer. By four o’clock in the afternoon, our head coach had gotten everyone situated on different aspects that needed to be completed as soon as possible. We had until midnight, but we all knew the hours would pass like minutes. He divided us into groups to finish mechanical assembly, electrical connections, and robot stability and protection. I, of course, was appointed to the one-man job of completing the robot’s manual and auto controls.

            I wasted no time. I grabbed the Hewlett-Packard laptop that I use solely for programming from the semi-soundproof room I usually abide in. I knew that tonight, I had to be right next to the robot, to make sure the engineers didn’t accidentally mix up wire connection points and to test as many commands as possible that I had programmed. I sat the laptop down on a laminated desk, right next to our robot which was propped up on a worktable. Members of our team surrounded the table, passing tools around, lending a third hand when needed, and ultimately working faster than I had ever seen them. When the laptop finally booted up, I quickly logged in and launched Eclipse, my favorite Java Integrated Development Environment (IDE). I typed out new lines of code as fast as my fingers would allow. The autonomous program of the robot was not complete, but I knew I could finish it soon enough. When I did, I was confident my program would work, but I was experienced and realistic enough to know that anything could go wrong. I read through my endless program, line by line, my mind racing, thinking of all the possibilities that could cause the robot to malfunction. My eyes strained, and I felt a small headache forming from my anxiety of pessimistic thoughts. I needed the mechanics to finish up. The only way to officially test a program is through a real physical trial, not through imagination. Time was running out; the hours were moving by too fast. I desperately glanced at my watch, willing for time to slow down, but it only seemed to speed up. It was already ten o’clock. My parents wanted me home, but I begged them to let me stay until the end. I had a responsibility to program a robot, and I wasn’t about to let it overcome me.

            Finally, the mechanics and electricians were done with their jobs. I could deploy my code. We all held our breaths as I activated the robot. I set it into autonomous mode and… the robot sat on the ground, still as a rock. Error messages were spitting out of the laptop faster than it took me to read just one of them. My head hurt. Thoughts of failure blew into my mind, but I had to remain calm. It wasn’t over. I grabbed the laptop again and searched through my most recent lines of code. I had recognized one of the errors and knew that I must have made a mistake in one of the motor declarations. Sure enough, I found my potential culprit. As I deployed my code again, I gave a small prayer that what I found was the only thing causing the errors. Thankfully, it proved to be.

            But when the software errors left, the hardware complications arrived. Motors blew, thin protection plates cracked, rope tangled. Everything imaginable went wrong. All the while, the clock still ticked. It was eleven-fifty; time was running out.

            At least our robot wasn’t a complete destruction. It could still move and pick up boxes; two functions which allowed us to compete, but the whole team stared as through a fog, wishing back those two weeks we had spent planning. The design of which little was still in effect.

I looked at my watch, it was a little past twelve. Time was up. I was tired, my head felt foggy and my eyes blurry. I quietly shut down the laptop and stood to gather my belongings. Stretching out a yawn, I said good night to the remaining members and headed for the door, hoping that next year would prove to be different.

There was mass unemployment roaming around the city.  People were struggling and trying to support their families as best as they could.  Any piece of food laying around was fair game.  Everyone around was wearing rags because they couldn’t spend their money on silly clothes.  As you probably guessed, it was the Great Depression.  It was 1937, and summer was approaching, Richard, who had just quit his job, as a newspaper deliverer, was struggling to support his family.  He had a wife, Betty, and three kids, Richard Jr., Harold, and Elizabeth.  With no money or food to put on the table, Richard was getting ready for the annual race--that’s why he quit his job.  There was always time for the race; even at this time in history, the government always put money aside for the race.  The race was huge, 3.1 miles long, and happened every year in Richard’s hometown, Pittsburg.  The prize money for winning the race was $20,000!  Richard, eager to win the prize money, was intensely training for the race.  Betty, pacing back and forth, was contemplating how to get enough money.

“Richard.  What are you doing?”  Betty asked looking at the weights Richard was lifting.

“Ummm.  Nothing.  Richard replied not wanting her to know that he was training.

“Are you training for that silly race?  She asked with a concern.

“Nooo.”  Richard replied, quickly trying to hide his weights.

“You are!  You quit your job for an asinine race?!”  She yelled.

“Ok I am and I did.  But, I’ll win,”  He said.

“I’ll win”  Richard repeated before Betty could say anything that would go against him.

Richard was non-stop training, after that dispute, lifting weights and running all around his neighborhood.  He was barely even home to be there for his children.  

“Why is Dad always gone?”  Harold asked.

“He’s training for the race.”  Betty said with a sigh.

“Can I train with him?”  Richard Jr. and Elizabeth asked simultaneously.

As Richard trained, he became more muscular but skinnier.  With less and less food, and since no money was coming in, Richard became weaker and weaker.  Then, with a few days before the race Richard collapsed outside while he was running.  It hit him hard as he fell with a thud.  His head hit first as he lost consciousness for a few seconds.  When he woke up the smell on grass, dirt, and pollen filled his nostrils.  Richard tried to get up but it seemed he couldn’t.  Not being able to get up, he lay on the floor for many hours until Betty found him.

“Gasp!”  Betty gasped.

“What happened?”

“I collapsed while I was running.”  Richard replied faintly.

“You have to stop.  Before it’s too late,”  Betty said very worried and dramatically.

“I will do this.  I will win.  I will,”  Richard said in his inspiring voice.

The day of the race had come.  Richard was getting into the car when Betty called him back.

“Be careful”  She said.

“I will”  Richard answered walking back to his car.  

It was strange that Richard had a car.  He was struggling and couldn’t even put food on the table, but never once did he think about selling his car.  Anyway, he started his car and waved to wife and three children.  He drove down the road with very few cars on it because cars were just being made.  He got to the race and there were at least 1,000 people there yearning for the race to commence.  Everyone was wearing rags including Richard because they all needed the money at this particular time.  With very little time before the race began, Richard lined up at the starting line with every single person.  The crowd was very small because everyone was at the starting line.  The bell was rung and everyone was off.  As usually, even though Richard didn’t know, Melvin Dodd ran to the first place spot.  Richard, on the other hand, was somewhere in the middle of the pack.  Melvin looked straight back at him while taking a commanding lead.  Richard did not give up, he muscled through to find that he was only at the one mile mark.  The best thing about that was the fact that he had passed two guys.  

As the second mile was ahead of him, he started to run even faster than he ran before.  Looking at Melvin, Richard started to sprint, that was a mistake.  Half way into the mile Richard started to feel the same feeling as he did when he collapsed.  He finally stopped to take a brief hiatus.  During this time, almost 50 people had passed him.  But then, Richard remembered what he had to go through without any money and what he had to do to get here.  He had quit his job!  With all these thoughts running through his head and all of his pique filling inside of him he opened his eyes.  Almost in dead last now, and he started to run.  Faster and faster as his strides became longer.  He passed one person then another and then a whole section.  By the third and final mile Richard was within the top ten people.  He looked to the sides of the course and saw a woman and three children.

“Was that Betty and my kids?” He thought to himself.

He wondered and wondered but soon forgot about it.  Richard kept running with thoughts racing in his mind about winning the grand prize.  As the third mile was coming to an end there was still about 200 meters to go.  With Richard in third place he started to sprint and sprint until his heart gave out.  He passed Giles Monroe, the second placed runner in the last few seconds and started to come close to Melvin Dodd.  Richard was running faster than he ever could do before.  His heart was pounding and his breathes were short and quick.  With 50 meters to go Richard got an edge on Melvin and it all went well from there.  Richard ran and ran until he could feel the paper of the finish line ripping at his waist.  

A man was there, right at the finish line, wearing a snazzy and sharp suit, to congratulate Richard on his victory of the race.  He handed Richard the check that said “$20,000”  in big bold numbers.  When Richard got a hold of the check he held it like it was his most prized possession.  Richard looked back to see Melvin’s face in a disheartened state and his mouth in a shape of an “O”  Ignoring Melvin, Richard quickly ran to the woman a three children to see that it was Betty, Richard Jr., Harold, and Elizabeth.  Richard handed the check to Betty and she almost had a heart attack.  Her eyes bulged out and she looked at Richard with a sparkle in her eye.  Betty’s arms opened up wide as she went in for a hug.  She held Richard for a very long time, knowing that they would be okay.

Light seeped in through the surpassing the curtains and falling on my eyelids. I shivered as I reached for the covers trying to pull them up and over my eyes to hide in the security of sleep, but try as I might the sheets would not budge. My hands came in contact with hot skin as I pushed against another body’s shoulder in an attempt to gain the blankets she guarded, but it failed. Giving up, I rubbed my eyes and stretched. I propped myself up on one arm and surveyed the area; my sisters lay sprawled across the bed while our clothes lay strewn across the floor and the books lay scattered across the countertop. And there, in the corner, in a jumbled pile that my eyes had almost skipped over, sat five gift wrapped boxes.

“It’s Christmas!” I whispered in jubilee shaking their shoulders.

“Hmph” snorted Sarah as Marina rolled over. I sighed and turned towards the window leaving them to their final precious moments of sleep. My toes raced over the fluffy rug bringing me to the closed curtains where I tore them back; Bright green grass and white roses hanging from the trellis guarding the garden path met my gaze. It was beautiful. I turned back after a moment and went to gather up the gifts in my arms to take them downstairs. Once I had arranged the presents on the coffee table I climbed back up the stairs. By the time I got back Sarah had gone to her own room to get ready and Marina sat upright in the bed with a glassy eyed stare. As I walked in I said, “Hey Meena, You’re up”

“nope” was all she would say until I flipped the switch by the bed basking the room in a golden glow where she instantly cried out,“Nooo-turn it off.”

“I need to wrap the gifts, can’t you get some wrapping paper from Mom?” I replied over my shoulder as I rummaged for the remaining gifts. After a few minutes of silence I added, “Marina get it-please”.

“It’s too bright” she whined remaining motionless. But then, with a great heave she pulled herself off the bed. Every movement she took was agonizingly slow, but a few moments later she returned and dumped it at my feet. I thanked her and asked if she wanted to help but she just shook her head and sat back down content to watch me wrap the final christmas presents from under the comfort of the blanket.

When I came to her gift I asked, “How am I going to wrap yours, there's barely any paper left?”

“What‘d you get me?” she asked.

“What do you think” I replied.

“An elephant” she said.

“How’d you guess? The elephant’s hiding under the bed, I was waiting for you to leave to wrap it, so go.” I said and we both giggled It was an old joke we had gotten from a picture book we used to read called Never Mail an Elephant. With that she left for Sarah's room.

When I brought the rest of the gifts down I saw Dad had pulled in a small christmas tree from outdoors and leaned it against the fireplace. I set the gifts from my hands down next to all the other gifts Dad had arranged around it and the three santa rubber duckies Mom had taken from the last hotel. I laughed under my breath at those ducks and plopped down on the couch. Dad sat on a chair, coffee steaming in hand and head upturned to the smooth jazz that radiated out of Alexa’s speaker.  Meanwhile Mom worked in the kitchen making hot chocolate and cutting up fruit. “Scott, can you make the eggs now”  Mom called as she carried out bowls of fruit.

When the eggs were ready we all sat down for Christmas breakfast. While it was not our traditional apple strudel it still tasted delicious.  The table was laden with ripe bananas and strawberries, warm bread and eggs, hot blueberry tea and orange juice in tiny glasses big enough for only one swig. But, most importantly, the thick creamy hot chocolate Sarah had brought from Paris was what really made this breakfast. The liquid heaven that sent bursts of flavor dancing down your tongue should not even have to share a name with that poor excuse for hot chocolate: the watery instant cocoa mix.

After that we rushed to the presents. There weren’t many, but more than we had expected for this year. The gifts mainly came from the christmas markets along the Thames we had visited earlier that week. One of my favorite gifts was this journal I got from Sarah.  She had gotten it from the modern art museum in paris and the cover had one of the black and white paintings from the museum on it.  But, the best part of it all is that now after a month I finally have a journal to write in again. We relished the gifts and talked and laughed about the year and the trip and what we wanted to do still. We recounted stories from home and listened to Sarah's of Paris. It was as if she had not ever left.

“Santa Baby” played in the background as conversation stilled, and eventually Mom had us get up and do the dishes we had left from breakfast. When I finished my half I went back to lay on the couch and watch the snow fall on the plants outside. An urge to get fresh air and explore overcame me, so I slipped off the couch and padded to the doors, unlocking them I slid out. The cold air hit me with a jolt, not harshly but with a little nip. My bare feet pressed against the cold dirty flagstones. It was invigorating. The white roses on the trellis reached their tendrils down for me. I stepped through and followed the path along the edges stopping to smell flowers here and there and watch an enormous black bird with white spots land on a tree and hop from branch to branch. Snow continued to drift down around me in a mesmerizing endless rhythm. I reached the opposite end of the yard, stopping across from the kitchen window where I could see Sarah and Marina washing and drying dishes. On a sudden whim I started dancing. I stretched my arms up high and spun around dropping it suddenly and jumping into the air. My eyes never left the window as I watched them, waiting for their eyes to rise and meet mine. They studiously continued scrubbing, eyes downcast as my movements became wilder and wilder. They began laughing but refused to look up. I knew they had seen me long before but now I waited to see who could hold out the longest.

I froze suddenly striking a pose, one arm reaching to the heavens my opposite leg parallel to the ground, and fancied myself a statue. My muscles began to cramp and the cold creeped in as the seconds ticked by. Finally with a burst of energy I jumped into the air spinning 360 degrees before crashing back down and running down the path. It looped back around, past the kitchen window where I stopped and crouched beneath it in one last attempt to get them to look up. I popped up waving my arms and to my surprise there came a screech followed by laughter. I ducked back inside laughing and found them in the kitchen. “Mom screamed when you jumped” Marina said.

“I know - I heard her, did you like my dancing?” I replied. With that they burst out laughing once more, “all the neighbors could see you acting crazy you know” Sarah said. I shrugged and laughed some more saying, “too bad - they don’t know me and it was fun”

“Marina didn’t even notice you for the longest time, I had to point you out to her” Sarah replied.

Conversation carried on and soon we were nestled back on the couch watching Sherlock. Lunch and dinner passed interspersed with more tv, conversation, and a couple board games. When night had crept in and yawns became a frequent visitor, we slowly returned to our rooms. Once I had gotten in my room I opened my new journal and wrote down all that had transpired on our first Christmas in London. Finally satisfied with my writing I set down the pen, closed the journal, drew the curtains in, and crept back into bed where I lay nestled between both my sisters, under the comforters warm embrace, listening to the thunderous wind lull me back to sleep.

Avery sat upside down on the couch, his feet propped up on the top, and his head hanging off the end of the cushions. His arms crossed loosely over his chest, his eyes pointed at the TV playing a program that had been there when he’d turned it on. He wasn’t at all interested, just passing time until five o’clock, like he’d been doing all day. His head turned sideways towards the clock on the nearby microwave, which could be seen through the doorway through the kitchen and the living room. Four forty-five, it read. Avery sighed, unwilling to wait any longer. You know what? Close enough, he thought.

He quickly stood from his place on the sofa, twisting to get his feet on the ground, eager to leave his lonely apartment. He grabbed a gray hoodie from the coat rack by the door, guessing that the weather would be characteristically windy. He slung his doodle-covered messenger bag over his shoulder, snatching some earbuds from the coffee table and stuffed them in his pockets. He debated whether to

take the sketchbook that was lying next to it, then gave in and shoved it into the bag. He would probably find something he’d like to draw while he was out, he always did. He slipped on some flip flops and flung open the door of his ground-floor apartment, getting a cool breeze in response as he headed out.

Half an hour later, he made his way toward Western Avenue, absently kicking at stray piles of sand that had been blown across the street from the nearby waterfront. It wasn’t a bustling beachside city, but the much smaller town of Muskegon on the eastern shore of Lake Michigan. The early summer wind blew grains of sand at his face, a few catching on his glasses and obstructing his view. He took them down to clean them for the umpteenth time today, his vision going blurry for a moment.

He continued strolling downtown, sometimes glimpsing the lake in the distance between the buildings. He would be there soon, but he had somewhere else to go first and needed to get it taken care of before his meet-up by the water. He turned a corner, coming upon something that he didn’t really want to see.

When Avery was younger, third grade maybe, he had been downtown with his mother, and they’d come across what had seemed to him like a mini parade. There was a group of roughly several dozen people, gripping signs and shouting things he didn’t understand.

“Good for them,” his mother had said, looking proud. “Fighting for what they believe in.”

At the time, Avery didn’t know most of the words on the posters that they were hoisting up in the air, but there was one with just a few words that he could easily read, and clearly remembered: Gays Are Poison! Avery only had a vague sense of what the word “gay” meant back then, but he didn’t see what was so bad about it. His mother seemed to be on their side as well, which bothered him even more. This is wrong, he had thought to himself. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but he knew that it wasn’t fair to whoever they were making fun of.

Now, of course, Avery knew that it was much more than just mocking. And as he turned that corner, he was even more aware of that. Once again, there was a gathering of people marching, though he could now make out their insulting words and read the negative signs. If he could, he would teach them all a lesson; it was so frustrating how they didn’t care who they were hurting. He briefly wondered if his mother was one one of the protesters, it wouldn’t be too surprising. However, he didn’t want to take time to find out. Besides, he hadn’t talked to her for a couple of years, after moving out as quickly as possible when college had started. He doubted a reunion would have a good outcome.

He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt, searching for the earbuds he had taken with him before leaving. He soon found them and rummaged through his bag for his phone. He plugged them in, his thoughts turning brighter as the Jackson 5 started playing, drowning out the marchers’ voices. Avery’s step took on a noticeable bounce, and he whistled along as he took his time walking to the Western Market, the protesters forgotten.

A line of tiny shops lining the road came into view, each one no bigger than a garden shed. Racks of clothes and shelves of different foods stood outside them, people going in and out of the small buildings. However, Avery wasn’t here to browse, he knew what he was looking for. He maneuvered his way through the small crowds to a bright red painted shop with T-shirts hanging in front. He had found one a couple of days ago that he particularly liked, and knew exactly who it would apply to; he just hoped it was still there. He filed through the shirts, feeling a short burst of excitement when he found that the one he wanted was still there, the phrase on the front saying, “Opinions are like mixtapes: I don’t want to hear yours.”

He dug a handful of cash from his pants pocket, and paid for it at the counter inside. The woman standing there laughed as she checked it out, handing him his receipt.

“You have good taste,” she told him with a friendly smile.

“Yeah, well, it’s not for me,” Avery responded, giving her a slight chuckle.

“In that case, I hope it’s appreciated.” He nodded as he folded up the shirt and placed in his bag, offering a wave as he left. He looked around for a bus stop when he stepped outside, dashing across the street to the nearest one. If he wanted to be on time for his date, he wouldn’t make it by walking. A bus pulled up next to to the sidewalk, and he climbed the stairs to find a seat on the crowded vehicle.

A short while later, Avery stepped off the bus at Pere Marquette Park. The lake in front of him glittered blue, the near-setting sun reflecting off of it. The beach before it was almost deserted, only seagulls scuttling around. The only sound was their occasional squawking and the lake’s small waves lapping up to the shore. Avery set down his bag on the white sand and dropped down next to it, taking out his notebook and a pencil. He knew he had arrived early, so he had some time to himself.

He drew his surroundings, the rippling water, the soft sand underneath him, the seagulls swooping overhead. He was just adding some finishing touches when a hand on his shoulder and a voice behind him made him jump.

“Whatcha drawing?” the voice asked, its owner crouching down beside him.

“Milo!” Avery scolded once he composed himself. “Quit doing that!” He tried to sound annoyed, but he knew that even a total stranger would be able to tell that he wasn’t really mad. Milo laughed and folded his legs underneath him, slinging off the backpack he carried.

“Sorry, you know I can’t help it,” he said, unzipping the bag and taking out some Tupperware containers and a couple of forks, handing one full of macaroni and cheese to Avery. “Here. Truce?”

Avery took it from his hands, grabbing a fork. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he declared, twisting off the lid and taking a bite. He nodded to Milo and held out his hand to shake. “I officially deem this macaroni and cheese satisfactory, and I agree to your truce request,” he said in a goofy British accent. Milo shook his hand and grinned, a chuckle leaving him as he scooped up his own pasta. They ate quietly, Milo sometimes throwing a noodle or two at a seagull if one happened to come close. Once he finished his meal, he tried to nab a forkful of Avery’s.

“Hey! Don’t touch my mac and cheese!” Avery complained, jerking his arms away from Milo, keeping his food out of reach. Milo moped, instead picking up Avery’s notebook to take a look at the picture he had been working on when he arrived.

“Hey, this is really good,” he commented, nudging Avery in the side, who was finishing his last bite.

“Thanks. I still want to color it though,” he replied. He then remembered the shirt in his bag, and pulled it onto his lap. “Oh yeah! I got you something, by the way.” He took out the top and handed it over.

“Wait, seriously?” Milo held it out in front of him, mumbling its message to himself. He laughed out loud, a wide smile gracing his face. “Ha! I love it! Thank you.” He wrapped an arm around Avery to give him a sort of side-hug.

“Yeah, I thought you might like it.” They sat comfortably for a few moments, before Avery remarked that it was getting a bit dark.

“Hey, you want to stay over? We need to catch up on Game of Thrones,” Milo suggested.

“Sure, more than happy to.” They cleaned up their small mess of “dinnerware,” Milo deciding to simply put on his new shirt over his other one. The boys managed to catch the last bus of the day, which was packed with people both coming home from work and heading to their night shift jobs.

It was almost completely dark when they got off, the low light making the tall downtown buildings seem more ominous. They were some of the few people milling around as they headed to Milo’s apartment, some late shoppers going in and out of the stores that were still open. A group of women passed them, and Avery noticed that one of them was carrying a piece of cardboard by her side, the words on it similar to the ones that he had seen earlier that day. Milo had apparently seen it too, visibly cringing as he he watched them go by.

“Yikes. You see them protesting?” Milo asked, shaking his head. “It was awful.” Avery only nodded, frowning at the memory of the scene. It was obvious that they had come to the area where the march had been; there were several tattered poster-board rectangles laying on the street, some of the disbanded marchers still hanging around and chatting with each other. He tried to keep his head down, not wanting to make eye contact in case any of them were-

“Avery? Is that you?” His fears were confirmed when a female voice reached his ears, and he immediately recognized it.  A woman standing among a couple of others, also holding a forgotten poster, had taken notice of the boys. She turned to face them, and Milo gave Avery a confused look.

“Who is that?” he inquired. “Avery, what-”

“Just keep walking,” Avery grumbled, putting a hand against his back to keep him going. When they kept moving, the woman scrambled after them, refusing to be ignored. She locked her hand onto Avery’s shoulder, spinning him around to face her.

“Avery! It’s so good to see you!” she exclaimed, wearing a cheeky grin to match her tone. However, Avery was not feeling the same excitement, and the lady’s smile quickly faded when she saw his stony expression. “What’s wrong? It’s been so long, aren’t you glad to see me?” she asked obliviously. Avery let out a dry laugh.

“Do you really have the right to ask that question?” he contradicted. The woman opened her mouth to speak again, but Milo cut her off.

“Uh, sorry to interrupt,” he said awkwardly. “But, Avery, would you mind introducing us?” Avery rolled his eyes and sighed, then reluctantly gestured to the woman in front of them.

“Milo, this is my mother, Victoria,” he stated. “Mom, this is Milo.”

“Please, call me Tori,” she held out her hand to Milo, who hesitantly took it.

“I don’t think I will . . .” he trailed off, seeing the burning glare that Avery was shooting her.

“Mom, what are you doing here?” he interjected. “I was having a really good day, you know.” Victoria looked offended, taking a moment to collect her thoughts.

“W-Well, I just saw you, and . . . I thought you might want to talk,” she explained slowly.

“You really think I want to talk when you’ve got that on you?” he asked, nodding to the sign in her hand, and she tried to hide it behind her.

“Don’t tell me you’re still upset about our last discussion . . .” she pouted.

“Discussion? That’s what you call it?” he shook his head in disbelief. “You told me to leave!”

“Oh . . .” Milo paled, glancing at Avery.

“I didn’t make you leave,” Victoria remarked. “I just said that you should take some time away until you got yourself back in line.”

“Unbelievable,” Avery muttered. “I don’t have time for this.” He turned and started off in the other direction, Milo close behind. As they continued down the sidewalk, Victoria struggled to catch up with them, calling Avery’s name repeatedly.

“Just leave me alone!” he shouted over his shoulder, hoping that, for once, she would listen to him. There was no answer, but whether she had simply given up trying to talk to him, Avery was just happy she was gone. He grumpily marched along, staring bitterly ahead. Once in a while, Milo would sneak a curious look, but said nothing. Ave

“Discussion? That’s what you call it?” he shook his head in disbelief. “You told me to leave!”

“Oh . . .” Milo paled, glancing at Avery.

“I didn’t make you leave,” Victoria remarked. “I just said that you should take some time away until you got yourself back in line.”

“Unbelievable,” Avery muttered. “I don’t have time for this.” He turned and started off in the other direction, Milo close behind. As they continued down the sidewalk, Victoria struggled to catch up with them, calling Avery’s name repeatedly.

“Just leave me alone!” he shouted over his shoulder, hoping that, for once, she would listen to him. There was no answer, but whether she had simply given up trying to talk to him, Avery was just happy she was gone. He grumpily marched along, staring bitterly ahead. Once in a while, Milo would sneak a curious look, but said nothing. Avery was grateful for the silence; talking was the one thing he didn’t want to do right now.

Milo held the door open for him upon reaching the complex, and they rode a rickety elevator up to his floor, neither of them saying a word as they rose to the third story. They stepped off and shuffled down the hallway, Milo whipping out a key when they got his apartment. When the turned the lock and the door cracked open, Avery stormed in and threw his bag on the nearby coffee table, slumping into a matching chair. He ran a hand over his face as Milo sat down as well, then he raised his head to meet his gaze.

“Sorry you had to see that,” he said finally, Milo lifting an eyebrow at him.

“Come on, you know that wasn’t on you.”

“Yeah, I know,” Avery sighed. “It’s just . . .my mom is ridiculous about that kind of thing. She expects me to be just like her, and does everything in her power to make it happen. It gets on my nerves.”

Milo nodded sympathetically, then stood up and continued.

“Well, don’t let it get to you. It’s over with, and you’ve still got me, right?” he ruffled Avery’s hair, getting a small smile out of him. “Now come on, we still have Game of Thrones to get to.”

    Coming out of the womb was quite an out of body experience. Sensations came from all around me, even from within. One second my entire life was a muffled black world, and the next, blindness and deafness devoured my vulnerable mind.
    When I opened my eyes, the first thing I noticed were my mother’s. They were a dark shade of brown- a warm mahogany. She was clearly tired, and faint introductions of wrinkles were beginning to set. Her eyes were smiling, crinkled at the corners. Evidence of teardrops lay in between her long lashes. When she blinked and opened her eyes again, it seemed as if a new galaxy was revealed each time. 
    I enjoyed my life as a baby in the beginning. Everywhere I went, people pointed at me and lit up. In parks, young power couples ran by, their eyes lingering on me as they fantasized of having a child of their own. At the mall, young toddlers stared at me while I cried. Elderly grandmas in wheelchairs at grocery stores threatened to absorb my presence with their prune-like faces. Eyes of strangers were constantly fixed on me, as if I were a celebrity and any human action that I performed was extremely compelling.
I was quite overindulged at home. A minimal blood curdling shriek was enough to receive anything I desired. I was spoon fed a textureless slop and drank from a marvelous sippy cup. My rear was regularly smooth and delicately soft, free of rashes. I had an endless inventory of toys that I could either entertain myself with, or demand my mother to wiggle them in front of my face. We played intense rounds of peekaboo, for hours on end. I only listened to the highest quality music at night, drifting asleep to Mozart instead of Kumbaya. Of course, when I did inevitably wake up crying at an advantageous 4 AM because I was tired and wanted to go back to sleep, my mother was consistently ready to rock me back into dreamland. I crawled around all day, throwing my toys for no reason, sucking on my toes, or fitting as many objects as I humanly could in my mouth.
Even among this infinite paradise, what I enjoyed most was being held by my mother. Not because I enjoyed being enveloped in two bony arms- I actually quite disliked that. But within her beautiful, endless eyes, I lost myself. I would carefully examine them, each time noticing a different vine branching out of her pupil, or a tiny speckle in her whites. I would spot tiny flakes of dust between her eyelashes, after counting and taking in the length of every lash. My toys were great to play with for a few minutes, but they never changed. My mother’s eyes were galaxies-constantly evolving and changing, and unmistakingly the greatest part of my life.
On the other hand, my father barely held me. The times he did, I remember quite clearly. His arms were large and stiff, and he emitted a strange strange odor, which I now realize was the scent of cigarettes. My father had a cold, unfriendly face. I cried the first time I saw it. I was terrified that he would crumble my defenseless body into pieces, and then further devour me. His eyes were unlike the inviting ones of my mother. They were a lifeless steel color, dull without any complexity. They did not seem to resemble a pair of eyes, and instead reminded me more of a concrete wall. 
 He was quite different than my mother. Other than when I was eating dinner or playing in the family room, I only saw glimpses of him. He never came into my bedroom. There was no rocking or singing from him, and I became increasingly curious. The only feature I could attribute to this mysterious man was his voice. Similar to a gorilla, his tone was deep and thundering. He always sounded as if he were on the edge of shouting, his words full of discontent and rage. I yearned to learn more about my father.
I grew quickly and healthily. I learned to make nonsensical conversations with my mother, and I could successfully walk for 6 feet without crashing and burning. I still cried and screamed quite frequently. I recall growing a rash on my rump, and it was quite possibly the most dire agony I had ever experienced. My mother applied rash cream to the area, but it did not alleviate any discomfort. 
 Around my first birthday, my father’s temper spiraled out of control. He was no longer regularly on the brink of exploding in rage. He was just in a constant state of fury. I watched him constantly berate my mother, his voice spiked with hostility. These instances occurred daily, and I observed with such an alarming vigor that I never even made a sound. 
I spent most of my waiting for my father to come home. I was fascinated by his odd behavior. He was different than all of the other strangers I had met; he had no particular interest in dealing with me. I constantly wondered about where he was and what he was doing. I remember that I would shriek and scream because I wanted to see his face, or at least hear his booming voice. I was a mad scientist, and my father was an unclassified specimen.
After I came to the conclusion that my father had vanished, I lost interest in just about everything in life. I was tired of unauthorized strangers staring into my soul. I was tired of inhaling wafts of my own feces after my diaper had reached maximum capacity. I was tired of tumbling onto my face after concentrating so hard to keep my balance. I was tired of being whisked away by my mother while trying to explore anything remotely intriguing. I was tired of listening to Mozart. I was tired of ghastly amounts of vulgar goop being shoved down my throat. I was tired of toys and peekaboo. I was tired of everything that once made this life so perfect, except for one thing.
My mother’s eyes brought me peace. Her patient gaze was always enough for me to stop screaming. Just a glimpse of that marvelous shade of brown took my breath away, and I was once again lost in her endless galaxy.
 But after my father had seemingly vanished, she began to cradle me less. In fact, she did many other things less, too. My mother was always planted at the kitchen table, typing on her laptop. My father had brought his job along with him, and left my unemployed mother desperate for any work. During meals, she would stare at her screen while she steadily held up a spoon of muck, awaiting my mouth. She would not look into my face as she changed my rotten diaper; she was busy focusing on her resume. At night, she would sit next to my crib in a large green armchair, a blue hue reflecting onto her exhausted face. Her fixated eyes darted back and forth across the screen while I listened to the bothersome clacking of her keyboard. I watched her for hours everyday, hopeful that she would once again scoop me up into her arms, but she never even laid her eyes on me.
In my beautiful mint green room, there was an oversized metal mirror. I would spend quite a long time staring at my own reflection, intensely critiquing my red, splotchy face, or my stubby nose. Sometimes I would crawl up immensely close and investigate my own eyes. However, I failed to discover any unique sparkles or shades within my irises. They were a dull slate grey, inert and empty. They were lifeless and barren, just like my father’s.
On a bitter Sunday in mid-November, my mother planned to take me to the doctor. I decided not to go. 
I was taking a bath. My mother, who had been sitting on the toilet lid and checking her inbox, left the bathroom to take a phone call. As I stared up at the ceiling, I began to relive my memories of being held by her. The image of my mother’s infinite eyes were enough to bring me to a decision.
I inhaled as deeply as I could manage, my lungs straining to contain my last breath. I gently shut my eyes and rolled over onto my stomach, my face submerged in the pleasant bath water. I visualized the luminosity of my mother’s eyes- the color of the richest chocolate you could ever taste. I struggled to contain the inhale within my fragile body.
I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my ears, and unable to suppress the immense pressure, I harshly exhaled. I remembered the galaxies, deep within her eyes. All I wanted to do was to lose myself in those stars. I was slowly floating up to them, the image of the nebula become clearer and clearer. I could sense my blood coursing through my veins. My heart threatened to detonate within my chest. The stars were so near, I was almost among them. My body, panicking and shaking uncontrollably, felt as if it was being disemboweled by a burning stake. The burn was overwhelming, consuming my entire existence. My consciousness gradually dimmed as the glimmering stars dissolved into an ocean of black.
Then, suddenly, there was no more pain. My heart wasn’t pounding anymore- in fact, I couldn’t sense a pulse. My body felt light and hollow, as if I was not a physical being. My body was floating higher and higher, and a sense of warmth surrounded me. I slowly opened my eyes, and raised my head. I was surrounded by a painting of crimson, sapphire, and violet swirls. Stars illuminated the landscape with a brilliant radiance. I had made it to the galaxy; I was among the stars.
There was no sound that escaped my mother. Her thin, wine lips formed the shape in which you would assume would lead to a scream, but no sound exited her mouth. She stood in front of the porcelain tub for what seemed like years, motionless. After an eternity, her lips snapped back together like magnets, and roughly seized my lifeless corpse. She raised it up in the air, and whipped it around so that my flushed face was towards her. My body was still warm; my face was distant and smug. My mother squeezed her ear to my heart, searching for any sign of life. 
Unsurprisingly, she was unsuccessful. Still incredulous, she did what every child and adult on this planet is told exactly not to do to a baby like me. My mother, a perfect embodiment of an angel, a gift from the heavens, shook my limp, dead body as if I was a martini. My loose head flung back and forth as she rattled me with great force. If I was alive at the time, my mother would have undeniably killed me.
My mother began to scream after her determined efforts failed to show results. It was a shriek of pure terror and rage, of everything cruel in this world. She screamed with such a piercing edge that I sensed her break. Her heart had shattered inside her slim frame, breaking into millions of shards. All purpose of life and joy had escaped her soul. The scream was so fierce, my eyes flickered open for a sudden moment. 
In that single moment, my eyes reached my mother’s for one last time. I did not see the eyes of the tender woman who held me while my teeth viciously attacked the green pacifier inside my mouth, or of the woman who sung the same lullaby dozens of times in a row to get her uncomplacent child to stop wailing. There were no speckles, squiggles, galaxies or stars. I did not recognize these eyes; they were not the eyes of my mother.
They were the eyes of myself.

I walked inside and placed my usual order. The cafe bustled with people just going about their day. Students with laptops typing away, preparing themselves for classes that would, in turn, help them get jobs. Business people rushing the baristas to work faster, so they could get back to office jobs and big promotions. Mothers trying to quiet their children with colorful toys and picture books. And said children filled the air with giggles and smiles. The rest were simply enjoying a cup of coffee in order to start their day. I turned back towards the counter and observed the barista. As I waited at the counter for her to finish my order, I suddenly felt a strange presence behind me. So close that it was breathing down my neck. It was dark and menacing, and yet at the same time offered relief and exuded a calm aura. My name was called, and I picked up my coffee from the barista with a smile that was not returned.

I turned, black coffee in hand, when I finally saw what caused me to feel uneasy and out of place. A humanoid figure in all black stood just inches before me, its eyes hypnotized me and glittered a haunting shade of vermillion. It stared at me with those glassy eyes, that tried to pull me in. I forced myself to look away and resist that temptation while simultaneously looking for empty seats around the cafe. I nervously darted to a table by the window, trying to avoid looking at it. As I approached the table, it followed me and always stayed in my vision no matter how hard I tried to keep it out of my sight. It was a dark spot on the edges of my vision. I sat down at the table and it sat across from me, staring and waiting. I looked out the window and sipped my coffee, casually ignoring it. Its gaze soon became too much to bear, those eyes almost digging holes into my skin. I could practically feel them drilling into me. I turned to face it head on and looked it straight in the eyes, straight into its soul. The air seemed to cool around me, and I felt a deep chill in my bones. I felt a pain in my chest, which seemed to stem from that chill caused by those vermillion eyes. I tried to strike up a conversation, but it didn’t seem to want to talk. Even the customary pleasantries seemed to bore it. Eventually, I stopped trying to talk to it and we sat there, staring at one another. The silence roared like thunder and weighed on me as if I were under a thousand pounds of granite. As I sat there, I began to feel sick as if I were about to heave. I turned toward more pleasant company, the wall beside me. I began to study the wall and I found small pockmarks, like marbles, embedded in it. They were new and oddly clustered as if all were made at the same time. I once again turned to face the figure in front of me. It was smiling now, showing teeth that were stained the color of wine and gums as black as pitch. I was beginning to regret not moving to another table.

I went to take a sip of my coffee when suddenly, I coughed. A fat crimson dollop of blood splattered into my coffee, almost like a mound of whipped cream. My eyes widened, I quickly glanced up at the figure, looking for an explanation. It continued to smile. I chose to get up and order another coffee, yet strangely all of the baristas seemed to be gone. In fact, all of the customers were missing too. I walked back to my table, puzzled and worried. I could not stop coughing, crimson and vermillion were both pouring out of me. I once again looked at the figure, I questioned it, I asked it what was happening. The figure began to sneer. Its eyes burned into mine, permanently scaring themselves into my memories. I knew that if I closed my eyes, they would be ingrained within my eyelids. I suddenly felt the chill once again, this time from deep in my heart. I felt another pain in my chest and I felt as though I could not breathe. I opened my mouth to speak, but only blood came out. I stumbled into the table and knocked over my coffee, though it now looked more like blackened coagulated blood. I could no longer support myself and fell to my knees, my hand still on the table.

I then really opened my eyes and looked around the cafe. I noticed that the pockmarks on the walls were filled with gleaming lead bullets. My chest, punctured with two of them. One in my left lung, the other near my heart. People were strewn across the floor, all in various stages of death. The room would have been silent if it were not for the pained moans of ordinary people who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. They were no longer typing away at laptops, appeasing their children, or pushing the baristas to work faster. They could no longer enjoy a quiet morning coffee. I looked back up at the figure, still sitting in its chair by the window. It was simply watching as all of those people died, it did nothing and helped no one. It watched and waited. I tried to speak to it, to beg it for help, but all that came out was blood and gurgling sounds. I reached out, and as I lost the strength to kneel, fell to the ground. The floor was the color of oxblood, along with my chest. I looked up at the figure once again, desperately stretching out my hand in a silent plea. My mind grew foggy as the world faded first to vermillion, then to black. The last thing I laid my eyes on before I died, was death.

    The Undeniable Power of One

`“Kuno… Roku... Takao… What have I done…”

    “Yasu! Wake up, you dumb head!” The miniature silver feline pranced around the plush bed, ecstatically.

“Kuno is here! C’mon! You’re being rude to her, being all boring and stuff! At least be some fu-”

“Okay! Okay! I get it Roku! I’m up!” A thin, slim teenager sat up, a bit jumpy from the sudden impact of the sneak attack.

“Geez, Roku. One day, you’re going to be an adult white tiger, I can bet you 75 dollars that you’ll be the most energetic pet the universe has ever seen!” Kuno giggled, as she helped wrap the pearl-white bandage onto Yasumoto’s blind eyes.

“Thanks, Kuno. I feel like a burden when you have to help me with most things. But, I’m lucky to have you as a friend. I cannot thank you eno-”

“WASSUP PEEPS!” A figure opens up the bedroom’s window from outside, blasting out rays of gleaming light.

“Takao! Seriously?! Are you always this loud?!” Kuno scolded Takao as she shielded her teal eyes from the shining rays.

“Well sorry. Not my fault you’re not as awake as I am…” He would mumble under his minty breath.

“Huh?”

“Nothing! I said nothing!” Takao immediately took back what he said and insisted them to get ready to go to the academy. The trio walked together as always, with Roku next to them.

“Hey, Yasu. I’m gonna drop an ice cube on Kuno, wanna do it with me?”

“First, I don’t know what you are talking about, your American accent is still kicking in. I keep on forgetting that you’re a transfer. And second, why would we do that to Kuno?”

“Geez. Fine, I’ll do it myself. You’re no fun…” Takao, once again, mumbled as he took a solid piece of freezing cube.

“Takao, you have to stop with your excessive habit of mumbling.” Yasumoto lectured him as Takao started his silly prank. Takao, scoped around the area like a hawk, waiting to strike with his little icicle. He slithered through, and dropped it in Kuno’s uniform. Kuno, unaware, froze for a good 3 seconds, then heated up rapidly, full of rage.

“TAKAO! ARE YOU SERIOUS?!” She aggressively pulled his shirt up, almost ripping the fibers of the cloth. It was a battle between a ticked off lion and a mischievous rabbit. Takao ended up with a scarlet red hand mark across his face, and a loosen shirt.

“Man… It was just a joke… It stings so much…” Takao whimpered as he frightfully looked at the beast of a woman. They arrived at the gigantic, bright academy for superheroes in training. This school is for the top 1% of students who want to become superhumans or heroes, they don’t learn their average core subjects like mathematics or language; instead, these talent students prime their uncommon abilities to the fullest. Takao Pierce has the power of shapeshifting, and also went to America to refine his power even more. He has the courage and leadership, even though he usually does silly things, to lead the trio to battle. Kuno Hatsune is a great warrior in close combat, but what makes her different is her summoning skills. She has a limit of how many she could summon, but she can summon any mythical beast from its dimension. Yasumoto Sanjiro lost everything he could possibly have: His parents, his brother, his eyesight, and his own home. Though Yasumoto is blind, he has one of the rarest powers on the earth, the ability: ZONE. ZONE is a power in its own league, having 7 stages of its true power. Since he was a selected few to be a vessel of such a power, it is usually unknown or looked over. And there’s Roku, the perky tiger that has an exceptional amount of energy. He might look small and cute, but in battle, he becomes a powerhouse with monstrous power.

“HEY! Listen up kids! You will be going through an obstacle race with fake enemies trying to stop you! Good luck to all of you and go beyond!” The principal yelled over the announcements and everyone grew a bit excited. These kinds of competitions are a favorite, considering the fun attempting and the prize. Oh, the prize is desired by absolutely everyone, the principal even had to control the teachers from not getting it. It consists of prize money with 8 figures, a free pass to the luxury room that last for a month, and the desired trophy that grants you extra power to your abilities. Absolutely everyone lined up on the cloud white paint, except for Yasumoto, Takao, Kuno, and Roku. They have detention because of Takao pants one of the terrain type teachers, and refused to apologize.

“What’s with you and your petty pranks, Takao…” Kuno mumbled, irritated at the troublemaker.

“Well, I’m sorry that I like to prank oth-”

“You pantsed a teacher. A teacher. Are you out of your mind?” Yasu muttered under his silent, cold breath. That scared the heck out of Takao, not noticing Yasu at all. Takao jumped back by instinct, transforming into a bear, accidentally breaking some tables.

“TAKAO!”

“Hey! I got scared! I dunno Yasu was behind me! He needs to be more noticeable! Not my fault!”

“So you’re blaming Yasumoto for your mistake… Such a cowardly move, Takao, even for you.” Roku looked at him, eye-to-eye, protectively snarling at him.

“Fine. I am sorry for making us miss the obstacle course, for pantsing a teacher, and blaming Yasu for making me break a table….” Takao sincerely apologizing to the others as he starts to fix the table.

“It’s fine, Takao. It’s just that, you need to think about what and who you are going to pra-” A blaring rumble cuts Kuno’s sentence short, followed by a giant laser near-missing the group.

“W-what was that?!” Yasumoto frantically yelled, and the others responded with a quiet “I don’t know”. They rushed outside, near the obstacle course, and fear struck them in the head. They saw one of the most wanted villains in the world, right in front of their panicking eyes: Kuzaki. The power of that man was off the charts, considering his powers and athleticism. The mastermind with pyrokinesis, expert on close AND ranged combat, this villain is certainly none like the others.

“K-Kuzaki… He destroyed everyone in the obstacle race, AND most of this area of the academy… No… Way...” Takao froze with amazement along with fear, staring at the beast itself.

“Heh, still got some kids to kill? Well, that means more blood. More blood, more disaster, more fun.” He snickered wickedly as Roku roared and grew to full size, more menacing than his cute look. Kuzaki commanded three, humongous fireballs at the beast without a sweat and started to walk away. Roku gracefully jumped and swallowed the fire, trying to extinguish to protect his owners. With a evil smirk, Kuzaki muttered a spell and made the fire explode in Roku, almost killing Roku.

“Roku! Argh… C’mere you!” Takao roared as he charged at the mysterious body.

“Hell Fire Stream!” Kuzaki gestured, as multiple streams of scorching beaming infernos slithered toward Takao.

“Capricorn! Wash out the flames!” Kuno yelled as the mythical beast splashed a tsunami with its scaly, rough tail. With a glance, Kuzaki replicated Kuno’s ability and summoned the Chimera, which blocked the tsunami with its body, destroying both the Chimera and the Capricorn.

“W-what?! I thought he only has pyrokinesis?!” Kuno shocked as she stared at the smirking man. Takao, without a word, transformed into a phoenix to be resistant to his fire, and started to dive, aiming at his head. He gave a quick scan, and transformed himself, into a slithering anaconda. Striking the confused phoenix, it wrapped around with ease, squeezing out every drop of life from the hopeless phoenix. Argh… He got me here… He somehow duplicated my energy and ability and used it against me… I should’ve known… Takao thought.

“ZONE: Stage 1.” Yasumoto said blanky as he put his cold fists together, giving his arms a dark, overflowing energy. Kuzaki took a glimpse of Yasumoto, trying to get that energy to fully kill Takao. Kuzaki instantly knew that this would be no easy homicide. He couldn’t copy Yasumoto’s powers! N-no way...I can’t copy ZONE?! This is a problem… From experience, ZONE is on the edge of being the most powerful, yet dangerous power… His type of ZONE cannot be copied… Shoot. Kuzaki thought as he lessened his grip on Takao. Takao finally broke free, exhausted from the unbearable grip. Yasu bolted quickly towards the paralyzed snake, and gave quick jabs to the long creature. Each and every impact gave a dark ring on Kuzaki’s body, exploding each second.

“Huh… This dude is easier than I thought…”  Yasu rubbed his lustrous silver hair, taunting the beaten foe.

“Argh! This isn’t over, blind dude.” Kuzaki growled as he transformed into an eagle and soared high.

“Man… That dude has some skills… He’s destructive.” Kuno whimpered as she dusted off her uniform.

“Geez, that villain needs to chill. I mean, we got villains in America, but they’re much more relaxed than that.” Takao complained as he weakly stood up, having a scraped knee.

“Something tells me that he’s not using his full power… It looks like he’s been training hard to hurt the academy, considering that these were the heroes of the new generation.” Yasu thought as he tightened his bright bandage. They tiredly walked to Kuno’s dorm, where Kuno and Roku made Miso soup, a favorite among the sleepy sloths who lied on the living room couch.

“Miso soup. Drink. Feel better.” Kuno ordered them.

“W-wha? What’s with the broken Japanese?” Takao questioned Kuno, and slurped some salty broth.

“I think she’s worn out. She summoned Capricorn, and according to a summoning book, drains a ton of energy and she reached her summoning limit.” Roku explained to the confused Takao, and helped Kuno go to her room to rest.

“I think I should go take a walk.” Yasu whispered to Takao as he put the bowl to the sink.

“Okay brother!” Takao yelled as he napped on the soft, leather couch. Brother? What? Yasu thought as he walked on a cracked sidewalk with cherry blossom trees. Huh… The cherry blossom trees look like they’re crying… The petals fall slowly to the cracked floor, all forgotten and stepped on… It reminds me of when my parents wer-

A deafening thunder blasted behind him, like a giant fanfare had just been amplified by a hundred times its sound. He rushed to the dorm, and his jaw dropped like a boulder falling off a cliff. The dorm went from a luxurious beach house into a victim of a tornado or earthquake. Yasu, by touch, finally found the corpses of his companion and his only friends.

“Kuno… Roku… Takao… What have I done..” Yasu quietly whispered as a tear wet the bandage and fell down like an angel fell from the sky. A sick laugh came from above, stalking the mentally damaged Yasumoto.

“What? Did you lose your only friends? I don’t what’s more depressing, the fact that you thought you could beat me or the fact that your petty friends thought that they could become great, worldwide heroes.” Kuzaki cackled maniacally as he dropped down, facing the enraged beast of a man.

“What kind of scum are you…” Yasu muttered as he unwrapped his bandage and tearing it up like it was a piece of scrap paper.

“What’s wrong? Lost everything? I got something for you.” He walked closer, and pat his back. The murder used an old accent Yasu used to know and shook him. “Yasu, it’s me… Your brother… Kizuku Sanjiro…”

“ZONE: Stage 3!” Yasumoto roared fiercely as sharp, gun black wings shot through his back, piercing through Kuzaki. The dark glow covered his hands while his hair turned bright scarlet. “If my brother, Kizuku, is still alive from his pyrokinesis… He wouldn’t be this evil… And he certainly wouldn’t be this heartless!”

“Heh… Come at me, you won’t stand a cha-” He was interrupted by a dark right uppercut to the chin, literally shutting him up.

“ZONE: Stage 5!” Bones crawled around Yasu’s heated chest, while his legs were in flames in the color of Roku’s blood-stained fur.

“Grr… Hell Fire Stream!” Giant swirling infernos blasted Yasumoto into pieces of glass, throwing him outside. Yasumoto started to cackle, laughing like a maniac going to an asylum.

“You think you can kill me?! The harder you try, the harder it is for you to survive.” Yasu warned Kuzaki as he got another wave of explosive fire. But instead of getting blasted through the air again, Yasu started to absorb every spark of the flames.

“Heh… HA! True... ZONE!” Fire circled around the beast as darkness filled the skies. A violet lightning bolt struck the winged lunatic, overpowering the previous stages of ZONE. His gray eyes, they went from blind to a psycho black in a millisecond, having the word “KILLER” written all over them. A drop of blood shed from the eyes, completing the provoked demon.

“Cool, you lost your life. Guess what I lost? EVERYTHING. I will crush you, until you can no longer breathe. I don’t care if they arrest me, don’t care if I get the death sentence. Revenge is a sweet thing. Revenge for the things you’ve lost is even sweeter. FINAL JUDGEMENT OF HELL!” A bright, white lightning bolt flicked from the sky and then struck the hopeless Kuzaki. Paralyzed, Kuzaki cried for mercy and tried to wriggle out of the paralysis. Yasumoto walked towards him, giving him a glare of a true killer. A white-flamed serpentine dragon circled around the demon’s left arm. As it grew larger, the dragon flew out of the arm, and circumnavigated counterclockwise above the enemy.

“BYE BYE. I DON’T INTEND IN GOING TO THE SAME PLACE WHERE MY FRIENDS ARE GOING TO. YOU.  ARE. COMING. TO. HELL. WITH ME!” Yasumoto slammed his fist on the ground, breaking the ground. A huge crack appeared below Kuzaki as the dragon made fully of hatred went down, bringing the hopeless villain down with it. The crack sealed, and the entire Earth shook, trying to withstand the impact.

Yasumoto fell to his knees, normal again. He was in rags, and the skies were cerulean like the sea. The worn out hero fell on his face. He has truly died, for his friends… This is true revenge.

Yoonji sat down, ready for a fresh start. She’d spent the last hour attempting to write a story for the local library’s annual writing competition. An idea had come to her, finally, and she wanted to get it all down before it slipped out of her grasp. Maybe it was because she was in a sarcastic mood after her many failed attempts and the looming deadline of the competition. She had decided on writing a story about someone writing a story for a writing competition for a writing competition. She didn’t intend on winning with it. She just found the idea rather amusing. She opened a new document on her computer, staring at the blank page on her screen as the blankness seemed to glare back at her with expectations. She put her fingers to the keyboard, waiting for words to somehow magically cascade from her mind to her fingers, letting the words build themselves into a story. Or a story for her character to write about. And a story for her character's character. 

It was a little strange to wrap her mind around. She was writing a story about someone writing a story. After failing to think it through, she peeled off a pale yellow sticky note from her stack of Post-Its and jotted down the format of what she was intending to write.  Sitting at her desk, the fan of the computer began to whir. It felt like a bad sign, and she started to feel a little more uneasy about the deadline, which was in a few days. She needed to figure out what her character's character was going to write about. 

Out of ideas, Yoonji opened a new tab, going to the library’s website. After a few clicks, she had found the stories of the previous winners from the year before. She quickly read through them and came up with one common theme; Make it an utterly obvious cliché with a depressing yet “realistic” touch. The judges would eat it right up. Add in some metaphors, real-world problems, a generic name and voila!  You had yourself bragging rights and some extra cash. After an hour, Yoonji had still made no progress. Desperately, she had searched up writing prompts, with no luck. Her brain was starting to feel numb, and she knew she wasn’t going to get anywhere. Closing her computer in defeat, she sighed dramatically. She’d try again tomorrow.

    This couldn’t be fair. Throughout the day, she would get glimpses of promising story ideas in her head, but by the time she sat down at her computer after dinner, they were all gone. With her concept, she not only had to write a story for herself but for her character within the story as well. For the second time, Yoonji sat at her computer, feeling her brain start to melt from the overthinking. The overthinking that got her zero words closer to finishing. 

She was stuck in a cycle where she would hastily type away at something random. She wrote carelessly, knowing what she was writing was pointless and that she wouldn’t like it no matter how much she added on. Then came the temporary satisfaction of pressing command a, seeing all her work highlighted for a brief moment, before pressing delete and seeing it all disappear. A blank slate. But then the deadline would reappear in her head and she would repeat her inane writing. An hour passed by. And she would know, she’d been glancing at the clock for half of that time, hoping inspiration would come in a rush. The kind of inspiration that didn’t let her fingers rest until the story had been finished, all the words on paper. Instead, all her fingers did were inattentively tap at her desk as her vacant eyes looked around, begging for the world to give a little bit more.

Stepping away from her computer, she felt like her head was going to explode from staring at her screen for so long. She needed a break. Closing her computer, she left the clutches of her room. Every detail must’ve been engraved in her brain by now. She was tired of exploring the same old thoughts and ideas. The paths of those ideas had been worn in and gave no satisfaction or answers as she finished the thought at a dead end, just like all the previous times. The cool breeze of the AC soothed her skin, as well as her mind as she stepped out into the upstairs hallway. She couldn’t escape the thoughts though, as they cycled through her head as she went down the stairs. She hopped down the last few stairs with a sudden rush of hope. Maybe a change in surroundings was all it would take to get an idea.

She went to her sink, getting a tall glass of water and sat down in a chair at the dining table. Lost in her thoughts, she drew scribbles in the condensation of the glass. She glanced outside, the twinkling stars sitting in the sky, the moon a bright sliver in the darkness. Her eyes felt heavy, and her head still buzzed absently from the pointless time sitting at her computer. The deadline was in two days, only a miracle would save her now.

Yoonji laid in her bed, unable to fall asleep. She stared at the ceiling’s patterns, her eyes following the small grooves and crevices. Yoonji- she was about to yell at herself for the millionth time. But instead, she only felt the frustrating blanket of defeat, slowly creeping around the edges of her thoughts. She closed her eyes, wishing that an idea would just magically appear in her head. 

Typing. Her fingers were typing fast across a keyboard. It was silent, the only sounds were the clicks of the keyboard, which were starting to feel like a part of the silence. Not the sound of her breathing and not even the familiar and unappreciated hum of the presence of people. Just click, click, click. She wanted to see what she was typing. She looked down at her hands, and to her surprise, they were still and unmoving. What the- She looked up. The presence of someone was close. The clicks were obviously coming from them, and it was ridiculous she’d ever thought it was her that was typing.  Curiosity overwhelmed her.
“Who are you?” Her voice rang, breaking the silence. 
The person looked over. They had similar features; straight, black hair and a small nose.  But the aura of the two couldn’t have been more different.
“I’m Haruka.” She said, looking back to the screen, typing in a hurried manner.
The words on the screen moved so quickly they looked more like gray blurs. Yet Yoonji didn’t feel the usual spark of interest. She didn’t feel the hunger for the unknown. Instead, she felt quite simple and at peace.
“What are you doing?” Yoonji’s voice felt sharp and unwelcome in this strange place. 
“I’m writing your tomorrow, Yoonji.” She said matter of factly.
Now, Yoonji felt the fleeting lurch of unrest. Without anything to say, she watched the girl, Haruka, continue to type away, the words becoming gray streaks as the clicks continued at an uneven pace. Sometimes, Haruka would slow down for a moment, and Yoonji would hurry to read something, but she failed to catch even a word as the girl started to type again.
“The night, for you, is a time to sleep. For me, it’s time to write out the events of your tomorrow. “ Haruka said, finally pausing her fingers.
Tentatively, Yoonji tried to read the words which had finally come to a halt. She managed to catch three words before the screen went black. “And then she”. So that wasn’t very helpful.
“What does that mean?” Yoonji asked, already anticipating the answer.
“Everyone’s life is a story to someone, and behind every story is a writer. I'm your writer.” She responded after several seconds of tense silence. 

The deadline was tomorrow. But Yoonji already had her story in place. Miracles, as it turns out, occasionally happened. It had come to her in a dream. Her dream was her savior. Now she had a solid idea and a name. And even better, she could still stick to her  “someone writing a story about someone writing a story for a writing competition for a writing competition” scheme. And the best part was she didn’t have to use a generic name and incorporate those basic clichés. Maybe it was because she didn’t intend on winning, but it still felt good to write a story without the basic formula.  Her main character would be named Yoongi, and he would be writing a story for a writing competition. His story would be about a girl who was also writing a story for a competition.This girl's name was Haruka, and her story would be about the life of a girl named Yoonji.

The beauty was in the routine. Liza tied a bright red headband around her hair, forming a well-practiced knot at the nape of her neck, and checked the effect in the mirror. Wherever she was, she could always rely on a fresh layer of lipstick and a well-defined cat eye to keep her on track. She pulled her lips apart and tried out a smile, tilting her head back and forth. It was still stiff with disuse from the past few weeks, but a few sips of champagne would loosen it up as usual, and Liza would transform into Elizabeth Elswood before the eyes of high society. 
    “Are you ready?” asked Frederick from the kitchen. 
    “Just a minute, dear!”
    She zipped up her suitcase and stowed it safely in the walk-in closet, then paused, lingering for a moment in the quiet of the bedroom. 
    “We’re going to be late.” 
    The sound of slamming doors echoed through the suite as Frederick searched for his suit jacket. Liza grabbed her red purse from the dresser. Go time. 
    The sun was setting on the city, looking much like any other sunset on any other street. They waited for the limo on the curb and he checked his watch every time the silence between them got too heavy. It didn’t used to be like this, Liza reminded herself as the cars flew by in front of them. It used to be exciting dating old money, going to all the fancy dinner parties and charity balls. There were roses and expensive jewels and midnight flights to Vienna. He proposed on a yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean. But at one point or another, all that started to blend together, and as they traveled from place to place she found that she could really see his face for the first time, and she did not recognize it. 
    “They’re late,” said Frederick, checking his watch again. 
    Liza clutched her handbag and didn’t say anything. Tonight’s event was a dinner, a “casual” meeting of what Frederick’s mother always referred to as “the New York crowd.” The Baldwin’s mansion was actually half an hour outside of the city, and it was impossible for any event with top-of-the-line catering and crystal chandeliers to feel casual, but nobody seemed to find it strange. 
    They arrived at the party fashionably late and were greeted by pre-poured champagne and fake laughter. 
    “Elizabeth, darling!” said Mrs. Baldwin, enveloping her in a brief hug and a cloud of perfume. 
    Elizabeth took the proffered champagne from a nearby waiter and beamed at her hostess. Already the wives were separating from their husbands, forming one group of darkly-colored evening gowns and another of uniform suits. The women could be distinguished by their varying shades of magenta and emerald, but the men blended together to form an indistinguishable homogenous line, and Elizabeth had to look carefully for her husband’s face before passing him his champagne. The women’s conversation shifted from Elizabeth’s dress (“just darling”) to the evening itself (“what a delightful idea”) to travel plans. 
    “Henry and I are summering in Cape Cod,” said Patricia Carter, readjusting her pearly white shawl.
    “Oh, how quaint!” said Mrs. Baldwin. “We’re spending June in Italy with the Whittakers, and the rest of the summer at the cottage in Spain.”
    “Isn’t Spain just lovely that time of year?” 
    “I’m going to France with Julian as usual, of course…” 
    Liza’s eyes strayed to the women’s husbands, who were no doubt engaged in a similar conversation--only, they would be comparing boats and cigars and the success of their investments. Frederick was still holding the champagne, untouched, in his right hand. 
    “Elizabeth? What about you?”
    She turned back towards a row of suddenly-frozen smiles and cleared her throat. They stared back at her wolfishly, searching for any sign of weakness. 
    “Sorry, what was that?” 
    “What are your summer plans?” asked Angela Bertelli, arching an eyebrow. 
    Summer. Liza closed her eyes briefly and pictured herself floating in the middle of a pool, nobody else as far as the eye could see. Dark red lipstick and a polka dot bikini. Glorious. 
    “Memorial day at the villa in Cancun, of course, and then we’re off for a bit of an island tour,” said Elizabeth. “The Bahamas, you know, and up to the Virgin Islands in August.” 
    The wolves relaxed, deeming her worthy of the pack, and she excused herself for the bathroom. The bathrooms, she thought, were one of the nicest parts of her situation. They were always clean with fluffy towels and artisan soap. She sat on the toilet with the lid closed and breathed in the intertwining scents of lemongrass and vanilla candles. She looked at herself in the mirror and was pleased to find that she looked perfectly ordinary. The champagne had loosened her expression wonderfully. Every hair was still in its place. She turned on the water in the sink, letting it run down the basin in luxurious, steaming waves. 
    The first scream from the parlour was followed rapidly by the sound of breaking glass. Liza turned off the water. A chorus of gasps echoed through the house and then a general yell, and Elizabeth burst out of the bathroom, hurrying to the scene. Frederick was already on the floor, his body racked with convulsions. Mr. Baldwin was calling the police, and Elizabeth collapsed at Frederick’s side, holding his hand, her eyes brimming with tears that gracefully slid down her cheek past waterproof mascara. They had to pull her away from him as his shuddering slowed, followed by his pulse. 
    By the time they could hear the ambulance sirens, Elizabeth was seated on the opposite side of the room, being attended to in her grief by a circle of gently weeping women with silk handkerchiefs. Frederick’s body, still warm but growing ever colder, lay still on the carpet, and nobody seemed able to look at it for more than a few moments without glancing away again, as if they were invading some unbreakable privacy. His champagne glass lay shattered on the floor beside him.
    When the police arrived, Elizabeth excused herself to the kitchen to collect her thoughts for a few moments. She removed an empty pill bottle from her red purse and buried it deep within a potted window plant. Somehow, even though she was alone now, she could not seem to stop crying. She had not expected the tears to come this easily. Her painstakingly-drawn cat eye was beginning to run, and she rubbed the stubborn grey stains again and again from her wet face, clenching her teeth in frustration. 
    A detective soon found her and on the point of their introduction, Liza could see the headlines flash before her eyes: “Rich Socialite Murders Husband”, with a blown up picture of her next to one of the crime scene. She wanted to see it. She wanted to hold the article in her hand. But the interview with the detective was short and simple. Any idiot could have played the role. Elizabeth simply had to cry a lot and talk about how great the relationship had been, how it was all so sudden and so unexpected and oh, she could hardly believe it. After that it was a breeze, and before she knew it the police tape was gone. It was deemed a heart attack, just like clockwork. 
    Two months later Liza sat beside the pool with dark red lipstick and watched her reflection in the chlorinated water. It was marred by ripples and sunlight, but even so it was clear how pale and rigid it had become. She kept repeating to herself that she was free, till the words became an endless loop in her head and lost all sense of meaning. For the third time that day she tried to smile. It came out all wrong, a scratch on a broken record. She called for the waiter and ordered another mimosa. It would happen eventually.