I highly recommend reading while listening to piano music.
For 15 years of Tam’s life, she had been able to shield herself from the guilt. The guilt she felt every night when she heard her mother and father stumbling out of our home in the ground. Their sunken eyes recognized nothing but the call of the bell.
At 15 she was supposed to be strong like her sister. But all Tam could do was huddle under her thin sheet, and pray she could forget her mistake.
~6 Years Earlier~
The curiosity in my young mind had pushed my self control to the limit. and tonight it broke. Hearing the soft, “dong, dong, ding” I waited for Casey and Dave to climb up the ladder before I followed and crept to the surface. Even though they my parents, they were strangers to me, just two more mindless zombies. Blood didn’t make them worthy of the endearing terms, mom and dad.
As I ascended, my hand gripping the cool, smooth wood of the ladder, I could hardly believe I was really doing this. When I reached the surface, I was so shocked, and the wind was knocked out of me in forceful impact. Hundreds of people just like my parents were filtering into what I had thought for years was an abandoned warehouse.
I slipped into the crowd attempting to blend in. My nerves were on edge and I felt ultimately conspicuous. Everyone was much older than me, and I stuck out too much for comfort.
Suddenly, their hollow, seemingly unseeing eyes were replaced with ravenous ones as their anticipation grew.
Frightened, I hid in a dark corner. “Glad to see you back.” A smooth, calm voice said. When I squinted to see who the voice belonged to, I noticed that the speaker looked familiar. I’ve seen that fake smile somewhere before. After a few seconds, I realized where I’ve seen her before.
I don’t know quite where I was, but the words, “Vote for Melissa Raymer” were printed in red, bold font. The contrasting color is imprinted in my memory.
As I was reminiscing, the droves of zombie-like people had received a glass of pale blue liquid. Most had already drunk it. The ones with some left, were looked upon fervently by the others.
“So, are you all enjoying your beverages?” her voice dripped with sarcasm, though I suspected the adults were too drugged to notice. They all nodded, looking dazed and docile. Some looked even a little giddy.
“See you all tomorrow?” Melissa knew it wasn’t a question. The adults were hooked and the effects of the blue liquid so strong, I doubted that even if they could find the willpower to quit, they would suffer extreme withdrawal symptoms.
As the crowd left in unison, a few stragglers hung back hoping to sneak one last drink. But Melissa stood patiently for them to leave. With her preoccupied, this was my chance to get escape, run home and cry myself to sleep, even if it was futile. I imagined the chilled air and the taste of the damp earthy darkness enclosing me. I can almost feel my own clammy cheek clinging to the damp pillowcase. I wish I could say I have a good imagination, but one only knows from experience.
If I retreated back home now, my curiosity would never be satisfied. I was compelled to fulfill my intense craving for adventure and risk. I no longer wanted to be the same girl living in a metal box under The Great Wastelands(TGW), barely surviving with her sister, too tired to fight over food.
I peek through the glass door while admiring its crystal clear smooth gloss. Nobody in the Grids or under TGW can afford luxuries like that. No one is there.
For a moment I wonder what it would be like if I were Melissa: I would be powerful, wealthy and in control of half the population. I expect to feel a rush of jealousy or greed to infiltrate my morals but what I feel is an abrupt hollowness and it sickens me.
Why does she want this? Why am I caught up in this, when I could be complaining about my empty stomach, shoving my fist hard into my gut trying to wait till morning to eat. That was the sort of problem that I could deal with, but not this. Not a government conspiracy, not a population addicted to this drink.
I had always wondered why there were no uprisings or rebellion about the divide. The rich lived without a care or want in the world, but we were their slaves.
Tears of selfish regret flood my eyes and I let them fall onto Melissa’s desk. I blink hard and drag myself across the dusty ocean and to the familiar surroundings of my home. A plaque reading, “Grid #389” marks the place where I dwell.
Overcome with relief, I limp down the ladder and into my bed like a wounded animal. I am sore and exhausted from my adventure. My last thought before I succumb to my fatigue is that an animal can either heal or die, I can’t do either.
~Present Day~
I take out the crumpled piece of paper and precious pencil from my baggy jeans and read the miniature lettering:
Each September, all the 21 year olds are peer pressured into going to the warehouse.
I silently will myself to pull my eyes from the page. I already know what it says, but it doesn’t make it any less excruciating. She had protected me all my life and now what?
Don’t forget! Vara’s 21st bday in two days! 9/5/3126
~10 Years Earlier~
“Tam don’t touch that!” Vara placed her hand on her hip and stared down Tam until they both burst out in giggles. Contorting her face, it once again became stone. “You know, sometimes you act like a real 5 year old.” “Am not! I turned 5 ½ two months ago!” Reluctantly Tam groaned and walked away from the snake she had been watching, pulling herself to her chubby little feet. To Vara’s relief, she quit dragging behind for a bit.
“How much longer?” “And just when I had started to think you were just as good as a seven year old.” Tam’s face straightened and her chin lifted an inch. Vara smiled. Her sister’s pride was not something to be messed with, and that would keep her busy for the remaining ½ mile.
They reached the abandoned gas station and the two teased and threatened each other with silverware for quite some time until Vara approached Tam. “Tam come look!” She followed Vara to a small corner of the building. A small flower was there. The sun’s rays from a window fell upon it, and the velvet color of the petals looked majestic. Tam outstretched a hand but Vara pulled it away.
Vara condemned her, “Are you really going to pick it just to have it for a day, and it die the next. Even when it tried so hard to bloom.”
Tam hugged Vara’s legs and looked up reverently, her amber eyes swelling with love and admiration for her older sister. Then she wiped a small tear and said “Va- Vara, I promise I won’t do it again. I’m sorry pretty flower.” Vara laughed and hugged Tam as they left.
~Present Day~
That is just one of the memories that replays when I stroke Vara’s head. She was the family our parents couldn’t give us.
Tonight I have to decide. Tonight, so much like the one 6 years earlier. I could stay here, oblivious, safe. Somewhere in me I know I cannot do that, it doesn’t seem right or fair. In a world where everyone only does things for their own interests, Vara should be something worth fighting for.
I slip up the ladder and plod along in the black desert before I can change my mind.
I am in the dark, but I can still sense the presence of a shadow of the building. I step inside, pressed to the concrete walls. I slide across the main room against the thin buildup of condensation. I unconsciously go to Melissa’s office and don’t stop myself since I will be improvising this whole time.
I look around the room. There were test tubes everywhere and the walls were lined with vials of blue liquids. Powders in pouches were carefully labeled and organized.
I think to myself. The best solution would be to distribute an antidote to reverse the effects. My starts to move a little faster. Talking out loud helps. “Their brains will have been dulled and their brains cell depleted, so we need to find a way to stimulate that. What makes my brain go? Well certainly trying to find this antidote is. I laugh at myself pitifully, but feel a trigger going off inside my skull. Finding. Learning. Discovering. Being curious.
Scrambling around the room, I found just what I needed. Luckily we had recently been starting learning chemistry in school, and I had a certain knack for it. I was lucky to find it in Melissa's desk, I assume she uses it to boost her brain power when researching.
It is a small pouch of powder labeled “cognipetere curafact”. Like caffeine, it wakes the brain, but also compels it to learn. It creates curiosity.
I need to make a large batch before the bell rings! Frantically, I take a deep breath to help me plan this out.
“Oh well. Is it not my precious little pencil thief. Have you come to stop me? A little girl like you? All alone? Did you think you could just barge in and me not notice?! Ha! Even if you succeeded do you know what would happen? People would start to think their own thoughts, and from that comes conflict. And when there is conflict, people die. Do you want your precious Vara to die?”
I don’t know how she knows so much about me. She must have gotten me on camera and researched my background all those years ago. And what is she talking about, “People would start to think their own thoughts, and from that comes conflict. And when there is conflict, people die.” I want to be strong but I am so afraid. Will I be killed? Will Vara? What will happen to everyone else?
“Uhh,” is all that I can say. “Ha you really are such a delicate little flower. I would have thought that someone with enough confidence to come here could at least speak to me.”
“A… delicate… flower?”
“Yes I suppose I said that? ...What’s wrong? Feeling insulted? Afraid of being picked and left to wither and die?”
I remember that day. That small flower. I have always thought of myself as that flower. Running away to escape being picked and then thrown away. I thought I was defenseless. But I am not that flower. I can protect myself now. Because really, the only thing that ever held me back was my fear of being snapped at the stem without second thought.
I lunge at Melissa, but she is expecting it. She swiftly knocks me out.
I wake up to a wad of cloth in my mouth, and hands and feet bound.
“I’m surprised at how fast you recovered. Not bad. Now, let’s see if you can recover from this.” She takes the gag out and my eyes fly to the cup of blue liquid in her hand. “Drink up!” Her nasty grin widens as she forces me to swallow.
I am in a world of darkness. I feel a drowsiness, and I want to sleep, but I realize I already am in it. Then the flashbacks start.
“Tam don’t cry over mom and dad. They never loved us anyways.” “B-but” “Tam, that’s just the way it is. We don’t mean anything to them.”
“WAHH!” “What’s wrong Tam?” I show her the gashes on my back. “Tam let’s get you cleaned up.” “W-why? Why would they do that?” “It’s ok Tam, you’ll get used to it.” Vara looks at me sadly.
“Tamryn keep your eyes at your desk! If I catch you looking out the window again, we will confiscate your lunch this week.”
I feel something pump into me. It numbs the pain. I just want to let it swallow me. It is hopeless, how could I ever think that I could make a difference in all this. Just forget it all even happened… NO. Vara still needs me. They still need me. I can’t be selfish and give in to my own wishes. I need to wake up! I need the antidote. But I can’t get it while i’m out. I need the real thing.
I start thinking of all the things that make me curious. Why is the sky blue? How to ants know how to walk in a line. What do tigers look like? I feel my eyes fluttering. I just need one last push… the one question that I yearn to know the answer to. What would it be like to live where you can think whatever you want?
My eyes peek open and I find I am in a bed, but my hands and feet at still bound. My eyes are red. Was I crying?
There is no time to waste. Melissa, gone.
I wriggle out of the bed and waddle till I find the cup I drank from. I smash it on the ground and maneuver the shard around to free myself. I take no notice of the blood on me. I am not afraid of being hurt anymore
This time, I tell myself, I will be more careful. I tiptoe lightly around until I find myself back in Melissa’s office.
It is now or never. I rush toward her, and sending the vial she is holding to the ground. A small drop ricochets into her mouth, and she is sent unconscious. The liquid preyed off my fears and insecurities, my bad times.
I wonder what happened to her to make it effect her so strongly. I shake my head at her pitifully.
Well… I suppose you are surprised to find out that this flower has thorns.
I smile at the eyes in the room. They are the eyes of someone who has suddenly awakened from a nightmare. They look at one another curiously. I see Vara in the crowd and rush to her wordlessly.
“I’m not a flower anymore,” I tell her. She is confused, but her arms wrap around me and I don’t care. I am loved and I am strong. I Tamryn Andinite, am loved and strong.
Because nothing can stifle the thing deep inside that makes us human. Our craving to understand what is around us, and to fill our souls with the mysteries of the universe. Our curiosity burns bright, and we all start to outgrow our flowers.
As in the past years, the man sat on his bed, stunned, as if it were only yesterday. He stared at the same picture of her. Ten years and twenty-one days have passed since the day before yesterday…ten years and three weeks since the accident…thirty-six hundred seventy-one days since he lost the love of his life. The two were perfect together; others would mock them for being “too perfect”. Every corner of his mind is still alive with her presence; she haunts him and his home. Only through her continued remembered presence that he can survive hour by hour. The man tries to remember what it was like to have her around the house, piecing every loving memory of them together with much delicacy. Every morning, she sang to herself. Her sweet, charming, melodious voice filling the house with musical notes. A tear begins to form around his eye. Everyday when he woke up, there had been a plate of breakfast waiting for him. More tears form around his eye, forming a droplet. Everyday, before leaving for work, she would tie his necktie in a perfect knot, kiss him, and watch him get on the bus. The tear flows slowly down his face, landing on the bed with a silent splash. At the end of each day, she would always open the door to greet him, giving him the same gentle, teasing kiss and hug. More tears follow. One particular Sunday night, he decides to take her out on a date, but little did he know, that was would be their last time together.
It has been ten years now, but she is still everywhere with him. He feels that he is the ghost.
“Hey Josh, how’s everything going?” Says Brian, interrupting his thought. “I’m very sorry about your loss.”
Josh, surprised by Brian’s entrance, quickly wipes his tears away.
“Hey Brian. Really, it’s nothing.” Josh says. “Everything’s…” He couldn’t find a way to end the sentence. He is overcome with emotion.
“So, what are your plans for today?”
“Same as before. I’ll visit her now.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, thanks. I really need some time by myself, together, with her.”
With that, Josh leaves, sleepwalking towards the cemetery.
As he is leaving, Josh glances at the garage where his car used to live. The ghost of the car captures him. Josh feels as if he could not peel his eyes away from that abandoned spot. That car was his most treasured possession, filled with memories. His father had given it to him many years ago, as his seventeenth birthday gift. As much as he loved the car, he hated it as well. Every time he looks at the car he feels chills and emotions, as if the car is looking back at him, as if the car is alive. This time though, he feels guilt. He relives the night of tormenting, heart wrenching pain in flashbacks, the mere seconds that had changed his life. There is blood everywhere. The windshield is cracked. Her screams cut short as the roof caves in. The driver side door is torn off, as he falls out just in time to see the car tumble down the cliff, straight into the vast ocean below, only to be engulfed by the strong waves. Josh stares at the same spot for what seems like forever, before he forces himself to look away from the empty garage, with a frightened look in his eyes. He would rather be dead than alive.
Josh walks the road alone, where a long time ago, they had walked together. He had been so happy then. He sees the tree that she had loved. The park they spent hours in. The pond where they would have picnics near. To him, every step is embedded with memories. Before the crash, he had someone to depend on, someone to lean on in difficult times. But now, he is alone. He feels lonely. Lonely and afraid.
As Josh approaches the cemetery, he slows; waves of pain and regret wash over him. Memories he has been unable to bury twists his every sinew. Memories that he wanted to forget. Memories that haunt his nightmares, stalk his waking existence. But still, despite what he is going through he marches onward. Josh walks along the same ghostly path as had done in all the many previous years, until he reaches his destination. There, he sits on the dew moistened ground; hollowed out and afraid, he stares at the tombstone, the two haunting words stare back at him. Emily Stone. 1935 - 1970.
“Emily,” Josh whispers, as if they were face to face. “It’s been 10 years since I lost you. My life is empty without you. I’ve lost everything. My job, my house, my car...” A tear begins to form around his eye. “I’ve never experienced a true relationship until you.” More tears form around his eye, forming a droplet. Josh’s voice starts to break. “I can’t take this. My whole life is crumbling before my eyes.” The tear flows slowly down his face, landing on her tombstone with a silent splash. “I’d do anything to have you back. I really would.” More tears follow, as Josh begins to sob uncontrollably. “If you can hear me, please help. I need it. I need some contact, some sign.”
Josh feels a tap on his shoulder.
“Hey Josh.”
“Brian, I thought I told you not to come.”
“Yeah, but I figured you’d need a little help.”
Josh takes a long, deep breath.
“No. I’m fine.”
“Come on man, you look horrible. You can’t deny that.”
“So what. What’s the point? Without her, my life has no meaning.”
“Let me help you. Trust me, I’ve known you for 16 years. I know when you need help.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Look, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from life is that you’ve gotta let go of the past. Forget what has already happened, because no matter how hard you try to cling on to the past, no matter how tightly you treasure it, it will already be gone. I know the future is scary, but you can’t just run back to the past because it’s familiar. Yes, it’s tempting, but it’s a mistake.”
With that, Josh follows Brian and walks, refusing to look back, leaving all the memories, and the cemetery behind.
October 15, 2017
Hey Jorge,
It’s Pedro, remember me? Lazy faggot, waste of sperm?
Or at least, that’s what you used to call me. I wonder what you call me now.
Do you--call me anything now, that is? Do you tell people about the bastard son you abandoned with his single mom?
Who, by the way, isn’t the crazy bitch you make her out to seem.
Mom’s great. She’s gotten better at cooking. You’d like it, if you ever had the balls to show up here again.
Which we wouldn’t be too happy with.
Fuck you.
You know, I thought about you today.
The first time in a while. We had career day at school, and everyone’s fancy parents got up to talk about their fancy jobs. Scientists and brokers and whatever. Mom didn’t go-- she probably didn’t know which job to talk about. You probably wouldn’t have gone anyway, but it would’ve been cool to see you talk about your new marketing job or something. Congrats on that. I guess.
- Pedro
December 27, 2017
Jorge,
The first Christmas I remember, you were there. You made me hot chocolate. Thanks for that. It was nice to have some kind of sweetness in my mouth to balance the bitterness of the atmosphere that night.
We were late to church that year, remember? Cause you and mom fought. Loud enough for ripples to be visible in my hot chocolate.
I wonder what God thinks of you.
He probably hates you more than mom does.
Mom still drags me to church every Sunday. I remember you used to hate that. I guess you didn’t like good people telling you about just how sinful you were.
- Pedro
January 23, 2017
Hey Jorge,
I’ve picked up smoking. Aren’t you proud?
It’s like back when you used to take me to the park--you know, the one where you taught me to ride my bike--and you’d pick up the cigarettes littered on the ground and light them. You were practical like that.
Anyway, I don’t like it very much.
Your son,
Pedro
February 2, 2017
You thought I was asleep, the first night you hit her, didn’t you?
I wasn’t. I heard everything. Mom didn’t even fucking do anything.
But the liquor and the temerity of mom to talk back to you was enough for your clenched fist to find its home in mom’s jaw. I heard the clash of your knuckles against her skin, the slap deafening, even with pillows covering my ears.
I remember the excuse mom gave me the next morning, when I asked her about the purple spreading across the left side of her face. She told me she fell down.
I guess she fell into your fist, then, huh?
Anyway, mom was wearing one of the t shirts your cigarettes burned holes through. I don’t know why she bothers.
This is Pedro, by the way, obviously.
March 6, 2018
Dear Jorge,
Do you still like soccer?
You know, watching the World Cup with you are some of my favorite memories. I didn’t really get soccer, nor did I like it a lot back then. But you talked to me when you mentioned how shitty Messi was doing, or when we jumped up from our chairs whenever Chile made a goal.
I thought we’d share that same connection when I started playing soccer. I thought you’d jump up whenever I’d make a goal.
But I never saw you in the stands.
I still play soccer, though, if you were wondering.
Pedro
April 18, 2018
Dear Dad,
Remember the first time you hit me?
I guess I deserved it. Coming home late and all. That’s how most kids are punished, right?
You said I thought I was better than you, a hotshot or some shit.
I do think I’m better than you, though, if you were wondering.
I wouldn’t leave my family. I wouldn’t hit my wife, hit my kid, even if I didn’t like them or whatever your reason was.
And I know you didn’t want me. I know mom probably refused aborting me--killing me--or something, and you were stuck. But you didn’t have to pretend like you were willing to stick around at first.
I still remember the sound of the door closing behind you the next night.
Honestly, we were better off without you.
Love,
Pedro
May 16, 2017
Dad,
I had empanadas last night, with Mom. I thought of you.
I remember you used to help Mom make them. Those were some of the few times you guys got along.
I’d come into the kitchen and I’d fold some of them myself. They didn’t turn out very good, but you helped.
You would eat my deformed dough and praise me for how good they were, even though they definitely couldn’t have tasted any different.
Thanks for that.
Pedro
June 13, 2018
Hey Jorge,
I remember the first time you taught me to ride a bike. I fell down and skinned my knees and walked around with nasty scabs for like weeks afterwards, but you helped me up that time. I remember you weren’t all that bad.
I still love riding Slater-- that’s my bike by the way. Whenever I have to get away from my friends, from mom, from my problems, from myself, Slater’s there for me.
I get your urge to run away, I do. Life is shitty. You may have made mine shitty but I made yours shitty too so I guess it’s all just a shit cycle. Sometimes I want to get on Slater and escape that shit cycle, never come back, ride until our--my-- house gets smaller and smaller and smaller…
But I don’t do it. That’s the difference between you and I.
July 12, 2018
You know, I still think about you sometimes.
It isn’t often, but my facial hair is starting to come in, and I think Mom is resenting how much I’m starting to look like you.
It isn’t her fault. You suck.
But still, I think about you.
And I hate myself for it--it was your decision to leave us. If you didn’t need us, I shouldn’t need you.
But I think about you when I eat mom’s food, when I help her make empanadas like you used to.
I think about you when I play soccer, when I ride on Slater, or when life takes another shitty turn.
Sometimes I start to wonder if you left because of me.
But it was your decision to leave us.
Was it me, by the way, who made you leave?
I am sorry, for whatever I did.
And I know you haven’t gotten any of these letters. But if I do decide to send them, as much as I hate you, as much as I wish I never even fucking knew you, I do hope you’ll answer.
This is Pedro, by the way.
Obviously.
It was kind of a routine. Every day after my nine-to-five job at the hardware store, I would drop off my worn messenger bag jam-packed with papers at my room in the small flat I called home, then I would walk down to the corner grocery store with ten dollars in my pocket and no list. There was always something I needed, and for whatever reason, just being at that store would remind me of what I needed. I commonly found myself buying cleaning supplies, or replacing meals that had once occupied a small Tupperware but one of my roommates had stolen with their thieving nature and denied any connections later once the food was already eaten.
I walk down the winding road which has no sidewalk. The curbs are mildly littered with trash, and the only light is street lights every few hundred feet. Every now and then a sputtering car flies past, but otherwise, all is silent and tranquil. I continuously kick a small rock as I walk, and grumble in mild annoyance when the rock rolls out of my path and into some pathetic, dying shrub on the curb of the road. I shove my hands in my pockets and the crisp ten dollar bill gives a little crinkle. I lazily tilt my head to look upwards. My eyes are met with twinkling stars slightly obscured by thin, grey clouds flooding a deep black sky.
My fleeting attention is dragged to a flickering neon pink glow, a small beacon in the middle of a chilly night. My eyes adjust to the unusual, intense glow that is appearing and disappearing in sporadic intervals. What did it even say? I have no idea. Something with an M? No… An R? Was that sign always there? My mind brimming with curiosity, I walk over to the fluorescent light. As I get closer, the blobby glowing letters that were unreadable from a distance take a more defined shape in my vision, spelling “E-Mart” with a small bit at the bottom “now 24 hours!” They should be open then, I’ll go there instead. It is a shorter walk, and from the outside, the store appeared to be bigger, therefore probably a larger selection of brands and items. I was never able to find the exact brand of washing machine soap I needed, anyway. Convenient, I guess that’s why they call it a convenience store. I reach for the door handle, a thin metal bar shaped like half a square and haphazardly stuck to the door. I stop just as I’m about to grab the metal bar. This is probably going to be illegal, right? The sign 24 hours, but the dusty, brittle window shows no signs of anyone in there. The pale blue counters are cloaked in cobwebs, everything covered in a thin layer of dust. The ceiling gave out in some places, leaving a hole that could range from minuscule to gaping, leaving drywall rubble in a disorderly pile on the ground.
Suddenly I catch a glimpse of shining, pristine blue light coming from the depths of the store. I don’t know which moved first, my outstretched hand or my feet, but I pull down on the handle with a click and push the door inward, but only a few inches until it stops. I lightly push on the door more, but instead of an open doorway that I can walk through, the door gets stuck against a pile of rubble that’s preventing it from being opened farther. I push and push, then eventually the miscellaneous pile of cardboard boxes, drywall, and other trash slides out of the way. I step inside to be greeted with a giant cloud of dust and cobwebs that makes me cough. Some dump. I feel tempted to leave, but the blue light catches my eye again, drawing me closer and closer to the center of the building. I weave through tall, smooth metal shelves. Row after row after row after row, my only guide the glimpse of piercing blue light I can barely see through the tiny cracks separating each shelf. As I get closer, the blue light becomes brighter and brighter. I narrow my eyes into little slits; barely open at all due to the sheer intensity of the blue light. I round a corner to be met with an eerie sight; tall, metal pods with a muted blue glow emitting from the small circular windows with a thin, silver metal trim. As I move closer, my feet slightly dragging on the smooth tile floor, the bottoms of my well used and dirty sneakers squeaking against the clean and seemingly brand new tile below my feet. I stand on my toes to peer through a pod window. My eyes widen a little as they’re met with the sight of some sort of robotic amalgam, unnatural mechanical eyelids closed. I tilt my head a little bit to the right to examine it closer when the machine opens its large, round eyes with phosphorescent blue irises with silvery pupils. Shocked, I stumble backwards and lose my footing, bumping into a sleek stainless steel table, square with thin poles as support. I bump into it, knocking a small vial of a miscellaneous green liquid onto the floor. It shatters, and the liquid spreads over the floor, filling in the small gaps between tiles as the puddle grows larger and more expansive, taking on a foul stench. I take a step and a half backwards in recoil.
“Who’s there?!” I hear a gruff voice yell from the shadows surrounding me, the area where the blue light does not touch. Reflexively, I sprint across the room, not even paying attention to the squeak of my shoes that just draws more attention toward me. I fumble desperately with the flimsy handle of a pod door, and climb inside, pressing myself up against the wall to keep as much distance between me and whatever slumbering robot is standing upright, arms crossed at its chest. I hear two hurried sets of footsteps, one heavy, intimidating, and stern, the other quiet, timid, and obedient, but also slightly disheveled at the same time.
“S-Sir, I believe it was just a rodent of some sort, knocking over a vial. I think this building has a mouse infestation. It is quite old,” a smaller voice says, presumably belonging to the latter set of footsteps.
“Don’t say it so matter-of-factly, Peterson! It pisses me off.” Ah, the booming voice of the former. I hear the crinkle of papers and the sound of the latter, Peterson apparently, scuffling after the owner of the booming voice, most likely Peterson’s superior. Peterson quickly forces out a hurried apology, and begins to walk away. The larger figure follows, and I let out a small sigh of relief. The larger figure stops dead in their tracks and whips their head in my direction. I look over to the robot I’m standing next to to be met with a pair of passionate glowing green eyes with black pupils looking at me. It mutters some friendly sounding electronic gibberish, grabbing the attention of Peterson and his supervisor, and I slap my left hand over its mouth to quiet it. I hold back a squeak of pain from hitting my hand so hard against solid steel. I press my right index finger to my mouth. I doubt this machine, creature even, will understand my gesture but I decide it’s worth a shot in the heat of the moment. The machine smiles back at me as I remove my left hand and it nods in understanding, closing its wide green eyes. Thundering footsteps become louder and louder as the figure walks closer to the pod. I slide down the curved wall and curl up at the bottom, trying to be as noticeable as possible. The figure scowls through the blue glass window, and their expression falters a little when they see that the machine is resting peacefully. The figure turns around and storms off in the other direction.
“Let’s go, Peterson, we’re done here.” I wait a few minutes before daring to stand up and look out the small window of the pod, and am thankfully greeted with the sight of no one. As I stand up, the robot opens its eyes again, gifting me another kind smile and even waving as I open the pod door and step out. I close the door gently and carefully as to not alert any other robots who might not be as friendly. I wave and return a smile then quickly turn around and run to a window revealing the deep black sky dotted with thin, grey clouds. I fumble with the latch then practically throw myself out the window, not bothering to check how long of a drop. Thankfully it’s only a few feet before my feet hit the dirt, trampling a small spot of dying grass. I take off running, running, running; as far and a fast as I can. Next time, maybe I’ll make one of my roommates do the grocery shopping.
The seemingly perfect girl. She was in a library, because everyone reads 1,000 page novels in their downtime. Her fingers sparked as they glided across the spines. Each time she touched a book, it flashed behind her eyelids.
A boy on a quest to find the hidden eggs of the consuming virtual universe.
Four kids wrongly accused of murder.
A person shoved into the mold of a new body every day.
A health clinic nursing bulimic teens back to life.
Everyone seemed to have their own tear-stained story, but no one saw hers. No one saw her.
She was in the Library, the one place where she felt in control. However, after trailing her left hand across every book on the shelf, she had to sit down. Slip the Glove over her slender, pale fingers. The Glove was crucial in containing her horrific power, but it made her glow a richer purple with every breathing moment in it. She was stuck. She had to hide her power. She had to hide her aura. Anything else, and the Primary would kill her.
My nails don’t grow the way they used to.
They’re brittle now; raw; ragged;
Torn so many times I forgot what they used to look like.
But the moment the whites come up again
I know it’s time to peel them off,
Even if it means the gnaw marks on my fingers
Become increasingly pink
Until glittering red.
My mom tells me to let them grow.
She’s bought me nail hardeners; polishes that taste bad;
Oils that are supposed to heal my demolished cuticles.
I apply the colors of the polish,
My nails now blending in with my fingers:
A messy fusion of vile shades of red.
My mom seems impressed, satisfied even,
By the paint masking the blood behind it.
The facade inflates my disgust.
I decide, then, to peel back the paint with my teeth
And admire my work of art
With a smile.
I can’t remember the last time I left my room, but that doesn't matter to me. Nothing matters. Even though I locked myself in here, I know that it's her fault. She told me sweet nothings to trap me. I have always been tangled in her web of lies. I can't go back to school, and I for sure don't want to be outside. The bright sunlight and cheerful people would just make me feel worse about my situation. In here I feel safe, and at least I know everything about my room. All the little nooks, and crannies where I hide the wonderful things that I shouldn’t have like my roses and other sharp things. I never keep pictures of myself or mirrors. All my pictures excluding baby ones have her in it. I have always hated mirrors, for one I don't like looking at myself. Every time I see myself I pick and scratch at the parts I don't like. My eyes are too spaced apart, and my nose looks chubby. Why can't I look more like her? She was everything that girls are supposed to be petite, cute, and fragile. She said she liked me the way I was. She said I was perfect just the way I am, so why did she leave me? I try not to think about that as I stay in the same routine. So it was strange when a door that wasn't there appeared in my room. The door had an ornate frame, it doesn't look like it was from this time frame. I tried ignoring it and continuing with my routine, but it no matter what I was doing the door crept into my mind. I stood in front of the door. My hands were sweating. Okay, it’s just a door. I close my eyes, take a breath, and open the door. Inside the room, it’s almost like a different world. A garden of roses layout in front of me. They are varieties of color I have never seen before. They entrance me and without thinking it I reach for one. I recoil away in pain. A single strand of blood ran down the length of my hand. I look around the garden and I stare in awe when I realize the rose petals are razor blades.
I can't feel the pain. I have been numb to physical pain for a while now. The thought of growing one of these roses for my room excited me. I turn back towards the door, I want a sample of one of these roses to grow and keep. But the door was gone. Great just great, I was stuck in a fantasy world where when you try to stop and smell the roses you get a bloody nose. With nowhere to go, I start walking on the garden path. It's long and winding and there seemed to be no end to the garden of razor roses. It's strange seeing such beauty around me and not being able to touch it. It's a struggle to try to walk straight as if every single fiber of my being is compelling me to touch the flowers. It's like I could hear her voice telling me to stop and relax for a few minutes. They’re so beautiful, wouldn’t it be ever so wonderful to run your fingers over the petals. Stop and smell the roses I’m sure they smell as great as they look. I know I shouldn’t listen, but I can almost imagine what the voice was describing. It would be nice to let the pain take over and let go of all feeling. I want to get rid of all hard to deal with emotions. The kind of emotions that stay with you and can't get rid of no matter what. I don’t give into the thoughts and push myself to continue. She always said I was stubborn as a mule. Focusing so hard on avoiding bad thoughts that I almost felt myself trip over someone. Why is he even standing in the middle of the path? Taking a better look at him, I could feel my blood go cold. The man was covered in open wounds, all of them varying in severity. He was cowering in the middle of the path because of fear.
“What happened?” I ask. He shouldn't be here. Why isn't he at a hospital.
“Who are you? Do you work for her? I’m sorry I’ll continue my work I swear that I was going to gather some water.” He squeaks. He started rapidly attempting to smooth out the curls in his hair.
“Work for who?”
“The lovely, lustrous queen.” As he said this he looked up at me. He eyes were looking me over and registered that I wasn’t who he thought I was. “You don’t look like you’re from the royal guard. Excuse my rudeness, my name is Cedric Kurstain, and I’m the royal gardener.” His manner became more open and he is more comfortable now.
“Why are you covered with...” I asked.
“Tis a few mere flesh wounds. It’s the natural for all the royal gardeners to covered with scars. It’s the mark of the razor roses upon our skin, and all us royal gardeners are proud to wear it.”
“Do you enjoy having the scars?” At that moment his smile faltered, and I was able to see hesitation within himself. “Do you enjoy being the royal gardener?” I asked. He avoided looking me in the eye and said, “I always wanted to be a baker, but it was not in the cards for me. I don’t have the delicate and careful hand that a royal gardener needs to reduce the injuries they acquire. The queen, however, ruled that I become the royal gardener.”
“Who’s the queen, and why do you listen to her?”
“She’s the almighty power, and she cares for me ever so dearly. She lives in the castle past this garden and through the desert of memories.”
“That’s ridiculous be whatever you want to be, someone who cares for you won’t force you to change to match themselves.” I bark. He is too hurt to gather my meaning.
“That’s not true! She cares for me, she said she did. She wouldn’t lie to me would she?” Cedric seemed to ponder this question as he walked away from me deeper into the garden. I almost want to follow him but it's obvious he doesn't want help. Stubborn as a mule is what he is. The queen is using him just like how she used me. I turn and continue along the path.
As I continue on the soil began to shift to sand. Standing in front of me was the desert of memories. The sand shone almost a ghostly white and pillars of crystal stock out of it. As I walked around the crystals I realized they showed multiple of my reflections. I shivered, I hated seeing myself. She made me hate myself. Even now I can almost hear her voice trying to deter me. You’re so worthless. Isn’t it ever so hard to continue? Wouldn’t it be nice to rest your tired feet? I don't have to look at the crystals to know they are reflecting me. I could feel my nails start to dig into the between my eyes. I know other things are reflected in it.
One showed us laughing as we drew an image of a beautiful pink castle. The next one she's dressed in a lacy dress and me in a tux as she calls me her prince. It morphed to ignored texts, passive remarks, and degrading names. Stop, I want it to stop. I know she's in the mirror. I could feel her hot gaze on my skin. Ugly, fat, mannish were just a few of the things she said. Soon after that she stopped wearing our friendship bracelet and started avoiding me. I knew what was about to come. I don't want to see it again. I fail to avert my eyes and there reflected in the pillar was her sneering face as she laughed and said the three words that could never be erased. I hate you. I could feel the reflections trying to drive me insane. Echoing throughout my brain are the horrible things she said. I don't want to feel this, and I don't want to see her. I need something, something to make the pain go away. Lying on the ground was a sharp rock, it's perfect. I grabbed the rock and smashed the surface of the pillar until I felt the tightness in my chest start to leave. I continue this pattern as I walk towards the castle in the distance. I don’t want to remember the old me. The, me that she used to puppet around like a marionette. Don't think about her just keep moving. I feel nothing, I am nothing. I just walk mechanically towards the castle.
The castle was huge and pink, her favorite color. It was identical to the one we first drew. I walk through the gates which were decorated with ribbons and glitter. She was the girliest between us. She would always say that I'm her prince and that she was my princess. Stuffed animals lined the halls. I looked at each one of them in detail; they were the ones we used to play with together. There was Fluffy, Jade, and Little Jim. Jade was her favorite. Remember, don't think just keep moving. As I get closer to where the throne room is the tapestry in the grand hall are every single drawing we have ever made. I could feel myself starting to tear up. Why did she leave me? I am I that useless? Didn't we promise to be together forever? It takes all of my strength to not curl up in a ball and cry.
I keep moving, just forget about her. When I reach the throne room, I suck in my breath. There she is standing in front of me.
"I was starting to think you weren’t coming." She grins at me. I look back at her silently. "I care ever so much for you. Who do you think was trying to get you to stay here. Sometimes you can be thick headed. Stay here with me, and you can be my prince again. Then everything will be as it should be." She smiles wide and opens her arms in an invitation. I want to hug and put everything behind us, but I know the truth.
"You're not real are you?" I ask. She gazes back at me sadly as she explodes into a puff of smoke. As the smoke starts to clear, I see in front of me is a lone mirror. I could feel my chest get tight, and I held the rock in my pocket tightly. I need to destroy it. She caused me to do this, I need to destroy all memories of her. Then I can be free. I ready the rock in my hand, but before I could break the horrid thing sobbing emulated from it. Something I can't let myself feel welled up inside me. I cautiously walk towards the mirror and for the first time in years gaze into it. And there gazing back at me was a young girl lying in a ball. I know her as I know myself.
"Why did you do this? Why bring me here?" I speak gently. I don't want to cause her any more pain then she is already feeling. She stops and gazes at me sadly.
"I'm sorry, I just don't want to be alone. I want to see her. I thought if I could pretend she was with me then maybe I can still be strong. She completes me. I thought that she felt the same. Without her who am I?" she cried. I held my hand out, "Let's find out together. If she doesn't care about us then let's find us." She's hesitant. She stares at my hand before slowly reaching out a shaking hand to grab mine.
I wake up back in my bed. There's no mysterious door to a fantasy world. It was just my everyday room, yet it still felt different. It's a lot more cramped in here than I remember. Were there always shadows in here. I need air and this room wasn't giving me any. I walk towards the door. I freeze when my hand lay on the doorknob. Do I destroy what we had? I gripped the doorknob fiercely. What we had is gone, and I need to focus on finding who I am without her. I open the door.
After mass, Carlos’s suit pressed, his son’s hair disheveled, the two returned home for lunch. Carlos heated the tamales he had made for the two of them the night before and served his son and himself the leftovers. They sat at the table, eating silently.
In the middle, a single candle.
Carlos watched his son barely eat, his eyes red and puffy, his hair far too long, his beard far too thick, his face far too thin.
Carlos looked back down at his food. “Tamales, after all, were always her favorite.”
“They’re delicious, Pa.”
Silence.
Carlos slowly picked at the food, more childish than his son. Tamales, on the second night, were never the same.
“Did you remember what day it was yesterday?”
“I do, I know... I’m sorry.”
Silence.
“I don’t understand how you can continually fail to respect us--me--like this. I didn’t know where you were. You’re all I have now, mijo, don’t you forget that. We only have each other now...”
Comforting silence once more.
Still, the tamales, they were warm, they were good. Sunday without her was different, yet what more could they do but pretend it was the same?
My legs tap rhythmically as I perch upon my stool, glancing lazily around the room. An excruciatingly chipper member of the teaching faculty rambles on, completely unheeded by anyone, herself included. This isn’t natural behavior for seven in the morning, but an explanation is quickly rendered by the gigantic steaming thermos on her desk. Several students could definitely use the drug themselves, betrayed by their nodding heads and dead eyes. Actually, one seems about to fall, slowly drooping, plummeting, collapsing . . . and saved by the hand of a good-natured tablemate. My glare is sent swiftly, but the cruel denier of my entertainment has already returned to avid note taking. Bored, I pivot around to the back, where there currently bounce two paper airplanes and a rubber ball. A particularly clumsy shot by one sends a crooked glider heading at least a yard over their pal’s head, sending it shooting past the bookshelves, precariously close to the front of the room. Leaning forward, I observe as it floats past the eager and attentive pupils of the foreground, swoops behind the teacher and … crashes directly into her coffee. It falls with a thump as I settle back for another forty-six minutes of class.
Because of him, the wind is breathing.
You could never tell just by looking at him. The old man stood with his back hunched over, his dark eyes squinted as he puttered between his magnolias.
“Pink magnolias for an old Ukrainian,” Mr. Tach used to say, and would let out a wheezing laugh as he rocked back and forth.
It was because of these magnolias that you could see the wind wrap and exhale around him. Wherever he would go, a light gust would follow, causing the petals from his trees to blush in the gust of rain around him.
The neighborhood kids would make fun of him, launching dirty words at him like small bombs. Tach was from Ukraine, although he claimed his ancestors emigrated from Moldova. He never seemed to mind it when the smaller kids would stare. He would simply sit back until his chest would be covered by the falling petals, only getting up when I would bring him the daily paper.
“Avi,” he said one day, as he reached from his rocking chair and took the paper from me.
“Yes,” I responded, pausing with my hand above the stair rail.
“Your mother said you were taking the entrance test soon.”
His accent was a little hard, with an emphasis on the r and the u, but I understood what he was saying under its slight burr.
“Yes sir,” I said. “I’ll be taking it next Saturday.”
He nodded. “You stop by tomorrow, I have books to give to help prepare. Very nice chrysanthemums your mother has though. Bright yellow, like a canary”
“Yes sir, thank you,” I said, and he let out another wheezing laugh while handing me a crisp ten-dollar bill.
“Sir,” he repeated, and took a magnolia bloom and held it close to his face.
I ran up the steps the next morning, holding a packet of testing materials and today’s paper in my left hand while my right hung freely beside me. My hand hit a pink bloom as I walked up the steps, and the soft magenta petals drifted onto the stair rails. Silver frost clung to their edges, and a spider web of ice wrapped around the magnolia branches above them. However, when I got to the rocking chair, I saw that it was empty.
“Mr. Tach?” I said, peering into the house. The door wasn’t shut; it hung open like a gaping mouth. I felt a small prickle of concern, my hands clenching above the flower petals. Tach was always outside, surrounded by the fragrant clumps of pink and purple even before the frost would melt from the grass.
I pushed open the door and stepped inside, the watery light illuminating the dark interior.
“Tach!” I shouted. Silence.
“Tach!” I shouted again, and banged open several doors. There was nothing, only an icy draft whistling between the rooms. Setting down the paper, I walked into the kitchen.
“Tach!” I said, and then all the air in my lungs escaping as I saw his pale figure, motionless, in the chair. My heart seemed to freeze in my chest. Grabbing the phone, I quickly dialed for an ambulance, frantically trying to feel for a pulse in his thin arm.
“Nine one one, what’s your emergency?” asked the operator.
“Heart attack,” I gasped. “My neighbor’s had a heart attack.”
It wasn’t long before the curtains flashed blue and red. As they carried Tach down the sidewalk, gently lifting the stretcher with his still body into the ambulance, several magnolia petals fluttered onto his chest, and I saw one drift onto his cheek before they closed the bright red doors of the vehicle.
The neighborhood was lonely without Tach.
The blushing petals piled outside his porch, and his windows became dark and dusty. I visited him in the hospital as soon as I could, bringing a clump of budding magnolia branches with me into his room.
He smiled as he saw me, his teeth pearly white against his wasted skin. Surrounded by the plastic tubes, there was not a single puff of wind. There was only the stale hospital air, the smell of disinfectant vaguely permeated by the sweet fragrance of the blooms I held.
“You brought me more flowers, like I asked,” he said, and his chest fluttered like a small bird. I felt a pang in my stomach.
“Yes sir,” I said, and he let out one of his wheezing laughs until it turned into a cough. It felt so wrong to see him surrounded by the white machinery; he looked frail and small without his foliage of pink and purple. However, when I handed him a flower, he picked a bloom off the tip of the branch and set it atop his forehead.
“Do you know who his family is?” a nurse asked, as she was tucked a white cloth around him and laid him on a wheeled stretcher to take him to the operation room. “He doesn’t seem to know.”
“His family is Magnolia,” I said honestly, which caused Tach to sputter and laugh while the nurse frowned and shifted in her heels.
“That’s not funny,” she snapped, which caused Tach to laugh even harder.
“Good luck in the surgery,” I told him, and he waggled a flower at me as he was being wheeled out of the room.
“You do well at test, and bring me more flowers,” he said, and then sat back in the stretcher and let the nurse push him.
“You did very nicely,” he said, as I brought him my test results. He set the paper on the bed. His eyes crinkled, and he took my hand in his and placed a small russet branch in my hand. A bandage stretched along his waist, and IV tubes poked into his skeletal figure. An oxygen mask was hooked to his face, though it sometimes slipped from his lips.
He weakly tapped my hand to get my attention from the tubes. “The nurse with the tall heels gave me this white magnolia branch. You take it and plant in your garden so I can visit when I die, yes?”
“You’re not going to die, Tach,” I said. His narrow eyes blinked slowly, and he patted my wrist.
“You were a good paperboy,” he muttered, and then shifted against the pillow, brushing a dried off magnolia petal from the bed. “I’ll miss your papers when I watch you from heaven.”
I could feel a light breeze at that moment, and I had to turn away and preoccupy myself with rearranging the flowers in the vase.
“The nurse said you still had a chance to make your heart better,” I mumbled, and he shook his head.
“My heart is like the magnolia tree in front of my house,” he said, “Old and tough, but slowly slipping away into the wind. You remember to plant that branch when I’m gone, you hear?”
I promised him I would.
The nurses in the room said that, when Tach died, all the flowers in his room seemed to wilt to a faded grey. His funeral was set a few days after his death, in the early morning before the sun had even risen. The casket was simple and black, but it had the emblem of a magnolia etched into the front.
After they lowered the casket into the Earth, I took a shovel and planted the small branch he had given me. The branches were wiry and tough between my fingers. As I pushed the roots into the hole, a small, pale petal fell into the hole.
I picked up the petal, and a gust of wind whipped my hair. “Here lies a man of the greatest soul of all. A Magnolia,” I said. The wind gave a gentle rustle in response, raking against my check and gently brushing my hair.
Bending down, I piled the dirt around the base of the branch and placed the petal on top. If I'm being honest, I cried a little as I piled up the soil. “A new magnolia for a wise old man,” I echoed. And I smiled even though I cried.
And though the wind had died down, and the casket was below the earth, I could still feel the breath of the breeze as it tumbled through the skinny branch rustling beside his grave. For the next thirty years that I visited, the branch's buds would only flourish and bloom brighter.