If you were a neighbor of the Styx’s house, every day at 5 pm, you would see a small figure peep out the door of their brick ranch house, a puffy silhouette from their winter jacket and boots, running down the trail to the woods, as fast as their chubby short legs could carry them. And if you were a neighbor of the Grimm’s house, you would see another puffy figure skipping out of an identical brick ranch house in the same exact direction.
Then you would see them slow down at the beginning of Maple street, where Asphodel and Prairie Street met. They would greet each other with a big hug, as best friends do, then commence walking down to the woods holding hands. The last thing you would be able to see of them would be their bright winter jackets, one blue and one red. And then you would be left with the dim lamp posts making circles of light on the blacktop.
Maybe you should follow them, see if they’re keeping safe. The curtain falls out of your hands and closes in front of the window, you’re fumbling with the zipper on your jacket, pulling on the mittens your grandma sent you for your birthday, tying your boots and finally stepping out into the frosty air.
You walk through the entrance of the woods; it’s currently the pregnant pause between afternoon and evening, where the sky bleeds red right merely moments before it turns ink black. Barely two minutes of walking has passed when you hear children’s voices.
“Maybe I can bring a sweatshirt from my house from my daddy’s closet. I don’t think he’ll notice.”
“Isn’t that stealing though? Maybe if you take an ugly one it won’t count as much.”
“Okay. Let me see the hat from next to the tree over there.”
You peer out from behind the tree you’re using to hide. The blue one skips to the tree about eight feet across from you and picks up a black baseball cap covered with layers of dead leaves and dirt. The red one holds the cap gingerly.
“I wonder who lost their hat here.”
“Whoever it is, I wonder if they lost their sweatshirt too.” The blue one uses the tip of his thumb and pointer, carefully picking up a sweatshirt hidden under yet another pile of leaves.
You back away from your hiding spot in confusion. Where did those clothes come from?
You feel a chill on your back. You run the rest of the way home.
Days later, you’re walking by the Styx’s house. You can hear voices inside the house, through the flimsy screen door.
“We’re building something super cool mommy, wait till you see it.” An absent minded reply.
“Did you make it?”
“I did, mommy.” You can practically see his round face beaming, the dimple making an appearance, the blush on his cheeks matching the red of his jacket.
“Well, when can I see it?”
“Tomorrow, mother. I’ll give you a hint; it’s inside you and me.”
You resume your walk.
Some more days pass, and you’re at the kitchen table, eating dinner. You prepare to go to the window to watch the children enter on their excursion to the woods, but you hear sirens. You spring up from your dining table chair and bolt open to the peephole in the door in time to see two police cars careening by. They’re heading towards the woods. Blue red, blue red, blue red, blue red. That is the pattern of lights flickering across your eyes from the sirens.
You step out in the chilly air again. It’s starting to snow; you put on a fleece jacket and walk down the driveway. The sirens stop but the cars are still here. You know you were walking before but somehow now, you’re running, sprinting to the woods. You hide behind the same tree you hid behind so many days ago. The white powder slams down a little heavier now.
Behind the whizz of snowflakes, you see, distorted somehow, a red puffy jacket. But his back is towards you, it shakes. It trembles with the breathing-down-your-back threat of grief. It’s hunched over, squatting on something. His bottom resting on an ivory- no a collection of ivory sticks; the shape reminds you of the dog bones in the commercials. Where is the body, the skin, heart, brain for these sticks?
And you know why there was a sweatshirt there, a hat hidden under the leaves. No one lost them; they lost the body. Were they deposited intentionally? When will they bring back the blue jacket? Will they bring back his little black boots to scatter too?
A woman, his mom maybe, tears through the forest, snatching, from under his armpits, the body in the red jacket.
“No, no, no,” she mutters under her breath.
If only saying no was all you had to say.
The remnants still scatter the forest floor like bones on a dirty plate from a chicken dinner.
In my seventh grade home ec class, we learned about color schemes. Monochrome, neutral, accented neutral. My favorite was always complimentary. Blue skies with oranges suns. Evergreen Christmas trees with red skirts. Purple and yellow irises. I liked the way two opposites could work so well together.
Maybe that’s why I liked you. You were tall and lean, and I was short and just a little bit curvy. Your hands were big with long fingers that engulfed my toddler like ones. You stayed out at parties with your friends into the hours I was always asleep. You knew what you were doing, and I hadn’t the slightest clue. You were my perfect compliment.
And you were very good at compliments.
A ‘hello gorgeous’ here, a ‘I’m so lucky to have you’ there. That’s all it took to hook me on you. Everywhere we went together, I saw beauty.
My purple dress and your yellow hoodie on the day we met. It was kindergarten, the very first day. You got in trouble for taking someone’s crayons or something silly like that. I don’t remember much from that day, but I’ll never forget the you of it all. Your big toothy grin, a picture of innocence, when you got caught. And a big yellow hood, maybe a size too big.
The blue and orange bowling shoes we wore on our first date. Sophomore year, that’s when it all started. I told you I hated bowling because I had always been so bad. You took that as a challenge. I let you convince me that you could make it fun. I don’t even know how you managed to do it, but I had the time of my life. Maybe that’s just you. And I remember how you walked me home that night. It wasn’t meant to be a date, but the way you kissed me under my porch light told me I had it wrong. Boy, had I never been more happy to be wrong.
The green herbs my mom put on the red spaghetti sauce the first time you ever came to dinner. I remember how nervous you were. You wore a tie. My dad wore sweatpants. Even through your nerves, you were charming as could be. They fell in love with you as quickly as I did. They were never the wiser to the you I know now.
The beauty I saw hid your true self from me. I ignored every red flag because I saw them with green eyes. I can’t say everything you did. I cant name all the ways you hurt me. Those scars aren’t quite healed yet, and even if they were, I don’t think I have that kind of time.
I think I hate you, but I know I still love you. Because even when you hurt me I still think about it positively. I think about how even when you hurt me, you still manage to make me and everything around me feel beautiful. Even when my eyes are blurred from all the tears, I still see it.
I see the beauty in the orange bottles filled with Adderall discarded in the corners of my room from nights you snuck in through the window. Coming from or headed to parties where you’d take much more lethal poisons. One bottle in particular is left open on the floor, showing a single blue pill surrounded by orange plastic. I have yet to clean up the mess you’ve made for fear you and your beauty be erased with it.
I see beauty in the way old bruises contrast fresh ones, a collection I’ve gathered from every night we did something stupid. You’re the one who taught me how to be stupid. You snuck me out of my house at night to go to a party or sit alone at the lake. There was always drinking, and most times much more debauchery. I took many tumbles down stairs, into water, down hills, into ditch, and once even off a roof you pulled me onto to be alone. It seemed every weekend there’d be fresh purple marks against the faded yellow ones from the weekend before. You always tell me I’m accident prone, but I still let you lead me to danger every time.
Some nights I wondered if any of the bruises hadn’t been an accident. I didn’t remember much from most nights I got them, but memories of quick open hands sometimes flashed through my mind. You always told me you would never, and I al believed you. With cuts on my eyebrows and bruises on my cheeks, I always let you convince me your hands were my home. That even with every injury I got, you were always the safest place for me to be.
Even though you don’t come around anymore, you still manage to make me feel beautiful. Through your compassion and compliments, you helped me gain confidence in my beauty that I never had, but now you don’t care. My beauty doesn’t matter to you like hers does. Her beauty comes with long thin legs like yours and a pretty face. She has a good sense of humor and an innocence I had before you. You show her off like you never did with me. Your friends tell you you’re lucky while you pretend I don’t exist. Her and I were never close, but I knew her well enough. We’d send Snapchats every day to watch a streak that meant virtually nothing go up and up. She’d never even know that you’d text me from her account. The two of you built your trust on checking up on each other, but my name never popped up on your account. Instead you’d message me from hers so she would never see. She’d never be the wiser if you still talked to me. But after every night she’d log back in, and every next morning you wouldn’t even look me in the eye.
I know that what we’re doing is wrong. It’s not fair to her, but you don’t seem to care. I should never even talk to you anymore. The things that happened, the things you did, the people we became. I know none of it is right, but my heart still sees all your beauty.
There is one last beautiful image you’ve never failed to leave me with, and still never do. Green eyes look so pretty when they cry.
They come to him first when he was seven, a barely-there voice from the shadows. “Come and play with us, Josh. We’ll have lots of fun. Lots of singing and dancing. We do so love to dance. Won’t you come and dance with us?”
And Josh answered, “I don’t know how to dance.”
The voice says to him, “Don’t worry, we’ll teach you. Just come with us.”
Josh was just wise enough to say no.
He flung himself into the bed after they’re gone, and sobbed into the pillow. He doesn’t know why he feels so cold.
They weren’t there before, but he could still feel them. Gentle, floating wisps of haunting pleas. Rough, angry screams. Anguished sobbing, though it’s not theirs. The ever-present moving of feet, and the smooth sound of cloth rustling. Tendrils of blackened thoughts reached towards him, glowing bright- too bright.
When he plays by the window, breathing in the chill night air, he dreams of them.
He’s seven, at the ballet, and he watches the dancers glide through the air, and he thinks of them, and he watches the wisps of the flowing dresses flutter, light in the air. He watches them leap, and his heart pangs. He thinks of how he would love it here. He listens, to the almost shy violas, to the roar of the cellos, of the crooning of the bass, of the almost arrogant violins. He thinks how they would love it, here at the ballet.
He’s eight, and he drew aimlessly, his pencil gliding on the page with a sudden grace. Loops and spirals emerge, and they’re smooth and clean. His fingers moved elegantly. The result is beautiful, a portrait of an unknown man, and yet he knows his face far too well. When he was done, he ripped the paper up, tearing it into ever-smaller shreds. He hears a whisper, “Oh, and it was such a lovely picture.” He screamed, and clutched the shards to him.
He dreams, and he’s with people who are like him. Young, laughing children, a kind old man who offers them little cakes. He dreams of circles and of a magical world just beyond.
He’s nine, and he can’t escape: his thoughts spiral down and down and down, endlessly, and the pit at the bottom- for surely there’s a bottom somewhere- is black, so dark it shouldn’t exist, black that takes the warmth, black that takes the light, black so dark it hurts to look at. They appear to him, and somehow they are darker.
He doesn’t mind, though. Black’s his favorite color. It used to be pink.
Josh dreams of them every night, dreamed of the ballet, the cold green and sly purple, of voices that tell him to come back, that he belongs. He dreamed of a world, happy, or maybe not, but who can be happy anyway? Josh doesn’t think he’d belong with people who were always happy, and he knows the voice isn’t happy. Josh dreams of them every night, and he always remembers his dreams.
They come to him next when he was eleven. “Oh, Josh, the time we’ve missed. You can still come with us, you know. It’s not too late.'' The voice is oil-smooth, the taste like bitter chocolate. “Don’t be afraid. We’ll still dance. All of us, together. Won’t that be nice?”
Josh choked out a reply, intoxicated. “It would. But I was told not to go with strangers.”
The voice chuckles then, an odd sound. “No. No, you mustn't talk to strangers. But I’m hardly a stranger. Won’t you dance with us?”
Josh swallowed, and said, “No thanks.”
The voice is gone, then, and Josh is ashamed of how he wished it would linger, and surprised at how he feels like a part of his soul he didn’t even know existed is gone.
He doesn’t know why, but when he was singing in the shower, he half expected them to come to him. They don’t, of course, but when he tapped his feet in the suddenly too-small area, he felt just a bit warmer.
They come to him in the middle of crying, locked into a dirty bathroom. He’s twelve, then. They croon to him, sweet nothings, empty platitudes, and he sung back. They know they have him. He sent them away, gently, firmly, expecting the pain, not expecting the sadness.
He doesn’t like the shadows. He never lets them touch him. Not because of what might be in there- ghouls and vampires and barely-realistic monsters from Ma’s silly stories- but less because the shadows make him feel like there are needles in his skin, pushing up to the surface with their sterilized points, and more because of what he knows is in there.
He dreams, and these dreams are flustered, frenetic, flurries of movement, up, down, leaping-swirl-dip-leg-lift. He dreams, and he dreams of wild, animalistic cries, of the stage, and the cold gleam of the spotlight. He dreams of voices calling, voices singing, higher higher higher more more more. He can’t breathe in the dreams, and he doesn’t want to.
He yelled at them, once, on his fifteenth birthday, and the voice is raw and pained. He whispered, then, once they’re gone. He pleaded with the darkness, begging it to come back. Tears streamed down his face, and maybe he hears cold, cruel laughter ringing back, or maybe it’s just his desperate mind.
He dreams, and they aren’t there anymore. He dreams of the chanting, the burning, the ropes, lights, music, the gesturing composer with the too-tall hat who smiles for a second too long. He dreams of green, and of purple, and these are not kind. They are cold, and clinical, and too-sterilized and dirty. He dreams of laughter with no merriment, laughter in mocking rings, and he tries to catch the laughter, but he falls short.
When he’s sixteen, they come back, mocking him. They laugh at him for thinking he could join them, now, when he's been spoiled. They laugh as he jumps and leaps for them, anything to stop the icy, cutting cold. They’re cold, too, but Josh needs the cold. They laugh as they leave him, and this time there isn’t a wisp left.
He practices pilates and spins and twirling leaps that night until his feet bleed.
Josh doesn’t dream of them anymore.
He’s seventeen, and he’s at the ballet, some stuffy old fundraiser his parents dragged him to. He watched the dancers, and as he watched their too-slow leaps a fraction behind the beat, their awkward, hesitant spins, and he thinks of how they would hate it here. He hates it too, and as he glared at the ballerina with the gangly limbs, his heart pangs, and he doesn’t know why.
He stares at the college brochure in his hand, and he looks at the dull-green bushes and artificial sky in it. He looked at the off-angle feet of one of the students- he refuses to call them dancers- and the too-stiff arms of another. He looked at it, and he looked at the shadows- he got rid of the flickering lights long ago- in his corners, and he thinks of the smooth voice it’s been too long since he’s heard. He thinks of them, of how they hate it, and how they’d hate him, and he smirks. He hits the buttons, and it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done.
He grabbed the letter, staring at the fancy insignia, pausing for the tiniest moment before slicing it open. Congratulations, it says, You’ve been accepted. He can’t breathe. He stared at it, shakes it a bit, even licks the envelope. It’s real. He’s filled with a sudden urge to flee, a primal call that he can’t ignore. He hears dark taunts swirling through his head. He clears his throat and shows it to his parents.
They are thrilled for him.
He is thrilled that the voices came back.
He’s glad, as he boarded the train, that it’s so far away. It makes it harder to come back, harder to stare into the dark closets and shadowy corners, harder to remember. He grabs his luggage and shoves it next to him. He puts in his headphones and changes the station because he recognizes it and it makes it hard to focus on the fact that he’s going to college to learn how to dance like they did. It’s the music played by the shy whispering violas.
He looks into his dorm, into the shadows that aren’t so black and the almost inviting emptiness of the room. He hears the air duct whistling. A gust of cool air blows from the vents, and a cloud of dust hovers. He smiles.
His dreams are full of bright, colorful peals of laughter that sparkle like diamonds and cut like glass.
He’s twenty and he’s nervous; it’s his first role. His parents couldn’t make it, and some part of him is selfishly glad, because he doesn’t want to share this feeling with anyone else. It’s a wonderful night, and there are congratulations all around. Everything is illuminated, but the stage doesn’t call to him, and he feels like he’s lying whenever he dances.
He dreams, and he sees her in his dreams instead. Her foot kicks high, her landing impeccable. She’s flying, she’s falling. Down-down-down into the pit, black as the night, black as the shadows, black as his heart. He reaches the bottom, and she’s lying on a bed of broken bones, shadows whipping around her, her willowy figure looking- wrong. He lifts her veil, realizing he never saw her face.
It’s him.
He dropped out of university when he was twenty-one; he couldn’t do it. He was a year and a half away from completing it. He got a job cleaning cars. He still dances, even though it makes him feel like his heart’s on fire.
He hears a voice when he passes by the window. Someone’s lighting a fire outside. It smells bad. “Come back.” It’s a low cry, but he can hear it.
“I don’t know how,” he says.
“Don’t worry. We’ll tell you how. Just trust us.”
And Josh does. He doesn’t know why. But some inexplicable feeling just made him.
Five weeks later, Josh disappears.
Seven weeks later, he came back.
When she opened them again, reality shattered her perfect fantasy. Gone were the tender touches of the wind. Beneath her, the floor was cold and hard. Loose threads hung from the edges of her lace sleeves, where the fabric had been violently torn from her thin white dress. Next to her lay what remained of her hastily chosen bouquet of grocery store flowers. The flowers were strewn about the space, and all that remained in the crumpled plastic wrap was a gaudy pink ribbon and a couple curling leaves. She reached out and placed her hand on the locked door before her. She could hardly see through the dark of the closet. While it was still quiet, she would slip into an escape. She ran her hand down the door frame. The cracking white paint began to flake off and crumble to the floor like dandruff.
And around her fell a soft flurry of white cotton puffs. They kissed her face and her arms, welcoming her home. The grass, the sky, the air, everything was an uncharted expanse waiting to be explored. She stretched out her arms to the heavens and drank in the fresh air. She could finally breathe. There was an endless amount of space. She loved the sky. And the sky loved her back.
Inside the closet, the walls closed in on her with overbearing certainty. She knew every inch of the space. From childhood, she had learned to obey her father, lest she be locked away in the small closet by the stairs for hours on end. It was easier then: she was much smaller. Now, there was only space enough for her to huddle into a corner and breathe, but barely. She pulled her knees into her chest and stared at the wrinkles in her tear-stained dress.
Before the darkness could seep into her world, she closed her eyes and began to count.
One, two, three. With nimble fingers, she picked up the flowers she had gathered into her basket.
Ten, eleven, twelve. The collection of baby blues, lavenders, aquamarines and lapiz amassed a lovely bouquet.
Twelve. Delicately, she set them back in the basket.
Twelve.
What remained of the ravaged bouquet had little life left. The petals had curled into an ugly brown snarl. It might only take a heavy sigh or meaningful glance to break their delicate frames. She buried her head in her arms and shook her head. This had all been a mistake. The dress. The bouquet. The dance. She never should have tried.
“Back so soon?”
The voice came from behind her. She lifted her head and turned to look at him. Even through her sadness, she couldn’t help but smile. He was always late.
“I was wondering when you’d get here,” she replied.
He smiled and settled down next to her. His hair was a wispy white, and his eyes a pale, luminescent sapphire. There it was. That clear blue sky, untainted by tendrils of night seeping into its pure and unadulterated brightness. That magnificent glow of light, sweeping over the heavens with ethereal strokes. That blue, the only blue that could counter the darkness.
In his eyes, she felt, very simply, home.
“I’m glad you’re here, Azure.”
She turned her face away and rested her head on his shoulder. The silence that stood between them did not need to be filled. She knew every thought passing through his mind. He felt the grim permanence of events that could not be reversed. He knew that what had transpired could not be taken back. And it was unfortunate, but at least he knew. At least someone could hear her.
The sound of heavy footsteps at the base of the stairs startled her to attention.
“Who do you think you are, fucking Cinderella?”
She shrank back at the sound of his voice. If the green grass in her mind could materialize, she would sink into it forever and never be found. She heard the bang of his fist hitting the light switch. The floor was illuminated with a small sliver of a sickly orange glow.
“Cinderella didn’t have to buy herself her own goddamn flowers.”
He started up the stairs. Every thud of his foot felt deafening. She closed her eyes and searched for her infinite blue. But the crack of orange in the dark diffused into the open air of her world, muddling the clarity of the atmosphere.
“Cinderella didn’t have a good Daddy, like me.”
She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to return, but the air was filthy and choked with a bitter, citrus taste.
“Why the hell do you need a ball, when you have me?”
She heard the metallic sound of keys rattling at the closet door. She didn’t have a chance to say goodbye.
“Azure… Azure, where are you?”
With a loud bang, the door was thrust open. The hazy, orange light spilled into the closet. She shielded her eyes.
No. No.
But it had already begun. The orange caught on like wildfire. The grass burned and was quickly swallowed and engulfed. The orange crept in to neutralize the brilliant blue hues of her sky. What it didn’t dull, it blackened and charred.
The blue sky was filled with thick smoke and suffocating poison and all at once, there was total darkness.
The pleasant breeze of the nearby Spring entered through the window, enough to brush the lace curtains, yet soft enough to remain subtle. At last, the season had surpassed its bitter cold, and warmth began to the quaint suburbia once more. The days began to become longer, and so the sun could still be seen peeking above the horizon as it prepared to set for the night. A few quiet chirps from the birds could be heard as they returned from their Winter migration.
Vivian smoothed her cotton apron with her hands, pausing to examine the manicure she had gotten earlier that day. The pastel pink color of her nails perfectly fit in with her environment. Times were modernizing, styles were meant to reflect easy days; She enjoyed her “American Dream.” Vivian smiled and looked up at her husband, who pondered at the kitchen table, ready to light his cigarette. With the cigarette dangling from his mouth, he picked up a newspaper that his wife had brought in earlier that afternoon, the title reading “VIETNAM: WHAT’S TO KNOW?”
“Gordon, I am going to finish this cake, and get ready for bed.” Vivian declared.
Her husband made a huffing sound while nodding, fiddling with his grey felt hat that he had left on the kitchen table. After a long puff of his cigarette, he exhaled.
“I had better get some rest too. It was a rough day at the office.” Gordon scoffed. “They’ve been giving us assignments like it’s nobody’s business.”
Vivian made a sound of sympathy.
“I’m sorry, dear. Tomorrow will be better. There will be a cake waiting for you.” Vivian reassured him as she gave a wink.
Vivian picked up a stark white egg out of its carton and cracked it three times against her mixing bowl. The yolk slid down the side of the bowl, and Vivian watched it keanly. She stared and observed the shapes it took as it settled to the bottom of the bowl.
“Oh yes.” She smiled. “Things are going to be a lot less stressful in the upcoming months.”
Gordon raised an eyebrow while nodding, giving his attention to the newspaper in his hand.
Call it a woman’s intuition.” Vivian said, quietly and to herself. She smirked.
As the sun sank more and more, Vivian finished up the chores in the quaint home. The kitchen was wiped, and shelves dusted, and the carpets vacuumed.
Vivian sighed and wiped her brow as she picked up the vacuum cleaner to stow it away. She carried it by its handle to the small-framed appliances closet just beside the kitchen. She gently placed it beside a few bottles of cleaning solution, and an old wooden broom. Vivian shut the wooden closet door with content and smiled.
***
“Goodnight then.” Gordon told his wife as he reached to turn off the lamp on the nightstand.
“Goodnight, Gordon.” Vivian reciprocated.
The night was peaceful, and it was warm. The young couple had left the window beside the bed cracked open to let in the soft, cool breeze. It filled the room with the fresh aroma of clean air.
The scene was calm and somber, allowing Gordon to sleep with ease. He lay beside his wife loosely as deep sleep had engulfed him. On the contrary, Vivian felt no incentive to sleep. The sun was out of sight, and so were her responsibilities as a housewife.
Moments passed and the night grew, but it was still young. Vivian stripped the soft sheet of the bed off of her body. She arose out of the bed, and stood up beside it without making even the slightest sound.
Remaining quiet, she shifted along with the breeze towards the bathroom. She gently closed the door and turned on the light.
Vivian stared at her reflection, examining herself attentively. Her red hair maintained the curls she had given herself the evening before, resting midway down her neck to create the perfect bob. Her skin was fair, but her cheeks often flushed pink like the color of her new set of nails. Her head was oval shaped, and her frame was slender. Vivian enjoyed the youth she still possessed.
After a few moments, Vivian glanced at her white nightgown. The hem grazed the bottom of her knees, fitting comfortably but loosely.
Vivian made her way to the closet which was connected to the bathroom. Shuffling through the hangers consisting of several swing dresses, high-waisted trousers, and organized shirts, she finally pulled a long dress off the shelf. She briskly slipped into the single-piece dress, replacing her white nightgown on the hanger.
As she made her way back to the bathroom, Vivian glanced once more at her appearance. The silk dress was a chic black, and it complimented her silhouette. The fabric at her bottom half was loose, and flowed out elegantly, allowing freedom for her to move about. The straps sat along the top of her shoulders, and the chestline made a pointed ‘V’ shape. Vivian wore the elegant garment only when it meant going out, as the looseness of the dress allowed for her to move more freely.
The final piece Vivian wore was an audacious diamond lavaliere around her neck. It consisted of one large geometric diamond, with a few similar and smaller pieces branching out from the center diamond. It appeared to weigh a considerable amount, and the pieces would reflect any light shining upon it.
Vivian stepped out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom, where Gordon still slept. He was sprawled out against the whole bed, seeming to hug the entire thing. He let out a few snores. Vivian rolled her eyes. Although the couple did not have children, Vivian felt as if she was already bound to one.
The dressed up woman ever so slightly snuck passed her sleeping husband, and managed to creep her way down the hall, down the stairs, and to the main foyer of the home.
Vivian stepped into her kitchen, leaving the lights off. The moon shone through the window above the sink. It seemed to be nearly full, lighting the room enough so that one could see perfectly well.
Propping herself up on her tippy toes, Vivian opened a cabinet and pulled out a sturdy glass bottle of vodka. With nobody around to impress, she consumed the alcohol directly from its source rather than pouring it into a glass. She swiftly placed the bottle back in its cabinet
Vivian then returned to the small appliances closet just outside the kitchen. She twisted the silver doorknob, and opened the wooden door.
She rubbed the handle of the vacuum cleaner she had used earlier, but lightly pushed it aside. Instead, she grasped the wooden broom that sat alongside it. Its height competed with Vivian, just ending at her chest. The shaft of the broom was a dark brown, and the bristles were a bushel of straw bound by metal strings. With swift movement, Vivian snatched the broom out of the closet and shut the door carefully.
At last, the evening could begin. Vivian slipped on a pair of black pumps, and made her way to the back door. She slid it open, stumbled out into the backyard, and shut the glass door while making a bit more noise that she had hoped to.
The breeze finally reached Vivian’s skin the moment she reached the outdoors. It was a refreshing feeling. She took a few steps out further until she stood in the middle of the backyard, surrounded by a white picket fence.
With the broomstick in her right hand, Vivian slightly lifted the bottom of her black gown with her left hand. She stepped over the broomstick, and sat upon it, holding the base of it as the bristles tailed out behind her. With the loose bottom portion of her dress, she comfortably sat as the silk fabrics splayed out all around, covering most of the wooden stick.
Vivian took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The breeze around her picked up and swirled around her feet. Before long, her feet began to trail off of the green grass, and soon, she was in the air.
Vivian was airbound before she knew it. The peaceful home below her feet soon became one out of a sea of homes. What was once a light breeze stifling through the kitchen had picked up to be a substantial wind, blowing Vivian’s red hair about.
The night belonged to Vivian as she soared through the skies above the town. She laughed and tilted her head up, letting the cool wind blow against her face.
The horizon showed a bright and bustling city. Vivian maneuvered her broomstick, twisting and turning carefully towards the city where she could be free. As the suburbs slept, the city thrived all night long, and so Vivian could finally thrive as well.
My first love was my hero.
I was the new kid, had just moved in from Ohio to Texas. First day after school, I found myself on the ground in an alleyway just behind the school, looking up to three guys who I was sure were in my grade but were much taller and bigger than I was. I must have looked easy to them with my thick rimmed glasses and my thinner, smaller stature.
“Hey new kid,” one of them, the leader, I would later learn, sneered. “I saw you eyeing my spot in the lunchroom earlier. Hands OFF.” He glanced back at his friends once. The two behind him tried to scowl.
It was obvious that they were new to this whole bully business, but nevertheless, I was terrified. As one of the smallest of the third grade, it would only take one of them to knock me down.
“Hey. Punch him in the guts for good measure,” one of the cronies grunted.
“Yeah, show him who’s boss,” the other piped in.
The leader stood in front of me and grabbed me by the collar, forcing me up. He tried to scowl and raised his fist. Squeezing my eyes shut, I said a silent prayer, hoping it wouldn’t hurt as much as it seemed to in my dad’s TV shows.
“HEY!” A rolled-up piece of paper came flying between me and the boy. All four of us froze. The hand holding my collar shook slightly. We turned toward to the opening of the alleyway, where a girl was standing, confident. In her hands, she was rolling up another sheet of paper.
She marched up to us. “Let go of him.”
“You’re not the boss.” The leader tried to argue, but he shuffled back slightly. The other two boys looked nervous as well, as they moved closer to the side of the alley.
“Let go of him, Derrick, or I will tell your mom and she can show you who the boss is. And that goes for you two too.”
The leader, Derrick, glared at her but let go of my collar. I scrambled away from the three boys and the girl. The girl walked right up to Derrick’s face, the paper ball resting in her hand. Derrick flinched.
She threw the ball at the center of Derrick’s face. “You’re not the boss,” she snorted. “You can’t just bully people you think are weaker than you. Next time you do this, I’m going straight to your mom.” She folded her arms, grinning. “Out.”
The three boys grumbled, but they listened to her. They trudged out of the alleyway while the girl smiled and waved at their backs. Once they were out of sight, she turned to me. I stiffened, not knowing what her intentions were.
“They won’t be bothering you for the next few days. Are you okay?” She had a look of genuine worry on her face and it loosened me up. I nodded stiffly, but I couldn’t hide my smile.
Noticing this, the girl smiled back. “My name’s Gina,” she said. She stuck her hand out, her smiling changing to a cheeky grin. “You have a pretty smile. You should smile more often.”
I was in love.
It turns out Gina was famous around school. As the youngest child and the only daughter of four sons of one of the wealthiest families in the area, Gina was at the top of the social ladder and she knew it. Not only that, but she had learned martial arts from her brothers from a young age because they were worried about her attracting a weird man. (Their efforts were not in vain. In second grade, when Luke Castro tried to kiss her, Gina launched a kick straight in the stomach and warned that his face was next.) She was well known for not being afraid to fight, so most of the boys steered clear of Gina. The few boys who were brave (or dumb) enough to make a move on her often ended up in the nurse’s office.
Above all, Gina was known for defending the weaker kids—kids like me. She was a hero to many and was well-liked because of that. But while others continued on with their lives, I stubbornly stuck to Gina.
I was infatuated. Wherever she went, I was never far behind. Gina didn’t mind. In fact, whenever someone demanded to know why I was hanging around with The Gina, she was quick to defend me, saying that I was her friend. It was an honor of some sorts to be her friend. Despite my later growth spurt, I was still picked on often, but she continued to protect me. Not only that, but she listened to me when I had no one else to talk to. And so, I finally gathered up my courage to confess at the end of high school.
I was turned down.
When I looked down at her face, my heart dropped. I knew what she was going to say.
“Forget I said anything,” I muttered.
“John, it’s not that I don’t like you,” Gina sighed, looking up at me with sad eyes. “It’s just that I’m worried.”
“About what?”
“John. You’re not happy when you’re with me. I don’t want you to force yourself into a relationship that doesn’t make you happy.”
I couldn’t understand her. I believed that being with her made me happy.
“John, listen.” Gina took my hands. “What you have for me is an obsession. It’s like an addiction. It’s not love. You’re a wonderful person, John. You deserve love. I can’t give you that love and you can’t give me that love either.”
“Gina--”
“John.” She looked directly into my eyes. “I can see it. You don’t love me.”
I ran away from her. In the middle of our first year of college, I changed my phone number and transferred to a school far away from Gina. I felt hurt and betrayed, not by her, but by myself for thinking that I had a chance with her. How could I think of her like that? What was it about me that she didn’t like? What was I lacking? Thoughts like these drove me into a state of despair, and I fell into a hole of blame and guilt.
It was in that time of darkness that I met her.
She was like a fairy, small and dainty, with a laugh that sounded like bells chiming. Her presence was warm and comforting, and just being near her made you smile. I had met her during work. She was the first to greet me when I switched departments.
She reached into my deep, dark hole. At first, I was cautious, and I tried to avoid her. Because of the painful memories of Gina and my unrequited love, I didn’t want to fall in love again. But love is a powerful emotion, and it is a lonely emotion. Every day, she waited for me, and every day, I felt my heart warming up to her. She was like the sun. I was alone and cold, and she showered me with warmth and praise. It was a long process, but slowly, I began to open up to her. She didn’t rush me; she didn’t pressure me. She waited for me to bring it up myself.
Finally, after five years, I told her about my experience with love. She listened to my words with empathetic eyes. All the emotions I had tried to keep contained were spilling out of me. I couldn’t stop.
She gently wrapped her hands around mine. “So how do you feel about her now? Do you still love her?”
I looked at her. She was looking at me with eyes that radiated innocence. Her small hands barely covered the tops of my hands, but they still warmed my hands. She had decided to tie her hair back today in a high ponytail that suited her. Then again, everything suited her. She was radiating beauty.
“No,” I answered hesitantly. “No, I don’t love her anymore.”
She smiled at that and then did something unexpected. She reached up to gently grab my face and pecked me on the cheek. I looked at her in shock. “I like you,” she said shyly. “Would you go out with me?”
Two years later, I got a call from an unknown number. It was Gina. After saying her name, she said that she wanted to meet up. She appeared without warning, just as she had the first time we met. I debated over whether or not to show up. I was worried that I wasn’t as over Gina as I thought I was. But when I talked to my wife, she told me that she believed it was a good idea to meet with Gina. And so, I called her back and agreed to meet at a nearby café.
I walked into the café. Gina was sitting at one of the tables with her legs crossed, coffee in hand, the same as before. And yet, I didn’t feel anything. My heart didn’t beat. She was just another woman sitting in that café.
I took a deep breath and walked up to her. “Gina.”
She looked up at me and smiled. Setting her mug down, she uncrossed her legs. “I’ve been waiting. Sit.” She motioned to the chair in front of her.
“Why did you call me here?” I asked.
“Why?” She looked at me incredulously. “Why? Do you know what I heard from my parents yesterday when I called them? They said that you had gotten married. Without telling me. I mean, I know we lost contact, but how could you not invite me to your wedding? After I heard that from my parents, I had to see you. Luckily, I was in the area.” She looked at me with such betrayal that I couldn’t help but laugh.
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be.” She leaned forward in her chair. “I thought we had promised to attend each other’s weddings.”
I snorted. “That was in middle school.”
“A promise is a promise.”
Conversation flowed effortlessly; it was as if we had just seen each other yesterday. We talked for hours about what we had done the last few years. Gina listened attentively, just as she always had. She asked a lot of questions about my wife and teased me about her.
I stopped to look at her—to truly look at her. She was laughing. Nothing about her changed, not even her personality. But I didn’t feel the fluttering feeling in my heart that I used to. Instead, I felt something else.
“Thank you,” I said.
Gina stopped mid-laugh. She looked at me with curious eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“Thank you for being my first love. Thank you for understanding my feelings better than I did. Thank you for being my friend.”
Gina grinned. “I’m glad you realized how hard it was to take care of you,” she sighed, leaning back in her chair. “I mean, you may have been tall, but you were too nice to defend yourself.”
I laughed.
Gina’s eyes softened. “You’re smiling, you know. When you looked at me before, you were looking at me with wonder. That’s how I knew you didn’t love me, at least not in the way you thought you did.” She took a glance at her phone and stood up. “I have to go now. But I’m glad you’re happy now. You’re smile is as pretty as ever.” She waved slightly. “Bye John.”
I stayed in my seat, thinking for a second. “Gina,” I called. She turned around. “I’ll call you.”
Gina grinned. “You’d better.” She left the café.
Most of the time it’s hard to believe that there was a time before everything went dark. Everything before the dark seems like walking through the fog, or trying to look out the window when you’re going eighty-five down the highway. Like you’re trying to watch and understand every passing sign, every nameless city in the distance that has just enough lights to be noticed. Right before I appeared in this place it is the most hazy. I remember some parts of it, like walking Ms. Ivy’s dog and the noisy barks and the sudden screech of rubber on rubber that made a noise just like screaming. But other than that, there’s barely any explanation that would point as to how I got here, strapped up to hundreds of wires and being serenaded with a constant symphony of beeps. The only reason I know I’m hooked up and lit up like a Christmas tree is because that’s all one of my visitors can talk about. Like a little, alive extension cord, she mutters, her voice heavy with a foreign accent. I usually take her word for it.
I’ve been lying here, always awake, always waiting. Waiting for somebody to give me answers. Sometimes, if people are forgiving, they’ll talk a little too loud, above the beeps and the whooshes of the air conditioner and the normal squabble of everyday life. But even then they tend to speak in vague non-answers. People walk in, walk out. Sometimes they wear heels that click clack. Sometimes they scribble scrabble with loud pens and pencils. Sometimes they gnash their gum (they must not have had Ms. Bilkie for a first grade teacher.) Sometimes they talk, but they’re just as cryptic when Mom knows something that she doesn’t want us to know. Like when Mandy asked about Santa Claus. Mom’s not a liar; even I know that. But she didn’t tell the truth. It was like the inbetween, the not-really truth and the not-really lie. Like she was trying to be the good guy even with the odds pitted against her.
I must be sick, so sick that I can’t move anything, not even my eyes. I feel like I’ve been pretending to be asleep for ages, like I’m trying to fake asleep so Mom doesn’t get me up for 6am mass before school. And even then, I’d peep through my lashes to see her creep to the side of my bed before she nudged me to see if I was truly asleep. But this? It feels like my eyelids have been closed with Gorilla Glue, maybe even cement. They only open every time a person pries them open and shines a bright light on them. It sounds painful, but just seeing something only than this blackness is better than Christmas.
I didn’t realize how hard it is to tell time when all you do is lie down with your eyes closed. How long has it been? Hours? Days? I’ve never simultaneously been living so fast and so slow at the same time. Simultaneously. Mom taught that to me when it appeared in Harry Potter before the darkness hit. She called it a fifty cent word, something I could use while talking to my teachers. She said it’d make a good first impression on the first day of fifth grade.
I’ve never been in a hospital before, but this must be where I am. I’ve never been somewhere so noisy and restless, I always expected the private rooms to be quiet and contained. Reading about them always promised me that I’d have some form of downtime. But here, there’s never a moment of silence, not even in the quiet periods. There’s always people opening the squeaky door, always talking amongst themselves like parishioners before mass. Always checking how I am (they call them vitals), always scribbling with noisy pens, always pushing and pulling me into every direction, like I’m one of Mandy’s dolls. Always asking questions that no one seemingly knows the answer to. Questions like, “Has he opened his eyes yet without assistance?” or “Is there been any change with his vitals since the last round?” or “Is another surgery necessary?”
I’m getting the hang of telling when it’s night and day. When the faceless nurses and the loud doctors frequent the least, it must be nearing the end of the day. There’s still careless nurses who check the machines, but they come at a less frequent pace and seem to walk with quiet feet and speak in sighs instead of conversations.
There’s a lady that checks on me every day, and sometimes at night. Although she isn’t the most frequent visitor, she’s the most compassionate. She thinks to hold my hand and ask about my day, even if the words get lost in my throat. It must be Mom. Mom still wears the faint smell of home on her favorite knit sweater, but it’s beginning to fade into the background of the scent of sterility and supermarket flowers.
The more she visits, the more everything about her feels different. Even the way she holds my hand. Instead of clasping for comfort, it’s like she’s squeezing onto dear life, afraid that I’ll somehow leave her, even though she’s the one that has to leave me here alone in the night. Not that I’d be going anywhere anyways. In her lack of words to the faceless supervisors, she prays longer and stays for what seems like hours, as if she can’t get enough of me.
Yesterday it was the man with the oil who visited. I heard Mom saying “Thank you, Father.” every other sentence, but he didn’t sound like any of the regular priests I’ve known. He smelled like dust and chrism, and spoke in a low voice that sounded more like a call from the tomb than a comforting voice of God. But he still prayed and he still prayed the rosary. Mom even looped her favorite wooden cross between my fingers while they prayed, letting me in on their little circle.
And now it’s Mandy. Out of the constant stream of visitors, she’s the one that visits the least. It probably has something to do with the fact that she can’t sit still. Everything she touches either breaks or makes noise, and nobody here is nearly as loud as she is. When she does come in, I can hear the scribbling away at construction paper with dulling crayons, and mumbling out words she can barely pronounce, like aminal. Sometimes I can hear her ask mom to put her hair in pigtails or ask for extra books and ask why everything’s so boring here.
“Joel? Joel, are you there?” my sister’s voice broke through the monotony of the darkness, like a pearl of light bursting from the end of a long, engulfing tunnel. I attempt to squeeze Mom’s hand back to give her some idea that I’m here, with them, listening. “Why are all the tubes?”
“He needs to breathe.” My mother eventually responded between Hail Marys.
“Did you know Joel can hold his breath underwater for more than 50 seconds. When we were at the pool last time, we were jumping around and he held his breath for so long that he was part fish.” She pauses. “He shouldn’t need tubes if he can breathe under water.”
“That’s great honey.”
There’s a soft pitter-patter of footsteps atop the linoleum as my sister suddenly grabs my other hand. Unlike my mother’s calloused and pleading grip, Mandy’s is warm; I can feel the handle of a small sucker between our set of fingers. “Why won’t he wake up?”
“We…we talked about this. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah. Can I still talk to him?”
“Of course.”
“Okay, okay, um…” she pauses, playing with her most likely tightly braided hair. She leans close to my ear, she smells like cotton candy and church; they must have stopped by after Sunday service or maybe a lunch. “Please come home soon. There’s nobody to play Cops and Robbers with anymore. I know you can’t yet, but…but please try. Father Charles and-and everyone prayed extra hard today. I think Ms. Ivy said she was gonna send over a big, big pot of flowers and maybe even a new Lego set. We can start building it once you come home. Your old Lego set is still at home, it’s with your baseball mitt with all the pictures in it, and the rest of your books.”
She pauses, waiting for me to open my eyes or nod or smile. But even my attempt to squeeze her hand for reassurance is lost and unsuccessful. To fill the silence, she adjusts my favorite blanket that we used when we had story time in my room. Like my sister, it smelled like home.
“Momma says something happened with you and Ms. Ivy’s dog. Remember Ms. Ivy’s dog? Not the small one, but the big one with all the poofy hair and smelled like dog food?”
“Mandy, be quiet--”
“And she said that you didn’t see the car that was going too fast, and the dog didn’t either--”
“I SAID BE QUIET!”
The room fell to a sickening silence, the only noise left being the rhythmatic beep, beep, beep of my heart monitor with the occasional scuttle of nurses outside the closed door.
Mandy usually cries when Mom yells like that, yells like Dad used to. Instead, I could hear her fussing with the dirty teddy bear, brushing its short, soft, brown hair with her most likely chewed fingernails. Mom still prays on, still blesses my head, still mumbles loudly and still smells more like the hospital than the happy times. Suddenly, I feel Mandy push a familiar, soft plush animal in the crook of my arm.
“When’s Joel coming home?” Mandy whispered once again, much quieter and holding my hand much more like Mom.
“As soon as he wakes up.”
“You promise?”
“I swear.”
The door squeaks open again, and a barrage of footsteps fill the room, most likely equipped with sharp objects and scribbling pens alike.
“M-Momma…”
“They’re just gonna run some tests.” There it was again, the sound of her telling a half-lie. Not even her subconscious could pretend this was the truth.
I feel her chapped lips press against my freezing forehead, and she cups my face the way she used to when she read bedtime stories and tucked us in for the long night.
“Stay strong, Joel. Please, please, stay strong.” she whispers, her voice quivering under the collosal weight of her words. I feel the fear, the pain, the confusion, all of it crushing me from the inside out. I want to get up and grab her, want to say sorry for agreeing to walk Ms. Ivy’s dog, want to say sorry for not checking for cars like she always taught us to do, say sorry for not praying extra hard and not being nicer or helping with the dishes and not playing enough with Mandy.
As Mom eventually coaxes Mandy from my side, having to unweave our fingers as if it were the Gordian knot, in between Mandy’s sniffles and questions that were blurting out of her mouth. I want to scream and ask questions, beg to go with them, beg them not to leave me here with the darkness and sharp objects. Oh God, they must be needles. As the masked figures close in, and I’m swarmed by a sea of gloved hands and pricking sensations, I hear Mandy’s voice ring loudly in my ears before she leaves:
“He’s not waking up, is he?”
My mother sniffles, wipes her eyes with Dad’s old handkerchief. “Come on,” she whispers, closing the squeaking door behind her (did she even look back?) “Let’s go read some Harry Potter in the waiting room.”
A thin, glossy slip of cardstock was all that stood between Babu and the fabled land of America. He sat in the gate of the Cochin airport, intently studying the swaying motions of the coconut trees. The sun had revealed herself in all her glory during a brief break from the torrential monsoon rains; light streamed in through the frames of glass, and with it came an invisible warmth. The air was suspended, humidity palpable.
He shifted in his chair, unsure if it was the result of the heat or his anxiety, and checked the ticket information against the boarding screen again. Nothing had changed—he was scheduled to board his flight in a few short moments.
His eyes drifted towards the windows once more, drawn to the inescapable expanse of green. Somehow, it appeared to him as equally barren as it was enticing. Babu had been submerged in the rolling emerald since his birth, nestled in trees of palm and tamarind and mango. He was constantly enveloped in the perfumed air of acrid, rotting jackfruit; sharp, briny canal water; and bitter, pungent cow dung fertilizer. After so many years, his body was comprised wholly of his environment. He, just as everyone else around him, was another extension of the land itself.
There was nothing left for him in India. His wife had died two years ago, leaving him a widower. He missed her in the way that anyone else would another being they had lived with for years—flesh one moment, and then cold and unforgiving bone the next. Babu could not say if he loved her or not. They had taken care of one another, as was customary. They had felt the natural companionship that springs from an arranged match, the symbiosis that must occur for daily life to persist. His generation could not afford the luxury of complaints.
But also, along with her, he lost some of his purpose. There was no one to provide for, no one to impress, no one to pester with petty arguments. His remarks about the weather or the increase in the price of milk would simply linger in the air for a few seconds before sinking to the marble floor, the solitary echo of his voice reminding him again of her permanent absence. This emptiness of his was not perpetuated by romance or longing, but rather the unanticipated intensity of sheer noiselessness. It was simply the fact that he had grown used to another body breathing in the same space as him. Even if no words were ever exchanged, Babu never realized his dependence on the sound of her every movement. Like a shruti underlying Carnatic music, the rise and fall of her chest had exerted an undeniable cadence that disseminated throughout their home. Without her, he was too aware of the pressure of stillness on his own heart. She was gone. Truly.
After her death, life had moved in natural, fluid motions. He adhered to the Syrian Orthodox Church’s prescriptions for grieving, respecting his wife’s wishes; Babu marked the third, ninth, and fortieth day; the sixth month; and one year. He had avoided all social gatherings and any celebrations, as tradition dictated. Even after the mourning period was completed, he continued to avoid invitations from his friends to join them for tea. It felt wrong, the way they carried themselves as if nothing had happened. They had done their part, cooking food for him—that was always his wife’s job—and checking in periodically, but she no longer existed to them. Yes, she still clung to her life in the confines of their minds, but she would no longer be a tangible being to them. His friends could always choose to ignore the memory of his wife; he would have to live with reminders of her for eternity. In that way, he envied them, as they would never have to grapple with discovering the forgotten sari silk stowed away in the cabinet, the occasional note she had left inside a book, her flowing script perfect— she refused to leave him. His friends were living on a plane altogether alienated from his own. Or perhaps, he was the one isolated from them.
In truth, his ticket to America was one-way. This was his grand exit, his eventual escape from his wife. It would be a fresh start; save for a few photographs he was taking with him. Few possessions were left, with most trivial objects being gifted away to people he would likely never have to see again. Their house remained, still haunted by the irremovable presence of her, but that would all be bequeathed to his son. It felt more of a mausoleum than a home at this point, with every fixture of furniture frozen in time. He was fairly certain the clocks had stilled at the moment of her death. Babu had emptied the space and rendered it spotless after her passing, giving away her clothes, interring her wedding gold at the bank, and discarding most of her other items. The kitchen, her dominion, was completely purged. Still, he could not bring himself to take care of her garden, to set foot in it, to try and coax life out of the same Earth she was buried in. It was not his place. He would allow Nature to decide the fate of his wife’s work.
Babu was planning on staying with his son, who had settled safely in New Jersey years ago. He had just been anointed a grandfather: his first grandchild, a girl. According to his son, she had the same eyes as his late wife— her late grandmother.
The intercom interrupted his thoughts and signaled the boarding of his row, fruity Malayalam followed by the flat tones of English. He felt his chest tighten as he began suffocating in the humidity of the walkway. The air was almost too thick to breathe and unbearably hot. Babu thought of his carry-on luggage by his side: a toothbrush, a small tube of toothpaste, a change of clothes, his prayer book. Was this all that his seventy-three years would lend him? After so much borrowed time, his belongings fit neatly into a fifty-five by thirty-centimeter briefcase.
He thought back to just a few hours earlier. His final morning in his motherland had moved slower than most others, taking time to think through what had been his routine for fifty years. There was a strange quality to performing tasks he had done for every day of his life for the last time; they ceased to be mechanical actions. Instead, Babu was increasingly attentive.
Every fleck in his bathroom mirror was discernible, each one provoking thought. Though he had ironed them himself the night before with generous helpings of rice water, the scratch of his stiff linen shirt against his bare skin startled him. Babu noticed the way the silvery milk dispersed in his boiling tea, quieting the aggressive bubbles. He dismissed the dull soreness in his stomach as hunger and focused on the intense ochre hue of his steamed plantain breakfast instead. It all seemed strangely new.
Chai in hand, he lingered on his front porch for a few moments. The plaintive notes of fajr prayer extended across the still-dark sky, nearby mosques projecting the call out from loudspeakers attached to their roofs. Though he did not practice Islam, the prayer calls had an oddly comforting structure to them, recited at the same breaks each day. The imam's voice would sprawl over the town and into his home, and Babu would find himself taken aback by the wistful tones.
He rinsed out the mug and returned to a cabinet, where he figured it would likely sit for years to come. As his car to the airport crunched the gravel on his driveway, he paused for a few moments before locking his front door, taking in the intricate carvings on the entryway for one last time. He had built this house with his wife. He had built this house for her.
Gently rumbling, the airplane pulled away from the gates, resting on the tarmac for a few moments. Babu was unexpectedly aware of the beating of his own heart, frenetic enough to match the mounting hum of the plane engines.
The longing in his stomach grew stronger; he could barely hear his heart against the roar of ascension. God’s own country fell away under his feet, the aircraft embracing the atmosphere instead. He watched through the tiny window as his home, his love, his wife gently disappeared from view. Everything he had ever known, everyone he had ever met, was fading away with each gain in altitude. Instantaneously, he felt the seizing in his chest, the pain slicing through him as a butcher’s knife does flesh. Sharp and erratic, every breath became the most difficult task of his life. He clutched his chest and heaved as he felt himself go limp, motions that, if soundless, may have appeared to the outside observer as a lonely, old man falling over.
Though his heart failed to make his blood flow, all Babu could imagine was gazing at his wife’s eyes—amber now bestowed upon his granddaughter.
How did this happen
By justin nichols
Tell me again how it happened
Tell me how my brother fell before thee
Begging for help in his troubled time
Tell me how you left him there
Bleeding in the streets
Tell who did this deed
You owe me that for what you did
Or rather what you did not do
Tell me so I may do the same to them
You don't want to give me their name
You wont tell me what has happened
Than so be it I shall find out myself
I shall find out how this happened.
The sky was painted a shade of grey that only meant days spent inside. Low clouds covered the kingdom and all the kingdoms around it. No work would be done today, no one would be outside. Shops were closing, their owners knowing no one would come. Fog blanketed the streets and rested on the civilian’s thatched rooftops. The cobbled roads glistened, small puddles at the corners. A single carriage rode on the street, headed straight for the castle as the sky rapidly darkened. The horses clopped along, the only sound that faced the silence that had settled over the usually noisy kingdom. The sound echoed through the streets, reaching the dulled castle.
It was a rain day.
Lightning crackled and the horses sped up, galloping toward the castle. Thunder followed, as usual, and shouts were heard as the carriage driver tried to get the horses under control. Then more lightning flashed and thunder boomed, filling the rest of the silence. Servants pushed the doors of the castle gate open and the horses were herded into the stables after being released from their harnesses attached to the carriage. The stables were locked up and prepared for the downpour that would arrive at any time. The door to the carriage opened, and a familiar person jumped out.
“Good to be back,” Princess Mi stated, placing her hands on her hips and glancing around the stables. Thunder sounded outside, and she glared at the heavy doors that locked the stables. “Come on, just rain already. You’ve been doing this all day.”
Of course, the sky didn’t respond.
Inside the castle it was quiet. Not a single person walked through the countless hallways and corridors that snaked through the structure. All the windows were closed, the curtains drawn. Candles lit the hallways, casting flickering shadows across the walls and tapestries that hung on them. The light danced across leaves of plants that occupied the corners of the hallways. The servants had all been sent home, and told that because of the oncoming storm, they didn’t have to work and that they could be with their families. All the brooms and other various cleaning supplies they used were either taken home with them or stowed away in one of the countless closets. Another clap of thunder shook the castle, echoing in the now mostly empty hallways and rooms.
It was a rain day.
A flash of lightning lit up the rooms, but only two people really noticed it. Thunder followed.
A dark haired girl sighed and said, “I don’t see why Mother had to leave us here with this storm.”
Her brother looked up at her. “It’s just rain,” he stated, shrugging. “The plants get water. Great for them.”
Kayla rolled her eyes. Her brother was always sarcastic, no matter what the circumstances, good or bad.
“Yeah but this storm is big, Kai. We really don’t want to have to deal with a flooded kingdom, especially with Mother gone.” She stared out the window, up at the dark grey sky. It wasn’t raining yet, but anytime the clouds should open up and rain would begin to fill the streets.
“Relax, Kay, it won’t flood,” he continued, and began to sketch something on a piece of parchment out of boredom. “Besides, if it does it’s not our problem. The civilians can just take care of it for us. It’s their city.”
“You will be the worst king.” She smirked at him, and he stuck his tongue out at her.
“At least you and Mi can keep me in check.”
“You’re lucky we’re here. If we weren’t, the kingdom would be in flames, and since you claim it won’t flood, the fires wouldn’t be put out.”
Lightning crackled and a clap of thunder shook the room. Kai jumped and scowled, glaring at the sky that still refused to rain. He muttered something under his breath that Kayla didn’t catch. Then he looked at Kayla out of the corner of his eye.
“Am I really that bad?” He brushed his bangs out of his face, but they just fell back into place, causing her to smirk.
“Well, you have us so you’re good.” She caught his eye and added, “but you aren’t that bad.”
“Good.”
Outside the trees swayed with the harsh, strong winds sweeping through the houses below, and a branch broke off, falling to the ground. Lightning struck from the sky and Kayla looked away from the bright flash. Thunder rumbled, and finally the sky opened up.
“Get inside Princess.” A guard eventually walked up to her. “Its begun to rain.”
“Finally,” she muttered and began to walk briskly inside the castle, stable workers shouting orders to each other. She opened the door and closed it behind her, stepping into the almost-empty castle. Not a single person roamed the hallways of the usually busy castle, it was deserted. Rain pattered loudly against the windows, the only sound in the castle.
I know where they are.
She was now the only person in the corridors of the castle, and she was heading toward the only place her siblings could be.
I don’t think they know I’m coming.
It was true, this was a surprise visit. Although, the only reason she was here was because she was bored on her own, and their mother was in charge of the Eastern castle. Their mother had decided that they could take care of one kingdom without her, and besides, no one was out today with the rain and all. There shouldn’t be any problems for the next few days. Puddles were already filling the streets, rain running downhill to collect in even larger puddles.
The brother and sister pair that had been staring out into the torrent of rain whirled around as their door burst open. They jumped to their feet and their hands reached for the wand and sword that lay on the table in front of them. Light from the hallway lit up the inside of the dark room, illuminating their faces and darkening the stranger’s.
“I’m back!”
Mi turned so they could see her face. She was smirking, her dirty-blonde hair in a loose ponytail over her shoulder. She wore her kingdoms colors, light blue and silver in comparison to Kai and Kayla’s deep green and gold.
“Did you miss me?”
Kayla sighed in exasperation. They hadn’t seen her in weeks, due to problems in her kingdom. That’s why Mother had left, to sort out the Eastern kingdom, which left her and Kai to deal with this. At least they didn’t really have to do anything, that was a plus. Mi spread her arms, a smirk still covering her face.
“Well? Aren’t you going to greet your dear sister?”
Kai rolled his eyes. “Of course,” his voice was filled with dry sarcasm. “Dear sister.”
That caused Mi to roll her eyes as well. “Kai, as sarcastic as usual, I see. Kayla, as smart and sensible as when I left.”
“Hey-”
“Quiet Kai.” Kayla glanced at her brother out of the corner of her eye.
The three siblings engulfed each other in a hug, huddled together to make up for their lost time.