It was only 3 AM when I awoke. Something was a little strange—A little different. I wander through my home like a ghost, guided by some unknown purpose, a hand gently pulling me.

 Out of my bedroom and into the living room, where I changed the diapers of my son, played tag with him, helped him with his algebra homework, and watched baseball when he’d come to visit.

Then into my kitchen where I would greet my wife after work and help her bake my son’s birthday cakes.

I am then brought to the entrance of my home. A framed picture of my family takes my gaze and I see in my place, an old gray-haired man in golden spectacles.

I see from the open door of my bedroom, that I never really awoke, now realizing that I never will. 

The being makes itself clear, one hand gesturing towards the Elysian Fields beyond my front door and one for my old, wrinkled hand. 

“Was I a good father?” I ask.

“You sure were, Thomas,” it replies in a soft whisper.

With that, we left behind the realm with which I knew so long, conclusively content with the role I played.

On April 14, 1958, at approximately 0230, Sputnik 2 burnt in Earth’s atmosphere.

I run in the street. It’s cold, but it’s always cold. “Catch that dog!” someone yells. Everything goes dark.

They put me in a tiny cage. I whine, loudly at first, then softly. I don’t know how many days pass. 

They keep putting me in smaller cages.

They feed me food that isn’t solid. I can’t recognize it. 

“I’m getting Kudryavka.” A pale woman with blonde hair says. She puts me in a machine that makes loud noises. 

I lick her hand. She tastes cold.

A woman strokes me. “You’re a good girl.” her voice has an odd quality that I can’t place, “You’re a good girl, Laika.” I don’t know why there’s a tear in her eye. 

A thin-faced man brings me to his house. He has three children, and they tug at my fur.

I’m in a room and it’s very cold and too small. It’s been three days.

They groom me, and paint my fur. It stings.

I’m in the same room. They kiss my nose. One says, ‘I’m sorry.’

It’s dark. My heart beats very fast. It’s too hot. My body burns.

Goodbye.

I quickly glanced over my shoulder making sure that no one was watching through the window. I grabbed the clipboard and started frantically flipping through the sizable stack of papers that were jammed under its clamp. “39...48...64...here.” I ran my thumb over the crumbling ink of the title. Patient 720. 

Patient 720. The person who got me stuck on this adventure that I most definitely did not sign up for. Patient 720. The person who led me to this madhouse. Patient 720. The person driving me mad with all of these notes and codes and signs. Patient 720. “WHO EVEN ARE YOU”

I felt the blood rush from my face. I shot a nervous glance towards the heavy metal door behind me just in time to watch a piercing rectangle of light ooze into the hallway. A wave of panicked thoughts flooded my conscious leaving encrimsoned streaks over my eyes.

I skimmed over the paper looking for answers. I helplessly searched the weathered page in my hands for any answers from this strange “Patient 720”. I felt a hot river start to flow down the side of my face as I let my head hang above the clipboard that was clenched tight in my hands. 

The metal door creaked open letting in a rush of cool air against my back. Tears started dripping slowly onto the patient info page. A warm hand softly laid itself on my shoulder, digging its claws into my veins. This is it. It’s gotten me. I’m done for. I fell to my knees, accepted my fate, and hoped to see its face just once. Just once to easy the pain and suffering that this bizarre mission has caused me. I turned around. This was the last time and place I was known to be at.

Was it that I never left this building? Or was it that I never entered?

For all the times you have called me monster, cruel and cold-hearted, I can tell you’ve only ever seen your reflection through frosted glass. Can’t you see you’re the monster?

            Am I a thief? Claim I have stolen your love and I cannot disagree. She is better, was better, would be better off without you, anyways. You see pink roses, I see weeds, yellow dandelions, bright, curious. You hear a melodious voice, I hear an undeniable skill with words. Say her eyes are diamonds, jewels, I say they are firecrackers, flames, sparks of cleverness, full of wit and joy, a love of life. I see her. 

            Am I a problem? Yet I am your chance to prove yourself.

            She waits for an equal, someone who understands. Never a master. You only come because you want a trophy. Not for her. Just to slay me without a second thought, watch me bleed on cold steel because that’s what I do, what we’ve always done. Not that I’m surprised. 

            But if you really think about it, isn’t a tower better than the infinite locks and chains that castle walls place on a maiden’s mind? Wouldn’t the princess be better off with me?

There are a few moments of pure bliss that can never be corrupted in a person’s lifetime. Some people call them fortuitous encounters, others fate. Almost all detail a joyful interaction between people, maybe a reunion, or a first encounter. But in his 70 years on this spinning blue planet, Alex had never felt such joy, as when he re-encountered old his watch. 

Maybe it was the way that the sun hit the glass after he dusted it off. Maybe it was the smell of the flowers outside, freshly bloomed. Maybe… it was one of those things that just is. 

He thought about putting in new batteries and wearing it out, showing all of his friends. But when do you ever encounter something that is so truly yours, that no one else would know about? Alex smiles.

He puts it back in the box and locks it up.

One day, when he’s forgotten all about this moment, he’ll have another pleasant surprise.

He’ll find serendipity.

In the Garden of Flowers once again, I crusade for the perfect bouquet. Leave my footprints in the loam as if they will really stay. The freshest stems, I learn, snap like a neck snaps when it is broken—yearning for a memory which will never lapse.

Pitiful, piteous thorns pierce my skin. Fail to draw blood as I gather my flowers: each without a flaw. But wilting in the darkest hours. I name them Calliope and Robel and Thea and Arlin and they tremble when I cut them before falling still forevermore.

Prayer—young one, little girl not yet five—arrives asking why the best… people must die first. Red blood begins to drip from my little gardening scythe. And I realize it is the flowers I have put to rest; they are the reason little girl not yet five now cries.

Why? Because only the most beautiful belong in my bouquet.

Concluding her prayers, the old woman rose from her sister’s tombstone to see a tall, bearded soldier, who glowed of youth and hatred. Pointing the edge of his bayonet towards her, he motioned for her to kneel.

Her heart pounded. Trembling, she obeyed, her feeble frame bruising on the cracked terrain. “Please,” she begged, “let me die on my husband’s grave. It is only a few tombstones down.” 

The soldier dignified her plea with the brutal strikings of his bayonet. “Do not speak,” he ordered.

“If you must kill me, please allow me the small solace of my husband’s comfort.”

“Do not speak!” he commanded, slapping her across the face.

Something innate drove her to her husband. While around her blood began to pool, her fingernails dug into the soil and began to crack as she struggled towards her husband’s name, etched in stone. He regarded her superciliously, then caught up to her. 

Escape was futile, she accepted. After collapsing, she called her aggressor a name in their mother tongue, the one that he himself spoke before the Final War. 

“My son.”

He stomped on her battered body. “Do not speak.”

Within an arm’s reach of her husband, she died.

Elizabeth woke up at 3:48 A.M. like she does every Thursday of every week since the war started. The weekly drill notification came through their phones and slowly everyone including Elizabeth funneled out of the apartment complex to the courtyard. Parents would stop and chat with the other, while kids would play on the playground like they always did after school. Elizabeth stood nearest to the door waiting for the notification saying the drill was over. 

Then she heard the planes, The loud buzzing sound that creates white noise in the background. 

Elizabeth while scanning the sky saw one of the planes diverge from the rest. Her eyes followed the plane like a hawk and stopped when the plane did, right over her beloved city. The plane's bottom flaps opened and at this point Elizabeth knew this was no drill.

Within the next few seconds the ground shook and the sky lit up like it was midday. Within Minutes the air around Elizabeth became hot and pushed her back. When Elizabeth finally regained posture and Turned to her city she saw the cloud. The mushroom shaped cloud that within the next hour would end millions of lives. 

“Walking into the room, I noticed that something was off. The usual clutter of empty water bottles and some dirty clothes covered the floor. To anyone else, it probably looked like everything was normal, but it felt like something was off. I stepped over the rubble and tracked that strange feeling to my closet. I could feel my heart in my head with every step. I slid my hand over handle, eyes closed, and swung the door open. I opened my eyes just enough so that I could see, but before I could close them again, the horror slid its way in. I saw her. Her eyes were open and her mouth was opened wider. I could see her scream even without hearing it. Her soul was sliding out of her mouth and floating up to the sky. I tried to catch it, to save it, to hold it, but it was too late. Everything was too late.”

The girl burst into tears, holding nothing back. Her eyes were waterfalls and the room was her lagoon.

“Is there anything else you would like to say?” the room asked.

She choked back tears and spoke:

“I’ll never feel love ever again.”

I was on my way home when I saw him, standing on the edge. A lean, white man dressed in all black, looking at the water with tears in his eyes that reflected the night sky. He was stepping over the railing on to the thin, freshly-cleaned cement. 

“Hey!”, I shouted. “Get down from there!”

“Leave me alone, I’m not worth it”

“Yes you are, trust me”, I answered, gradually getting closer to him, slowly, so that he doesn't notice. 

“I said, leave me alone”, he responded aggressively, his voice slowly getting louder.

I finally get close enough to grab him and pull him back over the railing.

“You’re okay, everything is going to be okay”, I whisper as I’m hugging him, feeling the moisture of his tears on my sweatshirt. “What is your name?”

He looked up at me, tears gathered in his eyes. “My name is Adolf.”