A blue popsicle stain ran across the boy’s cheek like a bruise, and his band-aided chin covered a scrape, probably acquired during a game of tag which ended abruptly when skin met pavement. I remember being a boy his age, and I’d had a few cops set me straight for small infractions. Now the roles were reversed as the lights from my cruiser threw an alternating red and blue tint on the brim of his cowboy hat, which was scraped and dirty, brown and dirt brown from backyard roughhousing. His shirt was grass-stained, and his jeans, ripped at the knee, were held up by a shiny belt buckle in the form of a long horned bull.

It was a comical scene, me a grown man, officer of the law standing above a five-year-old on the side of the road. I pulled him over as he drove his battery-powered truck west on route 47. He didn’t stop right away either. I had to run up beside him to slow him down. Unspeakable tenacity for a kid his age. I finally managed to get his attention much how you’d expect, “Whoa! Hey, buddy! What do you think you’re doing, little man?”

He didn’t even respond at first. He held his stare on the horizon and took in a long breath, knowing he was into some trouble he didn’t want, almost despising it with an arrogant flair. This kid and his oversized, undersized truck didn’t want to give me the time of day. I suppose a child’s imagination knows no bounds, nor roles of social authority. I continued with the questions.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Still, not a glance at me. His blue lips hardened as he held his grip on his plastic steering wheel. He only uttered a few simple words, but the delivery was unlike that of any kid I’d ever seen, harnessing a Henry Fonda edge to his jawline that wasn’t there, squinting as the sun hung low above the mountains.

“Sheriff, if I don’t get to Red Rock by sundown, there’ll be real hell to pay.”

What kid talks like that? Surely he’d only been bipedal for a few years, and now he talked to a police officer like he was a hardened outlaw. He scratched the back of his neck and adjusted in his seat as if he’d been riding for hours.

“Red Rock? That’s miles from here,” I said. “Your mother let you speak like that, son?”

“My mother’s been in the grave since I was born, so I don’t reckon she has much to say about the matter.”

Now I was convinced. This was some kind of movie scene he had fallen in love with, an old black-and-white he pulled off the shelf of a film buff, re-enacting it in his youthful land of make-believe, where the edges of pretend and the real world blend more easily. Perhaps his parents had taken him on one too many trips to Bonnie Springs. He had the character down perfectly. A slight arrogance, a romantic appeal to some higher aim, imbued with the godly strength of the hero, will and temperament that couldn’t be broken, a stallion that tried as he might to live in the world of normal men but was born to run free with his eyes on the stars and hooves pushing up dust. His moral authority usurped all human institutions. The kid’s performance was impressive, and tickled me to death. This would be a story I could tell for years.

“You think you’re gonna make it all the way to Red Rock on this thing? Where’s your real horse, cowboy?”

“Stolen. The law could maybe get it back for me, but they don’t seem much concerned. They have better things to do,” he finally turned his gaze to me, “like hold up a man’s business — my business — which is no business of yours.”

His voice was rough, as if he’d just gotten over a cold, perhaps had a few days off school and filled with Children’s NyQuil, cartoons, and Minecraft videos, though if I didn’t know better I’d think he was the child of the Marlboro Man himself, with smoky vocal-chords genetically passed from gravel-throated father to son. His little, plastic pistol was holstered at his side, and he was kind enough to keep his hands where I could see them, though his flippant performance more than made up for his lack of authentic props.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Bill.”

“Haha! Billy The Kid, is that right? I never thought I’d get the pleasure rounding up an outlaw as tough as you.”

The radio interrupted my amusement. “Base to 24…”

“Stay right there, Billy, and don’t try any of your fast moves. I’ll be right back.”

I walked back to the car. The station hadn’t gotten word of any missing kids in the neighborhood. “The Kid” must have taken an extra-long ride after dinner and his parents hadn’t yet discovered his absence — still a touch early for bedtime, I suppose. I knew I’d have to coax out the boy’s real name, and it was a good bet I already knew the family. I might even be able to get him home before the 10 o’clock news if I played his little game for a few minutes and got him to trust me. I walked back to the front of the car.

“Okay, Billy. The station says that—”

I stopped with a smile. There he was, standing in front of his tiny truck, still in character, with his unholstered, plastic six-shooter, and he was pointing it straight at me. I admit the visual was a bit shocking, even though the gun posed no threat. His hubris was unbelievable, and was surpassed only by the seriousness of his face. If this little boy could pull off a character like this at his age, he might easily rival the greatest tough-guy character actors of all time. If his parents didn’t get him to Hollywood, they were crazy. I expected he’d still make his own way no matter what, even if they were fool enough to shackle him to this small town.

“Freeze, sheriff.”

Hilarious. I obliged, slowly raising my hands above my head, wearing the biggest grin I’d ever had in my life.

“Hey, that’s not fair. You have to give a man a fighting chance. We’re supposed to face-off like real men — a real gunfight, like this.” I widened my stance and did my best Marshal Kane, readying my hand for a quick draw. “See? You know how it goes. Then we draw, and the fastest man is left standing.”

The Kid just stared at me, expressionless as ever. “Then draw, sheriff. I’ll give you all the time you need.”

“Can’t do it, little man,” I said as I patted my holster. “I love a good game of outlaws, but an officer always keeps his pistol holstered unless he intends to use it.”

Then a strange feeling took me, and I patted my holster again. Looked down. Looked up. Looked down again. My service revolver was gone — absolutely gone. I patted again, feeling only empty leather and the most displaced confusion I’d ever experienced. My twenty years as a cop had shown me every strange character, every bizarre event this town had ever known, but nothing could have prepared me for the surreal place I now found myself in.

I had been staring at it the whole time. The Kid was holding my own service revolver, clutching it steady, heavy in both hands, and pointing at me with a fiery glare. Whatever intimidation the young man failed to evoke he completely made up for by holding my shining, Smith and Wesson, and I found myself alone in the lawlessness of a lonely desert. Through some impossible act or Serlingesque curiosity, I had been outgunned and subdued by a five-year-old in a plastic, motorized truck.

“I’ve had enough talking, sheriff. I have to get to Red Rock, and the reasons are bigger than the both of us. You’ve made your fair share of observations about me, and since you’re so good at making decisions about who I am, you get to decide one more thing. Either the two of us get to Red Rock by sundown, or I get there alone while you stay here and keep the pavement company. I’ve never killed a man of the law before. Now you decide, sheriff. Am I a man who gets to Red Rock, or am I a cop killer?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, completely dumbstruck.

In response, Billy leveraged both of his thumbs and pulled back the hammer, dead-faced, never breaking his stern, upward gaze. “Don’t make me into something I’m not.”

I had fooled myself long enough. Whether The Kid was under some crazy delusion or not, what choice did I have? There was no more explaining it away. In some way, he was right. This thing had now become bigger than the both of us, and the stakes were higher than I was willing to bet on. I looked up at him with wide eyes.

“I guess we’re going to Red Rock.”

The orange sun burned my forehead as I drove towards it, my eyes squinting to see the edges of the road through the glare. Billy sat beside me, still wearing his dirty hat. I was kind enough to keep my hands where he could see them. The thoughts of this young man being an actor in a Western film vanished as I looked in the rear-view mirror, his tiny truck getting smaller in the distance.

I glanced over at The Kid with his ripped jeans and tiny hands still pointing my own gun at me. I looked again at his stained cheek. I thought about how long it had been since I'd had a blue popsicle. Then I thought about the distance to Red Rock, and pressed down harder on the accelerator.

Image credit: burns311 used via Morguefile license

Matt Klein stood behind the bar of his tavern on Howe Avenue. It was on the edge of the city, close enough to attract some city dwellers, but far enough from downtown to be affordable. When Matt's parents left their home and modest assets to him, combined with his small retirement fund, it was just enough for him to move to the city and finance the old MacMillan Tavern recently shut down, which he renamed to The Overwatch Tavern. It was his effort to reinvent himself, as the loss of his parents left his life in fragments, and none of the pieces were his, nor bore any resemblance to him. It was his push to carve out a new existence for himself, to lay to rest the sad memories, the lingering threads that pulled at him from two hundred miles away, a life he had escaped, but struggled to shake off.

In the span of a few months, he had managed to get the bar back open, but the clientele was still sparse on most nights, and while Matt hadn't yet depleted his savings, he was using a vast majority of it for his own necessities until the business could turn a reliable profit.

Sheb had been early to befriend him shortly after he bought the place. He was a middle-age construction worker, not from the city, but walked the suburban buffer between city life and the country he couldn't shake from his Nebraska boots. He wore his hard work in the early gray of his light brown beard as he sat on the long side of Matt's bar. The two of them were the only ones remaining, and as always, the conversation tended to become more charged and personal, though they always debated without injury.

"That's what I'm talking about with you, Matt. If you hadn't lost your parents when you did, you'd still be living in that hell hole in Iowa. You weren't made for that kind of life. Men degrade in places they weren't made for. I know how hard it was on you, and it was for the better that it ended when it did."

"Sheb, you know me better than anyone in this place," Matt said. "I don't disagree with you for the most part. Men degrade in places they weren't made for, but men are also made by the places they find themselves in, and it's the difficult places that show you what you really are. Those years were probably the most difficult of my life. I would never want to go back to them. They definitely wore on me, and maybe I'll die ten years earlier than I would have otherwise, but hey…I'm still alive."

"That's what I mean," Sheb said, pointing at Matt to drive his argument into him. "You're the most sensitive guy I know, and I don't say that in a bad way. It's a good thing. I think if people had half the feelings you do, this world wouldn't be so damn angry. That's why you're a good bartender, but nobody knows it except the few people that come here. Those years were hard on you. It's left you in a tough spot. Even the nicest person needs to believe that when they try to help someone, they are actually making a difference. When you feel like all your efforts are hopeless, it leaves scars. It can't change your nature though. If anything, it just buries that nature down, and for some people it becomes unrecognizable, but not you. You demonstrate my whole point."

Evenings like this became quite common for the two of them, but it was on this particular fall evening that the strange gentleman arrived at the near-empty tavern. His appearance drew attention as soon as he walked in, causing Sheb to just watch from behind his thick eyebrows, throwing glances at Matt to make sure they were both witnessing the same thing. The man wasn't strange in the sense that something was overtly wrong with him. He was strange because he didn't belong there. He walked in quietly, a tall, dark-haired man in his fifties, dressed in a charcoal, pin-striped suit that cost more than the average person could make in several months. He was perfectly groomed, wearing an expensive watch that sparkled in the warmly lit room, and a hat which matched his pressed suit. He walked easily toward the bar, as if he had done it a hundred times, though a man of such luxury had no reason to ever set foot off Michigan Avenue to visit an old, run-down bar. He went to the barstool closest the door where the light was low, removed his hat, and placed it next to him on the bar.

"Good evening. What can I get for you?" Matt asked with a smile.

"Maker's on the rocks," the man said, rubbing his forehead as he rested his elbows on the bar.

"Sure thing," Matt said. He grabbed a glass, filled it with ice, and turned over a bottle. He felt a slight reservedness about the man as he placed the drink on the bar, so he walked back over to Sheb out of the stranger's hearing distance.

The conversation continued on about their history, family, boarded up thoughts and dreams. Sheb lamented the early death of his mother, and asserted that the good die young, but most especially when the people they love don't deserve them.

"My old man was married to my mom for ten years, and he was mean to her every day of it. Her illness only made things worse than they already were. Most people thought it was losing his wife that had him all torn up inside, but that wasn't it. He was an asshole years before — a heart of ash and charcoal. Even so, it wasn't him that killed her or made her sick. It was something else. God. An angel. Something took her away from him — because he was so rotten. She was a kind, beautiful woman, and all his anger couldn't corrupt her. She was too good for this world, and there was nowhere for her to go, so she was taken to a different world. She deserved better — so did you, Matt. All that stuff in Iowa was hard on you, but like you said, somehow you made it out alive. It's over now, because something picked you up and brought you here. This is where you belong, whether business shows it or not."

Sheb pulled out his phone and grimaced as he tapped the screen. "I gotta go. Damn brother-in-law just broke down off Carpenter." He grabbed his heavy set of keys from the bar and stretched his arms above his head as his feet found the floor. "That damn truck is a piece of shit if I've ever seen one. I've told him a hundred times. Might be back later."

Matt smiled and tasked himself with cleaning and reorganizing. The stranger had been listening to the few fragments he could hear from across the room, but gathered more from the inflections and gentle gestures. He could tell the men weren't talking inconsequential topics, but about things that really mattered.

As Sheb made his way to the door, he stopped next to the man in the suit and quietly spoke. "That right there is the kindest man I've ever known. If he could bartend for the whole world, half of the problems in it would disappear."

The stranger listened as he watched Matt moving glasses in the back of the bar, out of audible range. He smiled and responded, "You really think so?"

"Yep. It's just something he was born with. It's a part of him. People talk to him, and he hears what they say. Most people in the world listen but don't hear a damn thing. Lots of people pretend to listen but actually just wait to talk. Some people wait to talk, and when they open their mouths they don't say a damn thing. Matt's different. When people talk to him, everything else vanishes; everyone else gets put on hold."

"I know people who have a favorite bartender, but you hold an exceptionally high opinion of yours. You make him sound like a regular saint."

"Oh, he ain't no saint," Sheb said, straightening his jacket, "A true saint wouldn't survive in this city, but he listens like one, maybe better." He shouted a departing word to Matt as he threw a tip onto the bar. "Good evening to ya," he said to the suited man. The man nodded, and Sheb pushed out through the front door.

Matt came to the front of the bar where the stranger had been quietly sitting. As he approached he could see that despite the perfect attire and freshly shaven face, the suited gentleman was disturbed. His body language gave it away. Sheb was right about Matt — he had a knack for people, and his observation of detail was unsurpassed. It took only one look for him to know when something was wrong. He pretended to clean some glasses.

"You know, it may not be polite to mention," Matt said, "but I can't remember the last time anyone came into my place in that kind of a suit. Special occasion tonight?"

"You could say that. I'm not usually on this edge of the city."

"Well, that's probably not a bad thing. I mean, it's alright around here — better than some places, but certainly not as good as others as far as business goes."

"Business…" The man looked down at the bar, and he spoke as if his gaze might open up a darker place for him to fall into. "I know business. I've devoted more of my life to it than most people, and I'll tell you this — don't waste your life on it."

"My father said the same thing in his later years," said Matt. "The man was virtually a stranger to me until I turned thirty. It wasn't really his fault though. He had a good heart, but it was never placed in the right hands."

"You have any kids?"

"No. My life has had some odd turns. Not really conducive to children, or a wife for that matter."

"Well, I was that kind of father, though I'm certain a far worse one. Decades spent away from my family, convincing myself it was in their best interest. That wasn't the truth."

Matt was apprehensive about pushing the conversation. There was something darker, regretful in the man's voice. His inclination was to shift the topic to ease tension, but something in the man's tone was asking for consent — permission to speak from a place that make most people uncomfortable.

"Not the truth? What was the truth?" Matt asked.

The man sipped and swallowed, rubbed the back of his neck, made a long, nervous exhalation. "The truth was that my marriage was on the edge of collapse, and my children had been emotionally distant from me for years. My wife had withdrawn not just from me, but from most of her social life — living on every kind of antidepressant the doctors could throw at her. They couldn't cure her because there weren't any drugs to treat her real illness — which was me."

"For twenty years, I made every kind of business merger you can imagine. Media companies, automotive manufacturers, retail, and I gave my family a rich life. Not a fulfilling life — a rich life — one that wasn't enough for her."

"When I came home and found her on the bathroom floor, empty bottles of pills scattered on the cold floor, it forced some perspective on me, and I understood why our life wasn't enough for her. Amazingly, she survived, and I resolved to make our lives different. I promised her I would make my work second to the family — second to her. I had already made enough money to support us for the rest of our lives, and our grandchildren's lives, so I had no honorable justification for my priorities. The truth is that I worked to work, to get away from her, and myself, to avoid the part of my life that I had no idea how to deal with."

"When she recovered, we found a counselor, and I made plans to start over. I planned a trip for all of us to stay in Jackson Hole for two weeks. I wanted to make things different, get away from work, confront all the things I had ignored for a decade, reconnect with my kids. The week of the trip came and we were all ready. We had first-class tickets, the plane arrived to pick us up, it lifted off, and then crashed in the fields of Iowa…and I wasn't there. I never got on the plane, and I lost them all."

Matt looked down and covered his eyes. "Jesus," he said as his thoughts swam to a few years ago. "I remember that. I remember hearing about that. I lived near that part of Iowa at the time, maybe five years ago..."

The man nodded. "The night before the trip, the V.P. of my company had a crisis on his hands. I told my wife to go on without me and I would fly out later in the evening as soon as I took care of things. I didn't need much time, just to authorize some last minute things that no one else could, save me."

The man sat there with his hands trembling, staring off through the dark walls around him, unable to look Matt in the eyes. "They all died on that plane and I wasn't there. I was never there. I should have been there. I was a terrible husband. I was a terrible father. That's the truth."

He took another drink.

Matt knew there wasn't anything appropriate to say. Usually, people give condolences like, "I'm sorry for your loss" or "I'm so sorry to hear that." Everyone in Iowa had heard about U.S. Air 523 when it crashed. As terrible as it was to hear from a real, scarred human being instead of a news report, Matt wasn't entirely sorry to hear it. In the man's voice was some subtle indication that he had not told this story to very many people, and if he had, he hadn't told it the way he was telling it tonight. He grabbed the man's empty glass, filled another the same, and placed it in front of the man who was still lost in his old, devastated life.

After a few moments of polite silence, Matt said, "I was living in Detroit when I got the call from my father telling me that my mother was ill. He knew from the beginning that it would be terminal. I paid her some visits when I had to, but nothing really more. My mother and I had little interaction for years, and in some ways I think we were both better for it. The one who wasn't better was my father. I didn't know how to feel about it. If I could have chosen a mother when I was born, I would have picked almost anyone else. Our relationship was toxic since I was a child. It only got worse with age. Though I doubt I could have made anything better, a part of me felt guilty for him having to live alone in that house with her."

"She finally passed, and by that time, my father was so worn out, it wasn't long before he started going downhill. It was some kind of autoimmune problem, but I supposed that after decades of verbal attacks from my mother, it seemed only fitting that at some point his skin would absorb the venom and poison the inside of him also. There I was, taking care of him in his house, giving him food on the same bed where my mother had died. The man lost all ambition, and even though we had a laugh some of the time, I felt like there was no repairing the parts of him that had withered. I think his life could have been better without her, but I could never say that to him. We really became good friends before he died. I don't know what he would have done without me, but taking care of him in that state was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. All that hate and sadness was stored somewhere inside of him, and I tried to pull out as much of it as I could before he was gone. Whatever I managed to take, it's still with me. It followed me all the way here to Chicago. I can't get rid of it. It sticks to me like oil."

The suited man relaxed a bit in his chair, some of his tension dispersed. "When I came in, you wondered what I was doing here," the man in the suit looked up at him. "Well, sometimes, on certain days when I can't tolerate anything in my life, I come out to a place like this. Some place I've never been to before, some place I will likely never come back to, with strange faces that I will never see again. I know that may seem bizarre, but sometimes it's difficult to exist in places where everyone knows who you are. They know your name, history, too many things — most of which I'd like to forget, but they won't let me. Every face I see is a reminder of my old life, despite how much they might actually care about me. With people who don't know me, sometimes I'm actually a little closer to being the person I am, or would rather be. I don't change my clothes. I'm not trying to pretend I'm something I'm not. Sometimes, I just need different people. Sometimes it's the only thing that keeps me breathing."

The man loosened his collar. "Mind if I stay awhile?"

He did stay awhile, into most of the night, even long enough for Sheb to come back from his familial, roadside obligation. The man proved to be quite an impressive conversationalist, and with Matt's ear and Sheb's light-heartedness, they talked until Matt shut down the bar. They made their share of humor, along with other minor confessions, and at the end of the night, the man in the suit got up from the bar and reached into his pocket.

"What's the tab, Matt?"

"It's on me tonight," said Matt.

"That's ridiculous. I've been here all night. The money is not a problem."

Matt leaned over the bar and looked at him straight in the eyes. "There's no way you are leaving anything on my bar tonight."

"You know, your regulars seem to have a pretty high opinion of you," he nodded toward Sheb. "I think I understand why. For years I've walked through my life like a robot, doing the same damned thing I always do, making the same damned decisions I've made before, like doing some sort of impression of myself that I hate. I've been at a hundred bars in my life, had a thousand drinks to make the time pass more quickly, and none of it made me feel any better. For the first time, I feel more like a real human being than when I walked in."

"Humans drink free tonight," said Matt with a smile.

"Thank you," he said with a solemn face. "Good evening gentlemen."

The stranger departed. Matt and Sheb closed up the bar together, as they had so many nights before. It wasn't until they were about to walk out that they realized the man, in fact, did leave something on the bar. Behind the row of taps, they found the hat which so perfectly matched his expensive suit. Matt placed it behind the bar in case the man ever came back, doubtful as it might be.

That was the beginning, and from that point on, Matt's business increased. Sheb told him later that the nameless man didn't just leave his hat, but actually left something else. It only took a short while to discover what it was. Matt had brought out something special in the man that night, and he continued to do it with others. He began to build a reputation for himself, and consequently the bar began to build a reputation of its own. One by one, people came in and sat where the man in the suit had, and they told Matt their stories — stories of heaven lost and hell uncovered, tragedy and funerals, wicked deeds and regret. Every time, Matt would listen, and even shed a tear or two in the process, then poured them a drink on the house.

"Humans Drink Free" became the unofficial slogan of the place, and as word spread, it became common wisdom among the locals that when a friend or stranger harbored something they couldn't handle on their own, there was someone they needed to talk to — somewhere they needed to go to feel like what they were struggling with mattered. As months passed, the man in the suit didn't resurface, and Matt hung the hat in a special place above the bar in memory of the night it was left there, and nearly every night, someone sat just underneath it telling Matt a story they had bottled up for years.

Tina Collins told him about how she had watched her cousin drown when they were children, and was unable to save her because she couldn't swim. She never did learn how.

Jim Ackford lost his girlfriend in high school when he was too drunk to be driving by himself, let alone with anyone he loved. He still had the old notes she wrote to him twenty years ago.

The people who sat in that spot formed a sort of unspoken bond with each other, and it was those people who became regulars, accumulating as time went on.

A year passed like this, until another fall day when Matt received a phone call, from a lawyer who insisted on a meeting with him regarding pending legal matters which would affect his business. It was a Friday afternoon when the lawyer, Douglas Marden, entered the office at the back of the bar with a briefcase and cool, professional demeanor. Matt sat in the chair behind his small desk. After the formal greetings, the lawyer moved straight to business.

"I'll get right to the point. About a year ago, a man visited your tavern. I only know this because shortly after, he authored a legal document concerning you and this establishment. I know little about the relationship you had with him, except that you are not family or close friends, nor did he give many details about what transpired that night, but his name was Martin Scalding, one of the wealthiest men in Chicago. He has recently passed, and left specific instructions regarding this tavern. It was dictated to me as head of this newly formed organization that — " he began reading from a document.

"H.D.F. Inc. shall secure this life annuity for the beneficiary (Matthew A. Thompson) which shall begin payment one month after my passing. It shall accommodate initial payment of all business mortgage, debt, and utility payments of The Overwatch Tavern for the life of the beneficiary, and allow for direct investment to facilitate its continued operation for the benefit of past, current, and future patrons."

Matt scratched his head, not knowing what to say. He got up and walked to the doorway, looking out into his empty tavern. The hat still hung above the bar, and all the bills he still needed to pay couldn't push through the thoughts of the night the man wandered in. That night had changed his life, and helped him discover the kind of man he wanted to be, and his business might have never survived this long otherwise. Now the dead man was giving him something again, perhaps never knowing he had already given something far more important.

The lawyer took Matt's listlessness as confusion, and assumed he hadn't adequately explained the circumstances. "Mr. Thompson, this is very good news for you. Don't let my formality mislead you; it's my job to be factual and unbiased. If there's something you don't understand, it is my job to explain it clearly. Effectively, your mortgage has been paid, and your debt cleared pending a few simple formalities. You can make virtually any improvements to this place you wish. As long as you are alive, this tavern is guaranteed to remain open, so long as you wish it to be. I recommend you get your own lawyer to verify these documents independently. I have a copy of everything here for you. Had the instructions not been so specific, I would have taken you for a relative or long-time friend."

"No, nothing like that. That night was the only time I ever saw him."

"I don't know what you did to make such a strong impression on him. He gave massively to other major causes, well-known charities and museums, but your case was unique. Not one of his executors knew or heard of this place until his death. For whatever reasons, he seems to have wanted to make absolutely certain this place stayed open, and that you remained in charge of it."

"How did he die?" Matt said quietly as he stared out at the bar.

"They initially thought it was an accident, a malfunction with his plane, but the occurrence was too deliberate. His plane crashed on the anniversary of his family's death, and he was the only one on board. Though he had little flight time under his belt, it's impossible to prove one way or another. Legally it was an accident, but common sense tells us otherwise. It was several weeks after he had gone missing before they found parts of his plane on Lake Michigan."

"He left me something."

"He certainly did."

"No, that's not what I mean. Something else, but it doesn't matter. I have all the paperwork and your contact information then?"

"Absolutely. It's all here. If any clarification is needed, I can provide it. Again, this is part of the job that's been left to me, and I take it very seriously."

"What was your relationship to him?"

"Long time colleague. I was his legal advisor for many years. I was sad to see him go."

"I am too. Thank you for coming. This is all quite a lot to process, but I'll get back to you very soon."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," the lawyer said, shaking his hand.

Two weeks later, it was the end of a busy Friday night. The legal matters had checked out, and Matt's attorney had verified the authenticity of the paperwork. Toward the end of the night, after the crowd had left and only Sheb remained in a stool at the bar, another customer sat down a few seats from him. Matt looked up and stared. The man's green eyes were weathered, and he was dressed in simple slacks and a t-shirt.

Matt walked toward the customer slowly, never breaking eye contact. A normal person would have reacted differently, would not have been so thoughtful in their approach, but Matt always managed to see part of himself in the person on the other side of the bar — with this man now more than ever.

"Have we met before?" Matt said.

"No, Sir. Must be someone else you're thinking of."

"What's your name, stranger?"

"John," the man said, looking at him, his eyes filled with vulnerability.

"Pleased to meet you. Let me grab you a drink."

Matt filled a glass with ice, turned over a bottle of bourbon, and set it on the bar in front of him.

"Thanks," said John. "You must be Matt, the owner. I've heard a lot about you. People say you're a hell of a guy."

"That's me," smiled Matt. "I can't comment on the rest of it, but I do care a lot about my patrons."

"Mind if I stay awhile?"

"I'd be glad if you did. This is Sheb, a friend to me as long as I've been here."

Sheb nodded, "Nice to meet you, Sir."

The three of them talked for the rest of the night, and many nights after, over cold glasses but in warm tones. When the weather was cold and the air drifted through the front door, the warm air of the bar pushed it back out. It became a place where coldness was not allowed to enter, where dust was never allowed to settle.

The world moved outside while the inhabitants hummed their own stories to each other, shared parts of themselves they had kept hidden. It became a place where tired sleepwalkers entered with demons attached to their backs, where they tried to remove the claws and stop the bleeding with the help of other gentle souls, a place that absorbed the blows dealt from living and dying, a shelter where humans drink free.

Image credit: Pub image by Owen Iverson via Creative Commons License

There is an abandoned house in the woods north of Cinder Creek, and it was long rumored that if you found it and entered, someone you knew would die. There were a myriad of theories which accounted for the exact type and specimen of evil which caused this; whether curse or haunting, the explanations varied. Just like any other urban legend, the only people who took it seriously enough to investigate were school-aged children. The even younger ones might have gotten to it first had it not been in such a remote area that required access to a car. For these reasons, the tale was more popular with the high school crowd, notably the underclassmen.

I was a sophomore that fall, and though a lot has changed since 1987, most of the elements of my teenage years are no different than those of high school kids today. The cliques and social groups, disregard for administration — all those things remain constant, and most importantly, the curiosity that drove us to that place on a Friday night was as timeless as youth itself. Curiosity is the bane of felines, and we behaved as if we had infinite lives, all of which could be expended for the most ignoble, irreverent motivations imaginable. The seniors were more concerned with getting laid and school pranks orchestrated by the football team, but for us, there was still residue lurking in our blood left over from tree houses, secret clubs, and ciphered messages scribbled before recess. Those novelties persist just a little while before they morph into sexual gossip in the hallways, when the wonder of what curiosities lurk in the dark is transposed to that which lies shadowed under clothing.

Carolyn was my sweetheart — a beautiful, dark-haired tomboy with an unmistakable laugh, a soprano giggle always muted by her left hand. She came from a decent family, better than most of us, and though I knew she must have dealt with her fair share of obligatory, adolescent baggage, she always seemed to maintain a good mind about it, never taking life so seriously as to corrupt her outward spirits. She had only moved here about a year ago, and was pretty enough to hang out with the prep crowd, but hardly interested in them. That's what I liked most about her. She could recognize manufactured people easily, by instinct alone. It was a good quality to have, and kept her — and probably both of us — out of plenty of trouble.

Carolyn had been talking about the house for a long time. It was a topic that tended to crop up around bonfires at night, and with the fall closing in on us, the creepy urban legends made more frequent appearances in conversation. One Friday afternoon, she came up to my locker between classes wearing hot-pink lipstick and a conspicuous smile.

"Let's go out tonight," she said, teasing me with a tickle.

"What do you mean? I thought we were. You don't want to go to the football game?"

"No, I mean something else, besides that. Let's check out that abandoned house."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah. We can go afterwards. We'll leave early, that way my parents won't be pissed at me for coming home too late. Tim said we could take his car."

Tim was our mutual friend who, being a Junior, could actually drive to school. Luckily, Tim's car was such a piece of junk, he didn't mind if someone borrowed it, and since his family was in the scrapping business, it wasn't hard for him to find another car of equal dilapidation should something bad happen to it.

"Sure you won't get too creeped out once we get there?" I gave her a stare with lifted eyebrow for a moment, and her smile persisted.

"Make sure you bring a flashlight," Carolyn said, "and a crucifix in case there are vampires."

I hissed at her with my mouth wide open, bared my teeth, and lunged at her threatening to bite her neck. She screeched and shoved me back, knocking one of my books loose. Trying to catch it, I smacked my head against the open locker door. "Oh! I'm sorry," she said, with a hand covering her lips as she reached out to touch my head.

I laughed at her. "Alright. No more taunting me until school is out. I'll talk to Tim later and get the keys."

"See you tonight," she said, kissing me on the cheek and pinching me below the ribs. I watched her walk down the hall, her long hair and taught jeans slipped into the surrounding crowd of faces, every one of which I had recognized a hundred times before, but were indiscernible to me in that moment. She was the only thing I could see.

I found Tim's car in the back of the parking lot during halftime. It was an old 70's Ford Capri with rusted-out wheel wells and a smashed rear bumper. It was hard to imagine the thing was actually new at some point, though as I turned the key, it started up with a growling whir, and I realized that so long as it belonged to Tim, the body would probably fall apart before the engine stopped running. I drove up toward the back of the school where I found Carolyn standing on the sidewalk, backpack on her shoulder and a handful of pixie sticks she must have bought from the concession stand when I hadn't been looking.

"Oh great. How many of those did you buy?" I said. "As if you weren't hyper enough already today."

She laughed and skipped over to the passenger side and jumped in, smashing a dozen cans and old papers under her shoes. "Hey at least I'm in a good mood. You wouldn't like me very much if I were hyper and in a bad mood."

"Yeah, that was last week, and it wasn't from pixie sticks." I stuck my tongue out at her.

I drove out onto the empty roads, a quiet night in a quiet town where the Friday football game was the most important event of the week. Not even the cops were on patrol; they went to the game like everyone else. No one had a clue where we were going or what we were up to, which was a big relief from my usual, regimented life. Sure, it was a bit of a childish pursuit, but that didn't matter to me because Carolyn was happy. It was just exciting enough to do anything without criticism, and the best way to do that was to keep it in relative secrecy. That's why kids keep so many secrets. Adults are keen to help you learn to walk and use the toilet, but when it comes to adolescence, they don't generally have anything positive to offer — only critiques and curfews.

After twenty minutes, the glow of sunset had nearly vanished. We turned down Lunn Road, remote and quiet, surrounded by acres of corn, and ahead I could faintly see the silhouette of a long tree line.

"That's it. Slow down. It's supposed to be near the creek," Carolyn said as she rummaged through the items in her backpack. I slowed down as the road dipped, and on the other side of a small bridge, there was an overgrown drive. I turned onto it, but made it only twenty feet before jamming the brakes to avoid hitting a fallen tree.

"Well," I said, "I think it's safe to say that no one lives here."

I shut off the car to avoid attention from anyone who might drive past. As we got out, I could smell the long, green weeds underneath the car being singed by the hot muffler. Carolyn had already turned on her flashlight, and the dew from beneath the car steamed in front of her as she pointed it up the driveway into the tall pine trees that surrounded us. A few hundred feet ahead, we could see the outline of an old barn. As I walked around the front of the car to Carolyn, I noticed her whole demeanor had changed into a strange, removed disposition. She was focused entirely on her surroundings. I might have mistaken it for fear, had I not known her. Far from it, she was entirely mesmerized by what she was seeing, enamoured by the atmosphere, feeling it like a hypnotic drug whose effect washed over her. Curiosity pulled her forward, almost blind to my presence, so I turned on my flashlight and followed her quietly up the overgrown path, perhaps more intrigued by Carolyn's trance-like demeanor than our original purpose.

Though it hadn't rained in days, the ground was still damp, and as we moved farther up the path, it grew softer under our feet. The woods were alive with a thousand insects, singing together in rhythmic patterns that shifted as they heard us trample through weeds and step over brush. Our flashlights lit the tall, thin pines, casting quick moving shadows as we walked, making the trees behind them flicker from light to shade to light. I heard the sound of the creek, and we caught our first view of the house as we came around a bend.

It was a two-story house, and looked as if it had been abandoned for half a century or more. There wasn't a chip of paint left on it, and some of the siding had fallen off, though it's structure still seemed intact, built on a stone slab foundation — probably the only thing that kept it from sinking into the ground. There was no porch, and only a few windows in total. A cool wind fell on our faces from the hole in the canopy where the house rose up, and it made Carolyn's hair flutter as she gathered it back with a hand. She pointed her flashlight up at a tiny window near the peak of the roof.

"It looks like this place has been abandoned forever ago," I said. "I'm betting people have broken in and ransacked the place. It's probably totally empty."
Carolyn didn't respond, though I was sure she heard me. She stared at the house in absolute wonderment, and I realized there was no way she was leaving tonight until she saw everything inside it — empty or not. Her eyes were filled with a kind of ravenous appetite I had never seen before, and the rest of the world and its priorities were suddenly non-existent. Nothing could compete with her strange fixation on the house.

"Look," she said, spotting something just above the front door. It was a horseshoe, thoroughly rusted, nailed to the top of the door frame. She walked toward it and reached for it. Pulling hard several times with her whole body, she managed to pry it loose from the old wood. "These are supposed to be good luck, right?" She turned it over while inspecting it.

"I guess so," I said, "but this doesn't exactly seem like a place that's had good luck."

She pulled on the old door handle, but it would only open a few inches. The bricks on the doorstep were uneven, and blocked the door from opening more. I stepped behind her and pulled the door up on its hinges to get it open, noticing small planks that were once used to nail the door shut. She stepped inside slowly, and I followed.

The air inside was dusty, and surprisingly dry compared to the thick air outside. The floor was bare wood and the windows were intact. For such a rumored place, it didn't seem like it had been tampered with very much. There was a iron wood stove on the far end of the living room, which was joined to the kitchen, where we stood. Some old appliances from the 40's were still there, but the wares were gone. There was a couch on the far wall that was older than any furniture I'd seen, even in my grandmother's house. Flower-print wallpaper peeled on the walls of the kitchen, but most of them were bare and without decoration. The whole house had a feeling like people had left suddenly, but not in a panic. Most of the belongings were taken, but the larger items were left behind. Carolyn looked at everything, keeping mostly quiet. She was fascinated, and surveyed the place almost like it was a crime scene, believing she could discover everything that had happened by examining remnants and assembling the clues.

As she silently moved about the first floor, the roof creaked from the wind outside — or what I assumed was the wind outside. I was never a generally skittish person, but the longer we stayed in that house the more anxious I became. I wasn't worried about ghosts or being in a dark place — years of camping had made me practically immune to those things. The creepiness came from somewhere else that I couldn't explain, but the more we saw of the house, I became convinced that being in the house in this way was wrong. It was like an invasion of privacy. The objects left behind were interesting, but as I touched them, it became clear to me these were not just old artifacts from a history book. These were remnants from real people's lives, and though I didn't know them personally, I could imagine what it might be like if I had. It seemed wrong to be rummaging around in someone else's things, whether they were even still alive or not.

"I don't really think we should be here," I told her.

"Why? Too scary? There's no one here!" she smiled.

"No, it's just...it's strange in here. This isn't our stuff, and it just doesn't feel right."

Carolyn, kind as she was to the living, was undeterred, making her way upstairs where the bedrooms were, and I followed. The master bedroom had a shredded mattress left behind, along with an old vanity that was grey with dust. At the opposite end of the hall was a child's room. There was a baby crib in one corner, and seeing it there made me start to feel ill as the house continued to creak around us. Carolyn walked towards it and picked up a small cloth doll. It had hair made of yarn and a smiling face stitched in with red and blue thread.

"I don't like this. It's just not right."

"Nobody cares that we are here. No one even lives here anymore. This stuff is so old, if someone wanted it they would have taken it a long time ago. I don't know why you are so worried."

"Don't take that stuff. I know nobody lives here, but it's not ours either."

She twisted her lips to express how silly I sounded. "I'll leave the creepy doll, but I'm keeping the horseshoe. Dead people don't need good luck anyway."

"Whatever," I sighed.

"I'm just going to look in the other room, then we can leave."

"OK. Just hurry up."

She walked back to the hall and into the adjacent room. I didn't want to see more of the house. The further away I could get from the room with the creepy doll, the better, so I walked down the stairs back to the living room. I could hear her opening furniture drawers.

"Wow..." I heard her say from upstairs.

"What?" I said from the bottom of the stairs, though I didn't really care what she had discovered. She must have set her flashlight down in the bedroom so she could use both of her hands, because as I looked up, I could see her shadow projected onto the wall above the staircase. Her head was bent downwards and her elongated hands looked strange on the wall as they picked up several small items.

"There are all these little bottles, like perfume or something."

"Wonderful. Are you finished yet?" She ignored my impatience, continued examining different bottles as I watched her shadow pick them up one at a time and open them to reveal their scents.

Then I saw it begin to descend — slowly, like watching something awaken from a Victorian hibernation, unfolding, unfurling, stretching its thin limbs — many of them — downward like smooth tentacles as it hung from the ceiling. The long shadows reached toward her shadow from behind, bending like some kind of magnetic attraction, slowly, cautiously. I twisted my head and moved closer to the stairwell as I watched the shadow slither from where it hung.

"What the hell? Carolyn. Carolyn!"

They struck like vipers, all attaching in synchronous thirst. I heard bottles and glass breaking on the floor and Carolyn gasping for breath as her shadow was pulled upwards toward the ceiling, her arms flailing in panic. I rushed up the stairs, stumbling with fear, and as I reached the top I could see her suspended by something invisible but dark, the tips of her toes were dragging along the floor, her face held and her body without motion in a strange paralysis. The black parasite, clutching her by the back of the head, had drug her out to the top of the staircase in front of me. I was so afraid, my legs gave out from under me, and I fell to my knees in the middle of the stairway, paralyzed by fear as I saw her bound by an otherworldly predator.

The helplessness I felt in that moment was unlike anything I'd ever known. I was confronted with something that defied all natural explanation, more frightening than my nightmares could have conjured, and it was strangling the most wonderful girl I had ever known. In my horror, I could only scream with all of my being, and unexpectedly, I heard it echoed by the fiend. It shrieked in a high pitched whistle, and recoiled away from her, thin limbs flailing until it dissolved back into the shadows of the ceiling. Leaving Carolyn standing, eyes forward at the top of the stairs, and just as she gained her breath, she looked at me, and her entire body lost its strength, sending her tumbling down towards me.

I tried, largely in vain, to catch her, managing only to stop her momentum, though I knew she must have been injured. I dragged her off the stairs into the living room, still hearing a high-pitched groaning from the thing upstairs. I tapped Carolyn on the face and called her name, desperately trying to wake her. She was breathing, but unresponsive, and I couldn't wait any longer for her to regain consciousness.

I had to drag her most of the way back to the car, through the mud and weeds, her poor body felt lifeless to me, and I might have believed her dead had she not been mumbling strange words I couldn't comprehend. The only thought I had was getting as far away from that house as quickly as I could manage, and when I got her back in the car, I drove faster than I ever had before, tearing down country roads to make it back to civilization, to get her to a hospital. I realized quickly that even if she recovered, I would have to answer for everything that had happened, and I had no clue how I could explain.

The following weeks were obscure, and my mind didn't do well at adjusting to normal life. I visited Carolyn in the hospital, which was only after I had pleaded to her parents and explained as best I could what happened, leaving out the most horrifying parts. I simply told them that she had grabbed hold of the broken banister, which gave way, causing her to lose her footing. My persistence and their kindness caused them to have sympathy, and they soon understood how much I really did care for Carolyn, and though our stalking around in abandoned houses at night wasn't exactly the most responsible thing to be doing, I would never intentionally cause harm to her.

As Carolyn's condition gradually improved, I spent a lot of time with her parents, and learned more about her than she had previously told me. Her parents had actually adopted her, and only a short time before she arrived at our school. Though they didn't give me much detail about her past, I could deduce that it had been far more turbulent that she ever let on. Most disturbing, something happened when she regained consciousness that I could never have anticipated.

She did not recognize me.

The doctors said this was due to the injuries that she suffered, which induced retrograde amnesia. While she did not suffer debilitating brain damage and eventually recovered, she had lost all of her memories of the few months previous to the trauma. Despite the scientific evidence, my experience told me something very different, and in the subsequent weeks, I had formulated my own theory on what had really happened to her.

There was something specific, even among all the terror that I had seen that night, which made me believe her amnesia was not caused by the fall. When the shadow released her as she stood at the top of the stairs above me, just for a second — she looked at me. As confused and helpless as I'd expect her to be, I couldn't help but feel she was confused also at my presence. Sometimes, just a quick glance can reveal much, and as far as I could tell, she did not recognize me even then. The look was not one of longing for me to help her, but a blank stare, as one would stare at a stranger, and the more I learned about Carolyn, I was convinced the demon had drawn the memories straight out of her mind, from present to past, siphoning all her experiences attempting to fill some strange thirst.

If this was the case, it left me with even more questions about both Carolyn and the shadow. What horrible tragedy could have been hidden inside of her that made it choke as it siphoned out her memory? Even more strangely, what kind of dark entity could be so thirsty for a softer existence, to mercilessly scrape it from anything that came close to it? Perhaps its isolation became so intense that it transformed into violent compulsion, shaping its phantom body to that of a predator, actually becoming a horrible leech waiting in the shadows, longing to steal the soul of a human being — all to make up for the existence it never had — a tortured ghost that refused to pass on to the realm of the dead; dark and colorless, vampiric, willing to discard the husk of a broken girl. It's an admittedly strange theory for a strange creature, and perhaps logic isn't equipped to make sense of the event or provide any answers.

Whatever true answers may be found, I will readily leave them on Lunn Road, to rot in that horrible, treacherous house — and for a very good reason. If it really did imbibe the same parts of her mind that she had forgotten, the slithering creature had knowledge that would forever make me uneasy, always hoping it would remain within that house, wishing it would never take flight outside.

Unlike Carolyn, the shadow probably knew me.

Abandoned house image by Jason Gillman used via Morguefile license

Jack looked down at the smoke coming from his cigarette as it wisped away into the wet, cold air. Sitting in the parking lot on the side of the laundromat, he laughed to himself.

I'm never going to quit these fucking things. Fuck it. Another hit, another day.

He took another hit, and the smoke warmed the back of his throat. It was cold outside tonight, and the rain was such a fine mist, it couldn't truly be considered rain. The rain and air mixed seamlessly to soak his leather boots and push the cold deep into his core. The cigarettes were the only thing that made the evening tolerable, sitting on an electrical box on the edge of parking lot. A kid inside had been screaming and crying for most of the two hours he'd been sitting there. It had gotten old after the first fifteen minutes.

Christ, why won't she shut that fucking kid up? It needs the shit slapped out of it. If it's going to scream anyway, what's the fucking difference?

The kid kept screaming.

The town was nowhere, Kentucky; population 1200, one gas station, two diners, and fourteen bars. The coal mine had been shut down three years ago, and the people never moved away, because there was nowhere else to go — no promising future, no sustainable pay. All human activity consisted of television and drinking, and everything else had closed hours ago. The only thing still open was this 24-hour, self-serve laundromat, which displayed a large no-smoking sign on the front door.

Rats. All these people — fucking rats. They thrived when they were crawling through holes in the ground. It's where they belong. I don't know how anyone could stand to live in this shit, a trash-infested nest of inbreds.

He reached into his jacket pocket to notice he was down to his last cigarette. With a shivering flick of the lighter, he lit it up, and wished he had put on an extra shirt before he left the motel. For all he knew, he could be sitting out there another two hours. He flicked the lighter a few more times to amuse himself and gather a bit of heat from the flame, but discovered it was out of fuel. He tossed it, and watched it skip along the pavement into some nearby bushes. Some whiskey would take the edge off the cold, but he never drank when he worked. It was bad form, even if ninety percent of the job did consist of waiting. Luckily, he'd be back to Atlanta in a couple days, likely with several thousand dollars and half a kilo of cocaine. He sat there for another hour — cold, waiting.

A man pulled in and parked his car. He sat for a minute, smoking, listening to the radio, and when he finally got out of the car, Jack called out to him.

"Hey, buddy! Mind if I bum a cigarette?"

The man walked over to him, acknowledging him with a nod. He pulled out a pack of Marlboros from his red flannel shirt and offered it to him.

"Thanks, man. There isn't a damn thing open around here this late — not even for smokes."

"There's a gas station over in the next town, but it's about twenty minutes away. You don't live around here?"

"No, just here a couple days. Heading out tomorrow morning."

The kid inside was still yelling. Jack smiled, slightly amused, "That your kid in there?"

"Yeah. She's a bit of a handful. The high-energy type."

"Hah! My sister's kid is like that. You'd think they gave him rocket fuel every morning."

"Ah, runs in the family. She takes after her old man."

Jack laughed. "A loose cannon yourself?"

"Some say so," the man said with guilty grin.

"Like who? Who says so?" Jack grinned a little wider, and the man looked at him a bit strangely. It was an odd, abrupt thing to say. "Ah, probably the in-laws. It's always a bitch with the in-laws isn't it? Always on your case, I bet. Anyway, let me throw you a buck for the smoke."

"Hey, don't worry about it," the man said, shifting uneasily.

"Nah, I insist."

Jack reached into his pocket, grabbed the only other thing he had been carrying the whole night. The steel was the warmest thing he had felt in hours, and as he pulled it out, the man had scarcely a second to know fear. He fired two shots into the man's chest before he fell forward, hunched over, trying to breathe as he convulsed on the pavement.

The woman inside screamed, and the child was strangely silent.

Bending down, Jack fished out the pack of partially smashed cigarettes from the man's shirt as he listened to him gasping for breath. "Have a good night, friend. It's a shame I don't get paid by the hour; we could've talked a while longer. Not such a bad fellow. Mr. Roswick extends a personal greeting, and his personal farewell." Another shot ended it.

Blood was pooling near Jack's wet, leather boots. He took a cigarette from the pack and lit it, watching to be sure the woman stayed inside. He walked toward the back of the building and into the adjacent woods, his feet eager to make their way to the car with the heat on full blast. The workday was finally over, and the town a little cleaner than when he arrived. Jack took a long drag from the dead man's cigarette.

Another hit, another day.

Laundromat image by mconnors used via Morguefile license

When I walked into my sister's room the next morning, most of her things were gone. Her bed was unmade, as usual, but most of her dresser was empty with the drawers still half open. Dad was screaming at her again last night. Every time I thought it couldn't get any worse, it always seemed to. It wasn't that they never got along; they did at one point when she was younger. I think after years of him putting so many restrictions on her, they all finally collapsed, and she decided not to die under the weight of them. It probably would have killed her if she didn't have so many friends looking out for her.

I poked around to see what she had left. Her posters were still hanging, mostly punk and gothic bands in all their leather and spike-wearing glory. If sweet girls love cotton candy, my sister's tastes were thoroughly black liquorice. There was some makeup by her mirror,and some old clothes that I didn't even recognize thrown into a pile in the corner. There were some red candles and figurines still on the shelf. I wondered if she would come back to get them, and what Dad would do with them all if she didn't. The whole room felt hollow. Even though she had just left last night, with so many of her things gone, it felt like she had been gone for weeks — and in many ways she had, since she had been spending more time out of the house than in her room at night. I think she had abandoned the idea of it being any kind of "home" long ago.

I lied down on her bed for a bit, thinking about her and the time she taught me how to put on eyeshadow. The sheets still smelled like her hair, and a combination of the thirty different scents that used to sit in shiny bottles on top of her dresser. Even though it might make some of the yelling stop, I didn't like the thought of having to live here without her now. The only thing that made me feel a little bit better was that I knew she had somewhere to go. I didn't know exactly where, but she had enough friends that would take her in. She even told me once that if she ever left, not to worry about her — and generally, I didn't. She had been in a little trouble before, but nothing really serious. She was smart, and Dad never gave her enough credit for that.

It had started raining, so I got up and closed the window. I walked out to the kitchen, and that's when I noticed it on the dining room table. She had left something there late last night, after everyone had fallen asleep. Sitting in the middle of the table was a doll. I remembered it, but hadn't seen it in so many years, and then it occurred to me why. She must have kept it hidden, stored away in a very safe place where no one could see it, where no one would discover it. It was in stark contrast to almost everything else she owned. It was the black sheep of her belongings, though it's face was porcelain white and beaming with joy. It's blonde hair was perfectly brushed, her blue hat still unwrinkled. The little girl toy was completely untouched by time, as if it had been frozen and protected since the day he gave it to her. No matter the relationship, the pain and heartache that might have been birthed in this house, the doll was unscathed by it. It was a reflection of the day he brought it home for her, after a long day of fighting traffic and arguing with management in the office, he remembered her birthday, and found something that would make her happy. She was happy. That day, he was the best father in the entire world, and it was the only thing left to help her remember that day, and that those feelings, were ever real.

It sat on the table, on top of a note that she had written for Dad. I didn't have the heart to touch it, because it brought me so much sadness to see that she left it here, but I could see the last half of it, which ended:

"...the things that I aspire to, and the decisions that I make. I was your little girl, and you loved me. I was perfect to you at one time, perhaps when I was first born, or when I was learning to walk and you saved me from falling into the coffee table. You can't save me from those things anymore. The world that seems to you so dark and dangerous is the same one I jumped into with open arms. The world outside has changed me, and I wanted it to. I feel like the more I learned about myself, the less you understood me. You tried to keep me the way I used to be, when my world was small and didn't extend beyond the living room or backyard. You don't really know me, in the same way you don't really know my world. Maybe there will be a time when you truly want to."

Photograph by Emily Beeson used via Morguefile license

We've all felt bitterness, and I sit here with mine, alone at a small, corner table as the rest of the ballroom spins in celebration. I'm watching her as she dances in her long, white dress, her neck and wrists circled in lace, her waist hugged by a corset, hourglass-tight. She's on display in the middle of the hall, a delightful sight for her gracious guests, and they watch her wear the brightest of smiles, toes spinning, eyes gleaming, chestnut hair flowing soft. As she turns under the amber glow of brass chandelier, I watch her dance — with him.

When we were seven and small, just two houses apart, I played the highest general of war, fighting all my battles in her name. After my victory, she led my war horse home with its tether in her hand, while I asked for the other in marriage. She pledged her heart and soul to me, and promised to care for me everyday after. She made tea under the secret oak in our house of sticks and stones, and we filled her basket with flowers. We made plans for a day when we would build a mansion, with real tea, and children, and afternoon parties with lemon-anise cakes. We played jackstraws before sunset, and watched the moon through the kaleidoscope my father gave me. For years after, we walked near that secret oak, picking flowers for our mothers, and even kissing once or twice, until the suitor made his entrance.

He was courted by her parents, a wealthy son of a wealthy son, with prospects, and friends in powerful seats. The future of their perfect flower was ensured by a selfish plot to raise the family's standing. Her wretched mother, thirsty with greed on that dark night of his proposal, sewed a heart of paper maché inside the chest of my bride, and paid the devil with the one still beating, dripping with blood she could not poison.

So now she dances, in her beautiful, expensive dress, adorned with emeralds and gold, and a smile painted onto her face. See how easily they believe their own veneer, an empty smile that hides sadness beneath — her sadness born of losing me. Now I watch my true love, a bird clipped at the wings, heart hollowed by monsters, and I left with only a friend.

I was dutiful in my toast to her, with family gathered listening for hopeful words of the future, my voice was optimistic, my clothes pressed clean, grand flourishes when appropriate and laughs when the words became too serious. In all my life, never have I put on such a lighthearted performance, with gestures of goodwill to them and praise for their eternal commitment. When we drank the wine, my nervousness was lost, and my heart genuinely relieved as I looked toward the future, because I had let slip no indication of what so many months of seething anger would soon flow through their veins as well.

How beautifully she dances; yes I heartily agree. She was always graceful even in her earliest years, when only I bore its witness. How gracefully she sways, in rhythm with the strings, just as other strings were pulled in the darkness of the cellar. How gracefully she slows, an exhausted bride. Greeting guests is hard work. Why shouldn't she raise a hand to her brow? How gracefully she stumbles, in her long, flowing dress. It is so difficult to keep balance when heartbreak takes its toll on her performance. How gracefully she falls, as the suitor scrambles to catch her. He is strong, no doubt, but could hardly foresee her collapse just beside him.

How convenient they should care now, when her head is on the floor. How endearing the concern they show for her in front of their rich peers, the businessmen, the proper wealthy folk. How worried they are for her happiness. They cared nothing for her feelings — those feelings for me when they forced her hand in marriage.

We have dined with the deviant, my love, but we have already toasted to the angels, and they sing an aconitic serenade to call us to our place. Young metabolism absorbs quickly, and a thin bride should eat little on her wedding day, likening to my own appetite, vanished long ago. The bride is swooning! A splash of cold water. Cut the laces of her corset, with small scissors drawn hastily from your chatelaine, heavy with a hundred silver keys — none of which will unlock her from the door of death.

Forgive me, my love, for deceiving you, for telling you that I had let go of you — that I could let go of you. My later words were true, in the private toast I made alone with you, when I stole you away for just a minute or two — the least anyone could spare for a lifelong friend on this special day just before the dancing began. I told you we would always be together, a renewed vow of our childhood which I never forgot. Of course I drank first, as I knew you would never deny my gesture, and I easily let go of you after our embrace, and told you, "Go to him." Go to him. Let him receive you. Let him receive his bride of death. If he loves you will he not always follow where you go? May his heart ache as mine has for so long, but he will live. He will not follow you to where his wealth vanishes and his mistress servants sleep far away. Be careful not to kiss him in front of the pious guests — the lips that I kissed first, and so innocently.

Forgive me for the pain you must feel now, my sweet, and that I could not tell you of the plans I made for us. I have made the decisions for you, and I know you will soon thank me. Your sweetness would never allow you to abandon the ones you love for your own pure desires; your heart is too beautiful, and you deserve more than this dark merger.

The white walls are painted black now, and I see only the amber lights from above and the white of her dress, crumpled on the floor as they try in vain to revive my lovely, pre-angelic bride. A fuzzy outline of the groom charges toward me, his hands aching with fury from the dark revelation of my plot. I feel his hands around my throat, but vision of this world is almost vanquished, my stomach in knots feeling no different than it has for months of acid misery made physical now. My head swims in the swarming sounds of chaos, so much that his murderous accusations are hardly discernible. Live long in this barbarous world, Sir; you were made for it. My bride and I alone shall leave these devils in their miserable world, to be drunk on perfect wine and sorrow. My fiance and angel ascending, we are destined for something beautiful and eternal.

Modified photograph by Earl53 via Morguefile license

"Jenna. Are you awake, Jenna?"

She was awake, but just barely, in the state before vision emerges, when all sounds feel distant and flat without location. There was a hand rubbing her shoulder, and her eyelids were still heavy. She tried to open her eyes, but it was difficult. She saw, first a shining strip of white, then a hazy burst of yellow. She rubbed them over and over with flattened fingers, so itchy and cold, before she began to discern.

She had been sleeping on the ground, her face still itchy, lined with marks from the grass pressed against her cheek. There was soft, yellow sunlight, warm earth on her hands as she began to sit up, and the most pleasant, sweet scent was surrounding her. There were apple trees, all uniform in size, rounded at the top, in every direction she could manage to see.

"The itchy eyes are normal. It will go away soon," said the voice behind her.

She turned around, still groggy and saw a woman in a white dress, sitting next to her, with legs tucked in to the side. The woman was smiling, looking her over as if to be sure that every part of her was intact, and unblemished. She reached out and brushed some grass from Jenna's sleepy head.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Meryl," the woman said.

"Where am I? How do you know my name?"

"You are in the orchard. Lots of little girls come here, and I know all of their names. Try not to be frightened. You are safe here. Are you afraid?"

Jenna scratched her head and looked around. Her vision was growing clearer now, and she saw that it was an orchard, indeed. The apple trees stretched out for rows and rows for what she thought might be a mile in all directions. Despite being in this strange place with a strange woman, she felt quite calm.

"No. Not really. I feel...strange, but not afraid."

"That's good. You should get up and stretch your legs. It's a short walk out of the orchard, but you should make your way out in a few minutes. Be careful not to wake the other girls; that's my job. They need to be awakened at the proper time."

"The other girls?"

The woman pointed behind her, and as Jenna turned her head to look, she noticed another girl sleeping under an apple tree several rows away. She was also small, and looked about Jenna's age, perhaps seven or eight.

"Lots of girls come here. You should walk now, darling. Time is limited."

"Where am I supposed to go?"

"It doesn't matter. Any direction will take you to the same place."

She stretched her legs and began walking, passing several other sleepers nestled in the thick grass, all under different apple trees. She was careful not to disturb them as she walked through what seemed like a hundred rows of apple trees, all perfectly trimmed and covered in apples of deepest red.

Eventually, she came to a clearing, with a garden, and a fountain carved out of stone of a beautiful woman holding the hand of a small girl pointing into the distance, as if showing her something the girl had never seen before. There were other women in the garden. Some of them were painting, some were drawing and sculpting, others were singing for each other in turn, and some sitting in circles humming strange music in unison. Their clothes were very strange also. Some of the women had bright silks tied around their bodies in different ways, some had patterns painted on their skin and face, but none of them were dressed the same.

Jenna walked around, watching all the artists and performers — who all smiled at her without exception as she passed. She stopped to look at all the different paintings, some of animals, some abstract, even some with dark, scary creatures, and though they were frightening in appearance, it didn't seem to affect the spirits of anyone. The scene was of wonderment and creation, and it seemed that even the darkest things were kept at bay by the honesty of each expression, each work a testament to something very human.

"That is amazing," she said to a woman painting a bird she had never seen before. The canvas was taller than a person, and the woman used a paintbrush that was longer than her entire body to reach the top of it, and even though it seemed impossible, she painted the most intricate details holding it with just the tips of her fingers.

"How long have you been here?" the painter asked with a smile just like all the others.

"I just got here, and I don't know where I am. I don't know what I'm doing here."

"It's alright. It's not easy to understand this place. Lots of people come here, but there are very few explanations for why it happens. Do you remember where you came from?"

"Not really. I feel like I was somewhere before I woke up in the orchard, but I don't remember what I was doing or why I was there."

"Well, maybe not so much has changed then — though however you got here, I am glad that you came. We love having new girls. It brightens the place up so much."

Jenna thought that idea very strange, as she was certain this was the brightest, most colorful place she'd ever seen, or must have seen if she could remember much at all other than her name.
The woman looked out far past the garden and pointed, "You should go down to the shore now, over that way. It isn't far. I'm sure you will love it."

Jenna walked through the edge of the garden, and saw an ocean in the distance. The land began to slope downwards into a rough, natural beach with long sparse grass, followed by sand which went between her toes. She thought she had been wearing shoes before. Perhaps she left them somewhere.

The sun was lower now, almost setting on the water. The waves were hitting the shore, large, but not violent, and she saw fires burning all down the coast. There were more women surrounding them, wearing even stranger clothes than the women in the garden. Some had feathers and masks with weird faces on them, and they were dancing. She saw some of the women in the water, swimming and calling out to each other between their laughter.

She approached one of the bonfires, and saw different types of dances, changing spontaneously. Some women were moving like crabs or spiders as others jumped over them. Some just spun, never stopping, holding blue fire in their hands that made long streaks as the light slowly began to grow dim.

A masked, dancing woman with feathers and palm leaves tied to her elbows came running towards her from the fire, and pulled back a face with large teeth as she approached. She was giggling as if someone had tickled her just before she ran over. She was incredibly happy.

"Can you swim?"

Jenna looked around in thought, because she could not remember if she could swim.

"I'm not sure."

"Come with me."

The woman took her by both hands and ran with her toward the water. When they were both knee-deep, she let go of Jenna's hands and dove in. Swimming beneath the surface, she emerged several feet away in deep water.

"Swim to me," she said. "You can swim, I know you can."

She walked forward, the warm waves splashing her shoulders, soaking the only dry parts left on her shirt, then jumped in, kicking and paddling as hard as she could. The mask woman was smiling, completely confident in her, and kept motioning her forward, encouraging her until they met where even tippy toes could not feel the bottom. The sun was burning the sky pink and purple behind them.

"I knew you could do it."

"I'm getting tired, though. I don't know how much longer I can swim," said Jenna.

"Then float, my dear. Lean back and breathe in. Breathe in deeply. It will keep you from sinking."

Jenna breathed in and leaned back, as the woman gently helped her raise her legs to the surface of the water.

"That's it. You'll be fine. Just float. Breathe everything in."

And she did. She was not sure how, but she was floating, and it felt wonderful. The stars were beginning to come out, and for some reason it made her sleepy. Her eyes closed, and she felt peaceful, hearing the waves and dancers on the shore, and she slept. She slept for a long time...

...and then woke up. She was under a lone, twisted apple tree in the woods far behind her aunt's backyard. In her hand was an apple from the tree, half eaten. From the distance she heard her aunt calling her name, and she remembered how angry her aunt got when she was late for dinner, so she tossed the apple to the ground, and ran as fast as her short legs could go.

Orchard photo by Emily Roesly via Morguefile license

Tom held the steering wheel with one hand, while his arm rested out the window of the boxy, old pickup truck with "Tree Pros Landscaping" painted on the side. He had no idea how Cal had gotten the truck, only that he must have stolen it either from a garage or from someone at gunpoint — where he now found himself. He had been driving for hours, and Cal rode shotgun, keeping the gun on his lap, always in his grip, not giving Tom even the slightest chance to make a move for it.

"I don't think you actually want to kill me," said Tom as he looked into the horizon. They had been on dirt roads for miles, and the one they were on stretched far out into the distance. The corn fields of Iowa were the most monotonous landscape in all of America, and Tom had almost dozed off several times within the last half hour.

"Maybe not kill, but I have no problem with severely injuring you. Honestly, you don't really have anything to be afraid of so long as you don't deviate. At any rate, you don't want to test me. My hostility toward you is cerebral, not visceral. Everything has been a series of calculated decisions on my part, so don't doubt that I will do whatever it takes to keep you under control, even if it means killing you. I've already thought of everything."

"You're just lucky you have that thing, otherwise I would throw your crippled ass out the fucking door."

"No need. You'll have your chance shortly," Cal said, looking around in all directions as they drove. There wasn't another vehicle in sight, and they hadn't seen one pass for an hour. "Stop. Right here. Now."

Tom stopped the car and it came to a skidding halt, leaving long tracks in the dirt road and a cloud of dust all around them. Cal pulled the keys from the ignition and pointed the gun at Tom's chest.

"Get out."

Tom complied, and stood out in the middle of the road while Cal hobbled out of the passenger door. Whatever had happened to his knee must have been pretty bad, judging by his wincing at every step.

"I'm a patient man, Tom. Most of all, I'm a man of my word. I can hardly say the same for you. This is it. I want you out of my life, for good. I could easily shoot you now and be done with it, and while that would achieve my goal, it would just make other things even more complicated. So now, instead of dragging your corpse into those rows of corn behind you, I'm giving you a chance, one last gesture of kindness — that you don't deserve. This is it. I want you out of my life. I want you out of Leyna's life. I don't ever want to see your fucking face again."

Cal drew a coin from his pocket and threw it to Tom, who caught it. A regular old quarter. Tom looked up, confused, and Cal dangled the keys to the truck from his left hand with a grin.

"You call it in the air. If you win the toss, I'll give you the keys, and you can drive wherever the hell you want to go, but not back to Bainbridge. The truck won't be recognized as stolen for at least a week, but if I see you again, there won't be any bargaining or second chances. That's the end of it. If I win the toss, I leave your lying ass out here for the next schmuck who happens to drive by. If you're lucky, someone will find their way out here in the next couple weeks. See, either way, you get to leave with your skin still intact. That's my gift to you."

"Why would you do that? You could just leave me here anyway. You have the gun, and the keys. Why not just drive away twenty-five cents poorer than when you hustled me into the truck?"

"First of all, if you go back to Bainbridge, you are walking to your death. Don't doubt it for a second. The mechanisms have already been put into place, and you will be killed even if I never move an inch from the spot I'm standing now. The second reason I'm giving you this last chance is because I'm a man of my word, Tom. I'm a man of integrity, and this is my demonstration of it. This is something that you simply don't understand. You've been an asshole your whole life, you've spit on the underdog, drowned the helpless, and you feel no remorse or regret for it. You're a worthless piece of shit by every human standard. I would rather take my own chances out here alone with my dignity rather than see your face for even one more minute, and yet...I still believe that your life has some shred of value. Not value to me, but maybe in general, to someone else, or maybe only in the future. I'm not like you. I will never be like you."

"What if I don't decide? What if I say fuck your deal?"

"Then it's a stalemate, and eventually you will make a move at me, and I will shoot you like the fucking dog you are. There are only two things that I can justify killing you for, one is Leyna and her safety, which is why I'm doing this to begin with; and the other is my own. I refuse to be taken down by a rat like you. In the scheme of things, my worth to Leyna and the rest of society is infinitely more. To let you kill me would be a bigger crime by any logic. Now call it and flip the coin."

"I think you're fucked up, and all that college shit has done a fine job of turning you into a whiny bitch, which doesn't really help your chances with Leyna."

"Talk like that doesn't really help your chances of leaving this road alive. Flip the coin."

"Heads." Tom took a breath and flipped the coin, spinning above them with a ring, it fell down onto the dusty road.

"Tough luck," Cal said. "Don't say I never gave you a chance." He opened the driver's side door and put the keys in the ignition. He started the truck and looked back at Tom.

Tom glared at him, clenching his fist. "You say I'm not a man of my word. This time, I'll make you an actual promise instead of the warped shit you've made up in your head. The next time I see you, I'm going to pound your face in. One way or another, whatever obstacle or fortress you hide yourself in, I will find a way to get through it, and leave a mark on you that will remind you of me every time you look in the mirror. You have my word."

Cal smiled back at him. "Think hard about that while you're out here. If you were stupid enough to do that, it would be the end of you. This is it, Tom — your last warning. Stay the fuck out of my life, and leave Leyna alone." He mashed the pedal to the floor, sending dirt everywhere. As he charged down the road, Tom watched through the cloud of dust, and saw him toss something out the window to the edge of the road. By the time he made his way to it, Cal was a mile into the distance. It was the gun, and when he looked closer, he saw that it was empty. Nothing in the magazine. The whole time, through hours of driving, the damned thing never held a single bullet. It was one final slap in the face before leaving him out here for the coyotes. Useless to him now, he threw it back onto the ground.

--

He had been walking for an hour, and finally as he was making his way around a bend, he saw someone. It was far sooner than he had expected to encounter anyone driving out here, and for good reason. As he approached, he saw Cal, pounding at the dash, swearing, trying to get the truck's engine to turn over. He could tell from the sound that it wasn't out of gas. It had broken down, and probably only made it a few more miles after it went out of sight. Cal was no mechanic, unfortunately for him. When he saw Tom in rear view mirror, he panicked, rolled up the windows, and locked the door.

Tom walked up to the driver's side window, glaring an evil grin, and began kicking at the door, leaving a large dent. Cal was terrified. Knowing he could not outrun him with his injured knee, he rummaged around under the seats, looking for anything he could use as a weapon to defend himself.

"Don't worry, Cal. I'm not a man of my word!" He continued to kick the door. "Open up, and we'll have a drink. We can chat awhile." He looked around for a rock, or anything to break the window with, but saw nothing close.

Cal, still panicking inside and fumbling with the seat, saw Tom climb into the back of the truck and pull an old gas can from the bed.

"What the hell are you doing? You're fucking insane!"

"I'm being a man of my word, Cal!" He pulled the stopper, laughing, turned the can upside-down, and emptied it over the bed of the truck. He jumped down and tore off his shirt, then soaked it with the fuel. Standing back, he pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit the shirt as he held it. Cal unlocked the door and tried to open it, but the dent Tom had kicked into it had jammed it shut. As he tried to force it with his shoulder, Tom threw the ignited shirt, and the bed of the truck went up with a wind of fire that knocked him back onto the dirt road. As he held his hand out to shield his face from the heat, he saw Cal scrambling to the passenger door, and fall out face first onto the ground. He crawled out, coughing from the fumes and heat, trying to make his way into the rows of corn, stumbling like an injured animal hiding from its stalker.

Tom took his time, walking slowly, watching Cal's pathetic attempt to crawl away.

"You crazy fuck. I let you live. I should have just had you killed and been done with it." Cal shouted over the sound of the truck burning. He could see black smoke streaming above the corn stalks as he collapsed onto the ground.

"You're right," Tom said. "I am a crazy fuck, and you should have killed me, but you couldn't. At one point, you might have been able to stomach it, but not today. The world has made you soft, Cal, but it hasn't made me soft. It's made me harder. You've had it too easy; all those years in college, and now it's time for you to actually learn something about the real world, about real people. No books, no bullshit philosophy. It's just me — and this lesson is tailored exclusively to you."

Tom stood over Cal's broken body, and clenching his fist, he conjured up the most satisfying way to break it more. The truck let out a loud explosion, but Cal never heard the sound.

Photograph by marykbaird via Morguefile license

"These look so real," Sheila said, as she peered into the glass figurine. Surrounding her were dozens of them; all tiny glass people and animals, perfectly colored, posed in various positions.

"They are real," said her grandmother.

"That's impossible. If they are real, why are they so small?"

"The body is soft, not nearly as dense, comparatively. When something is compressed and hardened, it must shrink in size. The one you are holding, he was a painter — sort of an impressionist type, reminiscent of Van Gogh, but with sharper edges — beautiful work, but never got much attention on the East Coast."

Grandma Natasha sat in the corner of the room, her old features only partly revealed by the surrounding blue light. She was staring into a bizarre crystal, which seemed to serve as a lens with a strange geometric shape Sheila couldn't entirely discern. The figures were all around, and the candles throughout the darkened room made the figures sparkle and glow, refracting tiny rainbows onto the walls.

The prospect of them having existed as real people was frightening. There were people of all types, all appearances and ethnicities, gathered together like motionless dancers. There was a girl with her hands clasped between her knees, staring down into the distance. Perhaps she was looking out a window on a dreary day. There was a homeless man in ragged clothes, shoes worn down to several layers of socks, unshaven, hair uncombed for perhaps weeks. A hard-faced businesswoman in her late thirties wore a viridian suit, stared impatiently ahead, maybe late for an appointment as she waited for a delayed subway train.

Sheila examined their faces collectively. "They wear their past on their faces; every wrinkle and line is visible. It's like you can see what they were feeling, sort of frozen instantaneously."

"They do feel — in a way. It's not so much an active or conscious thing, but closer to being half asleep and finding yourself swimming in a particular mood but unsure why, like a fog that never breaks. In the way glass can be stained with a certain color, their minds remain mostly in the same spot as when they were solidified. Their essence is preserved indefinitely."

The granddaughter picked up the school-aged girl with her hands folded between her knees. She was probably in grade seven or something close. Her face looked so lonely, like she had been staring out her window at other people, longing to feel at home in a crowd. Sheila, remembering days of feeling the same way, wondered what it would be like to be paralyzed in those emotions — thoughts, blood, and dreams all condensed to cold borosilicate.

"Why do they all seem sad? I don't see any of them smiling or laughing."

"After the process is complete, one has to capture them. It would be very difficult to obtain the cast while other people were nearby. The process is impossible when others are watching since it would create a huge distraction, so the ones I capture are generally alone at that moment."

"You are serious, aren't you?"

Her grandmother did not answer, remaining in deep concentration, still staring at the strange, optical curiosity in the corner.

"So all these people were alone when you took them?"

"It just so happens the ones who smile and laugh, they are always surrounded by others. They aren't alone. The ones who are alone are usually sad, frightened, depressed and confused. The darkness emerges fiercely when others aren't around. People even take their own demons as friends rather than accept that they are completely isolated. Even perpetual loneliness itself can be comforting in a small way, and affliction is still a better friend than nothingness."

"What happens if they are broken? What if I were to drop one of them?"

"The answer is simple, but requires a larger explanation. In their current state, it would be difficult to consider them as being alive because they are trapped in a sort of stasis, but they are not dead either. That being said, they are unable to move to their next incarnation. They are trapped as long as they remain intact, and when they are shattered, their minds can resume, but they are no longer tethered to a body. They will pass to their next existence. When they are broken, they die, just as any other person dies."

"How long can they stay this way?"

Grandma Natasha's eyes began to close as she drew in a long, deep breath. Her hands were pressed flat onto the table as if she were steadying herself, grounding her mind to the feel of the room surrounding her. She opened her eyes and focused them on her granddaughter. She drew a glass figure from behind her viewing lens and held it out for her to see. "Do you know what I've been looking at, dear?"

"You've been looking at that figure?" Sheila asked.

"Come closer."

Sheila made her way around the ebony table and other dark cabinets rowed with small, sliding compartments. With her tall grandmother seated, their eyes were not far from being level with each other, and between them Natasha held the glass figure. It was a woman in a gypsy dress, with layers of purple and gold.

"What do you see?" said Natasha.

"It's a woman — a woman, in a dress."

"Look closer."

Sheila looked for a bit and said, "She looks young and very pretty."

Natasha shook her head in disapproval. "Look there," she said, and raised her finger pointing over Sheila's shoulder.

Sheila turned and saw herself in a long, oval mirror. Her slightly curly hair was drawn up and clipped at the back of her head. Her grandmother placed the figure back onto the table and stood behind her, making eye contact with Sheila through the mirror as she pulled the clip from her hair, letting her brown hair fall around her shoulders. She brushed her fingertips through her hair as they both looked at her young reflection.

"What do you see, darling?"

"I see a weird-looking girl with weird clothes and a weird nose. I should have straightened my hair today, but I was lazy. My face is breaking out again. I'm twenty-six and my face still breaks out."

"How old were you when your brother died?"

Sheila turned around to look at her directly, confused by the question. "Why would you ask me that? You know that. You were there."

"Answer me, and look," she pointed again into the mirror, and Sheila looked.

"I was eleven."

"What did you wear to the funeral?"

"I wore my white dress with pink flowers on it…" She thought a bit harder. "...but I wore my black dress coat over it, and black flats. I remember because I stared at them through the entire ceremony."

"Why did you stare at your shoes?"

"I didn't want to look at anyone. I hated them. I wanted them to go away."

"Why did you hate them?"

"Because they didn't know my brother. They didn't understand him. They didn't care about him. I felt like they didn't deserve to be with him, even after he was dead. They never tried to help him. Not a single one of them."

"Look." Natasha said, staring intensely at her granddaughter in the mirror. A tear was falling down Sheila's cheek as the memories of her brother mixed inside her head. "Everything you just told me — where do you see it? Where is it written? Is it written on your forehead? You are too young to have lines on your face. Does it show in your hair? Can it be seen in your cheeks or eyelashes? Where is it?"

"I don't know."

"It's here," Natasha said, running her finger gently down Sheila's cheek, tracing where the tear had fallen. "The tears come from memories and thoughts, and places you've been that don't exist anymore. When you swim through your mind, some of it comes to the surface and seeps out, like it does now for you. This — " she said, grabbing her hair, "doesn't mean anything. It doesn't say anything about you aside from how long you spent staring blindly into a mirror this morning. There is nothing about you visible here. Some of the greatest minds in history died without friends. Some of the richest men died homeless, and had you seen them, what conclusion might you have come to? Appearances are convenient, but they afford very little, especially when they are static. Don't make that mistake."

Natasha moved back to the table and picked up the figurine. The old, Romanian woman bent down eye to eye with Sheila, and held it in front of her eyes again.
"Look closer now. What do you see?"

Sheila wiped her face and sniffed her nose to stop the tears. She batted her eyes to see more clearly and looked at the figure again. "Nothing," she said after a few moments. "I know nothing about that woman. I don't know what her name is, I don't know what she does for a living. I don't know if she has a good heart or if she's a serial killer. I don't know anything."

"You are right. Sit down now."

Sheila sat down in the chair and looked down at the strange crystal in front of her. It was strangely angular and asymmetric, and seemed to reflect light in many directions depending on which direction she looked into it. She put her fingers down behind it and noticed that some of the flat surfaces magnified, letting her see every chip in her pink nail polish, while other surfaces made them appear farther away.

Natasha carefully placed the figure behind the crystal lens. "Now look closer."

She could see details that were not visible before, like the long gold earrings and the color of the woman's green eyes. She thought the figure must be some kind of exotic dancer.

"What does the wind look like?" Natasha asked.

"It's invisible," Sheila said.

"It's invisible, but you've seen it."

"Sort of. I've seen it in other things like the trees, and leaves, and when the clouds spin when a storm rolls in."

"That's right. Don't be fooled. Remember what I told you, and look closer."

The blue lights flickered and glowed around her, some landed on her face just as they had on her grandmother's, but smooth and without the many lines the drawn by harsh sun over the decades. She peered for several minutes and began to feel a strange sensation, as if someone's lips were drawing close to her ear about to whisper something. Her breathing slowed and then stopped, and all of her attention moved intensely onto the visions in the crystal, forgetting the weight of her body in the chair.

Sheila gasped, and felt the ocean pour in through a hole in her stomach, forcing itself up through her chest, and into her throat. She began choking in short breaths frantically, eyes locked onto the crystal, arms shaking. Natasha grabbed her wrists and forced them back down onto the table, holding them as her lungs spasmed and shuddered. Her vision was locked somewhere else, unable to perceive her surroundings as she panicked, drowning in dry suffocation.

"Calm now! Breathe!" her grandmother shouted.

Gradually she was able to breathe more deeply, slightly more controlled, her eyes came back to the room and met Natasha's, her arms still shaking involuntarily.

"What did you see?"

Still breathing fast, her voice was tight and broken, recovering from inner strangulation. "I saw — I saw the city — old streets and cold." She looked at her grandmother with fear and swallowed with a dry, burning throat. "There were dancers in the snow — but the snow was red — with blood. Something horrible happened."

"I know. I've seen it also. How many people have seen what you just saw? Not the events written by history, or secondhand accounts we've heard from the people who lived in that time, but the real sights and sounds and thoughts of that particular woman. Normally, only one person sees what comes into their own eyes, but you just saw exactly what she did, with all the blood and fear and dread. Even now, you tremble from it. This is just a memory to this woman, but it's an active memory. It is just as real to her as the memory you have of your brother. You can enter into it anytime you like, and you can enter into her just the same. There is no filter or bias allowed when you see this way, because your entire self is forgotten, including your beliefs and prejudices. It's all left on the curb when you make the leap into darkness. We pride ourselves on being empathetic, giving others the benefit of the doubt, but this is different. It's not clever wordplay or philosophy. It doesn't condescend. It doesn't pretend to understand what it really doesn't. People who see this way see truly. They understand things that history hasn't written — that it couldn't have written."

Calmer now, but her thoughts still swimming, Sheila watched as Natasha walked behind her to a heavy, wooden cabinet, with layers of drawers. She opened the top drawer, which was divided into small compartments, each lined with thick velvet, and each contained a different glass figure. Stored in this fashion, Sheila realized her grandmother might have hundreds in the room.

"Look at them. Imagine what it would be like to know what history has never written. Not just to know, but to see it with the eyes of the people who were there. What kind of knowledge could you have, not just about the world, but about human beings?"

Sheila stood up to look closer at the row of figures, having to balance herself by holding onto the chair. They were all unique, some wore French clothing, Chinese, Greek, Aboriginal. Some wore very little clothing at all, much of which she didn't recognize even from her courses in anthropology.

"This didn't start with me. I am part of something larger, and something older than I can surmise. I have spent most of my life gathering these. Imagine the insight of just a single person, the massive amount of experience and knowledge, and then multiply by a hundred. When the same person is able to see the minds of this many people, the amount of understanding is incomprehensible. It gives the opportunity to understand humanity in the most detailed, most honest way possible — greater than anyone could imagine. This is surely the largest collection of castings that survives, and I'm giving it to you, because my time is quickly dwindling. Soon, all of this will be yours."

The photograph of glass was taken by Abingdon & Oxfordshire via Morguefile license.

When you get into fist fights at a bar, everyone involved tends to get thrown out, and usually someone gets sliced with a knife or broken bottle. Owners don't have time for explanations — they throw your ass out to the curb. That's why I quit that scene...well, that's one of the reasons. Now, I only go to late-night restaurants and diners. The clientele is either teenagers out after an evening drinking binge, or elderly, slightly crippled insomniacs. People with canes don't usually have problems with anyone unless their eggs aren't cooked just the right way or you forget to put the mayonnaise on the side. Despite this, I still manage to attract bad apples no matter where I go. Perhaps it has something to do with the nighttime, or something to do with this damned town — another scene I'd like to quit.

Tonight it was the jackoff biker type, the kind that puts on the costume for the weekend, touting the long-dead, post Vietnam "fuck society" attitude that resulted in a new flavor of domestic terrorists who thought they could write poetry like Allen Ginsberg. This idiot didn't even fit the classic stereotype very well, owing his 23,000 dollar Harley Davidson to his dental practice in Orange County. He just happened to be drunk as fuck tonight. The main problem is that these kinds of guys never know what they're dealing with. The most crucial information isn't usually visible, therefore is an ineffective deterrent.

I've spent fifteen years of my life in a boxing ring, and to the unenlightened, that might not mean a damn thing, but the truth is, fights are won far away from where the real confrontation takes place. The decision is made everyday before the fists start swinging, when you are jogging out on the street, when you are on the mat, or on the 600th jump of the rope. Most of all, it's a mental game. When someone who barely knows the game picks a fight with a chessmaster, the outcome is already determined. I've practiced every possible counter to any swing that could be thrown, and every follow up combination to knock out anyone short of an experienced heavyweight.

The asshole in question had an issue with his waitress, one I know fairly well because I frequent this place, mainly to avoid assholes like him. After a particularly abusive tirade, nearly bringing poor Jackie to tears, the situation needed addressing. I'm hardly a white knight, but there are a few problems I have with society, and one of them is bullying the powerless. Jackie is lucky to clear 15k a year working the late shift at this place, and the last thing she needs to make her life any more miserable is a 40-something, self-entitled dickhead to make her feel like a failed human being. These cowards always beat up on the ones who can't fight back. Jackie's a strong enough woman, but this is the only job she can get...at least that's legal. I'd been watching this situation brew since that guy walked in, and the least I could do now was deflect some of his anger away from her.

"Are you kidding me? How can you mess up the order? You have one fucking job to do around here, and you can't even do that."

"I'm sorry. The order usually comes out —"

I turned towards him and threw my hat into the ring. "You sound like you know a lot about this place. I imagine you work at a place like this? You know how the orders are processed, all that stuff?"

"Nobody was talking to you, asshole."

"That's right, because cowards like you only talk like that to people who can't give it back out of fear of losing the only job they have. When you don't get what you want, you cry like someone took baby's rattle, but if they lick the chrome on your tailpipe, you are placid as peach."

"Fuck this place." He turned over the food that was on the table, sending half his order all over Jackie's apron and onto the floor. He got up and began to walk toward the door.

My grin was almost as big as the guy's ego. "I'll be sure to call your mother, the pig breeder, to clean your fucking trough the next time you go out in public, you self-entitled piece of shit." Just as he heard me, something must have snapped, because in one motion, he turned and took a swing at my face, and I let it connect.

The smell of leather always takes me back to Hammer's Gym, to the first day when Tracy Brown showed me how to lace up. Though it wasn't just the expensive motorcycle jacket that jogged my memory; it was the alcohol. The guy reeked of whiskey, coming out of every pore on his skin, and it threw me back into my middle school years, when dad would come home with a short fuse and not a dollar left in his pocket. Dad was a boxer too, but only when his wife was in the ring — our ring, a broken carcass of a rowhouse on Shaldon Street.

If he had kept his paws to himself, he might have made it to the door. The problem with the average guy is that they aren't capable of taking a punch. Getting hit does something to your ego, and it takes over every action that follows, leading you happily to your own defeat. When you spend time in gloves, you learn that listening to your ego is the best way to lose a fight. You learn how to shut it down, and doing so tempers your soul. You learn to take hard hits, and it makes you remember that you are more than just your body, or the fucking designer boots you bought last week, because your body tells you to run from pain, and shiny boots don't look as good on a corpse. That's probably the biggest thing that kept me interested in fighting all those years. You don't need your sense of pride to motivate you in a real fight, because your survival is motivation enough. To survive, you need a clear head.

Unphased, I got up from my chair.

Image used via Morguefile license

Since the massive data leak, there had been political strife like the city had never seen. Every day, there was a new headline of some city official taking their own life with pistol in hand, or throwing themselves out of a high-rise window in a poetically correct fall from grace. Others just claimed medical leave and skipped town, though their fates were just as inevitable as the ones who self-destructed. The level of paranoia in my department was unbearable. It was only a matter of time before something led back to me. Though I had covered my tracks as meticulously as possible, it wasn't digital clues that would lead them back to me, but the nature of the leak itself. There were only a handful of people who could have conceivably accessed the information or even knew it existed, and though I had temporarily escaped scrutiny, my luck was bound to run out.

She spotted me as I was walking out of the Florence Convention Center on 23rd Street. It was dark outside, but not dark enough for me to blend in with the other faces that were streaming out after the performance, most of them lined with age and cautiously navigating the slabbed steps. People my age don't buy tickets to the orchestra, and swimming in a sea of grandparents, I wasn't difficult to find.

The shadows darkened Eva's complexion, though her eyes reflected the passing glare of headlights as she watched me from the street below. The thickness of the evening could not mute the fire of her personality—strong and fierce, but framed within delicate structure. Everything about her was laced with the same touch of candy sweetness I had known before, from red heels to her tart lips, a veneer of innocence atop a nervous undercurrent.

"Hello, Thomas."

"My mother told me not to talk to strangers," I said, brushing past her.

"Your mother told me I was too good for you."

"She's right; you can do better. Why don't you give it a shot and wreck someone else's life." She followed after me, trying to keep up, heels striking the sidewalk, stiff arms swinging to aid an unnatural stride for her small stature.

"You can't run from this. You know why I'm here."

"You're wasting your time. I told you I'm not making a deal with anybody — that includes you."

"Why can't you realize that they're going to find out eventually anyway? You don't have any choice in this."

"There's always a choice. When people try to convince you otherwise it's manipulation — or in your case, blackmail."

Her eyes narrowed and her tone darkened, dainty facade cast off — she was down to hard tactics now. "You had a chance to stop all of this before it started, and now you blame me. You would have been protected, but soon everyone is going to be on your ass. They won't stop at anything once they find out. What are you going to do then?"

I halted in my tracks, forcing her to stumble, almost falling into me as I turned around to glare into her long-lashed eyes. Weeks of frustration and anger she had caused me rose up into my chest, and the heat of my blood began seething through narrowed eyes, making her reflexively shrink into herself. "It doesn't matter what I'm going to do, and the last person on Earth who should care is you. You had a chance to care, but you sold it for a shitty promotion and an apartment on the west side. What does Vance think of you now? Even he knows that you've fucked up and deserve whatever comes to you. After all this, you haven't done a single thing outside of your own interest. Now it's finally come full circle. That's why you came to me tonight; nobody gives a shit about you, and there isn't one chance in hell that I give a fuck either! Is this supposed to persuade me?" I grabbed her with claws at the waist and pulled at the fabric of her dress. "Is this what will change my mind and make me forget?" I smeared her lipstick with my thumb, red pigment bruising her cheek as she pushed me away squinting.

She was beautiful, bold, but still fragile somewhere inside; her bones could still be broken with just the right words and just the right intonation. Everyone has a personal poison, and a corresponding quantity is toxic unless it can be shed quickly enough, otherwise it accumulates into sickness. I didn't realize when I said it, but my words would sink deep into her marrow, forever a part of her in a way she could not shake off or wash away. She turned her face away from me, slowly drew her arms up to her head, half clutching at her hair in hopeless frustration. She seemed to tremble invisibly as if the glue that bound her together had suddenly dissolved from the tears that immediately came.

Everything in her collapsed.

"Run," she whispered, distant and lifeless. "Just run. It's all over anyway, but just run." Her voice defeated, and barely audible, "Just run…"

Her tears were unnerving to me, however hollow they might actually be. I'd seen them before, but this kind of switch between anger and hopelessness wasn't normal for Eva. It didn't matter what she had to say. I couldn't trust her anymore, not after the choices she had made. As strong as she was, she looked like she had surrendered to something invisible. Men fall in love with strong women not because of their strength—any man can possess that—but because of the fragile skeleton that wields it, creating an otherworldly, uncanny elemental of emotional wrath. We stand mesmerized, amazed at the reckless abandon of an audacious heart on fire. I had seen her heart on fire once, but after she betrayed me, that beauty had been extinguished forever. She was only a shell of what she could have been, and my patience had withered, along with my hopes of ever feeling something for her again.

"I can't run from this," I said, while her face streamed tears that always make a man guilty no matter the reason, the politics, or the logic. "Take care, valentine." I swept away from her, unable to witness her in that pathetic state any longer, the fury in my blood making me feel ill. I walked toward my apartment, further away from the streetlights, toward the darker side of the city, leaving her a discarded mess on the sidewalk. I wanted to vanish into the shadows, out of her life and even out of her memories while she watched me go, but as I looked back one final time, she wasn't even looking in my direction. She was just standing there as lost as before, staring into nowhere, like she'd forgotten the entire world around her. It was one of those snapshots in life, when the world creates a vivid painting on reality's canvas, and the image is engraved on your mind forever. It has some sort of special significance to your life, and reveals things about you many years later — and had time been given the chance to calm my hatred, the memory of her standing under the cold streetlights could have given me a change of heart. I might have wished I had gone back to her and tried to change things, but I knew I didn't have years left. My time was far shorter, and the reflective side of me had been devoured by the primal instinct to stay alive—an instinct that knows no empathy or remorse.

The night swallowed me whole, making my footsteps anonymous, and the sounds of the city seemed much further away after walking a just few blocks, bouncing back and forth between glass and oiled streets, muffled by broken concrete and rusted steel. A metropolis is really just a massive amount of people and drama compressed into a tiny space, so when things happen a few blocks away, it seems like another part of the world. Everyone's drama is intensely local, and allows for a surprising amount of loneliness in such a crowded place. The sheer amount of direct impressions doesn't give the luxury of tracking anything outside an immediate, selfish vicinity.

My level of paranoia became unforgiving. Ghosts whispered threatening shadows that seemed to walk beside me, psychopaths waited on every corner, clutching the curbs as their only stable piece of broken, confused lives. I kept calling on my rational mind—my own imaginary friend—to convince me that the world was ordered, structured, predictable, and that demons don't hide behind dumpsters and parked cars. I created phantoms around every turn, giving rise to the kind of fear that makes you whistle or hum with the delusion that to pretend everything is safe and happy makes it so. Terrors seeped from storm drains in figured mist, dancing in waves as I walked past, and mixed with strange, unsettling thoughts of Eva…until reality shattered all delusion, grabbed hold of me as two forms emerged in front of me with obvious intent. They were not apparitions. They were not fellow travellers. They weren't wandering souls out for late-night coffee or even drug addicts searching for other zombified insomniacs to quell their hunger. They were stalkers with a singular mission, inverted shadows, larger at the top, soundless, mechanical with hidden eyes. They closed on me before I could react.

At that point, just before the grip of cold, iron fist took me, my trivial acceptance of those words flashed terrible regret. My callousness had broken her will, absolved her of whatever altruistic thread she had still possessed, cut sharply by my swift rage. Clueless me thought back suddenly, terrifyingly, to the hopeless look on her face as the words fell from her salted mouth, wet lipstick smudges of deep red. I realized…what she had really meant was, "RUN!"

Alley image by DMedina used via Morguefile license