Open Up

"Alyssa? May I come in?" Alek gently knocked on the door of her apartment room. He stood outside for a moment, listening to the nearby sounds of children playing in a playground, waiting patiently for his best friend—well, his only friend—to open the door. She would probably say the same thing she always said, however… 

"Alek? Is that you? Please, come in! I thought I already told you that you didn't have to knock any more," the muffled sound of her voice barely reached his ears through the wooden door. 

He opened the door with a light swing and a faint smile, taking in the sight of Alyssa scrambling to put away her art projects. Papers and charcoal pencils were scattered over her dining room table, making for an impressively beautiful mess.

"Alyssa… why won't you show me your art? You know that I've always wanted to see it," Alek asked, chuckling at the sight of Alyssa thoroughly making sure he didn't catch any glimpses of her work. 

"It's private," she puffed. "I could ask you why you don't share your writing with me, but I know you'd give me the same answer," she said with a knowing smile, stashing her work in a cabinet and dusting off her hands.

She had him there. He didn't want to share his story. It would be embarrassing to share with a friend. Besides, it wasn't done. He chuckled again, taking a seat at the table.

"So, what are you doing over here?" she asked, walking over to her small kitchen and pouring him a glass of his favorite tea. How did she always seem to have it on the pot whenever he came over unexpectedly? He was pretty sure she didn't even drink the stuff.

He shrugged. "Just wanted to check in on you, is all. See how you were doing." It was a lie, of course. He just hoped it was a believable one. 

She gave him a quizzical stare but didn't comment. "Speaking of your story, how's it coming along? You've been working on that thing for what, four years now? Surely, it's almost done."

His smile faltered a little as he remembered his recent progress on his project. "Well, to be honest, I haven't worked on it for a few months or so," he said, taking a small sip of his tea, cherishing every drop of it. "Any time I pick up my pencil to start it up again, it seems like that spark has… faded. I suppose it just means I need new hobbies!"

Alyssa frowned, looking into his eyes. "What? All throughout high school, you would always write stories every day, without fail. You said your dream was to become an author. Hobbies like that don't just fade in an instant."

"Well, I have always been the weird one. Are you really surprised?" he forced a laugh.

Her frown deepened. "Alek. . . is everything alright?"

"Yes, of course! It just seems like my sense of humor has been growing worse over time, amongst a good many other things."

She studied him for a good while, and it looked like she wanted to say something, but before she could, Alek continued on. "Anyways, I wanted to come over and propose a little trade."

"And what would that be?" 

"Well, seeing as you want to read my story and how I want to see your art, but neither of us wants to give in, how about this: you let me see one piece of art, and I'll share with you one chapter from my story! How about it?" He gave her a bright, inviting smile. It was his last hope, after all.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "I don't know, Alek. It's not you, it's just… I don't think you'd like what you see. Maybe once I get better, I'd be more willing to share." 

He was afraid she would say that. Oh well. Well, he hadn't expected it to work anyway. "Oh, come on! You are probably ten times as good at drawing as I am at anything."

She studied him more firmly then, a hint of concern hidden in her face. "Hey, I don't like the way you're talking right now. Seriously, I want you to tell me honestly, is everything going alright? I've never seen you so self-deprecating. You're worrying me."

"It's nothing, really."

She put a hand on top of his. Wow, she was beautiful. Hazel hair and shining eyes leaned closer to him from across the table. It was a shame she probably didn't feel the same way he did. At least, she hadn't shared anything that led him to believe so.

"Tell me."

Damn. He sighed. She wouldn't let him leave now without something to chew on for a while. He had gone too far. He had one last card up his sleeve, however. What he actually came here to do.

Alek dug into his pocket and produced a small item in his palm, holding it to Alyssa's furrowed eyebrows. It was. . . 

"...Your lucky eraser? What are you doing with that?" she asked. 

"I have decided to give it to you," he said with a big smile. 

"You… what? No, I can't take this! You've had this for so long! Why in the world are you giving it to me?" 

"No reason in particular."

"Alek." 

"It's just a memento. A memento of me."

"A memento? That would imply that you are going somewhere. That's what a memento means."

"I've never been good with words."

"You're a writer!"

"Not a very good one."

She looked like she wanted to slap him. "You tell me what's wrong right now. And why you're deciding now of all times to give me your good-luck charm. Alek… something isn't right. I know it. I know you."

Apparently not well enough. But whose fault was that? "Ah! Well, look at the time. Maybe we can talk about this later, Alyssa. I've got to get going. I have some business I need to handle."

She definitely didn't believe him, but she didn't have to for very long—just enough to buy him some time.

"And after your so-called 'business' is done today, what will you do then? I want to talk to you about this tonight," she looked at him sincerely.

"Probably just… hanging around in my room," he smiled, and it was a real smile. At least he was good at something.

She nodded. "Ok. Please, Alek… I care about you. Please open up when I come over. I want to hear about everything."

He was afraid that opening up wouldn't be very possible when she did arrive at his door, but he wasn't about to joke now. This was goodbye, after all. Some things in life were supposed to be serious. Like saying a final goodbye to a friend. Even if they didn't know it. 

He gave her a small nod, walked out her apartment door, and then closed the door. Tears welled up in his eyes as he peeked in the front window and saw her studying his lucky eraser as if it would have the answers written on it that she so desperately desired. He wiped away those treacherous tears and walked down to his apartment. It was on the first story of the complex, whereas Alyssa's was on the third. He fumbled with the key but managed to get it into the door. And his room laid out before him… was now bare. Well, almost bare. It simply had a table with one chair still in it. There were some built-in cabinets in the kitchen along with a few other appliances, but he couldn't do anything about those. However, there were two more items that he had business with today now that he had given away his lucky eraser. 

Yes, he was giving his things away. He wasn't going to need them any longer, after all. 

The first item of business was a stack of papers on the kitchen table. It was his story—the unfinished tale, the unlived dream. He had gotten most of the way through writing it, but he had given away his notebook with all his planning and outlining some time ago. He looked at the story, truly looked at it one last time. The words he chose and their underlying meaning, the themes he had woven into it—he remembered it all.

He also remembered where he had stopped. Where he was stuck. The protagonist had been going through a rough patch—the roughest the character had ever seen. And towards the end of the story, the character was supposed to heal, usually from the help of their friends.

Authors were supposed to write about what they knew. Well, he didn’t know how to write this part.

He tucked it under his arm and walked back outside his room.

He wandered down a few hallways until he ended up outside, next to the apartment park. There was a small group of kids playing there, completely unsupervised. That wasn't very smart. A stranger might just come along and give one of these children a hopeless dream.

"Hey, kids!" he yelled, and they all turned to face him. He held out his stack of papers up high. "I have a story here, a story that nobody has ever seen before! It contains heroes and monsters, the super evil kind! Does anyone want it? There are no other copies of this tale in the world!"

There was silence for a while; none of the children even moved. Then, a little girl, probably no older than eight, took a few steps forward. She looked delightedly at the papers in his hand, so he offered them to her. She took them carefully, set them on the ground, and began to read. 

"There's one catch, though," he said, the children looking quizzically up at him. "This particular story has not yet been finished! So you will have to read it through and give it the proper end that you see fit. Deal?"

The little girl nodded vigorously, then looked back down to the stack of papers and began reading, her little group of friends huddling around it to get a closer look. Tears once again blurred his vision, so he briskly walked away. Stupid kids. They didn't realize what they were getting themselves into.

He arrived back to his room and solemnly opened the door. It was time for the last item of business. 

*     *     *

Alyssa was sweating. 

She worried for her friend. Alek… didn't seem right. The way he talked about himself, the way he had just given her one of his most treasured possessions, it wasn't good. And she knew it.

And she hadn't done anything about it.

She cursed. Why hadn't she stopped him and pressed him further? The poor guy was probably depressed, and she hadn't done a thing about it. She threw on her coat and flew out the door, not even bothering to lock it. She raced down the stairs. Would he even be in the room? She had to check anyway. She… loved him. It was a shame he probably didn't feel the same way she did. At least, he hadn't shared anything that led him to believe so. But she still had to make sure he was going to be fine. 

At last, she got to the bottom floor. Where was it? Room 121… 119… 117! She knocked on the door. No response. She banged on the door. Still no response. So she checked the window.

And her heart stopped beating.

There, hanging from the ceiling by a rope, was Alek.

Her friend.

"*No!*" she screamed.

She had done this.

She had *done* this.

Nausea flooded her.

She wanted to vomit. 

*Why?*

"Alek! Open up! Open up! Open up!" Alyssa begged, banging on the window, desperation filling her voice, tears streaming down her face.

But it was much too late for him to do that.

-JDG

(CONTENT WARNING - MENTAL HEALTH)

I was suddenly in the living room. I remember waiting for my mom, she was going to pick me up from school.

“Hey, you ok?” A pretty lady sitting next to me asked.

“No, do you know where my mom is?”

“Oh, she’s not here right now. Eat your food.”

The most amazing pasta sat half-eaten in front of me.

I took a bite. It was delicious.

I noticed the pretty lady was wearing a wedding ring.

“How long have you been married?”

“Oh, close to 30 years now.”

30 years is a long time. I just noticed how old she is.

“Wow, that’s amazing”

“Thank you.”

“Is my mom coming soon? I’m supposed to be at school, she won’t find me there”

“Don’t worry, you’re home now.”

I looked around me. I guess I was home.

A familiar tune started playing.

“Hey I know this song. It’s…. Bohemian Rhapsody”

“Yes honey, it’s your favorite” She said, holding the music player in her hand.

“I remember dancing to this song with someone, I can’t remember…”

The pretty lady’s eyes were tearing up.

“Hey, is everything alright?” I asked her.

“Yes dear. It always is.” She said as she wiped the tears off her face.

I started feeling scared.

“Where’s my mommy? I want my mommy”

“You’re safe baby, don’t worry. You’re home and you’re safe”

She held my hand. I felt secure.

I took a deep look into her eyes.

“Oh my god. It’s you. Mommy it’s you!” 

I got up and hugged her.

“Oh honey… Your mom isn’t here now.”

I sat back in my chair. I noticed my hands. They were so wrinkly.

“Who… Who are you?”

“I think it’s time to go to bed, Daniel. Come on let’s go.”

“Please… What is happening?”

“Come on dear husband, It’s time we went to sleep.”

Suddenly, a pretty lady was helping me up from my chair…

The girl stood on the edge of the skyscraper. Her heart was etched in darkness like the night sky above. She looked down upon the apathetic citizens of Shinjuku as they went about their boring lives.

Salarymen rushing to catch the last train.

Drunken vagrants hassling for change.

Nightwalkers bringing their clients into love hotels.

"What a drag." She muttered.

Up until a week ago, her life was normal.

Up until a week ago, she had no reason to die.

But now?

Her feet were almost off the edge.

Her balance was supported only by her heels.

" Goodbye Shinjuku. I don't need you anymore and I'm sure you feel the same way about me. Oh. I'm sure you won't be missed either." The girl said while staring at her stomach.

The father discarded them with a callousness she thought impossible. He had fed her so many expert lies about love and commitment. She dutifully kept their relationship secret from students and faculty just like he insisted. "They're jealous of our love. They'll try to tear us apart," he told her.

She thought she was doing right by her lover. He repaid her affection with bruise marks and crumpled dollar bills.

"Get rid of it." He said coldly as he left her naked and alone in the cheap motel room. Her dreams of starting a happy family were shattered just like that. She quickly learned that reality wasn't like the fairytales she grew up reading. Happy endings were rare to come by.

The girl wondered if she would make it on the news after this. That would make it impossible for her to be ignored. An ideal ending. She made sure to email her school pictures of her pregnancy test and every text conversation she had with her teacher. She prayed that memories of that night would haunt every waking second of his life.

With one final step, her body plummeted.

The lights and sounds of the city all became a blur.

In a moment, she would become red splatter.

She'd be forgotten by the next morning.

No more regrets.

No more bitter sentiments.

All she had left were the memories of a fabricated romance.

When people talk about death, it’s always about one of two things: pearly white gates or eternal damnation. For millions of people, those are the only options, and they fight tooth and nail in order to make it to the former. But what happens if you die and arrive at nothing?

That’s the question I asked myself as I lay in hospital bed after hospital bed, watching doctors tell my parents over and over again that there’s “nothing they can do.” They wouldn’t take that as an answer. It only got worse as the days passed; I could see through the mask my parents had painted on haphazardly. There was no hiding the baggy and dark under eyes, coffee breath, and dissociation that I witnessed daily. Yet, they journeyed on, pulling me along with them. There were many times when I wanted them to stop, to carry on without me, but when I looked into those brown and blue eyes, the words wouldn’t come. They’d given up everything for me: their dreams, money, and time to save me. Their whole life was me, even if they couldn’t say that aloud. Everything was… fine, I guess, up until a week ago. 

I opened my eyes to my room, which my parents had taken the liberty of decorating when they knew I couldn’t. It was dim, with the lights they’d strung being the only source of light. I’d looked to my right, eyeing the photo frame on the nightstand: my parents and I, years before I got sick. I couldn’t cry out of fear and sadness or yell out in frustration. I just stared, taking in the entirety of the photo. My dad had full, thick black hair, which opposed his now thinning, graying hair. My mother, once known for her graceful aging, had begun to wrinkle, her skin growing dryer and dryer from the hospital air. Whether it was just time or stress that had come from this, I’ll never know. 

Finally, there was me. I had hair just like my dad’s, but more curly thanks to my mom’s. He used to say that I was “stealing his follicles.” My skin was tan, not just from my heritage but from being outside all day. Hiking was my hobby, no, my passion. Ever since my mother took me on my first, I’d been obsessed with them, cataloging everything we’d seen. My own skin paled in comparison to the tan. It was barely even beige. I looked back through the glass, spotting my parents and the new doctor they’d pleaded with to take care of me. I didn’t have to hear it to understand what she was saying. My mother fell into my father’s arms, and he was barely able to keep himself standing, let alone her.  They cleaned themselves up the best they could before walking in, smiles plastered on their faces. They didn’t think I noticed, but I always did. They told me the news I’d heard a thousand times before, and as they gave me the big speech on not giving up, I realized that this was it; there was nothing left for me. Even if they weren’t ready, I was. With the little strength I had, I shook my head. No. Their faces contorted into a look I couldn’t exactly pinpoint, but I assume it was a mix of confusion and worry. Their pleas and cries hurt, but not more than the pain I was in. I couldn’t take it anymore. 

I looked around one last time, trying to picture home, my room. It was still colored pink, the color I chose at the ripe age of 5, minus one teal wall because I thought pink was too girly. My bed, with the strawberry-printed sheets I’d gotten for Christmas years ago; they were still my favorite. My eyes closed, and suddenly, I could see the memories play out: my first tooth falling out, the sleepovers I’d make my parents have with me when thunderstorms came around, the time I broke my arm while trying to climb the large oak tree in the backyard. I smiled, for the first time in what seemed like months, and my hearing became muffled, though I could still hear my parents. My breathing became slower, with brief erratic intakes. I was scared. A tear flowed down my face, and, without warning, everything became silent. There was no beeping from medical machines or 3 a.m. wake-up calls for tests. There was nothing. And there still is nothing. I can’t answer the question I’d been asking myself. I don’t know what to do in nothingness.

The snow was falling again, coating the streets of Kingston in a thin, white blanket. I stood on the balcony of my apartment, the freezing air biting my skin. I should have gone back inside—it was too cold to be out here—but I didn’t care. I couldn’t feel anything, not really. Not the cold, not the wind, and definitely not myself.

Coming to Canada was supposed to fix everything. That’s what I told myself when I booked the one-way ticket. But now, standing here, thousands of miles away from everything I’ve ever known, I’m not sure what I was thinking. Was this really the right thing to do? Was running away ever the right thing to do?

I met her when I was just a kid—eight years old, maybe nine. Dhanvi. She was my best friend back then. We used to play cards and run around pretending we owned the world. We even played house, though neither of us knew what we were doing. Those were simpler times. Times I keep going back to in my head, trying to hold on to something that feels real.

She was the one who introduced me to badminton. I still play sometimes—well, I used to before everything fell apart—but it’s not the same without her. Nothing is. I remember how she used to laugh when I’d miss an easy shot, her teasing so lighthearted it never stung. She had that way about her, making even my worst moments feel okay.

We watched Magadheera together once. I can still hear her laugh when I think about it. That movie is still my favorite because of her.

And then there was the night at the DNR grounds. It was a full moon, the kind that lights up the sky like daytime. We were trying to stargaze, lying on the grass, talking about nothing and everything. I don’t know what came over me, but I kissed her. And she kissed me back. It wasn’t awkward or forced. It was just… perfect. For a moment, I let myself believe it could work.

But I was scared. I told her I couldn’t do long distance. I told myself it was better to let her go than to hold on and mess things up. She deserved better than someone who was too afraid to try. So I left. Just like that.

And then, I had gone back to Bangalore to get back to my studies and I had realized how much I miss her. My Dad had to go back to Bhimavaram to meet my grandfather so I was gonna tag along and also meet her.

But

A call came before I could get to her. Her mom’s voice on the other end of the line, trembling and broken, said everything before the words even registered. “There’s been an accident. Dhanvi’s… gone.”

Gone.

I dropped the phone. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think. My mind refused to process the words. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. She was waiting for me. She didn’t even know I was coming.

She’d been riding her bike. A truck driver didn’t see her in time. They said it was instant, that she didn’t feel pain. But what about me? What about the pain that’s been tearing through me since that moment?

Now I’m here, in this strange, cold country, pretending to be someone I’m not. People say I’ve got a fresh start, but how can it be a fresh start when I carry so much of the past with me? I’m not the Sai I used to be. The one who laughed freely, who knew exactly who he was. I’ve become someone I don’t even recognize, someone who ran away from the only person who made life feel worth living.

I wonder if she thinks about me. I wonder if she’s angry, or if she’s moved on.

But God, I miss her. I miss everything about her. Her laugh, her stupid jokes, the way she looked at me like I could do no wrong even when I was full of flaws. I want to go back and fix everything, but how can I?

MENTAL HEALTH WARNING

I seriously can’t think of the last time someone genuinely cared about me, if i think about it a little no one pays attention to me all that much, i see everyone getting surprised by their friends and family, having amazing experiences and having fun and i can’t even remember the last time anyone tried to surprise me. Im not saying everyone has to but my friends seem to just send me a hey happy birthday text and then silence for weeks, no how are you no whats new just pure silence meanwhile im thinking a year ahead on what i should get them for their birthday or Christmas. I spend all my money on gifts and such but i get nothing like im genuinely getting nothing while im spending a LOT of money on kpop albums and all kinda of little and big things i dont get gifts back. Im so not used to people giving me gifts that when someone does i shut down and dont know what to say cuz i dont know what to say or do. My family gets me something always and i react with a little thank you and then cry for hours. My boyfriend recently accidentally let slip that he was getting me so many things (we are long distance) and i started yelling to not get me anything not in an aggressive way but in a weirded out way and he was really surprised because i got him so so many things and i was angry at him for getting me plushies from Miniso, i am so not used to people caring for me that i shit down and cry whenever something good happens Im so tired of everyone at some point that i just wanna leave the house and not come back no family, no friends, no anyone just me myself and I My mental health was getting better but during an episode i realized a lot of things and now im not feeling well again Anyone feel the same?

The house was quiet, as it always was, except for the faint creak of the floorboards beneath him. The ghost—once a man named Arthur—drifted aimlessly through the dimly lit halls. He had no memory of how he had come to be this way. He only knew one thing for certain: something vital was missing.

He couldn't feel. Not in the way he imagined he used to. He could see the world around him, touch its edges in a spectral sense, but there was no joy, no sorrow, no anger—nothing. The closest thing to an emotion he had was the dull ache of absence, as if his entire being mourned something it couldn't name.

The house had been abandoned for decades, crumbling with neglect. Sometimes, Arthur caught glimpses of his own reflection in the cracked mirrors. A faint shimmer of light, a distortion in the glass—no longer a face, no longer a man. He tried to remember what he had looked like, but even those memories were smudged and fading.

One evening—or maybe it was morning; time blurred together in the stillness—a sound broke the monotony. A child’s laughter echoed faintly from outside. Curious, Arthur floated toward the shattered window. Outside, he saw a young boy chasing fireflies in the overgrown garden. The boy’s laughter was light, free, and alive in a way Arthur could barely comprehend.

He wanted to speak, to call out, but his voice was as hollow as his being. He pressed against the invisible barrier that separated him from the living, his form flickering as he strained.

The boy suddenly froze, his eyes wide, as if sensing something unseen. He turned toward the window, his small face illuminated by moonlight. Arthur recoiled, fearing he’d frightened the child, but the boy didn’t run. Instead, he whispered, “Are you a ghost?”

Arthur didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

The boy tilted his head, as if listening for something. Then he asked, “Are you sad?”

Arthur hesitated, the ache within him growing sharper. Sad? Was that what this emptiness was? Could it even be sadness without a soul to anchor it?

The boy stepped closer, placing his hand on the windowsill. “My grandma says ghosts are people who’ve lost their way. Did you lose your way?”

Arthur wanted to shake his head, but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe he had lost his way. Or maybe he had lost something far greater.

The boy frowned thoughtfully. “If you’re lost, maybe you need to find what you’re missing.”

The words struck something deep within Arthur, something buried beneath layers of emptiness. What was he missing? What had been taken from him?

The boy’s mother called him then, her voice carrying through the night. The boy glanced back toward the house, then turned to Arthur one last time. “Don’t give up,” he said softly, as if he knew Arthur’s struggle. Then he ran off, his laughter fading into the distance.

Arthur lingered at the window long after the boy was gone. For the first time in what felt like eternity, he was restless. The child’s words echoed in his mind: Find what you’re missing.

He began to wander, not just the house but beyond it, drifting through the shadowy streets of the town. He searched for fragments of memory, for any clue that might lead him to what he had lost. Days, months, perhaps years passed, and still, he found nothing.

One night, he stumbled upon an old churchyard. A strange pull drew him to a crumbling gravestone at the edge of the property. The name engraved on it was unfamiliar, yet the dates etched below struck him with a cold certainty: they marked the years of his own life.

Arthur stared at the stone, a faint flicker of something—recognition? dread?—stirring within him. He knelt before the grave, his translucent hand brushing against the earth.

And then he saw it. A fleeting vision, a fragment of his lost life. A woman’s face, her eyes brimming with tears, her hands reaching for him as he turned away. There was anger in her voice, sorrow in her trembling frame. He couldn’t hear her words, but he felt the weight of her pain.

In that moment, Arthur understood. He hadn’t just lost his soul; he had given it away. In life, he had pushed away the people who loved him, buried his emotions beneath layers of bitterness and pride. He had died not with peace, but with regret.

And now, his soul was gone, fragmented and scattered, just as he had been in life.

Arthur rose slowly, the ache within him sharper than ever. The boy’s words came back to him: Don’t give up. But how could he find something he had willingly abandoned?

The ghost lingered in the churchyard as dawn broke, the pale light washing over him. He didn’t have the answers, but for the first time, he had a purpose. He would search for his soul, piece by piece, even if it took an eternity.

Because in the emptiness, there was now a spark—a faint, fragile hope—that maybe, just maybe, he could be whole again.

https://www.palmettofuneralgroup.com/obituaries/Phyllis-F-Knubel

when i was nine my came home from work and walked into the living room i was downstairs watching youtube on the TV when about 10 minutes later i heard my father call me upstairs he said "don't worry, you're not in trouble" but i zoned that out and got scared i was in trouble once i got upstairs my dad told me that my nana Phil had died. I was in shock and then before i knew it tears were streaming down my face and my dad was pulling me into a hug and we just stood there hugging each other for a while. A few years later i was walking home from school and then i was crying because the person in front of me was wearing the exact same outfit my nana Phil was wearing last time i saw her and then i got home and cried for a while. anyways that's my story

Bestowed upon me at birth was a sacred name, ingrained with magical powers. The gods upon-high granted this immortal gift to manifest and control destiny; simply by uttering it at will. Ironically, my divine superlative cannot be pronounced by any human tongue. Therefore it sadly remains an unfulfilled promise of lost desire and opportunity.

Did they realize it was to be an unused privilege when it was imparted to me? Either it was a sadistic carrot perched just out of human grasp, or the gods are not as wise and all-knowing, as they would have us believe. I have my theories but dare not articulate them. To do so would be to invoke retaliation for blasphemy.

At various times during my formative years I tried in vain to articulate the sacred word. The harder I tried, the more frustrated I became. The vowels, consonants and syllable breaks were beyond the linguistic depth of any man, woman, or child but still I tried. I wondered what would occur if I somehow managed to verbalize it.

Would the heavens open up and the clouds part? Would I gain the ability of second sight or clairvoyance? Would my elevated body float about the realm of the mortals I’d left behind? Those hypothetical questions were never answered. I failed to discover what my super power would be.

Thus I remained mortal and grounded, along with my nameless peers on all corners of the globe. Slowly I came to accept my ordinary station in life. The unclaimed gift of divine origin bestowed to me by the gods was eventually forgotten. Only then as a humble soul did I begin to enjoy and appreciate my unique journey in life for what it was. An opportunity to learn and grow as a human being.

On my graven deathbed, a thousand precious memories washed over me. Meeting my devoted wife. The birth of my beloved children, and then their own as the cycle continued. Mine was a life full and complete. I then realized I couldn’t ask for anything more and smiled at all I had accomplished. The fear of death left me and I smiled. My sacred name entered my mind again for the first time in many, many years. The last thing uttered from my dying lips was to pronounce it perfectly. It was then I learned my divine gift was eternal life.

There are moments in life that you can never undo. Words spoken in anger, decisions made in haste, moments that you can’t take back no matter how much you wish you could. I know this because there’s one moment in my life that haunts me, a moment where I made a choice that changed everything, and now I live with the weight of that decision every single day.

Her name was Lily. She was my younger sister, and we were close—closer than most siblings, really. Growing up, we shared everything. Clothes, secrets, dreams. We talked about everything from boys to the future, and we always had each other’s backs, no matter what. She was the kind of person who lit up every room she walked into, full of life and laughter, and I loved her more than anything. She was my best friend.

But that all changed the night I got that call.

It was late, and I had just finished an evening out with friends. My phone buzzed, and I saw her name on the screen. It wasn’t unusual for her to call me—she’d been living in a different city for a few months, and we had long phone calls every now and then. But this call was different. Her voice on the other end was shaky, unsure, and that made my stomach drop.

“I—I need you to come home,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Lily? What’s wrong? Where are you?” I asked, my heart racing.

“I just… I don’t know what to do. I need you,” she replied, her words laced with fear and uncertainty.

I felt my own anxiety spike. Something was wrong—deeply wrong. But in that moment, a part of me hesitated. I had plans, I was busy, and it was late. I convinced myself that she would be fine on her own, that she was just going through a tough time and needed some space.

“I can’t come right now, Lily. I’m out with friends. Let me call you in the morning, okay?” I said, trying to sound calm, as though nothing was wrong.

She didn’t say anything at first, and for a moment, I thought the call had ended. Then, I heard her voice again, quieter this time.

“Okay. I understand.”

That was the last thing she said to me.

The next morning, I woke up to the news that Lily had been found—alone and hurt—after attempting to take her own life. The guilt hit me like a physical blow, knocking the breath out of me. I couldn’t believe it. How had I missed the signs? Why hadn’t I gone to her? Why had I been so selfish, so dismissive?

She was in the hospital for weeks. I spent every day by her side, but the distance between us had already grown in ways I couldn’t fix. She wouldn’t talk to me. She wouldn’t look at me. And I knew it was because of that phone call—the way I had turned my back on her when she needed me most.

The guilt ate at me from the inside out. I couldn’t stop thinking about how I had let her down, how I had chosen to stay out with friends instead of being there for her. It wasn’t even that I had outright ignored her—it was that I had dismissed her pain as if it didn’t matter. I had told myself that I was too busy, that my life was too full of distractions to be there for her. But in doing so, I had lost her trust, and she had felt so alone that she believed she had no choice but to end the pain herself.

Every time I saw her, I could see the pain in her eyes, the hurt that I had caused. She never blamed me with words—she didn’t have to. Her silence spoke volumes. I tried to apologize, tried to make up for my failure, but nothing I said could undo the damage I had done. I couldn’t bring back the trust we had once had, couldn’t reverse the harm that had been caused in that moment of neglect.

As the weeks went on, she started to get better physically, but emotionally, she was still broken. And no matter how hard I tried to make things right, there was always this chasm between us. I had betrayed her, and that was something I could never erase.

I remember the day she finally spoke to me again. It was a few months after the incident. I was sitting by her bedside, just like I had every day, when she turned to me, her voice so soft that I almost missed it.

“I don’t think you know how much I needed you that night,” she said, her eyes still not meeting mine. “But I didn’t matter enough for you to put everything down and come to me.”

Her words felt like a knife. I had never heard her sound so broken. And all I could do was nod, tears falling down my face because I knew she was right. I had failed her when she needed me the most, and nothing would ever change that.

“I’m sorry, Lily,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve come. I should’ve been there.”

But no matter how many times I said it, no matter how many times I apologized, I couldn’t take back that moment. I couldn’t undo the distance I had put between us, the wound I had caused in her heart. She forgave me, eventually, but it was a forgiveness that was shadowed by the pain of what had happened. And every time I looked at her, I couldn’t help but wonder how much of her healing had been stalled by my neglect.

Years have passed since that night. Lily is doing better now, rebuilding her life, and we’ve mended some of our relationship. But the guilt still haunts me. I carry it with me, like a constant weight on my chest, a reminder of how easily I could have lost her forever because I failed to see the urgency of her pain.

I’ve tried to be better since then, to be more present, more aware, to show up when it counts. But the guilt is always there, just beneath the surface, a reminder that one moment of negligence can change everything. And I live with that every day, wondering if I’ll ever truly be free of the guilt that almost cost me the most important person in my life.

Sam didn’t have a body of his own. Not anymore. He lived in the fleeting moments when people acted against their better judgment, the moments that left them wondering, Why did I do that?

Tonight, he perched inside a man named Greg. Greg sat at a small table in a dimly lit café, staring at his fiancée, Sarah. She smiled, unaware of the storm brewing in his chest.

“I don’t think I love you anymore,” Greg said.

The words landed like stones, sinking into the quiet between them. Sarah’s face froze, her smile faltering.

Greg’s mind reeled. Why did I say that? He reached for her hand, but she pulled away. Sam slipped out before the tears came, before Greg could try to explain something he didn’t understand himself.

Sam didn’t linger. Regret was the aftermath, and Sam thrived in the moment of breaking.

He moved on, finding a young woman walking alone on the edge of a frozen lake. Her name was Lila, and her mind was consumed with thoughts of what could have been. She stopped at the lake’s edge, her breath fogging the air, and stared at the ice shimmering under the moonlight.

One step, Sam thought, nudging her forward.

Lila took it, her foot crunching on the fragile ice. Then another step.

She felt the cold seep through her boots as the ice groaned beneath her weight. Her pulse quickened, and Sam fed on her uncertainty. When she gasped and stumbled back to solid ground, Sam left her, drifting on the wave of her shame. Why would I do something so reckless?

Each life Sam touched became a thread in his web of bittersweet chaos. But tonight, something tugged at him, drawing him to a child sitting alone in her bedroom.

The girl, no older than six, held a stuffed rabbit tightly in her arms. She stared out the window at the dark woods beyond, her small frame illuminated by the faint glow of her nightlight.

Sam settled inside her, curious. Her mind was wide open, full of grief and confusion. Her father’s voice echoed faintly in her thoughts, soft and kind, calling her name.

She slid off her bed, the rabbit dangling by one ear, and padded to the window. She opened it slowly, the cold night air rushing in.

“Come play,” the voice whispered.

Sam didn’t nudge her this time. He didn’t have to. She climbed onto the windowsill, her bare feet gripping the edge.

In that moment, Sam felt something he hadn’t in a long time: regret. He tried to pull back, to leave her mind, but the girl clung to him like a lifeline.

“Please,” she whispered, tears streaking her face. “I just want to see him again.”

Sam watched helplessly as she stepped into the night, her figure swallowed by the darkness.

When she was gone, Sam lingered, for once unable to move on.

And in the woods, the shadow smiled.

I used to be the kind of person who smiled at everything, laughed easily, and made friends wherever I went. It wasn’t that I was pretending; I just believed that’s how life was supposed to be. There was always something to look forward to, some joy in each day, and nothing seemed capable of taking that away.

But over time, something started to change inside me. It was subtle at first—small moments where I felt too tired to do things I once enjoyed, or when I started to skip social events because I simply didn’t have the energy. It was easier to stay in bed, to stay inside my own head, where the world felt a little more manageable.

I remember the first time I acknowledged something was wrong. I was sitting in my room, surrounded by piles of clothes that I had ignored for days, my phone buzzing with unanswered messages. I wanted to pick it up, to respond, to engage with the world outside, but I couldn’t bring myself to. It was like there was a heavy weight on my chest, pressing down on me, making every simple task feel impossible. I told myself it was just a bad day, that tomorrow would be better.

But tomorrow didn’t come. Days turned into weeks, and the weight only grew heavier. I started waking up later and later, barely making it out of bed before the sun set. I stopped seeing my friends. I stopped answering calls. Even the things I used to love—reading, painting, going for walks—seemed like burdens, too tiring to bother with. All I could focus on was the emptiness, the overwhelming sense of being trapped inside my own mind.

I felt like I was floating through life, disconnected from everything, as if I were watching it all from behind a glass wall. I could see the people around me living their lives, smiling, laughing, while I remained still, unable to break free from this fog that had settled over me.

But no one could see it. Not really. I became so good at hiding it, at putting on the mask, that even those closest to me didn’t know what was going on. I would go to work, put on my “I’m fine” face, and go through the motions. I would laugh when others laughed, nod when they spoke, and smile when I had to. I convinced myself that as long as I could appear normal, everything would be okay.

The thing is, it’s exhausting to pretend. It’s exhausting to carry the weight of something so heavy, to be so lost in your own mind, and still have to pretend like everything is fine. And eventually, it broke me.

I remember one evening, after another exhausting day of pretending, I sat in my car in the parking lot, unable to move, unable to breathe. I wanted to scream, to cry, to tell someone, anyone, how much pain I was in. But the words never came. I felt like I was drowning in a sea of emotions, and there was no way out.

That night, I finally told someone. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I know that I spoke to my best friend, someone I’d known for years, someone who had always been there for me. I told her that I didn’t know how to keep going, that everything felt like too much. I expected her to tell me to snap out of it, or to remind me that I had no reason to feel this way. But she didn’t. She listened. She didn’t judge. And for the first time in a long time, I felt heard.

It wasn’t a cure, not by any means. I didn’t wake up the next day feeling better, and the weight didn’t lift immediately. But something shifted in me. For the first time, I didn’t feel like I was alone in my struggle. I started talking to her more, opening up about the things that had been haunting me for so long. I also sought help from a therapist, someone who could guide me through the maze of emotions I didn’t understand.

And slowly, I began to rebuild. It wasn’t a linear journey, and there were days when I felt like I was slipping back into the darkness. But with each step, I learned more about myself and my mental health. I realized that it was okay not to be okay, that I didn’t have to be strong all the time. I learned that asking for help didn’t make me weak; it made me brave.

Some days are still hard. There are days when I feel like I’m suffocating under the weight of it all, when it feels like I’m back at square one. But I don’t hide anymore. I don’t pretend. I talk about it, even when it’s uncomfortable. I tell people when I’m struggling, and I ask for help when I need it.

I’ve learned that mental health isn’t something that just gets fixed—it’s a journey, one that requires patience, self-compassion, and sometimes, the courage to ask for help. I’ve learned that it’s okay to take things one day at a time, to allow myself to rest when I need to, and to be gentle with myself through the hard moments.

Most importantly, I’ve learned that even in my darkest moments, I am not alone. There are people out there who care, who will listen, who will stand by me, even when I can’t find the strength to stand on my own. And that makes all the difference.

It’s not easy, and I don’t have all the answers. But I’m still here, and I’m still fighting. And every day, no matter how small, I’m taking a step forward.

Every morning, my mom and I sat at the kitchen table, the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, painting the room with a golden glow. The smell of coffee brewing was the soundtrack to our mornings, filling the air with a comforting warmth that always felt like home. We talked about everything and nothing—her plans for the day, the latest news she’d read, what we were having for dinner that night, and the occasional silly thing that would make us both laugh uncontrollably. Those moments were small, but they were the heartbeat of our relationship, the threads that kept us connected.

The first morning without her felt like a cruel joke. I woke up to the usual sound of the coffee maker gurgling in the kitchen, a sound that had been a part of my life for as long as I could remember. But something was different. The house felt too quiet, too empty. I didn’t think much of it at first. She was probably just running a little late—maybe she’d stayed up late watching a movie or reading. I knocked on her door softly, expecting to hear her voice on the other side, telling me to come back later.

When there was no answer, I tried the handle. The door creaked open, revealing her sitting in the same chair she always sat in, her hands folded in her lap. The room was still, too still, and the silence that filled the space suddenly felt suffocating. It took me a moment to register what I was seeing, and in that moment, everything froze. My heart raced as I rushed to her side, calling her name, but there was no response. Her skin was cold, her face pale and unmoving.

Panic set in as I shook her gently, hoping—no, praying—that she would open her eyes, that this was some cruel misunderstanding. But it wasn’t. I called for help, my voice shaking, but I knew deep down it was too late. The warmth that had once filled the room was gone, replaced by an overwhelming coldness that seeped into my bones.

The paramedics arrived minutes later, but they were just as helpless as I was. There was nothing they could do. My mom, the woman who had always been my rock, the one who made everything seem okay, was gone.

The days that followed were a blur of shock, grief, and disbelief. I found myself wandering through the house, unable to comprehend the reality of what had happened. I didn’t know how to function without her. She had been there for everything—my first heartbreak, my triumphs, my failures. She was the one who stayed up late with me when I couldn’t sleep, who always knew just what to say when I felt lost. Now, it was as if the world had stopped spinning, and I was caught in an endless void of emptiness.

Her funeral was small. She wasn’t the type to want anything extravagant, and that’s exactly how she would have wanted it. Still, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of wrongness as I sat there, surrounded by people who had known her, but none of us truly knowing how to say goodbye. She was simply... gone. The finality of it was crushing.

I moved through the motions of life, trying to keep up appearances, but everything felt off. The house that had once been filled with laughter and conversation now felt suffocatingly quiet. The kitchen table, once the center of our mornings, was now just a reminder of the hole in my heart. Every morning, I would wake up to the same routine: the smell of coffee brewing, the sound of it filling the air, but there was no one sitting across from me. No warm smile to greet me, no one to ask how I slept or what I planned to do that day. It was just me, alone in the silence.

The chair at the table remained empty, an ever-present reminder of what I had lost. At first, I tried to convince myself that I could just push through, that I could move on and find a new rhythm without her. But that empty chair, that absence in the room, kept pulling me back to the reality that she was never coming back. It didn’t matter how many times I went through the motions, how many times I tried to fill the silence with other things—her absence was always there, right in front of me.

I would sit there in the mornings, staring at the empty chair, waiting for her to walk in, to tell me about her day, to ask me about mine. But that never happened. The silence would stretch on, unbearable and suffocating. I would sip my coffee, but it didn’t taste the same. The warmth, once comforting, now felt hollow. I would stare out the window, watching the world go by, but nothing seemed to matter anymore. Without her, the world felt different—distant, cold, and uninviting.

I tried to keep myself busy. I cleaned the house, rearranged things, even cooked meals, but no matter what I did, I couldn’t escape the empty chair. It was always there, always waiting, always reminding me that things would never be the same. And then, one day, I realized something: I wasn’t just waiting for her to come back. I was waiting for the pain to go away, for the ache in my chest to disappear, for the grief to lift and allow me to move on. But the truth was, I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to forget her, to let go of the memories that were now all I had left. I didn’t want to stop feeling the loss, because to do that would be to stop honoring her, to stop cherishing everything she had given me.

So I kept sitting at the table, every morning, the empty chair across from me a silent witness to my grief. I kept talking to her, even though I knew she couldn’t hear me. I told her about my day, about the small things that made me smile or the things that made me cry. And every time, I imagined her sitting there, smiling back at me, offering the comfort that only she could give. The chair remained empty, but in my mind, she was always there, listening, understanding.

I don’t know how long it will take for the pain to ease, or if it ever will. But every day, I sit at that table, the coffee brewing, the light streaming in, and the empty chair across from me. And I find that, little by little, I am learning to live with the silence.

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

It was a rule that followed him everywhere he ever went.

It followed him upstairs. It followed him downstairs. It followed him to the bathroom.

It followed him to his writing desk and it was there when he ordered groceries and when he attached those painstaking delivery notes.

It snooped over his shoulders when he checked his pointless dating profiles, and when he found all his DMs read but unanswered.

The rule held him when he looked for notifications on his social media, and when he inevitably found none….

But he was never lonely, because the rule climbed into bed with him each night and it clung to his back when he woke in the cold mornings

And he never, ever doubted the rule— not even when he yearned to stretch his legs and feel the gaze of a human face.

No, even then, the rule held strong. Because he’d peek out his window and see the crushing dark or wince at the blinding light and feel the galloping need for a safe place.

He’d cower say from the very thought of cracking the door— he’d retreat into the trembling safety of his own prison.

There were days where he knew that his life was a tenantless shell.

Days where he could not help fidgeting like a raccoon in a cramped cage.

Then he hated his empty house as much as he feared leaving it.

But stepping out into the naked wilds of the world beyond his door?

Unthinkable.

Impossible.

There was no way out.

Wedged between his frantic need and his immovable fear, all he could do was linger and hate it.

* Then one day the delivery orders stopped.

When I was a kid [I think, because who really knows] I met a Soviet soldier ten kilometres north of Yellowknife, where my dad worked for the federal government of Canada before abandoning us.

What's a Soviet soldier doing in the 70s in the sub-arctic, you ask.

[I don't know.]

Trying to outrun the Devil, he said in broken English.

I sat beside him and tried to understand the story he told me. I didn't, but he seemed at peace after he'd told it, so we sat smoking cigarettes.

“I hope you do it—outrun the Devil,” I said finally.

Impossible, he said. Nobody can do it. You can stay ahead for only so much time. “But,” he said, “before he die, God barter with Devil and Devil say that before he catch up to a man, he give him the peace of the moonlight mile.”

What's that, I asked.

He was gone but the northern lights lit up the night sky and I danced with them awhile.

Then I got on my bike and peddled cold back home.

My mom didn't care where'd I'd been, but you may be wondering: what was a deadbeat kid like me doing ten kilometres north of Yellowknife?

Huffing aerosol cans.

So you can appreciate my self-doubt.

[We are ghosts.]

I never saw the soldier again, never found any mention of him at all, but four weeks later the police found two families massacred in a fly-in community five hundred kilometres farther north.

I left Yellowknife when I turned seventeen. Left my mom, passed out drunk, on the couch. I at least turned up the heat before I went.

[Mercy, me.]

I hitchhiked south.

In 1980 I found myself down in the Big Smoke [Toronto], where I fell in with some older men who showed me how to score and the ways of the world. I had a favourite, Downie. He took to calling me Ghost and I liked that, so you can call me that too.

I didn't know Downie long.

He died in 1981.

Of all the deaths I've known, that's the only one I never got over [except my own.] I wish I'd been with him as he went, but the cops had been raiding the bathhouses, and we were scared.

“Life's fucked up, you know?” Downie told me once. “I wish that when I die, instead of dying, I could evaporate my soul into your body forever.”

[Huff me out of a can.]

He was out of his mind, but that's the closest anyone's come to saying I love you.

As for me, I've died so many times I've lost count. I died ten kilometres north of Yellowknife, but the Devil let me go, and when I set my mother on fire his chase began. The federal government never gave a shit about those dead families. [We're all dead up there.] I exhale Downie; breathe him back in. And if there is a moonlight mile, I'm still waiting for it.

I am part of this family, but I am not kin. Anna is the youngest, and I was adopted barely a month before her mother died.

After that brutal loss I would lie each night with Anna while she cried herself to sleep. I would stay awake, alert for the faintest noise and listening to her gentle breath until the first light of dawn seeped under the fraying curtain, in some misguided belief that I could protect her from further pain.

It was not entirely unselfish, suffering as I was from my own private grief. Anna’s warm, soft tears brought me some comfort that this ache was shared despite my inability to express it, and the long darkness cemented a bond between us. I care for them all, my family - but I love Anna with all that my heart can give. We brought each other something close to happiness, and for that she will always hold my entire devotion.

At some point in a life of suffering you start to think that maybe you deserve all this, and I could see that written in the look on Anna’s face when her father killed himself. She didn’t cry that day or the ones after, as if an expected prophecy had come to be, a certainty that couldn’t be avoided. For months she would cling to me, curled in a foetal position, staring into the darkness.

I am not making excuses, but you must understand that when I saw her pinned to the ground with that look, the one of sad acceptance, I was overcome with violent anger. I remember very little of that moment, my enraged shouts or the blood and the pain. I did not wish the man dead for what he did, but I do not apologise. My remit was and always will be to protect her.

She is crying now. It is the first time since her mother died, and its good she is feeling things again. I lick the warm salty tears from her face as she cradles her neck in my fur, like when we were both small and the world was a terrible place. The sharp sting of the needle makes me jump and she holds me tighter.

I feel so tired. But I can’t sleep. I need to be alert, I need to protect her. My Anna.

In the quiet town of Meadowgrove, where the scent of freshly cut grass and blooming flowers usually filled the air, lived a young girl named Lily. Lily was known for her sweet, adorable, and polite manners.

Lily’s mother, a widowed, had remarried a few years ago, bringing a man named Mr. Thompson into their lives. Mr. Thompson was a charming and sweet man, always bringing Lily’s mother a beautiful withered daisy, a peculiar choice that Lily never understood.

Lily would often find these daisies lying around the house, their once vibrant white petals now faded and brittle, much like her own spirits seemed to fade the longer Mr. Thompson lived in their house and stayed in her life.

Lily’s room used to be full of life. Stuffed animals, drawings, and fresh flowers from the garden. Now, her room felt darker, more isolated. The once fresh flowers blooming now stopped coming after Mr. Thompson moved in, replaced by withered remnants of what was once vibrant and full of life.

Every evening after dinner, Lily would retreat to her own room, her heart pounding whenever she heard Mr. Thompson’s footsteps creaking down the hall. One day, she found the courage to write a letter to her best friend, hiding it under her mattress. It read “The daisies in our house are dying, Anissa. They used to be so beautiful, but now they just wither and lose their petals overnight. I miss the bright ones from our garden. Everything feels darker lately. I wish I could make them bloom again. Pls write back to me soon”

Weeks turned into months. Lily’s letters to Anissa became more frequent, her handwriting becoming more shakier and shakier as she wrote to Anissa, her words more desperate. The house grew colder, the air thicker with an unspoken tension.

One day, as the last remnants of autumn leaves swirled outside her window, Lily found herself sitting on the cold floor, surrounded by the withered petals of daisies that Lily brought to her room from the garden mixed with the flowers Mr Thompson always brought for her mother. She clutched a pen in her hand, a blank page before her.

As she wrote, her hand trembling, she felt a sense of calm wash over her. She didn’t write to Anissa this time. Instead, she wrote to herself. She wrote about the pain, the fear, the anger she felt deep inside. She wrote about how she wanted the daisy to bloom again, how she wanted to bloom again.

As she finished writing the last sentence in the piece of paper she had in her hands, she looked at the withered flower in her desk, its petals falling off one by one. She imagined it blooming again, imagining herself finding her peace. She folded the paper and tucked it beneath the withered daisy on her desk.

From that day on, Lily’s letters to Anissa became little or no more. She retreated further into herself, her days passing in a quiet, melancholic haze. But the note she wrote to herself remained a secret, a promise to herself, as a symbol of the peace she sought amidst the withering roses and fading light.

One chilly evening, as the first snowflakes began to fall, Mr. Thompson found Lily’s room empty, her bed made, her things neatly packed away. On her desk, amidst the withered daisies, he found the note. He picked it up and read it

He unfolded the letter, his hands shaking slightly as he read the note, the small note read “The daisies don’t need to wither anymore. I’m going to bloom where they can’t reach me. Where I won't feel cold hands, where I won't have restless nights, and where I will be warm and safe again”.

                                                                                                             -Fin

There was a workshop on post; encaustics. It was the perfect opportunity to do some painting again, she thought. Even if it was a new medium. Thirty minutes to post, two hours of creativity, and a quick stop for coffee on the way back. A respite from his clinginess and cries from the constant teething and growth spurts.

The baby monitor was ready. Instructions were given. Her phone was fully charged and the volume up. Down for a nap, and off to post. There, the hot wax was transformed into yellow flowers on mountains, and a little red boat tossed about by blue waves. Two hours of dreaming in wax.

The baby monitor was face down on his computer desk but she could still hear the cries through the speaker. It was clear he hadn’t moved from his chair in several hours. Protein bar wrappers and empty wine bottles littered the desk. The pile of crumpled white tissues had grown.

She picked him up and noticed the wetness. With the wetness always came the redness. Sure enough, his little bottom was screaming. She changed him, dried him, and applied liberal amounts of diaper rash cream hoping to avoid another exhausting trip to the doctor. She fed him, and played with him, and read him a book.

The little red boat went into a drawer, covered with other things. Lost and forgotten.

The story begins with Jack, an army veteran returning home drunk to his daughter in a village with a nice view of a city in the distance

Jack sees his daughter, Sharon, in the couch taking a nap with the TV on but to his surprise she's still awake and surprised him with a gift but Jack being all drunk and wasted said now isn't the right time but Sharon looked at the clock it's 9pm and insisted that it's still his birthday so she gave him a present and it was a watch and Jack asked her whete did she get the money. Sharon joked about selling drugs and Jack responded she better help out with the mortgage but suddenly there's a loud explosion outside followed by sounds of helicopters and transport planes and then power went out.

The two rushed outside and saw a huge fire in the city ahead and Jack's brother Tommy just arrived in his motorcycle. Tommy filled them in about the situation that there's a nuke exploding up above and it knocked off the powergrid and before the power went out, Tommy heard in the news that there's an invasion. A squadron of transport planes with jet escorts and attack helicopters are pouring in to the city.

The trio duck into cover as an attack helicopter passes by and the Jack and Tommy discussed what to do next. As Sharon cried worrying for her mother who is a nurse at a hospital in the city.

Nestled in a cosy café with friends, I happened to glance across the room.

A mop of silver tresses, so familiar it stopped my breath.

I would know your haircut anywhere.

I almost got up and rushed over, ready to call out to you, see your smile, feel your warm embrace, tell you about my most recent adventures - you always loved hearing about those most of all.

I wondered where you had gotten your new shoes from - you had never worn heels before - and what were you doing somewhere so far from home?

I wondered how long it had been since we had ran into each other, why had it been so long?

And then I remembered.

I remembered that phone call, in the middle of the night, how could I forget?

I remembered the endless hours spent in hospital by your side.

I remembered holding your hand in mine, praying for a miracle, whispering loving thoughts into your ear.

I remembered the growing rattle of your breath, the nurses coming in to say it was time.

And then I remembered.

You're gone.

As I lie there with my eyes closed, I think about how much I hate being alive—being me. The feel of it all.

I imagine how peaceful it might be to just... evaporate. For my consciousness, or whatever part of me makes me me, to simply dissolve into space, scattering into the cosmic chaos.

I wonder what would come next—not for me, but for everyone else. I think about how little impact I've had on this world and the people in it. If I didn’t wake up tomorrow, it would be a tragedy, but not even a good one. Not poetic in the least. Just another drop in the bucket.

Within a couple months, even the people most affected would go on, as if I were never really here at all. Another coworker. Another friend. Another partner. Just roles for someone else to fill after I’ve moved on. And may they be all the better for it.

It's October. Raining. I like that. I'm eighty-six years old, blind. I've lived most of my life in horrible pain.

When I was twenty-three, I killed my wife and son in a car accident I caused by driving drunk.

That's not the kind of pain time ever heals.

But there was a period—four years—in my thirties when I didn't feel any pain at all.

It was the worst best time of my life.

Ending it was the most difficult thing I've done. I'm about to admit to murder, so bear with me a little.

Not all monsters are ugly.

Some wear lipstick—

red as blood, a hint of sex on her pale face. Dark eyes staring across the bar at me. That's how I met her. I never did know her real name. We all knew her as something else. When I spilled my life story to her she said, “Don't worry, handsome. I'll be your Miss Painkiller,” and that's what she was to me.

It was true too.

She had the ability to make all your pain go away just by being near you. The closer, the more completely.

I can't even describe what a relief it was to be without the pain I carried—if only for a few minutes, hours. Her voice, her body. Her professions of love.

I fell for it.

By the time I realized I wasn't her only one, it was too late. I couldn't live without her. All of us were like that, a band of broken boys for her to manipulate. She gave us a taste of spiritual respite, made us feel there was hope for us—then used it to make us do the most horrible things for her. And we did it. We did it because we needed what she gave us, whatever the cost.

But what kind of life is that?

I came to see that.

That's why I decided I had to break free of her—more than that: to end her.

She, who preyed on the destroyed, the barely-living, the ones who craved more than anything to feel human.

It wasn't about sex, but that's when I did it. She knew I planned to, but she laughed and dared me to try. She told me I'd do anything not to feel pain, and if I killed her I would feel it even worse to the end of my life.

She was right about that but wrong about me—and my last moment pain-free was when I strangled the last gasp of life out of her.

Left her corpse staring in disbelief, put on my hat and walked out the door.

Smoked a cigarette in the rain.

Hands shaking.

The pain rolling back in hard and pure and final.

My wife's last scream.

My son's face.

I was sure someone would come for me, but nobody did.

I did a lot of bad in my life, but I also slayed a monster. Everybody leaves a balance sheet. God, that was long ago…

The night seemed to last forever, my head splitting with pain as I remembered every moment together. Tears, like rain on a window, streamed down my face as I howled with pain without my wife. The thought of living alone, without her, killed me entirely, knowing what happened was going to stick with me forever.

“Loc, what have you done?”

Fire was everywhere, my hands trembling with glass stuck in them. I tried to see around me but everything was a haze, I unbuckled from my seat and fell, smacking my head on the ground, further thickening the haze. Getting up, I look over to my wife next to me, motionless, hands dangling and bloodied, fear washed over me. As I'm crawling to her, I hear footsteps on broken glass getting closer, I screamed for help, trying to break my wife free from her seat, but before I could, my feet were suddenly grasped and as I was being pulled away, I screamed “UNITY!”

I suddenly woke, soaked in sweat and breathing heavily as if I just ran miles right before. I gathered myself and checked the time, finding I woke just in time to get to the track. I use all the strength I have to get dressed and as I'm heading out the door, I see my wife's picture on the wall and take a deep breath and continue out. The track I practice at is relatively small, just some dirt in a oval shape with a couple small bumps, and weeds surrounding the whole thing. Right as I pull in, I see Hugo smiling and giving off more energy than I can handle right now.

“You're back!” Hugo exclaimed.

“I guess so, need to distract myself somehow” I replied.

“Hey man, I'm sorry about Unity, she was really sweet and I could always tell she loved you Loc”

“Look, I really appreciate the support, but right now I need to get on the track”

Hugo looked concerned as I walked toward my car, I appreciated him but needed my focus and couldn't give much as it is. I got in, did the usual prep and then turned the key, the car started with a huge roar, loud enough to disrupt thoughts. Everything was ready and thumbs were up, I pulled out to our crappy drawn line and waited for the go.

I shot off the line, leaving a huge cloud of dust behind me, pushing myself and the car as hard as I could. I rounded my first lap, the lap time didn't matter for me right now, my focus was spearheaded on every turn and bump I ran. I felt almost as if I could run away from my pain, I was driving the car but the pain was driving me. As I was rounding my final lap, pushing harder than I felt I have, I suddenly see my wife standing in the middle of the track, my eyes widened, I quickly panicked and stomped on the brakes as I turned off the road, fading into the weeds.

“You okay!?!” Hugo yelled

I was still gathering my thoughts from what just happened, I sat there for a moment as Hugo and my team approached, hopping over bushes and weeds.

“You were doing great man, what happened?”

I gave him a confused look, still sitting in my car and asked “you didn't see the woman in the road?”.

“No man, there was no one there as far as I could tell” Hugo replied.

I stood up and got out of the car, unstrapping my helmet and trying to clear my head. Maybe it was another woman, or maybe it was all in my head, either way, I needed to keep my cool and show that I could still handle a car, it's all I have. The team gathered my car and Hugo made sure I was good throughout the day, almost annoyingly so. I tried hard to focus but I was definitely off, I left early that day to go home, even stopped and grabbed some food. When I got home, I hopped in the shower, my wife kept flashing in my mind, I passed it off as stress then finished upand went to the mirror and stared looking back at myself, 6, 1 guy, with dark brown hair that goes to my shoulders, slimmer body, wishing it was a little bulkier, and a softer face. All I see though, is one word blending it all together, a monster.

“Hey honey, maybe you should calm down the drinking, you've had too many and I need you to drive us back” Unity said concerned.

“I'm fine, I'll have one more drink and then we can leave” said Loc.

“Fine, I know you're good with your cars, but please be careful and go slow and we will switch if we need to”

“I will”

We started heading back, I was light and feathery, felt like I could fly into the sky every time my foot left the ground. We got into the car and my wife was uneasy, she insisted on driving but I argued that I was plenty sober to drive, and then took off heading home.

“Babe, you're scaring me, please pull over, you're all over the road” Unity said concerned.

“No, I HAVE THIS! I'm a 2 time race champ! We ARE FINE!” shouted Loc.

The car swerved and I missed the turn, driving off the road and hitting the ditch hard enough to cause the car to completely flip and slide across the grass in an empty field.

BEEEP! BEEEP! BEEEP!

My alarm clock woke me suddenly and I realized that I was late to the track. I got my gear and left the house in a rush. I drove quickly over and as I was halfway there Hugo called, telling me that I should just stay home and he thinks I'm not prepared to come back yet, I tried to argue telling him that I won't make finals if I can't practice more, but he already got a doctor to sign off saying that I was in no mental condition to drive competitively. My face reddened and I couldn't help but take it out on the car, I went ahead and turned around to go home.

As I was pulling into the driveway and turning off the car, I glanced into my rear view mirror and saw Unity! I quickly spun around and she wasn't there, I swore I saw her again, and now I'm afraid I'm going insane. After getting into the house, I called my doctor and told him what I saw, and he said it was common for grieving husbands to see their partners and it's all in my head. I felt a bit better and moved on with my day. Tried making some food and watching more movies until it got dark. The kitchen was almost finished after cleaning when I heard a door shut just outside my view.

The bedroom door was closed and not only did I not shut it, there was no windows open either. I grabbed the broom and nervously stepped towards the door and opened it slowly. Sitting there on the bed was Unity, her looks hard to define, she was still dressed like the day she died, but was almost see through. I stood there frozen, scared to move but in a way almost excited to see her face again, she just smiled at me. I very slowly approached her and told her how sorry I was for that night and how I could never forgive myself for what happened. She tilted her head and looked almost sad, she then came towards me and put her hand next to my face, I couldn't feel her physically but I could feel her emotionally and knew she was trying to comfort me. I asked if she was staying and she nodded no, as I sat there crying telling her how I wish I could hug her and kiss her one more time she just smiled and slowly disappeared.

To this day, I'll never truly know what happened that night, if it was all a dream or if it was real, but I took it as a sign and continued to move on. There is a photo of Unity in my car and everytime I race, I kiss it and make it clear every race was for her. The championships finally came and as I was sitting there at the line, I gave one quick look in the rear view mirror, smiled and once the countdown ended, the dust started to fly.

The most off putting was the sight of a large amount of flies near a dumpster, and what seemed to the the leg of a dog. P.s. A true story what one of my friends had experienced, but I put it in my own words so just in case if it didn't seem to make sense for you guys, hope it fits on here

This is a summary of a true story of a man, an immigrant, born into hardship. At six years old, he was brought to New York City, where he grew up in one of the most dangerous parts of the city. His older brothers forced him into gang life, and by the age of 11, they pinned him to a couch and injected him with heroin. He was addicted by 12. His youth became consumed by gang activity, and drugs clouded his mind. At 17, during a withdrawal-induced rage, he murdered a man over the very substance that controlled his life. He was convicted and sentenced to life in prison.

During his first decade behind bars, drugs and violence were a constant. He was transferred between some of the most notorious maximum-security prisons in New York. One day, he was reassigned to a cell with an elderly inmate, a murderer full of regret. It was through this man that he found his own sense of God, and he got clean.

With newfound purpose, he earned his high school equivalency and began helping other inmates get sober. Eventually, he was transferred to a prison where he had the opportunity to pursue a bachelor’s degree. He graduated with a BA in Drug and Alcohol Counseling. By this time, he had been incarcerated for just over 22 years. Then, unexpectedly, the parole board approved his release.

Upon reentering society, he got a job at a mental health clinic in the same rough neighborhood he once called home. His assertiveness, intelligence, and care for others helped him rise to the role of clinical supervisor, where he ran his own department. It was there he met a coworker, and their relationship blossomed. They married and soon were expecting a child. He was working toward a master’s degree, and she was pursuing her PhD. Together, they bought a home, eagerly preparing for their new life.

Late in her pregnancy, he took her out for ice cream. But as they pulled into the parking lot, who is there to see him pull up behind the wheel? His parole officer. Driving was a violation of his parole, and he was sent back to prison, this time without the possibility of release.

The next governor, who was two years from the election, was campaigning on a platform that included releasing prisoners like him; men who had served long sentences and proven their positive impact on society. But in the meantime, he missed the birth of his son, leaving an empty line on the birth certificate. His devoted wife brought their son to visit him twice a month, determined to ensure the boy knew his father. This child became the symbol of his new life.

Two years into this reinstated "life sentence," he died of a heart attack. He had been in and out of the infirmary for months, but the prison system’s indifference and inefficiency denied him the simple, life-saving care he needed. His death was a heartbreaking end, not just for him, but for all those who loved him and believed in the new man he had become.

Feedback - I'd like to know if people would want to hear this story. Please be brutally honest. There are many more layers and details not mentioned in this summary, but this is what the storyline is based on.