ã€ŠOther Worlds: Young Adult Fiction by Kody Boyeã€‹


 After the Flood

    The net is filled with fish on this hot and unforgiving morning. Thrashing about, they are full of life and vigor¡ªand soon, will be in me and my family¡¯s stomachs.

    If I can pull them up.

    Normally, this would not be an issue; because as a girl of seventeen, I should be strong and full of resolve. Unfortunately for me, fate has dealt me a heavy hand, and left my body with terrible suffering.

    You have to do it is the thought that keeps repeating itself in my head. You have to.

    I am not the only mouth I have to feed on this hot and unforgiving day. My sister, Dahlia, has been asking for food since last night, and my father¡ª

    I sigh.

    My father¡¯s condition has worsened. No longer can he bear heavy burdens upon his back or shoulders, whether real or imagined. For that reason, the task of fishing has fallen to me.

    And I cannot dawdle.

    I can already see them moving in the distance, circling the boat they know will eventually provide them food. Their wicked fins are traitorous to my conscience, and even more threatening to my body.

    It will not be long before the sharks are drawn.

    For that reason, I must hurry.

    I brace myself for the pain that is likely to shoot through my body¡ªfor the agony that will tear through my arms¡ªand take hold of the rope that holds the net together.

    I bite down. Grit my teeth. Pull.

    The pain is excruciating¡ªsending stabbing needles throughout the joints in my fingers and hands¡ªand causes me to sway as I use my body¡¯s weight to pull the net from the waters. It is not the rope that is heavy, all things considering. It is the fish, plump and fat from years of freedom, that weigh me down.

    I lift my eyes from where they are trained on the net to look at the horizon beyond¡ª

    Only to find that the sharks are gone.

    A flicker of panic surges through me.

    Then, I see it¡ªthe dark shape, wicked and striped, making its way toward me.

    I have less than ten seconds before it reaches the net.

    So, I do what I feel is best, considering the circumstance¡ªthrow myself backward.

    The net, and the fish in it, are ejected from the water¡­

    Just in time for the monster to jump from the ocean¡¯s depths.

    I see, for one brief moment, a razor-sharp maw with multiple rows of serrated teeth. Then it crashes against the boat and sends the vessel rocking.

    I don¡¯t know how heavy the beast is. I can only surmise that it weighs several hundred, if not a thousand pounds. Regardless, it doesn¡¯t matter; because as the boat careens one way, I am thrown to the floor, then am dragged down by gravity and the weight of the fish.

    I scream, ¡°Dahlia!¡±

    And my sister¡ªwho is awaiting the day¡¯s catch from below deck¡ªcomes barreling up, her red braids flashing in the wind.

    She takes hold of my hand.

    I take hold of hers.

    She pulls back.

    I cry out.

    I almost lose the catch, but am able to maintain my grip on it as my seven-year-old sister drags me backward.

    It is over just as quickly as it began.

    In but a moment, the boat is righting itself, the fish are flailing out of water, and I am reeling, breathless and panicked over the experience.

    My sister asks, ¡°Are you okay?¡±

    And I, with little thought to my wellbeing, say, ¡°Yeah. I am.¡±

    She lifts her eyes to the waters beyond the boat. ¡°It¡¯s the same one,¡± she says, ¡°isn¡¯t it?¡±

    I turn my head to look past the railing only to find that the monster is submerging itself into the depths of the ocean.

    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s the same one.¡±

    My sister sighs, but considers the fish at my feet and says, ¡°At least you caught supper.¡±

    I can only nod.

    In the end, that¡¯s the only thing that matters.

    We won¡¯t go hungry tonight.

    * * *

    My father goes to work gutting and preparing the fish for the evening¡¯s meal. I, meanwhile, lie in pain on my simple bed below deck, regretting every moment I exist.

    The pain¡¯ll dissipate, I think, forcing myself to count backward while breathing in through my nose and out of my mouth. It always does.

    That isn¡¯t exactly true, though. In reality, the pain could last for hours, and sometimes even wake me up after a long and restless sleep. Still, I have to have hope¡ªand for that reason, I lie prone and still, and pray that someone, anyone, will take my pain away.

    From above, I hear my father swear. Dahlia admonishes him for his curse, then laughs as my father says something in response.

    It¡¯s a life I should have learned to love, considering I survived the Flood.

    Some weren¡¯t so lucky.

    As I close my eyes, and as I begin to drift into dream, I faintly remember the rain as it begun one Friday afternoon¡ªand how I, as little more than a girl of ten, looked out at it.

    ¡°Will it ever stop?¡± I remember asking at one point, after it had rained non-stop for three days straight.

    ¡°It will,¡± my mother had said. ¡°It always does.¡±

    Except it didn¡¯t. Wouldn¡¯t. Would never.

    Not for years.

    We¡¯d been lucky, I suppose. We¡¯d had a boat then, and lived by the coast, so we¡¯d been able to beat the rising tides as water from both the sky above and the crack they¡¯d found in the sea below raised the sea levels to astronomical heights.

    We¡¯ve been sailing for nearly six years, and we still haven¡¯t seen land.

    Not since everything else was swallowed up.

    I sigh as I try to recall what it felt like to live a life on solid ground¡ªa life where I¡¯d go to school, play with friends, live life normally as the world and my circumstance saw fit.

    It hurts to not remember.

    But nothing hurts as much as this.

    I flex my fingers in an effort to draw the pain into my arms, but find that it does little but cause my joints to flare in response. They are like daggers, my bones, and they struggle with all their might to pierce flesh that seems to be made of stone.

    It¡¯s all I can do to keep from crying.

    Yet, somehow, I don¡¯t. Instead, I inhale, exhale, breathe sweetly the fresh air that filters down from the deck above. I hear Dahlia¡¯s laughter, my father¡¯s careful words, the ebb of the ocean as waves brush against the sides of our vessel.

    Then, slowly, I drift off to sleep.

    * * *

    It is not dreams that meet me. Instead, they are nightmares¡ªcruel, harmful, and barbed. They instantly take root in my conscience and trap me in a land that is not my own, in a time that once existed.

    In a time during the Flood.

    The sea had been twisted then¡ªviolent in its intent to destroy everything that we saw fit¡ªand though try as I did to not be afraid, I could not help but huddle below deck with my sister, who at the time had barely been little more than four.

    Stay back! my mother had said. Let your father and I handle this!

    They¡¯d been trying to keep the sails from thrashing about, the fabric from being ripped free from the mast. Just hours before they¡¯d been mending a tear within its length, and though they¡¯d sworn they¡¯d secured everything in anticipation for the coming storm, something had happened.

    Something that had caused the sail to flap loose.

    There was no way to tell what was going on at that point. Huddled beside my younger sister, I¡¯d held her tight as above our parents called to and yelled at each other to do this or do that. Dahlia had just been a baby, and though she¡¯d always tried her best to hold it together, she was crying, piteously, against my shoulder.

    It¡¯ll be okay, I remembered saying. They¡¯ll be back in a little bit.

    But of course, that we not meant to be.

    One moment, everything was fine.

    The next, the boat swelled.

    The boom holding the sail in place snapped around.

    My mother cried out.

    Then, my father screamed.

    There was no way, at that point, for me to know what was happening. But based off his cries of agony, his screams of frustration, I knew that something horrible had happened.

    By the time he¡¯d returned, he was drenched to the core¡ªand, worst of all: alone.

    Where¡¯s Mommy? Dahlia had asked.

    She¡¯s gone, my father had replied. I¡¯m sorry. She¡¯s gone.

    * * *

    Those two words are enough to stir me from sleep.

    I awaken slowly, cautiously, with hesitation I know is born from the dread of the past rather than the facts of the present. Pulled effortlessly from the realm of sleep, I open my eyes to find that pale light is filtering down the passage, and my father and sister¡¯s voices along with it.

    ¡°Daddy,¡± Dahlia says.

    ¡°Yes?¡± my father replies.

    ¡°Is Nicky ever going to get better?¡±

    I inhale a breath.

    My father doesn¡¯t respond.

    ¡°Daddy?¡± Dahlia asks again.

    ¡°We shouldn¡¯t talk about your sister when she could be listening.¡±

    ¡°But is she¡ª¡±

    The sound of the wood creaking beneath my feet causes both of them to fall silent.

    In but a moment, I am rising, stretching, grimacing as old pains flare to life. Then I am climbing the stairwell, and making my way into the light of day.

    My father¡¯s tired hands are tending to the fish above the seaweed-stoked fire. Dahlia, however, looks on at me cautiously, her bright green eyes blazing despite the fact that a certain guilt curls her lips.

    I say, ¡°Hey.¡±

    She says, ¡°Hi.¡±

    My father adds, ¡°How are you feeling?¡±

    And I reply, ¡°A little better.¡±

    ¡°You pulled in a big catch,¡± he says. ¡°We¡¯ll eat well tonight.¡±

    I nod, and step past him to look at the ocean beyond. ¡°Is he gone?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Who?¡± my father questions.

    ¡°Tiger?¡± my sister offers.

    ¡°Yeah. Tiger,¡± I say, more than a bit unnerved that we¡¯ve come to call the shark that continues to follow our boat by name.

    ¡°I haven¡¯t seen it since I¡¯ve come up here,¡± my father says. ¡°I¡¯m making sure to keep everything in the bucket.¡±

    ¡°A bucket of blood isn¡¯t what¡¯s luring it, Dad. It¡¯s the fact that I put the net down.¡±

    ¡°Surely it isn¡¯t smart enough to know?¡± he offers.

    I turn my head and narrow my eyes.

    My father averts his gaze, obviously troubled. ¡°They look done,¡± he says, looking down at my catch.

    And so we eat.

    While I sample my fish, and sip the water that¡¯s been filtered from the sea via distillation, my eyes trail along the horizon, purposely seeking land that I know we will never find.

    You gotta stop hoping, a part of me says. It¡¯s been years since you¡¯ve seen anything.

    Is it so wrong, though, to hope that we will one day find land? Surely the whole world could not have been covered by water. Right?

    It sure feels like it, I then think, and sigh.

    My father lifts his eyes to look at me, that silent, ever-lingering question on his face.

    Dahlia turns her head in the direction I¡¯m facing and says, ¡°Looking for land?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± I say, shaking my head. ¡°I¡¯m not.¡±

    ¡°Liar,¡± my sister says.

    I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from responding. I know Dahlia¡¯s simply concerned. I mean, who wouldn¡¯t be, especially when it¡¯s a teenage girl longing for something that she can never have? Those are fantasies my sister should be having, not me.

    A frown crosses my lips, but quickly fades when my sister begins to hum under her breath.

    ¡°Stop that,¡± I say.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    ¡°No!¡± Dahlia says.

    ¡°Why are you humming anyway?¡±

    ¡°Because I heard it in the ocean,¡± my sister replies.

    ¡°We haven¡¯t seen any whales for ages,¡± I say.

    ¡°They¡¯re not whales, Nicky. They¡¯re mermaids.¡±

    ¡°You know there¡¯s no such thing as mermaids.¡±

    ¡°Yes there is!¡±

    ¡°No there¡ª¡±

    ¡°Girls,¡± my father says, and sighs.

    We both stop arguing. There¡¯s something in the way he speaks that sets me on edge, and causes Dahlia¡¯s upper lip to stiffen.

    ¡°What is it, Dad?¡± I ask. ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±

    ¡°I¡­ I wanted to discuss what might happen in the future with you,¡± he says.

    ¡°Daddy?¡± Dahlia asks. ¡°What¡¯s wrong? Why are you acting that way?¡±

    ¡°Because I¡¯m sick, baby girl. And¡­ because I don¡¯t think I¡¯m going to make it much longer.¡±

    There are no words to describe what goes through your mind after hearing such a thing. The rumble of chaos, the hopelessness of the future, the utter shock of the present¡ªmemories of the past come flooding back at this moment, like a wave surging from somewhere far away on the ocean, and crash into me with the full malevolence of life.

    My father, standing at the rails¡ª

    Him, coughing¡ª

    Him, vomiting¡ª

    Blood, spilling¡ª

    I¡¯ve known he was sick for some time, and have been trying to keep it from Dahlia since. The shock is not as great to me as it is to my sister, who instantly starts crying.

    ¡°Die?¡± she wails. ¡°Die?¡±

    ¡°Yes, baby girl. I¡­ I think I might be dying.¡±

    ¡°No!¡± my sister cries, standing. ¡°You can¡¯t! Won¡¯t!¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t help what nature has in store for me,¡± my father sighs, lowering his eyes to hide what are undoubtedly tears. ¡°I just¡­ I wanted to warn you. Both of you. So¡­ it wouldn¡¯t come as a shock.¡±

    A shock, I think, would not describe what he is saying. Instead, he should have said a blow¡ªwhich, with its barbed countenance, would leave first its damage, then the impressions that would last forever.

    As I sit here, staring in horror at my father, I try my hardest to allow my emotions to sink in, but find my survival instincts kicking in.

    What do I do? I think.

    How will we survive? I wonder.

    How will I take care of Dahlia?

    The last thought is the most haunting¡ªbecause I know, deep down, that I am merely a sister, not a mother, or a father. To think that I could control a wild spirit such as hers is comparable to capturing the sun and the moon¡ªan impossible fantasy that could not be made real.

    Dahlia sobs.

    My father moves to rise.

    He stops, then, and turns his head as he reaches up to cover his mouth.

    ¡°Dad?¡± I ask. ¡°What¡¯re you¡ª¡±

    He vomits, then¡ª

    But it is not bile.

    No.

    It is blood.

    As he retches¡ªand as Dahlia screams for help that I cannot offer¡ªI can only watch as the blood goes trailing across the deck, over the edge of the boat¡­

    And into the water below.

    Though my father¡¯s episode lasts only for a moment, its impression in my life is enough to make me realize that the end is fast approaching.

    I can only watch as, in the distance, our angel of death appears.

    * * *

    My father requests to sleep on the upper deck not long after Dahlia has abandoned her dinner to cry in her bed on the lower deck.

    You¡¯re sure? I asked.

    I¡¯m sure, he¡¯d replied.

    I watch him from the far side of the upper deck and wait for something¡ªanything¡ªto happen. Whether or not his death will occur now or in hours I do not know, but as he lies there, wrapped in his many blankets, I wonder:

    Can I handle what comes next?

    He has taught me well. This, I know. And yet, I can¡¯t help but feel as though I am so horribly unprepared¡ªto take care of not only myself, but Dahlia.

    Dahlia, I think.

    I should go to her. I know I should. But, I also know that she will not accept me openly. She will ask why I did not tell, why I did not speak. And I¡ªI will only be able to tell her the horrible truth: that I, too, was afraid of what would come, and did not want her to face it until she was ready.

    But are you?

    The thought occurs to me effortlessly, but haunts me ever more.

    No, I think. I am not ready. I will not be ready. Nor will I ever be ready.

    My father¡ªhe has been our rock, our anchor, our captain through this life at sea. To know that he will soon be gone is unlike anything I could ever imagine.

    It is suffering incarnate.

    As I stand here, looking on at the one man I have known and loved throughout my entire life, I find myself wondering if I will ever see another person like him again. Then I realize it is not likely, and find myself more sullen than I had been before.

    After giving him one last look, I turn and, with careful precision, make my way into the sleeping quarters.

    Dahlia has fallen still, and though the silence is punctuated by her heavy breathing, it causes me to pause as I remove my foot off the final step.

    ¡°Dahlia?¡± I ask. ¡°Are you awake?¡±

    She doesn¡¯t respond¡ªat least, not at first. She shifts, though, indicating that she is awake. Then she inhales a long, hard breath, then exhales it accordingly.

    The only words she can ask are: ¡°Why didn¡¯t you tell me?¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t want you to worry,¡± I reply.

    ¡°Did he know?¡± she asks. ¡°That you knew?¡±

    ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t know.¡±

    Wise beyond her years, the little girl lifts her head to face me, and offers me a sad look that is stained with tears. Her eyes instantly fall on the threshold above, and when she asks, ¡°Is he staying up there?¡±

    I can only reply with, ¡°Yes. I¡­ I think he is.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡±

    I don¡¯t want to tell her the reason I think he is up there. But I know that, if I don¡¯t, she will never trust me again. For that reason, I clear my throat and say, ¡°I¡­ I think he¡¯s up there because he knows I couldn¡¯t lift him.¡±

    ¡°Lift him?¡± she asks. ¡°What are you¡ª¡±

    I turn my head to face her.

    Tears run down her face anew.

    ¡°Nicky?¡± my sister asks.

    ¡°Yeah?¡± I reply.

    ¡°Promise me?¡±

    ¡°Promise you what, Dahlia?¡±

    ¡°That you won¡¯t die.¡±

    I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and expel it accordingly.

    I want to promise her. I really do. But in this moment, I know I can¡¯t do it without lying.

    However¡ªI know my sister deserves that lie.

    For that reason, I simply say, ¡°I promise¡± and close my eyes once more.

    As the sound of the ship rocking enters, then exits my ears, I wonder, for one brief moment, just how we¡¯ll survive.

    Then I realize that, without him, we might not.

    * * *

    Our father dies sometime during the night.

    I discover this truth when I rise to the upper deck the following morning¡ªand see, in his blank gaze, a desolation that I know can only come from death.

    ¡°Oh, Daddy,¡± I whisper.

    I crouch down beside him, even though my joints protest the action, and then move forward to press a hand to his face.

    It is only when I hear the stairs creaking that I close his eyes for him.

    Dahlia freezes at the threshold. ¡°He¡¯s¡ª¡± she starts.

    ¡°Gone,¡± I say.

    And she wails.

    * * *

    We stand there for quite some time¡ªcrying, sighing, holding one another through the test of time. The sea is calm on this unnatural day, and though I want so badly to do something to ease my little sister¡¯s suffering, I know that, as of now, there is nothing I can do.

    There is, however, the matter of our father.

    ¡°We have to let him go,¡± I whisper as I crouch down to look my sister in the eyes.

    Her remote gaze centers on me. ¡°Go?¡± she asks.

    I nod. ¡°Yeah. Go.¡±

    ¡°Where?¡±

    I turn my head toward the sea and frown.

    Dahlia trembles. ¡°The ocean?¡± she asks.

    ¡°Yes. The ocean.¡±

    ¡°But¡­ won¡¯t he¡­¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I reply. ¡°All I know is that he wouldn¡¯t want us to leave him here. He¡¯d want us to send him off.¡±

    The little girl nods, but relinquishes her hold on my hand. She then turns to our father¡¯s body and says, ¡°Do we say something?¡±

    ¡°Just that we love him,¡± I whisper.

    Dahlia steps forward. Crouches down. Takes hold of our father¡¯s hand. Though her well of tears has run out, she closes her eyes and says, ¡°I love you, Daddy¡± before leaning down and kissing his cheek.

    ¡°I love you, too,¡± I say.

    He had positioned himself to where we could simply push him into the water.

    How sad, I think, to know the end was coming. To know that you¡¯d leave two children behind.

    But he knew I would take care of us. I know he did. Because why else would he have taught me all the things he had?

    With a sad sigh, I reach down, then tighten my hold around his shirt. Then I turn to Dahlia and ask, ¡°Are you ready?¡±

    She can only nod.

    Together, we push¡ª

    Push again¡ª

    Push some more¡ª

    And watch our father¡¯s body slip into the ocean.

    He doesn¡¯t sink, like I anticipated he would. Rather, he floats¡ªwhich, though morbid in its own right, is absolutely beautiful in another.

    ¡°Thank you,¡± I whisper, ¡°for taking care of us. For teaching us what we needed to know. For¡ª¡±

    ¡°Nicky!¡± Dahlia screams. ¡°LOOK OUT!¡±

    I see a flash of movement.

    Grab my sister¡¯s hand.

    Pull her back.

    Then watch, in horror, as the monster who has been following us for days emerges from the depths and takes hold of our father¡¯s body.

    Dahlia screams.

    I can only stare in horror.

    Blood stains the water as the two of them disappear into the depths.

    As my little sister wails, I can only tremble.

    I should¡¯ve known it would stick around.

    What my father thought was wrong.

    * * *

    I am starting to believe that the shark is a cruel and otherworldly force of nature¡ªto the point where, when watching it, I feel as though it knows we are here. Watching and waiting, circling and baiting, it waits for something that knows is here, but understands it cannot have.

    For now, I think.

    Lying here, on my cot, listening to the sound of the waves and the thunder as it begins to roll in, I wonder if we will ever find land¡ªor, more aptly, peace.

    Grief takes its toll, my father had once said, on the body, mind and soul.

    Because of that, I know that I cannot expect my wounds to heal instantly. All I can do is wait.

    Wait.

    For the waves to roll in, for the waves to roll out, for the humming to stop¡ª

    The humming? I think. What am I¡ª

    Then I hear it: soft, a low lull somewhere nearby.

    ¡°Dahlia,¡± I say. ¡°Stop that.¡±

    ¡°Stop what?¡± she asks, and groggily at that.

    ¡°Humming.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not,¡± she replies. ¡°I told you. It was the mermaids.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s no such things as mermaids, Dahlia. Stop that.¡±

    ¡°I¡ª¡±

    I snap upright and twist my head to face her. ¡°I said¡ª¡±

    She stares right at me¡ªeyes wide, mouth unmoving.

    Worst of all: the noise isn¡¯t coming from her.

    No.

    It¡¯s coming from somewhere below.

    I frown as I consider this, tremble as I anticipate it, and wonder where, of all places, the whales could have come from.

    We haven¡¯t seen any in months, I think.

    But just because we hadn¡¯t seen them doesn¡¯t mean they aren¡¯t there. Right?

    Right, I think, and throw my legs over the side of the bed. I grimace as I apply pressure to my joints, but find myself able to stand regardless.

    ¡°Where are you going?¡± Dahlia asks.

    ¡°To show you that the mermaids aren¡¯t real,¡± I reply.

    I take her hand¡ªperhaps a bit too roughly, given my state¡ªand ignore her as she cries out.

    ¡°Stop it!¡± she cries. ¡°Nicky! Stop!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m gonna show you that they¡¯re just whales,¡± I say as I pull her up the stairs. ¡°I¡¯m going to show you¡ª¡±

    I open the trapdoor.

    Pass through the threshold.

    Stand atop the deck.

    I spin about, expecting to see them: the humpbacks, or the sperm whales, or even the black-and-white Orca that I find so pretty.

    But I see nothing.

    Nothing.

    Yet, I still hear it¡ªsweeter this time, and more melodic.

    ¡°It¡¯s so pretty,¡± Dahlia says.

    ¡°Stay here,¡± I say, tightening my hold on her wrist.

    ¡°But, Nicky¡ª¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s something underwater.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯re you¡ª¡±

    I see them, then¡ªthe fleeting tails: ranging in hue from light purple to deep green, disappearing beneath the boat.

    ¡°What in the world¡­¡± I start to mumble.

    ¡°They¡¯re mermaids!¡± Dahlia says. ¡°I told you! I told you!¡±

    ¡°Go below,¡± I say.

    ¡°But Nicky¡ª¡± Dahlia says.

    ¡°I said go.¡±

    Their pitch is rising, their voices disorienting me. I feel my head spin as their melody continues to rise and fall, sharpen and stab.

    I grab my ears.

    Whisper, ¡°Stop.¡±

    Hear it continue. Hear my head vibrate with pain.

    ¡°I said STOP!¡± I cry. ¡°Stop it! STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!¡±

    ¡°Nicky!¡± Dahlia cries. ¡°Look!¡±

    I spin.

    Just in time to see the countenance of a long-haired woman free herself from the water.

    Her alabaster skin, her jet-black hair, her cruel eyes, her vicious lips¡ªshe smiles as she waves a webbed hand, then presses it to her lips to blow me a kiss.

    Then, she screams.

    The sound¡ªso high-pitched that it immediately drills into my head¡ªcauses me to lose my balance.

    I stumble. Fall. Hit my head on the deck.

    Then, I black out.

    * * *

    I awaken what feels like hours later to a throbbing head.

    ¡°Dahlia?¡± I manage, blinking, then grimacing as I open and close my eyes. ¡°Where are you?¡±

    My little sister doesn¡¯t respond.

    I lift my head slowly, hesitantly, bearing the burden of physical pains within both my skull and spine. My joints throb, and my spinal column feels like it¡¯s been disconnected at my hips, but surges with pain as I seat myself upright.

    I gasp, then cry out.

    Then I hear a splash, and someone laughing.

    ¡°Dahlia?¡± I ask, turning my head, only to find my sister crouched down at the edge of the railing. ¡°Get away from there.¡±

    ¡°They said they¡¯d bring Daddy back,¡± the little girl says.

    ¡°Get away from there,¡± I warn, watching as several dark shapes circle the boat. ¡°Dahlia¡ªlisten to me: they can¡¯t bring Daddy back.¡±

    ¡°They said they could,¡± she replies.

    ¡°They¡¯re lying. Whatever they are¡ªthey¡¯re lying, Dahlia.¡±

    My little sister tilts her head down to look into the water.

    I watch, in horror, as the black-haired beauty emerges from the ocean, and reaches up to touch my sister¡¯s face.

    ¡°Get away from her!¡± I cry. ¡°Get away from¡ª¡±

    She tilts her head to the side, opens her mouth, and undulates¡ªa series of rolling sounds and clicking noises that rise from the back of and then are projected out her throat.

    A second mermaid rises. Then a third.

    One reaches up toward Dahlia¡ª

    I lash out. Grab onto my sister¡¯s hand. Pull her back.

    Dahlia screams.

    The merpeople disappear into the water.

    I grapple with my little sister and pull her back toward the trapdoor leading into the boat.

    ¡°You can¡¯t listen to them,¡± I reply. ¡°You can¡¯t, Dahlia. Please. Listen to me.¡±

    ¡°I want Daddy!¡± the little girl cries.

    ¡°Daddy¡¯s dead!¡± I scream.

    My sister¡¯s eyes lose focus. Then, in a small voice, she says, ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°No?¡±

    ¡°No. He¡¯s not dead. They showed me.¡±

    ¡°Showed you how?¡± I ask.

    ¡°When you were asleep¡­ they¡­ they showed me.¡±

    ¡°How, Dahlia? How did they show you?¡±

    ¡°She sang,¡± the little girl says, ¡°and he¡­ he came back up.¡±

    ¡°No,¡± I reply, shaking my head. ¡°That¡¯s a lie. Whatever you saw wasn¡¯t our father.¡±

    ¡°Yes it was!¡±

    ¡°No it¡ª¡±

    A high-pitched giggle sounds from somewhere nearby.

    I lift my eyes to find that the same mermaid is still watching us, and waving her hand in greeting.

    ¡°Go away,¡± I say, and grab the bucket before hurling it at her.

    She disappears before the bucket can strike the water.

    ¡°Dahlia,¡± I say, taking hold of her hands. ¡°You can¡¯t leave me. You can¡¯t. Okay? Do you understand? Whatever they say¡ªwhatever they tell you¡ªyou cannot leave me. They¡¯re lying.¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re not lying,¡± Dahlia says.

    ¡°Promise me you¡¯ll leave them alone,¡± I say. ¡°Okay?¡±

    She blinks. Then she says, ¡°Okay¡± and turns to make her way down below deck.

    I can¡¯t help but tremble.

    If they told her something¡ªif they really, truly showed her what she wanted to believe¡ªthen how am I going to stop her from diving in after them?

    I cannot know.

    All I know is that I have to do what¡¯s right.

    * * *

    Though I know it would be impossible to stop a truly-determined person from leaving, I slip a lock around the trapdoor¡¯s latch while Dahlia is asleep. This, I know, will at least give me adequate time to stop her should she try and escape the living quarters.

    As I settle down on my own bed¡ªthe key in my pocket, my heart beating ever faster¡ªI beg to question what exactly has happened.

    Did they, I wonder, come from the split in the sea?

    There had been reports of several of the oceanic trenches opening during the Great Flood. I¡¯d been too young to fully grasp the magnitude of the event, but now¡­

    Now¡­

    I wonder if they released these¡­ mermaids¡­ from their depths.

    You don¡¯t know what they are, a part of me says. What they¡¯re capable of.

    They¡¯d knocked me out with but one song. And Dahlia¡­ they¡¯d almost lured her into the ocean.

    I shiver as I think about it¡ªgrimace as pain assaults my body¡ªand find myself curling onto my side.

    I know part of my shock is grief, another the anger over almost having my sister taken away from me. But the third part, though¡­ it¡¯s of the fantasy that they¡¯d presented.

    One jump, my conscience says, and you could end this whole adventure.

    No.

    I shake my head.

    I can¡¯t do that. Won¡¯t do that. Refuse to do that.

    As I drift to sleep, I find myself thinking of just one person:

    Dahlia.

    * * *

    I am awakened by cold air.

    At first, I¡¯m not sure where it¡¯s coming from.

    Then I realize that it¡¯s coming from the trapdoor.

    ¡°Dahlia?¡± I ask, jerking upright. ¡°Dahlia? Dahlia!¡±

    My sister is nowhere to be seen.

    I reach for the pocket of my shorts. Find that the key is gone. Panic.

    I¡¯m up the stairs in less than thirty seconds.

    As I come to stand upon the deck, I can see nothing but ocean.

    Nothing.

    This time, I scream.

    But no one, and no thing, can hear me.

    As I let loose my pain, my suffering, and everything in between, I hear, from somewhere nearby, the very song that compelled Dahlia to leave this world behind.

    I turn my head. See the black-haired mermaid emerge from the water. Watch her smile. Watch her wave.

    When I come to stand fully¡ªand when, after a moment¡¯s hesitation, I think of everything I lost¡ªI see in her eyes a silver light that makes me wonder if there really is a better place on this godforsaken earth.

    Maybe, I think. Maybe it¡¯s time.

    Time to wander. Time to leave. Time to flee from this place called life.

    In stepping toward the railing, I realize that I am no longer suited for this world.

    Because of that, I do what anyone who was faced with immeasurable loss, and a hopeless future, would do.

    I jump.

 The Butterfly Man

    His most beautiful feature was the proboscis upon his face.

    He wasn¡¯t a man¡ªat least, not in the sense people would usually think. Most would¡¯ve called him a freak of nature, a cross between something that was real and wasn¡¯t supposed to exist, but I didn¡¯t care. All that mattered was that he was my friend.

    <i>El,</i> he would say. <i>Elrena.</i>

    The voice that I could hear only inside my head held my utmost attention as he approached my bedroom window. As he did every night¡ªat exactly twelve-thirty AM, during which the moon would either be a blaze of glory of a dark pit of nothing¡ªI would hear his approach by the sound of his fluttering wings, whose enigmatic presence was marked by a rhythmic sound like the revving rotors on a helicopter¡¯s blades.

    Until I first saw him, I¡¯d never realized what a butterfly had sounded like.

    Given how close we were to a base, no one would¡¯ve ever expected that it was the butterfly man passing by and not a helicopter.

    I watched his inbound approach like a spellbound child. Lowering with grace that I would¡¯ve never imagined from such an awkward form, his tall, lithe frame descended much like a normal butterfly would and landed on the skirt of the roof. His wings, like daggers, caught the moonlight and reflected it back at me as they reacquainted themselves with their new position, made orbs of light along the glass windowpane that reminded me of headlights approaching in the darkness night. Then he did as he always did¡ªapproached my window until we were face-to-face.

    <i>Elrena, </i>he said.

    I¡¯d never been able to get a true look at him. Without light to shine upon his face, I could only make out his more sensitive details¡ªthe proboscis, the antennae, the lupine face that was human in shape but probably not in nature. The rest of him was a complete representation of a man¡ªfrom his five-foot-tall body to the lean frame that branched off in long arms and legs. He only occasionally reached forward to try and touch me, but each time was deterred by the glass.

    His fingers were human.

    <i>He</i> was not.

    ¡°Butterfly?¡± I asked, his moniker the one name I had given him. ¡°What is it? What do you want?¡±

    The faint flicker of his antennae always unnerved me. It didn¡¯t seem predatory¡ªunless I was just fooling myself, which could always be the case¡ªbut it was far more alien than anything I had ever encountered.

    In moments like these, I wondered sometimes if he was judging me¡ªif, within the shadows of the darkness, two big, black eyes were watching me, seeing me in a way that only he could.

    The butterfly man¡¯s wings shifted, flicking light off their reflective tips. Their piercing rays passed across my vision only briefly before he ceased his incessant movements.

    <i>Elrena,</i> he replied. <i>Love.</i>

    He pressed a hand to the glass.

    It wasn¡¯t hard to feel emotional when he said something like that. Here I was, the country girl who everyone hated, who at fourteen had never had a boyfriend and would probably never because I was nothing more than just a stupid farm girl, living in a house with no electricity on a plot of land where all my life amounted to was cows and sheep. A boy had never approached me, but him¡ªhe was something else. He¡¯d sought me out from whatever place he¡¯d come from to offer me hope that I would otherwise not have.

    Of course, in the end, I was only really fooling myself.

    What use was a girl to a man who wasn¡¯t even a man?

    Knowing that my lack of response might be seen as rude, I reached forward and pressed my hand to the windowpane.

    Though our palms did not line up exactly, being within his shadow did all the more for me.

    #

    ¡°There been someone up in your room last night?¡± Papa asked.

    I lifted my head from my morning breakfast of dry cereal and eggs and frowned. ¡°No,¡± I said. ¡°Why would you think that?¡±

    My father didn¡¯t have to explain. We¡¯d had this conversation before. The scuff marks on the outer windowsill, the occasional misshapen twig that he¡¯d see the times he¡¯d go into my room with fatherly intent¡ªthe deal breaker had been when one of the shingles had been mysteriously broken and I¡¯d never been able to explain it, though my mother had passed it off as cats and nothing more.

    <i>Cats,</i> my father had grumbled. <i>More like dogs.</i>

    I lowered my eyes as he lifted his newspaper and returned to my breakfast, only turning my head when I saw my mother shift from the corner of my vision.

    ¡°Elrena?¡± she asked, pressing a hand to my upper back. ¡°Did you study for your test last night?¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± I said. God, how I wish she hadn¡¯t reminded me.

    ¡°I know how hard those mathematics are for you, but I know you can do it. You¡¯re a smart girl.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡±

    ¡°So don¡¯t be scared. Everything¡¯s going to be just okay.¡±

    I swallowed a lump in my throat.

    Little did she know.

    #

    I¡¯d perfectly neglected to tell my mother that today was the school dance.

    Already I was under scrutiny.

    In the burgeoning little city that lay just beyond the outskirts of the farmlands I lived upon, the girls were pretty and weren¡¯t afraid to show it. Though only my age, they possessed an uncanny ability to transform themselves into creatures that didn¡¯t even appear human. High-dollar foundations and the sheerest of lipsticks lined their faces, mascaras that made their lashes appear twice as large adorned their eyes, earrings that may or may not have been real gemstones dangled from their ears. Their clothes were another thing entirely, and put my country-bumpkin self to shame, but I¡¯d always tried to ignore that. On a day like this, though¡ªwhen <i>everyone</i> was dressed up, including the ageless librarian Mrs. Craebey¡ªit was hard to fall into the shadows.

    ¡°Hey Elrena!¡± one of the girls cried. ¡°Elrena!¡±

    Carlee Martinez¡¯ voice was like needles gouging through my ears, so loud and recognizable that it probably could¡¯ve drawn the attention of the entire state. Her crowd of cronies¡ªwhich my mother liked to refer to as the ¡®mean girls club,¡¯ but whom I liked to call ¡®the bitches¡¯¡ªinstantly turned and offered me their full attention.

    Though a seldom few made it a point to continue on and spare me the shame of public humiliation, most regarded Carlee¡¯s words like the Ten Commandments.

    I tried to move past the people gawking at me like birds on wire-rimmed cages.

    No sooner than I approached, the Bitches blocked my path.

    ¡°You do know that today is the day of the dance?¡± Carlee¡¯s other friend¡ªa tall, skinny white girl named Whitney with some boobs and nothing else¡ªsaid. ¡°Right?¡±

    ¡°I know,¡± I replied.

    ¡°But where¡¯s your dress?¡± Whitney¡¯s twin, aptly named Britney, asked.

    ¡°Oh,¡± Carlee said. ¡°Wait a minute¡­ you don¡¯t have a dress, do you? Bless your heart.¡±

    The girls burst into laughter.

    My anger was quelled only by the desire not to cry.

    Carlee was the kind of girl you wanted to like. She seemed nice¡ªat least, at a distance. She got along with all of the popular kids, made relatively good grades, was beautiful like a goddess with her lush olive skin and striking hazel eyes, but she was one of those girls who specialized in pulling the wool over the eyes of those she wanted on her side. The teachers never believed anyone when they said how horrible she was. They accused <i>them</i> of bullying, in the end, because why would good little Carlee Martinez ever do something to make someone else feel bad?

    My usual lack of response goaded them for only a minute. They prodded me as I walked off, books in hand, mocking my lack of nice clothes, my ratty hair I tried so hard to maintain, the dirt I could never get out from under my fingernails.

    In the end, I couldn¡¯t bother with it.

    This was my life.

    There was nothing I could do.

    #

    The boy I secretly admired but whom I would never tell sat exactly two rows and three seats in front of me. Tall, dark-skinned, with a lean build which began with broad shoulders but tapered off at an incredibly trim waist¡ªDavid Markan was a boy who got rap for his grades but who excelled in his place on the wrestling team. Most girls swooned. The majority wanted to date him. I often wondered if he was the reason why I could never concentrate in math class.

    <i>He does sit in plain view,</i> I was always quick to remind myself, as with open seating and a small class there wasn¡¯t much to block him from sight.

    Mr. Abraham, the math teacher, reclined in his seat with his feet propped upon his desk reading what appeared to be National Geographic, though most everyone suspected otherwise. The biggest rumor about him, besides the fact that he had ears like a hawk, was that he snuck magazines onto the campus¡ªmagazines that had supposedly been discovered by Principal Montgomery when she¡¯d come into his office after hours. Such paranoia prevented anyone without the trickiest of fingers from passing notes in class. There was a saying: Mr. Abraham heard all, saw all, then had you read it out loud.

    Pulling my gaze away from David, I looked down at the test and felt instantly defeated.

    <i>Find x.</i>

    The temptation to circle the letter was far greater than any inclination I¡¯d ever had toward a boy.

    With the knowledge that the period would soon be ending, I began to snowball and Christmas tree the test where it was needed. Most of it I knew, but a couple of the questions¡ªwhich Mr. Abraham had conveniently marked with a high number of points¡ªwere ones I¡¯d never been able to figure out.

    It seemed like only a minute had passed when in reality the last third of the period had just ended.

    Desperate to rise and turn in my test before lunch, I scrambled up front after most of the students on my side of the room had left, only to bump into David Markan so violently that he dropped his Algebra textbook on the ground.

    The book hit a floor with a thud that shook the room.

    Mr. Abraham¡¯s resounding haruumph did nothing to console my embarrassment, though thankfully his attention did not stray from his magazine too long.

    ¡°David,¡± I said, gulping, looking down as he bent to grab his textbook. ¡°I¡¯m so¡ª¡±

    ¡°Sorry?¡± he asked, smiling as he rose. ¡°It¡¯s cool. No worries. I wasn¡¯t paying attention either. I think we all get a little unnerved when Mr. Abraham assigns a test.¡±

    ¡°As you should,¡± the teacher replied.

    After I slid my paper into place on Mr. Abraham¡¯s desk, David gestured me out into the hall, which was already empty given the mad rush to get a decent portion of lunch.

    ¡°How¡¯ve things been?¡± David asked, completely jarring my attention as I realized he was following me to my locker.

    ¡°Fine,¡± I replied, trying my hardest to conceal a frown.

    What use did David Markan have for me¡ªElrena Bobbet, the farm girl from the outskirts of town?

    ¡°Why do you ask?¡± I continued as I dialed my combination.

    ¡°Just wondering,¡± he said. ¡°The dance is tonight, you know?¡±

    He didn¡¯t need to remind me. ¡°I know,¡± I replied, with the hopes that the sting in my voice wasn¡¯t as present as I thought it would be.

    ¡°Are you going with anyone?¡±

    I froze.

    No. I couldn¡¯t have just heard that.

    I blinked.

    I was getting far too ahead of myself.

    Though I wouldn¡¯t know if I didn¡¯t ask, the most I could manage in response was a, ¡°Huh?¡±

    ¡°The dance,¡± David repeated, drawing closer, his cologne thick and far too musky. ¡°Are you going with anyone?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± I said. ¡°I¡¯m not.¡±

    ¡°Would you like to go with me?¡±

    David¡¯s smile was the sort that could melt anyone¡ªparticularly girls who had a crush on him. Me in particular, the girl who had never thought in a million years that I would be the object of any affection, could¡¯ve turned to sludge right there, but since I couldn¡¯t, I merely gave him an unwavering, probably-unblinking stare, which only prompted his smile to remain.

    Once again, I asked, ¡°Huh?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re cute,¡± he replied. ¡°I¡¯d like to get to know you more. Kinda hard to do, practice and all, and you not having¡­ uh¡­¡±

    ¡°Power,¡± I said.

    ¡°Yeah. That.¡±

    Thankfully, my giggle came naturally and didn¡¯t sound like a stupid girl¡¯s bad attempt to impress a boy.

    ¡°You game?¡± he asked.

    ¡°I guess,¡± she said. ¡°I mean, if you can pick me up. Papa doesn¡¯t like me driving into town by myself.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s cool,¡± David said, though didn¡¯t keep eye contact.

    I mentally kicked myself for bringing up my dad in front of him.

    ¡°It¡¯s gonna be at the church,¡± the handsome boy said, then smiled, as if he¡¯d completely forgotten my father¡¯s racially-objective personality. ¡°You know, the one on the other side of town? I know, I know¡ªweird place. I thought the same. School thought it would be better, since our auditorium¡¯s the size of a molehole.¡±

    ¡°You can barely play dodge-ball in there,¡± I replied.

    ¡°And don¡¯t even try basketball.¡±

    I laughed. ¡°Yeah. Okay. Cool. Sounds good to me.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll pick you up at¡­ seven¡­ ish? Will that give you enough time?¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± I said. I shut my locker with a resounding nod and gave him another smile. ¡°Thanks, David.¡±

    ¡°No problem. I¡¯m looking forward to it.¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± I said. ¡°Me too.¡±

    #

    I dreaded even telling my parents about the dance.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    Seated at the kitchen table exactly one hour after school had ended, I watched Papa tinker with the clock that normally hung over the threshold with a pair of pliers and a screwdriver while Mama poured the two of us tea. Biscuits spread out along the centerpiece, the common after-school snack, I waited for what felt like the right moment to spring the news to the two of them.

    This would not be good.

    ¡°So,¡± Mama said, as if breaking the silence that hung in the air with a hammer. ¡°How was school today?¡±

    ¡°Fine,¡± I replied, reaching for a biscuit to distract from my shaking hands.

    ¡°How did you do on your test?¡±

    ¡°I think I did okay.¡±

    ¡°Okay?¡± Papa asked.

    I merely nodded. There was now a fifty-fifty chance that I would get the <i>¡®you¡¯re a freshman in high school and you have to make A¡¯s to get into college otherwise you¡¯re going to become a drug dealer on the street for the rest of your life¡¯</i> talk.

    ¡°So,¡± my mother said, when she, like me, felt the talk would not come. ¡°Anything else exciting happen today?¡±

    ¡°Uh¡­ sorta.¡±

    Both my parents raised their heads. I couldn¡¯t be sure whether it was the tone in my voice or the fact that I¡¯d admitted to something exciting happening.

    ¡°I got asked to the school dance,¡± I said.

    ¡°By who?¡± Mama asked.

    ¡°David Markam.¡±

    ¡°That weasel,¡± Papa said.

    I nearly knocked my tea over. ¡°Daddy,¡± I sighed.

    ¡°You know how I feel about the Markams,¡± he replied, returning to the clock, but this time with much more aggression than before. ¡°Always lying to get their discounts at the grocery store, stealing from the government, Medicaid, Welfare. The one brother¡¯s in a gang, the father¡¯s a dealer, and don¡¯t get me started on his mother. Boy, if you ain¡¯t seen a woman spread her legs before¡ª¡±

    ¡°Arnold,¡± Mama snapped.

    Papa didn¡¯t raise his head. ¡°You know how they are,¡± he replied.

    The heated debate Mama and Papa proceeded into only made me think of how stupid it had been to say I was going out with a Markam boy. I¡¯d thought about lying¡ªbecause only God knows that my parents are not the most observant about current events, especially not my school¡ªbut I knew that if I tripped up I¡¯d be in serious trouble. I couldn¡¯t say I hadn¡¯t expected it, though none of it was obviously true. Papa¡¯d had a beef with David¡¯s dad for as long as I could remember. Sadly, I knew it was only because of his skin color.

    I only noticed the argument had ended when both of my parents were looking right at me.

    ¡°The answer¡¯s no,¡± Papa said.

    That sealed the deal.

    I knew I couldn¡¯t fight, couldn¡¯t weasel my way out of it, even try to negotiate with him.

    That didn¡¯t matter though.

    For the first time in my life a boy had asked me out.

    Nothing was going to keep me from going to the dance.

    #

    Mama and Papa were early to bed, early to rise. After an early dinner, they retired at six to leave me to my own devices. This allowed me ample time to go through my closet.

    The whole time I searched, I tried to imagine what a girl would wear to a high school dance.

    <i>Something pretty,</i>

    I was inclined to think. <i>Something that¡¯s nice but not flashy.</i>

    In that regard, I had nothing to worry about. The best clothes I had were from discount stores selling last season¡¯s brands. Compared to what some of the girls would be wearing, I¡¯d look like Cinderella when the movie first started¡ªin rags and scrubbing the floor on my hands and knees.

    I eventually decided on a simple, dark-red blouse and a frilly black skirt. The skirt I¡¯d never worn, since it was no use on the farm when I could trip on and land in a number of things, and for the shoes I¡¯d just wear sneakers. I doubt anyone would care, and if they did, well¡­ it¡¯s not like I cared about what they said.

    The early winter nights always started at seven.

    By candlelight, I did my short hair in a ponytail, applied what little makeup I could to my eyes and lips, and settled into my clothes when I heard the familiar sound outside my window.

    <i>Thump thump thump¡­ thump thump thump.</i>

    Shortly thereafter, the second noise came¡ªthe landing, mostly graceful but sometimes awkward¡ªthen the three taps upon the window. The name came next.

    <i>Elrena,</i> he said. <i>Elrena, Elrena. Love.</i>

    I didn¡¯t turn to face him. In the mirror, he was more than present¡ªhis silhouette marked by the candlelight but his features obscured. He didn¡¯t move¡ªdidn¡¯t even so much as cock his head or reach forward to tap on the window again. Instead, he simply watched me, <i>waiting,</i> as if he knew that I could see his reflection<i>.</i>

    ¡°I can¡¯t stay here tonight,¡± I said, not wanting to turn, but knowing that I would have to. ¡°I have to go somewhere. With a friend. A boyfriend.¡±

    <i>Boyfriend.</i> The name had slipped off my tongue so fast.

    The butterfly man cocked his head to the side. His wings fluttered, as if he were ready to depart, but he used them to propel himself forward so he could be closer to the window.

    <i>Love, </i>he said.

    ¡°I know,¡± I said. ¡°And you¡¯re my friend, but you have to let me go. This¡­ this means a lot to me. More than anything.¡±

    <i>More,</i> he said.

    Something about the way he said the word sent shivers through my body. I¡¯d never heard him say anything beyond my name or the word <i>love,</i> but hearing him say that, and with such malice¡­

    I shook my head.

    I was getting ahead of myself and imagining things. Me, jealous, over what a butterfly man thought? I could¡¯ve laughed.

    I looked down at my watch.

    <i>Seven-thirteen.</i>

    ¡°I have to go,¡± I said.

    I approached the window and reached for the clasps that held it in place.

    The butterfly man stepped back, watched me for another moment, then took off.

    I waited until I was sure he was gone before opening the window.

    After making sure I wouldn¡¯t be found out, I secured the window frame and began my climb down the house.

    It wasn¡¯t too awfully difficult. The vines snaking up through the wooden beams Papa had specifically built for Mama so she could have something pretty along the less-fortunate side of the house were spaced perfectly for a girl like me, of only five-foot-three. The annoying parts of the vines¡ªwhich, at times, seemed to want to grab me, and occasionally snagged onto my skirt even though I¡¯d pinned it up with hairpins¡ªwere the hardest part of the climb, but somehow I managed.

    At the bottom, I set my eyes on the T-intersection that connected the farm with the rest of the back road paths before starting forward.

    It wouldn¡¯t take me too long to get there.

    Soon enough, Mama or Papa wouldn¡¯t even be able to see me. It was too dark, especially for a girl using nothing more than her sense of direction to guide her.

    I navigated the outskirts of the road to keep from being in line of sight and to lessen my chances of stepping on anything. The animals didn¡¯t come out this far, but there was always the one that happened to sneak in through some damaged piece of fence or burrow under a weaker spot in the earth.

    When I felt I was a far and safe enough distance from the house, I stepped onto the road.

    It started again.

    <i>Thump thump thump thump.</i>

    I wanted to ignore it¡ªdesperately¡ªbut there¡¯d never been an instance where me and the butterfly man hadn¡¯t been separated between four walls and a pane of glass. I knew nothing of what he wanted. All I knew was that he had a fascination with me, one that sometimes made me nervous.

    I¡¯d gotten so used to our relationship from behind the safety of my window that I¡¯d never stopped to consider what he might be like in the open.

    Rather than stand there like an idiot, I started forward again.

    It continued.

    <i>Thump thump thump thump.</i>

    I didn¡¯t want to speed up. Any smart person, especially a farm girl raised around animals, knew that breaking into a run would only trigger a creature¡¯s predatory instincts. It didn¡¯t matter if it was a strange dog or even the mangy coyote starved out of its mind¡ªif it thought you were prey, it¡¯d pursue.

    Given that the butterfly man was airborne, it wouldn¡¯t take much for him to catch me.

    I passed through the simple iron gate that surrounded the property and secured it behind me without looking over my shoulder. The clasp was simple¡ªlarge and clumsy and something even the smartest horse could unlock¡ªso it required little effort. That, on my part, was a blessing, because the further I went up the road, the closer the sound got.

    <i>Thump thump thump thump.</i>

    ¡°Leave me alone,¡± I whispered. ¡°I¡¯ll be back later.¡±

    <i>Thump thump thump thump.</i>

    This time, I did speed up.

    <i>Thump thump thump.</i>

    <i>Thump thump thump.</i>

    <i>Thump thump thump thump.</i>

    I was just about to break into a run before I heard the soft landing, then the shift of earth behind me.

    I froze.

    Though I wanted so desperately to keep going¡ªto make it to the intersection where David had said he would pick me up¡ªI knew that the butterfly man would pursue. If David saw him, who know what either of them would do.

    Slowly, I turned.

    The creature, still shorter than me but intimidating in its own right, cocked its head, but made no move to approach.

    ¡°I have to go,¡± I said, taking a step backward, making sure that my attention was firmly set on the creature whom I still could not see. ¡°I have a date tonight.¡±

    Five clicking noises sounded from the butterfly man¡¯s direction.

    Had that been him?

    The creature cocked its head. This time, it did step forward, moving on feet I could now see were angular in the moonlight shining down upon us. It explained his odd posture, considering how unbalanced he seemed most of the time.

    The butterfly man clicked again.

    I took a deep breath.

    His face¡ªwhich, up until that moment, had never been any closer than beyond the pane of the glass¡ªleaned forward until we were little more than a few inches apart.

    The proboscis, bowed to the ground, did little to unnerve me. It was the faint sensation of feelers moving right before my face that sent the hairs on my arms on end.

    ¡°Please,¡± I whispered, fighting to keep my eyes open as the clicking noises began to grow more agitated. ¡°Just let me¡ª¡±

    The sound of a car coming up the road stopped me.

    A gust of air buffeted my face.

    The butterfly man took off, disappearing into the darkness.

    It didn¡¯t take long for me to turn and run.

    #

    ¡°Hey,¡± David said as I crawled into the passenger seat, breathless and with dirt covering the lower half of my skirt. ¡°Everything okay?¡±

    ¡°Fine,¡± I managed.

    ¡°You sure?¡±

    ¡°I fell.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re not hurt, are you?¡±

    I shook my head. I took a moment to try and brush the dirt off my skirt before I pulled my legs into the car and closed the passenger seat door. ¡°Ready when you are,¡± I said.

    He rolled the car to a slow start after I buckled myself in and shifted to the far side of the road as we picked up speed. Though the road was dark, and it was highly unlikely that there would be any cars or farm equipment out, that didn¡¯t guarantee that Old Mr. Parkson who lived up the road wouldn¡¯t decide to take his prehistoric tractor out for a drive at night<i>.</i>

    ¡°So,¡± David said, catching my attention in what had to have been halfway of the supposed conversation. ¡°What do you think about all that?¡±

    ¡°Huh?¡± I asked.

    His smile, usually the brightest thing about him, dimmed. ¡°School play,¡± he said. ¡°The one we were all forced to watch.¡±

    ¡°What about it?¡±

    ¡°I was just asking what you thought of Katy Tisdale when she took a header off the stage when she was trying to show off.¡±

    ¡°Oh, that,¡± I said, then laughed, which started out normally and then tapered into a giggle.

    ¡°What?¡± David asked.

    ¡°You know how everyone was trying so hard not to laugh and everyone did so well?¡± I asked, waiting for his confusing look to turn into a nod before I continued. ¡°I was the one who laughed.¡±

    David snorted. ¡°Figures,¡± he smiled.

    ¡°I hate her,¡± I replied. ¡°I don¡¯t know how anyone could like her. Always showing off, trying to make everyone think she¡¯s something that she¡¯s not. It doesn¡¯t help that she hangs around with Carlee Martinez and the rest of the bitches.¡±

    Howling, David reared his head back and smacked the steering wheel three times, the last hard enough to send the horn screeching into the night. ¡°Goddamn,¡± he laughed. ¡°And I thought I was the only one who thought that was funny.¡±

    ¡°How <i>couldn¡¯t</i>

    anyone?¡± I asked.

    ¡°My friends didn¡¯t think it was,¡± David shrugged.

    This time when he got quiet, he <i>stayed</i> quiet.

    Unable to keep from frowning, I reached down to fumble with my ruffled blouse.

    ¡°Hey, Elrena,¡± he said. ¡°You care if I ask you something?¡±

    ¡°Go ahead,¡± I said. Anything to get the conversation going again.

    ¡°When you¡­ weren¡¯t talking, I guess¡­ was it because¡­ well¡­¡±

    He trailed off. My lack of response, coupled with my blinking, must have answered his question.

    ¡°Oh,¡± he sighed, this time smiling soon after. ¡°Sorry. It was stupid to ask. I shouldn¡¯t make assumptions.¡±

    ¡°My papa¡¯s an idiot,¡± I said.

    ¡°How¡¯d he feel about you going out with me?¡±

    ¡°He didn¡¯t. I was absolutely, one-hundred-percent forbidden.¡±

    ¡°Then how are you¡ª¡± David¡¯s smile broke his train of words before he could finish. <i>¡°You</i> snuck out?¡± he asked.

    ¡°Yeah,¡± I said. ¡°I did.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°Because I wanted to have a nice time. And because I¡­ I wanted to get to know you.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s sweet, El.¡±

    ¡°Thanks,¡± I blushed, thankful for the darkened car.

    ¡°I¡¯ve always had a thing for you,¡± David continued, his eyes straying from the old dirt road to look at me. ¡°I just wasn¡¯t sure how to go about saying anything¡­ with, you know, your dad and all.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡±

    ¡°But that doesn¡¯t matter. You¡¯re here. We¡¯re going to the dance. Nothing can go wrong now, right?¡±

    My smile had only partially begun to emerge when I heard it above the car.

    <i>Thump thump thump thump.</i>

    ¡°What the hell is that?¡± David laughed, craning his head forward to look out the window. ¡°A helicopter?¡±

    ¡°Just keep driving,¡± I said.

    ¡°Huh?¡±

    ¡°I said, ¡®Helicopters don¡¯t drive at night.¡¯¡±

    That could¡¯ve been the stupidest thing I¡¯d ever said in my entire life, but it didn¡¯t matter. David could think whatever he wanted of me, helicopters in the night or not. Fact of the matter was, he was <i>following </i>me<i>.</i>

    It only just struck me that I never went anywhere after dark. I didn¡¯t even leave the house after the sun started going down, and even then, that hadn¡¯t been because of the butterfly man.

    David¡¯s fascination with the sound continued right up until it abruptly stopped. ¡°Huh,¡± he said. ¡°Weird.¡±

    I turned my head to look out the window.

    I could¡¯ve screamed.

    The reason the sound had stopped was because the butterfly man wasn¡¯t above us¡ªhe was at our side, gliding over what had to be the air gliding off the car.

    David didn¡¯t look over. I only just kept eye contact, because even in the darkness I still couldn¡¯t see the butterfly, just his shape, and huge wings that kept him afloat.

    <i>Love,</i> the voice said in my head.

    I shivered.

    Love, I thought.

    The creature launched into the air.

    He disappeared only for a moment before he landed on the hood of David¡¯s car.

    ¡°Fuck!¡± David screamed. <i>¡°FUCK!¡±</i>

    His natural inclination was to crank the steering wheel as hard as he could.

    In the teenage boy¡¯s little car, it didn¡¯t take much to make it flip.

    Given that I was buckled in, I was safe. David, on the other hand, went flying through the vehicle. He hit the ceiling first and then clipped my jaw with his fist before he disappeared into the back seat.

    The vehicle rolled off the road and landed, right-side up, in the four-foot grass along the side.

    ¡°David?¡± I asked, gasping, trying my hardest to free myself from the seatbelt. ¡°David?¡±

    A moan greeted me.

    ¡°Gah!¡± I cried, blinking tears from my eyes. ¡°Are you all right?¡±

    ¡°What happened?¡± he asked.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I lied, still struggling with the seatbelt. ¡°Are you hurt?¡±

    ¡°My head¡­¡±

    I finally managed to jam my finger into the clip hard enough to unsnap it and crawled into the backseat.

    Face-down, I couldn¡¯t see much of what he was talking about.

    When I helped him roll over, the damage became more than clear.

    Somehow during the rollover, he¡¯d managed to get a six-inch gash that started on his temple and disappeared into his hairline. His lip was also split.

    Blood soaked the ruddy leather. I couldn¡¯t tell how badly he was hurt.

    ¡°What else hurts?¡± I asked.

    ¡°Everything,¡± he said.

    ¡°We have to leave. Now.¡±

    I wasn¡¯t sure if that was true. We¡¯d probably be safer in here, especially if the butterfly man was so hellbent on capturing me, but with David bleeding so badly, I couldn¡¯t take the risk.

    Reaching down, I grabbed the bottom layer of my skirt, braced my other hand along the lower portion of it, then ripped as much of it off as I could before tying it around his head. ¡°Come on.¡±

    The backseat door on the driver¡¯s side was stuck. Even a few of David¡¯s defeated but still forceful kicks wasn¡¯t even to get it to budge. The one on the passenger side came open easily enough though, and we climbed out, David with his skirt-wrapped head still leaking blood onto everything.

    ¡°We gotta go,¡± I said.

    ¡°Does¡­ anyone live out here?¡± he managed.

    I scanned the area. Though the grass was nearly as tall as I was, I was still able to make out the surrounding farmlands. This far out, it was all crop¡ªnothing more, nothing less. Even Mr. Parkson was two miles off.

    ¡°We¡¯ll have to walk,¡± I said, starting forward, tugging him along.

    ¡°What was that thing?¡± he asked.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. I didn¡¯t see it.¡±

    ¡°It looked like a person,¡± David said, coughing. He turned his head to spit out blood and what might have been a tooth, judging by the sound. ¡°But its eyes¡­¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it,¡± I said.

    The more David didn¡¯t know about the butterfly man, the better. At this rate, I was just about ready to collapse into a mental breakdown. I could only imagine what David would do if he knew the truth, or worse¡ªsaw the creature again.

    Though I hated to risk being on such open ground, I figured our chances at flagging someone down were better if we were on the road.

    When we cleared the incline, David fell to his knees and took several deep, wheezing breaths.

    ¡°We have to keep going,¡± I said. ¡°You¡¯re bleeding.¡±

    ¡°Just¡­ a minute,¡± he gasped. ¡°Just a¡ª¡±

    It happened so fast, I didn¡¯t have any time to respond. Knocked to the ground and thrown three feet back, I had only just gained my bearings before I realized David was gone.

    ¡°David?¡± I asked, struggling to stand. ¡°David!¡±

    A scream that started as sheer terror but then was reduced to gurgling nonsense echoed across the cool night.

    Alone, in the middle of the road, and with only the light from David¡¯s idling but likely-dying car, I was completely exposed.

    ¡°David?¡± I asked, blinking, forcing myself not to cry even though I wanted to scream my lungs out. ¡°Are you there?¡±

    There was no answer.

    With the wind knocked out of me and still unable to breathe, I clawed at the dry earth and tried to pull myself toward the incline.

    If I could get to the grass, I could hide.

    If I could get to the incline, I could at least roll down it and into the grass.

    If I managed to get anywhere near the car, I could crawl inside, close the door, and hope the monster wouldn¡¯t find me.

    If only I hadn¡¯t accepted David¡¯s request. Then he would still be alive and I wouldn¡¯t be responsible for his murder.

    At the end of the road, I heaved a long, dry heave and coughed as much dirt out of my mouth as I could before snaring my fingers in the grass.

    Something landed behind me.

    It wasn¡¯t David. The sound was too light.

    ¡°Why are you doing this?¡± I asked, sobbing, no longer able to keep my cool now that I knew the inevitable had come. ¡°I didn¡¯t do anything to you. Nothing! <i>Nothing! I thought you were my friend!¡±</i>

    <i>Elrena,</i> the creature said.

    The slight shift of its wings signaled its approach.

    Its footsteps sounded near me.

    I looked out the corner of my eye just in time to see the barbed, angular foot I had only briefly glimpsed before.

    With my left hand, I fumbled for something I could use as a weapon¡ªas a final attempt to free myself of its monstrous ways.

    I raised my eyes to look into the monster¡¯s face.

    Even so close I still couldn¡¯t see its face. I could only make out the slight pink that adorned the underside and tips of its wings.

    It lunged.

    I screamed.

    The flutter of black wings took me.

 The Black Wedding

    They once called me a Beautiful One.

    Now I hang my head in shame.

    It isn¡¯t hard for me to do so, considering all that has happened. With rotten fruit on my feet and vegetable stains on my dress, it¡¯s impossible for me to face a crowd who once adored me, let alone the man who is now my husband.

    Let me explain:

    My name is Emily, and I was chosen by a Gentlewoman of the State, from the many girls of the small settlement of Gladberry, to become a Beautiful One: a girl whose place within the Glittering City is judged not by the people, but the country. Our great Countess, Aa¡¯eesha Dane, created this Process in order to sustain the gene pool of the Great South, and create her vision of a beautiful, perfect race.

    The only problem with this? Her plans for me backfired¡ªand it was all because of one man who became obsessed with me.

    I can see him now, even from behind the curtain that is shielding me from an angry crowd. The corner of his lip is raised in a smirk, and his eyes are sparkling with delight over the chaos that his words have sewn.

    He is a journalist¡ªa man who, with pen and paper, can make or break a girl.

    Just like he has done to me.

    A sigh escapes my lips as the gravity of the situation begins to take hold. Defeated, now, more than ever, I slump my shoulders¡ªand try, with little success, to keep from crying.

    ¡°Emily?¡± my advisor, a Gentlewoman by the name of Revered Mother Terra, asks. ¡°Are you all right?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll live,¡± I reply. ¡°At least, I think I will.¡±

    She stares out the gap in the curtain at the man I am staring at and says, ¡°He will be punished.¡±

    But how, I wonder? Is free speech not a right the photojournalists enjoy? And if that¡¯s the case, then just how will he be punished, especially given that he did not directly tell the people to do what they did?

    I frown as I feel a hand upon my shoulder, and immediately tense as I sense the man who is now my husband draw forward. ¡°Emily,¡± Arthur says.

    ¡°Yes?¡± I reply.

    ¡°It¡¯s all right. Don¡¯t worry.¡±

    <i>Don¡¯t worry?</i> I think.

    I can¡¯t help but laugh.

    How can I <i>not </i>worry when the whole world now seems to be against me?

    Rather than think about it, I turn; and with sadness born of a time that should have been marvelous, follow my husband and Revered Mother Terra away from the scene.

    While we are flanked by members of the Southern Alliance of Dames¡ªfemale soldiers who stand at the ready to protect us should anything go wrong¡ªI can¡¯t help but wonder if there is a gun trained on me in the distance, and one madman or even woman waiting to fire.

    <i>Should I die,</i> I think, <i>on this day, let it be known that I tried to be good.</i>

    I close my eyes.

    Arthur sets a hand on my back and begins to knead the tense muscles with his gentle fingers.

    This should have been perfect. This should have been wonderful. This should have been a fairytale come to life.

    But it wasn¡¯t.

    No.

    This day¡ªthis <i>day of reckoning¡ª</i>has been unlike any I have ever experienced.

    And I am now seen as a disgrace.

    As we pile into the vehicle that will take us back to the Countess¡¯ Spire, where all Beautiful Ones of my position are meant to live and wait, I wonder, just briefly, if everything will be all right.

    Then I realize that will not likely be the case.

    #

    Our arrival is met with even more photojournalists, even more cameras, even more disgrace. The SADs are the first to exit; and though their shields are drawn, we can still be seen through the glass insets that allow the Dames to look out at their potential aggressors.

    <i>¡°Whore!¡±</i> I hear one cry.

    <i>¡°Wretch!¡±</i> another calls.

    <i>¡°Witch!¡±</i>

    <i>¡°Cretin!¡±</i>

    I keep my eyes lowered, and my gaze set toward the ground, as we advance up the short walkway that leads to the Spire¡¯s glass doors. Here, the SADs guarding the doors part; and here, we enter, only to be escorted through the sparkling front lobby and toward the elevators that await us at the opposite side of it.

    ¡°We¡¯re almost done,¡± Revered Mother Terra says. ¡°Then we won¡¯t have to worry about a thing.¡±

    Will we, though? Will we <i>really?</i>

    The truth of the matter is that <i>she</i>

    will not be burdened with this colossal guilt, this immense shame, for it was not her that the man wrote about, that he <i>lied</i>

    about. No. To think that this will be over anytime soon is madness; and in that sense, completely and utterly insane.

    Though it seems to take ages to make our way across the lobby, we are soon entering through the elevator, and then rising up the Spire¡¯s immense heights to a place where I am meant to live with my husband for the next indeterminable while.

    Many would have expected me to cry, I think¡ªto break down in sobs over what most would have considered the greatest shame. However, resilience born of a life of poverty before my grandiose rise has granted me a stone exterior, a carapace of hard flesh underneath.

    A sigh escapes me as the elevator begins to move.

    Arthur asks, ¡°Are you all right?¡±

    And I, who can say little in light of everything that has happened, merely say, ¡°Yes. I¡¯m fine.¡±

    Callous as it is, the lie serves me well, and is enough to put Arthur at peace, at least for the time being. Who knows what he¡¯ll say come time we reach my room.

    <i>My room.</i>

    I shiver as I consider the implications of what it will mean.

    Will he want to consummate the marriage? Will he leave me be?

    I don¡¯t know; and that¡¯s what unsettles me.

    I know I can¡¯t think about it, though, and for that reason, keep my eyes lowered and my gaze set toward the ground.

    Come time the elevator door opens, it feels like we¡¯ve been traveling forever.

    ¡°Come,¡± Revered Mother Terra says. ¡°This way.¡±

    I follow her slowly, glad for the distraction and even more thankful for her presence. It is the one thing I know is distracting Arthur from saying more. From asking me if I¡¯m all right. From him telling me everything will be okay.

    I know it won¡¯t. I know this for a fact. And yet, I know he would try to assure me with false platitudes, if only because of everything that has occurred on this horrible day.

    I can¡¯t think on it for long.

    Soon, we are drawing up to my apartment door, and Revered Mother Terra is drawing a keycard from her pocket.

    ¡°Revered Mother,¡± I say as she swipes the card to unlock the door.

    ¡°Yes?¡±

    ¡°What am I supposed to do?¡±

    ¡°About what, dear?¡±

    ¡°About¡­ <i>this.¡±</i> I gesture to the stains on my dress, my person, my <i>being.</i>

    ¡°The dress can be cleaned, dear.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ not what I mean.¡±

    She considers me for several long moments before she finally says, ¡°Please, come inside.¡±

    We enter¡ªthe Revered Mother first, me second, my husband third.

    When it comes time for the door to be closed, Revered Mother Terra turns to face me and says, ¡°You mean to inquire about your public persona.¡±

    ¡°I¡ª¡± I start, then pause before swallowing and saying, ¡°Yes. I¡­ I do.¡±

    ¡°The Gentlewomen of the Glittering City will do everything in their power to ensure that this¡­ <i>matter</i>

    of utmost importance¡­ is handled. Until then, I would highly suggest you refrain from stepping out of this room.¡±

    ¡°But¡ªmy Purpose¡ª¡±

    ¡°Can wait to be declared,¡± she says. She clears her throat and turns her attention to my husband. ¡°What I need for you to do is control the damage as much as possible.¡±

    ¡°Me?¡± Arthur asks. ¡°Why? I¡¯m not the one who wrote those things.¡±

    ¡°But you are the one the people are looking toward to prove or disprove these malicious statements.¡± She turns her attention back to me. ¡°Will you do as I ask? Will you remain here and avoid the scrutiny of the public?¡±

    ¡°Yes, Revered Mother. I will.¡±

    ¡°Good.¡± She turns toward the doorway. ¡°Until then.¡±

    She departs without another word, leaving me to consider everything that has occurred¡ªfrom the words, to the wedding, to the aftermath of it all.

    Arthur sighs and sets his hands on my shoulders. ¡°Let¡¯s get you out of this dress,¡± he says.

    ¡°Can you¡­¡± I swallow and lower my eyes.

    ¡°Can I¡­ what?¡± he asks.

    ¡°Wait here. While I clean up?¡±

    ¡°Of course. Anything to make you more comfortable.¡±

    With a nod, I go about gathering my clothes from my dresser¡ªfirst a simple shirt, then underwear, then finally a simple pair of pants. My husband watches my every move, his eyes cautious, his gaze alert. It¡¯s as if he¡¯s waiting for me to crumble, for me to shake. Sweeping in, at this point, would make him seem heroic¡ªor, at the very least, like the man I want him to be.

    But I know he can¡¯t be that man.

    No.

    For him to be the man I want him to be, he would have to be able to take all this pain, all this misery, all this suffering, <i>away.</i>This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    <i>And only the Great God has that power,</i> I think.

    Sighing, I remove my shoes, then slip into the washroom and close the door behind me.

    It is only when I am naked and beneath the spouting faucet that I feel any sort of emotion.

    Within moments, it all comes rushing forth.

    <i>The agony¡ª</i>

    <i>The pain¡ª</i>

    <i>The cruelty of this game¡ª</i>

    I close my eyes, take a deep breath, then begin to sob.

    This day was supposed to be perfect.

    Now, I know, it was never meant to be.

    #

    Arthur is gone by the time I exit the washroom. Where he¡¯s disappeared to I cannot be for certain, but truth be told, I am thankful for his absence. It will allow me the peace of mind necessary to process everything that has happened, and what may occur now that the wedding is over.

    <i>The wedding.</i>

    I shiver as I consider its implications, as I think on what the events that transpired could cause. Regional news will be made, if it hasn¡¯t already been broadcast. People will form their opinions, if what they¡¯ve read from the journalists hasn¡¯t already. And me¡­

    <i>Me¡­</i>

    I will sit and toil, for in this horrible yet monumental moment, I will either rise like the phoenix reborn, or dwell in the mud as if I am some lowly swamp creature.

    Frowning, I wrap my arms around myself and slowly make my way toward the window at the edge of the apartment.

    From this vantage point, so high within the sky, I can see all the way across the city¡ªfrom the heights of the nearby hills, to the sloping lowlands that brush alongside the city before the metropolis rises like jagged needles from cold asphalt. It is a stupendous view¡ªhas been since I¡¯ve first arrived¡ªand yet, a part of me feels like I do not belong.

    <i>But is it because of you,</i> my conscience offers, <i>or him?</i>

    <i>Him.</i>

    <i>The man with the pen. Who wrote such horrible things.</i>

    A shiver crosses my body as I consider everything that has been said, everything that <i>could</i> be said. That <i>will</i> be said.

    All those names, all those declarations¡ª

    And from my own people, no less.

    The people who once loved and adored me.

    <i>Who lifted you up,</i>

    I think, <i>and then tore you down.</i>

    I turn my head to view my reflection in the nearby mirror, only to find that my normally-bright exterior has been tainted by the events of the day. My black hair is lackluster, my bright eyes are dull. Even my face¡ªwhich I was careful to wash with the hottest of waters¡ªresembles something completely unlike me.

    ¡°I¡¯m not myself,¡± I whisper, in a voice so slow that I can barely hear it. ¡°In body, voice, or mind.¡±

    A knock comes at the door.

    I turn.

    A voice asks, ¡°Mrs. London?¡±

    ¡°Yes?¡± I ask, but blink as the reality of the new name begins to set in.

    ¡°There¡¯s been a package sent for you. Would you like me to¡ª¡±

    <i>A package?</i> I think. <i>From who? Where?</i>

    I am at the door almost instantly, and opening it before I can process what it could mean fully.

    The man outside¡ªdressed in a simple red-and-black butler outfit¡ªholds in his hands a simple brown envelope.

    I lift my eyes. Swallow. <i>Stare.</i>

    ¡°Mrs. London?¡± he asks. ¡°Are you all right?¡±

    ¡°Fine,¡± I lie, taking hold of the package. ¡°Thank you.¡±

    ¡°The Revered Mother has advised¡ª¡±

    I close the door before he can finish.

    In my haste to face the sudden interruption, I do not bother to recognize what could be an unfortunate truth.

    The package is opened before I can stop myself.

    I regret it almost instantly.

    Plastered on the front page of the newspaper is a picture of me¡ªaghast, bewildered, and covered in rotten food. The words <i>London wedding in shambles! </i>rest directly above the image¡­

    Below which is a note.

    <i>Just deserts,</i> it says. <i>You can¡¯t have your cake and eat it, too.</i>

    I drop the package.

    It falls to the floor.

    I cry out. Feel tears bud at my eyes.

    <i>Why?</i> I think. <i>Why are you doing this to me?</i>

    But I already know why.

    It¡¯s because I didn¡¯t choose him.

    <i>Him.</i>

    A person who was never a part of the Process to begin with.

    It¡¯s almost impossible to believe that he would have been so brazen enough to send this to me. But Marcus Wright is obsessed with me, and he¡¯ll do anything in his power to make sure that I suffer.

    <i>Anything,</i> I think.

    I try not to think about what else could be in the package¡ªthat could be waiting to haunt me¡ªbut realize that, if I leave it here, and if Arthur comes back¡ª

    A frown crosses my lips.

    No.

    Arthur <i>can¡¯t</i> come back. Not to this¡ªthis thing, this <i>menace.</i>

    After crouching down and taking the contents into my hands, I stuff the note back into the package, then carry it into the kitchen, where I stuff it into a plastic bag and ferry it into the trash chute underneath the sink.

    I listen to it bounce down the tunnel until I can hear it no more.

    Then, slowly, I try to piece together what it is I will do.

    He¡¯s already ruined me.

    What more can he do?

    I realize, soon after, that he will do whatever it takes to get my attention.

    Even if it means sending more packages.

    I am lying in bed the following day when a knock comes at the door¡ªand Arthur, who still hasn¡¯t left for his work in the business offices downtown, answers the door. A brief exchange with the butler is all it takes for him to accept whatever it is the man has.

    As he closes the door, he says, ¡°Emily. A package has come for you.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t open it,¡± I say.

    ¡°Why?¡± he asks.

    ¡°I said: <i>don¡¯t open it.¡±</i>

    ¡°Don¡¯t you want to see what it is?¡±

    ¡°No. I don¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°Why are you¡ª¡±

    I roll over to face him and say, <i>¡°Do. Not. Open. It.¡±</i>

    He considers me for several long moments, obviously unsure of my proclamation, of my command.

    Then, a moment later, he rips the top of the package open.

    ¡°I said¡ª¡±

    ¡°Someone took the time to send it,¡± he replies. ¡°We should at least take a moment to see what it¡ª¡±

    He stops before he can finish.

    I lift my eyes.

    He lowers the package.

    I ask, ¡°What?¡±

    And he says, ¡°It¡¯s from¡­ <i>him.¡±</i>

    ¡°Throw it away. I don¡¯t want to see it.¡±

    ¡°Emily¡ª¡±

    ¡°Arthur, if you know what¡¯s good for you, you¡¯ll throw the damn package away.¡±

    ¡°We should report this to the authorities.¡±

    <i>¡°I don¡¯t want to see it!¡±</i> I say, my voice bordering on a scream. <i>¡°Throw it away!¡±</i>

    All he can do is stare.

    ¡°Arthur,¡± I say, throwing my legs over the side of the bed. ¡°Do as I say.¡±

    ¡°Em¡ª¡±

    ¡°I said¡ª¡±

    ¡°I heard what you said. But this¡­ this is¡­¡±

    I reach forward and rip the package from his hand, then turn and begin to stomp into the kitchen, fully intent on doing the one thing my husband refuses to do.

    Halfway there, the package rips open¡ª

    And deposits its contents onto the floor.

    Whether or not it was designed to break open or it did so simply because of flimsy paper I cannot be sure. Regardless, my eyes are immediately drawn to everything¡ªfrom one paper, to the next, to the one afterward, to the one after that.

    I can¡¯t close my eyes fast enough.

    I see the images for what they truly are.

    <i>You¡¯re fat,</i> one says.

    <i>You¡¯re horrible,</i>

    another intones.

    <i>Why did they choose such an ugly girl?</i> a third asks.

    <i>Her nose is too big.</i>

    <i>Her lips are swollen.</i>

    <i>Her eyes look like saucers.</i>

    And the worst¡ªthe one that I don¡¯t want to remember, but as seared itself into my brain like a brand on a cattle¡¯s backside¡ªis the one that haunts me.

    It states, very clearly, <i>Kill yourself.</i>

    I let out a long, low sob, then sway and collapse against the nearby wall.

    Arthur is the one who steps forward and says, ¡°Why is he¡ª¡±

    <i>¡°I TOLD YOU!¡±</i> I scream. <i>¡°I TOLD YOU NOT TO LOOK AT IT!¡±</i>

    ¡°Em¡ª¡±

    <i>¡°WHY DIDN¡¯T YOU LISTEN TO ME?¡±</i>

    ¡°I thought¡ªI thought that he¡ª¡±

    ¡°You thought <i>what?¡±</i>

    I ask. ¡°That he¡¯d <i>leave me alone? </i>That he¡¯d <i>stop this whole ordeal?¡±</i> I shake my head. ¡°No, Arthur. He won¡¯t stop. He <i>can¡¯t</i>

    stop.¡±

    ¡°But why?¡±

    ¡°Because he hates that I didn¡¯t choose him.¡±

    Arthur can only stare.

    I shake my head as he considers me for the next several moments, then ask, ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°He¡­ wasn¡¯t even part of the Process. Surely he can¡¯t be <i>that</i> delusional.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s something wrong with him,¡± I say. ¡°Something horribly, horribly wrong with him.¡±

    ¡°We need to turn this into the authorities, Em.¡±

    ¡°What good will it do?¡± I reply. ¡°The damage has already been done.¡±

    ¡°I¡­ you¡­ <i>we¡­¡±</i>

    Arthur pauses before he can say anything more.

    I look at him. He looks at me.

    But rather than speak, or try and say anything further, he gathers the papers from the floor, taking extra care to turn them upside down so I cannot see the ugly words written upon their faces.

    Then he rises and exits the room, all without saying goodbye.

    All I can do is cry.

    #

    ¡°There is something I¡¯d like to discuss with you,¡± Revered Mother Terra says.

    I lift my eyes to face the woman and consider her for everything she is worth. Her bright blue eyes. Her pure white dress. The blood red fabric that lines its underside. She is a woman of the state, and to know that she has a reason for being here is enough to make me feel small.

    Not once since I¡¯ve arrived in the Glittering City have I felt so hopeless.

    Now, I realize, there is nothing I can do but wait.

    Standing here, before the Gentlewoman, I offer a small nod and take a short breath before saying, ¡°Yes, Revered Mother. I¡¯m listening.¡±

    ¡°It has come to my attention that the journalist Marcus Wright has been working to both demonize and terrorize you.¡±

    ¡°How do you¡ª¡±

    She lifts a hand to stop me. ¡°I know,¡± she continues, ¡°based on documents that have been submitted, that he has worked to undermine everything the Process has done for you¡ªand, I¡¯m sad to say, that it is working.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯re you¡ª¡± I start.

    The Revered Mother sighs, then, and turns her head to the nearby window. She then says, in a short and declarative tone: ¡°The people are beginning to turn against you. Marcus Wright¡¯s words have sewn discord between you and the people of the Glittering City. They believe many things, Emily¡ªthings that I would never in my life ever say of another woman without ample cause or reason¡ªand they believe these things all because of the stories he has fabricated.¡±

    ¡°Why are they so gullible?¡± I ask. ¡°How could they believe without proof?¡±

    ¡°You have not been allowed to view the papers because of the so-called <i>¡®proof¡¯</i> that has been doctored.¡±

    ¡°What do you¡ª¡±

    The Revered Mother lifts a hand to stop me once more. ¡°There are ways they can fake pictures in this day and age, Mrs. London. Some would call them artists. Me? I call them charlatans. Regardless, they have been able to place your face on pictures of women in scandalous situations, and therefor, have made it appear that these rumors are true.¡±

    ¡°How¡ªwhy¡ª¡±

    ¡°This is what I am here to discuss with you.¡±

    ¡°Wait. What?¡±

    Sighing, the Revered Mother closes her eyes, then opens them again to look at me. ¡°Never have we in the Glittering City faced this sort of predicament. Sadly, there is little we can do to course correct. Which is why I must inform you of the next steps we are going to take.¡±

    I wait in silent apprehension for her to continue.

    With a short nod, Revered Mother Terra clears her throat and says, ¡°Effective tomorrow, we will disbar you from your position as a Beautiful One of the Glittering City. You will be offered a divorce, a small sum of currency, and provisions for you and your family before you are sent back to Gladberry.¡±

    <i>What?</i>

    I think I speak the word, but I realize, soon after, that I haven¡¯t. My mouth is open, my heart is broken, my lungs are empty. I gasp¡ªfoolishly at that¡ªand feel the disbelief course through me like a wicked illness meant only to infect those who have done wrong.

    Me? Leave the Glittering City? After everything that has happened? After how far I¡¯ve come? After all these years of waiting, of longing, of finally <i>being?</i>

    I try not to cry. I really do. And yet, I can¡¯t help but do so. The tears, as they come spilling from my eyes, resemble waves, and over my face they cascade until finally they fall to the dress I am wearing.

    The Revered Mother sighs and says, ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    ¡°But¡ªmy Purpose¡ª¡±

    ¡°Will be terminated as we speak.¡±

    ¡°And... my family. Do¡­ do they¡ª¡±

    ¡°Know?¡± she asks. ¡°No. They don¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°I¡­ I¡ª¡±

    I cannot speak any more.

    Instead, a darkness consumes my heart, my mind, my body.

    Surely I cannot go home, not after everything I have been through.

    ¡°There¡¯s really nothing you can do,¡± I say, ¡°is there?¡±

    ¡°Unfortunately, the damage has already been done. I¡¯m sorry, Miss Perkins. I wish I could say more.¡±

    The Revered Mother turns and makes her way to the door.

    In moments, she is letting herself out into the hall.

    And I, left to my own devices, can only think of one thing.

    #

    There is only thing I can do now that I will face the inevitable.

    As I wander through the apartment, gathering the things I know will carry me through the next few moments of my life, I consider all the shame I will bring to my family if I return¡ªand realize, wholeheartedly, that I cannot go any further.

    No.

    I must take matters into my own hands.

    It is a course of action that I know will be painful, if only for a moment. But the release¡ªit will take me from the hands of evil, and deliver me into the arms of mercy.

    In moments, I begin my plan.

    The fan is turned off.

    The chair is arranged.

    The rope is tightened around the stalk just above the ceiling fan¡¯s blades.

    Then, it is ready.

    In less than a moment, I slip the noose over my neck with care I knew I would not have in a previous life, then prepare myself for what is to come.

    <i>For everything I have wanted¡ª</i>

    <i>For everything I have gained¡ª</i>

    <i>For everything I once had and wish I could have once more¡ª</i>

    <i>¡°Great God,¡±</i> I whisper, in as quiet a voice as possible. <i>¡°Please, hear my plea: keep me steady, and make it swift.¡±</i>

    Then, with one last breath, I step off the chair.