《Tiny Tales To Be Forgotten》


 Lie With Me

    I did not know how her mind worked. I do not want to know still.


    She was pinching her cheeks, demanding her blood to give them a rosy hue. Using the mirror on the back of the passenger¡¯s seat, she pulled out a strand of hair from her braid, then stuck the tip of her forefinger in her mouth. I scrunched my face when she wrapped it around the strand of hair, but admitted to myself that the curl which rested against her forehead did look adorable.


    And that was what she was going for, wasn¡¯t it? Adorable. Innocent. Not at all the eleven-year-old girl who ordered the seamstress to make her an outfit of a ¡°Starving scholar. Diamond in the rough. Make it girly, but hold the pink.¡± Her voice never wavered like a child¡¯s should, confident in what she needed to wear for the event. She waved the disgruntled seamstress and disturbed assistant away with a face of annoyance. She knew she could not pull off ¡®Intimidating Mastermind¡¯ for at least a few years.


    I chuckled, I recall, standing near the door waiting for my turn to be measured and poked. I thought it was merely the attitude of a tomboy rebelling against society¡¯s backwards standards. I was partly true, but mostly wrong. She wasn¡¯t rebelling. She was hungry. Starving. But without the reach to grasp what she craved. But she was a little girl, the symbol of purity and innocence.


    The girl absolutely did not have late night talks with a financial planner, a cup of strong coffee in their grips, discussions fanatic with their whisper-shouts and excited hands. I shivered, my breath fogging the limo¡¯s window, remembering the first night the man visited.


    He looked bored. Reasonable since he was going to talk money to an eleven-year-old who probably just wanted to get as many stuffies as possible. An hour later, that same man stumbled out of the room, dazed, like he had seen the sun for the first time in his life. It was hard to forget, as in I will never forget it. I won¡¯t forget it for as long as I live, and I had many years to spare at the time.


    I was only two years older than the girl next to me, a ripe thirteen-year-old boy who starred in his first movie. A movie about the book she wrote, where she watched child actor after child actor stride in, shuffle in, and strut in, until her uninterested stare landed on me. A blessing or a curse, I cannot tell you.


    They can¡¯t be serious, I had spat in my head at the sight of her when I entered the room for the audition. An eleven-year-old girl in charge of who was going to be in a multi-million dollar production? She was probably going to pick the bluest-eyed pretty face and leave the more inconsequential roles to the adults. The ones who were supposed to be in charge, thank you.


    Oh, if it was possible to hit one¡¯s past self, one¡¯s destructive and stupid past self. I would go to that foolish child right now and smack him good and proper. ¡°That¡¯s your future, you¡¯re insulting,¡± is what I would probably say, or something of the same vein, because she was. I simply could not see it yet.


    There was quite a storm of gossip when she first entered the set. Actors, cameramen, and the director all leaned their heads closer to get a good look at her and her pretty, sparkling dress. Whispers circulated like blood, clotting and flowing at will, about how a girl so young, so bubbly, so cute, could write such a heartbreaking series of short stories of abuse, loss, and death.


    The blood flowed faster and bubbled over when they speculated how that girl also contacted a publisher all by herself, sent a whole manuscript of the first story through the mail with her phone number attached, and became a millionaire while people thrice her age were rotting in the streets. The answer was easy if a brain was present¡ªadvertising.


    She picked the most renowned publisher because she knew agents could see the goldmine that she was. A little girl with the ability to write that well, tell such mature tales that could bring full-grown men to their knees? The money printed itself, hopping right into their wallets. The movie deals also walked themselves, banging on her door and begging on their knees to give their studio the rights to her beating heart.


    And that¡¯s what her book was, her still-beating heart. The blood drained from her wrist, turned to ink, and written with a sharp quill sculpted from frozen tears.


    ¡°You¡¯re thinking. It¡¯s not good to think before you walk a red carpet.¡±


    ¡°And what would you know about that?¡±


    ¡°Being full of nerves and chitters is never a good state to be in, let alone in front of thousands of people.¡± She talked like an old woman, bitter and full of spite, but equally full of knowledge. A seemingly never-ending well of comebacks and tricks.


    She should have been talking about crushes, glitter and unicorns, and cooties from the aforementioned crushes. Is eleven young enough to still be talking about the taste of glue? Because that would be more natural than whatever mature gospel left this small child on my right side. It was enough to drive anyone insane. It sure as hell drives me up a wall.


    ¡°Just nervous, is all. Aren¡¯t you?¡± My voice was too tight. Relax it, I berated myself. There has never been a day where I was not anxious around this girl, stepping around her like she was a lioness about to come for my throat.


    I correct the previous description of myself. Ripe implies being ready, and I was not at all ready. She showed me that.


    ¡°Of course, but I¡¯m going to save all that silly energy for when the driver opens our door. Rather nice limo.¡± Talk like a normal child for the love of God. No child acts like that, talks like that, even her. In theory.


    I read her short stories, every horrific word to get into character. While it was never confirmed that she used herself as inspiration for the bloody and bruised protagonists of each sad tale, the care she put into them read more like empathy than sympathy.


    I remember shuddering and dropping the thick book at the¡­ I believe it was the fourth story. A young girl hanging from a tree, the words ¡°Told ya¡± carved into both her bloody arms. A savage accusation to her guilty father and morbid encouragement for her hysterical mother. The detail that she put into describing the body, the blue and purple face, the crows gouging her eyes out overnight, the bloated weight of her straining the creaking rope. It was too much for a boy who just came to terms that he would one day die.


    None of the protagonists were much older or younger than her. ¡°Write what you know,¡± after all.


    There were three more stories after that, and I read all of them. And then I read them again, turning pages with wet fingers and quivering lips. Then again. And again. Again. At first, it was to understand the main characters¡¯ pain. Get inside their heads so I could be them, if in a more ¡®masculine way.¡¯ All the protagonists in the stories were young girls, and I was a boy. All the auditioning actors were young boys, because, well, Hollywood. But then I wanted to know more about the name on the cover.


    It felt invasive, like I was reading the diary of a dozen dead girls. Like they were people of this world. Flipping through the grotesque book with the plain cover as each child told me how they died in the most gut-wrenching ways, not a detail missed.


    I was not, and am not, a big reader, but I must have read that book twenty times before the audition, bruises under my eyes with how deep my obsession became. And I did eventually realize that the little girl in the pink, fluffy dress, the one who would decide the fate of fifty-three boys, was the same girl who wrote my fixation.


    It conflicted me, studying her from afar while pretending to read my lines, because I still did not know if she was one of my heroes or the monster under my bed. This was the being who transplanted images of young children hanging from trees in my head, and beaten by her guardians, siblings, and peers. All wanting to tear the skin from her bones like ravenous wolves. Or crows.


    ¡°Hmm, yes, very nice. I¡­¡± I coughed into my hand to hide its tremble. ¡°I¡¯ve never been in one before.¡± Do not twiddle your thumbs, you idiot!


    She caught my flinch and adrenaline-shot hands and smirked. ¡°Neither have I.¡± It was the same face she held when she saw me perform, trying to mimic the cocky smirk of a child who faced death in the comfort of their own home. A child who sold her still-beating heart.


    I slowly raised my hand towards her, mouth agape. Then I thought better and pulled back, away, and wrapped my white tuxedo jacket tighter around myself.


    That¡¯s what I was wearing, a white tux with a baby boy blue bowtie. Revolting. She wore something a bit more tasteful, a purple shirt and a torn denim jacket, with leggings and a deep green skirt. Her hair was in a braid. Fake but high-quality white flowers decorated whatever spaces they could fit but not fall out of. She even had a flower crown on, with flecks of gold and silver on the flowers, instead of being beautiful on their own. The stylist must have been good at her job, because she finished the outfit with the black army boots the girl was currently amusing herself with.


    It was the only normal thing I saw her do up until the point we went into the limo for the red carpet, something that was not a show. She stomped in puddles and jumped onto tree stumps as soon as she put them on with an evil giggle and a shimmy. The child put the boots through their paces, joking that she was ¡°just breaking them in!¡± before going right back to testing how much they could take before they gave up and split at the seams. With luck and what must have been lots of elbow grease, they now looked to be in perfect condition, leather gleaming.


    More ¡°bratty princess¡± than ¡°diamond in the rough,¡± but I guess it was a challenge making a child look like anything other than a child. My shoulders loosened a fraction of an inch before jerking back up at her voice. This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    ¡°You have a question.¡± It wasn¡¯t a question. I hated that.


    ¡°No.¡± My voice cracked.


    ¡°Yes, you do. Spit it out.¡± Hers did not.


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell me what to do.¡±


    ¡°We will probably never see each other again, so might as well.¡± She had a point. If this movie had not been my big break, I would have probably spent my childhood on kids¡¯ vitamin commercials.


    Taking a deep breath, praying to whatever deity would hear me out for strength, I turned to her with my entire body, working around the seatbelt. That got her attention, because she did likewise, either unaware or uncaring that I towered over her. Bored, always bored unless in front of crowds. Then she was an angel.


    ¡°Why me?¡± I shook my head with a breathy chuckle, still unbelieving of my position. One of the most anticipated movies that year, and I was the star. ¡°Why did you choose me for the role?¡± There were a handful of named child actors there, causing some auditionees to throw their scripts to the floor and storm out in a huff of curses and choked-back sobs. I did not, though, and I held the tear-stained papers to my chest, discreetly rocking back and forth.


    Her eyes. The most demented part of her. How they hardened and softened like chocolate, but never with any of its gooey warmth. The few adults who met her more than once cowed at her expression. Floundered away from her, avoiding the unnatural sight being pulsed into them.


    The only other time I saw the same stare was the handful of times my grandfather talked about the time he served. Cold, unforgiving, and calculating a thousand things at once, a thousand memories. Not even my father had that look, and he also served¡ªalbeit for not as long¡ªand killed a man when he broke into our house. Shot him dead right in front of me, then yelled and cursed at me to go back to my room.


    ¡°You were the best for the job,¡± she answered, easy as rain falls.


    ¡°But why?¡± I begged now, placing my hand on the middle seat, trying to lean in further like she had all the answers. She acted as if she did, conducted herself with the stiff grace of a ¡®starving scholar.¡¯


    She tilted her head, studying me from head to toe. The cold part of her stare melted away, slagging off the bitter taste of dark chocolate and leaving more of the milk and sugar. ¡°We¡¯re kin.¡±


    What fucking eleven-year-old uses the word kin!


    ¡°No, we¡¯re not.¡± My eyebrows furrowed, and I leaned back. Our annual family reunions were big, too big, with every first cousin, second cousin, and fifth cousin twice removed. Godparents, family friends, etc., etc. She would be to at least one of those, and I would have had no choice but to be dragged over and introduced.


    ¡°You misunderstand.¡± She shook her head like I was a toddler who didn¡¯t get that the cylinder goes in the circle hole. ¡°We aren¡¯t blood-related, but¡­¡± She reached her hand out, meeting me halfway in the middle seat.


    ¡°You¡¯re like me.¡± She smiled and laughed a little when I tilted my head.


    My eyes widened when her meaning clicked, and I ripped my hand away. I closed the damaged appendage with the good one, rocking a bit. Forward-back-forward-back, trying to mimic a mother¡¯s gentle waves. It had no effect, though, because I was never conditioned to associate soft rocks with comfort. I twisted away, staring at nothing through the tinted window, the flashes of cameras looking like shooting stars. The air conditioning seemed to blow stronger, flittering through my jacket and right into my skin, into my bones.


    On Christmas day, cousins challenged one another to see who had the muscle to crack open the most walnuts, and I always lost. At first, it was because I was too young, muscles loose and flimsy like noodles, inside chubby arms. But then it was because I never had the energy. Then it was because my fingers were more bruised and bloodied than not. My pained squeals annoyed the Aunts, and so they tossed me with the smallest of us, a toy for their entertainment. It was how I got into acting, because small children are never evil, and their laughs rang like bells when my voices and faces made them shriek.


    She took the rejection well, brushing my unsaid insults to the side, and looked out her own window. She studied her reflection, flicked her hair just so, and pinched her cheeks more.


    ¡°They don¡¯t want us.¡± She paused and, when she saw she had my attention, went on. ¡°They don¡¯t want abused, but resilient. They don¡¯t want the talented, but at what cost? They don¡¯t even want the broken, but repaired.¡± She took a shuddering breath, the first sign of unease I had seen in her, and drove her point home.


    ¡°They want to see abused children walk it off like nothing happened, because ¡®that¡¯s what children do.¡¯ They endure horrific things and walk it off because ¡®they¡¯re children.¡¯ So strong, yet so weak. So smart, yet so stupid. They don¡¯t want to think about what we remember. What we remember them doing to us, and what they ignored. They want liars.¡± She spat the last sentence out.


    The girl sighed with the weight of a thousand stories. ¡°And we¡¯re going to give them what they want. We¡¯re going to give them liars. We¡¯re going to watch this mockery of a movie we made, and we¡¯re going to steal the reward and do what people like us do. Survive. Then,¡± her grin was full of crooked teeth, a black hole in the smile where one fell out. ¡°We¡¯re going to do a lot more than that.¡±


    A mockery was right. The movie I starred in, the movie from the book she wrote, had a happy ending for all the girls. They all escaped their situations because of luck or the kindness of strangers. None of her stories had something as mundane as a happily ever after. The most one could get was the hope that the father, brother, sister, or bully got their just desserts after the last page. It¡¯s what made them so popular. Each ending felt like an accusation and an apology.


    But she knew what the director and co-directors and their lawyers were going to do with it when she placed her signature on the endless contract, to the delight of their beady eyes and wet, stretched mouths. She had to¡¯ve, and I still cannot answer why. She never tells me anything.


    She showed me the palm of her hand, straining for me. Stretching close, closer, too close.


    ¡°Lie with me.¡±


    Thrilled screams bursted through the window, too loud to not be allowed entrance. She jolted while I almost hit my head on the roof, and she chortled behind her hand. It sounded like a bell¡¯s.


    ¡°Showtime.¡± She grinned and drew her hand away, dusting off invisible lint before undoing the seatbelt with practiced ease. She was excited. I was about to hyperventilate.


    The driver opened her door first, and she leaped out with a squeak¡ªa blasted squeak! She landed in front of dozens of cameras and hundreds of flabby, gaping mouths.


    It was a wonder why she did not just play her own characters, because she was a fabulous little actress. The girl giggled, rubbing her arm up and down with a nervous smile. She gave small, little waves to the crowd, and then skipped ahead across the red carpet, velvet ropes the only thing between her and the horde. That, and the muscular, properly dressed guards. All to the world a happy, perfectly sane child.


    A sane, happy child, who did not have a broken soul stitched together with old glue sticks and stained ribbons. Who did not have the intelligence to save herself and her mother, getting her maternal grandmother to open an account to put all the money from her book into, where her father could never hope to touch it. Buying a house in the same grandmother¡¯s name and spending a ridiculous amount of money to make sure that only she would stay with her mother and not her two other siblings. He could keep those two. Just like he could rot in hell.


    So I listened in on the discussions with her financial planner. Whatever, she hasn¡¯t sued me yet.


    A pause in her step, then she looked back and, with another squeak, ran to me with her arms in front of her, grasping my hand. She tugged at it, and her eyes¡­


    Lie with me.


    Time slowed down, lights going at a snail¡¯s pace, little orbs of yellow and white all around. It gave me time to watch all the flabby mouths stretch and spit, cameras click-click-clicking with the force of their owners¡¯ thumbs or pointer fingers.


    Anger is quick to boil, bubbling into the lungs and heart in an instant, as fast as it takes to snap your fingers. It leaves just as fast, steam coming off in puffs of clouds until all that is left is a cool head.


    Hate is different. Hate seeds into the heart, roots making home in the thin tissue, and robs the body of nutrients. Grows until its vines and branches spread throughout the body. It stabs into the lungs, and spleen, and stomach, spilling their contents. Wraps around vocal chords, blood vessels, the brain stem, and each bump in the spinal cord. Then it squeezes, and it spurts from the mouth and eyes like a water fountain, thousands of red droplets required to foster the wiggling, squealing parasite. I wished I could wrap my vines around everyone and¡­ squeeze. Infect them all.


    They were buying her act. Not because she was just so good, but because they wanted to. They wanted to eat up the lie that she was a normal girl, promising to one day marry the lead singer of a boy band. Paint her nails with glittery nail polish, and add cheap, one-dollar stickers to them.


    We were going to a movie, a movie I starred in, about the book she wrote. A book where children hang from trees. A book where fathers beat their children, who then beat each other. She wrote one of her characters hiding a kitchen knife under their pillow, sure that the evil big brother would choke her to death in her sleep. Her life was right there, black ink contrasted with white paper, impossible to miss, and they still bought into her lies. Her smiles and giggles, behind her a red flag so big it covered the pale moon.


    They ignored her jumps and shaking hands when someone shouted. Her twitchy eyelids. Her cool looks and sharp temper. The bruises under her eyes from no sleep, but plenty of screams. The wicked intelligence that came from broken minds. Minds like knives, only growing sharper the rougher the surface.


    I hated them. I hated them all. I hated their cameras and their stretched mouths and aunts and uncles and fathers and mothers. Damn them all to hell, but please be so courteous as to save me a seat. I felt revulsion and fury so strong, my hands shook. My breath came out in pants. Blood flowed from my brain and fed the parasite squirming and shrieking in my heart. My eyelid twitched and red creeped into my vision. Loathing like venom, and it pooled into my mouth with a bitter sting to the tongue. Awakening.


    She tugged again.


    The shake of her head was subtle. The only indicator it happened was the tremble of her faux flowers. Not here. In the privacy of my room, where I could scream to my heart¡¯s content and punch a pillow until the rough fabric of it scratched my knuckles raw. Or with her, crying about how unfair and messed up it all was, a song she knew by heart. Until then, smile, laugh.


    Lie with me.


    I beamed at her and laughed, shaking my head at her childish behavior. In a moment of pure brilliance, if I might be so bold, I pulled out a sparkly flower in her crown and threaded it in the buttonhole of my jacket.


    The crowd choked on it. They awed and flashed their cameras with double the urgency. She played right along, giving me a squeeze around my middle, and then wrapped her arm around mine. They did not notice my lapse into murder. We walked like young love and waltzed right into the theater.


    The theater was freezing and, when we took our seats, I lifted the arm of mine up and let her cuddle up to me. The lights went off after ten minutes of boring ads and a reminder to not say anything until the official theater release. Or we¡¯d be sorry. Ooo.


    Lie with me.


    The cold was not why I secured the girl under my arm further, leaning my weight onto her like she did me. I whispered into her hair, avoiding the silver and gold crown, ¡°You are either going to be this world¡¯s savior or its destruction.¡±


    ¡°Why not both?¡±

 The Right Choice

    This ball is a farce, and my tailbone hurts. At least the property is stunning, everything dripping with gold leaf, wine purple, and velvety red. Not to mention enough marble to set a sculptor up for life. The mansion my friend invited me to is huge to the point of obscene, as no one needs a house so large that it can fit half the city¡¯s population with little fuss. I wonder as I fiddle with a silk napkin what it¡¯s like to have money to burn.


    People around me are just as bored and twice as expectant. With bated breath, they wait for the main event to arrive. The buzz of the crowd brushes my skin, raising the hair on my arm and at the back of my neck.


    Older people had migrated to their usual company, the luster of the party a pretty-face they¡¯re conditioned to. The younger folk, though, are skipping and strutting around tables and pockets of people. Especially the new-money, dressed to impress. They remind me of deer, thin-legged and hard-headed, with energy in reserves. Beautiful¡ªand ten seconds away from jumping off a bridge in fright.


    ¡°You¡¯re too young to be looking at the newbies like that,¡± a chipper voice says next to me.


    ¡°And you¡¯re too old to be listening in on my thoughts.¡±


    Nick scoffs, swirling the toothpick in his drink, the olive long gone. ¡°If I could read your mind, we wouldn¡¯t¡¯ve gotten into half of the bullshit you dragged me into.¡±


    ¡°Like a ball where a princess presents her fianc¨¦? Like that¡¯s my scene?¡± Leaning back in my chair, I interlace my fingers and rest my hands on my middle. ¡°I¡¯m starving, by the way. What¡¯s with you rich people and your allergies to food?¡±


    ¡°Ha-ha,¡± he drawled. ¡°Don¡¯t quit your day job.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d never quit bothering you, buddy. It¡¯s too fun.¡±


    Nick pushes up his horn-rimmed glasses¡­ with his middle finger.


    ¡°Love you too.¡±


    He stabs his toothpick at me, then swirls it in the air. ¡°I¡¯m doing you a favor, dumbass. What better place to get a sugar mama than a palace full of cougars?¡±


    ¡°I do not need a sugar mama,¡± I hiss at him, and the meddlesome man flinches back. ¡°I need these people,¡± I wave a hand at the flock of white hair, clothes worth more than a year¡¯s rent. ¡°To hire me already.¡±


    Nick quirks the side of his mouth, and a dimple reveals itself. ¡°Rich people love investing into their toys¡¯ projects. They consider it charity.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m no one¡¯s toy,¡± I growl with a snarl. He raises his hands in defeat and blissfully doesn¡¯t push it. ¡°How¡¯d you convince me to come here, anyway? I stick out like a sore thumb.¡± I pluck at a loose thread on my red suit, the fabric obviously cheap. I feel like a chicken in a flock of peacocks.


    ¡°My charming good looks and alluring personality?¡±


    I side-eye him. ¡°That¡¯s definitely a way to describe you.¡±


    ¡°C¡¯mon,¡± my friend moans. ¡°This is the perfect opportunity to network. There are people who would kill to be in your shoes right now. And I¡¯m not even exaggerating that much. I don¡¯t get why you¡¯re not excited.¡±


    ¡°Because, unlike those people, I still have my dignity.¡± I rest my head on the chair¡¯s back and watch a hundred identical gold watches skitter past. I hear the faint ticking of the one closest to me, and the older man attached to it catches my stare. He sneers and shoves a hand into his pocket, hiding the watch, the implication crystal clear. I bare a canine at him and he scampers off with his fellow gold watches.


    My friend smiles and waves his hands at me. ¡°See? You fit right in. Pompous jackass is so in right now.¡±


    ¡°How about annoying sidekick?¡± He presses a hand to his chest in feigned offense, adding a gasp for good measure. Warm humor trickles at the back of my throat like champagne, and I let it.


    Speaking of alcohol, I wave down a server and replace my flute with a full one, enjoying the taste of sweet strawberries and tickling bubbles. ¡°I will say, I¡¯d come back to this fancy hellhole just for this.¡± I lift the glass for emphasis.


    He snags the fragile stem of his half-full one and clinks his against mine. ¡°Amen to that, sister.¡± Nick sucks down the other half of his drink, cheeks puffing up as he swishes the alcohol around. I grimace and sip on mine.


    Swallowing down a cheek¡¯s worth of gin, he speaks around the other full cheek. By the grace of the gods, he doesn¡¯t spit out any of it. ¡°Hey, maybe you¡¯ll finally find a girlfriend.¡±


    With a roll of my eyes, I sigh. ¡°For the last time, I do not need a girlfriend. I¡¯m fine.¡±


    ¡°Fuck yeah you are, hence why you being single is an anomaly.¡± He winks at me and gulps down his full cheek. That would make it his fifth martini. I close one eye and peer into my flute, wondering what¡¯s the alcohol content of this stuff.


    ¡°Where would I have time for a partner?¡± I put an elbow on the table and rest my chin on the palm of my hand. ¡°The only thing I can have with anybody right now is friends-with-benefits. If I wanted that, I¡¯d call you.¡±


    Nick wiggles his eyebrows.


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Eesh.¡± He puts the back of his hand on his forehead, closing his eyes with a dramatic sigh. ¡°At least let a man have his dreams.¡±


    I purr, ¡°I live to crush your dreams.¡±


    He opens his eyes and frowns at me. ¡°Why am I friends with you again?¡±


    ¡°My dazzling personality.¡±


    My tablemate snaps his fingers. ¡°Oh, yeah, that¡¯s right. Never a dull day with you, mi azuca.¡±


    ¡°¡®My sugar¡¯?¡± I translate with a snort. ¡°At least try to be original.¡±


    ¡°Hey, my Spanish is ¡®caca.¡¯ Go easy on me. Pretend I¡¯m some five-foot-three red head.¡± He flutters his eyelashes, then purses his lips and makes loathsome kissing noises.


    ¡°Your head¡¯s gonna be red if you keep on talking. I hear blood makes a great hair dye,¡± I rub the side of my head. ¡°Please tell me you didn¡¯t drag me to this gilded shitshow so I could get laid.¡±


    ¡°Nooo. I dragged you into this gilded shitshow so you can get paid and get laid.¡± His eyes sparkle as he thrusts his chest out, proud of his little rhyme.


    ¡°I despise you.¡±


    ¡°I worship you,¡± Nick retorts, and I can¡¯t tell if he¡¯s joking. ¡°I didn¡¯t leave you when you kissed that girl at the homecoming party¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ah, freshman year of high school.¡± I shake my head. ¡°Worst possible time to tell the whole damn world you¡¯re limp-wristed.¡±


    ¡°¡ªI¡¯m not ditching you now. C¡¯mon,¡± He makes a wild gesture with his hands. ¡°What¡¯s the worst that can happen? A pretty rich lady tells you no and talks shit to her friends? You don¡¯t care about these guys¡¯ opinions, anyway. Who knows? You might find someone who wants to cover you in silver wrapping paper and ship you to their vacation home in Crysti.¡±


    I glare and stab a thumb towards the glittering crowd. Another man covered in a ridiculous amount of rings, necklaces, and not one, but two watches, walks by. ¡°The only time these richies give a shit about people like me is when they need a tax write-off.¡±


    ¡°In case you forgot, sis,¡± he points a finger at himself. ¡°I¡¯m one of those richies.¡± He tries to flag down another server, only to be ignored in favor of an old widow.


    My stomach chooses that moment to grumble, and I swear I can feel my blood sugar dropping by the second. I tug on a sleeve then rub my eyes, the black gloves oddly soothing. ¡°No, you¡¯re worse. You¡¯re daddy¡¯s money and too stupid to do anything with it.¡±


    Nick scoffs. He tries to sip out of his glass, scrunching his face when he realizes it¡¯s bone dry. ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m so stupid that I brought you to this instead of, I don¡¯t know, a model.¡±


    ¡°Pfft! Ha! What model would tolerate your annoying ass?¡±


    My friend uses his empty glass like how a king his scepter and aims it at me. The lonely toothpick clinks against the rim. ¡°A smart businesswoman model who doesn¡¯t bitch about the opportunities I drop into her lap?¡± He raises a brow, lips pursed, and spins the delicate glass neck of his martini between his fingers. The toothpick now bounces and twirls with the speed and grace of a ballerina as he jostles it around.


    ¡°Touch¨¦,¡± I relent. Yet another man, younger this time, runs past us and I blink at his ridiculous outfit. Like every other man who¡¯s run past, he¡¯s dripping with gold and precious stones. He¡¯s wearing a suit of vibrant purple, and it looks positively cartoonish with his¡­ are those snake skin boots? Good gods, they are.


    ¡°Hey,¡± I spin a finger in the air, stare dancing around the domineering crowd. The relentless noise and sheer heat emanating from the groups of bodies fills my lungs like molasses. I swallow around the sticky lump in my throat and say, ¡°Don¡¯t you feel¡­ underdressed?¡± Nick almost always wears vibrant, goofy patterns. Somehow, they suit him, even though he stands out like a scarab beetle in a jar of rollie-pollies. Now, though, he borderline fits in with how ridiculous everyone else looks. Unlike him, though, their gold-plated clown suits do not become them. Not at all.


    His brows climb higher and I swallow down a comment about how his face is going to stay that way if he keeps it up. ¡°Since when do you care about dressing up? It took me twenty minutes just to get you to put on the gloves I gave you. You would¡¯ve come here in tennis shoes and a T-shirt if you had it your way.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not talking about that.¡± I spin my finger faster this time. ¡°Look around. These guys look ridiculous. And I mean more so than usual.¡±


    Putting down his empty glass, Nick sighs and takes in the room. He blinks. He sees what I see. ¡°You¡¯re right.¡± My friend puts an arm over the back of his chair and strains to look behind him at another group who are peacocking to the servers paid to smile at them. ¡°That¡¯s weird. Father said this wasn¡¯t going to be that big a deal.¡± I give him a look. ¡°Bigger than usual. Royals get married all the time, what with all the cousins and whatnot. Everyone here looks like they dunked themselves in glitter and rhinestones.¡±


    He grins, his eyes wistful. ¡°Hehe, remember that group project we did in art class? With Miss Nickelson?¡±


    I smirk, then puff my cheeks to hold in a laugh. A poster board smothered in gold and silver glitter. Pipe cleaners twisted into eldritch-looking reindeer with plastic pink gemstones for eyes. ¡°Last time I ever let you lead a group project.¡±


    He sticks out his tongue. ¡°That¡¯s because you ¡®have a tendency to see your fellow classmates as inconveniences instead of help.¡¯¡± Nick turns up his nose and talks in a fake snooty voice. He picks his glass back up and swirls it around like it¡¯s a wine glass and he the all-knowing patriarch.


    ¡°You are not quoting Principal Leon at me right now.¡± I lean over and whisper, ¡°he got arrested for embezzlement the year after we graduated.¡±


    ¡°I like to call it ¡®The opportunistic investment of one¡¯s self.¡¯¡±


    ¡°I worry about you sometimes.¡±


    ¡°Sometimes? I need to step up my game.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to hurt you, Nick.¡±


    ¡°Harder, mommy.¡± I swing at him from across the table and nearly knock over an innocent candle. He jerks his chair back before my fist lands, though, cackling. Another group of young men stampede past our table. They race towards the staircase, likely trying to catch a glimpse of the Princess and her fianc¨¦ before everyone else. All of them, young and old, have the desperate air of bachelors as they leave whimpering mothers and sisters behind. A perfect opportunity for a businesswoman to strut in and pitch a few ideas to them.


    I smile at my friend, and the corners of my eyes crinkle. As much as I hate to admit it, there are people who would kill to be in my place. Lucky is not strong enough a word for this stroke of good fortune. ¡°Thanks for this, man. I know you¡¯re trying.¡±


    A server sweeps in at that moment and hands him a full glass of champagne, which he accepts with a sly grin. My friend raises the flute to his lips and grins at me with a nod. ¡°Anything for my favorite person.¡± He heaves a dramatic sigh deep from the belly. If only he learned how to use his breath like that when he was in choir. ¡°Such a shame I¡¯m not your type.¡±


    ¡°Keep dreaming, pendejo.¡±


    Nick winks at me. ¡°Don¡¯t tempt me, puta.¡±


    We fall into our banter with ease, ignoring the hordes of men running past every few minutes like clockwork. My friend is in the middle of reminding me of an embarrassing incident involving a calculator and a vibrator, and I am howling so much that I almost miss the blare of horns.


    An older lady, her neck studded with rose gold and black opals, shushes us with a shake of her head. Nick and I stare at each other, then at the grand staircase, perfectly in sync. It isn¡¯t every day one sees royalty, after all. Not one who isn¡¯t behind a TV screen.


    ¡°Ladies and gentlemen,¡± the announcer calls through the speakers after the horns have their fun. ¡°I present to you, for your viewing pleasure, our soon-to-be bride¡­ Princess Sierra of The Golden Isles!¡± Uproarious applause meets the statement, yet it goes in one ear and out the other. I¡¯m still picking my jaw off the floor.


    ¡°¡®for your viewing pleasure¡¯?¡± I mutter to my friend, eyes wide. ¡°What the fuck, dude?¡±


    He jerks his hands up, his face matching mine. ¡°Don¡¯t look at me. My father said this was just going to be an introduction, not a¡­ an¡­ um.¡±


    ¡°Auction,¡± I hiss. The men standing in front of the dais are all but drooling as they wait for her. They pack themselves at the base of the stairs like sardines, and I doubt all those sweaty bodies smell much better. I don¡¯t understand how they can stand it. My stomach rolls at the thought of being in there, crowded from all sides by heat and wet and loud.


    Men are rarely the shining stars at affairs like this. It is the women who don far more precious metals and gems to show how ¡®well¡¯ their wealth nourishes them. This time, though, it is the patriarchs and future patriarchs who show off the family riches. An eager attempt to show they can gift a princess with the princess-treatment.


    It clicks why everyone is so dressed up. All the alpaca wool suits and silk ties, thick blood diamonds and pure-gold wrist watches. The men are birds of paradise, shaking their lustrous, freshly preened feathers at the other males. Baboons, pounding their weak fists against padded chests, vying to prove who has the biggest, reddest ass.


    The King and Queen, along with any other sponsor, have invested a treasury¡¯s worth of money into this. In response, the contestants met them coin for coin in jewelry, colognes, and clothes. After all, no sacred jewel or alpaca wool scarf could compare to the prize that is a princess attached to their arm, bound with a circlet of gold around her finger. A living trophy.


    A chorus of Ooos and Ahs sing as the Princess steps from behind a pillar and reveals herself to the world. Even from here, I can tell her face is flushed, no doubt from the announcer presenting her as a ¡®viewing pleasure.¡¯ My friend and I gape.


    Nick eyes me. ¡°Lookie there, a five-foot-three red head.¡±


    I mumble, dazed, ¡°More like five-foot-six.¡±


    ¡°Still shorter than you.¡± My head nods before I can think better of it.


    The Princess truly is beautiful. Stunning. Thousands of shimmery scales shape her strapless dress, the low neckline mere inches from being scandalous. Long, golden gloves cover the entirety of her arms, and the nimble fingers hold a variety of rings. Her ring finger is pointedly empty.


    She holds her hands in front of her, a soft smile on her face as the rings catch the chandelier¡¯s hundred lights. Her hair is a complicated mess of braids, held up with gold pins crowned with what I swear are real pearls. A blood-red curl falls from her hairdo and tickles her nose. The Princess¡¯s face scrunches a bit and my heart aches. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    They turned her into a work of art. A thousand fragile pieces forged with fire and emeralds, sewn together with a meticulous hand. And the crowd beneath her is too busy barking and howling at her to appreciate the work. The Princess cowers from her place on top of the stairs. Guilt curls in my stomach from my staring and I tear my eyes away.


    My friend points a finger into his mouth, pretending to gag. His eyes, though, are sad as they check on the Princess being hounded by the bachelors. I pick up a polished spoon and stare into my own eyes, finding the same sorrow. Angling the spoon, the glossy metal reflects Princess Sierra. Her arms are wrapped around her middle, and fear twists her face into something truly heartbreaking.


    ¡°She¡¯s scared,¡± I say, and place the spoon back down.


    Nick leans forward, placing his forearms on the table. The corners of his mouth turn down as he picks at his cuticles. ¡°Princesses aren¡¯t supposed to be scared,¡± he whispers. No. They¡¯re not.


    He yelps when I stand up, the chair scraping along the pretty tile. The chair¡¯s legs gouge scratches into the swirling marble. Shame. ¡°What are you doing?¡± Nick asks, catching my flute when it teeters.


    ¡°What¡¯s it look like? I¡¯m helping her.¡±


    ¡°How the hell are you¡ª¡± The carnal hollers of a hundred men drown out the rest of his sentence as I march toward them. I blink and I am suddenly standing at the edge of the crowd. Gold, black, and silver shift in a dizzying display, like a herd of prissy, ravenous zebras. Bile rises to the back of my throat and it burns.


    I should not want her. The Princess is everything I despise in the world, inlaid with enough money to feed the forgotten children of The Golden Isles for a year. A living statue of superiority. She has the air of innocence, despite appearing as old as me, encased in the bubble wrap of private tutors and planned meals. If we were to meet at a party or at a bar, I¡¯d eat her alive.


    Yet there is a softness in her eyes. An echo of a feeling I knew all too well once upon a time, surrounded by inherent expectations. Kindness turned to heartlessness when those expectations were not met. Finding out that unconditional love did, in fact, have conditions. Before my heart gave way to the cruelty of that callous repetition and I smothered the fear and pain. Replaced it with cold fury. Wielded it like a knife.


    The beasts stand in wait. They growl and hope they can drop the pretense and simply snag their prize before a contender does the same. As my feet carry me towards where the stairs are, I look for any guards. I¡¯m no royal, but this seems to be the absurd and crass behavior these richies pretend to be above, let alone subject a sheltered princess to. There should be guards dragging these fools by the scruff of their neck like naughty schoolboys. Thrash them around until they limp back to their mothers, lesson learned.


    Instead, the well-dressed guards stand back, arms crossed, uncaring. Four stand at the doors the Princess entered through. The message is loud and clear: the Princess can either run to the greedy arms of the best mate, or be torn apart by the crowd until one of them wins. They will allow no scenario where she runs to the safety of her rooms. Her parents. Her home.


    Fuck that noise.


    Swallowing down the bile like the nastiest cough syrup, I throw my body into the swarm. A well-placed fist here and a foot there clears the way, as the only metal these people have is the metal on their wrists and lapels. In five minutes, I fight my way to the front of the crowd. My hand latches onto the staircase¡¯s railing, and I pull myself the rest of the way. A young man, more of a boy than anything, squeaks out of my way, eyes as big as the twin moons outside. ¡°Get lost,¡± I hiss at him, and he obeys without hesitation.


    He trips over the leg of an older man and, like dominoes, half the swarm falls to the ground in a heap of arms and legs, gold and silver. I press the knuckles of a clenched fist to my mouth to stifle a laugh, but someone doesn¡¯t. I jerk my head up.


    There she is, a hand over her mouth as she giggles at me and the mess I made. Her bubbling laugh is a ringing contrast to the chaos of indignified bodies below her. I grin stupidly and shrug a shoulder.


    ¡°Cute laugh.¡± And that¡¯s the first thing I say to a royal. Holy hell. Abort mission. Abort.


    The Princess laughs again and bites a painted bottom lip. Her makeup suits her, letting the sharpness of her cheeks and her plump bottom lip shine. Her emerald eyeshadow highlights her light brown eyes. Gold eyeliner and a soft blush frame it all. All of her.


    I¡¯m staring. I know I¡¯m staring, but I can¡¯t tear my eyes away from her own, which shine honey in the bright lights. To prevent further humiliation, I say nothing else. My legs carry me the rest of the way up the stretching staircase. I pause a few steps below her and offer my arm with a raised eyebrow.


    She takes a hesitant step down, then stops. We both hear it. Silence. As deep as the green of her dress. The Princess looks up and all the blood drains from her face at whatever greets her. I refuse to turn, though. The prickle of a thousand eyes undressing me, skinning me, is enough.


    I don¡¯t care what a thousand strangers think of this. If they want to play their games, fine. They can gawk and squawk till the cows come home when their ¡®fun¡¯ bites them in the ass. Don¡¯t hate the player, hate the game.


    My hand reaches out to her, and I tap the tip of her gloved finger with my own. ¡°Princess.¡± She sucks in a gasp as she jerks her stare back at me, a deer in the headlights. ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± I whisper. My pointer finger wraps around hers, and her warmth seeps through the fabric of my glove. Like lava, it crawls and flows through the cracks in my skin. Uses my veins as highways. The heat melts some of the ice encasing my bones, my heart. Not every speck of crystallized water, no, but enough. Enough that breathing felt¡­ easier.


    I breathe in a lungful of air and taste the sweet, minty fragrance of her perfume. ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± I repeat, head foggy. The thought of sirens enters my mind, and I wonder if this is how sailors disappeared. Not diving into the waves for the siren¡¯s song, but the promise of her eyes, the color of whiskey on a winter¡¯s night, and scales the shade of seaweed. After all, if she was beautiful, the gods must have crafted her for them. Entitled to her beauty, they dove right into the sea, only to drown from their own hubris.


    ¡°I-I¡­¡± She covers her mouth with a hand, eyes falling back to the silent crowd. ¡°I can¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°You can,¡± I assure her. My hand stays where it is. An offer, not a command. She can rip her hand away from mine if she so chooses. I hope she doesn¡¯t, though. One dog barks at her, demanding she let go of ¡®that bitch¡¯ and come to one of them. How audacious one has to be to command a princess, I have no idea. Frankly, I don¡¯t want to find out.


    The Princess¡¯s eyes dart to the man who yelled at her. The pointed tips of her gloved fingers dig into the soft skin of her cheek. Honeyed eyes dissect her surroundings. Hundreds of judgments and demands whisper at her, and they order the royal back to her cage. A prison cell made of bricks of silver and palladium, where chains drip from her neck in rose gold links. Meals prepared with the purpose of keeping her ¡®perfect¡¯ for as long as possible. A king sized bed, wrapped in sanitized silk sheets.


    I can see the hate in her eyes, and it burns like ice. Burns with the desire to fan that hate into an inferno and melt the precious metals down to molten slag. And I thought she was gorgeous before.


    The Princess¡¯s fingers interlace with mine, then her hand slips from my hold and brushes against my wrist. Her fingertips trace a pattern on hidden veins, as light as a feather. She rubs the cheap crimson fabric of my suit between her fingers, and I cringe, a blush staining my cheeks.


    For fuck¡¯s sake, it sounds cheap. The polyester of my suit insults the expensive silk of her gloves. It crinkles like a candy wrapper¡ªor maybe that¡¯s only in my panicked mind.


    I flashback to Nick offering to have a suit tailor-made, fitted perfectly to my body type and with a far better fabric. It could even be in red, he said. It wouldn¡¯t be alpaca wool, but it¡¯d be better than the plastic I smother my sensitive skin in. I told him to piss off, and that I didn¡¯t need him to dress me up like a doll, pride stinging. Gods, I¡¯m an idiot.


    A soft smile blooms onto her features, and it soon opens into a toothy grin. Her smile reveals two adorable dimples and a crooked front tooth. Another layer of frost thaws off my heart. My chest puffs out as her hand rests on the crook of my arm. More of her heat seeps into the rime lining my veins. I bow my head and say, ¡°My lady.¡± I have no idea what to say to royalty, but that sounds right. Right?


    She giggles and places her other hand over the one resting on my arm. ¡°My lady,¡± she whispers back to me with a huffed laugh. We walk down the staircase, and it widens as we descend. I resist the urge to scoot to one side of the steps and grab a railing. We are walking right down the middle and the image of slipping and taking her with me repeats on a loop in my head. Princess Sierra floats down while my steps clop, the hard sole of my boots not a help.


    ¡°Princess Sierra, is it?¡± I say under my breath. The last thing I have cared about was the royal family and all its dramatic dullness. Prince What¡¯s-His-Name got all of my peers¡¯ attention, way back in school. All the girls would gossip about how they wrote letters to him. Tagged him on their socials, dying to catch the heir¡¯s eye and become a princess, like in their childhood books.


    I thought they were silly. Not for falling in love with a pretty face and a sweet smile, though. But for deluding themselves into believing that someone so high up would ever ¡®lower¡¯ himself to a commoner. That was the real fantasy in all those old stories.


    The Princess nods, and her Adam¡¯s apple bobs with a nervous swallow. I cover her hands with mine and rub my thumb across her knuckles. ¡°It¡¯s easier after the first time.¡±


    ¡°First time doing what?¡±


    ¡°Walking with a woman, arm-in-arm.¡±


    She narrows her eyes. ¡°Women do that all the time.¡±


    I squeeze her hands. ¡°Not like this.¡± The Princess¡¯s lips firm an ¡®O¡¯ shape. She nods as her eyes water. Her tears sparkle like diamonds, beautiful and rare, yet I¡¯ve never hated diamonds more than at this moment. Never have the precious stones looked so hideous and wrong as they do clinging to her eyelashes.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay.¡± I clutch her hands tighter. One of her rings presses the imprint of its stone into my palm.


    She shakes her head. Her eyelashes flutter as she blinks away the visible signs of her pain. ¡°No, it is not.¡± The Princess rests her head on my shoulder. ¡°And it will never be okay again.¡±


    I can¡¯t help a grin, morbidly nostalgic. ¡°Ya know,¡± I brush a stray lock of her cherry hair away from her eyes and behind her ear. ¡°I told myself just that when I came out. Did it in the worst possible way too: kissed a girl in front of everyone at a party. Thought the ¡®good vibes¡¯ would, I don¡¯t know, sweeten the news a bit.¡±


    ¡°I am assuming it did not go well.¡±


    ¡°Pah!¡­ No.¡±


    We finally step off the staircase, and it¡¯s like the world around us fades away. The horde stumbles away from us, and a thousand voices whizz and buzz around like a swarm of mosquitoes.


    We pay no attention to them. I¡¯m far too focused on her. She¡¯s far too focused on me.


    My neck tickles with her breath when she asks, ¡°What happened?¡±


    Nick jumps up from his seat like it¡¯s on fire, and he stabs his pointer fingers toward stained glass double-doors nearby. Outside the glass panes, snow carpets the grounds. The entire scene is a white canvas with bold black shadows in the shape of dormant flora. Not a soul seems to be out.


    I gently tug at the Princess¡¯s glove and jerk my head to the doors. She gets the hint and we head for our escape. A young man¡ªI think he¡¯s the same one from before too. Hard to forget that ¡®salmon¡¯ tie with silver stars¡ªsqueaks as he jumps off our path. She repeats her question, not noticing my friend as we pass him and his still gobsmacked expression.


    I clear my throat. My hand leaves hers and picks at imaginary lint on my jacket. ¡°The same depressing story, I¡¯m afraid. Friends turned out to be backstabbing jerks. Parents disowned me, and I had to move out as soon as I was eighteen. If we had the money for a conversion camp, woof. Last time I spoke to my mother was when my father died. Heart attack. She told me not to bother coming to the funeral.¡±


    She stares at me with wide, sorrowful eyes. ¡°I am so sorry.¡±


    I wave her sympathies off with a, ¡°Nah, don¡¯t be. My love for them had died far before my father did. Turns out, though, I wasn¡¯t the only gay kid in that hellhole. A couple of old dudes saw me getting kicked out of a restaurant and offered me a place to stay.¡±


    The memory warms me up and my lips quirk into a half-smile. ¡°Their names were Steve and Bob, if you can believe it. Both of them were too young to drop dead, but too old to work or clean the hard spots. I got to live off their retirement funds if I helped around the house, in the garden, and got a job of my own at some point.¡± I huff. ¡°To say I was lucky would be a drastic understatement.¡±


    ¡°Where are they now?¡±


    ¡°Gone.¡± The word tastes bitter as I open one of the double doors and let the Princess walk past me. No one follows as I walk behind her after ensuring I shut the doors tight. The clean, cold air slows down my heart rate and cools my heated skin. I have half a mind to slide something through the doorknobs, but I don¡¯t want to give the guards reason to shatter the glass and then shatter my spine. I¡¯m afraid I have a horrible allergy to broken vertebrae.


    Princess Sierra¡¯s outfit was not made with snow in mind, and mine isn¡¯t much better with the poor material. Despite that, she appears at home in the frigid air as snowflakes form a fragile tiara on the top of her head. Wish I can say the same, almost falling on my ass on a slick patch of ice. She cackles as she leans her forearms against an icy rail.


    Scraping whatever I have left of my pride, I adjust my jacket, smooth my hair back into its place, and stride to her. I mimic her pose, placing my forearms on the railing and leaning my weight on them. My chin rests in a hand as the snowflakes race each other to the ground, last one there a dirty raindrop.


    ¡°Bob and Steve,¡± I say, and pause to see if I still have her attention. ¡°Left me in their will. Took maybe a year before I had to sell the house ¡®cause no one wants to hire a gay writer beyond a ¡®Poor me. We live in a society¡¯ piece that gets paid quarter-coins. We¡¯re a wonderful sad story, didn¡¯t ya hear?¡±


    The Princess chuckles, the sound a little sad and a little sardonic. She purses her lips and turns to me. She asks, ¡°How did you¡­ How did you know I was¡­ I am¡ª¡±


    ¡°Gaydar.¡± I say, eyes playful. The Princess snorts and attempts to hide it behind a cough. She fails miserably, and she doesn¡¯t even know how cute that is. Tragic. ¡°But in seriousness, I recognized that look you had in your eyes. Seen it a thousand times. Had it myself.¡± I fill my lungs with the chilled night air, enjoying the cloud of mist which forms on the exhale. ¡°Let me guess: your parents caught you with the maid and you could either get married to a jackass stat, or be disowned?¡±


    She scoffs and places her hand on my arm. Her nails slightly poke into the fabric. Suddenly, I¡¯m not that cold anymore. ¡°Close enough. I suppose this is me choosing disownment.¡± Her breath mists with every word, and more snowflakes add to her tiara.


    ¡°Can you disown a princess?¡± I ask. ¡°You royals have a hundred rules on how to sit with a perfectly good as¡ªEr, rear. Surely there¡¯s gotta be something about chucking heirs and ¡®just in case¡¯ heirs to the street.¡±


    ¡°For a prince? Yes. A princess¡­¡±


    I roll my eyes. ¡°Say no more.¡± My brother robbed a store and my parents still cooed and defended him to the end. I kissed a girl and I¡¯m chased out of my own home. ¡°Funny how disposable we are when they can¡¯t benefit from us, huh?¡± Diamonds flood her eyes as she smiles, and sadness tinges the curl of her lips. She licks them and her tongue smears some of the lipstick.


    On impulse, I bring her hand up to my lips and press them against her knuckles. Not a true kiss, yet her eyes widen like it is her lips I¡¯m tasting and not silk. Though maybe her lips aren¡¯t far from silk, come to think of it. ¡°My place is free if you don¡¯t mind sleeping on the couch. Not quite clouds stuffed with swan feathers, but it¡¯s warm. Has a roof and four walls.¡± I wiggle my eyebrows and joke, ¡°And I make a mean breakfast burrito.¡±


    Her eyes widen as her jaw drops to the floor. She brushes a stray curl behind her ear. ¡°Really? Y-You¡¯re serious? Just like that?¡±


    With a shrug, I say, ¡°Would be far from the first time. If we don¡¯t have each other¡¯s back,¡± I jerk my head at the doors, no doubt a stunned crowd behind them. ¡°We go to the wolves.¡±


    Pain, sharp and scalding, wraps around my heart and lungs and I bite the inside of my cheek. The subtle metallic tang that follows is a good distraction against the flood of wholesome, torturous memories. My eyes sting for a second before I squeeze them. ¡°One of the things Bob and Steve told me before they died was, um¡­ to pay what they did for me forward. Help as many as I can.¡±


    I rub my brow. ¡°They saved dozens of idiots like me over the decades. All of them bleeding from the heart as well as the skin. Yet, for some fucking reason, they put me as their successor.¡±


    I put a hand over my mouth, trying to stem the flow to no avail. It¡¯s like a dam patched with bandaids, the flimsy bits of glue, gauze, and plastic giving up. Princess Sierra only listens as I dump this on her.


    ¡°I got the house, and the garden, and everything else that was left after the others picked up what Bob and Steve left for them. People I had never even met, but I never saw a dry eye when I answered the door. Then I had to sell the chairs, and the fridge¡­ and then the door.¡± I bite my cheek harder this time, and I can almost hear the skin crunch as the taste of copper floods my tongue. ¡°I¡¯m just¡­ passing it along, is all.¡±


    She strokes a spot under my wrist, and I shove down the urge to shiver at the feel of her nails grazing across the glove. ¡°You do realize the paparazzi are going to follow wherever I go, correct? And I doubt Mother and Father will send any guards. We might be okay for the first week, but they will find me eventually. They always do. They will swarm us.¡±


    Ugh, celebrity journalists. I¡¯d call them snakes, but at least a venomous snake is honest about its bite. I click my tongue, rubbing the pads of my forefinger and thumb together. ¡°Maybe I¡¯ll finally get a decent paying gig. A disowned princess is still one hell of a connection. We can go somewhere more private.¡±


    We both still. I stare resolutely at the tree in front of me. The fairy lights the gardeners covered it in sparkle like their namesake. ¡°Uh.¡± I swallow. ¡°Separate rooms, of course.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡­


    ¡°Can we please forget I said that?¡±


    Her lips purse, and she squeezes her eyes. Her shoulders shake with stifled laughter while I hide my face in my hands. My groan is the straw that breaks the camel¡¯s back and she howls with laughter. The Princess holds her sides with the strength of her unladylike cackles. Tears stream down her face, though I don¡¯t mind them this time. Maybe diamonds can be pretty, in the right light.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she gasps between hiccups. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, that was just..¡± She wipes the tears from her eyes and snorts against her will. ¡°I¡­ Gods, I needed that.¡±


    ¡°I can tell.¡±


    Another giggle escapes Princess Sierra, tired this time. Her outburst must¡¯ve drained whatever fumes she was running on. She looks at the night sky, the thousands of stars masked by the fake ones on Earth. The few dying dots are all we can see against the wall of ink, and only time will tell if those few dots survive.


    I turn my back to the railing and spread my arms along it. My eyes meet her gaze and I smile. ¡°Maybe we¡¯ll go somewhere where we can see the night sky in all its glory.¡±


    ¡°Hmm.¡± The Princess does the same, turning her back towards the railing. She crosses her arms and leans against me. She sighs, and a mist cloud billows forth. The teensy ice crystals reflect the moonlight and fairy lights, a pretty sight. ¡°Less light pollution would be nice. Fewer cars. Fewer people too.¡±


    ¡°Definitely less people.¡±


    ¡°Heh, not a people person?¡±


    ¡°Like a snapping turtle.¡±


    We both snort, then sigh. I twist my neck and check on the patio door. I freeze. ¡°Uh, Sierra. Might want to take a look at this.¡±


    She does, stepping around me far too gracefully for someone in heels. She narrows her eyes as her jaw drops. Every hundred or so man who ogled her and preened for her attention are now standing in front of the door. Behind them, at least another hundred or so people, jumping up and down to snag a peek. ¡°Honestly,¡± I quip to her. ¡°Do these people not have anything better to do?¡±


    She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. ¡°I cannot even say I am surprised.¡±


    ¡°Well, I can.¡± I wave a hand at them, my face twisted with disgust. ¡°Bunch of fucking rubberneckers. Aren¡¯t you richi¡ªUm, I thought upperclass people were¡­ higher class, is all. Had more class.¡±


    Her lips quirk, and she shakes her head. The Princess crosses her arms and taps a gloved finger on her upper arm. ¡°On the contrary, you would be surprised by how many people think you can buy class.¡±


    ¡°Now that wouldn¡¯t shock me, actually.¡±


    Indeed, it wouldn¡¯t, as I spot at least one hundred phones, half of which needlessly have their flash turned on. Apparently you can¡¯t buy shame either. Hope the door¡¯s reflection ruins all their photos.


    Nick somehow fought to the very front of the group, or maybe he was the first to stand there. His dumbfounded peers surround him. He jumps in place, aggressively waving around two thumbs-up with a grin that could light up a room. My unexpected plus-one suddenly wraps her arms around mine, and she rests her head on my shoulder.


    Nick is far happier than the crowd of men at the front of the horde. The older men glare with the promises of hitmen. The youngest sport heated cheeks and shiny eyes, like children denied their promised toy. I swear to the gods, the few older women I can spot actually clutch their pearls.


    I lean over and whisper into Sierra¡¯s bejeweled ear. A part of me delights in her pleased shiver. ¡°My, we¡¯re in such trouble.¡± I take a chance and kiss the apple of her cheek. She flutters her eyelashes and presses her cheek into my lips, which soften under her warmth. I pull away and admire her snowy tiara. I think it suits her far better than pearls. ¡°Happy Winter Solstice, by the way.¡±


    The beautiful honey of her eyes twinkle as she reaches for my hand. She bumps her nose with mine and whispers, ¡°I think they chose right.¡±

 Justify Me

    My child killed her sibling. I¡¯m okay with that.


    I remember the day she snapped. How the last leaves lost their months-long fight and fell to the damp, muddy ground. Gray painted the sky and the wind ceaselessly battered frolicking child and shivering adult alike. A thick layer of frost smothered the dead grass, the sound of it underfoot like cracked ribs.


    The wind did not promise beautiful snow days in the future, though. They promised sheets of ice which shattered bones and sliced open skin. Slick roads, glassy lakes, and all the beautiful abundance of flora and fauna bullied into the ground, or be caught in the belly of Winter. They promised heartbreak, hard times, and death.


    Fall was coming to an end. With the snuffed flame of my favorite candle, so too did my daughter¡¯s patience for her siblings.


    I did not want the first two of my babies. Newly adult, I was a na?ve teenager, and had believed my now husband when he promised we did not need a condom. I listened and well¡­ Before I knew it, before I was ready, I was a mother. All of my plans now had to be put on hold at my husband¡¯s insistence. All of my focus had to be put on our child, so gone were my plans to become a bartender for my first job. Gone were my plans to enjoy my twenties. All of it gone, replaced with a rushed white gown.


    While I had secluded myself to a shoddy apartment, separated from my parents, a screaming little girl in the crook of my arm, he went away. The man once attached to my side suddenly had business trip after business trip, with all the promised, needed money never sent. He got sucked into the pretty promises of timeshare, and never once looked back at his young wife, mother of his child, desperate for help. So, so desperate for help.


    On the few days he came back to ¡®reestablish¡¯ our relationship, child number two, my son, popped up. Of all the fucking days for my birth control to fail. I could strangle the younger me, who listened to my husband¡¯s tearful promises to be around more. He¡¯d even help around the house while I hobbled around with a heavy belly, the saint. Just keep the baby. His baby.


    And so my son was born, and his father left for another ¡®business trip¡¯ while I laid in the hospital bed. That was also the day I heard the term ¡®married single mother,¡¯ muttered by a nurse to her colleague. She didn¡¯t realize I could hear her through the door, or the colleague¡¯s click of her tongue.


    I don¡¯t know when I started hitting them. My earliest memory of my guilt was when my son was around five. I begged him so many times not to poke holes in the wall with a fork. We were renters, and I had tried everything I could think of to stop him. Hid all the forks in a cabinet out of his reach, sat him down and had several long, calm talks, and hid the stool so he couldn¡¯t use it.


    I had underestimated the strength of a five-year-old, though. He dragged a dining chair all the way into the kitchen and next to the countertop. Climbed up the sheer drop of the cabinets while I was in a much needed bath and snagged a fork. While I was towel-drying my hair, a rare smile on my face, I walked in on him jabbing holes into the wall right next to a socket. I did what I promised myself I would never do when I had daydreamed about being a parent in my teenage years¡ªI snapped.


    One spanking turned to two. Four. Eight. They just kept happening. I don¡¯t remember half the times I raised a hand towards my children. All the times I dragged them to their rooms and did not let them out till dinner. How I threatened cutting off the heads of their stuffed animals if they destroyed one more wall, stole one more thing. Said that right to their tearful faces like a monster out of their story books. The evil witch who terrorized children and chopped off the heads of beloved dollies and teddies.


    On the day I cheerfully told my oldest ¡°Good morning!¡± and she flinched, I collapsed on my knees and bundled the little girl in my arms. I remember how my throat closed around my shallow gasps for air. It felt like my husband was sitting on my chest and I could only hold my oldest tighter. Hold her close and whisper apology after shameful apology. So sorry, my precious baby, for making you fear the one person you should always feel safest with. So sorry for being unable to stifle my hopeless rage for you. I couldn¡¯t. I didn¡¯t know how. No one ever taught me how before I had you.


    A couple of pills made the anger go away. The silk pillow the little white pills provided sapped me of my fury, my fight. For the first time in months, I felt safe to be around my children, and they now tumbled and horseplayed without fear of their mother. Whenever they got into trouble, I still shouted, but the drugs dulled the sharp edges of it.


    Soon, I needed more than a couple to feel safe around my children, so two or three became a whole palmful. Each bitter, chalky tablet no more foul tasting than my own self-hatred.


    My husband encouraged the crutch, loved how ¡®agreeable¡¯ it made me. When the pharmacy denied me a refill, he got in touch with a buddy of his, and I suddenly had an endless supply.


    Bolstered by my ¡®self-control,¡¯ I told my husband that I wanted another baby. A planned one. The two were growing nicely into their independence, and money was not the ever-tightening noose it once was because his boss moved us to a much cheaper state. Better yet, he could no longer take anymore business trips because of what the boss demanded of him. I wanted to experience motherhood without the nightmare of before.


    He agreed, and part of me doesn¡¯t want to know why. During my pregnancy, I stopped taking the pills. I enjoyed life without the fog, seeing my beautiful children dance around through clear eyes. I had stretched out on the moth-eaten couch, a content lioness surrounded by her tiny pride.


    My husband was less enthusiastic since I, for now, had the energy and brain power needed to fight back his ludicrous demands of laziness. ¡°No, I will not get up and make you a glass of tea just because you don¡¯t want to pause your game. No, neither will your daughter, do it yourself.¡± He grumbled about how he couldn¡¯t wait for ¡®that kid¡¯ to be ¡®out¡¯ so things could go back to normal. I told him I might not take the medication anymore after she¡¯s born, as I felt like I didn¡¯t need it. Which was good, as that meant more money to spend on things like food.


    The frozen rage he bored into me misted the air in my lungs, and I held my warm son snug to my chest. The young boy whined and cuddled closer, wrapping a tiny fist into my shirt. Blissfully unconscious and unaware.


    A few months after that, my youngest was born. My husband then left over two hundred dollar¡¯s worth of food to rot on the countertop while I was asleep in our bed, recovering from labor and then being forced to shop for groceries just a week after birth. Almost a month¡¯s worth of food, gone, and I downed five pills in one go to starve the fire fattening underneath my breastbone.


    To worsen matters, he got fired from his job not a week after that. I heard rumors, of course. The few of his colleagues who came over before my husband lost his job couldn¡¯t resist letting a few things slip, boastful as they were about ¡®ripping off the boss.¡¯


    He refused to tell me how he got himself sacked. When I brought up the rumors, asked how exactly he ripped off his superior, and if I was about to be married to a felon, he stormed towards me. He shoved his face into mine. His nostrils flared, his pupils the size of a period. ¡°Go ahead,¡± I had told him, calling his bluff. ¡°Do it.¡± He raised his hand, and I didn¡¯t move a muscle. ¡°Do it.¡±


    At the last second, he folded. Lowered his arm and made himself scarce. Cuddled himself to his controller and played whatever shooter he wasted our shriveling funds on. He assured none of his children, nor his wife, that everything would be okay. Didn¡¯t pick up a newspaper and search for a new job before we became homeless. Simply hoped that a friend of a friend would pull some strings and get him a new job.


    Someone was looking out for us, or at least my children, because that¡¯s exactly what happened. He remained a timeshare salesman, which I despised. The new job paid pennies where his old one at least paid dimes, but he brought in enough to feed us. At least, after I buried myself in newspapers, scissors in hand, to cut out all the coupons, an infant snoozing on my lap.


    We still had to move somewhere smaller, and my new baby was without a crib and had to share the couch with me. I refused to share a bed with my husband, as his indoor chain smoking smothered every curtain, blanket, and sheet in a thick layer of nicotine. I could barely breathe through the tar layering my lungs with every breath, and I feared what such an environment could do on my little baby¡¯s developing lungs.


    I barely remember her so young because of the pills. At least for the older two, I could remember most of their childhoods with clarity. Birthdays, Halloweens, and Christmases, with them usually in the cradle of my arms by day¡¯s end. With her, my youngest¡­ most of it was¡­ gray. A splash of her laugh, a streak of her happy squeals, but not much else.


    I hate seeing the few pictures with myself during those years, my dead eyes staring through my daughter as she grinned at the cake¡¯s candle, but I don¡¯t have a choice. Those photos are the few clear images I have of my daughter growing up. They quickly became the few sources of her smile.


    The years soon revealed the obvious truth, that she was her siblings better. As soon as she took her first steps, spittled out her first string of sounds. When she grew old enough for her mind to truly turn and her eyes to fully see, her stare wielded a fierce intelligence I had not seen before. That I remember, the strokes of her brilliant mind.


    Jealousy is a disease, and both of her siblings fell deathly ill with it. When they first held her as a baby doll to play house with, they were as gentle as a deer with her fawn. As she got older, though, it was like they sensed it, her superiority. Nail imprints soon littered her doughy skin, no matter how many times I scolded them.


    She was three when her brother threw her right against the wall, my oldest laughing along with him. After I returned from the hospital, I almost screamed myself hoarse about how they could have killed her, but they didn¡¯t care. The two children only stared back with guiltless, cold eyes. My patience shattered, and I banned them from holding her. The pair were so green with envy, they matched the healing bruises they had beaten onto her skin.


    My older son and daughter differed in how they mistreated their baby sister, though they both left their mark. Her older sister preferred mental torture. Petty insults my youngest was too young to ignore, and targeted taunts which dug deep into the skin and tickled muscle. Used her as a doll for her makeup, though did her face so horribly that the little girl cried when she looked in the mirror. My oldest destroyed her toys, drew on and cut up her clothes, and picked at every insecurity she had, until the poor girl bursted into screams and tears.


    It was only when my youngest fought back ¡®too hard¡¯ did she rake her nails down the little girl¡¯s limbs and face. Twisted her arm until the younger promised to stop moving. Other than that, my oldest much preferred watching her brother thrash the little darling around.


    It was a miracle he hadn¡¯t killed her by the time everything was said and done. He certainly gave it the old college try. His list of cruelties includes pushing her in front of a car when she dared to run ahead of him, ever the nimble little fawn. He would force her to play video games with him, then placed stupid restrictions on her and her alone. When she overcame these restrictions and won the round anyway, he¡¯d punch her in the throat and stomach till she vomited. She was almost a wraith of a child because he also stole her food right off her plate, pushing a thumbnail into a delicate thigh if she tried to tell me.


    The child¡¯s starvation could only stall the inevitable, though, as she grew stronger as the years progressed. Faster as well. One time, her brother overestimated his abilities, chasing her up a tree, which she scaled like the squirrels she chittered with. He tried following, slipped on a slick patch of moss, and the boy nearly broke his neck on the tumble down. When he blearily opened his eyes and searched the leaves, he spotted his target. She rested amongst the treetops, like gravity was only a suggestion.


    The youngster was a little fairy creature, touched by Nature. She talked to the squirrels and the geese, and the animals listened. They sat far closer to her than they dared with anyone else, accepting her gentle pats. The trees cradled her small form, wrapping her in their leaves to keep her warm and dry. Baby geese waddled behind her, and fall-painted butterflies rested on her hair before continuing their journey.


    Turtles wiggled out of the safety of their pond to eat blueberries out of her palm. Foxes glided between her legs and left their kits with her, and the mothers would return to the girl curled around the tiny balls of fur. While the boy clumsily stalked her, his sister not far behind, she flew into the safety of the thicket and her friends.


    Her siblings were not her only predator, as my oldest children ensured. By the end of their smear campaign, no one wanted to associate with the ¡®mute monster¡¯ that was their sister.


    Bullies chased her through the woods in packs, my son the head of them, yet none could outrun her. Within a few minutes, the predatory children would be bent over as they gasped for air, their quarry far ahead of them. They always tried to cut her off from any trees, because no one had the stomach to follow as she went up, and up, and up to the sky. Scraping concrete and splintering bark callused her fingertips, the thickened skin rough when I hold her hand as we cross the street.


    The nature which nurtured her did not tolerate anyone hunting their imp. She would run to the protection of a resting flock of geese, and the vicious birds would wake up and attack the children for daring to touch their very large, featherless gosling. The neighborhood children screeched on more than one occasion about my child hitting them across the backside with the thin, baby branches of its parent tree, but could never explain how when she was so high above them. Foxes tracked down where the bullies lived and peed on their outdoor toys, especially the absorbent ones. The children also found out the hard way that squirrels have excellent aim.


    The trees and animals could not protect her in humanity¡¯s domain, however. When the sun set and I called her back in, she went from one hunting ground to the next. In my attempts to protect her from the nocturnal predators wearing human skin, I put her in the arms of another.


    We only had two rooms for the children. The boy got his own, while the girls shared. It made sense, putting the girls together. I felt guilty not giving them their own room, as they deserved their own space as much as their brother, but I promised myself they one day would.


    Once my youngest grew firmly into her independence, and was not so small that a strong wind could carry her away, I¡¯d get a job. Ignore my husband¡¯s pleas to collect dust at home and bring in a second income the household desperately needed. The girls would get their own room. My daughter would have a den to hide in. As I folded tiny shirts with butterflies on them, pants of sunny-yellow, my heart soared at my warm daydreams. Yes, that¡¯s exactly what I would do. Get a job and brute force all our worries away.


    My oldest daughter made me not just a clown, but the entire circus.


    Halloween is my favorite holiday. You wander around at night, chatting with neighbors while the kids chase each other around. The rare freedom of being able to chow down on sweets and scare their peers and parents breathes life into the dullest of towns. We dress up without shame, enjoy the fruits of our labor, and the night reminds us that there lies beauty in the dark. Somehow, my oldest daughter telling me how she violated her baby sister hasn¡¯t diminished my love for it.


    Experimentation gone too far. That¡¯s how she described the rape of her baby sister that Halloween night, the sun dying on the horizon. A whoopsie the gravity of she only ¡®realized¡¯ while in the middle of the act, supposedly pushing the little girl away, ordering her to go to her top bunk and sleep. She claimed she cried all night, yet I doubted that. My oldest¡¯s eyes were dry through her sobs as she confessed.


    When I asked her why on Earth she would fess up, morbid curiosity getting the better of me, she maintained her pretense of guilt. She was just so guilty that she needed to tell me so I could help her little sister and fix it. ¡°You always know how to fix things, Mommy.¡± She hadn¡¯t called me Mommy in years before that night, and my heart squeezed at the title.


    I knew the real reason, though, and no amount of tender titles could blind me of it. She had visibly relaxed when she asked if my youngest said anything and I answered no. Still, not a tear in the girl¡¯s round eyes.


    This wasn¡¯t the confession of a remorseful sinner, it was the self-preservation of a coward. She thought if she told me on my favorite night of the year, she could give me the sanitized version. Beat her baby sister to the punch in telling me, hoping I¡¯d favor her side.


    My oldest didn¡¯t ask herself why the fuck I would believe the word of a rapist. Of course I talked to my youngest the next day. My child told me everything. The darling first tried to keep certain details to herself, clutching the blackboard and dry-erase marker to her chest, because she didn¡¯t want to hurt me by describing her assault to her own mother. I told her not to, though. ¡°Don¡¯t hold back, baby.¡± Let me have it.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    Her first introduction to the concept of sex was a violent video of writhing bodies. Then dozens of videos over the coming weeks. Months. Her sister showed her these videos for months before raping her. Ground down her innocence before going in for the kill.


    The child already knew where babies came from because of her documentaries. When she wasn¡¯t running with the wolves, she was fighting for her fair share of screen time to watch lionesses stalk zebras and shoebill chicks fight for the privilege to live, and those documentaries show all the aspects of bestial life. It definitely made The Talk a lot easier.


    But she had no idea how sex worked beyond fertilization. All the intricacies I needed to teach her before she became an adult. Gradually, until I felt she knew enough to learn the rest on her own safely. Gone. Plucked away like flower petals.


    Tears were a rare sight on the girl¡¯s face. Her siblings used her as a whipping post so often, she trained herself not to cry. If her eyes stayed dry, they got bored faster. My baby cried then, though. Fat tears mixed with snot and spit. A waterfall of laments I drowned in as I held her close, our heads below water.


    Her sister maimed her. Her brother hunted her. The little girl¡¯s father was apathetic at best, added to the collection of bruises on her body and heart at worst. All of that¡­ and it was a potato gun which finally drained the last of her patience like an infected wound.


    I¡¯ve learned over my years that monsters have a way of finding each other. Like they can sense from across the room how the other lacks an important part of what separates us from the dogs. Two warped life forces emulsifying into something that could resemble a human soul. Maybe.


    My son¡¯s lacking half came as a boy with kindred dead eyes. They called each other brothers-in-arms, chasing the other around with stolen knives and BB guns. I banned him from talking to the boy at first, my son already feral enough without a partner-in-crime to enable him when his sister wasn¡¯t around. When he started sneaking out, I replaced his room¡¯s doorknob with one that locked from the outside.


    On the third night, I woke up to the sound of shattered glass. I raced into his room and a broken window, an empty bed, and an abandoned phone greeted me. The sharp edges of the window shimmered pink in the moonlight.


    He, a young boy, ran out into the middle of the night without his phone, bleeding. That pissed me off more than his smashing the window or running away. If anything happened to him and he couldn¡¯t call¡­ He drove me batshit, and I despised how he beat his baby sister every time I turned my back. My blood boiled with how no punishment or plead got through his thick skull. If he were a random kid on the block and not my own, I might have very well hated him. Despite that, I was his mother at the end of the day. Something in my blood roared at the image of a patient white van anywhere near my boy.


    I talked to his friend¡¯s mother the next day. Told her about their thievery, the bullying, and how her son encouraged mine to break a window and run away into the night. Showed her the text messages from my son¡¯s phone of just that, as well as the pictures of his sliced-up hands and knees. She flipped me off and slammed the door. As I walked away, the sound of the little demon¡¯s laughter hounded my steps.


    We did not have the money to send him away, as tempting as it was. Forget putting him into therapy when we could barely afford to eat. My side nor my husband¡¯s would ever loan us money to get the child therapy as well. My husband had burned them too many times. The familial grape vine flourished with decades of vapid gossip, and we were the rotten grapes on the bottom.


    No relative in their right mind would have taken him in, nor did I want to subject anyone else to the child. He did not listen to his own mother. Didn¡¯t fall in line with his father¡¯s threats. The boy would sooner beat a relative into submission than listen to them.


    He was at the age where he was small enough for a grown man to snatch him off the street, but old enough where his fists caused damage. I boarded up the window, kept the lock on his door, and he responded by breaking it down and smashing the front door lock off. He put a fist through one of the glass panes for good measure. When he returned that day, deep slashes covered his hands, requiring a hospital trip. Hundreds of dollars¡¯ worth of damage in a single night and we had yet to replace his window.


    There was little choice after that. I let him leave. The only caveat being he needed to bring his phone, and it had to hold a full charge. When he agreed without fuss, I forced my jaw not to slacken. An ominous feeling curled in my stomach, and I had to resist asking him why he complied without so much as a whine. I studied his little flip phone, a present for his tenth birthday. I knew his dried blood caked the spaces between the buttons, the hinges. In the end, I didn¡¯t want to find out how he would react if I snooped through it again, still limping off an impressive bruise on my upper thigh.


    So he and his friend had the run of the neighborhood, and the pair utilized the other¡¯s strengths to full effect. My son was brutish while the boy was spry. He was impulsive while the boy was calculating. He was the gun. The boy was the trigger.


    The friend¡¯s father taught his son all about how to create a potato gun, but not an ordinary one. Not the practical toy you¡¯d make in a physics class for a guaranteed A. He taught a small boy how to create one capable of shooting with enough force to fracture stone, with the fewest materials possible.


    The neighborhood was a sleepy one, docile with years of little crime besides the petty theft of cocky and adventurous children. Because of that, it boasted a healthy population of hobbyists and DIY enthusiasts. There were hundreds of places to swipe a PVC pipe, a coupling, cement glue, electrical tape, and something to ignite a spark.


    When my daughter nested herself on top of a large tree, asleep as the trees sang a lullaby with their leaves, the boys went in for the kill. They stalked out of the bushes they shrouded themselves in and waited until she woke up. After her nap, she climbed across the branches. My son aimed the gun at her. A vixen saw the pair and growled, then screamed.


    The spud hit the little girl right in the gut. Her back bowed with the force, nails scoring valleys in the bark. She was halfway to the ground when she dug her nails back into the tree¡¯s armored skin, adrenaline supplying her the strength of an adult.


    Half her fingernails ripped off. A patch of skin was missing from her cheek, the naked flesh angry and bleeding, and a thousand tiny cuts designed bloody constellations onto her body, but she was safe. Then he shot her again, and she fell to the ground. Then the friend took the gun, reloaded with practiced ease, and shot her again before she could catch her breath.


    And they kept shooting her. Shooting her and shooting her and shooting her until her lungs whistled and pink foam dribbled from the corner of her mouth. She forced herself to her feet, growling like a beast, teeth bared. They cackled and fired again. The fawn wilted, and she crawled through the thick mud and slippery leaves away from them. The predators followed her with twin grins. My son walked ahead until he was next to her, then kicked her in the side.


    The entire time, she refused to scream. Besides a sharp sound from the first round, stony silence met each shot as she ran, then limped, then crawled away from them. Perhaps a grunt or a cut-off moan, but no more, not wanting to excite them further.


    As a ¡®joke,¡¯ my son¡¯s accomplice loaded the gun with nails and shot the girl right in the back, and a dozen met their mark. The metal nettles burrowed into tissue, severed veins. They scraped against bone and the little girl yielded. She screamed.


    She screamed with the force of an oak meeting the earth for the first time in centuries. The fury in the heart of a tornado. The fervor of a dormant volcano when it stirs. With enough agony, I heard her from my cozy spot in the kitchen.


    I raced to my little girl, the pain in my knees forgotten. The memories of me chasing my daughter¡¯s dying breath blurred. The sickly yellow of the trees, the burnt orange of the fall ground, and the teardrop blue of the sky mixed like watercolors.


    Black and white flashes are the only things I recall when the memories land on my daughter¡¯s battered body. They want to reveal themselves in their gory glory, but my mind shoves them back. A mercy, as the tactile echos already ghost across my skin at night.


    Her feather-light body nestled against my chest. Her broken mewl as she recognized the heartbeat of her mother and cuddled closer. The sweet smell of her mixed with copper. The tacky blood caking my tank top. How it itched as it dried and flaked off my arms as paramedics swarmed my daughter. My stinging eyes when geese, vixens and their grown kits, and squirrels alike all gathered at the edge of the forest, shoulder to wing. Even the turtles had waddled from their lake.


    The trees howled with no wind, startling the paramedics and rubber-neckers. All sentinels for my daughter. All except me.


    She fought unconsciousness long enough to scare the daylights out of the paramedics, a fiery growl escaping her lips as she came to. A bud of mirth bloomed behind my ribs in spite of the gruesome state of her. The little imp has always enjoyed scaring people, though never in bad faith. Always with a smile.


    The child whined, twisted against the straps that kept her from aggravating her wounds further, and she stabbed her remaining nails into the foam cushion beneath. She hiccuped sobs as she fought against the straps, in search of her comfort.


    ¡°I¡¯m here, baby.¡±


    She turned to me, pupils dilating when she caught mine. Her eyes were viscous puddles of exhaustion as she whimpered for her mother.


    I do not know if it was the lights of the ambulance or if it was the waning moon, but her eye¡ªthe one not frozen shut¡ªreflected like shattered ice. She snarled, teeth painted in streaks of crimson. The blood didn¡¯t touch her canines. The fangs shone like icicles gleaming opal in the spring rays.


    It¡¯s obvious why she chose her brother. Her sister raped her violently over several sickening weeks, right under my nose, but my oldest was a coward. So much so, she admitted to the abuse just in case her baby sister spilled her guts.


    The boy was so stupid, though, it could almost be considered brave. He never learned, only took the punishment, waited, then did it again. This wasn¡¯t the first attempt on her life, nor would it be the last. In a sick way, he was a greater threat to her well-being than her rapist.


    He produced tears for the police, and they believed the words of a supposedly guilty boy. The officers didn¡¯t even visit the hospital and asked my daughter if she wanted to press charges, or see if a few nights in juvie would straighten him out.


    A sibling dispute which got carried away, they told me the week after, as my daughter laid beaten in a hospital bed with broken bones and crushed veins. Nothing the parents can¡¯t sort out by themselves. ¡°He just needs a few kind words and a firm hand. Have him and his sister hug it out.¡±


    I wanted to tell them to go fuck themselves and slam the door in their faces. Instead, I smiled, told them I¡¯d do just that, and swallowed down a scream as the front door clicked closed. My daughter would get no help from them. His friend, since this wasn¡¯t his first time nearly murdering someone apparently, didn¡¯t get the same merciful treatment. I have no idea what happened to him, but my son was now without his partner, the one being who might¡¯ve protected him.


    He must¡¯ve realized this too, as he rolled out the red carpet when my youngest returned from the hospital. She outright refused to use a wheelchair when the nurses and doctor asked, and opted for crutches. They were more comfortable for her to walk in, but the weakened girl had trouble getting into and out of the old car. My son, when he saw her having difficulty, raced to help her. She hissed at him, fangs bared, and smacked his offered hand away. Still, he continued to push his luck and brought her snacks and drinks, not a speck of it the girl touched.


    Her brother was always nicer after his major fuckups. Stole from her less, complimented her, and chaperoned her to places like she couldn¡¯t jump from tree to tree. Always after he knew he crossed a line. Particularly when she got that look in her eye.


    My youngest avoided acknowledging her siblings. When she had no choice but to concede that they breathed in her air too, her eyes only reflected disgust. When they went too far, though, it was a different story. The child would study them with cold, pointed fury, like a shard of ice lodged into her eyes and she used the crystals as binoculars, zeroing in on weaknesses. That was when her brother was sugar, spice, and almost nice.


    The last time I saw my son alive, it was an entire month after he almost murdered his sister. I overheard him inviting my youngest on a fishing trip in a neighboring neighborhood. Fishing was banned in our stretch of the woods, but his brilliant thought process was, because they didn¡¯t live there, no one would recognize them. If someone fussed about it, they could make a run for it and go back home. How he didn¡¯t get daily police rides baffles me.


    I expected her to refuse. Flip him off and go outside to her forest friends, as she didn¡¯t need her big brother¡¯s guidance to do either. The imp taught herself how to spearfish when she was only five with handmade spears. A necessity when winter came and the dining table was bare, and her siblings hogged every morsel they could. Ironically, while she dined on fresh fish, thick roots, and fungi, while drinking hot pine needle tea, her siblings thought they¡¯d won as they gorged themselves on cheap spaghetti.


    No doubt the girl has also wandered into the other neighborhood before, as she¡¯s explored every inch of the forest. The trees stretch for miles, the background and selling point for hundreds of houses. If there are trees to hide in and critters to play with, she knows of it.


    Against all logic, though, my youngest agreed. Nodded her head with a honeyed smile and planned the whole day with him while I listened in, speechless. I should¡¯ve known she intended for the next day to go a very different way, as she walked away from the conversation with a vicious, victorious curl in her smile, spinning her dry-erase marker between her fingers.


    Now she¡¯s delighting the police with her foul tongue.


    She¡¯s never spoken before then, not truly. Whenever she wants to convey an idea, she writes it down (how she swirls the tail of her Gs steals my heart) or makes her little noises. An assortment of growls, whistles, and chirps only I can translate through experience. Her online teacher recommended a speech therapist, and my husband snarked that if the teacher wanted her in therapy, she could send him the check.


    Now I wonder if she could speak the entire time and simply chose not to. She plays the role of orator beautifully, even with her foul tongue.


    It¡¯s deeper than I thought it would be, her voice. I always imagine it being high-pitched, like the bells on a reindeer, and as fragile as the snowflakes they prance through. Soft and sweet as mousse.


    Instead, her voice rasps like a rattlesnake. It does not ring, it tolls. She plays her vocal chords like a violinist and it lilts, twirling from note to note as she weaves a tale of a fight between siblings ending in tragedy. She was nowhere near her brother when he died, officers, as they butted heads once again.


    ¡°He couldn¡¯t resist being a little shit, sirs.¡± The two officers interviewing her chuckle under their breath. ¡°A comment here, a pointed jab there.¡± She gestures back and forth with her hands. ¡°He lured me to the lake so that he could torment me. Mommy couldn¡¯t be the referee if she wasn¡¯t anywhere near us.¡± She blinks her eyes as they sparkle with tears. The girl scratches her head. Thick, long hair falls in front of her face, and it just so happens to blanket the half where she can¡¯t hide a small quirk of her lips.


    ¡°I finally snapped when he poked one of my bruises.¡± She lifts her shirt and shows the two officers a bruise the size of a volleyball, and it covers most of her small stomach. It¡¯s still black in the middle, a poisonous purple at the edges. The men cringe. ¡°He laughed when I yelped and pushed him away. He always laughs.¡± The tears fall from her eyes on cue, like synchronized dancers.


    My youngest takes a deep breath and fidgets with her fingers. ¡°So, I punched him.¡± The older officer elbows his partner when he laughs. I¡¯m standing next to the policemen and say nothing when I notice how she lowers her head and bites her bottom lip. That¡¯s what she always does when she fights down a smile. ¡°I punched him in the face,¡± she points at her left cheek, where a yellow bruise hasn¡¯t fully healed. ¡°And then I ran away before he could think to chase me.¡±


    I vouch for her returning soon after the two had left. Barely an hour had passed when my youngest slammed the door against the pockmarked wall, tears streaming down her flushed face. I had jumped up from my place on the couch and she waved me back down. The imp climbed onto my lap and passed out not five minutes after.


    I did my part, calling the police when my son did not return as night fell and he refused to answer my texts, then voicemails, then relentless calls. The police responded on the double, and soon the whole neighborhood was combing the entire forest and behind every house in search of him.


    They found her brother at the bottom of a lake, the same one he took her to. There was a length of old, rusted chain with a thick hook at the end. At the other end of the chain, a pile of cinderblocks. Someone had wrapped the chain around his ankle, then kicked the concrete blocks off the pier and into the pitch water below.


    The boy was old enough, heavy enough, to drag the blocks the last precious meter and into the water, but not nearly strong enough to fight against the burden and swim to the surface. He died alone. Terrified and in the dark.


    I am only relieved that he didn¡¯t overpower my daughter and reverse their roles.


    Her brother, in his depraved quest to prove his superiority, ensured he would get no justice. The older officer interviewing her was at the scene when he tried to murder her. Watched firsthand how she hacked up blood, heard her agonized screams and cries. He, and the younger officer next to him after the other explained the incident, have little trouble believing that there was some leftover tension after her brother almost killed her.


    They believe every word she says, and why would they not? A sweet girl like her, with a hilarious vocabulary of creative and colorful curse words, who weaves tiny white flowers into her hair as she speaks to them about how cruel he was to her and why she just had to leave. Then she sits on the floor, criss-cross applesauce, out of breath.


    ¡°Is my big brother dead ¡®cause of me?¡± she asks, lip wobbling. ¡°Would he still be alive if I didn¡¯t leave him alone?¡± The older officer scoops the girl into his arms, and I wonder if he¡¯s a father himself. He coos and rocks her back and forth, and the younger officer next to them piles on reassurances as well. She plays them both beautifully.


    The question of my place in my children¡¯s morph from destructive darlings to cruel creatures will haunt my thoughts till I die. Did I teach them how to mutilate by spanking them? Give them a taste for torture with a pair of scissors to a teddy¡¯s neck? How much did they inherit from their father, and how much did they learn from me?


    I suppose it doesn¡¯t matter. Not anymore. Before the police found my son in a lake and my oldest confessed to raping her baby sister, maybe I could have saved them. Therapy, paid by my going back to work while I ignored my husband¡¯s pleas to stay a housewife. Let my daughter be taken into foster care, her siblings now having no human toy to maim.


    It would have been so unfair to punish her by allowing strangers to steal her away from her home, from me, but she¡¯d be safe. She could have even lived with my parents. Everyone would have been fine and I could have fixed things from there.


    There is no saving anyone now. There is no need. My youngest had handled it because I could not, and now the greatest threat to her life is a bloated corpse. Her siblings sealed their fate when they went just a step too far and turned a victim into a survivor. A child dictated by Darwin, and damned bound to win his favor by wit, not might.


    They thought her prey, but she is a predator like them. The difference is, she is a patient little lioness, while my son was merely a yapping wild dog, her sister a spineless vulture. This brilliant, broken child, with the broken, brilliant mind, refuses to be cannibalized by either of them.


    I indulge in a cigarette, the heat of the lighter cold against my skin, and take a deep breath. Blowing out the smoke, my daughter chuckles, for once sounding her young age.


    ¡°Mama, you look like a dragon.¡± Mama¡¯s sorry for not being a dragon and burning this whole place to the ground, sweetheart. I make it a point to blow the smoke through my nose in the next breath, ignoring the officers¡¯ disapproving glares, just to hear her sweet laugh once more.


    During the interview, my daughter scoots to where I am standing near the cops and snuggles against my legs. My oldest chooses at that moment to enter the room, and she thinks it¡¯s appropriate to ask when I¡¯ll cook lunch while the police discuss her dead brother. The two officers gape at her, then share meaningful looks with each other. My youngest glares at her sister with frozen eyes.


    Maybe she¡¯ll be a dear and get her father after.

 Rot

    What a curious feeling, your body rotting away.


    The first day of infection was efficient. It robbed me of my hearing so that, by day three, my eardrums could not even sense the vibrations of my fingers snapping right next to them. My sense of taste and smell shut down on the fifth day.


    Day ten, I grab an empty notebook and start writing this crap down. Day eleven sees my skin turning green and gray, my tongue almost black. The tip of my nose falls off by day eleven.


    Day fifteen and I can no longer walk, dragging bottles of water and food next to my couch to either miraculously survive this or die trying. I still write in my diary, which it now was, cursing myself for not going to the hospital sooner. My journal entry for that day reads, ¡°I¡¯m such a moron. I should¡¯ve gotten help sooner, back when I still had legs worth a shit. Never¡­ I could¡¯ve never guessed that I¡¯d fear the world so much¡­ I¡¯d just let myself die like this.¡±


    Day twenty and bits of my arms fall off, and I can tell the rot is going to spread to my chest and neck soon. Everything else will follow. Day twenty-one and I stop writing in my diary and just stay in my head a lot. I can¡¯t move my arms anymore without crying dry tears.


    On the twenty-fifth day, I shrug off my clothing, too hot, too cold, and too sensitive to bear the fabric against my peeling skin. I thought there would be more blood, but there really isn¡¯t. Just pus and brown gunk that used to be blood. Now it sticks to my body and mixes with the yellow pus like acrylic paint. If I could, I¡¯d gag.


    Day thirty sees me staring at the ceiling, wondering what horrible sin I committed to deserve to die like this. With half my body dead, somehow still alive. Then I get all philosophical and think ¡®The bell tolls for all.¡¯


    I stopped feeling pain yesterday, yet that only makes me feel worse. It means my body¡¯s given up on trying to keep me alive. I should cry, offer my soul to any god who grants me life, but I can¡¯t muster the energy to care about the inevitable.


    I want to see the outside world one last time, though. Smiling faces. The trees. The sun. Life before death takes me. Pain is no longer an obstacle, so I reach for the remote with my arm. The white of my dainty wrist bones shows through the blackened flesh.


    I turn on the TV. The black screen comes to life with a horror movie, bodies littering the street like trash, clothes billowing. It focuses on two fathers, wrapped in each other¡¯s embrace, parts of their skulls exposed as they rest in front of their daughter. The little girl holds her bear tight to her chest, her dirtied pale pink dress covered in sunflowers. She is more decomposed than her fathers, more black meat and bone than red flesh and unmarred skin. I chuckle internally at the irony of this being what pops up.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    Coughing up another blob of bloody spit, I wipe it away and switch the channel. My eyes squint when the same image comes up. I switch to another channel again. The same image. Now it flicks back to the barren street, zeroing in on the bloated corpse of an old woman, her eyes popping out of her head from the pressure of unreleased gases.


    Spit pools in my mouth as adrenaline shoots through me, dribbling out of the rotten holes in my lips. My sluggish heart picks up speed and stutters. My vision distorts. I switch the channel again.


    Again. Again. Again.


    The fathers. The child. The street. The old woman.


    My hand shakes and drops the remote. I notice the moving broadcast underneath, red and white, flashing with the words, ¡°STAY INDOORS. DO NOT MAKE CONTACT WITH ANYONE. KEEP ALL INFECTED QUARANTINED. BURN ALL DEAD, INCLUDING CHILDREN. WAIT FOR RESCUE. GOD HELP US ALL.¡±


    The broadcast switches to a news reporter. She¡¯s older, and the circles under her eyes are as dark as the necrotic flesh running up my arm.


    Megan reporting in. Subtitles pop up across the screen, miraculously keeping up with her hurried speech. Her Adam¡¯s apple bobs as she visibly fights against the tears pooling in her eyes. I am so used to news reporters being cool in the most extreme of scenarios that her viciousness shocks me. I cannot hear her, but her venom burns with every word that pops up.


    ¡°¡ªthis bastard to hell. He goes by the name Day Ender, but his real name is Maxwell Day. A virologist, he worked at the Broken Hearts Clinic in Houston. He is the man who created this nightmare and holds the only available vaccine. He destroyed his research so experts could not recreate it. Not in time. He has demanded no ransom for it, and I believe he only told authorities of its existence to give us false hope.


    ¡°Governments all over the world are searching for him, tearing up every safe house and bunker on the map, but still no sign of ¡®Day Ender.¡¯ No doubt he is in some cozy bunker, vaccine in hand, happily watching the world burn.¡±


    A photo pops up of him then, covering Megan¡¯s face. He looks¡­ young. Either the same age or younger than me. He doesn¡¯t look like someone capable of ending the world, with his kind eyes and soft features, but he did. He unleashed this on everyone, and for what?


    As I stand up, rage overcoming common sense and the burning grip of death, a single thought repeats in my head over and over: This monster fucked us all over for nothing.


    I lunge at the screen, and that burst of energy seems to pop every internal organ, threads of rotting tissue snapping. Blood spews from my mouth and covers the TV from corner to corner. It runs down the glass and LEDs. I slump to the ground.


    Right before I can claw Maxwell Day¡¯s eyes out, my heart stops.

 Humming to Thunder

    Brr-Bmm. Crr-Crr!


    Lightning and thunder mixed with the symphony of the rain, drizzling into my fuzzy head and making it plop! onto the top of my desk.


    BMM-BRR!


    Just like that, my head shot up from the wood with a sucked in gasp. My heart hammered in my chest while I reached up to my forehead and pressed into the red lines the wood had imprinted on there. Sighing, I stared out the window closest to me. Drooping eyes watched the dark gray and midnight blue landscape of the parking lot, the rain desaturating any bright colors to match the drowned scenery. Even the trees looked defeated, their plump leaves and thick bark smothered with a slate gray.


    A glance at the clock told me it was five in the afternoon, my nap only thirty minutes long, but the storm outside choked the sun and blackened the sky. The white streaks of raindrops as they hurtled toward the ground, reflecting the light posts¡¯ rays, looked like falling stars. A closer look and I could make out the darker shadows from particularly vexed clouds. It was sleepy weather, despite the apprehension squeezing my lungs. I had to walk through that once the clock struck eight, whether I was ready or not.


    I need to leave my book here, I thought, holding my cheek with one hand, still studying the raindrops crash down to the earth in blanket after blanket of water. There was no guarantee my bag could keep the precious book safe from the assault of the earth outside, and I did not want to risk the destruction of yet another of my few possessions.


    The nice ladies who ran the library knew the drill, fortunately, so I at least had the comfort that while I was at risk of getting hyperthermia, the ladies, or teenage boy who helped organize the books, would pick it up and lock it in one of the front desk drawers.


    I blinked, and the clock read seven instead of five now. Unless exhaustion was the key to time travel, I must¡¯ve passed out when I blinked, and somehow nothing stirred loud enough to wake me back up from such a fragile sleep. Gaping, I shut the book with a solid smack and started putting up my other little things. My yellow notes, worn down pen with a broken clip, and my bag made from old T-shirts sewn together. I double-checked that my name was on the book¡¯s front cover, nodding in satisfaction when big, black, blocky letters could easily be seen against the cover art. Couldn¡¯t have them thinking it was one of the library¡¯s and go looking for it on every shelf. You only made that mistake once.


    Hopping off the chair, I walked with my head held down and back hunched over. The lightning and thunder outside yelled at me that the storm was far from over, and any hopes that it would stop before Time forced me out were futile. Zeus was pitching a fit, and he was far from tiring himself out. Better get it over with now, while there was still a slim sliver of light and the air was above freezing.


    ¡°Goodnight, sweetheart. Be safe,¡± the oldest of them told me with a grim face. ¡°We¡¯ll see you in the morning, yes?¡±


    ¡°Yes ma¡¯am.¡± I muttered automatically, the phrase so well-practiced that it required no energy on my part anymore.


    ¡°Kid, you sure you don¡¯t want me to drop you off?¡± the teenage boy asked softly while stuffing books onto the rusted book cart, concern etched onto his face like the rest of the library¡¯s flock. He casually put his back to me, but his tense shoulders gave away his worry.


    I shrank and shook my head no. No, I did not want to get into a teenage boy¡¯s car. It wasn¡¯t fair to him. He was quite nice to me and always helped me whenever he could, but the response was as automatic as ¡®Yes ma¡¯am,¡¯ and I could only hope he did not take it to heart. He was good. I knew that. In my heart, I knew that.


    Before I did another stupid thing, I turned around and ran out the cold, glass doors, waving at their shouts and cautions from behind. I caught a snippet that stuttered my walk for half a second, breath caught in my throat. Pretending to not hear it, I continued into the freezing wet air of a thunderstorm. Yet the chill did nothing to freeze the loop of what the boy had muttered while unfolding a dog-eared page.


    ¡°I want to find and kill whoever made her react like that.¡±


    Words could not emphasize enough how shivering the night rain was, and my being small and skinny did not help matters. The wind howled a constant reminder that I was walking home in the middle of the night, in a furious storm, with only my speed and size to protect me¡ªand the wind and rain hampered even that advantage. So, of course, that was the night someone tried their luck.


    The thunder never stopped, just screeched a never-ending barrage of bangs! and booms! which stammered my heart and froze the muscles in my legs like a rabbit caught in a fox¡¯s sight.


    The awareness of my surroundings had never been so dim. The only source of information was what the light posts revealed after fighting valiantly to cut through the darkness. I heard nothing over the storm. In-between the solace of the light posts, I could only make out the outline of my hand.


    The crisp night air, mixed with rainwater, tickled my nose, and I sneezed so hard my feet left the ground. I was blind in almost all senses except touch, and that became questionable with how cold my hands were. The very tips of my fingertips tingled like tiny needles of ice crystals burrowed in.


    I missed the sounds of a car. The thunder covered the tires crunching rocks and broken bottles as it rolled near. I wrote off the bright beams reflecting off the puddles as lightning and lamplight, as the rain drizzled into my ears, entered my skull, and froze to frost across my brain. I did not notice the car until I looked to my right and startled at my face.


    ¡°Shit!¡± I shouted, a fitting word for a foul situation. The click of an opening car door reached me and I did what every child does in that situation, trained by parents and taught by instinct¡ªI ran like hell.


    My vision flashed white in terror when I almost slipped and fell on the ground, the slip up costing me a precious three seconds as I scampered away from the stalking footsteps. One heavy footfall followed every two of mine, then one of every three as I sprinted towards the closest tree. The frantic chase gave me no spare air to scream, though the sheets of water would have drowned my screams regardless.


    Leaves and mud squelched underneath my feet and the shaggy leaves of bushes snagged my shirt, and bag, and skin as I ran towards safety. The trunk was long and the bark would be slick from the rain and moss, but it was my only chance.


    The storm cloaked the forest, and I stumbled and slid on roots, branches, and rotten leaves hidden by the night. The lightning had a change of heart, though, and streaked the sky in white, geometric fire, giving me brief pictures of my surroundings. Brief was all I needed, and I ran faster than I ever did in my life through the drenched terrain. The oak was close now. The branches waved me forward, reaching out and shaking.


    I was so quick on my feet that when I tried to stop, only a few meters from the tree, I slipped and skidded the rest of the way and slammed face-first into the trunk. ¡°Oof!¡± was all I gave myself time to react with before I scaled across the wet bark, slippery like I predicted, and climbed up. The moss tried to loosen my grip, but I dug my nails into the tree¡¯s callused skin.


    The wood tore at my skin and ripped my fingernails off my nail beds, yet I didn¡¯t even notice the pain. The next lightning strike flashed, and I saw the rusty gloss of my blood pouring down my thin fingers. I kept climbing, higher and higher.


    I probably weighed fifty pounds soaking wet, so the tree had no issue carrying my weight. At least until I made the rushed mistake of grabbing onto a new twig, thin with a speckling of bark. It ripped off its parent with the sound of tearing cloth. I shrieked. My hand reached up towards something, anything. I latched onto a senior branch, sobbing in relief.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± I croaked at the bark in front of me. The tree shivered, and another branch pushed me forward, up, away from the beast below.


    I screeched when the man made his presence known, knocking into the tree with a roar. He slammed his hands into the hardened and aged bark, grunting and hissing.


    ¡°Get down here, you little bitch!¡± the man snarled up at me, punching the tree when I only climbed higher, like he could cut it down through will alone.


    I panted and rested my cheek against a branch when I made it to the top of the tree, where no one, especially the brute, could reach. The ancient plant tightened its limbs around me and I heard the predator below scream in pain when a branch swatted him in the face.


    My hands shook, and a sob lodged in my throat. Tears welled in my eyes, but the haven gave me courage. ¡°Go to hell!¡± I yelled down at him. I almost wanted him to try and reach me, so I could laugh at the man as he fell back down. Fear left me drip by drip. Frozen blood melted back to liquid, then boiled as I looked down at the predator, who was still fighting the enraged tree.


    I hurled abuse at him, the vilest a small child could come up with, as the rain poured down and thunder added its own voice. How dare he insult me after he tried to attack me? He chased me up a tree and only instincts from ancestors¡¯ past saved me from whatever disgusting fantasies he wanted to act out.


    He did eventually try to scale the tree, and he did fall on his ass before he could grab a third branch, and I did absolutely laugh. He deserved it, the humiliation, the predator¡¯s continuous reminder that he could not even kidnap properly. Easily thwarted by a tree because he was a hulking, clunky moron.


    He screamed at the sky when thunder and lightning danced and harmonized, and I cackled above him, tinkling bells dwarfed by the chaos of the storm. ¡°I¡¯m gonna get you!¡± he attempted to thunder, but it was so pathetic in contrast to the real deal bellowing around us.


    ¡°Oh, really?¡± I chuckled, loud enough for him to hear. ¡°Looks like it.¡± I saw his shadowed figure reach down and pick something up, and I failed to register the danger until I saw how big it was. A huge, uneven circle attached to the line of his arm.


    I tried to jump to the next branch, and it bent sideways to catch my form as he hurled the rock. I slid on the branch, grip slipping as I ripped off leaves and tiny branches. The rock slammed against the side of my head. I was still conscious enough to feel my blood freeze again as my fingers loosened. Hear the tree branches curve and contort as it tried to grab me.


    My body fell to the ground. I did not feel it when I hit the earth. Only saw through my blackened vision rotten brown leaves and broken twigs. Then nothing.


    My last thought was, ¡®If only his aim was as bad as his climbing skills.¡¯


    I woke up in the backseat of a car. Balls of light raced from the passenger window to the back window, and the sudden bright flashes made my head pound. The back windows were partially down, letting the fresh air in, which whipped against my chilled face. I was curled up on my side and soaked through, so cold that I knew my lips must have turned blue. I drew my knees up tighter and wrapped my arms around my middle. A hiccup escaped.


    The stress of being hunted by a grown man, the pain in my fingers, and the agony in my head overwhelmed my mind. It couldn¡¯t take it anymore, and blissfully warped reality. Teleported me to the most peaceful times of my short life. In a blink, I was sleeping in the back of the car with my mother as she drove down dark roads.


    Something played on the radio; rock and roll, heavy metal, country, it didn¡¯t matter. I was so adapted to living in a car that I could sleep through anything. Mom glanced at her rearview mirror, saw my lolling head being cradled by a seatbelt, and turned the radio down. Not all the way down, so the music could keep her awake, but enough that any sudden rises in volume from solos and advertisements would not stir me.


    She lowered the window, knowing how I loved the cool night air and, boom, I was deep in sleep, where the Bum-bum. Bum-bum. of the car, the gentle swishing of the wind, and barely there lyrics of various songs influenced my peaceful dreams. I might get lucky tonight and she will drive to a random gas station and buy me a small slushie, gently opening my door, careful not to disturb me or my seatbelt hammock, and reach over to put it in the cupholder. The only gift she could afford most of the time. I will wake up when we go over a particularly large bump and a sleepy grin will plaster itself on my face at the sight of the rare treat.


    I did not even realize I was crying until I felt the wind cool the hot tears on my face. Reality hit like a throat punch and the whimper which nested itself into my throat crawled up and escaped. My lips quivered and my eyes burned as tears flowed down and pooled under my head. How predictable, I lectured myself. Finally got cocky and now we¡¯re in the backseat of some stranger¡¯s car. And I almost wished I was na?ve enough to not know what would happen next, but Mom never let me be na?ve to the horrors of the real world, and the news broadcasts on the radio filled in any gaps.


    The pain, the agony, the humiliation and dehumanization. All of it just for me, because luck ran away as soon as I was born. I only hoped that I would blackout in the middle of it, and that the man would dump me somewhere the police could come get me, and not kill me outright after he was done. I was already a statistic without becoming a headline.


    I cried what any child would cry, all faux confidence beaten out of me. ¡°I want my mommy.¡± I snarled in my torment, hate and horror squeezing my heart and controlling my body, my vocal chords. ¡°Mama. Mama!¡±


    I squeaked when the car rolled to a jerky stop, going off the road and onto the gravel. I hated that sound. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    The driver¡¯s door opened. He parked right under a blinding streetlight, and I squinted my eyes against the glare. The car lights blinked on, and the calm orange contrasted comically with the morbid situation. I heard a grunt as he grabbed onto the sides of the door and dragged himself out of the car. When I saw his shadow engulf mine, I squeaked again and buried myself in my arms, choking on whimpers and sobs. The passenger door opened.


    ¡°Hey-hey-hey! Easy, easy.¡± I screamed when a warm hand patted my head. Teeth clenched so hard together, I worried they would crack like pebbles thrown violently against pavement.


    ¡°It¡¯s me. Hey, it¡¯s okay. It¡¯s just me.¡± Arms picked me up with ease and wrapped around my middle. I hid in my arms, even as he shushed and rocked me in the rain.


    There wasn¡¯t any pain. No agony or humiliation. I peaked up from my hiding place to see¡­ the sweet boy from the library.


    Wailing, not noticing his flinch at the piercing sound, I launched myself further into his arms. I cried harder than before, my throat tight and eyes bloodshot, my arms so tense around his neck I worried I was choking him. I couldn¡¯t let go, though. If I let him go, I¡¯d be in the back of that man¡¯s car, or bleeding out on the forest floor, or in my father¡¯s house.


    He adjusted me so that my face rested against his neck and stroked my hair, all the while muttering reassurances over the rain. ¡°You¡¯re okay. He¡¯s gone. I¡¯m so sorry. I am so fucking sorry.¡± The boy held me tighter against him, leaning over me, acting as a shield against the rain. ¡°I should have tried harder. A little girl out in the middle of a storm, God! What were we thinking, not taking you home?¡± He choked and shook his head.


    ¡°W-What happened?¡± I asked, wincing as a wave of agony rolled through my head and settled into the front of my skull. I pushed two fingers where the pain lingered and whimpered when I felt a hearty bump, caked with what I assumed was dried blood. The boy jerked his head from side to side like he was trying to fling the experience from his mind.


    ¡°I-I had such a bad feeling,¡± he said. ¡°I knew I couldn¡¯t just leave you out in the cold like that. I stayed to help the ladies out and¡­ I shouldn¡¯t have even done that. I should have gotten right in the car and followed you. Begged you to just trust me this once,¡± he said. ¡°And when I finally did, I saw him¡­ I saw that fucker drag you into his car and I¡­ I rammed into it. I rammed into his car.¡± The teenage boy adjusted me again, favoring his left hand. Craning my neck, I looked at his right wrist and, despite the darkness, could make out the deep mosaic of purples and blues which painted his wrist.


    ¡°I couldn¡¯t give him the chance to take you. It was so stupid. It¡¯s a miracle I didn¡¯t hurt you more. Hell, I might have and I just can¡¯t see it!¡± He carded a hand through my tangled hair, a small tug signaling me to show him my face. I lifted my head, and he cradled my cheek, moving my head from side to side. Squinting, he studied my eyes, trying to find something there. When what he saw satisfied him, the older boy shook his head and bawled, the tension in his shoulders loosening.


    The rain softened to tear drops as he said, ¡°He got out. He screamed and said he was gonna kill me. I-I lost it. He¡­¡± He took a shuddering breath. ¡°You don¡¯t have to worry about him.¡± I pulled him towards me and hid in his neck again, almost choking him, though he didn¡¯t protest.


    We said nothing for a while, only cried and held each other in the rain, wondering how we ended up in such a hysterical scenario. It was so quiet in the library.


    After ten minutes, both of us looked like drowned rats. I giggled and reached for his hair, and he leaned down. I tugged on his soaked locks, tangled and sopping wet from the rain, and laughed, scratchy and choked. He laughed too and shook his head over mine, splashing me with sweaty hair water, and I squealed in disgust.


    The boy chuckled while he adjusted me and himself to lean against the car, angling his face to the sky. I did the same and sighed. The droplets had warmed, and it felt like getting hugged in a pool during the summer, minus the chlorine.


    He nudged me after another few minutes. ¡°We need to get you to a hospital. That¡¯s where I was taking you because you¡¯re¡ª¡± he reached up to the top of my head and I hissed when he touched the bump. When he pulled his hand back, I saw flecks of dried blood wash off his fingers. ¡°You¡¯re hurt pretty bad. What happened?¡±


    ¡°Jerk threw a rock at my head when I climbed a tree,¡± I said, crinkling my face when I noticed how my words slurred at the end. He noticed.


    The boy growled. ¡°Damn coward. Yeah, we need to get you to a hospital.¡±


    I snorted. ¡°Oh joy, my dad¡¯s gonna love that bill.¡± With a sigh, I extracted myself from the boy¡¯s arms and attempted to stand, only to sway on my feet. The car suddenly had a twin. My stomach did a whole gymnast routine, and bright splashes of color swirled in my vision. He caught me before I could fall face-first into a puddle. I stuttered out, ¡°Welp. Th-That¡¯s not gonna work.¡±


    ¡°You got hit on the head with a rock,¡± he said like that explained everything. He put an arm under my legs and picked me up, bridal style.


    ¡°And fell off a tree.¡± He balked at me. ¡°I climbed up a tree, and he threw a rock at my head. I fell.¡± An eye twitched.


    ¡°And fell off a tree. Yeah, you need to go to the hospital. You¡¯ve been out for at least half an hour.¡± He turned around slow, placing my abused frame back inside the car with the same gentleness I saw him handle baby birds with. The passenger door clicked closed, and the boy gently sat down in the driver¡¯s seat, careful not to shake the car. Turning around, he gave me a lopsided grin. ¡°This is going to sound stupid, but do you want me to put on your seatbelt?¡±


    I chuckled, coughed, then shook my head, laying down on my right side and wrapping my arms around myself. ¡°No. Just don-don¡¯t go too fast? Please?¡± The boy nodded and turned back around. He eyed me through the rearview mirror, and the droplets collected on his eyelashes refracted the glow of the car light. A sigh left him. Twisting the key, he woke up the cranky engine, and the car shook off the water which pooled in its crevices.


    ¡°Hey,¡± he said, turning the car back towards the road. I cringed at the sound of gravel under tires. ¡°I know your brain¡¯s all scrambled right now, but can you try not to sleep? You¡¯re not supposed to when you have a concussion.¡±


    ¡°Is that what this is? A¡­ con-cooshion?¡± He frowned.


    ¡°Yeah, and you¡¯re not supposed to sleep for at least twenty-four hours. It should be only ten more minutes before we get to the hospital, though, so maybe there¡¯s something they can do so you can rest. Pills or whatever.¡±


    He grinned at the rearview window. ¡°I got one when I was your age when a baseball hit me square on the forehead. Had a black eye for a good two weeks!¡± He laughed at himself. ¡°If you want, after we get you all fixed up, I can show you the picture of it. Dad made sure to take photos of my new accessories. It was as big as the baseball that gave me it, swear to God.¡± He made a circle with his thumb and pointer finger, pressing it against his face before pulling it away from him with a silly grin. ¡°Whaahp! Thing was huge!¡± His eyes crinkled when I giggled.


    He asked if I wanted to keep the windows down, and I said yes, hoping the wind would settle my stomach and chill out the furious headache. Then we were off.


    Telling stories about his childhood, he gave me a vivid description of how stupid he was when he was younger, with an assortment of injuries as momentos. A dislocated shoulder from a parachute attempt with a sheet. A broken toe from kicking a pebble, only for it to be a buried rock he swore was as big as a tire. He got his arm snapped like a twig when he was ten because he challenged a thirteen-year-old to a fight and got thrown across the room¡ªturns out the stick of a kid was not lying when he said he was a wrestler. The ten-minute trip morphed into thirty, the closest hospital farther than he thought, but he kept me awake the entire time with tales of his misadventures.


    By the time we got there, the sky had vanished. Gone were the ashy clouds which choked the moon and her stars. When I looked up, it was a sea of blackness, like a clumsy god spilled ink all over their canvas. Too dark for shadows. Too dark to exist until the sun rose and vaporized the remnants of the storm, conquered in nature¡¯s own fight between light and dark.


    That rock really scrambled my brains because, as he picked me up again and carried me into the sterile lights of the hospital, I wondered where humans got the concept of good and evil. More simply, light vs. dark.


    Did we get it from our bloody battles, with how our spilled blood looked against a blade of grass? Or did we see how the sun fought the moon, and how the moon fought the stars, and how the stars fought off the tendrils of parasitic shadows, and wrote thousands of stories based on conflicts which existed millions of years before humanity¡¯s ancestors existed? Wars which we had no context for, so arrogantly assumed their meanings?


    As we entered the reception room, the harsh overhead hospital lights stabbed into my pupils. I cried out and snuggled into the boy¡¯s chest.


    He tried to carry me delicately, not wanting to jostle my head more than necessary, but worry had him jogging when he saw the nurse at the reception desk. ¡°She¡¯s hurt,¡± he said in a rush. ¡°Someone threw a rock at her head and knocked her out of a tree. She¡¯s slurring her words. I think she¡¯s seeing double. Are you seeing double? Hey, are you seeing double?¡± He patted my back and rocked back and forth, coaxing a nod from me. I opened my eyes and the light above me split into two.


    I shut my eyes again, keeping them so, and he did me the favor of making sure no one touched me unnecessarily. He told the nurse, ¡°She doesn¡¯t like being touched by strangers¡± when the older woman reached out to comfort me. He answered a lot of questions.


    ¡°No, I¡¯m not her brother.¡±


    ¡°No, I¡¯m not her guardian. I just work at the library she hangs out at.¡±


    ¡°She told me some jackass chased her up a tree and threw a rock at her. She fell down. I got there before he drove off.¡±


    ¡°Uh, sorry ma¡¯am. I¡¯ll watch my language.¡±


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t know where he is now. Yes ma¡¯am, we¡¯ll wait.¡±


    Then the police came.


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t know where the guy is now. I told the nurse that. Yes sirs, I know you¡¯re just being thorough.¡±


    ¡°No, I wasn¡¯t there when he went after her, but I saw him try to put her into his car.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m pretty sure that wasn¡¯t her father. Was that dic¡ªer, that man your dad? No, it wasn¡¯t him.¡±


    ¡°No¡­ I-I don¡¯t know where he is now. I screamed at him and he tried to swing at me¡­ I swung back. He¡­ He got into his car and drove away.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I followed her. She¡¯s a ten-year-old girl walking in the middle of a thunderstorm. What was I supposed to do?¡±


    ¡°What the hell? No! I didn¡¯t do that to her! Look at her! Would anyone cuddle up to the person who tried to smash their brains out and do God knows what else?¡±


    ¡°Yes sir, I know you¡¯re just covering all your bases. Sorry, sir. I just¡­ She¡¯s like a little sister to me. She¡¯s walked to the library all by herself since she was little¡ªwell, littler. I practically saw her grow up. She used to call me ¡®Boo Choo.¡¯ I don¡¯t know what she was trying to say, but it was adorable.¡±


    ¡°Book.¡± I jumped into the conversation, interrupting his nervous rambling, now snuggled into his side while the nurse tried to examine my head wound on the hard bed. ¡°I was trying to call you ¡®Book,¡¯ because you always helped me find my books.¡± The boy shuddered and sniffled, the questioning affecting him more than I thought it would. I followed his arm, wrapped around my shoulders, and put my hand over his larger one. It helped when Mom did that for me when I was upset.


    He snorted through his tears, which made an interesting sound. ¡°That¡¯s freaking adorable.¡± The police officers and attending nurse gave their own short chuckles at the nickname before the questioning resumed.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t get a good look at him. Way too old to be dragging a little girl into his car. Bigger, around my height¡ªI¡¯m 5¡¯9¡±¡ªwhite, either black or brown hair, same with the eyes. He didn¡¯t look dirty.. Dark clothes, either black or dark blue. He wore a baggy jacket and what looked like grey sweatpants.¡±


    ¡°I work at the local library, sir. That¡¯s how I knew to follow her. She came that morning and left while it was still storming. I should have insisted, but she¡­ she hasn¡¯t really acted the same around me since she was around six. I didn¡¯t want her to be anymore afraid of me than she already was. Why was she nervous around me? Uh¡­¡± He coughed into his hand, and it wasn¡¯t a fake, uncomfortable cough. We were both probably going to have quite the colds after this was said and done with.


    ¡°My dad¡¯s a jerk.¡± I answered, short with the cops. I was cold, tired, and in a lot of pain. To say I was not in the mood to be poked and prodded at in any way was putting it lightly. ¡°And he slapped me last time I was nice to a boy. Kid was crying, and I gave him a flower and, well, my father saw.¡±


    The boy cursed and spat poison under his breath. ¡°You¡¯re ten-years-old. What the hell is he worried about? Should be proud to have raised such a great kid, but no.¡± He continued his tirade as the police scribbled my words down onto their notepads. They tried to question me further, but I stayed silent. They took the hint and turned back to the boy.


    ¡°She¡¯s ten-years-old. Her birthday is February 1st.¡±


    ¡°She comes in and stays from open to close. Eight AM to eight PM, sir. Ten AM to Six PM on weekends.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s been going to the library almost every day since she was four.¡±


    ¡°She walked there by herself, rain or shine. We did report it. The police didn¡¯t do anything because they said she was ¡®clearly safe.¡¯¡±


    ¡°We did everything we could. We have rules, but she was the exception to almost every one. We have these mini private rooms, where you can have loud study groups, and meetings, and whatnot. We have a rule saying you can¡¯t sleep in them, because they are almost always in use. We let her sleep in them whenever she wants. We rarely allow food or drink, but we encourage her to bring snacks. We give her ours a lot of the time. She¡¯s so skinny. We don¡¯t allow people to check out books without a library card, but she would need a guardian to sign the papers and so she just has to promise us that she¡¯ll bring them back. She always does.¡±


    ¡°Yes sir. Yes sir, we¡¯ll tell you if there¡¯s anything else. Yes sir.¡±


    The nurse lady finished giving me the last stitch and said I was good to go, rubbing a thumb over my cheek as she complimented how good I was while she shoved a needle and thread through my skin. I just needed to stay until tomorrow morning to keep an eye on me. The boy had to leave.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, young man,¡± the nurse said, careful not to raise her voice and aggravate my headache. ¡°But I¡¯m afraid only family can stay.¡±


    He jolted and held me closer. ¡°I¡¯m not leaving her alone. You¡¯ll have to get the cops back in here.¡± The nurse, to her credit, just laughed and insisted he needed to leave. Family only.


    ¡°Didn¡¯t you hear?¡± I mumbled against his side. ¡°He¡¯s my brother. He stays.¡±


    She tsked and clicked her tongue, and I heard her tapping her shoe against the tile. With a sigh, she gave in. ¡°Fine, but you will not cause any problems. Do you understand, young man? I¡¯ll bring you both some water and a pudding cup, but you may not roam the halls willy-nilly. Bathroom breaks only, got it?¡±


    ¡°Yes ma¡¯am.¡± He laid down on the bed and put my head on his chest.


    ¡°Ah-ah.¡± she scolded. ¡°You on the chair. She needs that bed to herself.¡± She stood there for a minute before clicking her tongue again. ¡°And I¡¯ll give you both some clean clothes. Wait here.¡± A squeak and reverberating clack of her shoes told me she exited the room in a hurry, likely having other patients who needed attention.


    I whined, but since I did not want to cause a disturbance that would end up with me being alone when (if) my father came, I let him get up and off the hospital bed. As a compromise, he scooted the chair as close as possible and laid his head down on the side of the bed.


    ¡°Did the nurse say to stay awake?¡± I whispered.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so,¡± he whispered back, stretching his hand and flattening my stringy hair. ¡°I think you shouldn¡¯t risk it, though. I¡¯ll ask her when she comes back. Promise.¡±


    Moaning, I curled into a ball, an increasingly familiar position, and tried to stay awake. It was difficult, my brain telling me that a nice snooze would cure me of my pulsing headache, but not wanting to find out the consequences if I caved in and released myself from reality.


    I thankfully did not have to wait for long. The nurse, paranoid and wanting to get us into something warm, checked on us only after five minutes with two pairs of pants and shirts. After the nurse helped me put on the white clothes, him pacing outside the door with squishy shoes, the nurse gave us the all clear that I could, of course, sleep and that I needed the rest.


    She did not need to tell me twice. Before he even sat back down, looking like an altar boy in all white except for his muddy sneakers, I was out like a light. The last thing I heard was the boy gently humming, the thunder and rain howling in tune.

 Were Still Here

    Monday, January 30th. 3044.


    The world wept when the last cry was silenced.


    As civilians hid their children from vulture-eyed soldiers, they spared precious breath to warn the world leaders. What festered below would spread above. The plague of war would leave no one unscathed. All would be burned. All would be hollowed.


    No one listened. No one who could change anything.


    World War III turned into an extinction event within ten years. One young soldier¡¯s misfire morphed into a nuclear war. Nuclear war froze into nuclear winter. The countries least affected busied themselves with the scraps of their decimated neighbors.


    They believed themselves the survivors. Perhaps the poorest and frailest would die, but the powers would persevere and simply wait for the workforce to breed. A wound untreated turns septic, though, and soon even they fell under the weight of their own neglect.


    We¡¯re the last of humanity, shoved into bunkers like sardines. Our planet has disowned us like a scorned mother, as the flora and fauna are quick to tear apart any human who ventures outside our coffin. They rightfully blame us for their torture, as radiation from WWIII tears them apart by the atoms. The Earth allowed dogs, who clawed their way out before we ate them, but no humans. We do not deserve the sun.


    Terra¡¯s hatred of us has halved the average lifespan of a person. Few of us live past the age of forty as radiation chokes us slowly as it leaks through the steel walls of our casket.


    If radiation does not kill us, we will finish what it started. Tear apart any who show weakness and filter their blood into water, cook flesh into jerky, and carve bones into daggers to start the cycle anew.


    This is how our story ends.


    There¡¯s a satin satisfaction which comes from completing a journal entry. The cursor blinks at me. The last depressing green word chafes against the heavy black of the screen. My wrists hurt from the unforgiving plastic desk my computer rests on, but it¡¯s not like I¡¯ll live to really feel the consequences of that.


    It¡¯s easy to escape into the written world of diary entries, short stories, and sometimes poetry, though that medium hates me. Still, the written word calms my nerves, if only for a moment. Even if I¡¯m writing about the past that blights my present.


    And the present knocks on my door and manifests itself in the skin of my boss, Burkley, who barges in, barks at me to get off my ass, then slams the door closed in the same three seconds. On cue, the smell of sickly sweet iron floods my nose. I groan and drag myself out of my rickety chair, plugging my nose for a brief respite.


    My uniform lies on my bed in a crumpled heap. A shirt, slacks, and an apron, all once a deep black, but are now a dull gray. Pulling them on is a thoughtless act of second nature. With one last longing look at my computer, I open the door and fall from my peaceful, dark oasis into the vomit-yellow lights of the bunker.


    The rusted platform creaks ominously as I add my weight. The doors next to mine squeak open as more cleaners, in the same uniform as me, though all in differing shades of black or gray, filter out, much to the platform¡¯s protest.


    We live in The Middle of the bunker, where most of the workers live. Cleaners, trash collectors, guards, nutrient bar distributors (hence the guards), and so on. Those without a job live in The Lowers and The Pits, where tireless machines bathe everything in ash. The high and mighty fuckers live Up Top, where much of the smog can¡¯t reach.


    Cleaners have the privilege of their own section of the bunker, with how many the hellscape needs so we don¡¯t drown in our own filth. Two rusted metal rectangles face each other, one for the floor cleaners, and one for the wall cleaners, all surrounded by high metal fences with only one way in. The fence holds back intruders, those desperate enough to drink the buckets of sludgy water. It also acts as storage, the chain-link covered in brushes, buckets, mops, and rags. A long metal pole, with a sharp hook on the end, helps grab the tools out of reach.


    My fellow wall cleaners hustle to the fence, while the floor cleaners cluster amongst themselves, their shift starting in an hour, but the bustle too loud for them to sleep through. I nod at my coworkers and, sucking in a deep breath, I plunge into the pile of bodies.


    The computer gives me access to information most people will never see, and not just because I¡¯m one of the few who can read. According to the historical records I ripped from the hard drive, there are five bunkers in the entire world. Each could hold five-thousand people, but at least ten-thousand were shoved into them.


    We¡¯re lucky number three. Fifteen-thousand shoved into a giant can the size of a stadium, and I am a twenty-third generation resident. A person jams an elbow into my side and I wonder how the hell a single planet could hold eight billion of us.


    ¡°Clementine!¡± Burkley yells, voice ringing like steel on steel, from the metal walkway above me. His office/bedroom is crammed between a dozen others. ¡°Move your ass.¡±


    ¡°Morning, Burkley. And yes,¡± I snark back, ¡°Because wiping shit from the walls comes with such a time crunch!¡±


    The man smirks and, while most of the cleaners take one look at his grin and move it double time, I smile back and stick out my tongue. He throws his head back and cackles, hammering the railing with a callused and scarred hand. ¡°Morning to ya too, sunshine. And if your nose weren¡¯t busted, you¡¯d think so, boy.¡±


    ¡°Heh,¡± I shove my hands in my pockets and fondly mutter, ¡°Jackass¡± under my breath. I¡¯m thirty, but I was a boy when he hired me, and I¡¯ll be a boy when he dies.


    I snag the last rag in easy reach, glaring at a hand, far smoother and less scarred than mine, that tried to steal it from me. She¡¯s a new brat, her shirt as dark as ink, and she flips me off. Coworkers laugh when I fake-pout and point at Grabby, a loving nickname for the long, hooked pole. She flips me off again, then stomps towards it.


    A man about my age, the first sign of grays in his unevenly cut, chin-length hair, does me the solid of handing me a filled bucket. I nod in thanks, pick up a scrub brush, half its bristles missing, and run out of the creaking gate before Burkley gets the itch to yell at me again.


    At first, disinfecting the walls and walkways with a mixture of bleach and water seemed easy. Then I found out how much actual human crap people throw at the wall. My stomach had sunk further when I looked up and studied the hundreds of walkways, which vein across the entire bunker like a nervous system, hundreds of connections dead or misfiring. My feet already ache at the thought of scrubbing-rinsing-walking, scrubbing-rinsing-walking for fifteen hours.


    Each cleaner has their own section, so the work actually gets done. After not two, not three, but four cleaners were killed in fights for the Up Top sections, Burkley insisted he assign everyone himself, despite the extra work. Two wall cleaners flicker past my peripheral like cockroaches, their matching, patchy, gray-black shirts and aprons showing they¡¯ve only had this job for four-ish years. Burkley¡¯s shouts ring out, and the pair almost run to their sections. I stick to my leisurely walk.


    Burkley is a burden and a boon. His voice cracks like a whip, but his wisecracks are the most positive interaction I get in a month. On the worst days, his sarcasm is worth more than a nutrient bar.


    The work is tedious, disgusting, but it pays. It pays with the one thing a younger me, cursed with childhood, could not bitch, fight, or kill for. Food.


    Bucket of murky water in one hand, and a scrub brush in the other, I do not notice the man as I whistle tunelessly. I hear him though. The wet sound of ripping meat. I stop, bucket nearly sloshing water onto the grated walkway. Bile burns at the back of my throat.


    The smell of blood thickens in my nose. Metallic, tangy, with sickening notes of sweetness. The man hunches over his kill, so focused on departing flesh from bone. I¡¯m not so much as a thought.


    I spot more of the child as I walk past hunter and prey. A tiny hand, fingers bloody and covered in teeth marks, and a tissue-y stub where a pointer finger was. An arm as thin as my scrub brush¡¯s handle. A slashed throat. Finally, a pale face, doll-like eyes staring at whatever greets us when we die. The man concentrates on the child¡¯s stomach, tearing into organs before someone stronger steals his breakfast.


    He spots me through his matted hair. It might have been brown underneath the years of caked dirt. His hairy upper lip, dark with blood and filth, curls and reveals a rotted canine. I swallow the bile down and force my face into a snarl. Stomp a foot towards him, wielding my scrub brush like a blade.


    That¡¯s all it takes. He wilts, scrambles on all fours for a few seconds before whatever is left of his humanity reactivates. The man whimpers, ¡°Forgive me, Terra,¡± and runs away, covered in crimson.


    I bolt in the opposite direction, up the nearest staircase. Each step creaks and shudders. Only when I¡¯m nestled in the exhaustive network of walkways do I keel over, hand clenching my stomach. I swallow bitter saliva and fight down the urge to gag. I actually forced down a nutrient bar last night, and I don¡¯t want the effort spilling onto the grating.


    The hand not clenching my stomach dives into the middle pocket of my apron, and it curls around nothing. My brows furrow and I search the right pocket. Then the left. The middle pocket again. I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. ¡°Great.¡±


    I cannot count how many times that bone dagger has saved my ass. The chipped, sharpened bone, hilt wrapped in leather, has scared away desperate packs of children and desperate adult loners alike.


    It must¡¯ve fallen out last night. Maybe even when I was putting the apron on this morning. I can¡¯t return to my room and snatch it back because then Burkley would jump down my throat. Tell me to suck it up before we both get fired and have to scavenge the walkways for corpses like the man.


    So, no bone dagger. Thank Terra I¡¯m not assigned to The Pits today.


    The first stain I encounter is mercifully normal, just some blood. Much of it has splashed and trickled through the metal grating. Burkley hires an entire crew just for the floors, so most of it is not my problem. I lean my waist against the ancient railing and scrub at the wall. When I kneel through the bars to reach where the pink water has dribbled down, an ache shoots through my knees, up my thighs, and settles on the small of my back.


    Cleaning blood is quick work, though. My brush leaks with the frothy water, and a pink droplet lands on the cap of a cleaner a floor below me. The young woman from before. She whips her head up to glare at me, and I flip her off, grinning.


    The rest of the day goes a similar way: Kneel, pain, scrub, stand. Kneel-pain-scrub-stand, kneel-pain-scrub-stand. Soon, the horror of this morning pushes itself to the back of my mind, where I¡¯ll drag it out instead of sleeping.


    Eight hours in, I yawn, almost popping my jaw. Feet catch every little flaw and fracture on the grated floor. I slip multiple times, sometimes on water, sometimes not. People scurry around me like cockroaches caught in a spotlight, the upside to being a cleaner. The clean freaks Up Top would rather not step in shit whenever they come down from their throne of gold, so, while most everyone else in The Middle can be killed without consequence, cleaners like me have the law on our side. The law is a bunch of bloodthirsty meatheads who kill first, ask questions later, but the threat doesn¡¯t stop everyone.


    A woman speed-walks past me, nearly hitting me with her shoulder and briefcase. Her dark brown eyes, rimmed with a darker gray, glare at me. She would¡¯ve blended into the other hundred assholes on this one walkway if not for her spotless white shirt and black blazer¡ªand her pack of bodyguards.


    People squeak and scatter out of the woman¡¯s way, no one wanting a fist to the face. The rear guard, a giant block of muscle, stalks past and snarls at me. I lower my head, cheeks warm. A glint smacks into my abused retina, already beaten bloody by my computer screen, and I wince. I blink and follow where the glint came from.


    There¡¯s a metal rectangle sticking from the woman¡¯s hip, in a holster not dissimilar to the one that holds my knife. This holster is bigger, though. The leather is shined to a lustrous finish and finely made. The weapon it holds is just as fine, but twice as valuable, if not thrice. Anyone could turn a person into a decent looking holster, but how the hell did this woman get a gun?


    I whisper, mystified by the shiny metal. ¡°Guns have been extinct since the early nineties...¡±


    ¡°Early tree-tousands, actually.¡± I jerk back. My hand dives into my apron¡¯s middle pocket. Shaking fingers curl around nothing and adrenaline pours into my veins.


    It takes a few seconds for my brain to register the young boy, who waves his arms frantically. ¡°Whoa-whoa, ¡®m not gon¡¯ eat ya!¡± he shouts, uncaring of the stares his yelling attracts. ¡°And ¡®m not gon¡¯ hurt ya eiter. Just,¡± he shrugged. ¡°Wanted t¡¯ correctcha.¡±


    My shoulders drop, heart slowing back down to a steady beat. I narrow my eyes at the kid. ¡°It¡¯s rude to sneak up on people.¡±


    ¡°Manners went extinct in te fifties.¡±


    My lips twitch into a sardonic half-smile. ¡°Twenty fifty-two, to be exact.¡±


    ¡°When we all went under.¡± The kid grins back and sits on the railing, swinging his legs. I walk closer to him and bend over. My back creaks like a rusty hinge, but I grit my teeth and pick up the bucket. Small miracles, because it didn¡¯t get knocked over when the kid startled me, or stolen by a loner or pack. I breathe out a sigh, because wasted water halves my nutrient bars, and I think I can stomach another one today.


    I get a closer look at the kid. Terra knows how many layers of dust and smoke cover his face, the muck caked in further with humidity and sweat. Some of it flakes off when he twitches. The kid¡¯s jaw isn¡¯t¡­ quite right. Like he got punched there when it was still squishy, malleable, and it never popped back into shape. He¡¯s obviously adapted around it, and it¡¯s remarkable that he¡¯s survived this long with such a disadvantage. I wonder if one of his parents punched him before handing him over to the nearest orphan.


    The kid¡¯s eyes glimmer with curiosity as he studies me, patient, something I¡¯ve never seen a child¡¯s eyes do. No, actually, I knew one kid. ¡°What¡¯s your name, runt?¡±


    ¡°Jere.¡± I raise an eyebrow. ¡°Te oter kids named me athter a late leader of teirs who got killed by guards.¡±


    ¡°Ah, born and raised with a pack, huh? Damn, even my own father had the decency to wait till I could walk and remember my name before chucking me onto the streets. Clementine.¡± I reach out a hand, and Jere looks at it astonished, like he¡¯s never shaken hands before. He likely hasn¡¯t. Burkley had to show me how. Unlike me at his age, though, he knows what to do and clasps his little, bony hand around mine and shakes it.


    ¡°Yer one of teh lucky ones, Clementeene.¡± He scratches his eyebrow and avoids looking me in the eye. ¡°More adults aren¡¯t even botering to wait fo¡¯ us to walk an¡¯ talk. Teh¡¯re givin¡¯ us to teh oter kids to raise. Not a lo¡¯ of us make it.¡±


    I swallow, fingers gripping the bucket¡¯s handle. ¡°Count your blessings, kid.¡± I turn my back to him and start walking away from him and this conversation. ¡°At least they gave you away instead of eating you.¡±


    As I walk, I hear him jump down from his perch. I feel the metal walkway shiver under my boots as it takes the kid¡¯s pitiful weight. He scampers behind me and I resist the urge to twist around and sock him in his face. The kid could¡¯ve jumped me before, but he didn¡¯t, and I didn¡¯t see any weapons on him. I doubt the filthy, faded rags he has to call clothes could hide the bump of a bone knife.


    Holy hell, the kid¡¯s survived this long without a weapon? Maybe he lost it. The insane urge to give it to the runt springs up, and I stomp it down, suddenly glad I don¡¯t even have the thing.


    ¡°Hey,¡± Jere says, teleporting to walk by my side. ¡°Do yeh like ¡®istory? You seem teh know stuff.¡± He giggles. ¡°Like me!¡±


    ¡°Go away. I gotta work now.¡±


    ¡°Oh, come on.¡± He walks a bit ahead of me, then jumps around to walk backwards, which is impressive with all the holes and jagged bumps. ¡°I¡¯m sure yer mean old boss wouldn¡¯ mind ya talkin¡¯ teh me!¡±


    I pick up the pace. ¡°Actually, he¡¯d mind a lot.¡± Maybe I can tire the kid out. I¡¯m more well-fed than the average resident, and the kid looks like he¡¯s skipped a couple dozen meals. Shouldn¡¯t take much, and I can always run if need be.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t ya a cleaner?¡±


    ¡°Yep. Good eye.¡± Faster, Clementine.


    ¡°Ten ya can clean and talk, right?¡± Jere meets my every step with two of his own. Impressive again, since he¡¯s walking backwards, unbothered by the perilous grating. He¡¯s barely out of breath, but I¡¯m quickly running out of patience.


    I grind my teeth and hiss, ¡°Kid, I got better things to do than babysit you.¡±


    ¡°Wat¡¯s ¡®babyset¡¯?¡± Jere cocks his head. Genuine curiosity sparkles in his eyes and I slow down.


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ a verb,¡± I answer.


    ¡°Wha¡¯s a verb?¡±


    I stop, and Jere hops to a halt. ¡°Oh boy.¡± I scratch the back of my head and look around, like anyone would stop to help me teach a child grammar. ¡°Um,¡± I try to remember what I learned in those torn and dirt-caked books all those years ago. ¡°An¡­ action word?¡± That sounds right.


    Jere cocks his head more. ¡°Like¡­ stuff ya do?¡±


    I snap my fingers and point at him. ¡°Exactly! Babysit means¡­ to look after kids. I don¡¯t have time to look after you.¡±


    Jere snorts and asks, ¡°Who looks after kids?¡±


    ¡°It was a word from before the war. Lots of people looked after kids back then: teachers, siblings, older kids¡ª¡±


    ¡°Parents?¡± The kid¡¯s eyes widen.


    I swallow and nod. ¡°Yeah. Parents too, Jere. Everyone was supposed to.¡±


    His jaw slackens and he shakes his head. ¡°Tat sounds wild.¡± Jere hops back to my side like a rabbit. ¡°Can ya tell me more? Tis is way more fun ten teh stuff I¡¯ve tried to read wit.¡±


    I squeak out a chuckle and nervously mess up the kid¡¯s hair. Strands of oily, brittle hair cling to my fingers. ¡°What do you read with?¡± I ask as I grimace and wipe my hand on my pants.


    ¡°Just stuff about teh bunkers, and teh¡¯re, like, old pamlets and junk. It¡¯s teh only read-y stuff I¡¯ve got.¡± He kicks what looks like a finger bone off the walkway, scowling. ¡°Not tat I can read. Teh pictures are fun, t¡¯ough.¡±


    ¡°Hey,¡± I put a hand on my chest and feign offense. ¡°I learned to read with those ¡®old pamlets.¡¯ They¡¯re a good start.¡± I still have a few of them too, underneath my cot in a box, scratched on with tiny, sharpened bones. Those ¡®inspirational¡¯ pamphlets are going to outlive the whole damn bunker, the plastic sheets of nonsense.


    The kid hops in place, holding his hands together and squealing, ¡°I can lorn teh read wit tose?¡± He grabs the hem of my shirt and points two big, red watery eyes at me, ¡°Please, please, please tehch me? None of teh kids know how teh read.¡±


    I jerk my shirt out of his grip. ¡°Great Terra, I wish I had your energy, runt.¡±


    ¡°I get tat a lot,¡± he says, still jumping. I place a hand on the top of his head, careful not to tear out anymore hair, and force him to stop. He redirects all that excited energy into his arms and hands. Fidgets and grabs onto anything in reach, including my arm.


    ¡°Stop it.¡±


    ¡°But I¡¯m esited!¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t know why, since I didn¡¯t say yes.¡± That stops him, and he pouts. ¡°I don¡¯t have time to teach a kid how to read, or how to write. You¡¯re gonna have to figure it out like I did.¡±


    Jere¡¯s scrawny, starved body deflates. ¡°But¡­ tat¡¯s gonna take forever.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, it is. I did it, though, so you got a good shot at it. I¡¯m not exactly a rocket scientist.¡±


    He tilts his head. ¡°Ruhkeht?¡±


    I pointedly wave goodbye. ¡°Bye, kid. Maybe I¡¯ll see you later.¡± Whether alive or that old man¡¯s breakfast is up for Terra to decide.


    A sliver of me hopes he¡¯ll survive. Tired glares and scoffs usually greeted my rants about what I found on that computer until I grew too tired to try. We¡¯re all too hungry to hunger for knowledge¡ªexcept the kid somehow. I only crave because reading and writing helps distract from the smell of iron.


    A tiny voice carries over the roar of the bunker as I¡¯m halfway down the stairs. ¡°Wait!¡±


    Oh, for Terra¡¯s sake. How the hell Jere has survived this long when he runs up to random adults is a mystery. Children avoid adults the same way rats avoided cats before we ate them both to extinction.


    I keep my back to the boy and all-but run. There¡¯s a slight chance he¡¯ll think I can¡¯t hear him and give up. Afternoon is well underway, so the night-to-day shifters are rushing home for a nap, while the day-to-night shifters are rushing to work. More adults are around, and any of them would have no problem snatching the easy morsel that is tiny Jere. ¡°Clementeene!¡±


    ¡°What?¡± I snap, jerking around. ¡°What could you possibly want from me? I have work to do. You know what that is, right? Work? You do shit for other people in the hopes of food. Maybe if you stop bothering people and start growing up, you¡¯ll live long enough to read and get a job.¡± Jere¡¯s several meters away, and the haze from the machines below puts a blurry filter on everything. The manmade fog doesn¡¯t hide how the kid¡¯s eyes get misty. I take in his appearance one more time, and it clicks.


    Fuck. Kid doesn¡¯t have a pack.


    Pregnancy is when most kids die, the mothers too starved, drugged, beaten, or all of the above to bring the infant to term. If pregnancy doesn¡¯t kill them, the birth takes them, and sometimes the mother too.


    If they are born, their next greatest threat is their own skeletal parents. Provided that the kid is the luckiest bastard in the world, they¡¯re born to parents who give a damn about them. They¡¯re raised until they can walk and remember their name, and the parents have no choice but to kick them out. The bigger the mouths, the more food they need.


    Birth took my mother, and my father, a rare person who believed in love, never forgave me for that. He only took care of me so I could remember that she should¡¯ve been there, not me. As soon as I could tearfully recite that fact, he threw me into the arms of the next pack that wandered by.


    Children hunt in packs. A dozen or more kids, all different ages, bonded together by the insistent need to survive. I remember the pack I ran with. The first ¡®leader¡¯ was a girl with pitch black hair and half her teeth missing, the rest filed to a sharp point. When she disappeared¡ªLikely killed. Never found her body, but bodies aren¡¯t undisturbed for long¡ªI briefly took over and dragged half the kids into a massacre with a stupid plan to raid a densely guarded storage unit, where they keep the nutrient bars.


    The runner-up was a boy younger, but sharper, than I. We ate well under his leadership until a bunch of loner adults grouped together. Cornered and killed most of us while the fastest scattered. I, obviously, was one of them. Me and¡­ another boy, though a loner had stabbed him in the leg before we got away. I still remember hearing the dying screeches of my pack contort into deeper ones as the loners turned on each other.


    My stomach grumbles in memory of being in Jere¡¯s place. Packless. Didn¡¯t matter how fast you were if you couldn¡¯t back it up with muscle or numbers. It takes a dozen kids to secure enough food for six of them. Eight at most. Jere likely hasn¡¯t eaten anything more than bones and scraps of scraps for weeks, if not months. I look at how his ribs dent his skin through his stained and ripped shirt. Months.


    I was older by the time I lost my group, a ripe sixteen. It gave me a fighting chance. I just had to survive for a few months before Burkley shoved a bucket into my hand, and I¡¯ve been set ever since. Starvation could¡¯ve taken off a few years, but Jere¡¯s no older than twelve. Twelve and without a pack. I¡¯m staring at a walking corpse.


    Putting down the bucket, I sigh and sit, leaning against the railing. ¡°Come here, kid.¡± Buckley would rip me a new one if he found out, but I¡¯m confident I can catch up on any time wasted comforting a child on what are likely his last days.


    Like I snapped my fingers and willed it to happen, a brilliant smile stretches the kid¡¯s lips and adds a happy gleam to his curious eyes. He nearly skips to where I am, and dumps his bony frame next to mine.


    ¡°Do ya ¡®ave a computeh?¡±


    I open my mouth, then catch the words before they leave. A computer shell is rare. The parts are rarer. The time it takes to put one together is rarest. It took far too many nutrient bars and scavenging to fix up that hunk of junk. Like hell am I gonna risk a group of kids robbing me. Yeah, he doesn¡¯t have anyone, but he might trade such information for a seat at the table.


    Jere stares at me with sunken, giddy eyes, and I tell myself that my heart can¡¯t break anymore. I don¡¯t care about this runt. Kids die nearly every day. I saw a little boy get eaten this morning, for fuck sake. He¡¯ll die and I¡¯ll forget him in a week while I¡¯m scrubbing feces off a wall. The first cheerful person I¡¯ve met in years is a little boy doomed to die. Who cares?


    And who cares if I tell this little ghost I have a computer? After all the work I put into that laggy piece of plastic, I deserve to brag. ¡°Yeah, I do. Put it together myself.¡±


    Jere gasps and leans close. I see his black and brown teeth, his agitated gums. For the first time in a while, I¡¯m almost thankful I can only smell blood, because I know his breath reaks worse. ¡°Really? Tat¡¯s so cool! And it works?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s crap, but, yeah, it works. I just use it to write.¡± A waste of resources, but also not my problem.


    ¡°Wat do ya wite?¡±


    ¡°Write.¡±


    ¡°Write. Wat do ya write?¡±


    I shrug. I¡¯ve never actually had to explain what I type on there. ¡°Stuff. Sometimes my thoughts. Other times I write, um¡­¡± I do not want to spend hours explaining poetry to this kid. ¡°Written stuff. Like those pamphlets. I type them into the computer.¡±


    He squints. ¡°Why¡¯d ya do tat?¡±


    ¡°That.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t boter wit teh t¡­ Wit teh stts¡­ Wit teh ¡®issin¡¯ Ts. Can nev¡¯uh poonounce tem.¡±


    Snorting like someone his age, I say ¡°Pronounce.¡±


    ¡°Pronounce.¡±


    We chuckle. When the kid inches closer, I let him. He scoots along the grimy grate until our shoulders touch, and his relax. I remember how¡­ touchy packs were. At least how touchy mine was. We acted like animals during the day, but at night? We¡¯d all cuddle under starless steel, starved for touch.


    Jere lays his head on my shoulder. I let him. He¡¯s light as a ghost too.


    The little boy digs a dirty toe into the grate. Half his toes are bent from old breaks. His toenails are either gone or bruised a deep purple. ¡°Do you think¡­ we¡¯ll ever see sunshine?¡±


    ¡°Only if hell freezes over and that vault door opens.¡± I point a finger towards the lid of our coffin. A circular slab of iron and steel, decorated with a dizzying amount of twisting hydraulics and pistons. Jere frowns and cuddles into me further. Stretches his stick legs over mine. ¡°Comfy?¡± I snark.


    He doesn¡¯t seem to hear me. Poor kid¡¯s eyes flutter close. He yawns, and I fight down a gag as the tangy, metallic smell in my nose thickens again. I have no place to judge the kid¡¯s exhaustion, or his breath, even if I can¡¯t allow it. ¡°No-no-no.¡± I shake him awake and stand up before he can use me as a pillow again. ¡°Sorry, kid, but I gotta finish cleaning. I need to eat too.¡±


    Jere yawns again, rubbing his eyes. ¡°Is alright. I need teh go find someting to eat anyways.¡± A shiver starts in my legs and works its way up, stopping at the phantom weight in my pocket. I know the kid won¡¯t try anything on me, an able adult, yet my hand snakes its way into my apron. I snarl when I grasp nothing.


    I need my goddamn bone knife! A weapon or a guard. Even if I want to retch at the thought of whose leg bone is resting in its leather sheathe, and if the leather came from the same person. It¡¯s a necessity, I tell myself. I tell myself that every night as I stare at the mold-covered ceiling, wondering if the stars miss watching us.


    This sick arrangement works out for everyone, the annoying announcer tells us once a month. The abled remained fed, and our ¡®leaders¡¯ don¡¯t have to worry so much about straining our supplies to maintain the population. If I hadn¡¯t taught myself to read, letter by letter, word by word, I would have never known different.


    Slack-jawed, I had stared at the computer screen, another uncovered file telling me that cannibalism wasn¡¯t always so normalized in the bunker. Only the truly desperate and depraved stooped to such lows.


    Hundreds, if not thousands, of archived posts and articles gawking at how low humanity had sunken while trapped between dirt and radiation. Underground forums protected by code words to hide from predatory algorithms, where assassinations, riots, and uprisings were planned and then thwarted when one person got greedy and snitched in the hopes of a higher status. Well, snitches get stitches and ditches.


    Terra, I felt betrayed reading them. Lied to. No one had sat me down and told me that this was normal. The words drifted in the air, though, as thick as the scent of death. They echoed whenever a child¡¯s skull met the callous concrete. A metallic tang had flooded my mouth that night, so coppery I thought it could conduct the pain.


    Jere¡¯s skin and bones. Muscles too thin to fight. If he wants to survive, he only has one option on the menu. Desperate and depraved.


    A voice at the back of my mind tells me to stab the kid and be done with it. To not risk the rat tailing me and trying to ambush me, or following me to my room and robbing me. I clench my jaw hard enough for my teeth to hurt. The kid¡¯s so weak, I don¡¯t need a knife. A determined hand around his neck would do, then this would all be over for him. He¡¯d never have to trade his sanity for another day.


    Just¡­ one more day. That¡¯s all I needed.


    I jerk my hand out of my apron and clench it into a fist. Jere catches the movement and raises his hands. He must see the hollowness, the promise, in my eyes, because he takes a step back.


    Sucking in a breath, I tell my fingers, one by one, to unclench. I sigh and wonder why my shoulders feel so heavy. ¡°I¡¯m not going to hurt you, runt, but you need to go. Find some food.¡± The dead kid I walked past is probably still there, picked clean, but Jere can¡­ can eat the bones. I know he can. He only needs a rock.


    Jere stares up at the walkway where those guards and the woman rushed through. There¡¯s a sly grin on his face when he looks back at me. ¡°No worries, Clem.¡±


    All the worries, actually. Worries have replaced rats in how they scurry behind everyone, nipping at their heels and crawling between the walls. This kid is damn near every worry everyone has. Starvation, homelessness, loneliness, yet he¡¯s all smiles as he jumps back up, hands me my bucket, and runs up the stairs.


    Breathing out a sigh between gritted teeth, I shake the tension out of my shoulders and walk in the opposite direction. The walkways branch out endlessly, and so I only need to walk four or five meters before I¡¯m walking down a staircase, then another.


    Only three floors lower, yet I already need to fight the urge to run back up. The air is heavier here, thick with the toxins and particles spewed out by the few machines still chugging. The hunks of machinery burn Terra knows what, and condense the material into the flavorless chunks of fiber and protein to be given to the employed. Whatever the process is, they spew ash into the air. It coats The Lowers, only getting darker and darker the farther down you go. I¡¯m still in The Middle, but ash-dusted walls tell me only just.


    It¡¯s hotter down here too, though I¡¯d be an idiot to take off my shirt. Being a cleaner gives me some protection, but that won¡¯t save me from a crazy with a knife. Flimsy armor is still armor.


    I breathe through my mouth and get to work, the mechanical movements a balm. After years of this, my mind grants my hands complete control, and I sink into La-La Land.


    Jere¡¯s typing away on the computer, solving a series of English problems. A Brave New World is open on the desk, every other word underlined in pencil for the boy to look up later. I hear Burkley screaming at someone outside. Maybe an old employee or one of the fixer-uppers he¡¯s taken in. Kid¡¯s half-asleep, but that doesn¡¯t stop his spidery fingers from clicking away at the keyboard.


    ¡°This is impossible,¡± he mutters.


    I stretch, stomach full, something, anything, other than blood in my nose. ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s how it starts. You see everything you have to learn and it sucks.¡± I laugh. The kid can only manage an exhausted half-smile. ¡°But that¡¯s the fun part, really. You learn it piece by piece, then you put those pieces together. Then you put those pieces with other bigger pieces and,¡± I spread my hands wide. ¡°You¡¯ve learned to read.¡±


    ¡°Ugh, can I skip to teh part where I can read?¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡±


    Burkely barges in. ¡°Mornin¡¯, chucklefucks.¡±


    ¡°Mornin¡¯ Mr. Burkley!¡± Jere chirps from his perch on the desk chair, eyes suddenly wide and awake.


    The older man twitches his lips at the kid, the closest he ever gets to a true smile. ¡°Hey, Jere. Clementine, while you¡¯re playing English teacher, how ¡®bout you do the job I pay you to do?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not a night-shifter,¡± I say, voice threatening to whine. ¡°And Jere¡¯s not done with his homework.¡±


    Jere points at the screen. ¡°Mr. Burkley, can you help me with this? Do you write ¡®It is your cat¡¯ or ¡®It is you¡¯re cat¡¯?¡±


    Burkley shrugs and twitches his lips again. ¡°Heh, you¡¯re on your own, boy. I get those mixed up half the time myself.¡±


    ¡°And he will not help you cheat.¡± I reach over and poke Jere in the side, his ink-black shirt bunching where my finger lands. The kid squeals and swats my finger away.


    The older man fully enters the room, my ¡®check¡¯ in his hands. He hands me the bag with the nutrient bar in it and smacks me over the head. ¡°Try to actually sleep tonight, boy,¡± he whispers to me. He ruffles Jere¡¯s shiny, full head of hair and slams the door closed.


    Jere hops off the chair and sits on the cot. He has some growing to do. His cheeks are too thin for my liking. I split the nutrient bar in half and pointedly squint at the computer screen. When Jere turns, I quickly shove the smaller half into my mouth and nudge the bigger half into his hand. The kid wolfs his portion down with a thankful grin, crumbs covering his chin.


    I angle my head, awareness seeping through like oil. My mind¡¯s done a good job creating a healthier Jere. He¡¯s the normal amount of gangliness for a pre-teen, with more meat on his bones. His bright eyes reflect the computer¡¯s dull light, shining with the morsels of knowledge I¡¯ve given him. Jere tilts his head curiously at me. Wisps of hair fall and tickle his nose, his ears. Like this, full and hopeful, kid looks exactly like¡ª


    I barely hear the protesting tink as the scrub brush falls from my hands and onto a walkway below. Fire burns in my cheeks and I know I¡¯m in trouble. The flames spread to the rest of my face. Lick their way down my neck before striking my chest.


    Air. There¡¯s not enough air down here. There¡¯s never enough air. I gulp it down more than I should, and ash burns my lungs, coats the back of my mouth. Tears pour from my eyes. Blood clots in my nose and chokes me.


    I wretch. Hold my breath, a pathetic attempt to stop the attack. Another lick of flame trails a scorching path down into my stomach and I vomit on the walkway. Bile, water, and half-digested chunks of nutrient bar splash over the grated walkway and drip down. Every time I¡¯m surprised it isn¡¯t blood and bones.


    Disgusted shouts ring out, though I hardly hear them. A woman walks near me, sees my hunched over state, then runs to the nearest staircase up. Lungs quiver in their cage, and I beg my heart no more.


    When the fire engulfs my chest, I close my eyes and collapse, accepting the punishment. Wheezing, I press my face into cool hands. It feels like thorns are sprouting throughout my entire body, tearing treasured tissue with every breath. They shred veins and pop organs as lights dance behind my shut eyelids.


    I try to hold my breath again to dull the thorns. That only sharpens them, pours more adrenaline into my system. Pained gasps are the best I can manage for minutes.


    Does Jere go through this? Does he also smell blood every second of every day, a sick penance so he¡¯ll never forget what he did for more time? Maybe not. Maybe that¡¯s why he¡¯s so skinny, because he¡¯s stronger than me. Because he refuses to stoop that low for the meager cost of another day.


    Time thickens as I sit there and heave. I imagine playing with the congealed seconds, twisting and stretching them into minutes, then hours, the stolen time hot against my finger pads. When my blood calms to a simmer, I brave a look around, wishing to take my mind off my flushed skin.


    A piece of leather lies in the middle of the walkway I¡¯m on, only a handful of meters from where I¡¯m collapsed. It¡¯s too stupid to be a trap, but stupid people have been known to exist.


    I narrow my eyes, and the tiny symbols on it focus. Words. Human leather with words carved into the rough, invaluable material when it could have been used for a thousand other things. Someone wanted to put their thoughts into writing quite badly.


    My head lolls to the side like it can¡¯t stand its own weight. Fingers are slow to obey me. My legs are their own challenge, as a thousand hair-thin needles stab into the calves whenever I so much as twitch. My eyes work fine, though.


    Groaning, I slump to my stomach and crawl, my interest thoroughly piqued and my thundering heart in need of a distraction. Small mercies, as the afternoon rush has slowed to a trickle. Anyone who goes down this walkway sees me and turns right back around, preferring to take their chances with the long way and a pissed off boss.


    The leather is old. Cracks stretch between the scraped and dried skin like valleys, creating canyons of age. The filth of the bunker has seeped into them, blanketing the landscape with black and brown dust. I use the hem of my shirt to wipe the worst of it away.


    My ancestors would call the writing ¡®chicken scratch.¡¯ The writer had burned the poem into the piece of leather, the edges of the letters flaking with charred skin. Crawling to the railing, I lean against the harsh metal and trace the letters, in the hopes years of muscle memory will tell me what they say. After a few minutes, I recognize the word ¡®and¡¯ and build upon that minor victory. Burkley¡¯s already gonna be screaming himself hoarse for how behind I am, so I might as well finish something while I¡¯m curled in burning pain, just above The Pits like an hors d¡¯oeuvre.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Little bastards,


    Littering the streets.


    Humanoid rats,


    Underneath our feet.


    How dare they squeal,


    How dare they shriek.


    The grown are working,


    While the young are weak.


    I¡¯ll tear out their bones,


    Fashion them into daggers.


    Their peers will be done,


    Go ahead and run.


    Dethrone the children.


    They have not earned their place.


    Throw them away,


    The wastes of space.


    ¡°Well then.¡± I flip the ¡®paper¡¯ around to see if there¡¯s anymore¡­ riveting literature on the back. There isn¡¯t, just more cracked and dirty leather. ¡°The author sounds like a great hugger.¡±


    A vicious part of me agrees with the, ahem, poet. Remembers the nutrients Burkley deprived me of because one rat snatched my water bucket while my back was turned for a whopping two seconds. How my hair raises when I¡¯m scrubbing down walls and a pack of them slink by, each eyeing me up, seeing if the entire group could thrash me around, take everything on me, before backup arrived.


    Another part of me thinks of Jere, and what this person would do to him if they ever crossed paths. Snap his bones to slurp up the marrow inside, go for the organs like the man this morning, and skin him for a nice new pair of boots. There¡¯s a reason kids scatter when there¡¯s a crowd. They¡¯re easier prey than adults, no matter how starved the grown are. Kids are easier to trick, easier to corner, easier to overpower, and usually have more calories than loners.


    Not Jere, though. Kid¡¯s freakin¡¯ diet food, and would probably try and hug the poet and get smacked upside the head for his troubles. I smile, and it feels like the realest smile that¡¯s ever twisted my face.


    ¡°CLEMENTINE. HELP!¡± I drop the piece of leather, neck cracking with how fast I jerk my head. Jere. How hard would he have to scream to be heard from down here, have it travel through the constant noise of the bunker and crowds of people?


    I jerk back around and close my eyes, trying to shut the child¡¯s screaming out. His scratchy pleads catch on my name, a stranger, and probably the kindest face he¡¯s seen in months.


    It¡¯s the way of things. He¡­ He wasn¡¯t going to last much longer anyway. My eyes sting, guilt and shame leaden in my gut. I force it back down when it makes its burning way up. Beat my fists on the rusted walkway, the sharp pain a balm.


    The kid had¡ªhas. Has a messed up jaw, for Terra¡¯s sake. That alone is a death sentence, even if he has a pack. Packs are there to get food, not share food.


    But he wouldn¡¯t have to worry about that if I shared my nutrient bars, half of which I don¡¯t eat and trade for computer parts or bone knives anyway.


    ¡°You¡¯re crazy,¡± I tell myself, huffing an incredulous laugh, but the image in my head is also so perfect, a tear slips down my cheek. Burkley would hardly complain about a cleaner he doesn¡¯t have to feed, and he¡¯s always had a soft spot for younger people. He took one look at me all those years ago. A broken seventeen-year-old, flakes of crimson around my mouth, and he handed me a brush.


    Another tear, then two, then three more soon join it. It¡¯s stupid. So, so stupid. Insanity. People don¡¯t take care of kids, not anymore. I pull myself up, sit against the railing, wrap my arms around my knees, and rock. No one took care of me until it was too late. No one took care of Caton. Why the hell would I¡ª


    A phantom of Burkley whispers in my mind from years ago, when he had one of his rare, tender moments. His meaty hand, knuckles knotted, tight around my shoulder. ¡°I¡¯m glad I could be what you needed, runt.¡±


    I blink and I¡¯m at the top step. Long legs carry me faster than they¡¯ve ever had before. Faster than when I ran away from the guards, faster than when my pack was being slaughtered, and even faster than when I ran away from Caton¡¯s half-eaten corpse.


    Jere¡¯s voice draws nearer, more desperate with every half-second. I go up higher, higher. Soon, I¡¯m sprinting in the lower levels of Up Top, the walkways freshly cleaned and polished, when I spot him.


    He¡¯s a broken miniature compared to the well-fed giant squeezing his neck.


    Jere¡¯s eyes magnetize to mine. He whimpers, ¡°Clem¡ª¡± The hand coiled around his neck, the size of my water bucket, kills the rest of my name. In the guard¡¯s other hand, a blood red apple, with bite marks far too tiny to be his.


    ¡°Look at the scrawny little rat. I¡¯d be doing this kid a favor, taking him out,¡± he rumbles. ¡°It ain¡¯t like he can do anything with that wrecked muzzle of his.¡± Dropping the bitten apple like it¡¯s trash, the giant clamps the free hand over the boy¡¯s mouth and twists Jere¡¯s jaw until the child squeals in pain.


    ¡°Jere!¡± Red seeps into my vision as the man and his gang cackle at the kid¡¯s agony. I reach into my apron¡¯s middle pocket, wrap my fingers around the phantom leather handle¡ª


    Jere wrestles free from the hold for just two precious seconds. That¡¯s all the time he needs to bite the guard¡¯s thumb clean off. Blood slicks the boy¡¯s ¡®muzzle¡¯ as he spits it out, the thumb plopping a foot away from the apple.


    I grin and say, ¡°He can do that.¡±


    The man stupidly stares at the gushing stump, then raises his head and howls. He throws Jere a solid six meters, and the child nearly slides off the walkway before he grabs onto the railing and hauls himself up. He squats into a fighting stance, spits out a glob of pink spit, and pulls his lips into a bloody snarl. Damn, kid.


    I do a headcount. Four guards, thirty-nine fingers. Jere took out the head honcho with his chomp, the man on his knees in agony. That still leaves three well-fed, muscular men, who have turned brutality into a living.


    Jere shoots me a fearful look. Crouches down further when the smallest of the gang, a man built like a really short bison, turns to him. I take a deep breath.


    ¡°RUN, JERE.¡±


    The roar jolts the guard closest to me, and I tackle him to the ground. Brass knuckles barely miss my eye, though not my shoulder on his second swing. I hiss at the pain that races down and nearly paralyzes my left arm.


    I didn¡¯t live this long by not knowing how to throw a splintering right hook, though, and I give the guard¡¯s jaw one. Something snaps, crackles, and the guard stumbles away, his hand catching streams of blood.


    Jere holds his own. He nicked the knife from the grizzled, whimpering guard, and now locks gleaming steel with rusted iron.


    Duck, slash. Slice, dodge. The short guard¡¯s muscle and experience falters against Jere¡¯s feverish speed and even shorter stature. For every drop of blood the guard spills, the boy sheds cupfuls. His dagger is a silver blur.


    By the time my guard goes down, Jere and his are circling each other, hunched, and soaked in blood. I snarl and yank the brass knuckles off of my guard, slipping them over my fingers and clenching my bruised hand into a fist. They are too large for my slimmer fingers. They¡¯ll beat this bastard¡¯s head in all the same.


    I take a step and freeze. Where¡¯s the third guard? And, now that I¡¯m looking, where¡¯s the giant?


    Most of the blood from the giant has leaked through the grated floor, but shiny crimson frames the square holes and trail from here to a staircase farther back. A pained squeak snaps my attention back to the kid.


    His rags are soaked in blood, his face is ashen, and he appears seconds away from puking. He¡¯s standing, though, and his guard is most certainly not. The man¡¯s chest rises and falls shakily from where he¡¯s curled into an unconscious ball, a fat bruise on the side of his head. It¡¯s all I could have hoped for.


    I take a step towards Jere, stopping when my shoe hits something. Bitter saliva pooling in my mouth, I look down, expecting a severed thumb. Instead, a beautiful apple rolls a few inches before the metal holes stop it. My stomach twists and growls, and my saliva loses its bitter taste. I lean down and pick up the fruit. Real fruit. Not the plastic-y, ¡®fruit-flavored¡¯ nutrient bars we get on special occasions.


    ¡°Where¡­¡± I turn the apple over in my hands. I trace the bite marks. Lucky brat got a few bites in before getting caught. ¡°Where did you get this?¡±


    Jere looks away and shrugs. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Jere, you just bit off a guy¡¯s thumb.¡± He laughs. ¡°It¡¯s not funny.¡± He stops.


    The kid twitches, picks at the dead skin on his fingers, and says, ¡°Teh lady had it.¡± He points at the fruit. ¡°She just left it tere wit¡¯ her goods.¡±


    ¡°¡®Guards.¡¯¡±


    ¡°Gourds.¡± Close enough. ¡°I tought, since she left it, she didn¡¯t wan¡¯ it anymore.¡± His eyes trace over the blood that drips through the metal grating and onto the walkway¡ªand likely any unfortunate people¡ªbelow. ¡°Guess I was wrong.¡±


    He walks closer to me as he speaks, cheery and distracted. He doesn¡¯t look back to the staircase where the giant and his co-beater escaped. Only I see the metallic glint of an apex predator.


    I shout. Jere drops. A bullet whizzes over him¡ªand into me.


    A pinch underneath my ribs. Wetness spreading on my chest. A flash of white.


    I¡¯m on the ground. Ringing floods my ears. I hear a voice. Screaming.


    Jere. Jere screeches, equal parts anguish and anger, and jumps out of my hazy view. A grunt. Two, one high-pitched and the other low. The giant stumbles into my sight, a lump on his back. I squint, then widen my eyes. Jere is hanging onto the giant¡¯s neck, blood following each swipe of his claws as he tears off skin and gnaws muscle.


    The man squeals when Jere bites off his ear. A clicking sound, then a woman¡¯s voice. The boy jumps off the giant¡¯s back, using his miniscule weight to push the man away from him and closer to the railing.


    Another shot, as deafening as the first. I reach for Jere, but it is the guard who needs it. Before he goes over the railing, a hand holding his spitting neck.


    Four voices echo, and echo, and echo, and echo after the giant falls, panicked. They bounce off each other, then clot and thunder in my head. The woman¡¯s voice breaks off and rises above the others. Blissfully, the voices follow hers, the vibrations of their boots dying off.


    ¡°Clem!¡± a tiny voice cries out. I feel the floor shiver as a shadow floats above me, a painful contrast to the dozens of lights flittering like dust. Spidery fingers grab my shoulders and put me on my back. I was on my side?


    The feeling of oblivion sinks into me like a knife, and part of me welcomes it. I turned thirty yesterday. Burkley is almost in his forties, and most don¡¯t survive past that damning four-zero. Not even the Up Top pricks live past their sixties. Can only distance themselves from the rot so much.


    The kid¡¯s voice winds around my heart, and the sputtering organ beats a little faster. A familiar string tickles the tips of my fingers, and my mind grabs hold. I tug on it, and a few of the blinking lights snuff out. I tug it again, and again, killing the cloud of fairies. The string lengthens, and I wrap the cord around my fingers.


    It hardens into steel. I grunt.


    Pull yourself back, I whisper to myself. Just a little more.


    I tug the steel cord harder, and the boy¡¯s image focuses. Tears flow down the child¡¯s hollow cheeks, carving rivers of gray skin as they wash away layers of filth. His hand holds mine in a death grip, and it almost hurts. I follow the almost-sting.


    ¡°Clementine, no!¡± the boy sobs. He crouches over me protectively, hands rushing to place themselves over the hole in my chest.


    ¡°Shh,¡± I whisper. I swipe a shaky thumb under his eyes, smearing the dirt. ¡°I was out of time anyway, Jere.¡± We both are. I think of the guard, his strength unable to save him from falling, and his boss and three remaining thugs. They will hunt Jere down, and he will be lucky to die.


    The child nearly heaves from the force of his sobs. The bones in my hand crunch together. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I nev¡¯uh shoulda called you. I nev¡¯uh should took tat stupid apple.¡± He nuzzles his forehead into the nape of my neck and wails. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry.¡±


    I comb a hand through the oily, brittle tangles, loosening the many knots. ¡°Sweetheart.¡± The word slips out, gliding across my tongue as easy as typing away at my computer. A plush warmth settles over my heart, and I swallow down the urge to call the boy other endearments. Darling, angel, love, lamb, baby boy. Just a child. Just a baby.


    ¡°Sweetheart, look at me.¡± Jere lifts his head heavily. Every part of him trembles. ¡°My apron, Jere. Left pocket. A tiny piece of metal.¡±


    Jere nods his head, face blank and still dripping tears, and digs through my apron pockets. A spare rag, lint, and a key. The boy stares at it with the same fixation as he did the apple, thumbing over the ridged surface.


    ¡°My room,¡± I whisper. ¡°It¡¯s yours.¡±


    He tears his eyes off the key and gapes at me. He shakes his head. ¡°Tat¡¯s¡­ tat¡¯s not how it works.¡±


    A wheeze forces its way out of me, reminding me that my body is currently pissing blood. I swallow a biting remark and grab his hand. ¡°Go into my room. The computer¡¯s password is ¡®past.¡¯ That¡¯s it. D-Don¡¯t worry about spelling it. Burkely knows how. He¡¯ll know you¡¯re telling the truth then, and he¡¯ll give you a job. My bone dagger¡­ Burkley gave it to me when he hired me.¡± Back when he had the energy to truly care. ¡°It¡¯s yours now.¡±


    I brush a lock of hair from his face. ¡°He¡¯ll give you my room. You just gotta work. It¡¯s-It¡¯s not so bad, especially after a few years.¡±


    ¡°No, Clem.¡± He rubs his head against my soaked shirt. His forehead is streaked with blood when he lifts his head back up. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Clem. I¡¯m s-s-sorry.¡±


    ¡°No apologies, sweetheart.¡± The fairies have come back, flickering faster. I shake my head. ¡°No time for apologies. Go.¡± His best chance is how his face blends in with the other thousand starving children here once he leaves. Nothing will save him if the woman and her guards return, though. I push him off with the last of my strength. ¡°Go. Now. Don¡¯t look back.¡±


    A thin hand squeezes mine before he lets it drop to the floor. I mutter, ¡°Learn to read.¡± Jere¡¯s thin arms wrap around his thinner waist, snot running down. He twitches back and forth, like every part of his body fights against leaving me. Whimpers like a dying animal, but he listens. The boy blissfully listens. Ripping his eyes away from me, the room key clenched in bloodless fingers, he sobs and runs down the stairs.


    Burkley will take care of him. I close my eyes and sigh. The kid will at least see his eighteenth birthday. It¡¯s¡­ It¡¯s okay¡­


    I don¡¯t know how long I stay on the floor. Long enough for my brain to conjure gentle voices. Their gentle tones hug me, keeping me awake. One is a woman, maternal and firm, the other is a boy, who freezes my draining blood when I recognize him.


    He does not accuse me, does not list each of my crimes, nor does he tell my lungs to drown me in blood like I deserve. Caton sounds like he did before our pack got slaughtered. Content, sustained on dreams instead of sustenance. How are you, Clem?


    If I had the blood to spare, I know it would burn me from the inside out, like gasoline kissed by an ember. Terra, it hurts to hear his voice again. ¡°I¡¯ve been better.¡± His twinkling laugh responds, and I want to cry fat, ugly tears.


    The woman¡¯s voice is a kind hand on my forehead. You need to get up, sweetheart. Why? Each breath is met with needles. I¡¯m pretty sure that damn bullet nicked a lung.


    Their voices merge, asking the same question, Don¡¯t you want to see the sun?


    Me and every other decrepit soul. I moan and snap my fingers next to an ear, hoping to stop the ringing. Even death is a chore.


    Resentment not my own boils under my ribs, frothing past my throat and into my skull. Then go. Get up. Get UP, CLEMENTINE.


    The ringing shrieks into tolling bells. My abused eardrums are used as actual drums. Copper tickles the back of my throat. ¡°Fuck,¡± I hiss. ¡°I deserve that.¡±


    Both voices gentle. That was not aimed at you. Never you. But go now, while you still have the will.


    I blink, and I am stumbling through the veins of the bunker, another virus in its diseased body. The voices push me whenever I falter. Sometimes with an understanding hand, other times with a decided shove.


    I catch the eyes of the bunker¡¯s people. Some hunched over themselves, terrified. Some lifeless, limping to their destination on automatic. All starving. When the empty get too close, I snarl and charge at them, Caton¡¯s hungerless energy behind each determined footfall. The giant had a hundred pounds of muscle on me, but I have at least fifty on everyone else. It makes me all the tastier, yet it¡¯s also a threat. Attack me at my weakest and risk being thrown over the rails, or go another day without food and die anyway.


    The deadest eyes try their luck. The last thing they see is me giving them to the swarms below.


    Poor souls, the woman¡¯s voice glides alongside my fidgety thoughts. Are they even aware?


    Blood drenches my shirt and drips to my pants. The smell of it fills my nostrils. ¡°I hope not.¡±


    Bony hands and needlepoint nails grip my arms, my shoulders, my neck. A wrinkled, dusty hand wraps around the short tips of my hair and pulls. Nearly drops me on my ass before I find my footing, saved by years of hard-earned muscle memory.


    Gripping her wrist, I twist it and my body till I hear the weak bones crack. Her shriek of agony is cut off when I grab the back of her head and smash the palm of my hand into her nose and up. Another thing Caton taught me, unknowing how foolish it was. The woman¡¯s eyes widen, pupils shrinking into periods, then she drops like a pruned flower.


    Don¡¯t think, Caton urges me, begs me. Don¡¯t think about her, or Jere. You need to get out of here.


    I killed her. The words repeat in my head a hundred times over. Despite the dangers here, it¡¯s rare I have to actually kill someone. I can only imagine how tempting I look, a quarter of the way dead and far too close to The Pits, far too close to evening.


    She would have tried to kill you.


    I don¡¯t know that for sure, do I? Bundles of silver are in her thin, matted hair. Old scars and dark patches stamp her skin, showing her age more than the tinsel. Much older than forty. It¡¯s so rare to live beyond that, and I just killed one of them.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I tell her cooling corpse. I back away. Already there are people circling, honing in on the smell of death like flies. Someone knocks into my shoulder and I nearly jump over the railing.


    It¡¯s a teenager. A few years older than Jere. His eyes shine, pupils blown wide. A line of drool dribbles out of the side of his mouth. He drops to his knees in front of the woman¡¯s head.


    ¡°Kid,¡± I rasp.


    Caton¡¯s voice is low, knowing. Leave him. You¡¯re so close.


    I walk closer to the boy. ¡°Kid. Hey, runt!¡± The boy twists around and growls at me, his canines black. Spittle flies out of his mouth as he swipes a hand at me, nails jagged and yellow, tongue all but lolling out of his mouth as he possessively twines a handful of the woman¡¯s silver hair between his fingers.


    ¡°I want none of that.¡± The kid tilts his head, his tired, hollowed eyes flickering. I fool myself and believe it¡¯s his last gasps of humanity. Then he scoffs and turns back to the woman, half-heartedly hissing at another, smaller teen who stalks nearby. I know he won¡¯t share. I know.


    I run.


    Being a cleaner has never come in handy like it does now. My mind runs like a well-trained computer, mapping out the quickest path when I input ¡°bunker door¡± into the search bar.


    Bottom floor. The Pits. Where not even my status as a cleaner can protect me from people like the munchy teen and his friend. Where the most animalistic are exiled, only allowed to hunt across the upper levels at night, picking off the weak and injured. Pit Walkers.


    I think about the teen boy and his friend. Fuck, is it night already? The lights are dimming down around me. The Pit Walkers will smell me in an instant and then I¡¯ll be gone. I¡¯d rather bleed out in my bed. A painful, lasting rest. Say goodbye to Jere. Thank Burkley for trying to save my soul, even if he was a day too late.


    The sun, Clementine, the woman¡¯s voice begs. What about the sun?


    The bunker door, brain. How close am I?


    Close. Two more levels until I reach The Pits. From there, it¡¯s a swift run, assuming I can run by the time I¡¯m done with the stairs. After that, the guard will be my greatest obstacle. They¡¯ll have some kind of weapon, no doubt. A dagger, a stun gun. Maybe an actual gun, since I currently hold compelling evidence that guns are, indeed, not extinct. One last run, Clementine.


    If I thought stairs after a full-shift was torture, the bullet wound adds an extra spicy twist. Exhaustion pushes down on my spine, every step filled with an agonized numbness. Like my legs are asleep, but so much worse. My muscles are melting, the hot liquid seeping into my bones and boiling the marrow. Every breath is too short, yet every breath is like breathing in fiber glass.


    Terra, I did not know humans had so much blood in them. I slip on my own crimson trails, and the jerky movement aggravates the bullet hole.


    The world starts to feel like a dream, too little yet too much, too light and too heavy. I blearily wonder if I¡¯m at the part where I can fly.


    I grip the handrail, soaking up the heat through my skin. Everything¡¯s hot to the touch from the smelters and machines. From the heat of thousands of bodies crammed into a giant death-hole. It licks my palm. Threatens to burn through it and scorch the rest of me.


    The last flight of stairs is a brand of hell all its own, as I lose my fight against gravity. Rusted metal scrapes and digs into my skin as my skull meets the stairs. An old friend, copper, slicks my tongue and gums. Slivers down my throat. Skin tears. My eyes roll into the back of my skull.


    So many nightmares of me dying as I lived, torn apart. Watching my insides slurped into the greedy mouths of child and adult alike. My screams endless and exciting the horde further. The wet sounds growing louder.


    I come to, staring at the blackened walkway above me, panting and pissing blood for Terra knows how long. The concrete of The Pits scolds my back.


    Jolting up, I wince and press a hand on the bullet hole. It takes minutes for me to grab onto the rusted rail of the damned staircase and pull myself up.


    I can see the entrance, our tomb¡¯s indestructible door. The cleanest place in The Pits, though that isn¡¯t saying much. Body fluids, smoke, and dirt hide the steel walls, the muck only retreating for a short time after the bravest cleaners venture down. I hate it down here.


    ¡°Grr? Hurgh. Hurgh!¡± And that¡¯s why.


    The man slams into me. I skid several feet, the filth on the floor slicking my shoes. Adrenaline gives me a top-off and I manage to throw a punch as the Pit Walker goes in for the kill. I spot something off-white clenched in his hand and I jump back before the half-broken bone knife punches any more holes in me. He slashes the knife at me again.


    Puffing up my chest, I try to look bigger, stronger, than I really am. Less like a punctured water balloon. The man snarls, his gums red and black, most of his teeth gone and the rest pointed and rotten. I bare my teeth, showing that I still have all of mine, and he deflates ever-so-slightly. There¡¯s no gray in his hair, eyes young and alert.


    He charges and I meet him head-on. We clasp the other¡¯s elbows and smash skulls like a hammer on hot steel. Black spots threaten to overtake my vision again, and I shake them off.


    I take back maybe two inches. He grips my elbows harder, sinks his jagged nails in. Spreads his legs wider, roars with ferocity I did not realize he had, then yanks. His skull slams into mine, then again. And again. Again.


    I go down on the fourth strike, but I wrap a hand around a hard clump of matted hair and drag the man down with me. The man wastes no time in throttling me, spindly fingers a vice around my Adam¡¯s apple. I gurgle and jerk, try to kick him off with my legs. He lifts my head up and slams it into the concrete. I go limp.


    ¡°Hey!¡± a voice screams, and I dazily think it¡¯s Caton until an unscarred hand grabs the back of the man¡¯s neck and tosses him off me. ¡°No fighting near the gate!¡±


    The Pit Walker hisses, and the guard replies with a deeper hiss. Throws his shoulders back and growls at the man, his pearly whites gleaming like porcelain daggers. The Pit¡¯s few lights flicker across his face.


    My rescuer isn¡¯t very tall, perhaps only an inch taller than me. The cleanest parts of his hair gleam blond, but dirt¡¯s dyed the rest a shaggy brown. I¡­ I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever seen blond hair before.


    Whenever I hear about blonds, it¡¯s always their light hair and blue eyes. But this man¡¯s eyes can¡¯t be compared to the ocean or the sky. They¡¯re a dark brown, rimmed by a darker gray. A fresh layer of dust coats his purple uniform, cap included. Despite the dust, they¡¯re the most immaculate clothes I¡¯ve seen. Not a patch or hole in sight, and no stains deface the saturated fabric.


    His employees feed him well, his body filling out the uniform nicely, hair dirty and tangled, but thick. His nostrils don¡¯t flare, nor do his eyes shiver hungrily as he looks at me and the blood my body drools. I now understand why people have killed for this job.


    The man scrambles back, a pathetic groan leaving him as he stalks back into the shadows and ash. The guard turns to me, takes one long look at the dripping blossom on my shirt, and says, ¡°Follow me.¡±


    Can I? Spots still linger in my vision, and the puddle near me¡­ isn¡¯t insignificant.


    Try, the woman¡¯s voice pleads.


    I grit my teeth, turn on my side, put my palms against the hot concrete floor, and push myself to my feet. A wail almost leaves me. I blink back tears, take a shallow, soot-tasting breath, and limp after the guard.


    He doesn¡¯t say a word as he opens the door to his office and waves me inside. I shiver when I enter. Air¡­ air conditioning?


    ¡°I thought only the uppers got cool air?¡±


    ¡°The uppers and guards,¡± the guard corrects, then points to a cot huddled in the corner of the room. ¡°You can lay down there.¡± The cot has an actual mattress and a white, spotless, fluffy blanket. I didn¡¯t know blankets could still be fluffy. I pick it up, stifling a delighted gasp, and press it against my face. Terra, I wish I could smell more things than blood. My throat picks up whatever my nose refuses, and it tickles the back of my throat. I fight back a crazy grin.


    His entire office is spotless, at least by modern standards. Silver and white gleam in the pristine laptop¡¯s light, the only source of light in the dim room. There¡¯s a black-and-white checkered floor, and polished steel makes up the walls. I try to find any kind of grime in this place, and the closest I find is a pile of dust and hair under the desk. That¡¯s nothing. Nothing.


    I suck in a breath and sigh. Clean air. Or as clean as it gets down here. Not like the ash and rot waiting outside, worse than a cigarette.


    I smelled a cigarette once, before blood filled my nose. It¡¯s a rich smell, because only those with clean enough lungs can afford to dirty them. ¡°Cancer sticks,¡± Caton called them, spitting out the archaic term he got from who knows where. ¡°You gotta be a right moron to waste clean air like that.¡±


    An older man, a gentleman, walked by our slums with a pack of guards, all as thick as pillars, a sharp contrast to their sickly, stickly charge. Despite being only just a few floors above The Pits, he sucked down that cylinder of paper and herbs like his life depended on it. Blew a cloud of nicotine and tobacco at my face as he walked past, grinning as I hacked.


    I look at the guard, who has been patiently standing there, watching me. I narrow my eyes. ¡°Why did you help me? I mean, thi-this could be a setup. I could have six loners out there waiting for me to, er, tap the door and rob you. Kill you.¡±


    The guard pats the holster on his hip, where an acquainted silvery shape peaks through. ¡°If you were planning some grand heist for my nutrient bars and laptop, I¡¯d make quick work of you. You and your buddies.¡±


    Ah. ¡°Ah.¡± I don¡¯t look away from the gun. My bullet wound pulses to my heartbeat. Worsens the longer I stare. The gun splits into two. Three. I squeeze my eyes shut and smack the side of my head. When I open my eyes, it¡¯s back by its lonesome.


    ¡°So,¡± the guard says, and plops on his swivel chair, swiveling it towards me. He points to the cot again and I sit down, carding my fingers through the fluffy blanket, dirtying it with bloody mud. ¡°I¡¯m going out on a limb here and say you had a run-in with General? Well, The General, but we just call her General.¡±


    ¡°Who?¡±


    The guard lifts a hand up high. ¡°Tall woman. Well-dressed. Always has a flock of goons attached to her. Has my gun¡¯s twin.¡±


    ¡°Oh, yeah, her. She tried to shoot a kid and got me instead.¡±


    He nods, not the least bit shocked. ¡°Yeah, that sounds like her. Don¡¯t know if it¡¯s the stress of being in charge of this hellhole, or an unfortunate personality, but she¡¯s a bit,¡± he pretends to shoot a finger gun at me. ¡°Trigger happy.¡±


    I sputter, ¡°We have a leader?¡±


    He holds out a flat hand and tilts it from side to side. ¡°Eh, on paper. She definitely gets all the benefits of being The General.¡±


    ¡°Including being able to shoot starving kids for stealing an apple? That she left alone?¡±


    The guard has the courtesy to flinch. He nervously taps an armrest and scratches his chin. ¡°Yeah. Including that.¡±


    ¡°So, again,¡± I wave a hand around the office. ¡°Why am I here? I¡¯m assuming it¡¯s not because of my conversation skills.¡±


    He coughs into his hand. ¡°I, well¡­¡± His cheeks darken. ¡°When people are in your¡­ state, I let them in here to¡ª¡±


    ¡°Die?¡±


    The guard¡¯s finger-drumming intensifies, and he refuses to look me in the eye. ¡°Yeah. So you can at least be comfortable.


    Wow, that¡¯s fucked. Can¡¯t lie, though, it¡¯s also, ¡°Sweet. That¡¯s¡­ sweet of you.¡± The guard flushes more. ¡°Really, it is. But I don¡¯t want to die here. I came here for a reason.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡±


    I lean forward, enjoying how the air-conditioning soothes every ache. For the first time in months, I feel like I can sleep a full night if I just lay down and close my eyes¡ªor maybe that¡¯s me dying.


    ¡°I want to go outside.¡± The last word echoes between us, and we sit there, studying the other. At least I can breathe. ¡°Please, I don¡¯t have much time.¡±


    He gestures at the hole, still oozing. ¡°To be completely honest, I don¡¯t have the slightest clue how you got down here.¡±


    I mutter, ¡°Will.¡± My teeth grind together when he cackles.


    ¡°Will?¡± he wheezes out. ¡°I thought that went extinct with courage and dignity. And hope.¡±


    ¡°Apparently not.¡± I stand up and loom over the guard. His fingers twitch toward his gun. ¡°Listen, I threw people off railings. I pierced a woman¡¯s brain with her own bones and watched a boy turn her into dinner not ten seconds after. I nearly got killed by a Pit Walker after dragging myself down Terra knows how many levels.¡± I¡¯m panting, rage and exhaustion curdling in my stomach. ¡°Now, thank you for saving me from him, but I need just one more favor. Get me outside. Let me die out there.¡±


    Crossing his arms, the man scoffs. ¡°Fine, okay. Geez.¡±


    I take a step back, mouth agape. I click my jaw closed. ¡°Just like that?¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°Yeah. Why not?¡±


    ¡°Um, radiation?¡±


    The guard smiles. It isn¡¯t a kind smile. ¡°Please. I¡¯d sooner take my chances outside than The Pits without my gun. A heaping dose of good old Raddy is the least of our worries. Besides, more than enough makes its way in from the vents leading outside. I¡¯m surprised the kids around here don¡¯t glow.¡±


    I falter, knowing he¡¯s not wrong, but second guessing anyway. ¡°What if more leaks in when I walk out? An, I don¡¯t know, extra fatal amount.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re just worrying about this now?¡±


    I rub a hand over my neck. ¡°I-I, well. Um¡ª¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t think you¡¯d make it this far.¡±


    ¡°Yep.¡±


    Always second guessing yourself, Clementine, Caton¡¯s voice chuckles. Right till the end.


    The guard laughs, stands up, flicks imaginary lint off his perfect pants, and waves me along. ¡°Come on then, dead boy. Let¡¯s get you out.¡± Hovering a hand over my shoulder, he guides me towards the door. He stops before turning the doorknob. ¡°By the way, name¡¯s Major.¡± He shrugs. ¡°Kinda cool. The first human outside in centuries knows my name.¡±


    ¡°Clementine.¡±


    Major tips his cap. ¡°It was nice knowing you, Clementine.¡±


    It¡¯s a short walk from his office to the massive bunker door. I crane my neck and struggle to see the top of the metal slab. Hundreds of pistons, cogs, and hydraulics control it. All from an unassuming console just a few meters to my right.


    Soot covers the console, red rust peaking through. Major bangs on it, instantly regretting his decision when decades of disuse fly straight at him. ¡°Fuh-huh-huh-ck!¡± He waves his hands against the red and black cloud. ¡°Yeah, radiation is the least of my worries¡ªAch!¡± He spits out a glob of ash and rust.


    I ask, ¡°How many times have you done this?¡± Dozens of people must rush to Major¡¯s aid, deciding that radiation poisoning is a better end than this slow suffocation. Dozens a week. No, a day. I must have fallen into his lap during a lull.


    ¡°Just you. Just this once.¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°What? Wuh-Why would anyone want to stay here?¡±


    He sighs and traces a heart into the thick layers of corrosion. ¡°Better than the devil you know, I guess. Or maybe they just¡­ Maybe they just¡­¡± Major studies the bunker door. His voice softens when he asks, ¡°Do they even know this is an option?


    I can¡¯t tell if he¡¯s asking himself, the universe, or me, but I answer anyway. ¡°I guess not. Maybe they¡¯re too tired to think about this. You remember what it was like. Surviving.¡±


    He purses his lips, sheepish. ¡°Hah, no. I¡¯m an Upper, chief. Gate guards usually are.¡±


    I furrow my brows. ¡°I thought this job was random. Like, a name taken out of a hat.¡±


    He sucks a breath through his teeth. ¡°Mmm-hmm. Names of Upper kids.¡±


    ¡­


    I can¡¯t help it. I chuckle, because of course. Of course the one good job here is gatekept by Uppers. I think about the apple Jere put his neck on the chopping block for, the pristine bullet in my side. ¡°You nepo-jackass.¡± I grin at him.


    Major nods, taking out a spotless rag and cleaning a few buttons. ¡°It¡¯s why I let people die in my office. Too much of a coward to let this go, but I can¡­ let people borrow it on their deathbed. I guess.¡±


    Any fuzzy feelings I had in the office poof away like a dust bunny in a hurricane. I whistle. ¡°Good Terra. You¡¯re a dick, Major.


    ¡°Don¡¯t I know it. She agreed with you.¡± He jerks his head somewhere behind us, just outside the bunker door¡¯s entrance, and swallowed in shadows. ¡°Gave her one of my blankets. Found her this morning. I called, what¡¯s his name? Burkley? I called him, but he hasn¡¯t sent anyone down yet to pick her up. She gave me an earful before she passed, though.¡±


    I limp to where he points, looking left and right for any ambush predators. Closer, I see a fluffy blanket like the one in his office, only gray. Gently, I pull the blanket covering her head back.


    The girl from this morning greets me, her fierce eyes now lifeless. Her shirt, still a new black, is in tatters along with her slashed stomach.


    I look back and see Major staring at me with sad eyes. I tell him, ¡°Burkley sends two people to The Pits, if not three. Always. Where¡¯s the other one?¡± So I can strangle the worthless coward. A Pit Walker¡¯s desperation is terrifying, but they¡¯re not hard to overpower. I held my own fairly well and I¡¯m a dead man walking. The girl would likely still be alive to flip someone off if her partner hadn¡¯t fled.


    Major lifts a helpless hand. ¡°Most likely ran off. At least she won¡¯t be eaten. Can¡¯t say that for a lot of people who die down here.¡±


    ¡°Or up there.¡± I think about the woman I killed and wonder if she¡¯s nothing but bones now.


    Major flips a switch, hits the console, and it lights up with wavering LEDs. He shouts, ¡°Hah!¡± for the small victory and flips two more switches. Above us, something hisses. ¡°Hey, do you know what I think?¡±


    I sway as I limp back to his side, adrenaline leaving my muscles. I focus on his hands as he presses a hundred buttons. Or it¡¯s only three. ¡°Can¡¯t lie, not really. But since I¡¯m gonna die, I¡¯ll take it to my grave for you.¡±


    Without a trace of humor, he snorts, and grabs hold of a small lever. He grunts when it refuses to budge. Clamping his other unscarred hand around his wrist, he heaves. The lever moves a solid inch.


    ¡°Well,¡± he straightens his cap and wraps the now-soiled rag around the lever. ¡°Since I have your attention, I think¡ª¡± Major grabs it with both hands and leans his entire body back. The lever groans. A small cloud of rust puffs up when the lever gives another couple of inches, now pointing straight up.


    ¡°¡ªWith all of this, humanity has¡­¡± Another inch. ¡°Never been¡­¡± He plants his feet against the console, the muscles in his arms bunching. With a metallic screech, the lever gives up, but not without revenge. The sudden lurch throws Major on his ass. Hard.


    Rubbing his sore rear-end, he throws a fist in the air and whoops, proud as Burkely after he¡¯s won a bet. He looks almost as happy as Jere when the kid started babbling about reading and history.


    He takes off his cap and uses it to wipe the sweat off his brow. With a victorious grin, he pants, ¡°Humanity has never been more honest.¡±


    ¡°Whoa,¡± I drawl, still a touch bitter from the guard job revelation. ¡°How long did it take you to come up with that nugget of wisdom?¡± He adjusts his cap with his middle finger¡ª


    An eardrum-bursting shriek splits the air, and Major and I nearly trip over each other as we race away from the door.


    We plaster our backs against the wall, bolting our eyes from each other to the vault door, then back to the other¡¯s. My shirt, soaked in blood and sweat, glues itself to the metal.


    Another, quieter screech, and a soft light glitters a line along the floor. Major¡¯s eyes dilate with want, his breath stuttering. I tap him on the shoulder and, as one, we creep closer.


    The light leads to a pile of corroded scrap metal next to the vault door. Mold-ridden blankets, dozens of those useless pamphlets, and corroded sheets of metal piled high. Major puts a hand on my chest and pushes me back, whispering, ¡°I got this.¡±


    He strips off the moldy blankets and kicks away pamphlets. Rips off jagged metal sheets and barely winces when one catches his palm. He picks up a stick of wood, pockmarked and gray with centuries, and caresses it, before sticking it in his pocket. Real wood is worth its weight in nutrient bars, but I wouldn¡¯t hold it against him if he kept the artifact. With each piece of the pile he tosses, tears off, and heaves off, the light lengthens, widens, urging him on.


    ¡°Can you smell it?¡± he breathes excitedly, his knees quivering.


    I don¡¯t have the heart to tell him, so I lie. ¡°Yep.¡± I press a hand over the bullet wound, then stop when that seems to strengthen the smell of blood. ¡°Smells nice.¡±


    ¡°Dude,¡± he laughs. ¡°It smells fucking great. Like-Like-Like,¡± he snaps his fingers in thought. ¡°Like how I used to dream sunshine smells like. I¡¯m almost through, get over here. Just need you to help me with this.¡±


    One last giant hunk of metal restrains the light, though it¡¯s more rust than iron at this point. A slight touch paints the tips of my fingers a deep orange. Pretending I¡¯m not seconds away from passing out from both blood loss and pain, Major and I drag the slab until it loses its balance, tips over, and slams to the ground.


    An unassuming panel waves at us sluggishly, old wires and older hinges waking up.


    I can¡¯t smell the air, but I can feel it. Never has it been easier to breathe. My lungs cry with relief it did not know existed. The organs swell like a balloon, like my body dreads that this is only a fluke. Clean air will be gone at any moment, and back to ash, rust, and heat we go. Tears well in my eyes, and I blink them away. I don¡¯t want to look away from the sunlight.


    And that¡¯s what it is. Sunlight. When I get close enough, I reach a hand out and wiggle my fingers in the innocent ray of light. It¡¯s warm, almost hot, but not how the walkway rails feel hot. Not how the overhead bunker lights pour heat. It¡¯s like a kiss on the cheek. Day¡¯s tender greeting.


    ¡°Hey.¡± Major clamps a hand on my shoulder, only a step behind me. His voice has tears in it when he says, ¡°If there¡¯s¡­ anything out there¡­ come back for us?¡±


    Right now, I¡¯m a bit busy keeping my blood in my body. Still, I place a hand over his and squeeze it. ¡°If I¡¯m not dead by nightfall, I¡¯ll come give you a knock and we can stand in the sun together.¡±


    The hand on my shoulder guides me closer to the door, until the light flares and I shield my eyes. Major¡¯s shaking. I feel it. Nails dig into my shoulder, his breath trembling in my ear.


    ¡°I¡¯m not religious,¡± he whispers. ¡°Faith takes too much energy, but I hope she¡¯s merciful with you.¡±


    I know the answer. I know it in whatever is left of my soul, though I ask anyway. ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°Mother Terra.¡±


    Clementine, wait.


    He kicks the door wide open. Sunlight stabs my eyes. I flinch back against Major¡¯s chest and he¡ªpushes me out.


    Every curse I¡¯ve ever learned thrash around like feral packs as I whip back, eyes disbelieving and a scream trapped in my throat, and see the last of Major. Tears stream down his face. The door slams shut.


    Gravity grips me. Pulls me down. My back meets the earth, true earth, and¡­


    The world makes sense. If only for a moment.


    Sunshine pets me like a lost dog, and I think again how different it is from the bunker¡¯s fever. Like the hug Burkley awkwardly gave me when he first hired me.


    Cool air flirts across my skin and I shiver. The air is so crisp, my lungs almost hurt with it. I taste fresh air. Taste what must be actual sweetness for the first time, and I stop fighting back tears. They flow down the sides of my face in hot, cathartic rivers.


    I catch the sound of rushing water, and I crane my head toward it. Lush vegetation covers up what must be a stream, or even a river. What does fresh water taste like?


    I landed on a pillow of hundreds of green plants, each no taller than my pinky. My fingers pluck a stem.


    A clover. A five-leaf clover, with flecks of purple and yellow. I fight down the urge to eat it and pick another one. A four-leaf clover this time, with pretty pink and orange dots along the rims of its leaves.


    The hole in my side is almost forgotten as I laugh, high and giddy and tearful with life. All the life around me. I¡¯ve only seen plants, a right once reserved for my ancestors, from choppy images on my computer.


    I can¡¯t escape it now. Clover and grasses. Petals of pristine whites, soft yellows, and bold reds. Trees, tall and proud as they preen under a faint wind. Videos and photos could never do the sun justice. How decadent it is. A quartz sphere bleeding amber and gold against a sapphire sky. Clouds, swirling masses of puffy wonder. Clover, silky and yielding beneath my fingers. Flowers sprinkling with dew, like teardrops on eyelashes. Birdsong in the distance.


    A growl reverberates into my bones.


    I don¡¯t move, staring at a particularly wooly cloud in denial. No. No-no-no. C¡¯mon, I mean¡­ Come on. Don¡¯t let me get torn apart moments before I bleed to death. That¡¯s just mean. Deserved, but petty.


    The world must be laughing as it points a middle finger at me. A giant shadow blocks the sun as it enters my sight. It leans closer and I swear my heart stops.


    It¡¯s a giant wolf. Tall as Burkley, and just as broad. That¡¯s not what has me taking a second take, though, oh no. Instead of two eyes meeting mine, I see three. One on either side of its broad face, and a large, deformed one in the center, its pupils two circles halfway merged. The right side of its face is black, the eye almost white. The other side is tan, the eye a creamy caramel.


    Their snouts start as two, but quickly fuse into one until a wet, bicolor nose wiggles, sniffs at my mangy hair, and snorts. Their eyes move independently, sometimes going cross-eyed as they stare at one another. The large eye in the center stays on me.


    I switch between ice and caramel. The way one gleams with cold fury, the other sweetly, tells me this one body houses two souls. Two sets of thoughts who now control my fate. Though, it¡¯s not just my story, ending already written, I worry about.


    Pointing to the metal panel, much of its battered surface given new life with moss and vines, I croak, ¡°I¡¯m already dead. Please.¡± The twins stare. The right eye condemns me while the left eye comforts me. They fidget in place, thick tail swishing. Five-leaf clovers complain as the wolves shift from paw to paw. I wonder if they¡¯re arguing with each other. I wonder who will convince the other: malice or mercy?


    Caton¡¯s voice says, Keep your mouth shut and don¡¯t move.


    A helpless panic tries to urge my limbs into action anyway, but I go limp when the slightest movement has Malice snarling. Told you.


    The wolves breathe through their shared nose, Malice¡¯s ear pinned to their skull while Mercy¡¯s is upright. Whimpers and snarls galore are exchanged.


    The tail whacks Mercy¡¯s side of the body. Malice growls, and it¡¯s deeper than those hellish machines on full power, but I know who¡¯s won as Malice huffs in defeat and Mercy¡¯s eyes light up.


    I reach out to the wolves, and Malice unfurls two fangs where there should have been one. ¡°Please.¡± I can feel hot blood bubbling past my lips, death finally grabbing hold after being denied for too long.


    Just one more minute. That¡¯s all I need. ¡°Please,¡± the word chokes me. ¡°A boy.¡± The wolves¡¯ ears perk up. ¡°He¡¯s¡­ better. Better than this.¡± Mercy¡¯s eye almost glows with excitement. Malice flicks an ear.


    ¡°Please. Save him. He doesn¡¯t deserve¡­ to die down there.¡± I watch the sun filter through a tree¡¯s leaves. Actual leaves. ¡°Why doesn¡¯t he get to see the sun?¡± A breeze flows over my face, and I wish I can smell the scents it carries. Clover, flowers, and clean air.


    Fire burns in my cheeks and creeps down my throat. ¡°Please.¡± Blood gags my cries. The thought of Jere, a little boy who just wants to read, forced to choke down human flesh, endure this agony as penance, strangles me more than the blood, real and phantom. ¡°Please. Please. Forgive me¡ªus. Please. Please-please-please-please-plea¡ª¡±


    The wolves rest their bulky head over mine, muffling my cries. A rumble from their barrel chest shakes my bones, and the fire in my face smothers down to embers. Mercy whimpers, the sound overtaken by Malice¡¯s growl. When I start to struggle under the mass of muscle and fur, they lift their head.


    The tan tufts of fur on Mercy¡¯s side of the chin is stained ginger with my blood and¡­ I don¡¯t know. I guess it really hits me that I am actually dying. There¡¯s no way I can come back from this. But, silver linings, I got to see a wolf. Hmm, actually¡­


    Now that they¡¯re so close, I cock my head and try to remember the few pictures of wolves I¡¯ve seen from an archive thread named ¡°The Memorial of Yellowstone.¡± Blood loss turns my thoughts to water, slippery and uselessly translucent.


    Mercy¡¯s eye is wide open, and I¡¯m sure the tongue lolling out is ¡®theirs¡¯ now. Malice glares, distrust inlaid in every feature. Something isn¡¯t quite right, though. These two are far too¡­ soft, to be the hardened, sleek wolves I¡¯ve seen. Everything that should be a straight, sharp edge is softened to a kind roundness.


    Mercy¡¯s side of the nose is petal pink, while Malice¡¯s is a chocolate brown. Mercy¡¯s eyes are filled with warmth and trust, while Malice is as cold as the ice in their eye. I can¡¯t blame Malice. We betrayed them first.


    I reach out again and chance Malice¡¯s side. They look to be two seconds away from ripping my hand clean off. Closing my eyes, I graze the fur of Malice¡¯s cheek with the back of my hand. It¡¯s the softest thing I¡¯ve ever touched. Without thinking, I run my fingers through it greedily.


    ¡°Good doggy,¡± I whisper and open my eyes, a small smile on my face. The frosted eye widens, then melts into springwater. They lean into my touch, whimpering. A happy groan escapes the wolves when I scratch under their chin. Mercy jealously pushes their side against my hand, and I cough on a chuckle. ¡°Jere would love you. I know he would.¡± He would be running through a meadow, Mercy and Malice on his heels in case he falls.


    He¡¯s still in there. Trapped in a bunker, a few pounds away from weighing the same as a skeleton. The memory of Burkley¡¯s barking voice soothes the horrible thought. Although he¡¯s a bastard, he won¡¯t turn the kid away once Jere reveals he knows the password. The man will know that I am very much dead, but the kid had nothing to do with it. Packs and loners have beaten me bloody for that computer before, for my room key, for the password, and I told them precisely jackshit.


    Boss is gonna miss me. I¡¯m gonna miss him, if I go to a place where I can miss. If all those pretty stories of pearly gates are true. I spare a few tears at the thought.


    I think he knows how much I appreciate him. He yelled at me like the rest of his employees, but there was an affectionate note in his tone for me. Like he feared I¡¯d hate him if he didn¡¯t sweeten the salt. Jere will be good for him. New blood to raise before he dies young, like most everyone else who hits their forties.


    I didn¡¯t have much longer anyway.


    An easy rhyme leaves my lips. I let the gentle rhythm of rushing water soothe me. The words fumble as my vision darkens for the last time, first in tiny spots, then the spots bump into each other and form thick clouds of shadow. Then nothing. Not gray, or black, or white. Nothing. My heart slows.


    Malice and Mercy whine. I hear them sniff at the ground. The wet snap of a stem. They lay something underneath my nose.


    Before Death takes me home, I smell a flower. Sweet. An odd, ticklish scent I know in my heart is floral. It smells like home. Jere deserves to be home too.


    Terra, I hope he does. I hope Jere finds Major and they both get the hell out of there. I hope Mercy and Malice smell me on the kid¡¯s hair, on Major¡¯s hands, and lead them home.


    The poem slurs.


    Oh, delight, shouting in my ear.


    I could never wish you ire.


    The world of new is not fair.


    Our world of old, a priceless fare


    Hate and bones, a wicked snare.


    Death avoided by just a hair.


    Traded mercy on a venture.


    Skinned our morals for tenure.


    If the sky fills with spears,


    My hand is your shield, my dear.


    I hold you tight, my heart bare,


    As we tell Terra you¡¯re still here.

 Bread

    There was a crow,


    by the old church,


    who screamed and hollered,


    that its stomach hurt.


    ¡°I guide your dead,


    I protect your clerks,


    And yet none of you,


    Can feed me bread?¡±


    said the crow,


    guardian of the dead.


    Then came a boy,


    tears down his face,


    Dressed in black,


    no adult by his place.


    ¡°I hear your cries,


    I know your pains.


    I will come to church.


    Full will be your stomach.¡±


    The boy made good on his promise,


    limped through the morning snow.


    Offered, in his cracked hands,


    bread, he gave the crow.


    The dawn morphed to weeks,


    yet still the boy came.


    In his sweaty fists,


    crumbs aplenty,


    doughy splendor.


    The crow¡¯s hunger eased.


    The crow grew guilt


    in its heart,


    because it had nothing


    to offer this boy,


    who gave his all.


    ¡°Sit down, young man,¡±


    cooed the crow.


    ¡°I have lived well and long.


    I shall tell you what I know.¡±


    So weeks turned into months,


    yet still the boy remained.


    Legs crossed, heavy heart,


    a crow by his place.


    The crow spoke of ills abated,


    of nightmares bested,


    of love sated,


    of breath bated,


    of homes tainted,


    of friends deserted,


    of beasts burdened,


    of lands burned,


    of people scorned.


    All of this he told,


    and of this,


    the boy¡¯s mind beheld.


    A library his heart held.


    So months turned into years,


    the boy a mule with books.


    Quills, pencils, papers


    made the boy¡¯s legs quake.


    When he toppled down a hill,


    with mirth, the crow shook.


    ¡°Lad, you¡¯ll break your neck


    carrying them like that.


    Come, I know a place,


    where you can get a sack.¡±


    A tree, the crow


    led the boy to.


    Roots long, gnarled,


    and, with age,


    bark snarled.


    Branches curled,


    leaves withered.


    It sang to the boy,


    ¡°Don¡¯t dither,


    come hither,


    lest thou shiver


    like an archer¡¯s quiver,


    and the bird of death


    carries thee on its back.¡±


    In it, years of piled treasure.


    Feathers, flowers, and fetters.


    As well, of course,


    An old rucksack.


    Weathered, dusted,


    and patched.


    The boy whooped,


    the crow sang,


    the tree danced,


    and night turned to day.


    Still, the boy did not leave,


    and neither did the crow.


    They watched as flowers


    turned to snow.


    As a fragile fawn


    became a doe.


    Soon, the boy grew,


    and the crow saw him anew.


    Gone was the boy,


    an adult in his place.


    Icicles in the air


    roughened his voice,


    and the boy,


    no, man,


    said he had no choice.


    ¡°I must migrate,


    as you once did.


    Leave my place of birth,


    and further my knowledge.


    I hope to be wise,


    I hope to be rich.


    For that, I must leave,


    past the church,


    past the gates,


    past the trees,


    past the graves,


    past life,


    past death,


    past this place.¡±


    The young man packed,


    A burly, torn sack.


    He hoped for wealth,


    and the crow its snacks.


    ¡°You might not recognize me


    when I¡¯ve returned.


    My face might be different,


    worn down by the world.¡±


    The crow,


    still in shock,


    rattled its head.


    Where was the boy


    who gave him bread?


    Instead, this human,


    stood in his stead.


    Yet, just the same,


    he wanted for wealth,


    and wanted for bread.


    ¡°Little hatchling,


    grain of my eye,


    make me not recognize you?


    I dare you to try.


    You have the softest hair,


    like a mouse.


    The smartest mouth,


    as many would grouse.


    And yet none compares


    to your wise heart.


    So go on, bird,


    spread your wings.


    Find all the greatest shiny things.


    I¡¯ll still be here,


    at the church.


    I¡¯ve already lived.


    I know my worth.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll forget me not?¡±


    ¡°As long as there are forget-me-nots.¡±


    Summers smoldered,


    winters dreaded.


    Autumns fallen,


    springs bled.


    Willows fell,


    houses toppled,


    bloodlines ended,


    and lands hollowed.


    Still, the man did not return.


    The crow was pecking at the earth,


    looking for morsels of worth.


    No worm could fill his hollow.


    It longed for bread to swallow.


    It turned its feathered head


    towards the tree,


    then towards the rows of dead.


    Beside the graves,


    flowers of the brightest blue.


    The crow cooed


    at the nostalgic hue.


    Where was its boy,


    who grew to a man?


    The crow grew old,


    this keeper of the dead.


    Yet it longed for the life


    of its hatchling¡¯s eyes.


    The darkest part worried that


    the man was not alive.


    Then, one spring,


    the tree whistled,


    leaves bristled,


    branches whipped


    the innocent air.


    ¡°The man returns


    to this hallowed earth!


    The boy, now grown,


    has learned his worth!


    Look, over there,


    a beautiful shadow.


    Come hither,


    don¡¯t dither,


    lest thou break


    like an arrow


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    in an archer¡¯s quiver.¡±


    The crow, feathers grey,


    cawed at the tree to quit it.


    ¡°I am too old,


    too tired,


    to be woken so soon.


    The corpses beneath


    can sleep past noon.


    If the dead,


    who provide no bread,


    have no obligation


    to join the conversation,


    then neither do I.


    Calm yourself, oak.


    The man is gone,


    like the dawn,


    and no happiness


    will be spawned


    by your prattle,


    so don¡¯t babble


    like cattle


    when brought to slaughter.


    The man is gone¡­


    The boy is gone¡­


    No happiness


    shall ever spawn.¡±


    ¡°Quit thy dramatics,


    feathery buffoon!


    Happiness has come


    before afternoon.


    See there,


    the child,


    bounding up


    the hill,


    like a hare.


    Oh, what a sight


    to bare.¡±


    The crow cawed,


    ruffled,


    and pecked at bark.


    The man, returned.


    What a lark!


    Yet hope turned its beak,


    and old eyes did seek


    a shadow so familiar.


    Instead, disappointment.


    Yes, this human did have


    an old rucksack


    on their back.


    Yes, the human


    was the same size


    as the man when


    he left the church,


    but nothing else


    was of note,


    of worth.


    Until, that is,


    the bird heard a cry.


    A simple sound.


    Could it be a lie?


    ¡°Crow!


    Where are your cries?


    I have returned to church,


    and I have returned with bread


    Soon your stomach will be fed!¡±


    Happiness, this is not.


    It is joy!


    What joy!


    Like a child¡¯s


    first toy.


    Its chick has come,


    its darling boy!


    ¡°I hear you,


    I hear you!


    Come, end my pain.


    I could soak the earth


    with my water of agony.


    Here I thought


    I had lived a tragedy.


    Yet my boy has returned!


    Forget the bread,


    forget it all!


    I only wish for my child


    to be back in my arms.¡±


    The shadow,


    boldened by the sun,


    broke out into a run.


    The crow jumped down


    from its place,


    and jumped with joy,


    hopped in place.


    ¡°My hatchling,


    my chick,¡±


    it muttered erratically.


    ¡°My darling,


    my sunling.


    The perfect loaf of bread.¡±


    The shadow grew nearer,


    and details built upon them.


    The crow¡¯s elation dimmed,


    and anger vined instead.


    This was not the boy,


    now man,


    who left the church,


    past life,


    past death,


    to seek his worth.


    She had the figure


    of a young pine.


    Hair thick


    like a thicket


    during spring.


    She bore a smile,


    which befit the lass.


    Crinkles at the corners


    spoke of painful pasts.


    Still,


    she was not he,


    even with her trickery.


    The crow,


    ladened with regret,


    sniffed,


    turned,


    and pecked at the plants.


    ¡°I do not know you,¡±


    the crow said.


    ¡°Now leave me be,


    I look for bread.


    Crust or crumbs,


    it hardly matters.


    Begone,


    be well,


    be out of my sight,


    or you shall know


    a grave guard¡¯s might.¡±


    ¡°But you do know me,¡±


    the young woman said.


    ¡°I once went by Alex,


    but that name is now dead.


    It fits a grave more


    than it does fit me.


    Do you recall a young boy


    who fed you bread?


    No adult by their side,


    no love in their place,


    forgotten, forsaken,


    left in disgrace?¡±


    ¡°This boy I know,


    this boy I knew.


    How can you be that boy,


    who I saw grew?


    He had the darkest eyes,


    and the smartest mouth.


    the softest hair,


    and the wisest heart.¡±


    She bent to her knees,


    unafraid of the bees.


    Her stare as strong


    as the dancing trees.


    ¡°My eyes are still dark,


    my hair is still soft.


    And I assure you,


    my mouth is still smart.


    But what once was in,


    is now on display.


    Surely there is wisdom


    in refusing to play?


    In stages shunned?


    In masks abandoned?¡±


    ¡°Abandoned, abandoned,¡±


    The crow cawed,


    shaking its shelled maw.


    ¡°That was the boy¡¯s theme.


    His identity, his essence.


    His motif.


    And you¡¯re telling me,


    This woman before me,


    Is that same boy?


    That same motif?¡±


    It squawked, flapped,


    and cocked its head.


    ¡°Well, who do I call you,


    this woman before me?


    Not boy, not man,


    Not the child once before me.¡±


    Tears filled her eyes.


    She bowed her head.


    ¡°You called me hatchling,


    Before our paths parted.


    Birds of a feather,


    equally forgotten.¡±


    The crow swallowed a cry


    as its heart regrew.


    Its hatchling,


    its darling,


    now anew.


    It jumped on her leg,


    and, once she looked,


    the bird said,


    ¡°Forgotten? Nonsense,¡±


    squawked the crow.


    ¡°We remembered each other,


    did we not?


    I told you tales,


    and you fed me bread.


    We survived winters


    by fires.


    Endured summers,


    by lakes.


    How could we be forgotten,


    when, by each other, we placed?


    And a crow keeps a promise,


    just as we never forget a face.


    Startled, I was,


    by your fine features,


    and hair like lace.


    But now I see it,


    my darling hatchling.


    Your hair is like a silk sheet,


    and your mouth crinkles with smiles.


    Your heart is bruised,


    perhaps even shattered.


    Yet bruises do not prevent blood,


    just as pain does not stop wisdom.


    In fact,


    it makes the facts


    all the more fearsome.¡±


    The woman cried,


    though little blue in her tears.


    Her knees shook


    with deep-rooted fears.


    Cheeks darkened,


    lips parted,


    and cries clattered.


    ¡°And here I thought


    you¡¯d forsake me,


    or worse,


    forget me.¡±


    ¡°Look there, silly lass,


    though grown you may be.


    There are forget-me-nots


    by our place,


    by the tree.


    Forsaken? Nonsense.


    Safe here,


    you will always be.¡±

 The Whistling Woman

    It had taken the neighborhood two years before we figured out she whistled sea shanties.


    A group of us had huddled together after the town meeting, exchanging theories. An old man, a retired sailor who recently moved in, limped to our table and wheezed, ¡°She¡¯s whistling away sea shanties, people. I could recognize Leave her, Johnny from a mile away.¡±


    Most days, she sang from an assortment of sea shanties, and the old sailor hobbled out of his home to listen. The whistler jumped from one note to the next, her pursed lips a fine-tuned instrument. She would hop and skip as she whistled, like she was five and not a young woman.


    She wasn¡¯t always a young woman, though. I have been here long enough to remember when her songs first arrived, when her family had first moved in. The then-child would soon attend the nearby middle school, the ¡®joys¡¯ of high school only a couple of years away. From that first blistering summer day, she greeted the rising sun with a song, and bid it farewell every evening.


    On one particular scorcher, ravens mocked the songbirds¡¯ tweets, and the girl had whistled the same mockery back. The dark birds cawed, and she whistled back again, pitch perfect. From then on, the black birds shadowed the girl, pebbles and trinkets clutched in their beaks.


    When it thundered, she followed the beat of the crashing droplets with jazz. I¡¯m ashamed to say, as a jazz addict, it took me months to recognize Fly Me To The Moon. Christmas songs lived on our streets at the first sign of frost and did not leave until the very last patch of ice had melted.


    Neighbors complained about the ¡®constant¡¯ noise. Too loud, they said. Annoying. ¡°Can¡¯t that girl keep that racket inside?¡± an older woman had grouched at one of the town meetings. Repeated the sentiment to anyone who¡¯d listened.


    There was nothing anyone could do, though. For all her songs, she was respectful about it. She would quiet whenever she walked near someone, and never whistled before sunrise or after sunset. Every day, like clockwork.


    Silence suffocates the neighborhood now. No longer are we greeted by a cheerful woman¡¯s pursed lips. Only the sun reluctantly warms us. The songbirds haven¡¯t sung in months, and the ravens made themselves scarce as soon as the conspiracies realized their whistler was gone.


    Her house¡¯s wildflowers crunched under the heavy footsteps of her grief-stricken family and consoling neighbors. Not even her clover, which had weathered the driest summers and sharpest winters under her hand, survived the melancholy.


    The whistler had a boyfriend. Something I had no clue about, but apparently everyone else did. The eldest women, the self-appointed godmothers of our neighborhood, hated him. Locked their doors and shut their blinds whenever he rolled up in his loud wannabe-muscle car, with its obnoxious flames and all.


    The older women told her again, and again, and again that he was no good. There was no amount of support and love she could give him which would turn him into a good person, a decent partner. She refused to leave, though. The whistler¡¯s heart had sung love ballads at a handful of affectionate stares.


    She loved him enough to tolerate his temper, his random and alarming bouts of cold viciousness, his cynicism and ego, but not enough to say yes when he proposed. Tolerate, hope, and bear, but not say yes.


    The morning after her death, a crushing sense of wrong had gripped me. I downed my second cup of coffee when I finally realized what had sweat beading on my forehead, my hair standing on end, and goosebumps crawling up my arms.


    I couldn¡¯t hear her whistle. So used was I to her tunes that the absence of them triggered my flight-or-flight, like when you walk through the woods and realize the birds are quiet. I turned on the news and read the bold white letters say, ¡°YOUNG WOMAN MURDERED BY LOVER, JASON CHERICE. WITNESSES IN SHOCK.¡±


    He strangled her to death then and there, according to the news. Right on the beach, in front of God and everyone, and three fully grown men could not pry him off before the light left her eyes. Before her song left the world.


    Senseless. Needless. The realist part of my brain could not so much as spare me the comfort of believing her end was painless. A few bad choices and too much liquid courage in my youth gave me hands-on experience.


    What she must¡¯ve felt held me hostage as I wept that night. Her lungs burned, ribs too tight. Her heart stumbled, stuttered, strained, then stopped. Fear paralyzed her as black edged into her vision like a wiggling parasite. A little voice in the back of her mind whispered, This is where you pray. Unlike my assailant, though, who had the decency to drop me to the floor when my lips turned blue, this beast only squeezed tighter.


    The police released the boyfriend¡¯s mugshot a few days after, and his smirking face seared itself into my brain. His inhuman smug and cracked lips. Satisfaction had leaked out of his very pores, like killing someone who trusted you, loved you too much to fight back, was some kind of brag. His eyes burned with vindication, a soul too dark and twisted to see the light. If you threw him into the sun, he¡¯d see a black hole.


    This woman, once a girl, now a corpse, was gone because rejection stings. The beast thought himself God, and to deny God was to accept damnation.


    They didn¡¯t even say what her name was. They gave the man who murdered her the importance of a name.


    I stare at the television in my living room, not really watching, and nurse a half-empty whiskey bottle. It hurts too much to go outside when I know she isn¡¯t out there. Never will be. Christmas has come and gone, and my heart squeezes when I remember how quiet the cold months were. No Deck The Halls or God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen slicing through the icy air. Only the sound of bare branches scratching along frosted window panes, and a lonesome raven¡¯s mournful, confused cry.


    The kids don¡¯t play outside anymore. No greetings pass between neighbors. The old woman, who complained so heartily about the whistler¡¯s ¡®racket,¡¯ hasn¡¯t shown her face at any of the town meetings, which are now as barren as the whistler¡¯s front yard.


    Each barbeque. Each yard sale. Each town meeting we spent complaining about the whistler and what song she spared finite air for. None of us talked to her, too miffed by her noise, yet she became such an integral part of our routine. Christmas songs in winter, jazz during storms, and sea shanties every other day of the year. How many of us wake up, still waiting for her to greet a day that will never hold her again?


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    I¡¯ve boxed since my freshman year of high school after I nearly killed a senior. He stuck a spitty wad of gum in my hair and I made him choke on that gum and the lump of air in his throat. In her office, seated on a rickety plastic chair, the principal had given me two choices: figure out how to get ¡®all that excess energy out¡¯ or find another school.


    That morning, after I saw her face on the TV screen, gold glitter dusting her cheeks and flowers in her hair, I punched my old bag so hard that the fabric tore. Its sands spilled onto my garage floor, and I wished it was the insides of another.


    I don¡¯t know her name, and the realization had punched me in the gut. Guilt wasted no time latching its hooks into me.


    I asked if anyone knew her name. The sailor, the old woman, a couple of neighborhood children. Anyone but her family. God, anyone but her heartsick family. They all shook their heads. Shamed tugged their lips into a frown and they shook their heads again. No. No one knew her name.


    When I got home that night, I sat at the top of my dark staircase, waiting for the farewell of our neighborhood siren to haunt the night air. A pathetic ghost begging for the attention of a phantom.


    She had filled the air with music. Performed through wind and rain, hail and snow, for years, and none of us knew her name, and I could not understand how that was possible. I know she wore yellow and green on warm days, and she covered herself in denim at the first cold front, but nothing else. None of us knew her favorite sea shanty, or if she had a favorite raven. Not even her favorite color.


    My heart chokes. I can never correct such a gruesome mistake. There¡¯s no one to ask anymore, not unless the flowers growing on her grave can act as a can-on-a-string to her drab wooden home. The butterflies which flittered around her perfumed hair probably knew more about this woman than I ever will.


    Perfume¡­ Yes, that¡¯s right. She wore perfume.


    My eyes widen, and I launch myself out of the chair, alcohol weighing down every step. I talked to her only once, far too briefly, when we walked past each other and a wasp darted right at her. I had rushed to warn her about the little winged devil. The whistler brushed off my concerns with a small smile and let the fire-colored bug rest on her finger.


    ¡°They like my perfume,¡± she had said, voice as high as her lowest whistled note. The wasp jumped from her finger to her gilded cheek. Bitter spit pooled in my mouth at the thought of getting stung there.


    It did not unsheathe its stinger, though. Nor did it tear into the soft skin of her cheek. It simply walked past her chocolate eyes. When it reached her hairline, it wiggled its thorax at a bright red flower clip and flew away. The young woman shrugged at my slackened expression and said, ¡°They like coffee apparently.¡±


    I know that now. The whispering wind around her always carried the scent of vanilla, sugar, and coffee, and I hold such precious knowledge like a gift. I want to visit her family¡¯s home and see if they can give me a bottle.


    I slash my hand through the air, destroying the thought. Her loved ones would sooner punch me in the face and slam the door than humor the nonsensical mourning of a stranger. I can already hear her older brother ask me what her name is. The sound of knuckles hitting teeth.


    The rustling leaves and sorrowful winds call to me, and, for the first time in months, I answer.


    It¡¯s dark, this warm spring night, our small piece of the world shaking off the last breaths of winter. Humidity sticks my shirt to my skin, and I wipe the sweat stinging my eyes with the back of my wrist. Drunkenly stumbling, I go to my favorite spot on the porch, which is not the perfectly functional and cushioned chairs, but the top step. I slump onto it with a grunt.


    I put my head between my knees and gulp the humid air. The smell of roses is so thick, I taste it in the back of my mouth. Droopy eyes stare into the once-lush front yard across from mine, and the damp taste of death joins the roses.


    She cared for that yard like it was her baby. If she wasn¡¯t whistling along the sidewalk, she was wrist deep in soil and clover, Santiano on her lips. Honeysuckle and marigolds used to dance on my tongue with the roses, but now only skeletal stems remain.


    Every month had reaped some bounty. Garlic bulbs as big as the sailor¡¯s meaty hand, or chamomile bouquets with a jar of honey. I never greeted her with her name, yet she¡¯d greet me with mine, a bundle of white flowers and honey in hand. Garlic and potatoes. Yarrow, dandelions, and clover buds. All the life people never bothered with because they were not as lush as roses, nor as fussy as tulips.


    Her lawn¡¯s twin towering southern magnolias refuse to blossom with their bulbous white flowers. No wasp, bee, dragonfly, or June bug has ventured onto the dry clover. The yarrow has long since browned, curling in on itself as its life drains back into the stagnant soil. Meters of chamomile clusters are now piles of tinder, one good spark away from setting the whole place ablaze. A flick of lightning or a carelessly flung cigarette, and up goes her house and her yard. Her family and whatever is left of the whistling woman.


    I pat my pockets for a cig on reflex, though I quit years ago. I don¡¯t have so much as a vape to poison myself with for comfort.


    Wind carries the sound of the old sailor¡¯s rocking chair as it creaks. His grunt when he throws his worn body into it. A dog howls, joined by the yapping of Sarah¡¯s Scottish terriers. Still, it¡¯s quiet to me.


    ¡°Hey,¡± I shout down the street, uncaring about the hour, if the hour is even late enough to be cared for. ¡°Sir.¡±


    ¡°Eh?¡± the older man shouts back. ¡°What is it, son?¡±


    I lick my lips. ¡°Your name. What¡¯s your name?¡±


    ¡­ ¡°Maurice, son.¡± I smile at the confusion in his voice. ¡°Just call me Maur, though.¡±


    I nod and shout back, ¡°Thank you, Maur.¡±


    The dogs stopped barking during our chat. The hush leaves rooms for the crickets and toads. It¡¯s a dull song, nowhere near as lively as the whistler¡¯s, and one I¡¯ve heard a thousand times before, yet I find a new appreciation for it. The high notes of the crickets and the low rumbles of the toads create a harmony that weighs down my eyelids.


    Maur¡¯s voice breaks the silence. He sings a tune under his breath, and the wind delivers it to me.


    ¡°I thought I heard the old man say, ¡®Leave her, Johnny. Leave her! Tomorrow ye will get yer pay, and it¡¯s time for us to leave her.¡¯¡±


    ¡°Leave her, Johnny. Leave her,¡± I whisper. A tickle near my eye startles me. A wasp, the color of dying embers, buzzes right at me. Jolting, I stomp down the urge to run as fast as my half-drunken legs can carry me, knowing that these things can fly faster than I can run.


    It darts closer. Its thorax thrums as the insect lands and inspects my pinky, then my ring finger. I can feel its antenna smelling me and I force my body to still. It settles on my hand, curious, and smells me more.


    I slowly turn my hand, and it crawls into my palm. ¡°Oh, leave her, Johnny. Leave her. For the voyage is long, and the winds don¡¯t blow, and it¡¯s time¡­ for us¡­ to leave her.¡± Tears slide down my cheeks. When the wasp joins them, I don¡¯t flinch. Tiny legs tickle the soft skin. The threat of a stinger glides across my purple eye bags. I don¡¯t move. Don¡¯t twitch.


    The wasp decides that this pathetic human is not worth the venom and flies away. I feel the displaced air cool my tears. It flies to the abandoned garden across the street and lands on a patch of dried clover. I miss when the clover was plush and green. The sweet smell of honeysuckle bushes. Choruses of curious ravens and jovial songbirds. I miss our whistler, who God put in the wrong body. One of God¡¯s worst mistakes, not giving that woman wings.


    A low tune leaves my pursed lips. It cracks and shudders, not half as practiced as hers. The world doesn¡¯t mind, though, as all sound is siphoned from the air. The sailor, dogs, toads, and crickets hush. Listen. A raven caws from a tree out of sight, and it sounds¡­ relieved. Sad, but relieved.


    Moths flutter and dance to the broken song. Spring air wraps around me, chilly and pleasant, carrying the scent of moonless nights and old memories. I let the memories of her guide me.


    The whistler¡¯s front yard strums brittle clover and jagged flower stems. It matches me note for note, regardless.