The water dripped down her spine, trickling off her limbs and swirling down the drain. The steam filled the air, fogging up the mirror. She lathered the soap in her hair, rubbing the suds until they multiplied in her long golden locks. She hummed a song her mom would have liked, probably Brenda Lee or another. She let the hot water caress her face. The cheap vinyl curtain screeched as it scraped against the rod, the sound of metal on metal punctuating the end of her shower.

The linoleum was cold under her feet, the sopping wet floor mat provided failing at its job. She bounced on the tips of her toes, skipping over the splotches of water on the ground from where the water strayed past  the protective barrier of the curtain. She grabbed a white, scratchy towel from the rack above the toilet and wrapped it tightly around her body, securing it under her armpit. 

With a hand towel, she created a path in the steamed mirror, watching it wane as the residual heat filled it back up. Her cheeks were rosier than usual, her skin heated from the hot water. She poked at her face for a moment, admiring the work that her tanning had done over the past couple of weeks. She stripped the towel from her body, using it to pat her bronzed legs and breasts dry, before wrapping it around her dripping hair. She opened the door to the bedroom a crack and the cool air surged in, already clearing the mirror. She looked below the cabinets, searching for a hairdryer and found it in a ratty drawstring back. The machine clicked and whirled to life, spitting out noises and smells that probably weren’t safe. She’d have to do a hair detox after using this furnace on her precious hair. Still, a hairdryer was a hairdryer and she went to work. She was careful not to burn her ears or fingers as she brushed the digits through her strands of wet hair, using them as a makeshift brush. She flipped her hair upside down to get a better angle. Her wet hair slapped her in the face as she dried it from the underside. She stayed upside down until her head started to pulse. In the cleared mirror, her reflection was voluminous and almost dry. 

She hung the towel up on the rack on the bedroom door. She donned the robe that was on the aforementioned rack and tied it taught around her waist. She grabbed the glass of wine she had left on the counter and sipped—Chardonnay, now warm. Shame. It was a good thing she remembered to chill the rest of the bottle. 

The bedroom air was a cool blast against her toasty skin. She swayed her hips as she walked over to the ice bucket, pulling the expensive Chardonnay she had finagled out the man. She poured a healthy glass, pausing to swallow a rather large gulp. She plopped down in the chair that resided in the corner of the room, resting her wine on the flat arm. She let out a large sigh, settling comfortably into the surprisingly inviting chair. 

When the last drop was drained from her glass, she pulled herself out of the depths of the chair. She walked across to the closet, opening it with all the opulence she wish she had. She yanked her panties on before securing her matching bra and then the garters. She pulled the yellow dress that she had hung up earlier out, draping it against her frame as if she was trying to decide to buy it. The dress went on without much difficulty and fit like it was made for her—it was—and slipped her dainty feet into ruby red pumps. She pulled pearl earrings and a matching necklace out of her purse on the nightstand, securing them with practiced ease. She smoothed her dress—there were no wrinkles— and smiled at her reflection in the long mirror. She leaned down carefully to pull her discarded dress and lingerie from earlier off the stained floor of the motel. She folded them with care and placed them into the large navy bag she had brought with her.

She always came prepared. 

She did a once-over of the room, making sure she didn’t leave anything as she reached for her purse. Her large bag weighed on her arm. She pried it open, pulling out a cigarette and her lighter. The little source of warmth was familiar as she breathed in the first pull to ignite it. She flicked the lighter closed, threw it in her little purse, and snapped the beaded bag closed. Then, it was deposited into her larger bag. 

She made her way towards the door, stopping immediately. She stepped back for a moment, her weight shifting in her heels. She grabbed the bottle of wine from the cooler, careful not to drip water on her dress, and then continued out. She threw the “Do Not Disturb” sign onto the floor of the room and let it close, leaving the bloodied bed—and the man splayed across it—behind her.

 TW/Trigger Warning: homophobia/transphobia.

When it came to murder, Soup was the last boy that the dull town of Sallisaw, Wyoming would ever accuse. Granted, his name wasn’t actually Soup. Soup’s full name was Campbell John Frankinson (the third), but everyone just called him Soup. Campbell was his father. His father was a soup: A chunky, slightly unpleasant, microwaved last-choice of sustenance. Campbell was not a soup. He was a bright boy, an odd boy, a boy that would not stand out in your mind if he didn’t have an odd name. So, Soup was Soup. 

Soup had two friends. His longest friend was Jared Wilkins. He lived across the street in the pale yellow barn house--the one with blue shutters--since 2002. He was gangly and too thin to use his heights for any social advantage. Then there was Jillian Meyers. Jillian was added to Jared and Soup’s group in 2016 when she was ostracized from the whole school. She unknowingly committed social suicide when she came out as transgender, small conservative town and all. Nonetheless, Jillian found a home in Jared and Soup. Mrs. Frankinson was so happy that Campbell had another friend that she gave Jillian the hand-me-downs from Cousin Claire that were supposed to go to his little sister, Jane. 

They rode bikes across town like a John Hughes film. Sometimes, Jane would ride on Soup’s handlebars if she wanted to ride with them to the convenience store ten minutes away. She’d walk home on her own with a warm candy bar in her pocket and content showing on her face. It was an arrangement that was allowed by his mom, as long as everyone got home before dark. Mrs. Frankinson forced Soup to get his driver’s license when he turned seventeen, despite his bicyclar mobility, to be able to help out with driving around Jane. She said it was to help keep him safe in case it rained and was unsafe to ride to school, but Soup also knew the sudden 

Soup was a decent boy in school. He was riding the average line, no higher or lower. He skimmed just under the radar, a skill that one could only admire from afar. He didn’t mind this trait of his. In fact, Soup seemed to prefer it. He was never bullied, never pulled apart from the rest. He was never first to be picked on the sports teams for P.E., but also not the last. He was grouped into projects without any fuss or contemplation, fitting into the rest like he was a perfectly designed puzzle piece. He didn’t complete the picture, but he helped bring it along.  Everyone just knew him as Soup. No other characteristics clung to him.Soup introduced himself and Soup he was. 

It was on September 22nd, 2010 that Jillian showed up at Soup’s door. She was flushed and breathless, her chest heaving with deep breaths. Together they ran to Jared’s door, banging and shouting until Mr. Wilkins opened the door with a disgruntled puff of smoke in their faces and Jared slinked out the door. Jillian pulled her jacket tighter around herself; the fall air was beginning to settle in their bones. 

“I have a date,” she breathed out, as if she had been holding the breath of truth in for weeks.

Jared and Soup didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do.

“Dude, that’s so fuckin’ awesome,” Jared said. Soup stayed quiet, but his smile was confirmation enough of his feelings. 

“Who’s the lucky dude?”  

“His name is Dillon, the boy from my Biology class I had been telling you guys about,” Jillian said. Her eyes sparkled like in the books. Life had been hard for Jillian Meyers. If it hadn’t been for Jared and Soup, who knows where Jillian would be right now. Probably six feet under if we’re being honest. With a father who doesn’t support her, a mother who still calls her Matthew, and a school who can’t look at her without a sneer and a whisper, a date is more than just exciting. 

Mrs. Frankinson helped Jillian get ready the following Friday. They were going to see Devil, the new horror movie that had come out (because nothing screamed “high school first date” like a poorly rated horror movie). Dillon was borrowing his dad’s 2005 Dodge Dakota and the boys watched with Mrs. Frankinson as Jillian climbed into the passenger’s seat of the truck. Dillon didn’t come to the door. Soup clenched his jaw. 

Jared and Soup were watching Star Wars: Return of the Jedi for the 24th time when Jillian called. Jillian never calls. Jillian only lives a couple streets away. Jillian always rings the doorbell three times in quick succession. Jillian never calls. 

Jared answered his phone as quickly as it rang, Soup immediately rushing to his side. He could hear Jillian sobbing into Jared’s ear. He grabbed the keys from the hook on the wall. His mother looked at him in question, but the anger on his face silenced her. 

Soup does not get angry. 

It was a twenty three minute drive and they made it in seventeen. Jillian was sitting on the curb in front of some houses, a couple meters away from a little park. Jared held her as she sobbed, mascara running down her flushed face. Soup gripped the keys so hard they cut into his palms. Jillian hiccuped the whole way home, Jared sitting with her in the backseat. Mrs. Frankinson was waiting at the kitchen table when they came home, rushing up to grab her and clutch her to her chest. No one, except Jillian, cared that she got makeup marks and tear stains all over their shirts. 

Jillian slept over that night. Soup took the couch after forcing his sob-wracked friend into his twin bed. Jared stayed until he was falling asleep, having called his father earlier to explain why he was going to be home so late. They held her as she told them about her night, how Dillon had been perfectly fine until after the movie. He held the door, he bought her ticket, he even held her hand. After the movie, he took her to the neighborhood park to finish their snacks and their conversations. The lights had been turned off and had barely cooled down before he pushed himself onto Jillian, grabbing at her borrowed top and thrusting it off. She pleaded against him and tried to fight him off, but he was larger, much stronger than Jillian. He called her a freak, said no one else would want her but him when she denied. 

Dillon apparently had been dared to go out with “the freak” and had obliged. Dillon thought that he could get some good things out of it, that Jillian would feel “blessed enough” to give him something in return. Jared didn’t comment on the bruises on her chest and neck and Soup didn’t either. 

Soup did not hate anyone before Dillon Johnson. 

Jillian didn’t go to school that Monday, or that Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday. Soup was silent as he heard people snicker. People would ask him about his “freak friend” and he wouldn't reply. Jared would shout and curse, but people just laughed and walked away. 

“People are cruel,” Soup said to Jared at lunch on Thursday after Olivia Sumners, the nice girl from their math class, made a snide comment to him about it being better now that the freak was gone. 

“It’s not fair,” Jared said back. Soup could tell he wanted to cry. Jared balled his fists and breathed deeply. His voice wavered, “She’s one of the kindest people I know.”

“I know, Jared, I know.”

At the end of the semester, in honor of winter break, Alex Martinez decided to host a house party in celebration of exams being over. Soup, being who he was, was of course invited. The party was bland, full of mostly empty bottles and practically full cups littered about with no labels. People were too drunk and too loud. Some were compensating, some puking off the balcony. 

Vomit froze before it hit the ground. It was that kind of winter night. Despite the bitter cold, Soup found himself on the back patio anyways. He flitted among the smokers, declining offer after offer to keep to himself. He held a solo cup filled with water in his gloved hands, branding himself with a thick, sharpied “SOUP”. 

Soup shimmied out into the crowded hallway from the restroom. He was thinking about leaving-- it was already nearing midnight and the stench of puke was beginning to nauseate-- when he heard a quite loud, drunken, and boisterous story being told from behind. 

“...n’then was so trying to get into my pants, the whore, suck my dick or somethin’. S’happy to have someone take ‘em out onna date that s’was ready to give it up to anyone. He was beggin’ me and grabbin’ at me and I even had to push ‘em off’a me.”

The narrative belonged to a boy that seemed quite familiar to Soup, probably from a class or two. His slurred words hinted at the couple drinks he had before the one in his hand. Soup dismissed it, turning to walk away from the boasting dickwad before he heard the last name he wanted to hear:

“Always thought that Jillian was a freak, like obvi, but it turns out he’s freakier than I thought.”

The cheap plastic cup splintered in Soup’s fist. Water dribbled down his hand and soaked his cuff, but he didn’t care. He walked up to the boy and for the first time, Soup was not Soup. 

“Don’t you say another thing about Jillian,” he said. His voice was low and the girls around the boy, to which he now recognized was Dillon Johnson himself, quieted. Dillon was silent himself for a moment, jaw slack and eyes glazed. The drunk boy started laughing, his drink sloshing onto the floor.

“Are you friends with him?” he laughed, coughing and spitting, “God, he’s a fuckin’ freak.”

“Stop it,” Soup said. The girls to the side stopped talking completely, staring in rapt attention at what was unfolding. One girl whispered to her friend, asking if they should stop Dillon. Another girl walked away with a roll of her eyes. 

“God, he’s a fuckin’ fag. A fuckin’ freak, I’m tellin’ you. Pretendin’ he’s a chick n’all.”

“Stop it.”

“She was so lucky to have me. No one would ever fuckin’ want to fuck somethin’ that ugly. He knew it too. That’s why she wanted me so bad, tried so hard.”

“Stop it,” Soup said again, stepping up towards Dillon as the drunken boy stood from the couch to shout in his face. The crowd around had turned into a dull buzz. Soup didn’t know if it was the party going silent or if he was just so angry that he could only focus on the bastard’s beer soaked spittle. 

“Maybe next time,” he sways, blinking heavy, drunk, “That little freak will finally let me see what’s really under her skirt.”

The next part of this story will never be said by Soup himself. He doesn’t remember, you see. The only accounts we have are of sobbing and mostly drunk teenagers. Soup, the boy that he was, in an irrational (or rational, whatever your opinion on the story is) thought, grabbed the nearest thing to him and swung. This unfortunately happened to be Mr. Martinez’s solid bronze golfing statue. 

With a quick and unexpected hit, Dillon was out for the count, slumping against the couch and bouncing onto the floor. The two girls left on the couch screamed. Soup dropped to his knees in an almost revent way. Some said they thought he would start sobbing, crying and demanding help and aid. No one expected him to keep swinging. He gripped the statue and plunged it down again and again, his movements like painting: up, down, up down, side to side, side to side. Each blow made a sickening sound. His face was slick with blood. Testimonies say that he had the worst grin on his face, of pure bliss. Others say they swore his eyes rolled back. 

By the time the cops had arrived, Dillon Johnson’s body was already cooling. They arrested Soup without hesitation. He sat on the couch, awaiting their arrival. He said nothing to protest. The trial was a couple months later. There was plenty of testimonies, some stories more exaggerated than others, but the expected result was that Campbell John Frankinson III was guilty. He didn’t plead insanity or self defense. He was quite quiet through it all. The only defender of his was his best friend Jillian, who shared her story and caused a hush among the spectators. 

Mrs. Frankinson cried when her son went to jail, but Jillian was there to hold her. 

Jillian visited Soup as often as she could, but when she moved out of town after graduation, she made sure to at least visit in person for their Friendship Anniversary on April 5th. Jared lived in town and stopped by at least bi-monthly too. Mrs. Frankinson visited every week, sometimes joined by Jane, until she died of cancer in late 2016. The only day he was released from prison was for her funeral. 

“Why did you do it?” Jillian asked one day. She was quiet, hushed, like the guards on duty might intrude on her truth. It was a warm April day, almost ten years after the murder. Soup shrugged from across the table.

“Dunno, wanted to protect you. Wanted him to shut up.”

Jillian was silent. She was happy now, he could see it in her eyes. She was sad on the anniversary of Dillon’s death, but she prevailed. She had two kids at home and a husband who loved her. 

“Do you regret it?”

“No,” he said, “not at all.”

 In the small town of Furthermore, Kansas, Ruthie O’Connell was the last thing Sheriff Norman had expected to find in the old, abandoned well. He’d gone out there after complaints from Mrs. Graham, owner of the nearby acres, for the swooping vultures in the sky. At first she had thought it was just a rogue cow or a wolf’s meal gone bad. But the birds persisted. He could smell it before he saw it—a smell that a godly man wouldn’t bother to describe.

“Straight sin, that’s what it smells like,” Officer Burnham said. 

Sheriff Norman couldn’t disagree. He had taken his hat off to fan himself in the Kansas heat, but after seeing Miss Ruthie O’Connell’s body, he didn’t dare place it back on his sweaty forehead. Barely had a brain left, they said. Burnham suspected foul play; Sheriff Norman had no comment. 

Marilyn O’Connell was the one unfortunate enough to have to identify her. As she choked on her words, either from grief or that smell, she gritted out:

“That’s Ruthie alright.”

Marilyn wasn’t as beautiful as Ruthie O’Connell was. Marilyn’s jaw, always set stern and hard, was a gruff contrast to the soft curve of Ruthie’s. Despite having the same colored eyes, Marilyn’s were always cold, though Ruthie’s were a sweet chocolate color that drew people in with a simple bat of her eyes. Marilyn was a beautiful woman, anyone can see that, but there was a way that Ruthie pulled people in.

“Her head was encrusted in dried blood, sir,” Marilyn tried again, vain attempt after vain attempt to get the Furthermore cops interested in the supposed murder of her sister. 

“It’s 1935, Marilyn,” Sheriff Norman would say, “I bet she got caught in the winds.”

It was always some sort of rationale from him and his boys: 

“She was probably trying to hide from the dust and chose the wrong spot.”

“She probably tripped and fell while running to safety.” 

“It was merely an accident.”

Marilyn’s reality was as harsh as one could imagine. It was 1935 in the middle of Kansas, when the plains were ravaged by storm after storm of nothing but wind and heat. All the crops were gone. People were too poor to move. And according to the police, they were also too busy to care about a murder. 

Marilyn spent this free time talking to Sheriff Norman, trying to vouch for her case. He’d let her talk, let her imagine run wild, while he stroked his greyed beard. 

Marilyn’s first suspect was Ruthie’s fiancé, Julian Ianso, who was conveniently out of town during the time that Ruthie would have died. Now, he is a businessman and he does go into the city to try and salvage some work with the states still in business, but that still doesn’t change him from being number one on Marilyn’s list.

“It’s just too easy. He goes out on business a couple times so people assume he’s busy and then he pops her off!” 

“Marilyn, Mr. Ianso was in New York. He has alibis. I’ve checked three times.”

There was also Hoggs, Ruthie’s boss at the mail office that was in love with her. He was absolutely infatuated, forever following her around and trying to steal her away for a chat. He’d busy up her breaks with small talk and while Marilyn knew Ruthie hated it, her sister was forever too nice to fully turn down the man. The only reason he’s backed off at all is because of Julian. Nothing terrifies a country man more than the sleek, sleazy smile and croon of a smooth talking cityman. 

 Norman lets her talk. He believes her suspicion is just her coping. It’s an odd form of denial, that it can’t just be a freak accident. Times are hard in Furthermore. Norman liked Ruthie, but frankly did not care nor have the time for if it was a real murder. 

A month after the murder, Marilyn claims it’s the bartender that favored her sister, always discounting her drinks when she came to dance. She won’t let go to the idea of Ruthie’s drunken ex as well. Marilyn claims that he comes to their house all the time, shows up drunk as a skunk right before the sun starts to rise. He’ll sit on their steps and cry and wail until Marilyn shoos him off.

On a late night in August, one that would have been so serene in a normal summer, Marilyn finds herself at the station again. The boys wanted to head out to the bars, but the dust picked up again. It was Ernie’s idea to bring out the booze. Marilyn had never drank more than a celebratory toast for holidays. Her ruddy cheeks and careful attitude was a relief to all. 

Perhaps that was why Billy Burnham was stuck to her side all night. Everyone knew Billy fancied Ruthie in school, but who didn’t. Norman didn’t know if the red in her cheeks was from the alcohol or his attempts at flirtation. The booze did good for the lot, lifting spirits and adding some color to the bleak, ashy scape of Kansas. 

When Marilyn started spilling and tripping, Burnham volunteered to take her home. The storm had subsided enough to see. It was time for the fun to end. Marilyn agreed with a loud hiccup that rattled the young woman. She slipped her arm into his, like they were going for a dance instead. With Norman’s approval, they set off, determined to get home safe before the morning winds stirred up the land again. 

Marilyn rattled on their whole way home, talking about how her sister’s fiancé was probably home, waiting up for her, hoping she was alright. She flitted between anger over him and shedding tears over her sister that turned brown as they ran down her sooty cheek. Maybe it was seeing her cry or the booze in his veins, but Burnham clammed up, sputtered out. 

One must understand that Burnham, along with everyone else in that godforsaken town, was in love with Ruthie O’Connell. He knew she was too good for him, so he stayed away. His animosity only started when Julian soiled his chances. He vomited up this story to Marilyn, not bearing to look at her while her happy drunk face dropped into horror. 

Burnham had been pissed drunk, beyond any sober thought. He ran into Ruthie on her way to her house. The storm was wild that night. Marilyn recalls wondering if her sister would get home alright. Burnham knew the route well from his job and offered to guide her. Trusting her policeman and her friend, she agreed. She did not agree to his advances though. Burnham, in his drunken state, thought this was the perfect time to confess everything to Ruthie, which he did with the harsh press of his body. She pushed him off and it snapped something in him. He was hurt, humiliated, and he wanted her to feel pain too. So he grabbed a rock off the well. There was a sickly sound, a snap that reverberated through his body. Her eyes went glassy and her red hair went ablaze with streaks of blood red. 

“We need to tell Sheriff Norman,” Marilyn said, “ I was right. She was murdered,” 

Billy Burnham couldn't see Marilyn standing in front of him. His eyes were full of dirt and tears. He couldn’t see Marilyn but he could feel everything. Anger, red hot, burned inside. 

“No,” Billy replied, too calm. 

“Why not?”

“I am not losing everything I’ve built up.”

“You...you murdered my sister,” Marilyn said, her words sounding hollow as if she couldn’t believe them. And she couldn’t. The man she trusted, a murderer. She was wrong about Julian. 

“You murdered my sister,” she repeated. The words clicked, locking in like the final gear and propelling her forwards. Her small fists collided with his chest. He grabbed her by the wrists, throwing her to the ground, off of him. He got on top of her, grabbing at her and securing her by the throat. She choked on air and dust. 

“Billy,” she managed.

“I will not lose it all for her. I will not lose it all for you.”

It took Billy two minutes and forty seven seconds to take the life of Marilyn O’Connell, half the time it would normally. She was left out in the storm, letting the dust take her too. Marilyn became just another person to succumb to the Dust Bowl, such as her sister before her. Norman ran to the station from the scene, stumbling through the haze and tears. 

“It was Julian, I saw it all. He lost it,” he said to the Sheriff. 

Marilyn was buried next to her sister two days later, once the storm lessened and they could find her corpse. “Lost to the storm”, her tomb stone said. “Lost to the storm but never forgotten” marked her sister’s.

TW/ Trigger Warning: sexual assault

Alice sat there in her light blue cotton underwear, perched on Casey’s stomach. Her thighs bracketed his sides as they shared a cheap cigarette. The smoke created the conversation between them. He grabbed her ass with a playful grip and a knowing smirk, but she was too tired to really enjoy anything. She obliged regardless, going through the motions until her jaw was sore and her knees were throbbing. She cuddled into his side, his arm loosely thrown around her. She knew he loved her and the thought made her tighten her arms around his torso, even if he didn’t do the same. 

His beard was rough and scratchy against her cheek and she wondered the last time he had shaved. Was it back in Sacramento when they stopped at the cheap inn? Or was it the truckers stop where they managed to get cold showers and she slept alone while he got drunk with a group of burly men? She had slept in the front seat that night; the door was locked and she had kept his key. She didn’t trust him anymore than she trusted those strangers when he had a drink in him. 

She could only drive the rusty old truck when he had too much to drink. He’d start swerving on the road and then slur:

“Alice baby, I’m really tired. Do you mind?” 

And she would happily agree. Nothing felt better than the open road and the wind against her face. He’d pass out immediately and she’d drive, drive, drive. No real destination. Sometimes just in circles. Driving just to drive.

One time, he was so drunk that he was still passed out in the passenger’s seat when Alice’s eyes started to droop. So, she parked her car outside a LaQuinta and bought herself a nice hotel room—a splurge for her troubles. She took a long, hot bath and had some bubbly wine. And when he got pissed the next day about a huge lack of money, she blamed it on his drunken gambling and he was never the wiser. 

They didn’t know where they were going, but they knew where they had been. They hustled money from drunkards at bars and Alice had this one shirt he always made her wear that showed off her breasts just right; it often upped their chances of winning. Sometimes, he’d do an odd job for a weekend, moving someone into a house or mowing some lawns. He tried to get Alice into using her body for cash and her only response was for him to “fuck himself raw with a cactus” and that was the end of that idea. 

She wakes in a cold sweat sometimes, her lover shaking her awake. It’s one of the only times he’s incredibly tender to her. He’ll smooth her hair and rock her in his tattooed arms. He sometimes hums a tune. He lets her sob as the visions of scorching fires and the smells of death and destruction fade into nothingness. He’ll hold her and point out the stars, telling her incorrect facts about each one, trying to remember what she taught him about them. He tries though, and that’s what counts. Her eyes will be heavy and he’ll pull her to his chest as she falls back asleep. Their breathing will synchronize and she’ll be lured into dreams that hopefully won’t remind her of what she no longer has back home. If she tries hard enough, she can block out the ringing in her ears, can block out the blood curdling screams of pain and agony that haunt her dreams and memories. 

They had been on the road for a year, two months, and five days. Alice’s birthday was last week, but Casey didn’t know that. They were at a bar again. He had a couple drinks, flirted with some girls whose accents were molasses thick, and decided to shoot some pool with some guys in the joint. She hoped he didn’t waste all their money tonight. 

She retired to the truck early. The radio was low, the soft crooning of a static laced country singer mingled with the incessant chirping of the evening crickets. The windows were cracked and the AC was raising goosebumps on her legs. The beer that Casey had bought her was well past warm, resting in the cup holder.

Her shorts were a little too small, the rounding of her ass starting to peak out. A sweaty black tank top clung to her skin as the heat sweltered around them. Her mother’s nice cross necklace twirled between her fingers, a common habit of hers, as she propped her weathered blue cowboy boots on his dashboard. She was tapping her foot, beating out the rhythm of the faint song being sung by the radio when Casey stumbled out of the bar, shouting at whomever. His red and brown flannel was wrapped around his waist; his once-white tank top was soiled like a grease monkey. Alice sat up. His eyes were glassy. He banged on the locked door, cooing at her and begging her to open up to him. She wrapped her arms around her knees.

He wouldn't let her drive tonight. Alice prayed to whatever god was above that the roads stayed clear. The open windows drowned out the radio, the volume now on loud. Alice stuck her hand out and tried to pretend that she was flying. Casey smoked a cigarette, forgetting to blow the smoke out the window like Alice had asked him to, but she knew better than to reprimand him in this state. His eyes were hard, trained on the road ahead of him, even though he was swerving. 

Must have been a heavy loss tonight.

Casey pushed on the brakes, pulling off into the dirt. Alice looked for a reason, but the road had been vacant with no stops for a couple miles now. 

“Y’know that sometimes life is jus’ a huge bitch,” Casey slurred, turning to face Alice. She move to put the truck into park. She stayed silent as Casey faced the steering wheel. He seemed to calm for only a moment before aggressively slamming his fists into it, screaming out any explictive that he could think of. The horn blared with every other hit. Alice pressed her body against the door, the handle digging into her back. 

Casey looked up at her, anger and sadness swirling in his eyes. He took one look at the horror in Alice’s pale face and wide eyes and surged forward, smashing his lips into hers so hard that she could hear the knock of their teeth. Her shouts of protest were lost between her lips as he grasped her face with both hands, gripping her with almost a painful pressure. She kicked at him and he bracketed her legs with his thighs, rendering them useless. He grabbed her hands from hitting him and pinned them against the window, his nails digging into her skin. He tugged down her tank top and she could hear the hem rip and she knew that this was the way she would go. 

She tried to tune out the clanging of his belt, the zipper, his panting. The dead look in his eye was the only thing that she couldn’t block out. The boy that had calmed her down, held her as she sobbed, and whispered sweet and caring nothings into her hair was gone, replaced by the animal in front of her. 

The fear that riddled her body was replaced with pain and humiliation. Even though she still had clothing on, she had never felt so naked in her whole life. She was screaming, tears stinging her eyes and cheeks. He let his left hand go, gripping her neck in hopes to silence her. She choked on oxygen and wondered if this is how her parents went too. She grabbed for something, anything, within reach. 

Alice grabbed her bottle from earlier and brought it down with all the force she could muster. The glass rained down over her and his grip loosened. Blood dripped onto her partially bared chest. Casey slumped to the side, his words incoherent. She scrambled past him and used all the adrenaline she had to kick him in the chest. His body thudded against the door. Alice slipped into the driver’s seat, scrabbling for the keys he had left in the ignition. Casey grumbled, trying to get up but failing. 

If she were in a better situation, Alice would have laughed at the image of Casey, drunk off his ass, with his pants around his ankles and his dick completely out. 

With a couple tries, the engine lit up with a shudder. Tears blurred her vision and her breathing was erratic. She rammed a bare foot onto the gas pedal and the car jolted with a whine from its stationary spot. The inertia didn’t go easy on Casey, whipping him roughly against the side of the door. Her foot landed on the brake with the same force, tossing him forward like a rag doll. His groans of pain spurred her on and her hand reached for the gearshift, throwing it into reverse. She gripped the passenger seat as she looked behind her, reversing in such a fast and tight circle that the tires slipped on the dirt and left screeching black marks on the road. Casey started to slip out more and grabbed the side door handle for stability. He hoisted himself up, cursing loudly at Alice. He managed to grab her arm, twisting it painfully as he tried to redirect the wheel. She screamed in agony as he gripped her hair with the other hand, trying to heave her off. 

“You goddamn slut,” he was shouting and her ears were ringing. His breath was hot and sticky on her ear. The car spun, her foot still on the gas, the wheel spinning haphazardly without guidance, but speeding forward. He seized her neck again, thwarting her breath. She grabbed his arm and bit into it as hard as he could, his hands releasing for a moment as he wailed. In a sluggish attempt, he socked her jaw, knocking her against the window and making her head throb. 

She took one last look at him, the man she loved, before gripping the seatbelt as hard as she could and slamming on the breaks. 

Casey looked like an angel as he passed through the front windshield. He landed with no grace, crumpling and breaking into a shell of a man. She stopped. Oxygen didn’t flood her lungs as she thought it would have. There was no feeling of relief or safety. With a grunt, Casey got up again, crawling onto his hands and knees. He spat out a mouthful of blood. He stood, to Alice’s disbelief, his face covered in cuts and gore

“You fuckin’ cunt,” his words sloshed between blood and spit. He was still moving, stumbling forward. A mixture of pain, alcohol, and adrenaline propelled his body.

Alice grinded her teeth together. She slowly shifted the gear to drive and revved the engine once. Casey’s eyes widened. She closed her eyes and slammed her foot on the gas, flying towards her ex-lover. She didn’t stop until she felt the bah-thud that she could only identify as his body passing until the wheels of his prized truck. 

She was finally able to breath, her chest heaving with manic laughter and solace. She thudded her head against the seat, smiling at the ceiling of the car. She looked in the rearview mirror for a moment, looking at the crumpled and bloodied body on the ground. She flipped down the visor, opening up the mirror to examine her swelling eye and bleeding lip. She messed with her hair, combing through it with her fingers and setting it into place. She straightened out her shirt, slipped back on her boot, and zipped up her shorts. She stretched her neck and shoulders, settled into her seat, and pulled back onto the highway.

     Silence was unfamiliar to their ears. It seemed like it had been days for them, watching helplessly as screams and wails ripped themselves out of Matthew’s throat. Sister Amélie sat with his head in her lap, holding his one remaining hand. He was asleep now, the stump of his hand laid bandaged and bloodied across his chest. She softly sang a French lullaby and caressed his face. He had woken in a fit of thrashing screams, cursing at Amélie and Sister Jeanette and calling them the devil. Amélie had already forgiven him for his curses and actions earlier without an apology. Jeanette was not as kind to the man. She leaned against the stone walls of the church and watched the kinder Sister soothe the man. Her heart ached and she blamed it on guilt.

     James found Sister Jeanette later, in their secured sleeping area, at the back of the church. James led the weekly excursions to find food and necessities and he next outing was nearing. Matthew was compromised; They needed a replacement. Annabeth, the older widow, volunteered to go, but her bum leg had only worsened with the surprise bombing that had taken Matthew’s hand. James refused Jeanette since she was the only one in the group that had medical knowledge.

     “I’ll go,” Amélie said and Jeanette’s throat was too dry to heave out her refusal. The nun slipped out of her habit and James smiled in agreement. Jeanette’s hands shook and she blamed it on the lack of sleep.

     “It’s alright,” the other nun said, holding Jeanette’s face in her hands, “God is watching over me.”

     Jeanette kissed the forehead of the younger woman. Her lips resting a little longer than necessary. Her throat was hot and tight. She traced the cheekbone, taking in all that she could of her gentle face. Jeanette grabbed Amélie’s hand and squeezed it tight. She choked back the tears that were mirrored in the other woman’s eyes and put her forehead against hers.

     “May God protect you in your travels and bring you safely home,” she said.

     Jeanette placed a gentle hand on the side of James face, praying for him as well. She stood in front of the altar, watching as James and Amélie left; the echoing thud of the doors closing felt final.

     “They’ll be alright,” Annabeth said, resting her hand on her shoulder.

     It had been two days since James and Amélie left. Annabeth found Jeanette sitting on a splintered and charred stump of a large oak tree. A single cigarette dangled precariously between her shaking fingers. She stared off, taking in the sight of the rubble.

     “This was my favorite place to get tea,” Jeanette said. Annabeth hummed in consolation, but dare not utter a word.

     “This oak was my favorite spot” she said, continuing, “It was my favorite place to sit. I’d read here and come here to think. This was the first place I took Amélie, the first place I showed her when she had joined the abbey after fleeing France. She liked it when I read my books out loud to her. I'd always read her mother's favorite story to her when she missed home to soothe her."

     The nun was silent for a moment. If she wiped a tear, Annabeth didn’t notice.

     “She has to come back,” she said to herself and Annabeth felt like she was listening in on a secret. Jeanette lifted the mostly ash cigarette to her lips and shuddered out the exhale. Annabeth left without a word.

     On the night of the fourth day, they awoke to shouting. At the other side of the nave, propping open the heavy doors, was James. He shouted again, his bellowing voice cutting off at the end into a wail. He sank to his knees and in his arms they now could see a familiar body, crumpled and frail.

     Amélie’s name was barely a whisper under Jeanette’s breath. She knew she was running, but couldn’t feel the ground under her feet. Her head was swaying and everything seemed to be moving. She collapsed in front of James. She crawled forward, all energy and life leaving her. She clutched the bloodied cloth body, using it as a lifeline to hoist herself up, to get a glimpse.

     There was her sweet Amélie, broken and battered in the strong arms of James. Her face that was always lit with a smile, even in the worst of times, was blank; her once lively and beautiful green eyes stared off into the distance. Blood and dirt marred her soft, freckled skin.

     She didn’t feel the arms wrap around her waist until she was yanked back, feeling a hard chest against her back. Blood stained her hands. Each wail that erupted from her throat clawed its way up and out of her body. James clutched the girl’s dead body tighter to him. Matthew’s arms  wrapped tight around Jeanette, shackling her body in as she contorted in grief. Matthew rubbed the arm of Jeanette with his one hand until she stopped wailing.

     “The boys are going to go out tonight to find a place good enough for Amélie,” Annabeth said and Jeanette didn’t reply. "I just hope those boys don’t get more bombs thrown on them, God help them.”

     “God?,” Jeanette laughed, her eyes red with anger, “God won’t help you. God is dead.”

     Later, when the boys were securing the dressings of Amélie’s body, Jeanette appeared, stripped of her habit and veil.

     “Here,” she said, “Under the oak is fine.”

     Together, they dug the hole. They finished with their bones and joints aching, with dirt in places they didn’t think dirt could get to, and then the sirens went off. James and Matthew ran inside, begging Jeanette to join, but she remained, sitting next to her Amélie.

     The ex-nun was unfazed by the rumbling of the bombs a couple miles away. She took a tired copy of The Little Prince out of the band of her skirt. She flipped open to where they left off and continued to read the story she had read over and over again to Amélie.

short story for class, 2017

It is amazing to think about the concept that your home, the place you value most, was one not yours. In fact, it was someone else’s. Someone else slept in your room, called it their own, wept there, laughed there, had sex there. Have you ever thought about their bed, where it was? Was it in the middle as yours is or was it too large, forcing them to resort to shoving it against the wall to make enough space. Did they ever set your kitchen on fire, did they set off the alarm like you do? Were they good chefs, creating the finest of meals, or were they creating cheap ramen at the precipice of dawn such as you do? 

It is quite easy to get lost in this, to imagine the rockabilly teens that ran down your hundred year old stairs, how they argued with their parents and slammed their bedroom doors. Did the crown molding have to be painted from the years of smokers that resided in your home, how it yellowed and reeked. Who was the one who decided that the pink bathroom on the third floor was a good idea, replacing what was undoubtedly a beautiful original tile flooring. When did the family decide to wire up electricity, which is a decision you never thought you would even have to make. 

You paid more for the age, that’s true, but what else have you bought. Are there dead bodies in the walls like the homes in Savannah, waiting to be recovered again? Will you find one and have the government pay you off, slathering up bricks to lay over the truth? What if a killer once lived here, a communist, a spy, someone you’d detest. 

Why did people leave? 

Was it the stench of the basement wafting up through the vents, or was it the echoing wails of a wallowing mistress. Were they immigrants or were they descendents of the original settlers. Were they old money or was this home the first they bought with their newfound riches? Did laughter ring through every hall or did silence choke the family that lived here. 

Were they happy? 

Will you be happy?

The moans of the wooden floors are unsettling as most. It’s an unfamiliar sound to its new owner, afraid of intruders and scary movie villains. The chances of murder are slim to none, but the moving men walking still make you turn. The silence is loud in the large house, every noise growing. The furniture helps a bit, muffling their waves, but still the creaks will reach you. It’s not your fault that noise of old wood is the most used in horror films, the easiest sound to create a scare. Your home is safe, for it is your home, and there’s no one to worry about. 

The old couple before you didn’t leave in tears, thrashing against the ground in a fit. They left because their kids were old and they couldn’t manage the stairs. They didn’t leave with a warning, the older lady grabbing your hand to whisper there are dark things in that house. The realtor was nice, the price was sweeter, and the renovations were completely doable. 

The first night is the worst, how you toss and turn, expecting your closet to open. Perhaps this happens with every new house, every unfamiliar place. But the creak of the floors, the walls, the roof, it frightens you just a bit. 

“It’s the old house settling,” your mother tells you the next day when you’re on the phone. She’s right and you know it, but still your hair stands tall on the back of your neck. You cannot admit that the woman’s right, how your sleep was the best you’ve had in years. 

Maybe it was the old smell that came through the vents, or how the rustle of the tall, strong trees sounded like a melody. 

Maybe it was the fatigue, how heavy your bones felt at the end of the day. 

Maybe it was the fact that you were too tired to care about a body in the wall or the history in the renovations, or who has slept in the same room as you before. 

There’s a steady creak that you pick up on as you grow accustomed to the house. It’s like a sway of the frame, as if the wind dances with it. 

It is quite old, after all. The building has been around since before your grandparents, dating back before the world wars and automobiles. It’s soothing in a way, how the house has a breath of its own. 

In and out. 

In and out. 

In and out. 

A new routine has been adopted. Lately, while the weather is still nice, you like to sit on the back porch of your new, old home. It’s such a shame for a beautiful place to go to waste half a year, so you gain a couple freckles in the sun and read your book. You can hear the windchimes at the neighbor’s back door, the car door slams of other families getting home, how the wind whistles through the big oaks that mark your lot. 

A little girl wanders into your yard late one afternoon, right before the yellowed sun turns to orange. The leaves look the same, burning away as the summer does. Soon they’ll die off and you’ll have to turn back inside for the season. She wears no coat and it makes you wrap your own jacket closer around yourself. You don’t notice her until she stands before you, almost leaning over you. You were too immersed in your novel to hear her walk through the yard. 

“Hello,” you say. 

“Oh, hello,” she says back, as if she didn’t know she had trespassed at all. 

“Are you lost?” you say— she is quite young after all.

She shakes her head. Her brow furrows. 

“I don’t think so,” she says, “ Are you lost?”

“No,” you say, “I am home.” 

She smiles at that. She doesn’t say anything else, the odd child. She sits in front of you, watching. You go back to your book, occasionally looking up to see her still there, still staring. She smiles each time and you smile back. At the end of one chapter, you look up and she has left. Still, you grin to yourself. Something about the house, the yard, the crisping air, the reddening leaves. It leaves you with a hope that threatens to bubble up out of you. You return to your book. 

You use a leaf next to your chair as a bookmark. 

The holiday season comes faster than you would like. The old radiators are doing better than you would have thought, though they kick and pop with fits of defiance on the colder days. You are the one to bring dessert this year, which normally annoys you enough to just buy a dish, but this year you welcome the challenge. The smell of spices-- one quite familiar to the season-- seems to match with your new home, like it’s a husband settling into bed with his wife after a long night. It’s welcomed, routine, and you wonder again, for the first time in months, about how others before you had done the same. An ache builds inside you, a need and a want for the house to be full. The covered walls seem barren and the rooms seem hollow. 

A noise in the front hall breaks you from your daydream of bountiful parties of extravagance. 

“Hello?” 

You call after it. The familiarity of the house fades back into the quick-trigger feeling of fear and unsettlement. 

You follow it, wiping the remaining flour from your hands. It’s the girl again, the first time you’ve seen her in weeks. Her chubby cheeks are pink with happiness and exertion. 

“Hello again,” you say, relieved.

“Hello,” she blushes. 

  You invite her in to watch, in too good of a mood to send her away so early. Whether it’s the fact that the holiday season makes you more benevolent or the fact that her lace dress seems too thin, you want her to stay. 

She watches as you finish the lattice on your pie, a trick you learned from a video online. You have her attention as you finish it off with a milk wash, explaining how it will crisp the dough just right. The words sound so sure as they come from your mouth, as if you had done this many times before, like those who preceded you were along to guide.  

“My mommy likes to sprinkle brown sugar on top,” she tells you. So you do so. And she beams. It fills your heart, your home, your toes. Some kind of belonging takes hold and you know that you made the right choice for once. 

“Your mommy knows best, doesn’t she?” 

You pick her up off of the counter to let her down and she’s cold. 

The weather has been awful lately, but she’s been inside for too long for that to be the case. When you retrieve the pie, you will keep the oven open to warm the kitchen against the winter weather that threatens to come in. Until then, you stay in front of it, soaking up what leaks out. Your skin prickles from the heat of it, sweat beading in your armpits. 

But she’s cold. 

“My mommy doesn’t let me do things like this. Mommy doesn’t let me do anything fun.”

You swallow before you reply.

“Where is your mother?”

“Dead.”

The house is too large, too wide and vast. It swallows you whole. It eats you up. It leaves you alone, so alone, like you were completely forgotten about. It’s massive and suffocating and you feel alone, so alone. And the feeling is cold, so cold.

And she smiles, holding your hand. Her pudgy fingers, pink with youth, feel cool, like they have been pruned by the summer pool. 

You walk her to the door. 

And you tell her to go home. 

And she smiles and waves at you. 

And you close the door. 

The door grounds you as you lean against it, the old weathered wood rough and real. Your fingers linger, dragging over every object as you walk back to the kitchen. 

Your pie is soon to be ready. 

You focus on the smooth feel of the molding on the walls, how the dried matte paint feels, the warmed metal of the radiator. The timer in the kitchen goes off, the shrill ding of it breaking through. You manage to make your feet go faster, skimming past all the other things, the real things, the things to root you to the house. 

You grab the pie, almost forgetting oven mitts because it smells delicious, mouth-watering swells of apple and cinnamon. You manage not to drop the scalding dish when you turn to put it on the cooling rack, finding the girl next to it. She sways her feet as she sits again on the counter. 

“It looks good,” she says, beaming at you. 

The oven is closed. 

It is not the reason for the tinge at the back of your spine. 

She looks at you, a look of content on her face. The pie gets too hot in your hands and you have to reach past her to place it down. You’re close to her now, seeing the hollow of her cheeks, how the pudge of youth has faded. The dark smudges under her eyes are not from the lack of sleep. Her lace nightgown sways with every kick of her feet, letting her bare heels hit the cabinets. 

Thud, thud. 

Thud, thud. 

Thud, thud.

Every night, right after supper, my mother would read us a story. She would prop my little sister Annabelle on her lap and I would lean against her shoulder to look at the pictures. No matter what mood Annabelle was in, my mother’s sweet voice would calm her down. My sister would stare at her while she read the story with those brown eyes glued to her face. She seemed to stare at her in wonder, as if she couldn’t fathom how a voice so sweet and a face so kind could exist at all. 

My favorite story was Anne of Green Gables and every night I would tug on her dress and beg her to read it. She often would tell me to wait and to let my sister pick. I’d painstakingly watch her chubby little hands choose another story. I’d still listen, looking at the books and watching the images come alive in front of me as my mother’s words narrated the story. 

The story always came to an end unfortunately. I would beg for another just to hear her angelic voice again, but she would nod towards my snoozing sister. I would watch my mother tuck my sister into her crib and that was about the time that my father would come home from his late shifts. He’d come in and sneak up behind my mother to surprise her with a kiss on the cheek or a hug from behind while I would rejoice and exclaim how happy I was to see him. Mama and Papa would tuck me in, kissing my forehead, and bring the sheets up to my chin. I’d whisper an “I love you”, which they would reciprocate, and my father would turn out the light.  

My mother would leave early in the morning. My grandma, having gotten up much earlier, would let herself in with her key and make my mother breakfast. Mama would kiss my snoring father, chit-chat with my grandma over eggs and coffee, and then would depart for her day of work at the shirtwaist factory. 

Grandmama would help me with my homework for the day. I was learning how to read and write. I always loved living by Grandmama; her voice was almost as pretty as mother’s. My mother would come home right before sunset and join my grandma in making dinner. She’d chat about her “bitch of a boss” and the snooty girl two stations down from her who always bragged about her new and devilishly handsome doctor boyfriend. 

I would sit at the table, watching and listening, even though I didn’t understand everything. They would fall into a rhythmic routine while they cooked, almost dancing around each other, as the aromas of the sizzling meat and boiling stew made my stomach rumble. 

Life was simple, but it was good. I had my school days and I had my friends from the block. Every day, we would play until sundown. A lot of the moms worked at the same factory that my mother did, so sometimes some of them would come over to play and do homework under Grandmama’s supervision. Papa would leave around lunch time, so he often helped me or played with me too. He was more stiff than Mama around Grandmama. I never knew why; Grandmama’s a wonderful woman whose eyes crinkle when she smiles. 

Then, things started to change. Mama wasn’t smiling as much. I overheard her talking to Papa about strikes. I wasn’t exactly sure what that means, but it always includes rather dramatic and large motions as she talked. I’d heard her talking about how other girls get the weekends off, but not her. I would have loved for Mama to have been around on the weekends. She always got angry about it all whenever the blue shirted man came by with the mail each month. She said she needed more wages, something I didn’t understand. I would always hug her when she got mad, even though I didn’t know why. I would hug her and she would hold me close, singing a song in my ear while she stroked my hair. She would whisper about how good life will be someday and how we can live by the beach and feel the sand beneath our feet. I liked our home, but I loved the beach too.

I hoped to make it there someday. 

It was a chilly Saturday morning when I awoke to have a pit in my stomach. I closed the window that we had left ajar last night; the March air wasn’t warm enough yet. Grandmama was sitting on the couch and put down her book when I entered our small living room area. She made me French toast for breakfast, but something was off. She wasn’t smiling and the small talk fell flat. I tried to do my homework, but I lacked the motivation to do my writing assignments for the weekend. 

Father had come into the kitchen when I was almost done. He ate a quick toast sandwich and I remembered how he seemed to hesitate with every motion, like he had to actually think about his routine for once. He left and I was stuck in the house. The only noise was Grandmama playing with Annabelle. I walked into the room and waited for her attention. When she noticed me, she paused her tickle fight with Annabelle.

“Grandma, are you scared?” Grandmama paused for a moment, thinking of an answer. The silence told me my answer.

“No, darling!” she had said, “Why would you think such a thing?”

I shrugged, but I knew. I could see it on her face. It hung in the air. 

Around Annabelle’s nap time, my father bust through the door. He was there with the father and mother from across the street, panic seizing their faces. 

“Richard, what’s going on,” my grandma rushed out of the bedroom to see to him, checking him over to see if he was hurt. He wasn’t that out of breath, but couldn’t manage words.

“It’s...it’s Annie. The whole block is in chaos! The factory--oh god!”

He started to weep and my grandma helped him into the chair of the kitchen, giving him a glass of water. Her hands trembled and tears were slowly running down her face. I crawled into the kitchen to be able to hear better. I didn’t know why they were crying. I didn’t know what was wrong with Mama. 

“Richard, what happened to my baby?”

The other father-- I think they were the Andersons-- stepped up to Grandma. She started to hysterically sob as he placed his hand on her shoulder. She fell into the chair next to Papa and started to weep uncontrollably as my father grabbed her hand and kept repeating “I’m so sorry” over and over again. 

In a soft and consoling voice, Mr. Anderson told Grandma what my father couldn’t bear to say.

“They locked the girls in because of the strike. Something happened--I don’t know. The entire Asch building went up in flames. I’m so sorry, Grace.”

Mrs. Anderson sat down besides my Grandma, rubbing her back while she cried as well. My father stood up abruptly, pacing back and forth. Mr. Anderson tried to comfort him, but he swatted away his hand. He just backed away from my father and let him be. 

“Papa,” I had said, “What is wrong with Mama?” 

He got on his knees, level with me, and tried to smile through all of his tears.

“I’m afraid Mama isn’t coming home, my dear,” he had said. He had grabbed my face, pressing his forehead against mine as sobbed wracked through his body. I didn’t know what that meant at the time. Was she sick? Was she in the hospital? Where was my mother? Why wasn’t she coming home?

I could smell it then. The smoke filled the sky and the ashy scent-- along with another horrible smell I now know as burning flesh-- flooded the block. We were only a street or two away from the Asch Building and I could hear the stillness and the silence. There was a blanket of grief and shock that had covered Manhattan. No one wanted to say a word.

I had asked them, “Is she ever coming back?” and all my father said was: 

“No, dear. Your mother is never coming back.”

We got the paper on Monday and Grandma threw it into the trash immediately. When she went to tuck in Annabelle for her nap, I took it out. I brushed off the rubble and dirt on it and read the headline as best as I could.

“More Than 140 Die As Flames Sweep Through Three Stories Of A Factory Building,” it read. I heard Grandma leave the room and I quickly stuffed the paper back into the bin.

“What are you doing in the trash, young lady,” my Grandma said. She looked stern with her hands on her hips, but her face softened as she noticed the paper sticking out of the trash. She looked down at me, but then got on her knees and picked me up with a grunt. 

“What happened to Mama?” I asked again. Then she told me. 

“There was a fire at the Factory, Lucy. It was on the 8th floor and your Mama worked on the 9th. Those damn bosses of hers thought it was smart to lock her inside to get her to work harder.”

I wiped the tears away that were making their way down her face and she smiled at me. It was a hollow smile. I wanted to cry. 

“I bet your Mama tried the hardest to get out. It wasn’t her fault the elevators didn’t work.” she had paused then and looked to the ground. 

“God, this is exactly what she had been fightin’ for,” she had said, but Grandma’s words started to sound like they were more intended for herself, so I put my hand on her cheek to stop her.

“Is Mama dead?” I asked. 

“Yes,” Grandmama had said softly; the crying took a lot of energy out of her. That’s when it finally hit me that Mama was not coming home, why she wasn’t coming home.  I started to cry too. My grandma gave me a woeful look and then crushed me against her in a tight hug. She rubbed my back and told me about how great my Mama was, but I didn’t want to listen. 

She told me that she was one of the girls who jumped. Father had to identify her on the streets, lined up with all the other dead. Grandma said she was happy she could recognize Mama for a last time though; some of the girls had burned to death. 

I hoped she looked like an angel as she fell from the 9th floor, I hope she did.

 I once saw a gleam in the eye of a stone statue. I was five at the time and I pointed with a chubby finger, but my mother didn’t stop. She tugged me along, my tiny heels doing nothing to stop her. It seemed that it’s face was slightly sad, but perhaps that was just me. I was leaving a friend and I felt the same loss as when I dropped my blanket in the convenience store last year. That night, I sat on my father’s lap and babbled on and on about the frozen person, the friend I had made. 

“Did you say hi?” He had asked and I had shook my head slowly with a dejected sigh. 

The next week, my father took me back. He held me on his shoulders and let me talk to the statue, telling them all the details my little mind could think of. I told them my name, my dad’s name, the name of my cat, the name of my favorite teacher, and how I loved watching late afternoon shows, despite my parents’ protests. I would look down to find my father smiling at me, watching me with such love and adoration. 

It became our thing, going to the museum. The guards all knew my name, asked me about my day and if my vocabulary quiz last week went well. My father would chat with the tour guides and other staff as I perched in front of my  statue. One day, the museum curator came over, a nice lady named Clarisse, and told me all the facts that existed about my statue. She took my hand, walking me around, and taught me about all of the other statues. None were more beautiful than mine, though. 

It wasn’t a shock to my parents I told them, later on in life, that I wanted to go into art history. With Clarisse’s help, I landed a spot at Cambridge with a small scholarship, quite far from home. The culture shock was worth the education. Over the summer, I worked at the museum, quickly becoming the best tour guide they had at the Louve. I’d stay late, studying and drawing my statue, Artemis of Rospigliosi. Her beauty was unlike any I’d ever seen.

Sometimes, I’d fall asleep on the bench that Clarisse had made sure to place near my sculpture. The guard of the night would shake me awake and I’d be on my way. They were never mad. Only once—with a new, young guard— did I actually get in trouble for being after hours.

  
Tonight was no different than the rest. I was catching up on my summer classes, studying book V of Latin, when the words blurred and lulled me to sleep. I don’t know how long I was out, the sun far past gone. I was prodded awake by a cold, hard finger and yawned out an excuse, stretching and rubbing my eyes to find a familiar face. A face that once was stilled by stone was alive; grey and lifeless eyes now full of rich brown and golden color, staring at me. Her hair curled around her face in dark chocolate locks and her cheeks were rosy with color. Her thick eyebrows were knitted in curiosity and her robes almost tickled my face as she leaned over me. 

“Te adiuvāre possum?” 

I sat up. I slapped myself. She stepped back in alarm. Her lips parted in concern. My watch read 12:08pm. The guard must be asleep. I wanted to scream for help, but the look on the woman’s face held me steady in place. I looked at the weathered stone podium to find it empty. 
There she stood, my Artemis, in soft flesh and thumping blood.

 It was an offhanded comment and it took me a second before it registered. I looked at her and she seemed like she hadn’t even said it, calmly leaning across the sink to closely apply her blood red lipstick in the mirror. I could still hear the thumping bass in the bathroom at the end of the hall. She used her pinky to clean the side she messed up on. She stood back, rubbing her lips together, and fluffed her hair.

I had nothing to say.

She turned to look at me, giving me a look like I should have already done something and she was patiently waiting for me. She arched her brow and I stuttered out a half assed “uh” and she rolled her eyes. She slipped her lipstick back into her bag and checked out her ass in the mirror. She looked amazing and you could see it on her face, the little smirk she wore proudly. I always looked like a child crammed into her mother’s clothing, wearing shoes that were slightly too big and a shirt that my boobs didn’t fill. 

“What do you mean?” I said.

“It’s just like,” she looked at herself again in the mirror, her face full of discontent, “I’ve done so much. I’ve met so many people. Made so many enemies”

“You’re not making any sense, Jessie.”

She turned to look at me, hip against the counter, backlit by florescent lighting. She let out an exasperated sigh and her thick lashes brushed against her eyebrows. 

“God, sometimes you can be so thick.”

I stared my shoes. She said stuff that stuff a lot and I should be used to it. She took a step towards me, pulling my face up and brushing my hair away from my face. She towered over me. She was already taller than me and the heels didn’t help. She gave a pitiful smile before poking my nose. 

“Come on, I’ll get us some drinks,” she said. 

I followed after her, watching her sashay like she’d watch runway models do. I stayed to the edges of the crowd, talking to a girl who was too drunk for a moment, while I kept an eye on Jessie. She flipped her hair over her shoulder, leaning towards an older man who was too drunk and too horny to realize she was way too young and out of his league. He disappeared and she danced with another man, this one a little cuter and younger, for a minute or two until the older man returned with two drinks.  Jessie pried the two drinks out of his hands and turned towards me. Jessie didn’t flinch as the older man cursed at her, instead she seemed to be spurred on by it. 

“Gin and tonic, extra lime, just how you like it,” she said, handing me the clear cup. 

She had the same order in her own hand, holding it daintily between her perfectly manicured fingers.

Sometimes, I wondered why she chose me to be her best friend. My hair was never not messy, my nails chipped and bitten to the nub. I had zits that she’d always cover with her expensive concealer and she always had to pick me up in her daddy’s expensive car. But when she’d smile at me like she is now, I forgot to care. Her smile, full tooth and gums, was brighter than the laser lights in the club and I felt it reverberate through my body more than the deep bass in the club. 

Usually she’d spend the whole night with me, but last week, Brandon had severed their Friends With Benefits. I had asked Jessie if she was okay, and she simply shrugged and said his dick was small. I knew it wasn’t. So tonight, when a cute guy—Jason? Mason?—came over and asked her to dance, I shoved her onto the dance floor. I watched her with all the happiness someone could muster, content with just watching my best friend have fun and thrive. I was perfectly fine with milling about on my own, still sipping on my drink—which was basically just ice now. I’d always make sure she was within sight and she’d constantly look over to check on me.

We worked well together. She had her looks and popularity, but she always chose me. Some asshole named Will once tried to tell me that it was because I made her look hot when I stood next to her. Jessie punched him and broke his nose after she found me crying in the second floor girl’s bathroom.

She spent the night at my house that day, crammed with me in my single bed in my one floor house, telling me about how much I meant to her. She told me that I was her companion, that I rooted her to the world. She told me that I was pure and innocent, but not in a prude way. I loved the world like it had done no harm and saw the best in people and it was something she never wanted to let go of once she saw that glow within me. 

A girl, looking to be only a couple months past legal, slid up next to me. I didn’t mind. Sometimes, when I stayed on the outskirts like this, it attracted the others. We’d either talk, or we wouldn’t. I welcomed the company. 

“She’s a vision isn’t she.”

The voice was deeper than I thought it would be, smokey and rough, like she’d just woken up.

“Hm?” 

“Your friend over there,” she said, leaning towards me so I could hear her better, “I saw you two talking earlier. Thought you guys were together with the way you were looking at her.”

“We’re not,” I said. I may have said it too quick, judging by the sly face of false surprise. It quickly turned into a smile that I couldn’t decide if it made me feel warm in a good way or too hot in an uncomfortable way.

“Does that mean you’re available?” 

“It depends,” I said, which was true. I wasn’t gay, not for sure. But I’d barely kissed anyone. Jessie had been my first kiss in 9th grade, only because I freaked out at a party she dragged me to because I didn’t want to play spin the bottle. I hadn’t even thought about kissing anyone else. It never appealed to me.

“Does that mean I have a chance?”

“It depends on how lucky you are.”

I didn’t even register what I was saying. Words tumbled out before I fully processed them and I found myself flirting, actually flirting. I was watching myself become like Jessie. I wished she was there to watch it all happen. At the idea, I risked a glance at her. She was watching as she grinded on the boy from earlier, refusing to let her eyes sway from me. She smiled, but it was forced. I wanted to believe it was a face of jealousy.

I was doing well.

She would be proud.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

I hesitated, cutting my connection with Jessie to face the girl completely. Her brown eyes peered at me with such curiosity and allure. My skin felt on fire. 

“What’s your name first.” 

“Becca,” she said. She bit her lip. My breath caught. My eyes completely captured the action.

“Aimee,” I said and she repeated it, running it over her tongue and feeling it out.

“Suits you,” she said, “Shall we?” 

She extended her hand and I couldn’t help but feel like those fairytales my mother read to me. Each step felt like I was walking through water. I knew it wasn’t the alcohol. Jessie’s actions made more sense now. Being wanted is the best feeling I’ve ever had. Her hand was heavy in mine, slightly larger than my own. She was taller than me, so she created a perfect path for me through the mass of people. 

The summer heat was as suffocating as the air inside the building. It was dense and I could feel it pressing against my body, forcing Jessie’s shirt to cling to my torso. She led me along to her car, a dingy, silver little thing. It would have to do instead of a carriage. I could feel my phone buzzing in my pocket and I knew it was most likely Jessie. I didn’t care enough to check. 

Becca held the door open for me and I slipped into the passenger seat, pulling out my phone to just send a quick text. The driver’s door shut, shaking the car slightly. Three texts patiently waited from Jessie, asking repeatedly where I had gone. She seemed frantic. I started to type and was interrupted by a call.

“Don’t answer that.”

Becca’s smile and inviting persona was gone. I felt reality crash over me like a bucket of cold water. Becca’s jaw was set, firm and unforgiving. 

“What?”

The call went to voicemail. It rang again. Her contact photo flashed onto the screen and my eyes darted between my phone and the girl next to me. She had fear on her face. She licked her lips and quickly put her car into reverse.

“Don’t answer,” she said again. 

She started to back up, worrying her lip that I had been eyeing between her teeth. She manhandled the joystick into drive. Jessie ran out of the club and everything seemed to slow. 

“Shit,” Becca said, definitely panicking now. She sped off, tires screeching and I saw Jessie’s eyes narrow as she spotted me in the passenger seat. They seemed to turn black, but maybe it was just distance. She pushed her shoulder’s back like she was stretching them out after being hunched over her computer all day. She hunched over slightly and her jaw unhinged, opening wider than I knew was humanly capable. An inhuman screech echoed across the parking lot and I watch in fear, turned around in the passenger seat of a stranger’s car. 

I turned around, slumped down in my seat. I stared ahead. I listened to Becca’s heavy breathing. Her eyes rapidly switched between the street before us and the rear view mirror. I couldn’t feel my hands. 

“Yeah,” Becca said, “Your friend isn’t who you think she is.”

 He only still smoked because Midge, the receptionist at his office, had once told him that it made him look mysterious and sexy. That and the fact that everyone smokes. He wouldn’t ever admit it, but he loathed the taste. He’d go after work with the boys to the bar and take too long with pulling out his cigarettes. He’d offer them out and give a light to anyone who needed one. He waited until he absolutely had to smoke. He spent at least a whole minute tapping the tip of his smoke against his case, beating out the melody of the playing jazz, usually in double time. The only time he really breathed in the smoke was to light it. 

He had a deal with the bartender too. He’d water down his drinks since he hated the taste of whiskey. Once, about five months ago, he tried to order just a water and Frankie made fun of him for almost a month, calling him a fairy and things like that. He’d pay extra at the end of the night, but the boys would watch him down three whiskeys with no problem. Frankie started calling him “Moxie” after that and he liked how nicely it rang in his ears. 

They all knew he was a pushover at work; Mr. Jones was a man was a man he’d never want to upset. Frankie and the boys said he was a pansy and that “Jones would bend him over and have his way with him”, but they quickly labelled him as “the man” after seeing how large his Christmas bonus was. He’d paid for all their drinks that Friday, to Frankie’s request, but he’d skipped his own. 

“Got a date,” he explained when the boys drunkenly swarmed him, inquiring with beer heavy breath. They all whistled and clapped him on the back. Frankie ruffled his hair and Benny smooched his cheek. 

“Get a pair of her knickers and I’ll pay for your drinks for a month, Moxie.” 

Frankie signed a contract on the back of a bar napkin, their signatures smudged by spilled beer. 

The late January air was almost too cool against his heated skin. He placed his hat on his head with practiced ease. He knew what angles looked the best on his head without looking in the mirror. He walked with his hands in his pockets, his chin tucked into the high collar of his thick coat. The walk home was usually just over twenty minutes, but the chill made him hurry. 

He pulled his keys out on the step of the door to the hallway of his apartment, fumbling with numb fingers to get inside. He shut the door with some difficulty, the winter wind whining with protest as he shoved it out. He opened his wallet and searched through the coin pouch, sighing at the familiar feel of a cold golden band against his finger tips. He slipped it onto his left hand, settling it into place. He rushed up the stairs, practically leaping up every other step at the prospect of warmth and comfort. 

The door opened and he was greeted by a melodic meow and the enticing smell of his favorite stew. He called out a greeting, stopping to pet the black furball that had emerged from the shadows to chirp at his feet. He shed his coat, wet from the melting snowflakes, and hooked it on the coat stand by the door. 

“Damn that smells good, babe,” he said, slipping his arms around his lover’s waist. He kissed his cheek, the stubble rasping against his lips. He turned up the volume knob on the radio, letting his hips sway to the crooning of Frank Sinatra-- his favorite-- as he danced over to the refrigerator, grabbing two beers and popping them open with a psst-ahh. 

“How was Frankie tonight?” his lover stirred the pot but turned his head in question. 

“Drunk as always,” he got a laugh for that, “Told him I had a date tonight and he promised to buy my drinks for a month if I brought back knickers.”

The sweet and familiar laugh of his lover mingled with the melody of Sinatra and it wasn’t the beer that made Steve feel warm and happy. 

“Is that so?” 

“Mhm,” he said, walking back up to hold his lover in his arms again, “Thought you’d get a kick out of that one, darling.”

“I think your sister still has some of her clothing here in your bedroom from her visit last weekend if you wanna check that.”

Steve pondered it. He shrugged and let his arms fall to his sides. Their cat, Tallulah, followed him, nearly on his heels, as he checked his bedroom. Sure enough, his sister’s suitcase was leaning against the dresser and her nightgowns and dresses hung in the closet. He found the one bralette that she had ripped--flimsy lace, she had claimed--and brought for Steve or Dean to try and repair. He slipped it into his briefcase and placed it in the room that him and Dean shared so he wouldn’t forget it on Monday morning. 

He’d have to thank his sister for more than just lending him her underwear. 

Steve entered the kitchen just as his love was setting a plate down with some stew for Tallulah to munch on, her mews of approval making him smile. He looked at his lover and his lover looked at him, happiness swirling in their eyes. Dean passed Steve a full plate of steaming stew and placed a buttery biscuit on the corner of his plate. Dean leaned forward and placed a soft and gentle kiss on Steve’s lips. 

“Happy Anniversary, my love.”

 I met an old god on an American Airlines flight to Jacksonville, Florida. He greeted me, as flight attendants do, as I lugged my heavy tote higher onto my shoulder to make room for the skinny aisles. His gaze was longer than the average person’s. It was almost penetrating, as one might describe, and it felt like in the single moment that I stared into his oddly light brown eyes that he was reading me. The smile on his face was like one of a knowing grandmother, too smart to know what you were up to, but too wise to tell your mother. I walked away with a sense of loss, like stepping out of a steamy bathroom into a winter chilled bedroom. I felt the electricity and vitality that surged at the doorway drip off my shoulders like pool water. He stared. There was a glint in his eyes. I swore it shined with reflections of gold. 

His voice was the one that came up over the speaker, low enough that you had to strain to listen. It was soft, almost enchanting. Each word was woven with an accent I couldn’t place--perhaps Arabian. It was only strong enough to come from a fantasy, luckily not heavy enough to block out the instructions that he perfectly articulated. I didn’t care to look around to see if any other passengers were in the same trance I was because I knew. I felt the pull from the speakers, like a genie whispering the three wishes we always wanted. Each word was enunciated with a drawl that elongated each word. He spoke like he could lull not only a baby, but the harshest of creatures, the deadliest of monsters, to a sweet and peaceful sleep. 

The flight attendant came with the drink cart about half an hour into the flight. He pushed it like it weighed nothing at all, walking with such poise and structure that he could have said he was a runway model that ran away to fulfill his lifelong dream of being a flight attendant and I would have believed him. Shoulders back, chin high. Power filled each step, each action. He chose each step carefully, as if a missed footing would unleash such wrath among us mere mortals. The calmness of his body was almost unnerving, like the type of character that is often paired with assassins or sociopaths. He could break you down in a fight with one hand and without getting a single drop of blood on his suit. 

 Flight attendants are known for looking nice, clean, and, well, uniform, but I couldn’t help but notice how finely tailored his uniform was. I imagined famous tailors, ones that were in the business before the big names like Valentino, burning candle light as they weave stitch after stitch as payment to this god for luck and fortune. His raven black hair, cascading in glossy locks that shampoo ads would only dream off, was pulled back into a neat ponytail at the center of his skull. It was too clean to be humanly possible. 

He asked for my drink order and the pristinely shaved dark stubble across his sharp jaw was almost jarring. It looked as if this man had just shaved his face, even though it was half past eight at night. His eyebrows were as defined as his beard, highlighting the sharp brow bones he possessed. They were arched in a way that was both mischievous and intimidating, like you’d never know if he was going to laugh or shout at you. I thanked him profusely for the pretzel bag he offered, taking it from bronzed hands with an array of different jewels cased in gold, varying in color and shape, adorning each of his fingers. He reminded me of the cunning charm of a genie, pulling you in to suck you dry of twisted wishes. 

The man, enrapturing us all in his actions, parked his cart in the middle row of coach, right behind the emergency exit row. He walked to the back row like he had conquered a feat of many men, turned on his heel, and asked the last row what their drink order was. Then, instead of filling out the order, he asked the next, and the next until he was back at the beginning. Then, in his ring adorned fingers, he balanced handfuls of drinks, bringing correct order after correct order to about fifty passengers. 

He even remembered the middle aged man next to me and his request for extra ice. 

I seemed to be the only one who paid enough attention to this feat. There was a quirk in his lips, like a kiss of a smile. He eyed me out of his peripheral. A silent promise was exchanged. I only realized later, upon meeting up with my mother, that I had no turbulence whatsoever. Quite odd for Florida air, as she pointed out, but not quite odd enough for me. 

I once read a story about old gods living among us. It was complete bullshit, but I spent that night tossing and turning. The well weathered hands of a man with too young of a face pried at my thoughts. Perhaps the author had seen one too, an old god, allowing a human to see a glimpse of him in his power. Perhaps Athena is out there in the crowds, leading protests and wars for social justice. Perhaps Hermes is running the gossip sites, giving tips and tricks to the sleuths and the spies. Perhaps Hera is the one saving those in domestic abuse, saving those kids in broken homes. Perhaps the Muses are alive, weaving and inspiring the famous and infamous of our generations. Perhaps it was Caelus in his full glory, god and guardian of the skies. Perhaps the gods have always been among us. Perhaps, we just have to pay attention.

 Tom Wade had never met someone who could make the words “fuck you” sound so sweet. A strand or two of her short brown hair was stuck in her red lipstick, bringing streaks of the color across her pale cheek. He didn’t think it was necessary to inform her, although he might if it would continue her crude lexicon. Oh how her pretty mouth shouted all those nasty things. Her stuffed olives precariously swung around in the short glass, almost tumbling out. He waited to see if they would. It was the third martini-- Bombay Sapphire, up, dry, with extra olives--and he had been trying to politely tell her to calm down on the drinks.

Her lipstick was a tad too orange for her skin tone, but she wore it too well for complaint. She had looked nice. She smelled of soap and something floral-- he believed it was gardenia-- and was a bit too loose when she hugged him hello. Granted, they had never met before tonight, but he had always preferred a tight hug.

His friend Jeremy had pleaded for him to go on this date, swearing that this woman-- Arden Something-- was the one for him. He never believed him, but said yes nonetheless. He loved mindless entertainment.

Tom disagreed with his dear friend for the first half of the night. Every sentence that came from his mouth was countered with a completely different fact or opinion of her own. He went to private school while she went to public. He’s an atheist and she’s a born and raised Jew. The only glimmer of hope in this arrangement at all was when she recited her drink order too quickly. It was a sign of tired repetition and pattern and it imprinted itself on his brain immediately. He ordered a coke and she rolled her eyes.

This action, ever so small, sparked an interest in his bored body. He took off his slightly large suit jacket and loosened his tie. It was purple. Tom’s roommate Clarence said it went well with the dark brown of his eyes. He leaned forward, propping his elbow on the table. She leaned back. She arched a brow with an unamused squint. 

He smiled. 

She did not. 

She seemed to fight him on every action and word. He’d tire immediately of this childish behavior if it weren’t for the way her fingers, with nails painted blood red, skated around the rim of her drink.

Tom would lie to Clarence later and say that he was surprised when she abruptly stood up during a lapse of silence and walked past him, yanking him with her by just the tie. The truth is that he wasn't. He followed like a dog as she led him outside, ignoring the holler of the bartender and her forgotten bill. Tom managed to throw a couple crumpled bucks at the man, but he stopped cold when he saw the glare on her face. She halted and turned to face the yelling bartender and the man had backed away with hands in the air. She controlled the man with a single look and in that moment, he swore he fell in love. He was captivated by her brash and raw power; the air about her was the sweetest smell that ever filled his lungs.

He didn’t fight her when she led him to her car. There was no sway in her walk, but he figured it was confidence. He held the passenger’s door open to be polite --and because she was a couple martinis deep-- but she huffed at him and crossed to the driver’s side. This is the only time that Tom experienced any kind of wavering faith for this woman. He waited as she checked her face in the mirror. She wiped away that streak of red on her cheek, and then she turned to face him. She acted with no sign of intoxication or slurred movements.

“When you are unfamiliar with your surroundings, Tom, never ever drink,” she said, “Find a good bartender. Pay them double upfront. Have them fill all your drinks with water. Burns a hole in your pocket, but you never know when you might need it.”

He blinked once. Twice. A third time. He watches with his mouth ajar as she gets into the front seat.

“Now, are you coming or not?”

 One might wonder how high their chances of being mugged are while walking through a dimly lit alley. For James, he anxiously looked forward, quickening his steps while he wrapped his hand around the keys in his pocket as a safety measure. On the weekends, James worked late nights at The Stone as a bartender. The sharp contrast of the loud music to the quiet of his lonely walk made his footsteps seem even louder. Tonight, he made it home in thirteen minutes, which is approximately three minutes faster than usual. 

James, as always, couldn’t sleep. He tidied up his small flat, making sure that everything was in order for his date the next day. His last date didn’t go too well and he was really interested in the current girl he was talking to. Rebecca was sweet and laughed at his lame jokes, so every message he got from her made him even more excited. The meal had to be perfect; he had been marinating the meat for a couple days so the flavors would be even more pronounced. He already had set the table.

At 7:02pm, James stood in front of the clock on his wall, watching the minute hand as it ticked on by. She was already two minutes late and James felt a twitch behind his left eye. At 7:07pm, Rebecca called for him to buzz her into his building. Finally being able to talk to her calmed his nerves.  They slipped seamlessly into conversation and sipped on red wine. When they sat to eat, he remarked that the candlelight looked beautiful as it reflected off of her porcelain skin. He refilled her glass and then they began their meal. 

The noises of adoration over his meal made him happy. She complimented how easily the meat fell apart and how it almost melted like butter on her tongue. The marinade paid off. She finished her wine as he cleaned the dishes, insisting that she didn't help at all, but she moved near. 

She took the last sip of her wine and handed the glass back to him, to which he placed next to his barely touched glass. She sat down at the counter, claiming that she thought she had too much to drink and that the room was starting to spin. He slowly placed the dish he was washing in the sink and dried his hands.

“God, that meal was so good. What were the ingredients so I could try and make it?” 

Her words started to slur as she grabbed her phone, opening it to write down the details. She dropped her phone, unable to grasp it firmly and looked up at him as he walked closer to her. Her eyes went wide and she struggled to get out of her seat. She collapsed to the ground and watched him as he stepped closer. He kicked the phone away and knelt down by her. He let his fingers trail against her cheek. 

“Karen,” he answered.

 The water was shut off on Tuesday. Lynn thought it was an odd day to turn off the plumbing, being in the middle of the week and all, but rules are rules. Her little sister, Ingrid, was fast asleep, her small frame taking over a majority of the double bed they shared. Her young face, softened in her sleep, was squished against her pillow. Her brows were taught and her mouth was slack and snores shook from her small frame. 

Lynn quietly tiptoed around her sister, pulling her underwear from the creaky drawer with the same finesse of a bomb squad. Her armpits were white with deodorant and she was careful not to get marks on her dark shirt. She slathered another coat, hoping the metallicy scent of the processed Fresh Pine would mask the inevitable stench of body odor. Her hair was stringy, but a bun would have to do. 

She didn’t bother to close the front door quietly behind her and her father started at the sound. 

She came home to a dark house. Inside Ingrid sat reading by candlelight. Her father snored on. Lynn heaved a couple plastic bags onto the counter, still trying to be as quiet as she could.

“Holy shit,” Ingrid said, setting her book down without a bookmark to run over and examine the goods, “Lynn you shouldn’t have.”

“We need to eat and he,” she pointed to the dead looking mound asleep on the couch, “won’t do shit.”

“How much did it cost?”

“You know I won’t ever tell you.” 

Lynn only minded the costs late at night. Sometimes, she’ll lie there awake, staring at the chipping ceiling above her, listening to her sister’s snores. Sometimes, she’ll twist so much that her pants legs wrap all the way around to the back. Sometimes, she’ll sleep for a wink, only to wake in cold sweats and shivers. 

She’ll stay awake for hours, trying to recount her third birthday or her fourth. She’ll try and remember her grandmother’s singing and her bubbly laugh. She’ll try and find a face only to never be able to picture the right nose or chin. It was futile-- this she should know-- but she tried anyways. She hoped that maybe, just maybe, if she thought hard enough, she’d remember the memories she sold off. 

The lights were on and the water was warm the next Thursday. Lynn couldn’t meet her sister’s eye. The grate of Ingrid’s knife against the plate set Lynn on edge. She continued to eat her own breakfast. She was already on her second cup of coffee. 

“It’s wearing on you,” Ingrid said.

“What’s wearing on me?”

“Your memories.”

“Ingrid,” Lynn cautioned.

“I know you can’t fall asleep. I heard you when you wake up from nightmares. God, I can’t tell you how to live your life but please keep some good things for yourself.”

Ingrid paused, her knife and fork hovering above her plate. She sighed deeply, dropping the utensils onto the plate with a clang that was too loud for this moment. She held her sister’s stare. A moan of complaint from the other side of the room interrupted and ended the confrontation. 

Lynn cried on her way to work when she realized she couldn’t remember the color of her mother’s eyes. 

Lynn moved Ingrid and herself out of their father’s home almost two months later. Ingrid was tense and Lynn wasn’t much better. Her excuse was that he was a drifter and that wasn’t good for anyone. He gave up so many memories that he barely knew his daughter’s names, let alone his own. Lynn wanted to blame her mother, but couldn’t remember why she was the cause of his pain. 

“It’s a nice, new start,” Lynn said as she opened the front door.

“It is closer to school.”

“And you can have your own room now.”

“Yes.”

Ingrid stared out of the window, the heavy box sinking in her arms. While they didn’t have a lot to bring, they still managed to fill a couple of boxes. Some of them were filled with stupid things that Lynn couldn’t think of the importance of. She thought of asking Ingrid, but something told her that wasn’t a good idea.

“How much did it cost,” Ingrid finally asked when they had finished unpacking the kitchen area. 

“It was a pretty good deal, in my opinion,” Lynn said.

Lynn couldn’t figure out what the look on Ingrid’s face was, but judging by the abruptness that she left with, she assumed it wasn’t good. She finished up, collapsed the cardboard box and threw it onto the stack of the others. Ingrid had propped the pictures she wanted to hang against the wall and seeing the younger pictures of themselves made her smile. There were a couple people she couldn’t place in the various photos, but there was one person that seemed to be in every photo. Lynn couldn’t place her face at all, but she had seen those eyes before. It was like they were from a dream. 

Lynn was prying open the picture frame before she could even think. The back read “Mother’s Day 1996” in loopy cursive and scratched underneath seemed to be her own handwriting:

“They were blue.”