Sleep

He leaves his house dishevelled.  His sister didn't sleep all night again because of her... sadness.  He stayed up listening to her crying.  Knowing that he couldn't make her stop.
He goes to school, the teachers speaking are background noise.  They ask him a question, remark about how he should get his act together.
He wonders if his sister got out of bed this morning.
Did he see her in the kitchen?
Is she eating?
No, no.  He doesn't think so.
She's been too frail.
And cries.  She cries so much.
The teacher yells at him.
His tired eyes blink.
He doesn't have energy to speak.
His tired eyes blink.
He slowly falls asleep. He can sleep here.

She lays in bed shivering.
There aren't enough blankets to warm her up.
Her puffy cheeks are squished between several pillows and layers of sheets.
But she's still freezing.
Her alarm is still going off, but she doesn't have the strength to raise her arm and turn it off.
Why does she still set her alarm?  She knows she wont respond to it.
Her stomach growls.  When did she last eat?
She can't remember.  Her memory is failing.
She starts crying.  She doesn't like not being able to remember things.
She can't even remember her brother's face.
The last time she really saw him, he was starting to have a shadow of stubble.
She thinks.
Did he have stubble?
Her tiredness pulls her under.
Her breathing slows.

His classes go by slowly.  A few of his friends knock his shoulder, call out and joke around beside him.
He feels his fatigue lift a bit.
He eats a sandwich he bought with his change.
He gets to joke and smile with his friends.
They ask about his day and make fun of their teachers.
He thinks about how they're people too.
He didn't like mocking teachers.
A teacher walked by and calls him aside.
The teacher asks what's going on with him.
The teacher says that his grades are plummeting.
He can't tell his teacher it's because he can't do his homework.
Because he has to go straight home.
If he stays at school to do it, his sister is alone.
But when he goes home, he has to clean the entire house.
When he goes home he has to make dinner and try to feed his sister.
Sometimes she eats.
But then she goes to the bathroom.
And sleeps.
Then she will wake up and cry.
He blinks at his teacher and apologizes.
He says that he just has more important things to do.
His teacher takes it as he's lazy and doesn't want an education.
He just wants his sister to be here to have a chance at an education.
He walks away from his teacher.

Her breathing stops.

He walks home slowly.
His limbs feel heavy.
He wonders if he would have time to take a nap on the couch.
As he gets to the front door, there's an energy shift.
Suddenly he is awake and alert.
His parents aren't home.
He takes out his phone and sees that they should've been home already.
He opens the door and sees that everyone's shoes are gone.
Even his sister's.
It's odd to think they all went out.
He goes to the fridge, but freezes.
He should check his sister.
He walks upstairs, and knocks on her door.
"Amalia?"
No answer.
He swears and walks in.
Her room is a mess.
There's a pungent smell.
The bed is empty.
He heads downstairs and opens a can of olives.
He takes out some chips.
Cheese.
He microwaves the nachos.
Just as he sits down he gets a phone call.
It's his dad.
His dad tells him what happened.
His dad says his mother and himself came home.
They checked on his sister.
She was cold.
Asleep.
Shallow breath.
They took her to the hospital.
Her organs have failed.
They're doing surgery.
But she's not healthy.
She isn't okay.
They don't think she will be.
He hangs up.
He pushes away from the nachos.
He's very tired.
He looks at the couch, and slowly, slowly, slowly walks to it.
He sits down, and slides to lay down.
His eyes close.
And he falls asleep.Sleep

Raspberries

The snowflakes caught in her eyelashes.  They seemed to make her eyes look sunken.  When had she become so frail?
Her spindly arms reached out for my own, and when I took her hand I felt how dappled her skin felt.
How long had it been?
Years.  Many years.
I remember running in her backyard.  I use that term loosely.  She had this little cottage-- very homey.  Quilts everywhere.  Cats.  And the smell... of contentment.  It was a well lived in home.
But the home itself was not the cottage, it was the garden-- or yard.
Filled with fresh strawberries, watermelon, apple trees, vegetables such as cucumbers, lettuce, turnips, onions.  It was endless.  But there was one favourite. The raspberries.
She would come out with us, and we would pick basket fulls.  Eat them while we were picking.  Then we would make jams with some of it, but eat most of them with a bit of cream.
If there is a heaven, this would be my own.  She was so quiet but soulful.  She always seemed to look old.  I know that sounds bad, but what I mean is she looked old at sixty and she looked old at seventy.  She was just ageing not so... gracefully.
She started having problems as we grew.  Harder to walk.  Harder to think.  Harder to remember.
For years... I had not seen her.
I heard stories of how racist she was.  How she had a foul mouth.  But every time I spoke to her, or listened to her, it was like honey.
Sweet, sincere.
My mum started telling me she was ill.  Every time she was mentioned I thought I was going to be told she had passed.
This went on for a few years.
She moved in with my grandma.  She was cared for.  But she slowly got worse.  See, when people lose their memory they can become easily frightened or confused.
She would get severely confused and that came with severe anger.
She was moved to a home.
I visited her.
I visited her five times.
The first time I remember seeing her with tears in my eyes.  She didn't say my name once.  I brought up my brother but she just nodded and smiled.  I knew she didn't know.
The second time we walked around.  She was calling me my brother's name.
The third time was short.  She was severely confused.  I barely got to tell her I loved her.
The fourth time she was quite tired.  She lay in bed while I read.
The fifth time, I walked in, knowing this would be the last time I visited.  I didn't want to feel heartbroken every time I left.  I didn't want to see her anymore.
I walked into the room and her eyes brightened as she exclaimed my name clearly, hugged me, and told me she loved me so much.  How much I had grown.  How beautiful I was.  She asked how my brother was, and we were able to speak.  I saw her drifting away, so I told her I loved her and we embraced.  Then I walked back to the car with my mum and as she drove I felt cold tears fall from my face in silence.
A month or so passed.
So had she.
I didn't cry.
I haven't cried yet.
Even writing it, I feel them in the back of my eyes.
I don't feel heartless-- I did at first.
But, maybe I am not crying because she is willing me not to.
Because we are still picking raspberries.
Because I'm still a five year old little girl, naive with what is to come and what has happened.
Because the snowflakes that fell in her eyes were not in fact snow, but ashes from the fires we had.
Because the snowflakes were just my imagination, just like many other day dreams have been.
And it is okay if you don't understand what I am talking about, because I do.
I still feel her soft skin.
I see her bright blue veins.
I see how spindly she is.
I see how loving she was.
I see red.
I see raspberries.

Birthdays.

Growing up, I used to think about my birthday always.  I would watch shows and movies and be in awe about how caring and loved a person could be on their birthday.  Plus there was one thing that I fantasized about.
Surprise parties.
What says 'We all love you so much and wanted to surprise you to make you feel bombarded with love' better than a surprise party itself?
And every year I would pick up hints like, "Let's go out for the day and just have a nice quiet evening at home." And of course, people not mentioning my birthday at all.
So for the entire day I would get so excited about a possible surprise party, only to feel crushed to see that there was no one.
And every year, that hope had lessened ever so slightly.
My brother's birthday and my own are a month a part, so we would go on vacation in the summer and a month after my own birthday we would celebrate both of our birthdays. But it would be on his birthday.
And my young little self always felt so defeated and sad on this day.  Because it wasn't like the shows or movies.
You see, I loved seeing people picking out these heart-filled gifts for people without having to ask the question "What do you want for your birthday?"
Because when people ask that it feels like a jab in the heart.
They don't know you.
They don't care to put thought into the gift.
All of these thoughts just jumble together and make the sad day a depressing day.
I wouldn't want to get out of bed on my birthday.  Not because of growing older, but because of how isolated and lonely I felt.
How I feel.
I love other people's birthday's.  I enjoy picking out a gift for them and celebrating with them.
But it's never happened to me.
The go to is a dinner out.
I don't like going out for dinner.
Yet every year it's the same "Where do you want to go for dinner?"
And the worst thing about this day?
How incredibly selfish I feel.
Because saying all these things seem awful to me because that isn't who I am.  Yet obviously it is because these are my feelings about it.
So it makes me feel like shit.
With telling people how I feel about my birthday, whether I say I just want something they put thought into (or even just hanging out.  I really like being with my friends) or saying I don't want to go out for dinner (in which they get sad and don't know how to respond), they do comply.
They'll say, "What do you want to do then?"
And the most horrible thing is I don't know.
If I were to say a surprise party, it would 1. not be a surprise and 2. I would feel depressed then too because I brought it up.  Not them.
So maybe television warped my views on birthdays.
I just want today to end and not talk about my birthdays anymore.

Tragedies

She sat on the wooden stairs leading to her home.
Her small fingers tapped the dark oak wood and she began clicking the toes of her Mary Jane's together.
She was so used to this place, for she grew up here.
Or, she grew up to her age now.
Which, seeing her short stature and little limbs, a person would assume she would be roughly eight years of age.
Which would be a proper assumption.
This little girl knew every nook and cranny within and outside of this house.
She knew the dark forest green paint chipped every summer and that he papa had to repaint it.
She knew that the wooden steps that she sat upon creaked no matter how little a person weighed.
She knew that when you walked through the bright white door you were hit by the steep staircase- also old dark oak, and when you got to the second floor and made an immediate right her room would be there.
She knew that if you decided to take a left there would be a bathroom.
And if you decided to keep going left there would be her parent's room.
She knew if you walked into the kitchen there was a loose floor board exactly six steps forward and three right, and under this floorboard was enough room for a little eight year old girl to hide during hide-and-go-seek.
She knew that in the endless forest backyard there was a 'cave' made out of logs and dead trees that she never did figure out how it was made before she--- ran out of time.
Her attention snapped away from her thoughts and she pulled the hand that was playing mindlessly with her long dark hair away from her face.
She never did find out what she looked like.  Oh no, see, mama had a belief about vanity evolving from when you were a young girl, so she wouldn't let her daughter look in any mirrors.
But her parents told her how lovely and cute she looked every day nonetheless.
Because compliments don't cause vanity.
She moved her hands from her sides to her dress, which was speckled with ash for some reason.
A reason she couldn't remember.  But she found it curious nonetheless.
The little girl's blue eyes looked in front of her now, as she watched a mother and father drive up to her home.
Curiosity spiked within her again as she watched the bug-looking car pull up the gravel road.
The car was a pale blue with silver trimmings.
She thought it looked rather boring.
Blue was such a common car colour at this day and age.
But maybe they'll make better cars with better colours.
Come on, Susan.  The man spoke.  She thought he looked rather dashing.  Slicked light brown hair with what seemed to be deep brown eyes.  Hm.  Handsome.  She had decided.
I'm coming, James.  Oh my... it really is in rough shape ain't it? The little girl decided the woman was Susan.
The little girl looked up at her house.  Rough shape?  Never.  The paint was just re-painted and everything seemed to have an unearthly pale glow to it.
She looked back to Susan and James. Susan seemed to hobble from the car, and as soon as she got on her feet she caressed her bulging stomach.
She was pregnant, the little girl decided.
She was a very pretty pregnant woman.  Her dark blond hair was braided into a bun and even though the little girl couldn't see Susan's eyes due to the large bulbous glasses she was wearing, she decided her eyes were as blue as the darkest pits of the sea.
She clicked her Mary Jane's.
Well the family before us... well I told you already.  It was devastating.  This was James.
Susan cleared her throat, I am not too sure about this, darling.  It could be haunted. 
But James scoffed and held out his hand for his darling wife and led them up to the oak stairs leading to the little girl's home.
 They paused, admiring the home.  The little girl watched them.
Susan was much prettier up close.  She had fleshy pink lips that seemed a bit too large for her face and a petite nose that kept her sunglasses up snobbishly.  But she was a very pretty woman, the little girl decided.
It'll take some work hon, but my gosh will it be worth it. James was glowing now.
Susan gasped suddenly, reaching to her stomach.
What is it?  What's wrong?  Is the baby okay? James lurched towards her, bringing her close to his body.
Susan's sunglasses fell off.
The little girl lifted the corners of her lips.  Her eyes were as blue as the darkest depths of the sea.
Black.
Yes, yes... it was just flailing.  Oh James, I don't know about this.  I feel really uneasy.  Like someone is watching us... As Susan said this she looked at the little girl sitting in front of her.
The little girl looked at her ebony irises.
And didn't blink as the woman and the man walked up the steps through her after the man cooed her into entering the home.
But when the little girl did blink and look at her home, the dark green paint was splattered with broken windows and beams that had collapsed.  The pristine exterior was black and burnt up.  The roof had half fallen off, leaving a large wooden rubble pile on the side of the house.
The little girl stood up slowly.
And she looked at her home.

A bright flash crossed her eyes and suddenly she was in her light blue nightgown, sleeping in her bed with light blue bed sheets.
She was very calm.
She was wide awake.
She heard it first.
A strange crackling that was unfamiliar to her, but familiar at the same time.
It was loud.
She shuffled out of her bed after pulling the covers off of her.
She leaned her ear against her ivory door and listened.
It was loud.
Carefully, in a confused state, she opened her door.
And was hit by a thick billowing column of smoke.
Startled, she leaped back, not shutting her door fully.
She could see the bright red flames licking the wooden floor.
And she realized why it sounded familiar in its unfamiliar state.
It sounded like the fireplace at Christmas time.
The little girl smiled a bit then, thinking about Christmas.
How, she won't get Christmas this year.
But how she hoped her mama and papa would get one.
She went to the wall furthest from the door and slid down it until she had her head in her lap.  She was coughing a lot now, as though her lungs were burning.
She was getting tired now, and the room was spinning.
The little girl brought her head against the wall, staring at the whirling ceiling.
It was a pretty ceiling.
A pretty home.
Her pretty home.
Then she saw a glint of something, and noticed the window.
Why hadn't she thought of the window?
She opened her mouth, only to be greeted by the smoke.
She was really warm now.  She had a thick layer of sweat consuming her.
She tried to get up, placing her hands on the floor to push her up.  But her arms gave and her knees buckled, and she lay on the floor.  It felt so cool.  She wondered if it would cool her down.
Her cheek was on the dark oak floor, and she could see the flames licking the ground around her.
She was hurting a lot now, she knew what was happening and she wanted it to end now.
She was closing her eyes now, thinking about how thirsty she was.
She tried to mover fingers.  It hurt, but she still had them.  They still moved.
And as she fell asleep she closed her hand around her pretty home.

Another flash crossed her vision.  She parted her lips, and she noticed how she wasn't thirsty anymore.
As the couple opened the door she could see the stairs stained black from the fire that hurt her.  From the fire that hurt her home.
She felt attachment, but understood what happened and understood what was to happen next.
She was closing her eyes, picturing her pretty home with the dark green paint and dark oak floors and light blue decor.
And she thought about her mama and papa and knew where they were they were okay.
...What did they do with the... bodies? Susan's high pitched voice broke her thoughts.  And she kept her eyes open long enough to hear James' reply.
The mother and father were saved in time, but the little girl-- Viola, the fire damaged the way to her room.  They couldn't get her in time.  They say she died from carbon monoxide poisoning before she was... too injured.
Viola felt herself smile and she closed her eyes.
Mama and papa have another Christmas.

An Undead Tale

Panic struck me as I rolled over, pulled the safety off my hand gun and was deafened suddenly by the three quick shots I released.

The body dropped on top of me, the hundred-and-eighty-something pound man pinning me to the ground.  His rotten smell enveloped my nose causing me to gag.  But I knew I had to hold it down, otherwise I'd suffocate in my own stomach waste.  

I shimmied my left hand into the inner side of my pant waist, tugging out a worn dagger and stabbing the man's gut to push him off.  

With great strain his body slowly slumped to the side, allowing me to turn over and hurl. 

What little that was in my stomach was now under me, and my body felt exhausted. 

That was the second close-call in the past day that almost sent me to my own immortal death. 

"Fuck!"  I spat, punching the cement beneath me, "Fucking fuck!"

I gasped and sat on my heels, looking up at the setting sun.  There was a stale taste in my mouth, and I didn't want to waste the water I had to rinse it out, so I pulled out a cigarette instead while adjusting myself to be able to see my ankle.  Or in other words, the ankle that the man had grabbed. 

Relief filled me as I realized he hadn't broken my skin with his filthy nails that were filled with this disease. 

I remember sitting at home with my brother when we were younger saying how the world needed something to purge people.  I know that's awful, honest I do, but we were young and heard all about over population issues and all of these terrorist threats.
When the virus hit the news, it seemed like a blessing.
But it wasn't.
It wasn't a blessing because it wasn't natural.
A blessing is something from the natural world that brings a person luck or sense of calm.
This was neither.

I pushed myself up, setting into a steady jog across this street.  All the doors of the large houses were bolted down with wooden planks, metal poles and simple cardboard.   As the sun kept setting, my panic was returning.

I remember when it was the sixth night when the disease started, we weren't too scared because media hyped things up, we knew that.  We knew that.  But when I was in bed, the front door started banging.  Really, really aggressively.  It woke my fifteen-year-old self, as well as my older brother.  Mum and dad were already up, they were always arguing and for the past few days they were arguing about whether to stay at home or visit our grandparents.  But I was really scared. Adrenaline hit me, see?  And my heart was racing.  My brother's room was right next to mine, and I rushed into his room full of fear, to see that he was in his clothes, a backpack on his back and his sword on his waist.  He got that sword for his ninth birthday.  He loved Japanese culture, so a family friend got him an antique katana.  He looked at me when I walked in and asked if I was okay.  I hugged him.
Dad when to check the door.
That was the first mistake.
That was the first damned mistake.
The thing lunged at him.
It didn't bit him anywhere.
It tore him a part.
Drove its hands into his chest with its nails.  Mum ran down to help him, but they travel in packs.  They're smart.  They're very smart.
My brother and I stayed in his room.

My breath was coming quicker, I was running faster.  The sun was almost gone.  I finally saw the lighthouse.  Thank fuck.

But like I said, they're smart.  This disease... I know people would call them zombies.  I know people get angry when shows call them 'walkers' or 'undead' but I can't use the term zombie.  The disease is a strain of rabies and tumour cells.  The people who made it thought the two could cancel out one another.  But it made a mecha-virus.   A terrifying virus.  The cancer cells multiplied muscle cells and tissue as well as rapid brain cell growth.  It protected their minds while giving increased strength and longer limbs.  Then the rabies... it made them crazed.  Rapid movement,  sharper teeth and longer nails.  It shut down the analytical mind and amplified the murderous, kill-or-be-killed.  Then once they began eating flesh like cannibals, it warped their sense of sanity to the extreme, just like how cannibals are affected.

As I reached the water to the lighthouse I dove in without hesitation, swimming to the little island.  And by the time I made it to the door, the sky was purple.

My brother was always into dressing up as a superhero- spiderman, batman-- even as a Jedi master.  He had his sword ready as I quivered behind him, we both were watching the door.
We heard and saw the door shaking.  I felt tears forming.  He was sturdy.  Finally, the doorknob began turning.  Really slowly.  I thought about how in movies they did this to create suspense, but it was the killer toying with the prey.  The door shot open and the thing jumped at my brother.  I remember screaming as he swung his sword against the man's head.  It was rusty, but it cracked his skull and he dropped.  My brother was heaving.  More were coming through the door and he was slicing them.  When there was a break he shoved me, his backpack and something I didn't see under his bed, and he pushed several dead bodies over the bottom so I couldn't be seen or smelled.  And I was trying not to cry.  I was confused as to why he wasn't hiding with me.  But I waited under the bed for days.  Waited for him to get me.  Waited for me to stop being afraid.  But finally, I pushed out from under the bed, and stood up.
My legs were sore, as well as me back.  I tucked the little package he left into the bag and looked around and grabbed what I could.  I also checked around the entire house for useful items.  By the time I got to the front door, I noticed that mum and dad were tucked on the couch, looking like they were asleep, and the front door closed.  I sighed and opened it while saying goodbye to mum and dad.
I threw my shoulder against the door, falling into the lighthouse.  Up, up, up I went.  Finding my little sleeping ground by the rotating light.  I sat on my sleeping bag, looking through my backpack.  At the bottom was the little package my brother left me.  
I added another day to my journal.
It had been Seven Hundred and Eighty-Two Days.
Just over two years.
I sighed and pulled out the package.  He would be Twenty today.
I opened the package for the second time and reread the note inside of it.

Keep going, Isabelle, I'm out there.  I love you.  I'll find you by grandma's as soon as possible.  When you get there, wait for me.  I'll be waiting for you too.  But you need to get to -----

I dropped the package in water before I read it.  But I'll get there.  The sentence after talks about me meeting someone.  Someone by town hall.  The lighthouse is a thirty minute walk to town hall, and I sit there all day, and come back here to sleep.  I've been doing it for two years.

I heard the Lighthouse door open, fear slicing through my skull.  I grabbed the knife and huddled against the wall, waiting. 

To a Friend

The first time I saw my father, I was already a twenty-nine year old man with an ex wife and a daughter.
And hell, let me tell you, that wasn't no walk in the park either.  It wasn't as though I strolled up to him on a sunny spring day saying, "Care for a smoke?  Only the best for my paps."
Oh no.  It was a bloodbath to say the least.

You see, I was adopted at a young fuckin' age.  My mother died at birth, which my paps blamed me for.  Don't get me wrong, I don't blame the guy, but that ain't no reason to shun out your kid like a sack of rotten Chinese food.   Which is what he did.  By the time I was six I was so fuckin' underweight that I literally blew away in the wind.  Literally.  I was out with some crack-birthed neighbour kids, and we was racin' down the block the some fanny guy's rank old yard.  I chugged down that fuckin' hill like an unholy saint in a churchyard and when that wind picked up, fuck I was gone.  They was howlin' though.  Hell, I thought it was hilarious too.
When I was eight though, man was I fucked.  And I knew it toos.  See, my paps was a drinker.  Hard core, always drunken drunk that was so accustomed to bein' drunk that he was always sober.
But that was no ex'use of beatin' a kid.  A blood related one nonetheless.  But that sore fucker did.
There was a night when I came home late-- the streetlights were on.  That was m' curfew.  And I had screwed the fuck up.  I know that.  I triggered him.  Big whoop.
Or at least, I got a big whoop.
He unbuckled his belt, didn't bother spinning me around, and whipped me across my face, neck, shoulders, abdomen and thighs so many times with his fat, jiggly arms that I couldn't see anything but red on me.  I couldn't see anything but red.
That night I bolted to the police station.
I was rushed to the ER of course, he was placed in handcuffs.
The drunken S.O.B wasn't upset though-- the only time he wasn't upset.  He was laughing with anger.
"He's the fucken murd're!  You should've seen m'girl Nancy!  She was a pretty thang 'till he fucken came 'round!"
Nancy was my mother.  I've only seen photos of her, but she was a pretty little thing.  Short brown hair, large blue eyes.  Medium build.  She looked like a pixie.
My adoptive parents were sickly sweet though.  They've course were them gooey type.  Smilin' so big they always looked like them Asians.  Fucken' Asians.  They the type who sang the carols at christmas, and made you wear them stupid ugly fuckers.  Y'know, the sweaters.  Ughk.  Ugly little fuckers.
Anyhow, as I grew up, I became bored with everything.  In fact, by the time I was thirteen I sat in my new paps car with the windows up and engine on.
Of course, I got out before any damage was done.
Shame.
Fucken' shame.
Even as I grew up, I remembered that psycho.  I didn't see no one, because that would've seemed weak to me.  I need to emphasise it was weak to me to tell some'ne that I thought I had PTSD, because I was beaten so often when I showed even the slightest bit of weakness.  It's just how my mind worked.
As the years dragged on, I was constantly bullied at school.  I think I switched schools ev'ry year till highschool.  That's kind of when things slowed.  Because then I found art.  HA.  It sounds dumb of me to say, an' I know I ain't the best speaker, but art held my soul in ways I ain't ever had it held b'fore.  Not the sketchy-type art, with pencil, but metal work and woodwork.  I built everything I could've in those three short years.  And I was fucken' glorious with 'em.
I got so many of them awards that it seemed almost like a chore to go accept 'em.  Which sounds awful high 'n mighty of me, but I ain't tryin' to be.
Anyways, one of those award evenings, pro'ly in year twelve, I met this girl.  It sounds so cheesy when I say this, but when  I saw her it was like all the light focused in on her, and the rest of the gym was dimmed.  She had this short wavy-type bob that framed her face as it seemed to meld into her skin.  It was a light brown.  Then her eyes, oh god.  They were such a pale blue that they looked Gray.  And she wasn't wearin' those tight black skirts like most of 'em other girls neither.  No, she had on an elegant long sleeved dress that looked like the smoke that came out of people's chimneys.
And my god, when she was talkin' to her group of friends, she looked up under those thick light lashed and met my eyes.  In an instant her cheeks grew crimson, and I felt like I won a million bucks.  And then I felt like I gave all of those bucks to support fluffy bunnies who were homeless or some shit.  I felt giddy.
Of course I didn't have the confidence to speak to her, so we just kind of shared glances to each other now and 'gain.  It was like we already knew each other.
Next day at school she walked up to me.  She said she was Lucy and that she loved my pieces I displayed the night b'fore.
And I never asked her out, we just kind of were together.
That may be the mistake we made, now that I think about it.  I'd see her talkin' to some guy and I'd think she didn't like me any more.
But we loved each other.
We got married when we graduated.  We had Lillian when we was a bit older though.  We was twenty-four, twenty-five.  But then Lucy kept gettin' sick.  She had troubled with her white blood cells, so she got sick often and for long periods of time.  But it got to the point where she didn't get better one day.  Well I guess she did, because she wasn't sufferin' no more.  Lily understood right away when I told her mama loved her, but had to be free of her pain.  Lily didn't cry, she kissed my cheek with her plump scarlet lips and said sternly, "Daddy, we need to be happy that she's okay now."
Luckily she learned to speak proper b'fore Lucy passed.  See, she was an English major, and she was not lettin' her baby suffer with the way I speak.  I would smile, thank her, and kiss her.
She was twenty-eight when she died. Our little daughter turning five.
But something was naggin' me.
I would have nightmares about panic fillin' my chest.  Then I'd wake with a sweat drenched bed.  I'd fear for Lily.  I'd run into her room and cradle her into my arms, and I'd fall back asleep in her bed.
I never hit Lily.  If she done somethin' bad like runnin' out into the street full o' cars, I'd get upset.  I'd yell at her to tell her she'd hurt herself if she did that.  But I never hit her.  I guess that's a lie.  Sometimes, like with the car thing, if she kept doin' it, I had to spank her.  No whips, no belts, but I had to get across that it was unsafe.
And I hated myself for that every day after.
I realised that I had to see my pap.  I had to see where he was and know he wasn't comin' for me or Lily.
So I went to him.

I didn't mean to.  I swear to God I didn't mean to.
I found where he lived.  Some place in Oklahoma.  I drove for a few days.  I left Lily with a sitter.
I didn't want her to meet him.  I didn't want him to know she existed.  So I went up to the old, rotting door.  And this stern looking man with white hair and a wrinkled face opened the door.
     "I don't want the fucking paper, get the fuck outta here, boy."  He waved his cane at me, and I ducked out of the way.  Before I meant to I said,
     "Jacob Merth!  I'm Jacob Merth.  Your son."  He froze.  Then a sick grin spread on his lips as he gestured inside, pulling the door open.
     "Ahh.... I've been won'dren when your ass would show up."
     I don't know why I went in.  I shouldn't have.  I know that now.  But, it's too late.
     All the furniture was torn at corners, and seemed clumped in places.  The radio was on, but it was static, and the t.v was also on static.
     He sat me down at the old wooden table and said bluntly, "Come here to apol'gize?"  I felt shocked.  Twenty-three years, and that's what he asks.
     "What.. do you mean?"
     "Apol-o-gize."  His iron stare made me uneasy.  Why did I come here?  "For killin' my wife, and for getting me thrown in jail."
     "I didn't know you went to jail.  I was six and in pain.  I didn't mean to kill mum, she was pregnant and I was being bor---"
     His hands slammed on the table, "YOU KILLED MY FUCKING WIFE!"
     It happened so quickly, he pulled a large silver gun out from under the table, and cocked it back.  Suddenly I was scared for Lily.  Would she be adopted now, too?
     All the air breathed out of the house as we just stared at each other.  And before I decided to, I jumped up and smacked the gun out of his hand.  It went flying under the sofa, but as I lurched at it his cane came flying up and smacked the front of my head.  I hear a crack on my face, and with the blood pouring into my mouth I think he broke my nose.   He leaped onto me, grabbin' at my throat, but I stepped back against the wall, crushing him.  With him loose, I scrambled for th' gun, frantically searchin' under the couch.  My hand fell across the cool metal, and I pulled it out, aimed at him and shot without hesitation.  The ringing in my ears dazed me, and I found I wasn't holding onto the gun an'more.   I saw a thick red splatter on the wall, and his limp body crumpled by the table.
     I was breathing quite shallow, and suddenly it felt like I wasn't gettin' no air, which made me panic.  I got on my knees and felt vomit pour out of my mouth, onto his worn wooden floor.  The realization that Lily wasn't going to have a father any more hurt more than an'thin' I could imagine.  It hurt more than losin' Lucy.  But I was going to jail.  I couldn't cover this up, go home an' act like nothin' was wrong no more, because ev'ry thin' was wrong now.  My conscious was wrong now.
     I found the gun a few feet away, I think I tossed it out of my hands, makin' it seem like I ain't the one who shot him.  But it was me.
     I lifted the gun and opened my blood filled mouth, placing the hot end in between my teeth.  I love you, Lucy, Lily.  Please forgi------------------

Matthew

I first met this boy when I was living in the tiny shack that my mum excused for a house.  This house had one hallway when you open the sliding glass door to the very minimal space meant for a living room couch.  I guess it was more like an in ground trailer.

     The living room had somehow managed to fit an under stuffed deep red plaid couch that had frayed holes along the arms.  And if you stood behind the couch, you were already one step from the kitchen.  It held a mini fridge and a toaster oven.  And that was how we cooked.  

     But of course I didn't care then.  I was a six year old little girl who simply adored sprinting up and down the single hall way.  The single hallway that lead to two rooms.  As you walked down the narrow ply wood hall, to the left was the snug office.  Surrounded by a book shelf that lined the entire room, and was stuffed with a book in every space.  On the furthest side a desk was placed, taking up half the room.  As well as an overly large plush leather swirly chair.  

     I used to play simple games on the computer that lay evenly on the desk.  

     And if you walked to the end of the hall, you would enter the bedroom.  The single bedroom that held my mum and I.  I slept with her for the longest time, because we only had the single queen bed.  But as I grew old enough to be considered a woman, we sold the queen for two single beds. 

     I first met this boy when I was whirling in circles in the office.  The computer had gone to sleep and as I spun around, making myself sickly ill, I caught a glimpse of a boy's hair behind me in the reflection.  I tumbled out of the chair, toppling it over with fear.  I became scared, paranoid of what I had seen.  I hadn't truly seen someone, it was a trick of the light.  

     But as I fixed the chair and turned around, I practically ran into a boy who was a head taller than me, with sandy brown hair tousled in front of his hazel eyes.  He grinned then, pulling me into a tight hug, sighing with relief as he smelled my hair.  At that moment I couldn't figure out why someone would love the smell of apple so much, but today I could understand why.  

    He pulled away with me still in shock.  From closer up I could see he was a few years older than me.  He looked as though he was nine or ten years old.  He was very lanky, no muscle anywhere.  No fat either.  And he had high cheekbones that lifted as he smiled.

     "Danny!"  His voice was still quite high, but excitement laced through my name as he stared in disbelief.   I felt so confused as to who this boy was.  A neighbour?  A school chum I hadn't taken into consideration?  "Oh Danny, I'm so glad to finally meet you."  At this point fear struck through me that I didn't know him.  And that I never did.  I started to call for my mum, but as I did his eyes widened and he ran out of the room.  I sprinted after him, down the single hall and into the living room.  No door was open, nor window, so I knew he couldn't have left. 

    But as my mum came rushing in with soil on her knees and daisies in her grip,  there was no sign of him.  I told her what had happened, but she laughed and told me my imagination sure was wild. 

     But he was real.  I knew because he came again.  

     I wasn't as frightened, but I was still fearful of who this boy was. 

     As he kept coming, we would go outside into the forest surrounding the trailer and pretend to be professional archers.  Or we'd play hide and go seek until the stars shone our way.  Every time we'd play together, he would never come into my house when my mum was making tea or serving a meal. He told me he didn't want to intrude because she seemed like such a lovely lady.  Of what I told him about her.  I told my mum everything, and finally she asked his name. 

     "Matthew."  I would say proudly. 

     But my mom wouldn't smile at that.  Instead she would frown dubiously, turn back to the kettle or onions she would satee,   Never asking about him. 

     We became best friends as a few years went on.  We both were growing, and soon I was in middle school.  My mum didn't believe that this boy existed.  Every time I would promise he would come over this time, he cancelled and ran home.   We made a rule not to enter each others homes, that our home would be outside.  Together. 

     As soon as I'd get home from school I'd drop my bag and sprint out to the backyard.  There on the same chopped stump would sit Matty, and we would go off on our adventures. 

     It became ours.

     As we grew older, Matthew became quite tall.  He held the same shaggy hair that he had when I first met him, and the same stunning hazel eyes.   He did get more muscular, but thinly so.  I became jealous of his body as mine became curvier, but he would always reassure me it looked better than fine.  That it was perfect.  And not to take any crap from any girl or guy.  

     We didn't go to the same school.  His parents home schooled him, he would say.  And I was fine with that.  We saw each other plenty.  

     But whenever I would bring home some friends, I would check the stump and he wouldn't be there.  He wouldn't come out when I had company, he always said how he would be intruding.  Wrecking something so beautiful.  

     I told him he wouldn't be wrecking something beautiful because he was beautiful. 

     And I remember as we sat under the canopy of trees, he stared at me with a melancholy laced in his iris's.  It made me sad.  It made me want to know what was wrong. 

     But he barely spoke of himself.  He would let me talk about my petty issues with guys, and grades.  Eventually it became normal that we didn't talk about him.  

     It was like I was the main character of his book. 

     But as high school ended, he asked me what I would do now.  

     And I told him about the boy who asked me to move away with him. 

     And I saw the pride grow like a fire in his smile. 

     And I felt his love as he pulled me into his arms. 

     And I felt heartbroken when he pulled away

     and I saw something flicker. 

     Him. 

     He stared at me expectantly. 

     "Danielle,"  He started, "I didn't want to come over, but I think I should now.  I think I should."

     He gripped my hands almost as though he was pleading, but without hesitation I said of course.  And we went into the tiny cramped living space.  And as my mum came home with dirt on her face she smiled at me and sat so close to Matty that I thought she'd sit on him.  I gasped, fearful for a moment, but Matthew turned and grinned. 

     "Don't worry Danny."

     My mum leaned over and kissed my cheek, and I realised what was happening. 

     She was ignoring Matty. 

     But, she wasn't.

     She didn't see Matty. 

     Terror sliced through me, and I stood up suddenly, rushing myself for air. 

     Matthew raced out after me, grabbing my arm to stop me. 

     "Danny, I'm sorry!"  His eyes plead, waiting for me to say something. 

     "What's going on Matt, what the Hell was that?"  He winced at my words, but I had given him what he wanted;

      my voice.

      I trembled as he spoke fluidly. 

      "I love you and your mother so very much, Danny.  You need to know that.  And I am so absolutely proud of you for how far you've come."  His eyes were swelling with tears.  "And I'm so glad to see your bright future.  Please.  Please remember you have a brilliant future."  Confusion shuffled through me.  "Danny,"  He took a deep breath, "I'm your brother."  I was about to speak but he cut me off, "--Danny, mum had a miscarriage before she had you.  Several years before she even wanted to try again.  And daddy?  He left when he thought mum wouldn't get pregnant.  She found out she was with you three days after daddy left."  His face was faltering, "I wanted to grow up with you, so I waited here for you.  you have a life Danny."  I was shaking, crying with upset.  Disbelief. 

    "Matty, no.  No no no."  I was shaking my head aggressively, "No!  You're real, I'm touching you now!"  He looked down at his hands and he smiled sadly. 

     "That's because you saw me when we were so young.  You got used to me.  I'm so sorry Danny.  But I love you so incredibly much.  And I am so proud of you.  I want to watch you get married and have children, but I can't."  Pain flashed through his eyes, "Every moment I stay longer, it hurts Danny.  It hurts so much."  

     He was fading, in and out.  I hugged him tightly, feeling the fabric of his shirt disappear through my fingers. 

     "Matty, oh Matty I'm so proud of you too.  I never thought I could love someone as I do you.  You are the most incredible person I have met, and I owe so much to you.  I won't let you down, Matty.  I owe you so much.  So... so much."  My sobs were clouding my speech, and I shut my eyes tightly.  

     I don't know how long I sat there, but after a while I heard the door slide open, my mum coming over and rubbing my back. 

     "You okay, sweetie?"  I nodded numbly. 

     

I dream of him often.  And I still love him as I hold my son in my arms.  I still love him as I hold the hand of my husband.  I still love him. 

     

     Matthew, I regret that we didn't get to have a life together, but every time I feel a pressure on my hand I want you to know that I think of you.  I think of you watching me grow up and even though I'm still so much a child, I love you no matter what.  I love you Matthew.  

Dancing Girl

Her thin blond hair was twisted into a limp ponytail as she shimmied around the bar counter with obvious bags under her eyes.  Her bony frame made her look sunken, but her head was raised high with a flirtatious smile pasted on her lips.  The music was sultry, aiding in the dancers on stage.  Men lined the sides, tossing generous amounts of money onto the stage and into the women's suits.  The woman with the long ponytail leaned against the bar casually, with her sparkly blue lingerie twinkling with the dimmed pink lights as they spun.  She was given several drinks by different men, but she only took the one with a cap still on it.  It was cool against her throat, and she held it against her pale skin so her sweat could subside.  Her smile then faltered slightly.  Just for a moment.
     She knew what was coming.
     She gracefully placed the chilled beer back onto the counter, and just as she shimmied around the bar, she twisted into the bathroom.  As she closed the door, she checked to make sure no one was in the bathroom so she could lock the door.  She then walked over to the bathroom mirror, staring at her now yellow skin due to the cheap lighting.  The lights flickered every so often due to the expense of the stage, and the lighting in the bathroom didn't make anyone look the least bit attractive.
     As she studied herself in the mirror, she felt bile rise in her throat as to what she was wearing.  The blue bikini like outfit had many long fringes on it, making it look almost cow girl like.  She bared her teeth as she leaned into her made-up face.  Thick foundation and bright blue eyeshadow made her look more like a doll than a human.  And the bones that showed disgusted her.  A few wrinkles creased by her eyes and mouth, showing signs that she was ageing.  That also disgusted her.  In a few years, men wouldn't want her.  And if they didn't want her, then she couldn't feed her son.
     Who was going to be disgusted by her.
     And then, what she was waiting for came.  The tears.  The sudden feeling of sadness that crept up on her at the oddest of times.  She stood by the sink crying silently for a long time.  Until someone knocked on the door to wake her up.  She dabbed her eyes as she stared confidently in the mirror, and adjusting her bra, she twirled out of the bathroom back onto the stage.
    It didn't bother her, the attention she got.  What bothered her was who was giving her attention.  She could blatantly see pudgy men staring intently, and it gave her chills to know that when they go home they'd be jerking while thinking of her.  That bothered her.  It wasn't difficult to find a man willing to sleep with her for money after her shows.  It was hard to leave their place with a sense of dignity.  It was hard coming home in a wreck of an apartment to her son.  Who was old enough to know what she was doing by now.  To tell his friends she's a whore.  A slut.  A hooker.  But he didn't know that she was doing it for him.  So he could live.  Even if it meant to sacrifice her own life.
    And so she danced on the stage, accepting the coos and caws given from the men.  And none of them would see her cry when it felt like everything inside of her was being torn apart.  Because this was her life.  And even if she wasn't living, her son was.  

To a Pessimist

Her ashy ringlets bobbed as she skipped her tiny legs across the sidewalk.   Her little hands gripped the cottony rose bag that held her school kits.  As she made her way by each brown house with the same muddy windows and deceased grass, she hummed the new nursery rhyme she learned in school.   She stepped on cue to each syllable, giggling when she came across the tricky beat scheme.    Her bright emerald eyes scanned the sky, chasing the birds that glided through the air.  She gazed at the planes that carried hundreds of people, hoping each one of them felt like a bird.

     Her thoughts walked home with her, until she reached the large wooden door with a brittle wreathe that hung melancholy.   But her humming didn’t cease as she stepped through the door.   She slid off her small black dress shoes, tucking them safely by the door.  She turned, taking in the dust filled cabinets and sheet of cat hair bunched throughout the laminate floor.  Although she barely blinked as she hobbled into the kitchen.  Pots and filthy dishes filled the sink and counter tops, mold brewed in a stale pot of tea, broken glass was dotting the floor and the fridge was bare.  All except for a rotten apple. 

     Her feet danced over the glass as she pulled down an old box of cereal, popping a few dry pieces in her slim lips.  She spun into the living room, holding her box of cereal affectionately as she sighed into the fraying, worn couch.  She sat there for a bit, listening to the dead clock that hung on the wall.   The big hand stuck on three.  She imagined the clock ticking joyously, greeting her with every click.  She crunched the cereal melodically, humming as she kicked her feet.   Her eyes scraped the pattern on the curtains before her.  The damaged material wasn’t as pink as it used to be, instead a creamy yellow filled the shades.  She placed the box on the floor of the couch and leapt to the stereo.  She adjusted the antenna, flipping it to the current eighties mix.  She twirled and jumped, sang and belted her heart out to Michael Jackson.  But as she jumped against the ground, the stereo silenced.  Her cheeks flushed as she attempted to fix it, but she simply pulled out her homework when it became clear that the technology was fried. 

     Slight creaking sounded from the wooden staircase, and she pulled herself to her feet as she padded to the base of the stairs.  A woman who looked older than she was placed her frail hands against the railing.  Her sunken green eyes met the little girl’s, and a shaky smile formed on her mouth.  

     “Lynn dear, how was your day?”  Her legs shook as she stepped down, but she pulled the child into a weak hug.  Lynn smiled widely, pulling the woman’s hand to lead her excitingly into the living room.

     “Oh, mama I learned a new song today!  And little Jimmy—the one down the road, he tore my music sheet into confetti.”  The woman’s smile grew sad, but Lynn continued, “But don’t worry, mama.  I used the confetti to throw into the air.  Everyone was having so much fun with the tiny bits of paper that they tore theirs up too.”  Her tiny lungs exhaled, waiting for the woman’s response.

     Her bony legs moved to the couch, as she sat down the couch sunk with her.  She patted the cushion next to her, “Lynn that was terrible what that boy did.  He ruined your song and didn’t apologize for it.”

     “But he did-“

     “How could you know he meant it?  No one means anything now a day.  They’re all just a bunch of liars.”  The woman pulled her fingers lovingly through Lynn’s curls. 

     Lynn chuckled as she poked the woman’s ribs.  Her mother frowned thoughtfully.  They sat there with Lynn’s head in her lap as the woman stared at the ragged curtains.   Finally her mother spoke.

     “Sweetie, I spoke to the doctor’s today.” 

     Lynn jumped up with joy, twirling off the couch.  Her mother’s lips didn’t twitch though. 

     “They told me I’m getting worse.  We are going to have to find you a foster home soon.”  Lynn tilted her head.  

     “But did they tell you when you’d be at your worst?”  As her mother shook her head Lynn gripped her hand affectionately, “It’s okay then mama, because we still have time.”   Her mother dropped her head, the room filled with echoed sobs.  But Lynn still gripped her hand tightly, “Mama.”  She spoke firmly, “I know you’re dying.  I know we won’t be together for much longer, but with the time we do have… we can make everything special.”  Her eyes glowed as her mother raised her head to look at Lynn.  Her face was solemn.  The wrinkles creased around her eyes and mouth as she parted her cracked lips.  Lynn’s mother took in her daughter.  She furrowed her eyebrows as Lynn watched her curiously.  Usually when her mother spoke, she couldn’t stop listing off everything negative.  She expected her mother to say something about there not being a point to do anything if she was about to die anyways.  But instead, her mother lifted herself slowly off the couch, her legs shaking with all the effort.  She shuffled down the hallway, her feet never fully leaving the cold ground.  Finally, she reached the door.  With all her strength she pulled the door open.  She lifted the wreath carefully, allowing no more pines to break off.  As she turned back into the house, her eyes caught Lynn’s.  Lynn watched her mother move more than she had in the past six months.  She watched her mother limp into the kitchen, open the garbage bin and place the wreath in it thoughtfully.

     And then she smiled at Lynn.  Ever so slightly.