In Memoriam

“Stephanie.”

My father’s voice startled me from the gentle shake of the cruising car. I looked at him innocently but he saw through my disguise.

“What have I told you about picking your nose?” I reluctantly let my finger drop from my face and slumped into the car seat next to my dad.

“I wasn’t picking my nose,” I protested. “I was itching it.”

“Yeah, itching the inside is called picking.”

“Nuh uh.”

Such a childish remark didn’t even merit a response from my father – he merely slid his eyes sideways, took in my pouting countenance, and turned his eyes back to the road. The day before us was bright and sunny, the leaves on the trees shaking violently as our yellow station wagon flew by. I leaned up toward the dash to watch the dotted lines in the center of the road blur together. Someone had told me once each line was eighteen inches long, but it always seemed shorter to me.

I refused to believe those lines were a foot and a half long.

“Hey Dad,” I muttered, keeping my eyes on the lines.

“Hmm?”

“Do you know how long the center white lines are on the road?”

“Huh?”

“The white lines, the short ones that mean you can pass. Do you know how long each one is?”

My father shrugged.

“I don’t know, sweetie. Ask your teacher at school.”

I paused, considering his suggestion before moving on. “Matt Reagan told me they were eighteen inches long.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“But they look shorter.”

My father chuckled. “That’s probably because the car is moving so fast.”

I settled back into the seat again.

“I don’t think they’re eighteen inches long.”

“Well, ask your teacher. Or look it up. You have an encyclopedia on the dingus at home, don’t you?”

He meant the computer. He was never fancy enough to bother with technology.

“Yeah, I could. But I don’t think Mrs. Johnson knows the answer. She’s too mean.”

He laughed again. “Then look it up.”

“But I want to know now.”

“I can’t help you with that, sweetie.”

A silence fell in the car and the only noise was the clacking of the wheel bearing that my father always swore he was going to replace. I watched the leaves and the tress pass us by, sometimes feeling that the occurrence of an occasional field was like a deep breath of something bluer and less green, more sky and less earth. After we’d passed a few more fields, I spoke again.

“Dad, where are we going?”

There was a long pause.

“Well, sweetie, you remember how sick Grandpa has been?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re going to his house to see him. And you get to see Grandma too. She told me she has a surprise for you when we get there.”

The promise of a gift passed me by and I focused on the former statement. “How sick is he?”

“Pretty sick.”

“Why?”

My father sighed, a weight dragging down on his shoulders. He seemed to age a decade.

“He used to smoke cigarettes a lot when I was a little boy, and now the doctors say his lungs are hard from the smoke, so he can’t breathe very well.”

“Oh.” I thought back to the times I’d played with Grandpa as a toddler. He never seemed out of the ordinary or anymore sick than the rest of us. He crawled around on the floor with me and let me ride on his back like a horse, and sometimes he even let me stomp on his feet just to see me laugh. I didn’t like to see him sick.

“So is he going to get better?” I asked a few minutes later.

The weighted face returned. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh.” The reality of my grandfather’s illness sat a little firmer in my head. “So… are you okay?”

A long pause.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Are you sure? I mean, he’s your dad, and if you were that sick I think I’d be depressed.”

My father snorted out an obnoxious laugh. “Depressed? Where did you hear that?”

“Dr. Philips said it to you that one time.”

“And you remembered it?”

“Yeah. It means sad, right?”

My father smiled. “Sure does.”

“Anyway,” I continued on, “what I’m trying to say is that you should probably be depressed because Grandpa’s your dad and he’s sick.”

“I know. And I am, you just don’t see it.”

“You hide it?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

He sighed. “It’s easier. It’s how I deal with things like this.”

My face turned sour. “I wish you wouldn’t. It’s not healthy.”

He laughed again. “Oh yeah? Did you hear that from Dr. Philips too?”

“He’s a doctor, Dad,” I spat indignantly. “He knows about stuff like this.”

“Okay, okay, I know. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Do you at least tell Mom?”

“Don’t worry about it, sweetie. I’ll take care of it.”

The smooth whir of the paved road suddenly changed into the jostling crunch of gravel. My father swung a quick left and we pulled into my grandparents’ driveway, parking behind a few other vehicles that I didn’t recognize. I knew that my mother would be coming later when she finished her shift at the hospital, but for now, it was mostly people I didn’t know.

“Come on,” my dad said, getting out. “Let’s go see your grandparents.” He walked around the front of the car and opened my door for me. I unbuckled my seatbelt and slid out of the seat, my small feet hitting the gravel with a gentle thud. We closed the small distance between the car and the house.

My father held the door for me.

“Think you’ll be okay?” My dad asked as we headed into the living room. I opened my mouth to answer but caught sight of my grandfather’s portable bed, stationed perfectly where the recliner used to be. People surrounded him shoulder to shoulder but I briefly glimpsed his papery face.

I shivered.

“I don’t think so,” I trembled quietly, taking my father’s hand. “Will you?”

Dad’s eyes followed mine and rested upon his father’s dying face.

“No,” he whispered, squeezing my fingers, “I don’t think so either.”

The Cough

It was 2 a.m. I’d been lying awake for hours, kept up by the sound of my own cough.

I heard my bedroom door creak open and looked up to see my mother, old and haggard, enter my room. In her hand she carried a plastic bottle and a metal tablespoon.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked.

“No,” I replied.

“The cough?”

“Yeah.

She nodded at me and came to my bedside, unscrewing the bottle’s cap as she walked. She sat gently next to me and poured me a spoonful of the syrup.

“Here, try this.

“I just took some an hour ago. It didn’t do anything.”

“Take some anyway.” She brought the full spoon to my lips. For a moment, I kept them closed, but her look made me open wide.

“There,” she said as I swallowed the medicine. A pleased tone was woven throughout her voice. “That should help.”

“I hope so.”

Silence penetrated the room for an instant.

“I think you should see the doctor tomorrow,” she said.

I shook my head.

“And why not?”

“Because he won’t do anything about it.”

“He might give you some stronger medicine.”

“You know he won’t. He never does.”

She nodded sadly and said nothing after that. She knew the doctor was a poor one and that I would go undiagnosed for as long as I could.

Suddenly, a cough bubbled up in my throat and I began to hack. It went on for longer than I anticipated, and I reached toward my mother, motioning for a tissue. I covered my mouth with the thin paper and continued to cough, my body shuddering from the force.

When I finally stopped, I pulled the tissue away from my mouth and saw blood. I quickly wadded it up and threw it in the trash. I didn’t want my mother to see.

“Are you all right?” she asked, gently rubbing my back.

“Yeah,” I said, reclining back into bed. “I’m fine.”

Expendable

I know it’s coming. I can see my doom just off the edge of the table, inches from where I lay. I can sense my end just minutes away and I am powerless to stop it. I can do nothing to save myself – I can’t even move.

The hard, cold metal of the table beneath me penetrates every inch of my skin. I am freezing but still I lie naked on the table, bared for all the world to see, and I must endure this harsh coldness that seeps into me from below.

The Director never did care for the comfort of his minions.

The bright fluorescent lights above me are glaring like the sun. I am forced to lie on the table and stare into them, blinding myself. My vision is clouded by little black spots but they shy away from me whenever I try to look at them. Only one remains in the center of my eye, willing to be seen.

I remember when I first came here, to the Director’s Office, newly born and full of promise. I had great hopes then, but I contained a single flaw that the Director found and that was unacceptable. One flaw, one small mistake in my makeup, and I was sent to my death.

The Assistant was the one who brought me to the table. It was clear she took no delight in her task, which comforted me until I realized that whether or not I had her sympathy, she would continue to do as the Director had asked.

For a brief time, before my end, I thought of my brothers, born into the same world as I. I wondered if they contained the Flaw, as I did, or if they made it to that golden realm of which we all dreamt: the Director’s Office.

I began to see just how expendable I was to them, and my heart broke.

It’s been hours. I continue to lay on the cold metal table in the Assistant’s Office, waiting for my fate.

Suddenly, the Assistant appears. She gives me a longing look and sighs before she picks me up and carries me to my death.

Slowly, she begins to feed me into the machine.

I scream, but no one can hear me.

“Marlene, did you shred those files like I asked?” the Director asked his Assistant.

“Just finishing up now, sir.”

Thus I am ended.

I cannot sleep.

I cannot sleep.

A heavy weight sits on my chest

And my heart is too full for sleep.

My heart is full but breaking -

Brimming and cracking and swelling and burning

With a thousand things I have yet to say

And a million things I should not feel.

I am governed by my heart these days.

My mind is lost to me.

Has been.

It was never really mine to start but I let the delusions live.

My mind is lost to me.

That realization is heartbreaking.

Tonight I cannot sleep.

My heart is too full for such things

And my mind far too unbound.

This Pain I Feel

This pain I feel,
Burning like a wicker home inside my breaking heart –
Why must it come to me today?
Why can it not just go away?

He looks at me and asks the words I want him most to say.
And what do I say? Nothing.
What do I mean? Everything.
The pain is burning hotter still but the words won’t pass my lips.
They’re trapped and locked in an empty soul,
Trapped and locked.
Trapped.
Locked.

The cage around my heart grows smaller each day.
To get out of bed is a challenge.
To speak is a perilous quest.

In this world, this murderous world,
It is ungodly to have to feel –
Ungodly and painful

And so unreal.

The Thought

We had fire in our eyes in the beginning.

---

I was sixteen when I fell in love with Claudette Meyers.

She was the most glorious person I had ever beheld, with hair so gold it was almost white and skin that practically reflected the sun. Her personality was just as ivory as her beauty, a shining and untouched example of the possibilities found in innocence.

Claudette was fourteen when we met.

The first time I saw her, I loved her and vowed to have her.

---

I watched her for a year. I longingly waited for a chance to prove my love to the only person who could ease my longing.

Then, one night, as Claudette walked home alone, she was overtaken by another who was just as madly in love with her as I.

I knew he meant to violate her. I watched from the shadows as he pulled off her top, exposing her ivory skin. He forced her into the dirt and began to tear at her skirt.

I could not watch. Her violation enraged me, and I attacked. I beat my rival senseless, nearly killing him as Claudette sat by and watched. When I finished, I put my coat around her and hurried her away.

When we took shelter in nearby shed, she looked at me with her aquamarine eyes and asked me one thing:

"Why didn't you kill him?"

Her desire to have me kill, and to have me kill for her, made me love her even more.

---

When I was eighteen, Claudette was a month shy of turning sixteen. Since her rescue we had grown close, and I planned extensively for my final wooing on the night of her sixteenth birthday. Claudette was my idol, the god of my world. Nothing mattered to me, except for her.

Nothing could ever matter without her.

The night of her birthday, I took Claudette into her bedroom and kissed her.

At first she did nothing. Then she kissed me back.

That night, I made love to Claudette Meyers, and I vowed I would never be without her again.

---

At sixteen and a half, Claudette befriended Bobby Martins.

I hated Martins.

I knew he meant to pursue her. He meant to steal her from me, even though I had branded her as my own. Bobby Martins meant to steal my property and that simply would not do.

Late one night, I ventured to Martins' house. I crept up the ivy on his wall and crawled into his bedroom window.

I stood over him with a loaded revolver and screamed for him to wake up.

When he opened his eyes, he had a look of sheer terror.

I told him never to see Claudette again. They were not to talk, to write, to have any communication whatsoever.

I told him if he broke the rules I would murder him.

He wept and promised never to speak to my love again.

The next day, Claudette mentioned that Bobby Martins would not return her phone calls.

---

Claudette was only seventeen when I first had the Thought.

Bobby Martins had been out of the picture for six months, but I still couldn't stop it coming.

It came upon me like a thundering horse. Its existence beat within my skull and rattled my mind until I felt dizzy and sick. It seeped down the back of my neck and crushed my lungs so I couldn't breathe.
Then it wound around my heart like a tightening vine and poured itself over my soul, putrid and blacker than tar.

It stayed within me from then on.

For months after it first reared its head, the Thought choked me when I least expected it, adding insult to the hideous injury it had already inflicted. With little warning, it drove its powerful fists into my brain and slowly destroyed my innocent beauty, my outlook on the world.

My ruined eyes saw destruction in Claudette's face too. I saw Martins' hands all over her, like her attacker so many years ago. I saw him making love to her like I had, and a white-hot fire burned within my veins. The Thought was rabid with hate and it drove me wild with its malevolent whisperings.

When I lay in bed at night, it would speak to me in a voice most pleasant, sharing all its brethren Thoughts with me, and I would writhe and scream and beg for death and the murder of Bobby Martins.

Then the Thought began to grow complacent. For nearly a year it disappeared from my life, a fleeting memory I hoped I would never revisit.

I was happier with Claudette then than I had ever been before.

But the Thought returned one afternoon, stronger than before, and I knew it had to be honored or destroyed.

I also knew I would never be strong enough to destroy such a beast as this, and so I sought to honor it and all its wicked family.

I invited the Thoughts into my life: Jealousy was my foremost guest, followed by his brothers Discord, Hate, Ugliness, Disrespect, Abuse, and Violence. They all ran freely throughout my mind – they took control of me and shattered me, but they took care to break me carefully so that when I was rebuilt, I would be a proper monster.

A monster capable of the murder of Bobby Martins.

One night, when I was twenty, I snuck into the home of Bobby Martins.

I drew the same gun I had used to threaten him years before, only this time I didn't wake Martins.

I just put two bullets in his head.

---

It is Sunday. I am visiting Claudette's today. As I sit down on the couch in her parents' living room, I notice she looks upset.

I ask what is wrong.

"Didn't you hear?" she asks, holding back a wave of tears. "Bobby Martins was murdered last night."

There is a long pause between us.

"No," I say, "I didn't hear."

What a terrible thing.

Snowy Angels

I stared off into space. Rainbows and storm clouds and seraphs danced across my face, leaving a trail of footsteps so light I could barely tell they were there. The little angels' feet fairly imprinted my cheeks and created neon outlines that made me glow as though I'd survived Chernobyl, but only the Chernobyl of comic books. The radiation of their touch burned me the bone and I screamed inside my heart, though no sound emerged.

Then He appeared and told me to stop screaming. His fingers turned into tentacles and wrapped around my throat. They snaked into my mouth and curled in my stomach, nesting there, impregnating me with His babies. The tentacles withdrew as His children grew and He stared at me as my gut burst open and I gave a bloody birth to His young.

It was He. Always He.

He was Brett.

He was my God these days.

---

The seraphs disappeared. I knew I was in the living room of my sister Margaret's house. I turned and remembered my surroundings, then let my eyes settle on baby sister as she calmly watched a movie on the TV before us. I looked on the coffee table next to the couch and saw a glass pipe sitting there, the residue of my addiction clinging to the inside of the bowl. Next to the pipe was a dirty spoon, also covered in residue, with a lighter haphazardly placed in between.

"Margaret," I said. My sister didn't turn.

"What, Paul?"

I paused. "Did I do it again?"

Another pause. "Yes, Paul."

"Did I threaten you?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Now watch the movie."

I tried, but I couldn't take my eyes off the pipe, the spoon, and the lighter. "Margaret," I said again.

"What?"

I turned to look at her and suddenly became entranced. I'd thought that when the seraphs disappeared, my high was over. Now I knew I was wrong – my sister's hair captivated me for now reason, chestnut brown and flowing down her back. I stared at it as I'd stared at the tools of my habit.

I had to touch it.

"Margaret, Margaret," I murmured gently, "let me touch your hair." I leaned toward her but she caught my hand when I came close and locked it into an Amazonian death grip, then threw it away, still looking at the TV.

"Never," she hissed. "I've seen you tear at your hair. You won't touch mine."

"Please, my darling, I beg you." This happened a lot, the change in my speech. Sometimes, when the powder turned to liquid and flowed through my veins, I spoke like an English lord. "I have to touch it, Margaret. I won't tear it, I swear."

"No, Paul." She swatted me away as I moved closer. When I kept moving, she slapped me. The liquid powder took that pain away.

"Stay away from me," she seethed. "You're high and you'll hurt me like last time. You stay away."

"Darling sister," I plead, still reaching though she hit me. I couldn't feel her anger and I couldn't feel her hurt – I was wrapped in a glorious smattering of color too bright to look at steadily.

"Paul, stop," she protested. I pushed her down and held my hands free of her neck – I'd choked her one while the drug in me raged and I swore I'd never hurt her again. And I wouldn't.

I just had to touch her hair.

The angels penetrated my mind and pulled at the collar of my shirt, trying to push my face into Margaret's chest as they sprinkled pounds of snow into my nose and mouth. My high took me by the throat and slammed me against an imaginary wall. The seraphs joined in and I felt myself being battered by something unreal.

"They're pushing me again, Margaret," I whispered. "They're pushing me down. They're got me by the throat. You know it's not me." I was in agony not to hurt her. Silence reigned as I battled my beautiful demons. Silence was their enemy – the seraphs screamed in tyrannical protest to their new king, the Suppression of Sound, and the noise tore open the inside of my skull. My overcoat of color dripped off my skin like acid, taking bits of flesh and blood with it, and I opened my mouth in a horrendous scream that never came out.

"Paul, Paul." Margaret had her hands on either side of my face, calling me back to my own world. Her prior anger toward me was gone.

She was afraid.

For a moment, the seraphs held tighter than my sister ever could. And then they were gone.

I collapsed on Margaret for a brief moment, but then the irradiated angels were back again. They ripped at my clothes and hair – they made me do the same to myself.

Margaret watched me destroy my own body and screamed for me to stop. Her voice, loud as it was, became a tiny echo. The words were lost to me. She wanted me to stop tearing but she couldn't see the seraphs. No one could. She didn't know how they tortured me whenever I inhaled the powder or how I had to keep inhaling it because otherwise my mind would devour itself even faster.

I had to get them off. They were burning my soul, drenching it in Agent Orange, gassing it like the Nazis.

I grabbed each side of my skull and began to pull it apart. The pain in my head was great, but not greater than the pain in my core. The angels tore at me, bit me, and behind them I saw Him – my God.

Brett.

I saw Him commanding the seraphs to destroy me. And they were destroying me. I ripped and ripped and ripped until I could no longer see, and then I fell into the blackness.

---

His babies took over my mind – Brett's babies took over my life. They got me hooked on that Columbian snow, breathing it in whenever I could, and as they grew, they took on the innocent look of naked toddlers with wings.

Brett's seraphs took over my mind.

My friend, Brett, my new God, stood back and watched them work.

A Vice

"You always do these things to me," Kyle laughed. "You always make me think it's okay to let down my PC guard and then you hone in on the hate."

He was talking about my character. He was talking about my fake personality. I would never insult Kyle – I thought he was beautiful and brilliant and perfect, but Fake Andie, my other self, disagreed. She always did.

"I only do it so you can see where your prejudices lie." My mouth moved and my voice said the words but it was not me. She had total control of me around him.

"My prejudices?" he laughed again, taking another shot of tequila.

"Maybe vices would be a better word," I said. "Or maybe it wouldn't. I just think you should be aware of whatever it is." Inside I screamed for my outer self to shut up and let me out. Kyle was so close to me, close enough that I could smell the very essence of his skin, but she kept us apart.

"Well, thank you for bringing it to my attention," he said, his good mood enduring. "But if we're in a sharing mood, I want to ask you something."

"What's that?"

"Why are you alone?"

I reeled. So did my other self.

"I'm alone because I want to be. I don't need to be in a pair."

"But don't you?" Kyle asked. "Shit, Andie, if you weren't like a sister to me I'd say we were practically that pair." My heart broke at his words but Fake Andie mocked me and kept talking.

"I don't need anyone, Kyle, least of all you." Kyle turned to look at me seriously. The alcohol had clouded his turquoise eyes but he was clear in his purpose.

"You're a damned liar, Andrea."

"No, I'm not," Fake Me said. She forced me to stand, to put on the façade of anger while I screamed inside. I railed like an inmate in prison – I swore I'd be free.

"Yes, you are," he fired back. He stood to match me and grabbed my shoulders, giving me a firm shake. "You need me, Andie, like I need you."

"No, no, no," Fake Me said, but she grew weaker with each shake and my own resolve grew stronger.

"Yes, Goddamnit!" Kyle yelled. "You need me and I need you!"

"But you don't love me," I said.

Then the shaking stopped.

Kyle let go of my arms and slowly sank back to the floor, letting untold minutes of silence stretch between us.

"No," he finally said, a faraway look in his eye, "I don't love you, but I need you all the same."

Vicodin Dreams

From the table to my mouth and back again. Shake shake shake. Tap them in.

I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. I thought of everything and nothing as I drifted through my high, but mostly I thought of Kyle.

Kyle was the boy I'd loved since I was five. He was beautiful and perfect and my best friend. I could never have him but that didn't stop the love. If you know love you know it keeps on coming whether it's wanted or not.

Kyle was the reason I was in this bed, staring at the ceiling, but he'd never know that. I'd never told anyone and never would tell – I'd be silent about Kyle Lansky forever.

As I drifted on a plane of sea foam green and puffy white clouds, I became aware of an opening door. The open door held Kyle, and Kyle held fear. It was such an unimaginable fear that it frightened me as much as it did him.

“Andie, what are you doing?” he whispered, and as he rushed at me, my acid dreams rushed away, like smoke banished by a gust of air. He sat next to me on the bed and lifted my prone body; my breasts brushed against his chest and for a moment I experienced such ecstatic delight that I thought I might be able to overcome the monster I’d put inside myself.

"Kyle," I whispered back, smiling weakly. My eyes couldn't open very far, but they opened just enough to see his beautiful face. "Kyle, Kyle, Kyle." I said his name over and over again, mumbling it even as he tried to speak to me.

I remember at one point he said, "We have to call an ambulance," and for some reason I made no protest. I kept murmuring his name and the more I murmured, the more I drifted back into my world of sea foam green and puffy white.

Then my room was stark around me. My vision cleared in an instant and I leaned over the bed just in time to vomit. Half dissolved white things were scattered in my puke and Kyle looked at it for a long time before shaking me.

"What did you take?" he screamed in my face. "What did you take?"

"Kyle, Kyle, Kyle," was all I said. Kyle never let me go but he searched the bedside table and found his answer on the side of my prescription bottle.

"Andie, oh God, Andie," he kept saying as he held my hair and gripped me as close as he could. I was on fire for him. I was on fire for the Reaper too.

Then I wasn't. I felt the coldness creep over me and I knew it was coming. I was too weak to touch his face, too weak to lift my arms or even to open my eyes, but I smiled at my love as the dreams took me away.

Schmidt the Schmuck

"I'm going to kill Wolfgang Hansberger." My girlfriend cast me a sidelong glance before rolling her eyes, but my expression remained stoic. "That's right, Pen. You heard me. I am going to murder him."

"Oh quit it, Aaron," Penelope scoffed as she scribbled away in her math notebook. "You always say crap like this. Firstly, it never amounts to anything and secondly, it just irritates me, so quit. Do your English homework. You'll never get into college if you don't."

"Oh, screw my English homework. Listen to me for a minute, will you?" I turned sideways in my chair, my paper on Frankenstein forgotten, and I kicked Penelope's foot to get her to look at me. She sighed angrily before tossing her pencil onto her notebook.

"What don't you understand about homework?" she asked, just as irritated as I was. She turned her body in the direction of her eyes and looked me squarely in the face. "We have to get this work done for tomorrow. You bitch about Wolf every day. Can't you take a break for once? I mean fuck, why can't you two just dump some testosterone and grow up?"

"Because he's evil," I said under my breath. This only caused Penelope to huff again, but I protested. "No, seriously, Pen! You've seen how that dick treats me! He shoves me into the wall for no reason! He and his buddies beat the shit out of me a year and a half ago and taped it for laugh! They're all bullies and I'm going to kill the ringleader."

"Oh please," she sneered, turning away from me again. "Wolf didn't shove you into the wall – he asked you to move and you said you didn't have to do anything for him just because he was rich. You brought that on yourself."

"And the beating?"

"That was not a beating."

"Oh yeah? What was it, then?"

"Holy shit!" she practically screamed, turning to face me again. "Richard Price and Jeff Goldbloom lifted up your shirt and gave you a purple nurple while Wolf watched! That's all! You screamed like a little girl and then you cried, Aaron!"

"Well it fucking hurt!" I snapped back. "Have you ever had anyone do that to you?"

"You don't give purple nurples to girls," she replied, turning back to her work. "It turns into breast cancer."

"Oh whatever, Pen," I snarled, turning back to my work as well. "You always liked Hansberger better than me anyway. We've been dating for almost a year but whenever I need to vent about that asshole you always take his side. What the hell." There was a moment of silence before Penelope whispered something under her breath that was barely audible.

"I take his side because he acts like a man and you act like little bitch."

My head flew up from what I was writing, my eyes wide, and I turned to look at her. She was already staring at me.

"What?" I stammered.

"You heard me. You're such a pussy, Aaron. You're practically frail! When I first got together with you, you were smart and funny and had a different take on things. Now all you do is whine about how mean Wolf Hansberger is to you. It's pathetic. For Christ's sake, man up."

I stared at her in stony silence. I didn't know what to say. My own girlfriend thought I was a wimp, kowtowing to Hansberger's manliness because I couldn't possibly compete.
For a long time neither of us said anything. It felt like ten years stretched between us, the tension increasing slowly until I felt I would snap in two if someone were to touch me. Finally, I got up the nerve to say what I'd been thinking since I started our conversation.

"Fuck you, Penelope."

That's all I said.

We stared at each other for a while longer before she reacted. She grabbed her stuff, shoved it furiously into her bag, and said four parting words to me that I'll never forget:

"Fuck you too, Aaron."

Rage

It was another dream. It was the same dream.

I was screaming and screaming at the side of the building, my hands grappling with the open air above Third Avenue.

My eyes moved from the heavens to the city below and I watched Brett's body descend peacefully through the sky.

He was falling again.

I was screaming again.

I could never stop it.

Paul covered my mouth to stop the sound…

---

"Jake." The sound of my name rang through my pounding head, bouncing off the inside of my skull. I was already awake – I had been for hours – but I didn't want my girlfriend to know that. Not this morning. I needed this morning by myself.

So I pretended to be asleep.

She whispered my name once more but I made no response. My carefully regulated breathing lied to her and she left my side, pulling her robe from the chair next to our bed and shuffling out of the room. As soon as she'd closed the door I let my eyes flutter open. My eyelids peeled themselves back until my eyes were as wide as they could get. I wanted no chance to relive the dream in my waking hours.

I lay in bed for God knows how long before she came back.

"Jake," she said again, her voice firmer this time, "are you just going to lie in bed all day? It's already one o'clock."

I didn't answer her. I wanted her to go away.

"Jake," she demanded. "Jake."

"What, Corinne?" I asked in resignation. I turned my face away from her and focused my eyes on the wall as a long pause settled between us.

"You dreamt about him again?"

I shrugged. I was reluctant to admit that Brett still plagued my thoughts. When my friend had first died I'd had nightmares about reliving his death several times a night. Now, eight years later, I still dreamt about him every other night without fail. It was always the same dream: I was screaming, Paul was covering my mouth, and Brett was falling.

"Maybe you should see a doctor," Corinne said, suddenly breaking through my reverie. She knew better than anyone about the dreams I had. It was a shame she couldn't figure out how not to annoy me. Between my lack of sleep and the constant thoughts of my dead friend, I was one step away from kicking her to the curb. It didn't help that she always second guessed any decision I made about myself.

Sometimes, I got the feeling that she thought I was incompetent.

I sat up in bed and whipped my head around to stare her in the eyes.

"And what would happen then, huh?" I snarled at her. "I know what'd happen. They'd ask me to get a bunch of useless tests done and I'd probably have to do about six sleep studies and all that would come out of it is a box of prescription sleeping pills that I'd have to take for months and that I'd probably become addicted to. Christ, Corinne, do you want me to end up like Paul?" My girlfriend looked sheepishly away from me and for a moment I felt guilty for attacking her, but then I didn't care. She was irritating and I was angry. I hadn't slept in a decade and it was all because my asshole friend had to trip off a roof.

I was pissed. I was hurt.

I was fucking broken.

I buried my face in my hands and drew my knees to my chest as all these realizations swept over me at once. Before I could stop myself, I was wracked with sobs. My body quivered with the force of my sorrow and I lost myself at once. I barely felt Corinne's touch on my back as she tried to comfort me. All I could think about was my lack of sleep and Brett.

Then, all at once, I became aware of everything that was touching me, everything that was around me. I was so hypersensitive to my surroundings I thought I was going to explode and the final trigger was Corinne's nails on the back of my neck. She was trying to soothe me but it felt as though she'd touched my final trigger.

In an instant, I swung out my right arm and backhanded her. The force of the blow struck her so hard that she was turned away from me and fell gasping to the floor, the bedsheets tangled around her waist. She lay there on her stomach, trying to catch the breath that had been knocked out of her. For a moment I was so shocked at myself that I couldn't even move.

Then I felt rage.

I leapt off the bed and grabbed one of Corinne's legs. I pulled her body toward mine with such anger and force that I surprised myself, but the boiling heat of my fury was cleansing. I could feel the anger slowly burning out all the debris that Brett's death had left within my heart and soul. I grabbed Corinne's arm, giving no thought to her safety, and flipped her over onto her back.

"Jake, I'm sorry. Jake, stop," she demanded, her voice wavering with fear. Hearing her terrified words only incensed me further and I pulled back my right arm before letting my fist fly.

I punched her as hard as I could in the face.

"Jake, no! Please stop! Jake!" she screamed but I kept punching her over and over again, feeling her high cheekbones and perfect forehead slowly give way to my knuckles. The more I punched her the more the raging fire in me burned and the purer I felt, so I punched and punched until the human head beneath my hand was reduced to a pile of bloody brainy mush.

When I was finally able to stop myself, Corinne was unrecognizable. She had ceased flailing long ago but I had continued my assault just to keep the fire within me alive. I had finally found a way to forever kill the remains of Brett that had lodged within me.

He Fell Off

My name is Ace Brigham.

I'd like to tell you a story.

---

In 2002, while I was attending college at NYU, something kind of terrible and kind of great happened all in one shot. It was about four o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday and I'd spent the night drinking with the same friends I'd had since freshman year. We were getting drunker and more rowdy by the second and, to avoid being caught by campus police, we took our party up to the roof of our dorm. I still don't remember how we got there.

We were all having a grand time stumbling around until my friend Brett got too close to the edge. I literally turned around and he was gone. The only thing that clued us in to his location was the sickening thud of his body hitting the ground. I froze as my remaining three friends ran to the ledge and looked over, one of them yelling Brett's name as another clamped his hand across the screaming friend's mouth.

"Dude, shut the fuck up!" he whispered loudly. I can't remember his name now.

"Brett just fell off the fucking roof!" the screaming friend whispered back. "What the fuck do you want me to do?! How the fuck am I supposed to react?!"

"Both of you shut the fuck up!" the third of them said. "We have to get all the beer and shit and get off the roof. Someone must've fucking heard that!" The screaming friend stared at the third friend with a frightened look before all three of them ran towards me, gathering up our empty beer bottles as they went.

"Ace, let's fucking go!" the screaming friend whispered to me. His whispers sounded like screams.

"What the fuck, Ace?! We've got to go!" the third friend said, grabbing my forearm and trying to drag me along behind them, but I couldn't move. I could just stare at the spot where Brett had been.

I wonder what he looks like down there. A third-year bio-chem student, my fascination with the human body had manifested at an early age.

Now it was taking me over.

"Fuck him, let's go!" the second friend said. He grabbed the screaming friend and they all took off at a dead run across the roof. They left me.

I was alone.

Images of Brett flooded through my mind as I stood on the roof, staring where he'd stood only moments before. A single thought penetrated my being: I'll bet his body's all broken.

I stayed on the roof for a few moments more before reality hit me full force. My friend was dead at the bottom of my dorm and I could be held responsible, but that didn't concern me. All that concerned me was that I wanted to see him lying there, dead, blood leaking from places it should leak from and limbs twisted in directions they shouldn't normally twist in. I thought of his head, probably crushed flat from the fall, and the impact his body might've made on the cement sidewalk.

Then I freaked out. The terrifying thought came that someone might get to his body before me and then they'd call the police, who would come and put the body in an ambulance and take it to the morgue.

Then I'd never get the chance to really look at truly broken corpse.

In about fifteen seconds, I was across the top of Third Avenue North, looking desperately for any way in which I could descend the roof. My eyes lighted on the door to a service stairwell, hidden far in the corner of the building, and I ran to it, throwing myself down the stairs. I burst out of a heavy metal door inside the dorm that bore a sign announcing "Employees Only" and booked it to the elevator, where I jabbed the down button several times until the doors slid open. I threw myself into the empty elevator car and hit the button for the first floor. That elevator ride seemed to take years.

When the doors finally slid open to show the first floor lobby, I had to collect myself enough to walk calmly by the security cameras. No one was in the lobby – all the RAs were asleep and the night guard was thankfully missing. Still, I wasn't stupid. It would look suspicious enough later when they played back the tapes and saw me leaving the building right around the time Brett disappeared. I didn't want them to see me rushing.

After I cleared the front doors I let go of my cool. The street was eerily silent and as calm as a ghost town. I paused for a moment to take in the creepiness of a completely empty New York street – this was something I'd never witnessed in the three years I'd lived in the city. The sounds of traffic and people from surrounding blocks told me the thriving metropolis was still alive, but it was like this single block on Third Avenue was a necrotic lesion on the great urban body. I involuntarily shivered from both the wind and a sense of eeriness before I turned and let my eyes fall on Brett.

His body lay prone on the sidewalk, dribbling blood just like I'd imagined he would. Everything about him was flattened and crushed, like God had painted a vision from my dreams.

"Oh." That single, orgasmic word escaped my mouth and a smile unknowingly crept onto my face. I was happy. I was excited.

With a quick glance at my surroundings, I walked to Brett and grabbed his body under the arms. I began to drag him from the shattered pavement where he had first landed. Blood quickly covered my hands and I felt a chill run over my skin at the pleasure of it – it felt good and right. I wanted to bathe in its warmth and thickness. I wanted its coppery scent to surround me as I descended into its vitality.

I shook myself from my dream and focused back on Brett. As I heaved his body upward to get it over a short hedge, I felt everything in him give way and become soft. It was like someone had taken my friend and put him through a meat grinder before pouring him back into his own skin.

He was a human sausage.

In a matter of seconds, Brett's ribs disintegrated. I quickly lost my grip on his arms as his already-thin shoulders shattered further and collapsed into his own chest. A sick gurgling noise came from his mouth and blood began to bubble up, spilling out to coat his neck and chin.

"Shit," I muttered, lunging to grab Brett's arm so I wouldn't drop him. My fingers clasped firmly around his forearm and there was no resistance – it felt like I'd sunk my hand into a pile of Play-Doh that'd been sitting in the sun. The sensation thrilled me but suddenly, I was deadened.

This was my friend. My friend who had recently died. He'd fallen off a roof. And I was playing with his body.

This was my dead friend.

"Dead," I whispered, the words out of my mouth before I realized it. "Shit, Brett."

Before I could stop myself, I turned and vomited in the hedge next to Third Avenue North. Just as I thought I'd finished, I vomited again and then a third time until my body felt wracked with grief and sickness. I feebly held myself above the bushes, my arms shaking from the force of my vomiting and the trauma of realization, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck. It's all I could think at the time. In just a few seconds my overwhelming curiosity and need to bathe in Brett's blood had been replaced by the terrible epiphany that he'd been my friend. Don't get me wrong, some part of me still wanted to open him up and explore every inch of his innards while he was still warm, but that part was quiet now. It was fearful of my violent emotions and the passion that I'd always felt for my friends. There was a greater beast raging in me now than curiosity and I vomited a fourth time just thinking about it.

He's dead, I thought, and all I can think about is examining him. Christ.

I took a minute to collect myself and looked back once at Brett. His face was beginning to bruise now and the lightening sky was illuminating just how pale he was. He'd lost so much blood… he would never be ruddy again, not like I remembered.

As another wave of nausea washed over me, I picked myself up and stumbled out of the hedges.

I ran.

Logic

Logic stalks through streets of stone,
Wrapped in chains and rags of red,
Longing for the freedom of her sister:
Love, in beauty's mask.

The Mask

She’d always worn a mask. No one questioned her motives; no one dared to ask why. It was simply a given that Stella Ridley wore her crimson mask everywhere she went. She didn’t wear it because she had some facial deformity. It was widely believed that she was rather beautiful underneath that handcrafted piece of red Venetian leather, yet still she continued to wear it.

Despite the mask, the one thing that really distanced her from reality, she made friends easily. Her manner was unassuming, relaxed, understanding. She allowed much and forbade nothing. All were equal in her eyes, from the darkest, most sorrowful soul to the brightest smiling entity she attended school with. Her best friend was nearly her opposite, constantly concerned with appearances and impressions, but Stella’s nature only increased their friendship. Though Genevieve Cartier was obsessed with how the world perceived her, Stella brought a new wind to her life, a wind that helped strip her of her own invisible masks. They understood each other, despite their mass of differences.

Everyone knew not to question Stella about her mask. It was simply something the girl did. It was her form of expression; some their age wrote out their frustration, some painted or took their anger out in a sport, but Stella wore her mask. It kept her safe. It was her net. When all else failed and the world came closing in, Stella could hide behind her mask. When everyone left her to fend for herself, her mask would protect her from the harshness of reality.

Stella astounded everyone who knew her; she seemed born to knock down the old pillars of belief in beauty. There was nothing special about her, save for her mask, but Stella’s presence seemed to bring about an odd sense of trust. Her masked face and kind voice brought faith to those who had long given up. She was a masked prophet, a teenage girl who could bring those close to despair back from their black prison.

The day Stella Ridley died came all too soon. She’d not yet turned eighteen when she was taken from her parents, her friends, her charges, yet all who’d known her remembered her. Stella Ridley had changed everyone who knew her. She’d given friends new perspective while she’d helped strangers realize that not all was lost. She’d been an angel in times of desperation and a benevolent presence in times of peace. Stella Ridley had been a mystery, but now she was a mystery much missed.

She’d brought hope to those who had forsaken all, and she would be remembered for her forgiving manner, her deep kindness, her soft voice, and her red Venetian mask.

The Stocks

I sighed, wriggling my wrists around inside my upright wooden handcuffs once more. Some pathetic little faith in the ultimate goodness of the universe kept me moving every five minutes, hoping against hope that the stocks I was in would magically spring open and I would be able to perform another randomly miraculous escape. Lord knew I had a reputation to uphold.

I was the best thief this side of the Channel, woman or no.

Next to me was my trusty partner-in-crime, a Spaniard I knew only as Sanchez. The dark-skinned woman next to me had been by my side for years, supporting me as I first became popular with the thieves of London, then with the thieves of England, and finally as I was named heir by the most powerful Thief Lord in all the Isles. Sanchez had saved my life hundreds of times and we’d worked together for ages, yet it never occurred to me to ask her name.

She was simply Sanchez.

And I was Stephanie Snyder, the only daughter of a couple Dutch immigrants, though the English population knew me as Clever Steph. Apparently, I could cut a ten pound purse from the Duke of York and he wouldn’t know what’d hit him until he reached his home.

Or so they said. Who was I to say I’d never met the Duke of York in my life? The people were content to think I was daring enough to take on Charles Stuart, and I was content to let them think so.

With a sigh, I wriggled my wrists yet again and turned to look at Sanchez, a deep frown etched in my features. I saw she had a similar expression.

“And you call yourself a thief,” I said disgustedly, crinkling my nose. “You couldn’t even manage to nab the keys off one of our guards.” Trusty indeed…

“Says the typhus-ridden fool who got us nicked,” growled Sanchez, her teeth bared. I narrowed my eyes. She broke the cardinal rule, the rule everyone adheres to when they’re friends with a Dutchman.

Never insinuate we have a disease of any kind, even if we do.

I stuck my chin in the air, looking down my nose at her as best I could. My voice took on that noble tone I saved for special occasions (usually when people called me typhus-ridden) and arched an eyebrow.

“I can’t help the fact that you’re an incapable piece of flesh who’d rather sleep with a herd of horses than an attractive man.” I smiled cockily at my comeback. Nothing like a reference to bestiality to get her in a fix. “You were supposed to be watching my back yet, when I turned around, I came face to face with Charles Root and his band of Dogs. Excellent job, Sanchez. Well done.” Everyone in London knew Charles Root was the Provost in all but name. The real Provost was some crippled old man and Root had gracefully slid into place as his ‘temporary’ steward.

If there’s one thing I’d learned about the English, it was that ‘temporary’ generally meant ‘permanent’.

"Yes, well, at least my idea of an attractive man doesn't look like the backside of a horse. Besides, it's a bit hard to watch your back when I can’t differentiate between it and your arse." I raised both my eyebrows.

“Why, my dear Spanish friend, I had no idea you knew what differentiate meant. In any event, blaming each other is getting us nowhere.” I grinned and decided to use the age-old mention of, “What we need is a plan.” Sanchez grinned at me, our previous banter forgotten.

“Si.” She smiled and locked her eyes on mine, obviously expecting me to elaborate on said plain. There was nothing but silence for a moment as we stared at each other, her look expecting and mine blank.

“What, you think I’ve actually come up with something?” I demanded after a moment, my expression one of revolt. “We just got put in the stocks, for Christ’s sake! I’ve got other things on my mind! You’re the smart one. You think of something!” Sanchez's eyes flashed and I suddenly felt as though she were going to insult me in a foreign language.

"Tu bastardo! ¡Su madre era un su del padre eperlano hamstar y de bayas del saúco!" With a glare, her insults ceased and she huffed. My blank stare relayed I had no idea what she'd said. "All right," Sanchez growled, "here's the plan: I lay on the accent, seduce one of the guards, get him to unlock my stocks, kick you in your worthless Dutch arse on my way out the door, and then I come and laugh at your execution in a couple weeks. Is that satisfactory, Senora Puta?" I smiled sweetly at my counterpart.

"Very much so, except for the kicking-Snyder-in-the-ass part, the reference to my being a whore, and the bit about my execution.” After screwing my face up in thought, I snapped my fingers, the proverbial torch lit on my head (we had no idea what light-bulbs were back then so you understand my torch reference). “This is what we’ll do, Sanchez. Next time someone comes past, we ask them to get us a can of lard!”

“And what’re we going to do with the lard, Snyder? Cook up some bacon for our own Last Supper?!” I couldn’t help but frown at that.

“For being a thief, you’re really not that bright. No, I’m going to lather your hand up with it, you’re going to dislocate your thumb, and then you’ll slip out! After that bit’s done, you’ll use your free hand, do the same with the other, find some keys, and unlock me! Then we’ll make our miraculous escape and go down in history for being the only thieves to ever escape the stocks! You’ll forever be known as Slippery Sanchez and all the people of England will be afeared of your wily ways!” My face was alight with excitement as I relayed the plan to my partner; clearly, this was the product of pure genius. “Well? What do you think?”

"I think that afterwards, I’ll refer to you as Snyder the Dilatory Dutchman, an incompetent excuse for a thief who was freed by the Sanchez the Slippery Spaniard.” Sanchez grinned at me as I frowned, though I tactfully held my tongue. “One question, though: who’s getting us the lard? Everyone who walks by either throws something or laughs, if not both.”

“Well, my dear Spanjolen, if you’ll look to the north of us, there are two noblemen shopping at that bazaar that I, for my part, know to be intellectually challenged. They can’t write, they can’t read, and they certainly can’t make the distinction between their ass and elbow. I think that, if it’s done properly, we should be able dupe them into getting us some lard rather spectacularly.”

“And how’re we to get our heads out?”

“Sanchez, we’re thieves. We pick locks for a living. Once our hands are free, we’ll pick the locks and be on our merry way.”

“That’s a stretch if I ever heard of one.”

“Don’t think of it as a stretch. Think of it as trying different avenues of escape to file away in our twisted little minds.” I flashed a huge grin at Sanchez and immediately started to usher over the two noblemen. They came toward us at a leisurely pace, each grinning stupidly, the one on the left stroking the slight beard he’d begun to grow. Neither was out of their twenties; the one to the right was Theophilus Howard, Earl of Suffolk while his friend was William Cecil, the Earl of Salisbury. Thankfully, neither recognized me from any of the events we’d attended.

“Good gentlemen,” I began, easily masking my Dutch accent with that of an Englishwoman, “how art the pair of you faring this glorious morning?” Suffolk scoffed at us, his smile turning into a sneer.

“Better than you, I might imagine,” he responded in his nasally voice. Biting back my natural ability to insult everyone, I continued to smile, playing out my part of a stupid commoner.

“Yes, I fear you are right, Lord Suffolk, and that is exactly why my unworthy counterpart and I have beleaguered your most wondrous selves to trouble you with a call for help.”

“Beleaguered, eh?” Salisbury asked, his eyes narrowed in distrust. Attempting to be discreet, he leaned over to Suffolk and asked, “Is beleaguered good or bad for us?”

“I’m not exactly sure.” Turning back to me, Suffolk put his nose even higher in the air (the man was rivaling the Himalayas) and used his best I’m-a-filthy-rich-nobleman voice.

“And how is this beleaguering to be accomplished?” he asked, trying for all the world to sound important.

I had to stifle a giggle.

He’d managed to not only make an ass out of himself already, but he’d used ‘beleaguered’ in the wrong context.

And they had the nerves to call themselves educated.

"Well, sirs, it seems my friend and I are in need of some lard..." With an obliging smile, I explained why the lard was needed (something about Sanchez catching my typhus, which caused her hands to itch) and what we would be willing to pay for it. It didn’t take much to convince the pair of them; as idiots, they were more trusting than most, and Sanchez soon had her hands on (actually, they were in) some lard.

Stupid of them, really, for Suffolk and Salisbury to trust a thief.

Needless to say, Sanchez and I were freed that day. Suffolk and Salisbury didn’t stand a chance against our (or rather my) superior intellect and methods of escape.

And their purse strings didn’t stand a chance against Slippery Sanchez’s Spanjolen blade.

She Dances Alone

She was an angel of the purest kind, but even angels bleed.

Her dress was the whitest satin one could ever imagine; it was so white it radiated every color in the spectrum, almost like a sun in its own right. The cloth flowed over its owner’s body and fit like a perfectly tailored glove, every curve settling in the right spot, every seam blending faultlessly with the pasty colored fabric. The dress’s proprietor, a young woman named Neriah, was a beautifully swarthy European girl who had a sun kissed glow to her noble Spanish skin.

She knew nothing of the pain she was destined for.

She swept through the palace that had become her home, a single crimson rose held loosely in her right hand, her thoughts constantly drifting to her lover.

Her dearest Miguel.

She hadn’t seen him in months; he’d sailed early in the year, a proud officer in His Majesty’s glorious Armada. She’d begged him to stay for reasons unknown, pleaded with him not to go on Spain’s errand to England, but he had reasoned with her. There was no earthly reason he shouldn’t go. He’d been on countless missions before and had always come home to her. He’d asked her to simply her rationale and give him just one plausible reason. One reason and he would stay.

But she hadn’t had one.

So she watched him sail that day that seemed so long ago, praying to God he would come home safely. Every day since Miguel had left, Neriah had gone to the palace’s chapel and begged God to protect him. She longed for nothing more than to see her love again and to dance with him.

What dancers they had been.

Lately, she’d spent her days roaming the palace in her best dress, her raven curls pinned up by a blooming flower, and a rose from the palace gardens clasped in her hand. It had become a ritual. She would dream of Miguel’s return, of the strong features in his face, and of the ball that her father would undoubtedly throw in glory of his Armada’s success.

And they would dance. She and Miguel would dance.

Surely the Armada would succeed. Spain was an undefeated power, their armies magnificent and their navy superb. There was no reason for her to be worried, none at all. Spain would succeed and Miguel would come home.

And when he was home, oh, they would dance forever.