Bird

I stared out the window, watching the sleek, black birds picking hungrily at the dead squirrel on the ground below. My mind, distracted as usual, raced on, curious about why raw meat doesn't bother birds, and where the bones go when they're picked over, and why the squirrel even died in the first place. I look back at my desktop, trying to read the email in front of me, trying to decipher the little bunches of letters that cluttered the page, but I can't seem to stop thinking about dead squirrels long enough to figure it out. I move my mouse to the bottom of the screen, checking the time. 10:45 is too early for lunch. I open my desk drawer, and begin to sort the paper clips, making them all face the same direction, placing the different colors in different piles. I grab the hand sanitizer and squirt a bit into the palm of my hand, poking at the little blue dots, bursting them, and I rub it around my hands, sniffing them until the alcohol smell goes away. My eyes move back towards the window, and I glance towards the traffic signals that patrol the blocks near my building, watching them turn yellow simultaneously. I love watching those synchronized lights switch from red to green to yellow. It sure beats doing the busywork placed on my desk each morning. I can finish those stacks of paper in about half an hour, but I would never let my boss figure that out. As long as he thinks it takes all day for me to get it done, the amount of work will remain steady, and I can daydream morbidly about park animals.

Late Night Love Note

Daylight falls upon my skin,
The cat upon my lap,
Shirking pain the best I can,
I wish only for a nap.

The pillows prop my knees up high,
The ground beneath supports,
I only hope for some relief,
I can't expect much more.

The clock must work against me,
My eyes with red are burnt,
The aging lack of sleep won't go,
It cannot be reversed

The curtains try, but cannot block,
The morning light outside,
The moon has come and gone again,
I can no longer hide.

I try quite hard to close my eyes,
I know they never will
The pain that lies within my spine
Will always keep me ill

I wait and hope so desperately for
What others would conceive
To be a normal day for them
Would be heavenly to me

I try to move just slightly,
To take away the fire
But all I truly know to do
Is lay here and retire

The Battle

The knock on my door marked my appointment as arriving right on time.

“Let's not waste time, most people don't have much to talk to me about, and you sir, you made an appointment. What do you want from me?”

“I must know about the battle, please tell me”
His oddly shaped face was staring at mine, trying to catch my eyes with his, which were leery and seemed disguised by his face.

“I can tell you, but if I do, you have to believe all of it, because nobody believes any of what I say anymore.”

“I imagine I could believe anything you say, just please, tell me.”

“Alright. I have an account written in my journal. Just for freaks like you who want every possible detail. I put some creativity into it, so it may not be perfectly accurate, but it's a little more entertaining.”

I make sure that the camera in the room has sight of him as I turn to my bookshelf, reaching for a mundane looking book that contains my writings on the battle, on that doesn't actually contain my writing, but my father's.

The soldiers lay in wait, in a field just north of Lumberlin, and as the wind stirred the grass into their face, one blade at a time, they all lay perfectly still, ignoring the cravings they all had to bring their hands slowly to their face, scraping the jagged edges of their nails across their skin, relieving that odd, itchy sensation that seems so common when you lay in the grass. There was a lake to the edge of the field, but the men were told not to drink from it under any circumstances, for apparently the factories that cleared out during the war dumped all sorts of disturbing chemicals into it. So the men were stuck in that field for days, no fresh water, as little movement as possible, and none of any of that until the predicted battle took place. Before they spread out, back in Lumberlin, the men had a camp with soldiers from other platoons, and the men were told of a small break in which a plane would be flying over their position, making enough noise and covering them enough for them to grab as much water from the tents as they could before having to drop silently into position again. That day had finally come, and they nervously looked at their timepieces, each waiting for the exact moment to run. They heard a plane coming from the south, and just ass it came overhead, the men scattered and ran. But for some reason, though the plane was overhead, it was getting louder, and they all smelled this stench, this putrid, dense odor that persisted.

Up in the plane, the men tried to prepare themselves for the last thing they expected to happen in the war. Limb by limb, the men were all changing, the hue of their skin intensifying to a thick purple, the flesh of their bodies becoming the consistency of silly putty. In the instant of their worst fear, the plane crashed into the field they had been protecting.

As the passengers crawled out of the debris, they became the target of each rifle held by those who were already in the field. They thought that the aircraft had been overtaken by aliens, and they were the first to witness the next form of take-over in the war. They shot each other, the aliens armed with the passenger's armory, and thy fought each other until they couldn't any longer. Every last shot fired, every person in the battle dead.

What was one of the most unusual aspects of this battle was that the bodies hadn't been found until about 3 days after the battle, found by a family who was fleeing further south into England. The bodies of the field soldiers were somewhat decayed already, but the contaminated bodies of the aircraft passengers were completely intact. The father went to investigate the purple bodies, and realized quickly that they had dog tags on, same as the other dead soldiers in the field. He had not a clue about why or how the bodies had been turned purple, or why the purple bodies were preserved, but he had seen all he had wanted to, and they left. His testimony is the only one given that was not military, and the military wanted to keep it quiet, therefore making him seem insane. Luckily his family had the funds to fly to America after the war ended, meaning he didn't finish his life in an asylum, but his family knew not to speak of it, for fear of the same life Britain would have given them.

Of course, with any “conspiracy” comes a cult following, and just like the youth during any war, they ate up any hint of conspiracy they could find. One group of activists found this family before the war was over, and they formed a punk band. One album per conspiracy spread about the most bizarre conspiracies one could ever think of. I believe that they made some of the more confusing ones up to make the others seem true.”

As soon the man with the odd face thanked me and left, my father walked downstairs and began to make lunch. He wrapped his purple arms around me and gave me a hug, thanking me for keeping him safe.  

Pirates are Necessary

Currently, pirates have much control in seaward fares. Ninety percent of the world's trading is done by sea, and pirates are overtaking at least one of Britain's ships daily. Many people are not aware of this, and it is debilitating. If there's no known need for change, then no change will occur.       Everyone knows of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, and most love them. Lose the image of pirates given to you by these films. Now picture a fisherman, with the appearance of any average person. Look at his small boat, and peer underneath the seats. Here you will find machetes, and M14's. This "average" man is one of today's true pirates, a man of selected genius, skilled in sailing and stealing. Unbeknownst to his family and friends, this man (known worldwide as Hobo Wrath) is not really a fisherman. He attacks other fishing boats for their fish. Such a man as this knows how the world works. Hobo Wrath understands that "What is strong wins: that is the universal law."(Neitzsche) Hobo Wrath is not the only man of his kind, either. There is a plethora of pirates in the world today. One must understand though, that there are two types of pirates that exist today. Hobo Wrath is a small-scale buccaneer. The other kind of pirates, the hard-core corsairs, dress in camouflage and arm themselves with machine guns. The simple buccaneer tools are toys to these fellows. These angry sea rovers go for the big booty; only large shipping vessels are worthwhile to these ravagers. They would kill for one piece o' eight!       Now how can the world conquer such dangerous men, men who attack the unarmed for an excess of items that are not needed? The solution is simple. Every seafaring Willy should become a pirate!       Now, I know it may sound extreme, and maybe it is. But sometimes, extreme is necessary. Sometimes, pirates are necessary. You see, if all sailors become pirates, then the problem will become more widespread. Widespread problems get more publicity. It will not be long before the pirates take the attention of every news station worldwide. When the problem becomes known, change will occur, in the following form: air travel. All the world's trade will then be done by plane, and Britain will not have to worry about being attacked by ships! The big-time bandits will no longer have any large ships with worthy goods available, and will cease their reign. Fishermen will be too scared to go fishing without defense, and it will become too risky for small-time buccaneers to loot their tiny vessels. Our dearest Hobo Wrath will mend his ways, and become an honest fisherman.       As you can see, a movement to increase the numbers of pirates will motivate the world to change their shipping methods from ships to planes, which will ease the fears of serious pirate attacks. Small-scale attacks will still occur, as long as there are any ships on the water, but these scalawags are not nearly as dangerous as those going after the larger ships. Even fools without sea-legs can see that pirates are still needed in the world today.

War kills anyway

I don’t know when or why or how it started, but it did. It started quite quickly, and quite effectively, if you wanted success for it. But I didn’t. I never did like the idea of war, and this one’s not worth fighting for; I guess we should all just join the side that’s going to win. It doesn’t really matter whose side you're on in a war such as this, just so long as yours is the right one…If that makes sense to you, anyways. If not, you can join whichever side you want. War is war, I say. And not very often are things worth fighting for to be found. If I didn’t have to join, I wouldn't be. Hell, I would never willingly fight in a war. Is this a protest against war? Who knows. But if it were, it would sure be a good one. All I know is that I like the peace of lying on my couch and falling asleep next to my cat.

I want to be creative, however I plan to do this. Everyone seems to be moving to Canada before they’re drafted, but I want to think of something better. I want to escape this in a manner that will keep me from it forever. So I have a few options crossed off already: moving to Canada, simply ignoring the drafting issuance, and the obvious, which would be going to war. None of them seem to be creative enough for me at the moment. I don’t know why, at the age of 18, I actually decided to sign up for the draft. I mean, yeah, it’s a federal offense not to, but honestly, who gives a shit? I know I sure don’t. But apparently I did at the time. Because I did, and here I am, called for the draft. With a dilemma such as this, it’s hard to think about what to actually do, but I think I’ve figured it out. What can I do, legally, to get out of this wreck the government likes to (considers a calling) call a style of life? Which is really death, when you consider the fact that it’s a war. Nobody survives war, I mean, even if you come out alive, you’re dead inside when you get back.

Slowly, I pulled my attic ladder down, and climb up into the dark, dungeon-like room. The musty smell hit me in exactly the same way I imagined the bricks everyone threw off our high school roof on the last day of our senior year. For some reason, that day always seems to come back to me. There was something magical about it, watching the blocks shatter on the sidewalk as if they were simply ashes before they fell to their doom. Nothing has ever quite matched that beauty, of destroying something that’s already dead. There’s a sense of peace in doing this, I’ve found over the years. It’s as if you earn the relaxation you would have gained if you were bludgeoning an angry spouse with a nerf bat, except nobody gets hurt, because there’s no more harm that could possibly come to the brick, which never had any life from the start. I think that’s why that day has always stuck with me. Well now it’s time for me to do some destruction again, but the thing is, nothing I’m about to destroy is lifeless. Not yet, anyways.

I begin to delve into the depths of the strong, stenchy, hole of a room, and soon find the object I’ve been after. I pull the pistol out of the cabinet, and check for any ammunition, just to see if there’s anything left in there. Luckily, there are three bullets left. I haven’t touched the thing in years, so I have to make sure I remember exactly how it works. I pull the string which controls the light in the attic, and carefully lower myself back into the main corridor of my home.

I want an easy clean-up, so I walk into the woods of my backyard, and load up the gun. I guess my father taught me something right over the years, because I certainly remember exactly how this thing operates. I set it up just right, and quickly, before I have the chance to change my mind, pull the trigger.

I feel the pain surge and begin to pulse through my lower limb, where the undoubtedly fractured bones in my foot had shattered.  I limp back to my house, where I had purposefully left my phone on the back porch – in easy reach from the grass.  I dial, and watch the blood seep from my foot into the wooden steps on the porch, soaking into the oak, then soon pooling beneath and around the area.

The operator answers the phone, asking for details on my emergency, and I choke up from the pain in my foot, but I realize that I don't want help. I tell the woman I heard a gunshot a couple of blocks down, and hang up, waiting for the burning sear of the bones to calm. I begin to get tired, and decide to lay myself down on the porch, bleeding out, not wanting help, and as I come to the realization that I may die, I feel calm. I feel as though the weight of life has been lifted from me, and I close my eyes peacefully, waiting to die.

The Drive

 Pressing the acceleration pedal, my car zooming through the deep blue night, music pushing me forward on the highway, I find myself embracing the moment, wishing that I could be in that same, whirling vortex forever. The streetlights shine in through my open window, much like the wind, forcing itself upon me, whether I approve or not. It's as though all the forces of life are combining, swirling through the car, around my head, powering the car down the freeway.

I drive and drive until I see that imminent yellow metal rectangle, telling me that the freeway is ending. It's unfortunate that they can't just go forever. It's unfortunate that my car can't either. Why must thrills have limits? Why must life have limits? Why can't the wind be perpetually whipping at my hair, mussing the neat lines put in place by my brush? I bring the car to a stop, and pull the map from my glove box. The creases in the withered paper make it hard to read, but it's almost memorized anyway. I look up at the night sky, close my eyes, and float my index finger over what has become my life. I let my fingernail rest on the map, and look to see my next destination. I look for the next highway headed north, and twitch the volume nob up a bit, denying the few thoughts left my head. The peppy guitar strums force my foot down further on the pedal, as I snap to the beat and shake my hair loose.

I usually heed to the choice made with my finger-point method, but I realize that this time, I don't want to stop anywhere. I don't want a destination. I look up to the charm hanging from my rear-view mirror, which reads: “The joy of the journey is in the ride”. Unfortunately, I don't think most people really have the experience to show them what this really means. The journeys I've always have chosen have been without ends. I make myself determined to continue my nomadic life by making every decision at the last moment, choosing the forks in the road on the whim of the moment.

I drive for a few more hours, trying to decide what it is that's suddenly made me dissatisfied with the idea of a destination. When I first started this new way of life, I had trouble driving randomly. It may sound odd, but it takes courage to do absolutely nothing, and even more courage to do it by yourself. I became used to it over time. I would find myself at a dollar theater, asking which movies are about what, because I haven't looked at a television screen in months. It also became commonplace for me to walk into a candlelit restaurant, and ask for a table for one, sitting for a good while, just sipping at my drink, people-watching, and eating some of the best food I can't afford. After a good while though, I became to enjoy the idea of not knowing people, not being in contact with anyone, and the solitude became a fond habit. My life began to completely revolve around me and the moment. My life lost nuisances like television and routine, I no longer found myself wanting material things for anything other than their intended purpose.

Snapping back out of my thoughts, I drum to the cheery beat with my thumbs, I snap and dance a bit, and I let myself simply feel. I feel the chills from the wind go up my arms, I feel the cold burn from the wind on my face, and I let my ears pound from the loud over-stimulation I expose them to everyday. Today seems to be bringing me to a small quaint town, so I pull off the highway, and head for a motel.

When I get into my room, I turn on the radio, nudging the wheel that changes through the stations, listening to the quick changes from traffic reports to rap to jazz to interviews to rock to country and I realize that I don't want to hear any of it. I turn around and see a glimpse of myself in the mirror, something I haven't looked into in a long time. I realize that I look nothing like what I feel inside, and tug hatefully at my long ratty hair. I pull at the stuck handle of the nightstand drawer, and when I finally get the damned thing open, I grab the sewing kit and pull out the scissors. I force my fingers into the miniature-sized circles, which are somehow intended for my fingers, and begin to snip. I don't even work carefully. I realize that I no longer care about most of this shit. I no longer care that I know not one person, that I have not one emotional connection or relationship in this world. I no longer care that nobody will notice that my hair has changed except the maid who gets stuck cleaning it up, and she won't even like it. I also realize that really, everything I just told myself about not caring is bullshit and if I really didn't care, it wouldn't have crossed my mind. I listen to myself, and tell myself that I sound like a middle school kid picking on his little brother. I try to stop arguing with myself, but my head feels like it will pound itself to death and I realize I have no control. I have no control over my thoughts or my fingers that move swiftly, though unpracticed, through the lessening mass of hair on my scalp.

I chop and hack until almost all of my hair lies on the floor, and look down to see my once-beautiful locks lying around my feet. Looking into the mirror again, I peel off my shirt and bra, and slide my skirt down my legs, into the mess of hair on the carpet. I back up and see the person I am. My short hair looks like it was sketched onto my head, my shoulders sit unleveled on my torso and I realize that my whole body looks unrested. I pull out the bottle of pills that I keep for days like this, and throw 3 of them down the back of my throat, letting the oblong shape stumble awkwardly down my throat, in a way much like Alice and that rabbit hole of hers. I lay on the disgusting motel bed, and think about the nasty germs crawling onto my already broken-down body. I indulge my thoughts, mostly because I doubt that I could feel much worse at this point. The drugs kick in, and I find my body paralyzed with the inevitable relaxation that I had been expecting. I couldn't move my pinky if I tried, but my brain is still running 10,000 miles a minute. Sometimes I mess with myself and try to fight the sleepiness, but tonight I realize I won't succeed, so I finally give in and let myself rest.

I wake in the morning, the sunlight pushing through the curtains, despite me having shut them quite tightly on my way in, but the thin cheap fabric has about as much coverage as a bikini on a fat woman at the beach. So much for a good night of sleep. I glance over at the clock, and see the red numbers blinking 9:03, and I close my eyes, but the LED lights forged the time on the back of my eyelids, and I can't seem to escape it. I stare up at the ceiling instead, and try to make shapes from the stucco that had been attempted on the ceiling. Nothing seems to work though, so I finally try to swing my legs over the side of the bed energetically, and when I push my feet into the ground to stand, I know the forced energy won't last. I drag myself back over to the pile of clothes on the floor, and see the bits of hair peeking out from underneath, and remember that I practically massacred the half-dreaded mess that had been attached to my head. I reach my hand up to feel my new design, and look in the mirror at my still-naked body. I realize how grubby I am and decide to risk the dingy shower.

I yank the curtains that try to hide the hideous tub and shower, the nozzle covered with crusted calcium and the drain surrounded by rust colored splotches from the dripping faucet. I twist the handle to the hottest red on the dial and fumble the paper off the cheap soap they left for me. I set the soap on the shelf on the shower wall, and I step in to the hot streams off water forcing themselves out of the shower head, feeling the burning water wet what remains of my hair. No matter how hot the water is, I doubt it could wash off the filthiness I feel. I grab the cheap soap again, and rub it along my skin, trying to let the smooth edges comfort me, convince me that I'll be clean afterwards, but I can't seem to wash enough. Even if I were to bathe in bleach, I would step out of the tub covered in muck. I continue showering, pretending I have some sort of routine, pretending I shower often enough to know my washing habits. I leak a bit of the shampoo onto my hand and sloppily rub it through my mangy hair, running my nails along my scalp, as if I'll ever be clean. I rinse, and lower myself to sit in the tub, flipping the drain closed with my toes. I feel the water rushing onto my body, burning my skin to a fleshy red color, hoping I'll feel clean my the time I step out. As the water begins to lose its heat, I turn it off and sit on the edge if the tub, trying to ease the mental frustration, the arguing monologue I have within my head. I step out, leaving the water in the tub and trying to dry my body with the too-small towels they've oh-so-kindly provided.

I find a shirt and shorts in my purse, and re-examine my new persona. I determine that I look like a British woman who loves mountain-biking and big band swing. Avoiding my clothes and hair on the floor, I check out of the motel and sit back in my car. I roll the windows down, press my thumb to the side of the gear-shift, and put the car in drive. I look at my surroundings and find that I'm in a small town, and just drive down the roads methodically, being sure to take every turn I can. Looking at the people walking down to their grocery store and the teenagers walking home from school makes me wonder what it's like to lead a somewhat normal life. It's as if I don't remember what it was ever like to have a permanent place to return to, a door to walk through and say “I'm home!”, what it was like to have someone wonder where you are and when you'll return and pray you make it home okay when you're running late. I always told myself that I chose my life, that I am the reason none of these so-called “normal” things are in my life, but really, this life chose me.

Today may be the first time I became noticeably bothered by this lack of normalcy in my life, but I know it's not ever going to be any different for me. What exactly would I do, even if I decided to try and change? Buy and house and bake cookies for my neighbors? I don't know how to make friends. I don't know if I could even hold a conversation for more than ten minutes. I don't think anyone other than a dog would want to sit next to me. These thoughts sink further into my brain, they soak it to the seams, and I rip my car away from the town and head for the highway again. I try to convince myself that if I just keep doing what I always do, I'll somehow stop caring and wondering about any other kind of life.

My foot pushes the gas pedal further to the floor and I fly down the highway, my self-anger building and escalating exponentially with the speedometer. I whip around the curves and follow the lines of the empty highway, but somehow this pent up ball of emotion isn't releasing itself. I push on the brake, as if somehow my psyche is fixed to the pedals of my car. No matter how much I throw my body from side to side with the turns in the road, this seems to be a catharsis that won't be reached.

Sometimes when I find myself at a high emotional point like this, I just imagine my car going off the road, over a bridge, from the side of a cliff, or really just anywhere that will put me out for a few hours or days. Unfortunately, this roadside isn't exactly loaded with options, but I at least have some big, heavy looking trees. I slow down enough to decide on one, and force my foot on the gas. I tell myself that I'll keep my eyes open the whole time, and I'll focus on the part that I'm going to hit, and I just study the bark of the tree, as I get closer and closer. As the first tire hits the grass, I bump around and brace myself for the impact. I push my torso backwards, into my seat, push my legs into the floor, and as I feel the hood of my car crunch into the tree, I feel my consciousness leaving, my lucidness backing away, my emotions disappearing. I hear nothing, I see nothing, and my emotional pain has left, leaving just the overwhelming physical aches and the tickle of the blood dripping down my various extremities. I let the pain overwhelm myself, and I soon fade away mentally.

I hear faint sirens, and I realize it must have beens a few hours since it happened, but I try to fade away again, I try to make it all go away, but the people are trying to talk to me, are trying to keep me awake, and keep trying to move me, but they don't realize that I want this. I can't speak coherently, but if I could, I'd be telling those fuckers to leave me, to just back away, to sit back in their seats and drive their flashing vehicles away and leave me in peace. They don't realize that even if they do fix me, there won't be anyone to call, there won't be anyone to update with my condition, anyone to pay for the bills or to send me flowers and balloons and stuffed animals and Get Well cards. I try to muster up enough of a voice to tell them to fuck off, but my lungs and my throat won't cooperate, and I don't even part my lips.  

The Safe Way

The rain beat upon the windshield, and I could barely see through. Eliza sat beside me, leaning further up to the glass, trying to be a visual navigator for me. She kept an eye out for things in the road, read street names out to me, and warned me about the quick-brakers ahead. As we pull up towards a stoplight, I spot a homeless man, trying desperately to stay dry with his piece of cardboard held tightly against the top of his head. Nobody else even looked twice at him, and I knew I had to at least help him get somewhere dry. I mean, it's the least could I do. And it’s not like he was trying to hitchhike; this was just me doing something out of kindness. I always held the notion in my head that the dangerous hitchhikers are the ones asking for rides, not the ones trying to walk somewhere in the rain.

I roll down my window and motion for him to get in the backseat. His eyes held the most grateful look, accompanied by that hurt, scarred look most typically seen in the eyes of an abused puppy, scared to make any move that could even be considered even slightly damaging. I think, however, that in this situation, his need to stay dry and warm allowed him to overcome the fear of hurt. I asked him where I could take him, and his low, shy, crackly voice spoke a quiet answer, referring me to the grocery store around the corner. His voice had that quality of gruffness, not from his personality, but from a lack of use. It sounded similar to an old trumpet pulled out of a garage sale, having it's first push of air in years forced through the piping. I turn my blinker on, and we drive silently towards the grocery store. I leave Eliza in the car, and walk in with him, deciding to buy him a bottle for water, and an umbrella. As he wanders through the aisles, pretending to have a legitimate reason for being there, I pick out an umbrella and a reusable water bottle, and bring it to the register. I tell the cashier that I will be paying for my items, and then leave them up front for the man that I brought along. “You remember seeing him, right? He’s pretty ragged, and his hair needs a trim, but I’m sure you’ll know who I mean when you see him”. I walk out of the store, and get back in the car with Eliza. She must have been able to read the worry on my face, because she told me we could stop back later and be sure everything turned out alright. Something about this man gave me more concern for him than just any stranger I ran into. Perhaps I knew the feeling that I could read in his eyes, that ever-grateful emotion overflowing, but his battered, shamed body could only manage to express it through his eyes.

We continue on our way, but I couldn’t stop ruminating about that man. About another silent half-an-hour into our trip, I turn to Eliza, and I tell her simply that I need to turn around and make sure that he's doing alright. I pull into a parking lot connected to a gas station, and turn the car back towards the way we came. I pick up my speed slightly, and try not to let these emotions take over. Something about that man made him more than a homeless stranger to me. Something made me worry about him as a person, as if he were a close friend. I felt an oddly strong connection to a stranger that sat in my car for no more than five minutes. As we begin to get closer to the Safeway at which we dropped him off, my foot pushes more heavily upon the gas pedal. I feel an oddly intense emotion, as if I had forgotten my dementia-ridden father at some cheap diner in the city, and had to rush over there before he wandered into the streets and got lost. I can’t seem to recognize what flicked my emotional switch towards this man, but I know that it won’t be going away.

As I see the red lights reading “S FEWAY” come into view, I turn my wheels to roll in between the white lines dividing the parking lot into parking spots. I move my gear shift up to the “P”, and tug my keys out of the ignition, probably quicker than I should. I push the door open as my anxiety rises, and Eliza struggles to catch up to me. I enter through the automatic doors, and see a teen-aged employee pick up the umbrella and the water bottle that I had bought, preparing to put them back on the shelf. My mind flutters for a minute, and I think of the different reasons that this boy would return the items to the shelf. A) He didn’t want the items, and returned them for cash, or B) He never picked them up. Either way, I paid for them, and I needed to find out what happened. I approach the boy, and ask him why he’s replacing the items. He tells me that some lady had paid for them and was going to have someone pick them up, but nobody came to get them and he was going to put them back since nobody was coming for them. Right as I hear this, my head gets a bit dizzy, and I rest my hand on a nearby shelf, casually, so as not to draw attention to my sudden illness. I look at the boy again, but he’s turned his back towards me, and is headed to put the items back. I walk through the store, looking for the man, but there’s no sign of him. I couldn’t even find any evidence that he had ever been there, and I know something went wrong. I mean, they wouldn’t just put things back because nobody took them. I paid for those. They knew somehow, that nobody was going to pick them up. They did something to him. The anger begins to rise in my throat, in the form of bile, and I can feel my face blushing with angered heat. Something happened here. I turn to Eliza, but I don’t see her either. I feel the fear join the anger that’s situated itself in my throat, stomach and brain, and turn my head to see the nearest camera. I see two, and I feel their eyes drilling holes through my head, stealing my thought process, and I wonder what they’ve done with my friends, and why they’ve taken them. I tell myself to walk calmly so they don’t suspect my knowledge of their plans, and when the pathway is clear, I’ll run as fast as I can, dodging as many bullets as need be. If they took my friends already, that means I’m next. That’s what it always means. I look at the monitor that shows the camera shots in the store, and pretend to wander around nonchalantly. These thoughts of anger, betrayal and fear control my head, and I know I need to find my friends. The store closes in half an hour. I decide to find something to use as a makeshift weapon, and I'll confront them. As long as they think I know nothing, I won't be able to do anything to save my friends.

I head quickly to the bath and hygiene aisle, grabbing a set of nail clippers and a pack of disposable razors. I hide in the back, taking apart the disposable razors with the nail clippers. I pull the blades out of the razor head, keeping one, and placing the others back in the package carefully, and I prepare myself mentally for what I'm about to do. I head to the line, and grab a random bag of chips, so I'll be able to pretend I have a real reason to be in line. I set the bag at the very end of the grocery belt, watching it slowly work it's way towards the cashier, and walk confidently towards the cashier. “Where are my friends?” I ask demandingly. The boy pretends to know nothing about what I'm asking, and I repeat myself, this time with a “No bullshit” look on my face. “I asked you a question. Where are my friends?” He looks scared, but still pretends to know nothing. I grab his hand, pulling it towards me, and I press my long, cracking nails against the back of his hand sharply, as a warning. I press just hard enough to make him know I'm serious, as I repeat the question for the third time. “Look, I'm not going to ask again. Where are my fucking friends?” He takes advantage of the momentary emotional lapse in my response, and pulls his hand away, telling me he'll bring the manager up to talk with me. He lifts the phone, touches a few numbers, and I hear the loudspeaker request a manager to checkout line three. I know that I can't let them over-power me, and I arm my other hand with the blade. The manager walks up, and asks how he can help.

“You know what you need to do. I need my friends back, before this gets ugly.” “Excuse me?”
“Do I really need to repeat myself a million times for you, too?”
“Well, who are these friends that you're referring to?”
“They walked in with me, you fucking idiot. You captured them, and I'm not going to be next.”
“Ma'am, you walked in alone. I can show you the video footage.”
“Please do.”

They take me to the back office, and I be sure to watch his fingers on the punch-pad, so I can get out if I need to escape quickly. 2-0-1-7. They try to make you think the keypads are to keep people out, but it goes both ways -- keeping people out and keeping people in. I look at the different rooms back here, trying to guess where they would keep Eliza and the homeless man. Each door looks the same though, and I decide to just count how many there are instead, making sure to note any numbers on the doors. My count hits six, and I follow him into the room.

The room is equipped with a television screen, and the manager pulls a chair up for me. I pretend to be civil, and sit, politely. He rewinds the footage for me, going back to the time at which I first came in, and shows me on the video, walking in alone, picking out an umbrella and water bottle, paying, and leaving them at the counter.

“You obviously have had time to edit this footage. You made your first mistake when you knew exactly what time to rewind the video to.”
“Actually, ma'am-”
“Stop calling me ma'am. Stop pretending to be polite and demure. You aren't fooling anyone.”
“Alright, then, lady, we knew where to rewind to because we thought it odd that you left your items at the counter, and we had kept your receipt. We looked at the time on your receipt.”
“Well that doesn't mean you didn't edit the footage. Show me where you're keeping my friends.”
“We don't have anyone being held captive. We don't have any software that we could've used to edit your footage, and we now have every reason to call the cops, seeing as you have threatened us.”
“Please, call the cops. They need to know what's going on. But I'm going to dial the number, and I'm going to be the one doing the talking, because for all I know you have friends in uniform on your side.”
“Please, do.”

As I see the red and blue lights flash into the parking lot, a strange sense of half-relief and half-nausea comes into my stomach, and I prepare what I'm going to say in my head, rehearsing it so it's just right. The uniforms walk in, and I'm surprised to hear the first words come out of their mouth: “Have you been drinking tonight, miss? Have you been diagnosed with any sort of mental illness?”

I thought they would be on my side, and I thought they would be helping me, not trying to incriminate me and accuse me of public drunkenness and insanity. My stomach loses the half-relief and switches over the nausea to full-blown. I try to roll the days events through my head, I try to see where things went wrong, and I begin to decide upon my next move. I feel the razor blade in the palm of my hand, and work on an action plan. There's one of me, and four of them, but if things go well, there could be three of us and four of them, which can't be nearly as bad as one to four. The first copper is standing next to me, the other behind the next chatting with the cashier and the manager, them also making a game plan, I'm sure. I start to remember that there are benefits to only having one of me, the main one being that my plans will never be vocalized. Luckily, they have no idea that I have make-shifted a weapon, therefore also giving me the benefit of the element of surprise. I think I'll only have to injure the one standing next to me in order to get out of the room, and then I can shut the door and hopefully block them in with something in the hallway. The cashier will probably try to help the one that I get with the blade, and the other cop and the manager will probably try to chase me. I think over the things that I'll need to pay attention to, like seeing if the manager tends to guard one door over the others. I have five doors to check, and then I remember the code, 2-0-1-7, and recite it in my head. It's time. I have to start my plan before they start theirs, and I haven't been listening to what they're talking about in their hushed voices, so I don't know if that's soon or not, but since their voices are still hushed and they haven't spoken to me about anything yet, I think I have a minute.

I know that if I stand, they're more likely to notice than if I keep my height the same, sneaking out sideways, and making swift motions. I shimmy to the edge of my seat, and slide off quickly, stabbing the cop on his right arm, making sure to hit deep so the blood will distract them. As I pass his other side, I nick his left arm as well, knowing the surprise of a double-attack will be strong. I run out the door, and as I shut it in their faces, I'm highly surprised to see not five other doors, but two. I have no idea what kind of shit they think they're pulling, but I grab a chair sitting at the end of the hallway, and stick it under the doorknob. It may not be especially effective, but it'll have to do. I don't exactly have a plethora of options, so it'll have to work. I punch 2-0-1-7 into the keypad on the next door, knowing that they won't expect me to know the code, therefore checking the other room first. I shut the door quietly, because I think they've gotten over the surprise element and are now in panic mode, probably also attack mode, and I need to move quickly if I want to get out of here. The room is dark, and I consider turning the light on, thinking about whether the light will seep out from the crack under the door, or whether it'll be light enough out there to not be noticed. I decide to play it safe, and instead use my cell phone as a light source. I see nobody in here, and I think it may be a storage room for important documents. I slip behind a file cabinet, hearing their shouts, knowing they'll check in here soon. I hear the key pad being punched, the doorknob rattling from the quick motions, and I stay quiet and motionless as the door opens, the light flicks on, and someone peeks their head in, probably the manager, telling the others that the room is cleared. The light shuts off and he closes the door again, leaving me in the darkness. My thoughts begin to control my head again, and I wonder whether this whole plot was to get me, or if it was to get my friends. I guess either way, it doesn't matter, because now they know that I've figured them out, and since I've injured one of them, they want me anyways. Their loud voices are becoming less audible, and I decide to check the other room. I'll have to leave using an emergency exit. It may set off an alarm, but I'll have a head start. I slip out of the room, and into the next. I switch the light on, and again, see nobody. My mind works every option, thinking of where my friends could be, and I come up with nothing. I don't even have the faintest clue as to where they're being held, and at this point, I'm not sure that it matters. I just have to get myself out of this now. I head back to the hallway, and look for an emergency exit, which I spot quickly, and run out. The one thing I didn't account for, however, was the fact that they would be calling for backup. As I hit the outside air, I see that there are flashing lights surrounding the whole building, not just one car, but seven. I guess I did more damage than I thought, because I also see an ambulance. Because I didn't expect so many people with an eye out for me, I didn't exactly leave quietly, and instantly, I'm hit with the bright lights of the police cars. I see three of them walking towards me, guns up. I try to think of what I did with the blade in the midst of all this nonsense, and I can't even begin to think clearly. My mind has given up any sense it had of clarity. I can't check my pockets, but I know it's not in my hands, so any plans for use it would've had is abandoned. I take my focus back to the world around me, and look at the barrels of those guns, pointed at me. I raise my hands to the air, and say nothing, move nowhere, giving up internally just as much as I had externally. Their steps quicken when they see my lack of motivation, and I feel myself spinning, I feel handcuffs and I hear heavily practiced laws flowing from the mouths of the officers. I hear something about assaulting an officer, and hear hushed speaking, words like “paranoia” and “schizophrenia” and “psycho” mixed into the conversation. Confusion slaps my brain with doubt, and I wonder whether I had been right all along or not. Thoughts swirl through my head, and I try to reassure myself, failing miserably. From what I've heard of their conversations though, I'll most likely be put in a white ward with a gown and a cot and rooms with shrinks and pills and propaganda telling me why I need to swallow this one or that one and education regarding mental illness. I'm about halfway between reality and my head, and I need to choose. I need to decide what to believe. I can no longer trusts my eyes, my senses. I don't know who I can trust, what to believe, what's real and what isn't. I'm ushered into the ambulance, strapped on a stretcher, with two paramedics and a cop watching my every move.

I move back to my thoughts. We are all animals. We are all full of fear and hate and wonder and surprise and guilt and regret and ambition, and pride for the same sort of nothings that fill high school resumes. We all act on instincts, none of us have the morale we like to pretend we do. We are all fucked up. We are all fucked.

Highway Stripper

The cars traveling behind our pickup truck dodged the clothes that had landed on the yellow dots painted on the black asphalt. As they drove, they would first see my jacket, a grey zippered hoodie with black striping, then the shirt I had worn underneath, a purple T-Shirt with a picture of a yellow dinosaur on it, made to fit a 10-year-old boy, and then my dark yoga pants, that had been oh-so-comfortable at one point in time. But as I sat in the pickup earlier, I felt so uncomfortable, and I couldn’t bear to have a single thing touching my body. It was as if my clothing had been covered with itching powder, and every time it touched me, a thumbtack tickled the skin beneath, itching and hurting my hyper-sensitive skin. My friend in the passenger seat beside me looked oddly at me, as I tried to hold my sleeves off of my arms, but nothing was working. It seemed that anything even hovering near the hair follicles that were layered on my skin would burn away and destroy that bit of skin. I knew that nothing could be done, except to take everything off. I had to heal myself, my skin, my body. I pulled to the side of the road, and looked at my dear friend. Silently, I step out of the car and walk to the passenger door, opening it, and point to the driver’s seat, telling them to scoot over and drive. I shut the door, and walk to the back of the truck bed. I pull open the hinges, and step up, closing the gate on my way. I unzip my hoodie, and knock on the window, telling them to drive the bastard, but slowly, giving me time to adjust to the speed. Sitting down, I brace myself, and as the speed gets to what must be about 30 mph, I rise. I pull my body upwards, and begin to strip.

My arm slides out of the sleeve of my hoodie, and it flies, like a flag, in the wind, attached to my other arm, which acted as the flag pole. I raise my left arm, allowing it to fly higher, until it soars through the wind, hitting the pavement with a soft thud. I open my arms, and feel the breeze. I let the wind wash the grub and lint of the clothing off of my skin, and poke my head through the small window, to tell them to speed up. I let the wind wash the pins and needles off of the skin that was covered by the sleeves of my sweatshirt. Still, I feel the extreme discomfort of my shirt. I carefully move my arms to avoid touching any part of my body that can be avoided, and tug at the bottom seam of my shirt. I slowly pull it up over my head, the wind ripping at the sail created by having this shirt open to it, and feel the cold rush of air upon my stomach. The shirt covers my face, and for a moment, I am completely blinded, and begin to lose my balance. I blindly brace myself on the back window of the cabin, the cotton of the shirt whipping in the wind, and I struggle to pull it off, over my head, without more contact than necessary. It flies in the wind, and I watch the ripples in the freed fabric, waiting to see it hit the ground. It hits the windshield of a small car in the other lane, who angrily flips their windshield wipers and middle finger at me, but still I know I have not completed my healing process.

I stand in the wind for a moment, the skin on my upper torso bared-save for the pale, soft skin of my breasts. My small, thin, fabric brassiere, the kind most pre-pubescent girls wear when they like to think they’re about to become women, perfectly fits my tiny supplements, but still, even the softest fabric could not comfortably touch me today. I reach behind my back, and unclip the most uncomplicated hatch that has ever been put on such a harness. The straps begin to ripple, as the wind finds the freed, loosened lace, and I slide the silk ribbon down my arms, releasing another bit of my imprisonment to the wind. I now have my complete upper body freed, and the wind beating upon myself was forcing the discomfort from my bones. I close my eyes, feeling the cold rush, trying to enjoy my freedom, but I still feel encased in the pants that cover my lower extremities.

As I feel the strong breeze freeing my body, I begin to see a bright flashing, coming from a car not too far back. I suppose someone must have called the cops, because the red and blue lights are most definitely not trying to pass us. I poke my head through the window, and tell my friend not to stop. I can’t let this end before I need it to. Knowing that my time has lessened, I begin to hurry my process. I slide the thin fabric down my legs, stepping out quickly, and I throw the pants towards the windshield of the copper, taking that small bit of advice from the previous driver of the windshield struck by my shirt. The officer turns his sirens off, and his loudspeaker on, the voice of a man hidden behind a thin, glass shield now pouring through the airwaves. I cover my ears at first, but slowly release the pressure of my hands as I get used to the volume behind the car. I try to block out his words, but something in his voice draws me to listen. He has this lilt, this soothing voice, and I can manage to ignore the meaning behind the things he’s saying, but not his voice. I hear something in the manner with which he speaks that fills me with a strange sense of desire, and I realize that that’s what it is that I hear in his voice. It’s a desire, one that he is trying desperately to cover, and I am the only one that can decipher it. It’s an encrypted code, a computer program that only I can hack. I decide to use this weakness to my advantage. I slide the elastic of my flowered briefs past my hips, completely baring my naked body to the world. I stand strong and proud in the wind; I have overcome the antsy disruption to my life. I allow even the smallest hairs on my body to flow in the wind, with my bare feet planted about a foot from each other, and my arms raised to the sky. I know that nothing matters right now, other than this sensation that I hold throughout my whole body. So often, we allow ourselves to use only a small bit of our senses, and ignore the whole of the feeling that is given only by embracing all of your senses. I sniff into the pollution filled air, the dirty smog of the factories nearby reminding me that some bits of life will always try to grey out the other bits, but I can see the yellow of the baby daffodils beginning their spring lives, and I can hear the deafening pleasure of the wind roaring through my ears. Nothing can take away the hope of new life brought by the spring. I feel my short hair, cropped close to my head, wisps flipping in the wind, the grease of the last week that I had gone without washing it allowing a mold to be made on my skull. I know that nothing can change this moment that I have created.

The voice from the loudspeaker behind me blares more words, but all I can hear is the wanting and wonder that fills his boyish imagination, as if he were a 5-year-old who has just discovered legos. I listen to his lust-filled song, and know he will not be trying hard to stop me. I move slowly and carefully in the bed of the truck, stepping towards the handle to release the gate. I tell my friend to speed up, but whether or not I was heard is questionable. I stand up tall, allowing the momentum to build itself, and before the physical forces take over, I dive off the edge of the truck, my toes touching the last bit of metal as the force of my jump leaves my body flying quickly towards the pavement, the cop car, anything that gravity considers to be larger than myself. My body braces for the impact instinctively, and I feel my hands hit first, onto the hot, rough asphalt. My knees are next, the burning sensation from both the heat emanating off the road and the lacerations that now covered what had so recently been even and monochromatic skin. I hear the screeching tires of the trooper’s car trying to brake and swerve and not hit me, and he must have left the loudspeaker on, because his curses at the inevitable accident are loud and clear for all to hear. “Fuck! Shit shit shit shit. Oh my fucking god. Get out of the way!” A weak smirk rises to my lip, a mumbled laugh forcing my mouth open slightly. I roll my naked body over to lay on my back, and hear car horns and somehow the sunshine beating on my face makes it okay. I may be naked and half-lucid, but I feel alright. The grass just past the edge of the road’s shoulder has a sweet smell to it, and I scoot my body over to get a better look. I want to feel the blades of grass with my fingertips. I hear large boots coming towards me though, and I don’t have the time to enjoy this moment the way I had hoped to. I hear the questions coming towards me, I hear the angered voices, I hear the other voices of the EMT’s, who sound more concerned than angry, but I keep my eyes and lips closed. I don’t want them to ruin my moment right here, in the sun, with the warmth and the scent of old car parts and fresh leaves oozing with the smell of life and photo-synthesis. I feel someone touch their hand to my forearm, assessing my injuries and my mental state, and I flip my eyes open, glaring angrily. I am soon lifted to a stretcher, strapped down, unable to move my arms. I feel those thin, cheap cotton blankets typical of hospital ER’s and rescue rafts with the Coast Guard layering themselves on my body, and I try not to listen but I hear the voices of them, the strangers who are taking me, and they talk of thorazine and haldol and ativan, and they just won’t let me be. I feel a small dissolvable wafer being placed in my mouth, and I soon fall asleep.

I wake up in a bed, wearing a hospital gown, in what appears to be a psychiatric ward. The rooms are all one-person only, and the security seems hyped up; there are three uniforms with cuffs walking around. I see a fellow patient walk past with cotton punching-mitt-like hand coverings, presumably to stop them from hurting themselves. I lay back for a moment, observing my room. Plain white walls, shatter-proof windows, and those ratty pieces of fake mirror that they like to think can give you a decent reflection, or at least enough of one to feel human. Not even a pulley for the blinds was there, it was replaced by a small rod that you were supposed to twist. I push myself forwards and realize that there's a big cast on my left arm, which I automatically assume was the arm I landed on. I think about this, and realize that I don't remember very much of what happened. But I know I landed? I think a little harder, and I know that my clothes are nowhere to be found. I try to think back to what I was doing. I was with my friend, going to get some lunch. I was driving. Was I in an accident? Is my friend okay? I wonder what I did to end up in a psychiatric ward. I feel that tingly urge going to my neck, and as I reach my right hand to my neck to scratch it, I notice the self-induced scratch marks all over me. And then it hits me. I was itchy. I was itchy and had to take off my clothes. And the only way to rid myself of this almost-incurable itch was to push my body into the wind. I leapt into the wind to free myself, but it looks like I ended up in a cage. I really did like that shirt, too. I don't think I'll be able to find it though. I want it. I want the comfort of my own belongings. A cage such as this requires, in order for it to remain a cage, a lack of personality. These people like to figure you out without the help of your personal items. I slowly bring my sore, damaged legs to the edge of the bed and step down onto the ground. I realize that my feet are bare, and the ground is cold, and I slide my tail-end onto the bed again, resting my feet just a few inches above the floor.

A white-coat walks into the room, seemingly surprised to see me sitting. She asks me some generic nurse questions, and I respond with my generic patient answers. I know I'm supposedly sick, if I'm in here, but really, I'm rather apathetic about it. I'm just as happy here as I was at home, and I was pretty happy at home. The way I see life isn't with long-term goals and wants and dreams or any similar thing. I just let life happen as it may. Tomorrow will come tomorrow, and I'll deal with it then. Today, I'll deal with now, and yesterday is over. I don't bother with wants, it's hard enough for most people to deal with needs. I need to move around, and I remember that the generic nurse had handed me some generic socks and I put them on my cold and dingy-pale feet. I step onto the floor again, this time feeling the rest of my body, and not just my feet. I ache, but it's nothing I can't handle. It's nothing I haven't handled before. I look at the bland tiles on the floor, and chuckle to myself, realizing that my socks blend in perfectly with the tiles. I imagine patients walking around with no feet, their socks not only disguising their feet, but making them unnecessary. The legs blur into the air, and the floating cattle wear their hospital gowns without shame, but also without pride. The blank expression on each face is precisely the same, each head emptied of its usefulness, lacking the control it once had over the neuro-transmitters. The drugs fill the receptors, leaving no room for the instincts of each naturally-unbalanced brain chemical. The errors have been removed, but not fixed. When I glance back out to the hallway, I realize that my vision was accurate, minus the lack of feet.

As I take my first step into the hallway, I look left and right, like a small child about to cross the street. I see nobody coming, but still, I hesitate to make a move. I point my right foot forwards, letting my toe test the senses, poking at the floor. I finally give myself permission to take a full step, and just as my feet close together, I feel the heavy, unrelenting wind push me over, and I roll back onto the grass, my naked body laying just where I had first landed. I feel the cars drive by, their high speeds making wind that would not have otherwise been there, their engines roaring loud enough to shake the soil on which I lay. My arm aches, and I look over to see the damage, which was bad, but not urgent. Nothing’s urgent anymore. I see no sign of my pick-up, my clothes, or anything that could be of use. But I don’t care. I lower my head back into the grass, resting in the nook that had presumably been formed by my skull when I landed. The soft soil has a bit of give, and I use it as a pillow, the soft grass comforting me with its light brushes across my face. In this moment, there is nothing else that I need; no reason to be dismayed or alarmed or angry. In this moment, I am calm and collected – even more so than I have been in years. I take the comfort from these thoughts, and bask in it, closing my eyes to the bright sun, and I let myself float freely through the universe. I have freed myself.

The Bus Stop

The small boy sat patiently by the tree stump, his over-sized backpack slumped on the ground beside him. As the other neighborhood kids began to join him, I could see his level of anxiety rise. His legs began to bounce up and down, his eyebrows furrowed, as though in deep thought, and his eyes dodged those of the children around him. I saw the mental age difference between this boy and the others, who stood in a circle, giggling and teasing playfully. He may only have 7 years of life, but he feels like he's had 70. I continued to wash the dishes monotonously, staring out the window, knowing exactly how that little boy was feeling.

I saw the red kickball being passed from kid-to-kid, and I watched every bounce, as if it somehow held meaning. Each time it hit the ground, I hoped it would bounce towards that boy, that he would have the courage to grab the ball and join them, but I know that so often, things don't work the way they were meant.

The small girl with her red, curly hair, pulled up in pig-tails, never seemed to catch the ball at the right time, and always seemed to be chasing after it as it rolled behind her. She looked to be about 6 years old, probably in first grade. The other girl at the stop, most likely her sister, looked to be about 10, and must have been one of the oldest at the stop. She was always tossing the ball with a little more force, daring the other kids to challenge her. She acted like she may have a crush on the older of the other two boys, who looked to be the same age as her, teasing him in that way that little girls do. Her dominant personality took control of the small social circle that was the bus stop. I think about my years in elementary school, and that girl who held the same place as this one. Her name was Lisa, and she had a way of making people do what she wanted. She always did bother me, but my teacher sat her and I next to each other, probably because I was “well-behaved”, and was a “good example”. But those phrases really meant “terrified of authority” and “afraid of mistakes”.

I suddenly realize that the juice glass I had been washing has broken, and the cuts on my hand are leaking blood into the soapy water in the sink. The hot water begins to sting the raw, open slices in my hand, and I finally realize that I have to take my attention away from the bus stop across the street.

I slide the ointment out of the tube and onto my finger, caressing it into the cuts on the creases of my hand. The sting of pain doesn't quite disappear, but it probably won't for another hour or so. As I peel the white plastic backing off of the bandage, sticking it onto my hand, my mind wanders back to that kid at the bus stop, and I know that there's something about him that reminds me of myself. His obvious social anxiety was distracting, and I couldn't help but wonder the cause. I wondered if his teachers mislabeled his fear for good behavior, as they did for me so long ago.

I hear the loud engine of the bus, and soon the broad, yellow atrocity stops to let the kids walk the steps up to the aisle inside, which can be just as loud as the engine, if not louder. I see the kids pick their seats together, but the boy finds an empty one, and stares out the window.

As I sit at my desk at work, I can't help but find my mind preoccupied with this boy, and I can't help but wonder the cause of his anxiety. My hand picks up the phone each time it rings, and my mouth answers the questions, but my mind is on auto-pilot, and I may as well be back at the kitchen sink, staring out that window.

The next morning, I purposefully time my breakfast so I'll be washing my dishes while the kids wait for the bus again. I watch the boy arrive first again, and I notice that his clothes are the same as the day before. I think about bringing a muffin out to him, trying to talk to him, putting a smile on his ever-sad face, but I know the other kids will be there soon again, and will tease him for anything they can. I try to think of some way I could help, but I know some things can never be done right. I know there's nothing for me to do.

As the other children arrive, they grab that kickball out of the bush they use for safe-keeping, and begin to bounce it around again. The older boy teases that girl that seems to like him, and I watch the way the other kids watch those two. There's a sense of authority given to them, probably because of their age, and I wonder what it would have been like to be one of them, when I was young. The younger boy, probably 8 years old, has the lightest blonde hair I've ever seen, and he's dressed in plain clothes, a simple grey t-shirt and blue jeans. He seems quiet, and it's hard to tell what he's thinking. He seems to be a polar opposite to the older boy, who's dark brown hair is a bit unruly and always seems to be mussed, which clearly speaks of his personality. He's jumping about, everytime I seem to look, and his hyperness almost makes him seem on-edge. It clearly makes the lonesome boy nervous, as he looks longingly into the woods, seemingly wishing he could disappear within them.

I continue to watch the four passing the ball around, and I can't help but find that bounce entrancing. I stare every time, following the rhythm with my eyes, still feeling like there's something significant behind that bold red kickball. It hits the ground lightly, without even enough force to move the small stones on the pavement, and it makes me think of how young and fragile those little lives are. Those small arms are frail, not from age and deterioration, but from the lack of labor and the youngness written in their bones. It continues to bounce lightly off the ground, until the load roar of the motor arrives to bring them to school. I see the ball being thrown into that bush, and this time, it's not the kid at the bus stop that distracts me all day, but that silly rubber ball.

I'm not sure what it is that suddenly made me so out-of-focus with my life, but I haven't been able to think straight since that boy at the bus stop caught my attention. But for some reason, I can't pinpoint what's so bothersome to my mind, or why I've been so distracted. I haven't been thinking about one thing in particular, but I almost feel that I'm having deja vu, every time I see the group of children at the bus stop. I try to place what it is that's so familiar about that damn bus stop, but all I can see is that red ball in the bush. Something hits my stomach, almost a pang of anger, maybe fear, when I picture that ball stuck in the bush, but I can't place why it bothers me the way it does. I know now, though, that until I figure out what it is that bothers me so much, I won't be able to concentrate the way I used to. It's as if my life is pausing, all because of this entrancing scenery in front of my house each day. It's as though that scene has more meaning to it than my everyday life.

I've been watching the bus stop for the last week, now, trying to place that half-memory, that vague pain of familiarity, but I still have yet to remember anything but the fact that I'm bothered by this scene that's being played on my street every morning. It feels like someone's putting this play on for me, laying out a stage on my windowsill with this scene that never seems to change. It's like a recurring dream, a song stuck on repeat, or a skipping dvd.

The weekend went by with my mind racking itself for any sort of memory that may explain what's been bothering me so much, but to no avail. Today, the children continue their usual routine, with the awkward kid giving himself about five minutes to settle before the others get there, and when the others arrive, they pull their ball out of the bush, and bounce it around while they wait. I've watched that bounce for days now, and it has a haunting rhythm that can't find it's way out of my thoughts. Today, as they pass it around their circle, I see it bounce past the younger girl, and out of her reach, as she runs after it. It begins to roll into the woods behind them, and I see myself chasing after that ball, as a seven year old girl, at my bus stop. I watch her looking into the woods, and I see her wondering if she'll have time to make it to the bus after she grabs the ball. The dilemma written all over her face, she looks back to the other kids, and sees them calling her back, telling her that the bus is coming. She looks after the ball one last time, then turns around and heads back to the others.

The bus leaves the stop and I realize that the memory trying to come back to me isn't one of playing with the ball, or sitting at the bus stop, but chasing after it, as it rolls into the woods. I realize that this is the moment I've wanted to come to me for the last week, and I swiftly walk to my screen door, sliding my feet into my shoes and preparing myself mentally for whatever it is that I'm about to remember. I cross the street, heading in the direction of the ball. I know that something about fetching this ball from the woods has stuck in my mind for such a long time, but tried to stay hidden, until now. I work at keeping myself determined and strong, but I already feel the fear rising in my chest, like the bubbles stuck in a shaken soda bottle, choking itself with pressure until it forces itself out, and only half of the soda remains. As I walk down the slight hill into the woods to find this ball, I feel my legs wanting to run, wanting to move with the gravity that's pulling my body downwards. My seven-year-old self follows the moving ball, as I chase after the one that's stopped moving. I see my little self bursting with excitement, and I can see the joy of adventure and the thrill of being alone in the woods for the first time filling my head with pride. I watch this girl with some hesitation, knowing that there was something here that changed me, something that went wrong, something that stopped my pride from staying in my head for more than two minutes. I feel myself remembering that I was different when I left these woods, and I fear the realization that may come with reentering them. I consider turning around to avoid my fear, but I know that this needs to happen, that I need to let myself out of this trap that watching the bus stop has become for me. As I near the ball, I feel a presence that no seven-year-old would be comfortable near. The eyes of the presence are hungry with lust, lingering on me in a way that sickens. I stop watching the ball, and when I realize what I'm about to remember, I feel the vomit rise up my throat, burning it's way out of my mouth. I watch the clothes come off of my small body, as I slump on the ground, wondering how this never came up before, wondering how nobody ever knew, how somebody so vulgar could remain a free soul after what I see happening. I watch myself trying to scream through his grungy fingers, my mouth cringing as I taste the mixture of dirt and sweat transfer to my tongue. I see him pull out a knife, but I can't hear a thing, I just see the obvious fear of his threat instilled in my young eyes. I feel the heat of my tears rolling down my face, as I lay back into the hill, curled in disgust, wanting to disbelieve what I now know. I begin to doubt my parents, and wonder why they never found out. I question myself, and wonder why I never let anyone find out. I remember that fear that I saw in my young eyes, as the scene replayed itself before me, as I watch my life and everything I felt I knew unraveling. It's disturbing to think about how much our parents can not know about our lives, even at an age where they're supposed to be in charge of every place we go, every other kid we play with, have every tv show pre-approved, and it strikes me, how nothing is ever what it seems. I try to imagine how I must have behaved afterwards, quietly feeling haunted by this man, this animal who took my sense of security, my calm exterior, and shattered it into the anxiety-ridden teenager I became. I begin to understand the fear that powered most of my seemingly unprovoked nervousness growing up, and I try to let it sink in, try to grasp the new reality of my adult life. I try to remind myself that I have already overcome this challenge, I have already worked through this. I bring myself to open my eyes, and take myself back to the conscious world. I don't want to move, but I don't want to stay. I wish myself back a week, before I noticed that boy at the bus stop, before I became curiously distracted. Sardonically, I think to myself that curiosity killed the cat, but they never told me they raped him too.

I look up and see the red kickball, and crawl across the dead leaves so I can reach it. I pick it up, wipe the moisture from my face, and walk up the hill, placing the ball in the bush as I return to my house. I slowly pick up the phone, and tell my boss I'll be out for the day, then lie on the sofa, curling up to protect myself from the knowledge that can transform a life so easily. I pull the knitted blanket up to my neck and force myself back to sleep, back to the place I was a week ago, back to the place where what I didn't know was what I didn't want to know.

My mind won't stop running, and I think about the dynamics between those kids at the stop. That girl, the dominant personality raging through her thick exterior, must have something that fires her big personality. She must have someone even more over-powering watching over her every move at home. The small red-head giggles, not in fun, but out of nervousness, every time she has to run after the ball that bounces past her. The oldest boy, the one who flirts with the girl, secretly fears that every move he makes may be a mistake. His lengthy curls come from a lack of attention, a lack of security in his self. The blond boy is the only sane one. He knows not to draw attention to himself, and he remains strong in his lack of personality. The lonesome boy is only different because he has already been broken. The others will catch up soon.

Please Forget

On occasion, Molly enjoyed the overly-pungent scent that filled the cheap nail salon. This was one of those occasions. Her cuticles were ripped to shreds, the wear and tear of the last two years controlling her mind, urging her to continue nit-picking those sad remainders of fingers. Her eyebrows had a perfect arch, but were much too thin. Any small black hair poking itself out from beneath the others was doomed to the tweaking and tweezing that was only made worse by the 5x magnified mirror she had bought at the drugstore earlier that week. As the woman attending to her nails was cleaning what she could on those sad digits, she asked whether she would prefer acrylic nails or the gel fill-ins. Molly thought about which would be easier to bite off, which would taste worse, and began to wonder why she even walked in the salon to begin with. She then reminded herself that sometimes we like to waste money on things that are considered normal. “Acrylic. And I’d like a bold purple on them.” The stylist wandered away for supplies, and Molly looked at her fingers, stretching them wide, feeling the pull of the joints working against each other. She bent them, watching the veins on her hand bulge and disappear back into the fabric of her body, and thought curiously about the inner-workings of herself. She remembered slicing into her arm, going past the thin layers of skin, to the thicker, white layer of fat, which, once she got through, would take her straight to the muscle. She loved being able to see things in her open body, things that you can't see through any medical textbook or model. She could explore as much as she wanted, because she was the one who decided how much she could take. After digging far enough, she would turn a full bathtub redder than you would think, without losing too much blood. The pressure of the water can hold some of it back, which she found to be a miracle of nature, but sometimes she would accidentally go too far, sometimes she couldn't stop the blood. But sometimes, she didn't want to.

The woman came back with the polish and imitation nails, and began to glue them on, one by one. Molly was startled by the sensation, which always surprised Molly, but she had been so absorbed in her mind lately, that anything would surprise her. The polish applied itself thickly, and made the edges of her fingertips look less horrid and destructed. The weight of her new fingers was an odd balance after having nothing there for so long, and she tested the wind resistance, swinging her arms back and forth. She walked to the front counter, not bothering to sit and wait for them to dry, and handed sixty dollars to the woman, leaving without asking how much she owed, or waiting for change.

Once she reached her car, Molly slammed the door and lit a cigarette, pressing her arm out the cracked window to ash. Not bothering to start the car, Molly thought about where she would go, could go, and should go. The keys turned quickly in her ignition once her mind was made up, the tires flying, moving her car out of the lot. Molly directed the car into a neighborhood, numbly driving many miles over the speed limit. After making many turns and curves, she slows herself, pulling into an empty driveway with a “No Trespassing” sign and a broken gate. Driving down the crumbled road, she soon found the end of the road, near the pier. She sat for a moment to prepare herself. She hadn't been here since he left. Stepping out, she grabbed the lighter, her cigarettes, and her small bag, and began to walk the wooden steps, speeding her movements to avoid thinking any more than she thought she should.

When the island became her next step, she slipped off her sandals, tossing them into the waves, not caring about retrieving them later. She watched the foam padding riding the waves, then slowly tipping and plummeting into the bottom of the bay. Avoiding the ragged house on the island that once was lively, Molly went to the other side, with the rocks, and sat. She dipped a foot in the chilled water, letting shivers go up her calf, all the way to the little hairs being raised on her thigh. The lighter flickered in front of her face as she inhaled, creating the beautiful red ember on the end of that long white stick. Holding the cigarette in front of her face, she examined the way the embers danced among themselves, growing slightly darker with each puff that she didn’t take. Inhaling again, she looked to the heavy waves, watching them gain and lose mass, seeing the steady rise and fall. She was soon reminded of the first time she had been here. The boy that had brought her, the cheap cologne he wore that somehow still managed to make him smell like he was born a man. She thought about the way his hand had slid up her skirt, and the way she couldn’t even manage to stifle her pleasuring gasps. She could almost still feel the way he kissed her breasts, even after all these years, and remembered even more the way their lips always matched each other’s perfectly, the biting and tugging and teasing that helped to rip off their clothes, but most of all, she remembered the thing he would always say as they were curled up afterwards. “You love me, right?” His sad, juvenile eyes always looked a little soggy after these words slipped out, and Molly would brush his hair with my fingers, whispering, “There’s no other way for me to feel.” This ritual went on for two years, the longest ones she had ever lived, and for the only period in her life that mattered, Molly was happy.

Taking the cigarette that was almost burned out, she inhaled again, lighting up the red embers, flaring her memory. She slid the edge of her skirt up her thigh, and pushed the red-orange salvation deep into herself. The face of her lover lit her mind as the end of her cigarette lit her skin, and she thought bitterly about the only day she ever hated him. She saw herself standing beside the examination table, looking at the bruises left by the rope he had tied around his neck. She had heard that he was found hanging from the emergency fire escape in his building, and she thought about the note he had left. “Please forget me”, was what it had said, with her phone number scribed on the back, and he had tucked it in his pocket, presumably right before he slid of the steps, making his last willful move.

Molly lifted the end of her cigarette from her leg, just now waking herself to the over-stimulated nerves pulsing through her leg. She had let the cigarette go out on accident. She lit another, and grabbed her bottle of anxiety-relievers from her bag. She opened the bottle, and looked inside. There were too many to count. She had been saving them, and getting refills to build her supply. She poured them out onto one of the rocks, and separated each and every one from the others. She didn’t have any drinking water, but had taken her pills dry so many times that it didn’t matter to her. She pinched one in between her thumb and forefinger, declaring a count out-loud. “One.” She took another puff, and took another pill. “Two.” She continued this process, but grew impatient with the amount of swallows, and began taking three at a time, pressing the red embers into her leg with her left hand, and pitching the pills to her throat with her right. As the dizzy feeling began to wash over her, she took one last puff, and threw herself into the water. She let herself bounce into the water, and glanced at the rocks one last time, to see what she had left to be found: the half-pack of cigarettes that remained, her small bag, which had his note in it, the empty bottle of pills, and her etching in the rock, which read, in her horribly shaky writing, “Please forget us.”