Young Writers Society

Remorseful

I'm standing in the door way of the maternity ward, clipboard in one hand, pen in another.

To my right the midwife is handing over a squirming bundle of white blankets to a man who's spent the last five hours pacing up and down. "Congratulations," she tells him, "it's a girl." His face fills with joy, the pride of fatherhood overwhelming him.

I'm so sorry.

To my left the doctor is unfolding another white blanket. He drapes it over a still-warm, blood-stained corpse. As her face disappears under the shroud I get a final glance at the woman's dying expression, the pride of motherhood overwhelming her.

I'm so sorry.

I'm standing in the door way of the maternity ward, clip board in one hand, pen in another. I'm filling out a birth certificate and a death certificate, as if these two lives are nothing but government data. And I'm getting paid for it.

I'm so sorry.

The Christmas lights twinkle on the giant Douglas fir; your family had insisted on getting one, even though you wanted a silver tip. Now guests are milling about, sipping eggnog. The little children shove colorful winter themed sugar cookies in their mouth, the dry crumbs sticking to their rosy cheeks and the sweet frosting coating their pudgy fingers.

Soft music plays from your dad’s old record player. You smile softly at the earliest memory you have of him and the record player, and he’s there now, changing the record to some different Christmas jam.

The doorbell rings, and you jump up from your seat, your excitement so hard to contain you can barely make it to the door without tripping on the carpet. You’ve been waiting this whole night for Emberly to come. Her frizzy black hair is shining from the moon’s light, and small white snowflakes are settled in her nest of hair. You can see a few of them on her long, dark eyelashes. You’re not even bothered by the cold air because you’re so happy to see her. You don’t even realize the cold air is even entering the house until your mom screams at you to shut the door.

You take Emberly by her hands, which are covered in thick blue mittens. She smiles up at you, her dark hazel eyes shimmering in light excitement. She softly kisses your cheek, and rests her head on your shoulder. “I missed you,” she says, and then looks at you again.

“I missed you too,” you say quietly, and you close your eyes, taking in the moment. You only had a few days together, and then you’d both be back off to college. Emberly’s eyes brighten as she sees the pile of peppermint fudge on the coffee table.

“Fudge!” She squeals excitedly, laughing, and then she grabs a good-sized chunk of it. She bites into it, closing her eyes as she enjoys the mint chocolate flavor lingering on her tongue. Between her mini-bites, she says, “So, how have you been?”

Her eyes are wide, beautiful, and you just want to melt and take real breaths, instead of the uneven ones you are taking now from too much joy. Too much joy. Is that really possible? You tilt your head to the side, smiling at Emberly. There is - isn’t there?

“I’ve been fine,” You say, but that’s a lie. You’ve been broken. Your heart has been shattered to pieces, and scattered around so much that your brain can’t make sense of it and can’t mend it, so it is there, helpless. That was until Emberly came, and her warm hug clicked the pieces back together as if they were just a puzzle, not a broken glass.

“That’s good,” Emberly says with a tiny smile. She tugs on her holiday sweater. It’s one of those ones that look like they were knit by someone’s grandma, and although they always look tacky, they look amazing at the same time. “I brought you a present,” She says quietly, and she pulls off her thick blue mittens. She swiftly and gracefully dances back over to the entryway, where she had set down a tiny blue bag with snowflakes on it. She comes back and thrusts it out to you.

You take it, staring at it for a few moments and then traveling your gaze back up to Emberly’s eyes. “Thank you,” You say, beyond grateful. Your present for her was under the Douglas fir, probably covered in shiny tinsel or a shattered ornament. An ornament broke at least every year, and it was always devastating to pick up the jagged, broken shards on a meaningful decoration.

“Well, aren’t you going to open it?” Emberly says eagerly, and you laugh, carefully pulling out the white tissue paper. Inside is a tiny object, and you hold it carefully in your warm hands. Gingerly, you shake it and watch the little white flakes float around in the ball. You squint at the snowglobe, and then gasp when you see the tiny details in it.

“Aw, Emberly, this is beautiful,” You say, gingerly leaning forward to kiss her. Her arms wrap around your neck and she kisses you back, then rests her head against your shoulder. The snow on her hair is melted now, and the lights from the Christmas tree reflect off on her dark skin.

“Merry Christmas, Leighton,” Emberly says, her voice sugar sweet, soft as snow, and you clutch the snow globe in one hand, wondering how your gift from Barnes and Noble will ever make up for all the joy she’s brought to your life.

Sitting near my family on a pew towards the back, I feel nothing. The speaker, my English teacher, is waxing on about how we never really die, how her spirit still lives on in all our hearts.
If she's living in my heart, why can't I feel her? It's all a hoax. Something they tell you to make you feel important. Make you feel like your life isn't pointless. But it is.
I smooth out the tissues in my hand, still dry as a desert. My friends are weeping themselves silly. Even the stoic doctor who had to check her failing body every day isn't holding it together.
I watch them mourn. I am a smooth gray stone, and they are a rushing river. And her? She was the sun. But now it is forever night, and I am forever unmoved by the waters.
I eat funeral potatoes woodenly, their warmth and cheesiness lost on my mouth that registers nothing and swallows automatically. Just like she did, in those final weeks.
But she's gone. And I am still here. And the world turns on its merry axis. And I am dug into the ground. A stone. She's gone. Why can't I get that into my brain? She's gone. She's gone. She's never coming back. I'll never see her smile, hear her laugh. Never again.
Why can't I cry? Why don't I feel anything? Didn't I love her?
My insides have been replaced by cotton balls.
The casket is open now. Her face looks like it's made of wax. Just like my heart feels. This is the last time I see her. Why aren't I crying? She's gone now. Why do I feel so empty of everything? Didn't I love her enough?
This isn't her. This is a wax sculpture. And not even in a very good likeness.
It's night now. I can't sleep. I can't cry. I still have mothballs in my chest. I still have her contact in my phone. For no reason. I delete it. Severed contact. The world still spins, and even though the sun will come in the morning, all I know is blackness. What's the point of living if I can't even feel sad? What's the point of sleep if I'll never really wake up?
She's dead. She's gone. I keep trying to stab red-hot pokers into my heart in hopes that I'll feel something. Anything. I keep repeating these words, trying to send myself over a brink, a ledge, into grief, despair, insanity... anything but the Lidocaine that has been injected directly into my heart.
I’m watching the news now. The bad news rolls over me. I am a smooth gray stone in the ocean. The images flash onto my retinas, my eyes half-hooded. They hold no special meaning. The gore, the tears, the same images. Over and over. Pressing on my mind. Knocking on the front door. The lights are on, but nobody’s home. They’re all just the same. We’re all just the same. Nothing means anything. She’s gone. Nothing.
Mom’s calling me to diner now. Again. I’m still not hungry. I’ve given up trying to eat. It all tastes the same. Like nothing. My curtains are closed. The television is muted and flickering. But I don’t watch it. I am a stone, unmoved in still waters. Stale waters.
My eyes are drying out. Shriveling. My mind is heavy with cobwebs and my heart is light and made of cotton balls still. There’s a darkness here that isn’t sleep. She's dead. She's gone. She's nothing.
Maybe I’ll feel something tomorrow.

I remember what it was like to dance around. The feeling of being free, expressing yourself through an array of moments. I remember dancing on a stage, blinding lights and closed in spaces. The crowd silently judging you. I loved that feeling. It was surrealy amazing. I remember dancing towards nationals, turning and twisting with my friends. It was a pure, joyful time.

I wish it could’ve stayed like that.

My mother died a few weeks after nationals. Lung cancer spread quickly and couldn’t be cured in time. I was in school when I had heard the news. Fifth hour. Math with Miss McTaylor. At first, I thought my mom had fallen down the stairs again, back in the emergency room. I wished it was that than this, I thought over and over again. My father was at the local mechanics, working a car, when he heard the news. He thought she was pregnant. I wish it was that than this, he had been thinking over and over again.
I didn’t say goodbye to her or anything. She was the reason I started to dance. As a little kid, my mom told me, she would dance around in the front lawn. Her mother, my grandmother, would take pictures and videos of her child being silly.

I had to stop dancing to take care of my father, who was having issues with his lungs as well. Both were smokers. I remember the faint bickering, ringing like music in our household, between the two. I remember feeling normal and happy. I stopped contacting my friends. I changed, some had said. My attitude towards everything shifted.

I remember the birthday parties. The secret car drives to the ice cream parlor. The picnics on the tall hill in the park. I remember being free.

My father died a few months after my mom. I was at home, watching TV. He was in the bathroom. The loud thump scared me. I had thought he fell, hitting his head against the counter.When I checked on him, my father was having a heart attack. I don’t remember dialing for 911 or the paramedics rushing me out. I do remember thinking it was all a dream. He’s going to be fine, I told myself repeatedly. My friend, Amanda, was the one who was comforting me during the time it was happening. I was in an emotion shock. I had just gotten over my mother dying.

It felt unreal.

Everything was crumbling down. My emotional state was spiraling downwards, along with my grades. My grandmother took me a few weeks after my father died. She had tried to make me feel better, cooing words of forgiveness. I faked a smile that week and thanked her.

She was an angel.

My grandmother died that week, in a car accident. I was outside working with my grandpa in the fields, picking corn. The police came an hour later. I never seen my grandpa cry until then. He sat on the small stool, face in hands. Muffled cries. I felt a choking pain in my throat. Why is everyone I love dying? I thought.

My grandpa tried to remay happy.


“For both of us, Magpie.” he said, patting my head. Magpie was the nickname he had given me at a young age.

He was my savior.

My grandpa died. I don’t remember how. I try not to think about how he died. Death. Everything was surrounding me in a dark cloud. I wanted it to go.

Maggie, please stay with me. Maggie! were the last words I remember when darkness encircled me. Cold. Dark. Alone.

I remember dancing. Being free, expressing yourself. My mother’s sweet smile. My father’s strong arms, pulling me into a hug. My grandmother’s cooking. My grandfather’s laugh. It was a memory I loved. Warm. Light. Together.

Everyone is here in the clouds, carelessly dancing.

Melancholy
Moving on was by no means easy.

She could feel the promise of it in the air, feel it in the warmth of the sun as it wrapped around her in a tight and fleeting embrace. She turned her head upward and released a soft sigh, blinking back tears at the blinding auric hues.

“You can stay another night if you like.” Adam offered softly, his brown eyes bright as they caught the fading light. Dropping the box inside the moving truck, Taylor turned and shook her head.

“No, that’s alright. I want to be out by nightfall.” She responded with a smile, turning toward him and heading towards the house. “Thank you though.” She murmured in passing, letting the screen door slam shut behind her as she entered her home of two years for the final time.

Slowly her fingers trailed across the fading blue wallpaper, feeling the familiar bumps of the walls beneath. She could just barely make out the slightly darker squares which had once been home to photo frames – the wall seemed strangely empty without the smiling faces which had once marked it.

Turning to her right Taylor entered the living room. Her eyes fell on the worn couch with its cracked brown leather. She could almost make out two forms sitting there side by side, a heavy blanket wrapped around their shoulders as they watched movies late into the night. Colored light flashed across smiling faces, and just as the credits began to roll they leaned towards one another and connected in the span of a contented breath. She touched the back, where that awful crochet blanket she had made used to sit. It had been a Christmas present after a failed attempt at making a sweater. Despite the thing being lopsided and full of holes he had insisted they keep it in the living room.

A small smile ghosted Taylor’s lips before she resumed her task of looking over the room for any forgotten items. Knickknacks spotted every surface – some familiar, some not. None of them hers, at least, not completely.
Just beside the couch was the door leading to the porch, where she had often come home to twinkling lights like so many stars lit over a fast food dinner. As the public radio station played in the background two figures would spin round and round in a flurry of laughter and soft kisses.

The lights were gone now, tucked away into the darkness until they reached their new home. No more dinners, no more dancing.

Only silence.

Across the room was the kitchen. Neither of the house’s tenants actually possessed the capability to cook, though that didn’t stop Taylor from trying. Once she had attempted to bake a birthday cake but had forgotten to set an alarm. By the time she realized her mistake the chocolate confection had nearly burnt to a crisp and had filled the entire kitchen with smoke. Adam stood there beside the open oven as it breathed gray smog into the room.

She’d hoped he would laugh it off.

Instead, shouts spilled into the room as thick and heavy as the fumes from the burning birthday cake. That night Taylor had gone to bed crying, holding back heavy sobs even as she felt his warm body beside her. Wordlessly, a pair of arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her close, a familiar voice whispering into her ear: ‘I’m sorry’.

A smoke line was still visible just below the ceiling from that time, a permanent reminder of what had happened in that place.
Leaving the kitchen behind she moved on to the second floor. The first door at the top of the stairs lead into the second bedroom, which had been converted into an office. Inside, the only piece of furniture was a desk positioned at the opposite wall along with an office chair. Other than that the room was home only to the tall stacks of books lining the baseboard in a colorful array of worn paperbacks and dusty hardcovers. The walls were pale white and spotted with tack holes.

Once, they had been home to Taylor’s various artworks – sketches of landscapes and of faces she had created or borrowed from those around her. She would often stay up late at the computer, furiously cursing at the screen as she sketched into her tablet.
When she awoke she would find a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and a pillow tucked beneath her head.

‘Beautiful’. He had once said, gazing over her shoulder as she worked. Taylor had smiled, leaning back and grabbing his collar to pull him towards her. ‘Thank you’ she’d laughed against his lips, feeling him smile even as she pressed her mouth to his again.

Her last stop was the bedroom.

Taking up most of the space was a four poster bed covered in a brightly colored comforter. The sight of it had her breath catching in her throat, a strange though not at all unfamiliar feeling bubbling up in her chest. Walking past her suitcase, she spun and collapsed atop the mattress, turning her head to the ceiling. A square of golden sunlight illuminated the room from outside, but beyond its border small flecks of light were just barely visible.

‘Glow in the dark paint’ she’d said, holding up the canister with a playful smirk. They had covered everything in the room with plastic bags before setting to work coating the ceiling in their very own galaxy. With the lights off they had both been illuminated in pale green – the only two of their kind in their own small world. At that time, it had seemed like forever was all there was.

Like that, it seemed like together was all they would ever be.

Taking a deep breath, Taylor closed her eyes, returning to the feeling that had once filled her in this very same place. It smelled like them – like lemongrass and brown sugar. Like long nights spent in one another’s arms. Like whispered promises of ‘always’. Like tears and smiles and anger and devotion.

Opening her eyes, Taylor pushed to her feet. She wrapped her fingers around the handle of her suitcase and left the room that had once been theirs. She passed the office and the kitchen and the living room. The screen door fell shut behind her. She kept walking until she reached the moving van and placed her suitcase in the passenger seat. Then, finally, she turned back to him.

“I guess this is goodbye.” She said with the lips that had once touched his. She looked into those brown eyes, looked at that face that had once filled her life to the point of bursting.

She looked at him and smiled a smile she wasn’t quite sure she meant. It pressed down upon her, choking the air from her lungs. Still, she couldn’t stop herself.

“Yeah. I guess so.” Adam responded, anxiously running his fingers through his messy hair. Her heart used to flutter whenever he did that. It used to leap and spin and stutter.
Now it only sat in silence, watching on pensively from its position within her chest.

“Taylor…Be good to yourself, okay?” He added, a smile mirroring her own gracing his lips. It was a lie, she knew, but necessary none the less. It was their way of providing some sort of small comfort for one another. A final parting gift, of sorts.

“You too. And…thanks.” She gave a small wave before sliding into the driver’s seat and closing the door. Without giving another look to the things she was about to leave behind, Taylor turned the key in the ignition and began to drive down the street. It wasn’t until she reached the stop sign at the end of the road that she spared a glance at the rearview mirror, squinting against the last rays of sunlight as they glinted against the mirror’s surface. Behind her, the sun was barely visible over the purpling horizon – a trail of deep blue and violet clouds marking its wake. And there, at the end of the cul-de-sac was a house, no different than any other houses on the street.

A house that was now as foreign to her as the memories that had been born therein.

Moving on was by no means easy.

Saying goodbye was always difficult.

And the hardest thing about having loved someone was coming to terms with the fact that you don’t love them anymore.

Reaching up she shifted the mirror away from the light until she could see nothing but the dark sky stretching out behind her and before her. Then, switching on her blinker, Taylor turned onto the next road and headed out into the unknown.

Night of the Black Moon

The night was as black as ink and deathly silence hung in the damp air. The ancient trees towered over the jade green dragon padding through the forest.

Shriken was sure that there was no such thing as a Shadow Stalker. It was only a stupid legend that was told to young dragonets to stop them from entering the Forest of Doom. His friends had just been trying to scare him.

He walked on, not caring if he snapped twigs or brushed the leaves with his tail. All he had to do was bring back an emerald from the cave in the middle of the forest. He’d show his friends that there was no such thing as a Shadow Stalker and that this was just a normal forest with no ancient dragon killers.

Suddenly a branch snapped from a few meters behind him. Shriken whirled around, his heart clinched with in his chest. There was nothing there. Slowly, he crept back the way he came, searching for the fallen branch. It lay a few paw steps from him and was lying half hidden by a bush. Pushing aside the leaves, Shriken eyed the bough. His breath caught in his throat when he saw it. It had long lacerations along its length and the end where it had been attached to the tree was cut clean.

Shriken’s heart started to pound and could feel himself shaking with fear. He was starting to feel like winning the bet wasn’t such a big deal anymore and the urge to get out of the forest was growing stronger by the second. Turning, he hastily started heading back the way he came. Avoiding loose rocks and hanging tree limbs. he hurried through the forest. His pace quickened and soon he was galloping.

‘Get out. Get out.’ Was the only thought going through his head.

Then out of the depths of the jungle behind him came a sound that turned his blood to ice; loud panting and the thud of heavy paws.

Tears streaming from his eyes, Shriken tore through the undergrowth. Vines and thorny branches whipped across his eyes and snout, almost blinding him. Hidden stumps threatened to trip him with every step he took, but still he ran. All he wanted was to get away from those awful sounds.

A thundering roar echoed through the forest, but this time it wasn’t behind him. It came from up a head. He skidded to a grinding halt and looked around wildly. There was nowhere to turn. The roar seemed to be coming from everywhere now. Shriken screamed for help, but there was no answer. A rasping sob escaped his chest as he curled up in a ball not knowing what to do. He was lost.

Trembling, he realized that the roars had stopped. The jungle had fallen into silence again. The only sound was the drum of his heart and his heavy gasps. Where was it? It had to be out there still. He backed further into the clump of bushes he was curled in. He knew it was out there, watching him with hungry eyes as if it enjoyed his fear.

The was a rapid sequence of clicks above him and a thump as something dropped to the ground next to him. Shriken held his breath. A pair of taloned feet appeared in front of him, a single sickle claw on each foot. There was another succession of clicks and snaps followed by a low growl of satisfaction. To Shriken’s horror, the leaves above him parted and two glowing red eyes shone down on him. He screamed and the creature hissed with pleasure.

"Beware the Shadow Stalker," it snarled in a voice that curdled Shriken's blood. Then with one lightning strike it was all over and the world went black.

Helpless

I feel sick to my stomach. The nurse leaves the room. I fall to my knees and suppress a scream that yearns to burst from my lungs. Tears roll down my face smudging my makeup but I don't care anymore. It doesn't matter, how can it possibly matter when my daughter is dying in the next room. I finally stand up and try to regain my composure enough to talk to her. A deep pain twists through my soul, it tugs at my heart. I feel as though a part of me is dying with her in that hospital bed. My little girl has never had a problem I couldn't solve, she looks at me like I am the most important person in the entire world. I can't solve this problem, I can't help her. There is nothing I can do. As she lays there with her monitors beeping away every heart beat I can only stare and cry. If I could I would trade her life for mine, take all of her pain. It is worse to see her suffer than it would be to take her place. Sadly I have no such power, no ability to make sure everything turns out okay, and it kills me. It kills me inside knowing there is nothing I can do I am helpless. She is dying and I am helpless to stop it. I stare at her, soaking up her beauty. How could someone so small contain so much pain? I cry softly in the corner. Nothing could ever make this terrible feeling of absolute dread and fear leave me. In a way it wouldn't be right if it did. I need to feel every horrible gut wrenching feeling to let me know I am still here. So that I don't drift away. After all someone needs to be here if she wakes up.
I am not strong enough for this. I can't put up a facade for the others to see. I can't just pretend that Maddy has the flu. She has cancer, she is dying, and I am powerless. That is the truth. She was obsessed with the truth, I used to call her the human lie detector because she always knew I wasn't alright even when I said I was. She knew I was behind on the bills and that my depression was creeping up on me again. We didn't have secrets and now we never will. What we had was chocolate ice cream at midnight and marathons of tv shows. Endless piles of books and warm drinks. Now all I have is terror and the feeling that I am useless. I can't help I just have to sit here and watch. This is maddening and I can nearly bare it. Now I am hopeless and empty and above all I am helpless.

tender

My dad used to have this saying when I was a kid, and he'd repeat it to me again and again, whenever I felt tired or frustrated: "You only have one life, Max. It's up to you how you live it."

The shadows on the wall are getting long, and soon I'll follow my dad into a grave. I know that. But you know what? I'm alright with it.

Dad stuck to his motto until the day he passed away. He lived his life to the fullest. I'd like to think I've done the same. Past those shadows, outside the window, my son's playing with his own kid in the dying sunlight. I raised that boy from childhood to now, stuck with him through every temper tantrum and angry outburst. It makes me think: did my dad ever get tired of dealing with me? I already know the answer to that. No. Because for every tear of sadness that we wept together there was one filled with laughter and joy. For every bitter, unthinking word he said to me there were ten full of remorse and guilt - and for every one of those, I gave two back, every time. It's okay.

Because we humans always make mistakes. It's part of our nature. I've made plenty myself. Lying about stealing some of Dad's money to buy candy at the corner store. Dropping the cake on my sister's seventh birthday. That one time I drew a penis on a bathroom stall and got caught.
Anyway, what's important is that we accept our mistakes as they come, learn from them, and move on. Is that six-year-old who got angry about not getting a toy all those years ago still there? Well - yes, no matter how much he denies it. But there's also a man there now, a man that's grown and developed and matured into a person I'm proud to call my son. I sit here and I think of my own father, and ask myself - did he go through what I'm going through right now? Was I the son outside the window for him? Looking outside the window at my boy now... yeah. Yeah, I probably was. And soon I'm going to be the old man in the casket.

Like I said, though... I'm fine with it. Dad lived his life. I've lived mine. I've gone to so many places and seen so many things, met so many people and made so many memories. I'm content. I hope my son will be, too. I've passed down that motto to him, you know. "You only have one life. It's up to you how you live it." I hope he listened like I did, hope that he gets to sit in this chair and look at his kid outside the window like I am. But for now... I'm seventy. I got time to draw one more bathroom-stall penis.

Green Post-It notes deface my copy of The Sun Also Rises. Every time a social interaction involves drinking, I would carefully place one along the edge of the page, an annotation scribbled on it. Half of the time it would comment on the importance of the current situation. The other half would talk about how one of the main characters, Cohn, is a terrible human being. Not because of how he treats women, but because he's the complete opposite of me. His personality isn't the only redeemable thing about him.

I set the book to the left of the bathroom sink, in splashing distance if I were to turn the sink on. I put my two index fingers on the bottom set of my teeth, yank it down, and press my nose against the mirror. There's a small hole in my left molar, can't tell whether it's a cavity or I've had it the whole time. All I know is that obsessively brushing my teeth and using mouthwash for the past three weeks hasn't helped at all.

It concerns my mom, my irrational sensitivity about my teeth. The fact that it came out of nowhere is the main reason. They have always been white, straight, perfect. One day I noticed it, and sent several consecutive texts to her, asking for a checkup as soon as possible. I got a lecture and was told to leave it alone. While the color and straightness have been maintained, there's still something wrong.

"It fractures your personality," an old friend would say to me about how I handle my problems. It was a solid friendship, but after multiple arguments and faux apologies, we still haven't spoken in a year.

Ever since then, I've blossomed into a contorted version of a social butterfly. Recognized by the school for telling jokes about dead celebrities in front of large crowds, the most commonly used words to describe me are 'zany' and 'unconventional'. Yesterday, a friend wondered if I wanted to race them, and I asked if 'Caucasian' was available.

At this point, personality is the main trait that I have that will get me far in life. Actually, it's probably the only trait that will get me far in life. Sure, incredibly extroverted, but with a ten times more turbulent self esteem. That doesn't matter. Or it shouldn't, according to most people.

All I know is that I can feel a nosebleed in my right nostril. I rub it a few times with my index finger, and the pulpy substance starts coming down into my mouth. It mixes with my toothpaste. I spit out a little into the sink, then I look at my reflection in the mirror with a wide grin.

To my surprise, blood red mixes perfectly with pearly white.

Para sat straight up in her bed, the cotton that stuffed itself inside her head like a teddy bear fell out of her ear. She listened closely. Her eyes searched the darkness for the moving sound. Para swung her legs over and stood up, feeling paper-thin. If someone was running with scissors, they could cut right through her.

Her hands met the wall. She shook hands with the lights. Her eyes adjusted to the brightness. Para's heart vibrated like a phone all through her body. Para stared out the window down at the ground, almost expecting someone to come up behind her and throw her out, or for her to fall and land on her head. In her head, Para could see her own body, bloodied and out in front of the streetlights.

"No." she repeated, over and over. With her hands Para covered her eyes to get rid of the visions that was branding iron to her brain. Para looked at the red numbers on the clock. They said 3:02, she looked away and when she looked back it was 3:03. Morning would be different. There would be people for her to surround herself with again and enough words to make her ears bleed.

Para rubbed her eyes and swung the door open, taking her towel out of the pile of clothes in the plastic basket before going out of the room. She heard a loud thump from across the hall and pulled herself back into the room. Para locked the door and held her body against it. The doorknob rattled loudly. Scrambling around for her phone, it hit her that she left her phone out on the counter in her kitchen.

Para's room was too far up for her to jump out of the window. She listened to the banging of the door. It started to cave in. The banging stopped at 4:27. That did not mean to Para that it was okay to go out. In the corner of her room she sat, away from the window and the door. She entered a state of counting the seconds. The minutes became seconds. The hours became minutes.

Her heart settled waves after a storm. Soon it was back to its rhythmic beat, but she did not move. Her body became roots into the floor until she could not move. In the morning, Para could hear her cell phone faintly from the counter. It rang, but she did not pick up. Her legs dug into the carpet.

Para didn't want to lose her life because she was brave enough to go out of her room. She had nothing to defend herself with. No way to get help. It was 10:22. Para assumed by then that she would not get help and that she would have to face death. At 10:23 she heard knocking on the door.

"Is anybody in there? This is the police." a voice said.

Para opened the door and looked at the man. This was one night in the new house, living alone.

Irrationality was Para's dog that barked at everything it heard.

Jenny pressed little hands and a round nose against the glassy pane. The nighttime world outside was frosty and cool. Faded moonlight lit the empty driveway and Jenny felt a shiver as headlights zipped around the quiet corner and down the street. The lights didn’t stop, but Jenny kept her face pressed against the glass. As another car sped through in a blur, Jenny’s breath quickened. Soon the glass before her was clouded, but the car didn’t stop. Stepping back, Jenny drew a heart on the window before wiping away the fog. A glance at the clock (6 o’clock), and back out the window, Jenny felt her heart begin to race. As each car passed, her eyes widened and she leaned forward till she was once again pressed firmly against the icy barrier. Her heart beat. Her mind raced, filled with a million tiny fireworks as they zipped and popped, leaving a tingle on her spine and butterflies in her stomach.
Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Jenny’s young mind chanted her mantra.
“Jenny! Dinner!” called a warm voice from the kitchen.
“Wait Mommy!” Jenny called back. Outside, a few flakes of snow were beginning to swirl and fall from the night sky above. Jenny gazed out in wonder which turned to giddy excitement as another car turned down the street. This one more deliberate and slow than the others. The car turned into the driveway with a familiar gravel crunch and Jenny pulled herself from the window. Her cheeks were flushed pink and her fluttering heart matched her pounding feet as she dashed toward the door.
“DaddyDaddyDADDY!” Her mantra was given a voice as the door opened and she threw herself into the waiting arms beyond. The next minute her daddy’s arms were twirling her around, up high, low, and through the living room before he fell onto the couch with a smile and a laugh, holding the little girl close.
Jenny wrapped her arms tightly around her dad and sighed contently, “I love you, Daddy.”

My purest crystal, you are the cold that I desire. Without you, I am a dying leaf on desert sand, baked and melted by frying rays. The sand embraces me with hands of wind, holding me down while the Sun besets me with angry punches, and the hot air compresses my throat. I drown in fire, and you are my cold.

You are my warmth, and you warm at my touch. And every single day are you on my mind. You have always been there for me, and you have always found your way to my lips. You give me strength, you give me hope, and every time I taste you, I am invigorated. My shining Venus, sunlight travels past you, yet you are the warmth that gives me life.

But even though I sweat because of you, and even though you are my only hope, one I cannot replace, I know that I sometimes take you for granted. I realize I am incredibly lucky that you are with me, I am aware that there are many who would do anything to have you. I am sorry for not appreciating you, for not showing that I am grateful. I truly am. So, please don't leave me now. Not when I need you the most.

I look at you, and I admire you. I think, and I consider that maybe you are not the purest there can be. But I don't need you to be perfect. I don't need you to be the best. I only need you to be there, to invigorate me, to find your way to my lips. You complete me; without you I would not even be a third the person I am. I need you.

The final sip of you is warm, water. But it gives me hope in this barren desert. It gives me life.

A happy, high-pitched shriek floated down the hallway, and I fought the urge to clamp my hands over my ears. I’d escaped from the dinner table. I was almost to the stairs — once I was up, I was out of sight and home free to my room. There, I could lock the door and barricade myself in the bathroom, put as many layers between me and the world as I needed to to block out the noise. Did I have time to grab a book for company? If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be reading at all tonight, — too much to do.

“Maria!” It was my mom. Of course it was my mom.

“You’re supposed to clear off the counters before you leave the kitchen,” she said. Why do I have to tell you every night?"

I turned, and another round of laughter echoed through the house. Just laughter, but my ears already felt like they’d had too-tight headphones clamped over them for hours, and with each new sound wave a small spike of pain shot between my ears and up to my brain. I glanced at my watch. Seven p.m. As usual.

“I’ll do it later,” I said, digging my fingernails into my palm and trying to keep my breathing under control. “After everyone else.”

Couldn’t Mom see the signs? Leaving the table early, rushing to my room — I had to get away. We’d talked about it before, but I didn’t feel like a confrontation tonight. If she didn’t see it, I wasn't going to tell her.

Mom shook her head, and a lump rose in my throat. “I want you to do it now. And I need you to not go hole up` in your room afterwards. We’re having a family night tonight.”

My chest constricted as if squeezed by two massive hands. No. please, no. I couldn’t handle another hour around my siblings’ post-dinner exuberance. And I won’t be physically capable of acting like I want to be there — Dad’s going to look at me the entire time with those slightly compressed lips but I can’t do it I can’t fake it well enough I don’t have the energy—

Aloud, I only said, “Can I go to the bathroom first?”

Mom sighed. “Fine.” She turned away.

I dashed up the stairs, not heading to the bathroom but to my room. At this point I didn’t even care about the lie. My skull was shrinking or my brain was expanding — I couldn’t tell which, but the pressure was relentless and the ache in my eardrums was building.

I fumbled with the doorknob and closed the door as softly as I could behind me. I didn’t turn the light on, and some of the weight behind my eyes lifted. Three minutes, I estimated. I could allow myself three minutes of silence. Dawdling would only make things worse.

I breathed, a long deep breath, and it came out shuddering. I realized my fists were still clenched, the tension held in my shoulders. My eyes had already adjusted to the dim light, and my gaze fell on the papers strewn over my desk. I shook my head violently, denying the hot flame of fear that lodged itself just behind my ribcage whenever I thought about school deadlines. Or, in this case, an essay that was worth 20% of my grade.

Then I looked at my bed and thought how wonderful it would feel to lay down, to relax into the cool covers. I could feel the fabric cradling my skin, the way the mattress would curve under me. I moved to sit.

And found that I couldn’t. I had to be moving. I started pacing, breathing slowly — with each cool breath the dark room and the silence lifted a small part of the pressure, but soon my breath quickened and the heat built behind my eyes, and then I was hyperventilating and moving faster because I couldn’t sit down, couldn’t rest — with every circuit of the room I willed myself onto my bed and it didn’t work because I didn’t deserve it. I needed to work. Instead, I was weak. I couldn’t handle a simple school day.

Had three minutes passed? Surely it had.

I had to go back down there. I had to listen to my sisters squeal and my brother sing annoying songs and my mom’s oh-so-high-and-happy voice sound above the rest and I had to smile and pretend like every hard consonant and every loud vowel didn’t push my eardrums closer to rupturing, didn’t cause me physical pain.

Another circuit. This time, my eyes fell on my hearing aids, laying innocuously on my nightstand by my alarm clock. I hadn’t worn them in months. Yes, I needed them, but I had fallen out of the habit of wearing them over the summer and now… they were too loud, everything magnified until I could hear the ticking clock above my desk and laughter made me cringe and barely an hour later my eardrums would already be throbbing.

Of course, not wearing them hadn’t helped today. I couldn’t even handle the volume level I heard at, much less what normal people heard. And they did make very good earplugs when turned off.

I looked at my watch. Three minutes was definitely up. Did I even care enough to bring them? The evening would be painful either way. What was the point?

I shook myself and swiped the hearing aids up, putting them in as I crossed my room to the door. They sat, a foreign weight in my ears much more welcome than the one that blinked on behind my eyes as I opened the door to the brightly lit hall. With these, the day wouldn’t end with a migraine and crying into thick covers. If I was lucky.

Calm
Some people have described the night as eerie. Diana didn't think so. She sat back on the grass, smiling serenely at the silvery moonlight. If only she could be alone for a while. If only her little sister wasn't so rowdy. If only nights could last longer.
Feeling the cool blades tickling her arm, Diana closed her eyes and let the tranquility wash over her. Her family was too noisy for her to get much time like this. Just think, Diana thought to herself. I might have missed this if I hadn't woken up during the night.
This moment was much too precious to miss. Diana had loved the moon and stars since she was a little child. She even wanted to change her name to Luna before her parents told her that Diana was the Roman goddess of the moon. She sleepily smiled and took a deep breath, inhaling the scents of the night air.
Then Diana felt something change in the atmosphere. She opened her eyes to a rosy glow spreading on the horizon.
It was morning.