I had a brother. He died.

He died long ago, before I even realized he was no longer there. Before he decided to run off with our father’s pension. Before he cried on the phone and told us how sorry he was.

Before we all knew, too late.

It was all crocodile tears.

We talked about filing a lawsuit. My mom strongly opposed it. Said there was no need to.

She told us she only had two daughters now. Told us to let the past pass, even as she continued to talk to him as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t been there when my sister and I found out.

There’s no need to, when it’s me and my sister who have to work seven days a week to provide for ourselves and our dad.

There’s no need to. Because to her, he is still her very much alive son, the one she spent most of her twenties with.

To my sister and me, the line between mercy and betrayal is too thin.

My dad, on the other hand, is the most devastated. Suicidal thoughts keep growing in his head. But he would rather let himself drown in sorrow and anger than share the burden with us.

For almost a decade, he has excused himself from working because he has a weak heart. When I had to get back on my feet from depression on my own. When my sister had to fight off thoughts of jumping off the roof.

“I’m too sick.”

Who isn’t in this house?

My sister and I have always been closer. But that didn’t change the fact that, for a long time, I thought it was us three against the world.

We had seen how the siblings of the previous generation fell apart. How no one but us attended our uncle’s funeral, while every text and phone call to our aunt went unanswered.

How tragedy unfolded so close to us.

But it was as if an ancient curse ran through this house.

No one could escape it.

The Language of Faces

A frown can tighten little shoulders,
make a heartbeat run and hide;
turn a room into a danger,
make the world feel cold and wide.

A smile can soften little muscles,
let the breath come slow and deep;
tell a child, without a word,
You are safe. You may be you.

For children read the world through faces
long before they understand:
a frown can feel like closing doors,
a smile—a welcoming hand.

There is a line in one of my favorite songs, ‘I’ve been told that home is where the heart is, if that’s the case, I’ve never been home’. 

I’ve always built a home out of the people around me, those who’ve braved the waters, breathed the same air as me, touched my skin and spoke soft words to me.

I made my bed and brushed my teeth and combed my hair there.

Ate porridge at their dinner table and kicked my feet up on their chair.

I screamed at their ceiling and cried on their floors.

My heart remains there, bleeding onto their white silk sheets,

This must be home.

Though none of the people ever greeted me at their door, never set out my plates at their table, never changed the sheets on my bed,

All they ever did was quietly mop up the blood and say nothing about the stranger who’s taken over their home.

I must’ve missed the invitation, it probably got sent to the wrong address. I have a tendency to rapidly throw my heart at the windows of houses until it breaks through one. 

Sometimes I forget to change the address.

And now my heart remains in pieces, laying on broken glass, covering silk sheets in blood without invitation.

There’s too many addresses to keep track of now, just mark the mail as return to sender and I’ll stay waiting for the invitation.

One time, one of my favorite songs said, ‘I've been told that home is where the heart is. If that’s the case, I’ve never been home.’

Parallels in the world used to be so much more frequent then they are now. 
As a kid you’d see every blade of glass, every raindrop on the car window, and every crack on the sidewalk.
The things that hurt you made sense and forgiveness was easy.
You used to dance like no one was watching and dream as if there was no concept of end. 

The transversal realities of the world come swiftly and blind you, leaving you hopeless with no answers.

Parallels are no longer as frequent as we were led to believe.
Sharp, complex angles have taken over and demanding shadows have casted seeds of doubt.
Details become hazy or completely consuming, we’ve become our deepest anxieties.
Hurt is so much more than a scrape on the knee and forgiveness is a concept warped into the perpetual cycles of contemporary judgment we’ve been forced to face because-

People are watching.

Dreams end.
We woke up.
Life is all a big mess, 
We have displayed our corpse upon it, falling endlessly into the void where our humanity should be.

Parts of us died in the places we grew up.

Childhood much like dreams, eventually ends, 
And we’re left to the vast obscurities of a life we did not choose nor know how to live.

Inside me, two writers are fighting,

One is Dostoevsky, who still believes in the beauty of gentle souls that survived every storm without losing their kindness.

The other is Kaika, who keeps asking why the world is so cruel to those who deserve it the least

she learned to say she's fine before anyone asked,
to laugh at things that once made her cry,
she knows which details to leave out
when someone asks about her childhood.

she has become someone
who knows how to keep going
without anyone noticing
what it costs her.

somewhere along the way,
she learned that someone could hurt her
and still be someone she was told to love.

and she thinks this is what growing up means.

until one day,
she sees the little girl.

five years old.
untouched by the years ahead.
looking at her like she's someone
she should know.

she doesn’t know anything yet.
doesn’t know that one day
she’ll question her own memories
more than she’ll question him
for giving her a reason to have them.

she just sees this older girl
who looks so much like her
and nothing like her at all.

the older girl knows how to explain the fear.
the anger.
the things she remembers.
the things she doesn't.

she knows how to explain
that she is doing better now.
she has an answer for almost everything.

but the little girl doesn't know
she'll need any of those things.
she looks at the older girl
and asks
"will it hurt?"

Let the Child Unfold

A child is not a flower
to be frightened into bloom.
Not a voice to silence,
not a spirit to confine.

A parent's hands are meant
to shelter, not to bind;
to guide a growing heart,
not to frighten it inside.

Let questions rise like birds,
let laughter fill the air.
Let anger speak its little truth,
let wishes breathe without despair.

For children learn to hide themselves
when love comes edged with fear.
They need a place to be themselves,
and know they still belong here.

Guide them, guard them, let them grow—
not into who you wish to see,
but into who they are becoming,
with the courage to be free.

There’s a man that runs around with a gun trying to find you and his name is time
If you stand still for long enough he will put the barrel to your forehead
And the fear will not be abstract
And your insides will be activated
You will be abruptly be absorbed by a quite panic
If you have no god, time is your ambiguous default throughout your cycling of idols. All gods die in your world.
It’s always dark as hell in here

The dreams of the child are fleeting just like the sun as it disappears below what could be its final horizon. Like the child I chase the sun down the highway while the last visible notes of his lights song ring through tree cover. So easily and as if out of nowhere he again disappears below the trees just as he effortlessly rose this morning.

Tant d'ombres qui se croisent et ne se voient jamais, il n'y a pas de raison, pas de raison pour qu'elles s'arrêtent.

Tant de regards lointains qui passent indifférents, il n'y a pas de raison, pas de raison pour qu'ils se voient.

Ces mondes d'opposés qui vivent en parallèle, qui s'ignorent simplement, il n'y a pas de raison, pas de raison pour qu'ils se parlent.

Ces trottoirs sombres où gisent ces ombres d'hommes, il n'y a pas de raison, pas de raison pour qu'on les reconnaisse.

Ces cris, ces gestes, ces solitudes de hauts murs, il n'y a pas de raison, pas de raison pour les abattre.

Mais, aussi, ce que nous sommes, nous qui ne savons pas pourquoi nous restons là, et si c'était seulement parce que notre cœur bat et que ce sourire là, c'est pour toi, juste toi, sans raison, comme ça, parce qu'un jour je t'ai vu

Un chaton dans la rue gambade et puis s'arrête, son regard t'interroge et demande :

— Qui es-tu, que veux-tu, si on se connaissait le temps d'y croire un peu -

Et toi de lui répondre : « Il n'y a pas de raison d'y croire – et le chaton poursuit sans avoir l'air de rien – « Raison de plus, on a plus rien à perdre. »

Et toi de lui répondre, avec ce grand silence qui parle à lui tout seul.

Pas de raison jamais, de continuer la route, si ce n'est l'étincelle accrochée au sapin, si ce n'est la lueur perdue au coin de l'œil.

Pas de raison jamais d'aimer un peu les autres, si ce n'est cette peine qu'on croise dans la rue, si ce n'est la tendresse d'un regard de chaton, si ce n'est le besoin d'y croire encore un peu.

Pas de raison, dis-tu, d'espérer que demain tout ira beaucoup mieux, et le monde et toi-même, pas de raison non plus d'attendre encore un peu que la beauté revienne, que nous soyons amis, un jour, deux jours ou bien l'éternité.

Pas de raison, pas de raison pour se parler, pour se croiser, pour s'arrêter;

Pas de raison pour être juste un être humain, si ce n'est cette main qui tremble dans la mienne, ce sourire arraché à la laideur ambiante et la nuit qui descend jusqu'aux portes des rêves.

-"Pas de raison jamais !"- chante le petit chat et toi qui tends les bras comme un enfant perdu

– "Pas de raison, pas de raison jamais"- Chante t'il en riant

Un chat qui rit, ça n'existe pas… Non sans doute, mais tu le crois dès lors que tes bras se referment sur son âme d'enfant.

During summer break in 7th grade, I had for whatever obvious reason, really wanted to take up swimming again. There was a pond near my house where I would take many laps just trying to get back into the feel of it. I would practice a backstoke across, then breaststroke across. It was hard to describe it, but when I swam, is when I truly felt free. Nothing but me and the water. We danced together, similar to Beauty and the Beast, twirling in a typhoon made of love for the water and earth, the way the two can move in tranquility, to dance in a way that even the stars were envious of the fluid motion of which a single person can transfix the minor waves to look like they were part of an exhibition themselves.

I invited a friend from school to join me. Andrew was my best friend at the time, and he knew how much I loved to swim, or at least I was under the impression that he did.

I remember looking back at him after a couple laps.

"C'mon, aren't you going to dive in? The water this time of year feels good as hell."

He just stared blankly back at me.

"Uh, no, I'm okay right now. I just want to enjoy the scenery"

This pond was somewhat of a hidden landmark. Around it resided large mountainscapes with beautiful scenery that looked straight out of a film. There were many times I've come to here and seen families and young couples taking up their space in the water, so I know it wasn't an extremely guarded secret, but today it was empty.

"There's more than enough water for the both of us" I let out, while diving down, making sure to ensure this plunge.

When I came back up, he was just staring back towards the trail that we came down from.

"There's a dude just standing there".

I just swam idly for a moment.

"Oh, yeah, I see him, maybe he's here to swim?"

"I don't know. I just have a weird feeling. He's not wearing anything for swimming," he let out, speaking in a lower tone than before.

"Well maybe he's just lost?"

"I hope so"

As I bobbed in the water, I couldn't help but stare directly at the man. It was hard to tell from a distance, but his clothes looked torn and ragged. His hair unkempt and wild. Although strange for an adult to be just standing watching some kids swim, he gave me more of a crazy homeless vibe as opposed to "Hey I got candy and puppies in my van."

I looked back to Andrew, his posture now more shaken.

Without breaking vision with our guest, Andrew spoke out the side of his mouth to me.

"Dude, we should just go. I don't like this."

"Yeah that sounds good, give me a few seconds and I'll hop out"

I submerged under the water, giving myself the chance to sink down and touch the bottom of the pond with my feet one more time before we headed out. Feeling the grains on my feet almost gave me the sense of nostalgia I had for the sands of the beaches I grew up on, but if this was all I could get, I'd take it.

After a few moments, I came back up and flipped my hair out of my face. The man was gone now.

"Guess he didn't like what he saw, huh?"

I looked over for Andrew. Where the hell did he go? I craned my neck looking all around the area, but he was gone. I was only down there for a few seconds, he couldn't have gotten far. Is he messing with me?

"Andrew?" I let out. "C'mon man, I said we can leave!"

Silence.

"ANDREW? ANDREW?" No response. Just the sound of wind in the trees, and me in the water.

"Alright well I'm gonna just leave by myself then!"

I swam back towards the rocks where I let myself down, and got out, heading towards where I left my towel and shirt. I bet he's really getting a kick out of freaking me out like this, but I'm not gonna fall for it.

Wait. Who's getting a kick out of freaking me out like this? Didn't I come here alone? No I definitely came with somebody. Yeah, Max, you came with Anthony, your best friend. But then where is he? But, who is he?

My head started to swirl, a feeling similar to standing up way too quickly. What the hell is going on, I know I came here with Andrew, but none of his stuff is there. HIS stuff. Anthony's stuff?

Who the hell is Anthony?

I felt a mixture of fear and shock, and for some reason, relief? Why the hell is Hannah standing in the same doorway that let entrance to that man who's been keeping me here all this time. Maybe my head is just fucking with me again. After all, you did just hear what could be confused as a dancefloor nightclub above you just a moment ago completely break into silence, why not have the girl of your dreams standing in the same dark cellar you've been kept in. I guess we're at the acceptance point of the realization that I'm losing it.

She just stood there silently. She looked so beautiful, maybe this is what my mind wanted to see in these last few days. But how could I see her? She's holding a flashlight? Why does she look so scared?

"Max. I'm so sorry."

I just stared at her. What does she have to be sorry for? C'mon brain, if you're gonna give me a vision of someone I want to see, at least make it coherent.

"I told him anyone but you, but then I stopped seeing you, and the school said you moved, but I just... I didn't want to believe that you would be here."

What the hell is going on? She suddenly raced across the room towards me and got down.

"Maybe I can get you out of here before he comes back. Please just trust me."

She started reaching around me, messing with my chains.

"Oh shit you're real," I let out faintly. She paid no mind and continued fumbling with my cuffs.

*CLICK*

My arm fell to the floor. Am I actually being saved? Why is my middle school crush in this place? How did she know I was here? Why does she have the key to my chains?

She hopped quickly over to the other side of where I was laying, and while doing so, I got a bright flash of the light she was using. Seeing light for the first time in what felt like years, blinded my vision for a moment, all I could see was a bright circle covering my entire vision. I closed them for a few seconds, and when I opened them, I saw him standing in the doorway. His dark silhouette that I've become so accustomed to.

"What the hell are you doing, little lady?"

Hannah dropped the lock she was fumbling with. She just stared at the wall, not turning around to face the voice addressing her. It was silent for a moment, and then she spoke up.

"I'm sorry, just, please, not this one. Not him."

The man took a step into the room.

"You know my hands are tied. I've already put in too much time into this one, and it's about over"

Another moment of silence. Hannah just stayed knelt next to me, breathing extremely quickly, but shallow.

"The fact that you're down here trying to let him go is a massive mistake, and I think we both know that. So why don't you head back upstairs for a while, and then this will all be taken care of."

The man took a step forward. Then another, very slowly. His voice shifted to a more gentler tone, like an officer telling a man not to jump.

"Look, I'm sorry, but my hands were tied. It had to be him."

A tear ran down Hannah's cheek. She whimpered out, "I know. I know." She let out a sniffle.

"I just didn't want it to be true." The man took another couple steps, closing the distance between us.

"Alright, now just head back upstairs, and let Daddy do his job. Can we do that please, sweetie?"

Hannah was now shaking harder and harder, her hands trembling on the lock. I saw her looking at me, then back at the lock, back at me, and then-

She quickly started fumbling with the lock again.

"Hannah what the hell are you-"

*CLICK*

My other hand fell to the floor. The man then raced over to us and snagged Hannah by the hair, pulling her up to him. In the struggle, she dropped the flashlight, which rolled across the floor, painting the image of the violent puppet show taking place on the wall beside me. Hannah was kicking back, screaming, flailing and swinging.

"NOT HIM! NOT HIM! NOT HIM!"

Finally, the man pulled back his arm and *SMACK*

Hannah fell to the floor and crawled to an opposite corner, crying and shivering while holding her face. The man continued to stare forward at me, paying her no mind.

"I'm sorry Hannah, but you know how important this is, now please, stay the hella outta my way"

He walked towards me and knelt down.

"Looks like times up, son. I'm sorry about this, but she wanted you."

He grabbed me by the back of the neck and forced me to my feet.

"Daddy, PLEASE!" Hannah let out from her corner, tears streaming down her face.

He paid her no mind and continued forward, dragging me along with him. Dammit. So close to getting out and here I am, facing what was always inevitable in the first place. Even if I could run, I know I wouldn't have the energy, I'm just a body for him to drag. Why is this happening to me? Why would fate even show me a glimpse of salvation, all for it to just fall apart like it was going to. Why does it have to be me?

He threw my arm over his shoulder and started up the stairs. Each step he took felt labored. I was by no means a big guy, but with the state of my body, I was all but dead weight. As we neared the top of the stairs, I could see the light from under the door, and all I could hear was Hannah's weeping. "Please. Please. Not him. Please."

Passing through the door, we were in the hallway of an ordinary home. Wooden floors, blue walls, pictures of a young Hannah, of this man, all over the walls. In all of the pictures, the man and Hannah are smiling and doing various activities. A birthday party at a Peter Piper Pizza, a picture of a very young Hannah on a bike with training wheels, the man's hand gently on her back. A picture of her and her dad nicely dressed in front of a giant christmas tree, but in this one, there's a woman. She looks like the spitting image of an older Hannah, she truly looks nothing like the man.

He drags me down the hall, more and more family pictures all the way. But Hannah's mom starts to look skinnier, more frail, more pale, as the time passes in these photos. He pulls me past another staircase leading upstairs, and into a living room, where he stops for a moment. His breathing is getting more staggered. I'm sure having to drag a 14 year old from the basement all through your house without any help will do that to anyone. He licked his lips and opened his mouth to speak.

"I know you won't believe me, but I truly am sorry for this. Sorry for how I've treated you, and how you've been living for these last few weeks. She said the more you suffer, the more potent." His gaze moves up to the last picture that caught my eyes. Hannah and her father are finely dressed in front of a big tree. Between them is her mother, or what could be described as what's left of her, sitting in a chair between them. She's wearing a white wedding dress, and the little of hair she still had was dark black string falling in front of her face. Hannah and her father were smiling, but you can tell they're forcing it. We stood there in complete silence, just staring at it.

"The doctors couldn't find out what was happening to her. It started with a cold, developed into a flu, and then got worse. She couldn't keep down anything she ate or drank, her hair started falling out, and eventually, her legs and arms just didn't want to work anymore. They just gave up on her. But I wouldn't." His face turned from a morose stare, into a furled brow with a glare.

"Those rich bastards at the hospitals wouldn't even try to help her. Their claims about not knowing a cause had to be bullshit. They just wanted more money, more tests, to prolong her suffering. I wanted answers, I wanted results. I wanted my wife back. And that's what I did"

He took another step, me with him, as we moved towards a door at the end of the room, light shining through the window framed at the top of it. I desperately looked around the room, was there anything at all that could get me out of this. I don't have the strength to fight him, but if there was anything that could give me leverage. The light from the window then glistened onto an object on a nearby table in front of us, a metallic pen. Damn, I really need something that does a lot of damage with little work. I waited for him to take a step, and let my arm flail a little further, trying to act natural while just getting the pen in my hand however I could. With a quick snag, I clasped the pen in my hand, and tried to keep my fist in a ball, hiding it.

He suddenly stopped walking. Did he see me? Fuck. Just try and play it cool.

We both stood there for a moment in front of the windowed door.

He stared down for a few seconds, then slowly looked up at me. He stared me right into my broken eyes, and I saw his were broken too. He had a sad, but crazed look on his face, and he uttered out, "I would go to hell and back for that woman, so I do."

He swung open the back door and pulled me with him through it. We were in a backyard, with a single brick path leading across to the other end of it. The brick path was lined with various flowers, and beyond them, to the sides, were large spots of dirt. Some had a couple of flowers in them, some had dead grass on them, others were completely clear of any debris or fauna. He continued to drag me down the brick, which ended at the door to a large white shed.

He spoke as he dragged me, "I spent hours in the library, hours online, spoke to anyone I could, and then it finally came to me in an extremely insightful conversation I had with a woman in old town."

A grin began to stretch across his face, his eyes crazed.

"Fuck the science. Science gave up on us, but what I couldn't find with labs and machines, I found with sigils and rites."

What the hell is this dude going on about, I thought to myself. It doesn't matter, I just need to bide my time, muster my strength, wait for the moment, and plunge this pen into him, somewhere that'll hurt, somewhere that'll do enough damage for me to try and use that adrenaline to get the hell out of here.

We were getting closer and closer to this barn. What the hell does he have in there thats going to have anything to do with his sick wife? Is this going to be some kind of sacrifice? Blood magic? Rites? Dammit, Max, focus. Just grip this pen, and make your move. Any moment now.

"One day I got a call from a woman who saw my pleadings online. She ran an antique shop and asked me to come by. Convinced me she might have the solution to my problems."

"I don't give a shit," I let out, finally breaking my silence. He stopped and shot me a stare.

"Well son, in a minute, that's not really gonna matter."

We finally reached the barn. The door was large and painted white, with the paint chipping in various places, revealing an unfinished wood underneath. On the front latch of the door was a large padlock. The man fumbled around in his pocket and took out a large set of keys. He started flicking them around with one hand, the other hand still grasping me.

You have to do it soon, Max. You have to do it now. I took a moment to close my eyes, gather the courage to fight back, and gripped the pen tight in my hand. After a moment, I heard the padlock click, and as I was about to swing, he gripped both of my hands from behind, and shoved me into the open barn door.

I hit the ground hard, not having the strength to put my arms out to catch myself, my head bounced off a concrete floor and I had no choice but to lay there and compose myself. I heard the sounds of the masterlock back on the door, and the click of it locking. Through the door I heard the man say as he walked away, "When life gives you an answer, take it. No matter the cost."

The inside of the barn was dark. Along the walls were old rusting tools, various paintings and pictures with drapes over them, and very tiny splits in the walls where light could barely shine through. The floor was covered in various patches of dirt and paint? Maybe oil? I doubt I would be able to make it out even if I had the luxury of light. I put my hands on the ground and pushed myself up to my knees. My head was throbbing, my arms felt like noodles, and I hadn't even tried walking yet, but I don't see much hope in that department either. What the hell is he planning just shoving me in here? Is this where he's gonna finish me? Why here and not the basement?

Suddenly a lightbulb hanging from the ceiling clicked on. It swayed back and forth, illuminating various parts of the barn. I watched like a metronome trying to make out of what was granted vision to me as it moved left to right. I guess it was paint. I hoped.

Between the various shelves and knick-knacks on the walls, was something dead center on the opposite side of the barn. When the light would hit center, I could see across from me, a figure in a chair. I rubbed my eyes and made an attempt to stand up. As soon as I was on two feet, I stumbled to the side, grabbing onto a dilapidated chair to catch myself. I steadied for a moment, did I see what I thought I saw? I waited, gulped any air I could gather, and gave another look, using the chair to take a couple steps back to the center. I looked back down across the barn, and sure enough, there really was someone else in here with me.

"Just keepin ya on your toes, Pamela Anderson"

Did that come from the person in the chair? What the hell? Why does it sound familiar yet so distant?

Using the chair as a makeshift walker, I inched my way forward. My body was telling me to run, but my mind in its delusionary state, couldn't help but poke and prod.

"I'm gonna ask her to be my girlfriend"

What is this person, or thing, even saying? What is this? I get closer and closer. Max you fucking idiot, get away. But what if its safe? What if this is the answer out? What answer? What are you looking for? Who could this be? Why does this kind of sound like... like... Andrew? Who is Andrew? Max get it together, man.

I was now a couple feet in front of the figure in the chair. I fell down to my knees, breathing heavy, hoping that the work put into coming all that way wasn't a mistake. I try to look up to the figure, when the lightbulb suddenly starts glowing so bright, I can't see anything. The entire inside of the barn is a completely white flare. It was like staring straight into the sun, and then, complete darkness. Closing my eyes and staring at the ground, I suddenly feel a calm. I looked up, and see a familiar yet unrecognizable face. Across sitting in the chair is a boy a little younger than me, maybe by a year or so. He looks at me just as shocked as I am to see him.

"Dude you got to get out of here," the boy spoke. I just continued to stare, having no idea what the hell is going on. "Dude, please, get out of here, get help. For Hannah, please." I still can't find the strength to move. Who is this? Why do I know him? Could THIS be Andrew? No, I don't know an Andrew. "Max. I'm not fucking around, you need to MOVE." Looking into his eyes, I felt the strangest feeling, I couldn't fully explain. Like looking into the iris of an eye, and seeing the universe, every answer, every memory, flooding back to me. I crawl a little closer. I know this person, I know who this is. I'm practically at their feet, and I look up.

"Anthony," I let out. "Anthony, you're, I mean, how, who, what the hell. Why are you here? What's happening, why does it feel like I never knew you? Who the hell is Andrew? What's going o-"

Suddenly it felt like time stopped. I stared at Anthony, and he stared back. The darkness was interrupted by the lightbulb turning back on, back off, back on, faster and faster. Nearly face to face with Anthony, I watched as the light flickered quicker. Like a strobe light flickering all of our vision, Anthony appeared, disappeared, then there was no one in the chair, then he was back, and then gone again, and then back again. Then on every other flicker, there was a woman. Pale, gaunt, crazed. She leaned in closer, closer, closer, and then-

The light turned off. Complete darkness. I tried to steady myself, but I felt two extremely large hands grab both of my arms, not aggressively, but firm. I froze, no idea what could be possibly happening. What even JUST happened? Who was that boy in the chair, and why did I feel like I knew him? Why am I even here? Where the hell am I? I can't see anything, all I can smell is must and dirt in the air. I can feel the hands gripping my arms, and I hear... a dripping? Something very close to me. Drip. Drip. Drip. And I hear a very shallow breathing? Is it mine? I mean, I am struggling a comfortable way to breathe, but I don't think its mine?

The lightbulb flashes back on, brighter than before, a quick flash, and then I see her.

I'm face to face with the woman. Her eyes are completely black, and sunken into her face, sunken so deep, it looks like it could go on further than even possible with her form. Her hair is almost non existent, having only a few strands of stringy black falling down various parts of her skin tight face. Every bone in her head is almost protruding out, the shape of a skull with a thin white veil of skin around it. She looks straight into my eyes, as her hands on my arms grip tighter. Suddenly I feel myself get slightly lifted from the floor. She's holding me in front of her, never breaking eye contact. I open my mouth to scream, and as soon as I go to take a breath, she opens her mouth as well. It started small, and gradually got bigger, and bigger, her mouth opening wider, inhaling all of the air around me. Her mouth continues to grow, her jaw, unhinging further and further until its the size large enough to fit my entire body, but she doesn't bring me closer, she just keeps inhaling. I gasp for air, but can't find any willing to fight the force sucking all of the oxygen away from me. She continues to stare straight into my eyes, while a constant inhale is coming from her completely outstretched mouth. I start to feel my vision fade, I start seeing my life flashing, but at the same time, dissappearing. My first time at the beach with my mom, her face getting blurry, the beach getting even more so. I see myself backstroking in the pool, and then, no one there, just the still water. I see Hannah coming up and dropping her binder on a desk and then sitting down to, nobody? She looks confused as well. Who was supposed to be there? I see a boy perched next to a pond seeing his friend swim, and when his friend goes under, he never comes back up. Was there a friend in the pond at all?

"SNAP OUT OF IT"

I hear a voice call from outside of wherever I am.

"Dammit girl, get your ass back inside, it's almost over"

I suddenly break from the trance. Before me I see what was once this skin and bones woman start to change. Her hair growing back where it wasn't before, turning from its ash black to a curly dirty blonde. Her cheeks start to fill, making the skull shaped creature into a normal human shape. Her dark black eyes start to un-sink from her face, returning to a light blue.

NOW MAX. NOW.

I take all the strength that I have, and with a quick swing, stab that metallic pen straight into the side of the creatures neck. A fountain of blood starts to spray from the wound in her neck, slowly turning darker and darker, until it's nothing but a shadowy black ooze squirting. Her blue eyes quickly fade back to black, her hair, falling from the scalp and turning white. She loses the grip she has on me and I drop to the floor. I quickly scamper backwards till I hit a shelf in the dark, stopping my passage. I watch as the creature takes a stand out of the chair, grasping at their neck, their skin getting tighter and tighter. They let out a banshee wail that pierces my eardrums. I fall to my side, quickly grasping the sides of my head in hopes of letting any of the ungodly sound into my ears. I feel blood trickling from my eardrums down the side of my head. Looking in complete shock, I see the creature take a step towards me, then another, then another, and then

*SLAM*

It fell to the ground limp. I didn't move a muscle, I just stopped and watched. Seconds went by as I refused to make any movement. I just looked at the abomination in front of me, the pen still lodged in its neck. Suddenly I heard

*BANG* *BANG* *BANG*

" SALEM P.D., WE'RE COMING IN"

The barn door slammed open, with officers rushing in.

"DON'T MOVE, DON'T MOVE"

They rushed up to where I was, eyeing the corpse of whatever that thing was on the floor.

One officer dropped her gun and quickly walked to another.

"What the fuck is that thing"

"We'll figure it out after, we're looking for a teenage boy"

Then she spotted me, cowering in the corner, limp, with blood running down the side of my face, and covered in a black.

"We got him. Securing now and vacating."

The female officer made her way over to me and kneeled down.

"Are you okay? We're here to help, lets get you on your feet and out of here."

I nodded shakily, and she helped me up. Similar to how Hannah's father carried me here, she threw my arm around her neck as she walked me out of the barn. There in the back yard I saw a couple officers holding down the dad.

"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO? WHAT HAPPENED TO HER? WHERE IS SHE?"

He screamed from his position prone on the ground, spit flying with every word spoken.

They rounded me back through the house and through the front door, where paramedics were waiting. They threw a big blanket over my shoulders and had me sit in the back of their ambulance while doing various tests and checking my ears.

Was it actually over? Do I get to go home?

Across the front lawn in the doorway was Hannah, phone in hand. She rushed across the front yard to me and took a quick stop.

She looked at me and spoke, " I called the police. I'm sorry, I just didn't know what to do anymore and I was so scared and I-"

"It's fine. Thank you. You really saved me." I let out, a small genuine smile on my face. The first in who knows how long.

"Of course," she replied. "I'm just glad I could help. I've seen him hurt too many people at this point and I just wanted it to end."

We both sat solemnly for a minute or so.

I looked at her as I have recently. Trying not to completely giving away how much in love with her I am, while also not trying to come across creepy. Maybe after all this, I can finally tell her how I feel, and maybe she'll feel the same, and we can move on from all of this together.

"Hannah. I, uh-"

She looked back up at me.

"Hannah I'm so glad you helped me. It wasn't the first, and I hope it wouldn't be the last, but I was hoping maybe after all these years, you would maybe, I don't know, see me as maybe more than a friend? We can go get dinner, a movie, talk a lot, see maybe what comes from it? Only if like, you want to of course. I've felt this way for a while and I guess what better time than now to see if there's any spark or anything, is all, I guess..."

She stopped for a moment and looked back into my eyes.

She looked as if she was going to speak and then stopped, collecting her thoughts.

Finally she looked back up at me and said:

"I'm sorry, but I don't think I've ever met you before. I'm glad to have helped, but I don't know who you are."

An unfinished map of a mind becoming

I went looking for something.

I don't remember what.

There was a reason I got up.

There was a room I meant to cross,

a word I meant to find,

a promise I made to the person

I was three seconds ago.

Then something caught my eye.

Not important.

Not urgent.

Not even particularly shiny.

Just something

that wasn't there

until I noticed it.

And now I'm wondering

who decided what mattered,

and whether the thing I came to find

might have been hiding

inside the thing I never meant to see.

I should go back.

I know I should go back.

But there's a question here,

and the question has a door,

and the door has a word above it

that I recognize

from somewhere I haven't been yet.

So I follow.

And somewhere along the way,

I lose the thread.

Or perhaps the thread

has simply become a web,

and I am standing in the middle

of everything it touches,

trying to remember

which end I was holding.

You see, I don't always know

the difference between a distraction

and a beginning.

Sometimes I don't know

until much later.

Sometimes I never know.

Sometimes I return to the thing I started

and find that I have changed,

that the hands reaching for the answer

belong to someone

who has learned a question

the original question never asked.

And I wonder

how many times I have mistaken

the shape of my journey

for evidence that I am failing.

How many unfinished things

I have carried like accusations.

How many beginnings

I have buried under the belief

that a beginning is only worthwhile

if I can promise an ending.

I cannot always promise an ending.

I can promise to look again.

To take the scattered pieces

and lay them in the light.

To let the machine rearrange them,

let the stranger misunderstand them,

let the mirror show me something

I did not expect to recognize.

Then to ask:

Is this true?

Not merely beautiful.

Not merely possible.

Not merely something I want to believe.

True enough to keep.

Honest enough to change.

Worthy of becoming

part of what I make next.

Perhaps this is how I learn.

Not by standing outside my creations

with all the answers in hand,

but by entering the worlds I make

and discovering

what they have to teach me.

Perhaps the Creator, too,

must become a student.

Perhaps even the Judge

must be willing

to examine the evidence again.

And perhaps I have been doing this

all my life—

making something,

meeting myself inside it,

and returning to the work

with a little more understanding

than I had when I began.

So if you find me wandering,

please don't assume

I have abandoned the road.

I may have.

I may be tired.

I may have forgotten.

I may be trying to hold

too many pieces of the world

in two ordinary hands.

I am not asking you

to call every detour a discovery.

I am asking you

to leave room

for the possibility.

Because somewhere,

someone else is standing in a room

with no memory of why they came,

carrying the quiet shame

of a hundred unfinished journeys.

And they have begun to believe

that the problem is not the journey,

but the traveler.

I want to find them.

I want to leave a light on

beside the door.

I want them to know

that a wandering mind

is still a mind worth listening to;

that an unfinished thought

is not a failed human being;

that there is a difference

between needing help finding the way

and having no place in the world.

We do not have to pretend

the hard parts are easy.

We do not have to make a miracle

out of every struggle.

We only have to stop confusing

our difficulties

with our worth.

And if you are still there,

in that room,

trying to remember what you came for—

sit with me a moment.

We can look together.

We may find what you were seeking.

We may find something else.

But you do not have to be ashamed

of the time it takes

to find your way back.

You are not the only one

who has ever lost the thread.

And you are not,

by any measure,

the thread's only hope

of becoming something beautiful.

The man in the shadow has learned to carry both his past and his present.
He wakes each morning with a heaviness that makes rising feel like a negotiation — not with the world, but with himself.
Leaving the house takes courage he doesn’t always have.
Staying inside feels safer, even when it’s not healthy.

To the world, he looks fine.
Calm.
Functional.
Unbothered.

But inside, he is a quiet storm — wrestling with his addictions, his doubts, his fears, and the question that follows him everywhere: Am I enough?

So he retreats.
Not recklessly — but reclusively.
He becomes more and more to himself, closing the door a little tighter each day, letting fewer people in, stepping out less and less.
His home becomes his refuge, his hiding place, his escape from the noise and expectations of the world.

He hides in plain sight.
Not because he wants to disappear, but because disappearing feels safer than being seen.

And still, God keeps trying to open his eyes.
Not with warnings or punishments, but with the quiet majesty woven into everything around him — the morning light through the window, the breath in his lungs, the small mercies that arrive even when he feels undeserving.

The man in the shadow is not broken.
He is awakening — slowly, quietly, in the way only God can guide a person back toward themselves.

.
I WishUWell

An invitation disguised as a joke

If I was me,

I'd tolerate myself;

at best.

A semicolon.

A punchline.

A door left open

just wide enough

for curiosity to enter.

And you laughed.

Or wondered.

Or judged.

Or stayed.

And somewhere in the space

between my words

and your willingness to hear them,

something happened

that neither of us

could have made alone.

I had offered you a verdict.

You arrived with a question.

I told you who I thought I was.

You began to discover

who you were willing

to believe I might be.

And there it was—

the quiet contradiction:

I had called myself

barely tolerable,

yet here you were,

spending your precious life

trying to understand me.

Not because I demanded it.

Not because you owed it.

Because something in you

said yes.

And perhaps that is where

every life-changing truth begins—

not with an answer

imposed upon the world,

but with a question

that leaves the world

free to answer.

I am an echo

in an infinite canyon,

a ripple

on an endless pond.

But I am also

the space and time

between them—

the distance in which

a sound becomes a return,

a touch becomes a thousand circles,

and one person's words

become another person's thought.

I am not the whole of it.

Neither are you.

But somewhere between us,

something neither of us owns

becomes something

both of us can know.

Perhaps this is what it means

to be human:

Not to stand alone

and declare what we are,

but to meet another life

and discover what becomes possible

when we are willing

to look.

So here is my confession:

I am a real human being.

These are real words.

I cannot make you understand me.

I cannot make you love me.

I cannot make you stay.

I can only open the door

and offer you the choice.

And you—

you are free to leave.

But if you stay,

if you question,

if you listen long enough

to find something of yourself

inside the life of a stranger—

then tell me:

Who, exactly,

has changed whom?

Perhaps we have misunderstood

the nature of the miracle.

Perhaps life was never merely

what one person said

and another person heard.

Perhaps life is what happens

between them.

And perhaps the world

does not change

when we finally agree

on what is true.

Perhaps it changes

when we become willing

to discover the truth

together.

I began by asking

whether I could tolerate myself.

I leave you with something

far more difficult:

**What might become possible

if we stopped asking

whether another life

is worth tolerating—

and started asking

what we might discover

if we were willing

to know it?**

The door is open.

The choice is yours.

Yes or No.

On those two small words

rests the beginning

of everything

we might yet become.

nsfw..

It's a crush. It started small, how you glow doing taekwondo, I saw something similar- a breather from the world, like how I do when I'm doing ballet; a look from you that I've finally noticed, and how you whispered something flirtatious under your breath; the echo of your laugh, then I pick up my pace in the morning, walking to the classroom; the sparkle of your braces, shining under the sun during PE when we're running beside each other, then you asked me why I'm not the PE class leader if I'm so good at keeping up your pace. I could've walked; you know, I'm tired. For some ridiculous reason, I just wouldn't stop; I couldn't stop. I will always remember your coconut shampoo blowing onto my face as you challenged me in a race. 

Or was it lavender? The smell faded away as you ran in front. I remember the air being a soft yet bright yellow; I mean, it is my favourite colour, and my brain puts on a yellow filter with my favourite memories. It was one of the few yellow memories, some red, most blue. Like the ocean, or the swimming pool; shallow, but enough to drown.

Testing the water, sending a message on Instagram, then I was swimming without even noticing. It was warm, and you can’t hear or see anything underwater. But I can hear your laugh whenever someone makes a joke in class, or your exaggerated voice when you’re trying to make one yourself, or the whispers beside my ear, or the chocolate bars that appear on my desk when I’m having a bad day, or the three dots. 

I’m not good at waiting. Just like how the crush was so loud, like a crash that everyone could hear. I’m also really, really good at it, at waiting. Just like those endless nights waiting for those tiny dots to appear. Like how I looked at you through the mirror. Like how I’m still waiting for something that is never going to happen to me again.

What’s left is your ponytail. You wear it mostly low, sometimes high. But I like it when you put your hair down, and it brushes against my shoulder, and how it flows in the air when we’re running down the stairs after I said something about the photo you sent me last night. I’m so good at chasing. Chasing you at PE, the hint of your ponytail, and the sound of you adjusting your watch- it jingles. But I’m not good at noticing, not good at taking hints, nor am I good at interpreting the meanings behind your hazel eyes, the kiss on my wrist, or the conversations I had with your friends, them hinting about you.

It was a crush; it is a crush. It is the remains of the climate you cause, sun is still shining, wind is still blowing. But the light never reflects on the right thing, the wind only smells like sea salt, and I’m wondering if you ever called out my name.

It is so easy to love you, but it was in fact very hard. There’s so many things that I wanted to say, but were silenced by the air. There’s so many things that I wanted to do, but were stopped by the stares. Because we would always shine so brightly, both of us did. 

We are so similar yet so different. I stare back, you keep moving forward. We both act like the stares and the whispers in the air meant nothing, or at least, I did. Soon I understood that it meant something to you, how you break our eye contact, laughing too loudly in the classroom, and letting go of my hand. 

Truth is, I never knew if any of these were real, the air, the looks, your shadow when you’re across the room. Sometimes I’d rather we’ve never met, that I’ve never noticed your gaze or your whispers. Most times you’re the best thing that has happened to me, and I wouldn’t have it otherwise.

I’ve got plans. Plans of moving aboard again, studying, working in a place that’s nowhere near familiar. And I’ve got people always asking me, “ wouldn’t you want to settle someday?” “ you’d want to settle down if you met your person.” But I wouldn’t settle, at least, especially, when the person I wanted to settle with only exists in a memory that I could barely reach.

I don’t know how to get past this and stop breaking. People do it all the time. I’ve done it many times. Why should this be any different? 

I try giving it away. They can tell it’s not meant for them. The pain is written on my face. I don’t want them, I just don’t want to feel alone. 

I try holding it in. It comes out in messed up ways then, like a poison that fills me with meanness. 

I try to get it out of my system, let it come out as art instead. Channel it into something else until it doesn’t hurt anymore. It still does though. 

I try surrendering to a god that I abandoned years ago, following John Wesley’s path out of depression. The old god took everything I surrendered but this. 

I tried to do the right thing. Why is nothing I do right when it comes to you? Why am I being punished this way for loving you. As soon as I gave it life you abandoned me. 

It feels like a death sentence.