(1)

The buzzing of my phone drills into my brain like a diamond-tipped engraving tool. It takes about three tries, but I finally manage to find it on the bedside table and drag it under the blanket. I try to see whose name is on the screen, but my right eye won’t focus, and the left one refuses to even open.

How much did I drink last night, where did I go, and who did I go there with?

Always the same three questions, and the first two are always gone into the black hole of gin and bad choices.

I force myself to sit up. I peel my left eye open, and thankfully the right one tracks along. As I focus them together, the phone stops buzzing and the words I hate appear:

3 MISSED CALLS. As I read it, the 3 becomes 4.

I think her name was Karen. Or Kora… or maybe Coral? Shit, I don’t know for sure.

I open the call log, and squint. Fuck! Gil was an okay partner, in small doses. Unless he called and woke me up. I know I have to call him back, but he’s gonna wait a few minutes; I can’t remember ever having to pee this badly.

As I’m getting up, the sheet pulls off the corner of the mattress, curling up alongside my pillow.

Where the fuck is my pillowcase?

A bass drum begins to beat loudly behind my eyes, before settling into a small set of bongos, being played by an angry 5 year-old. I wince and stretch, my back making sounds that are more like cracking knuckles than I’m comfortable with. At least it helps my head a little; the pounding behind my eyes eases slower and duller into the space between my sinuses and my ears.

I stumble toward the bathroom, and without warning, the coffee table I use for a TV stand jumps out and slams itself into my right shin.

Ow! God Damn it!

I finally make it to the bathroom, and have no more started peeing, than the phone starts going off again. Of course, the sound makes me jump a little, and I spray the seat. It’s gonna be one of those days.

I manage to wipe the seat off with a single pass of toilet paper, then turn and wash my hands. I make the mistake of looking at my reflection, and I have to splash my face with water. I’m getting too old to keep doing this to myself.

Yeah, like you’ve never told yourself THAT one before.

I dry my face as I walk back to the bed and grab my phone. I swipe the circle on the phone, and a small hologram of Gil’s face appears, floating just above the screen.

“Jesus Christ, Mac! Put some clothes on!

I realize with some chagrin that my phone is in full-vid mode.

Who the hell was I on the phone with last night!?

“What the fuck do you want?” I ask, swiping the vid mode button, making just my face appear in the small monitor box in the corner of the screen.

“Thank you. You look like shit, partner.”

“Gilbert, old buddy, if you called and woke me up to act like my mother—

“Shut up. We got a case. It looks like he’s struck again.”

“Fuck! I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

“Why don’t you jump in and out of your hydro, and meet me at the scene?” His voice sounds like scratchy condescension. “Trust me, you need it.”

“Fine. Send me the address… and buy me a coffee on the way.”

I hang up before he can respond. Heading to the bathroom, I dry-chew three aspirin and start the shower.

All right, you son-of-a-bitch. This time, we are gonna nail your ass to the wall.

(2)

The 305 is always full this time of day, but it’s still faster than trying to take the surface streets. As I wait for my turn to load my car into the tube, I grab my folder tablet and pull up what information we have on Phantom.

It isn’t much.

The MESH system has been live now for 10 years, and according to the party line, everyone in the country is in the system. Certainly everyone who uses a bank, pilots a vehicle, receives deliveries, or attends school is registered, as are all babies born since the Universal Identification and Registration Act was passed and the MESH system was turned on. The UIRA also made MESH registration mandatory for all prisoners, immigrants, and those in the military and federal services.

The upside of MESH is that it has reduced crime exponentially, and usually makes my job easier.

Usually.

In fact, until this Phantom appeared, and the bodies started piling up, I’d had one of the best solve rates on the force, and being part of the Syntonago Police Department, means that is a big deal. We process more crimes every day than most monocities see in a week. The megabuildings are bad, but tough times are always worse in the big sprawling cities.

The case file is pretty thin. We’ve found 31 bodies, all over Syntonago, and we don’t have much more than the victims names and MESH profiles. I swipe through the list, unable to find any kind of pattern to them all.

Come on Mac, you can do this. There has to be a pattern in here somewhere.

The jolt of my vehicle being tubed up breaks my concentration, so I turn off the screen and close the folder. According to the dash, I have four minutes until insertion, then twelve minutes on the 305 before ejection and deposit at Fullbright station, about 3 miles from the alley where the latest victim was discovered.

I need a vacation.

Don’t get me wrong, I love being a detective in the SPD. Having everyone cataloged and identifiable by any and every vid source in the country means it is very rare for someone to get away with any crime, let alone murder.

Or 32 murders.

Somehow, this Phantom has done just that. The vics started showing up about two years ago, and the MO is always the same. The bodies are found in blind spots, and there is never any sign of anyone coming or going in the vicinity. Some of them have been found between businesses, with full vid coverage at both ends of the alley.

This guy, this Phantom, seems to be invisible to vid, in spectral bands ranging from infrared to ultraviolet, including wavelengths humans couldn’t see.

Eventually, he is going to screw up, and I plan on being there when he does. As my vehicle accelerates for insertion into the 305 stream, I close my eyes and try to relax; maybe this hangover will evaporate. They usually do.

Except when they don’t.

(3)

The biggest drawback to MESH, is it has made investigators complacent. Budget cuts mean the few of us who are left pull a lot more cases. Even though 90% of crimes are solved by pulling up a DCR MESH report, it still leaves a lot of cases to be worked.

Usually, solving a murder case is just a matter of tracking down those who are scanned on vid near a scene, and there is almost always DNA that MESH can use to identify and track down perpetrators in real time.

Not this Phantom though. He has never shed a drop of organic material at a crime scene, nor have we ever found any forensic evidence to tie anyone to the bodies.

Hopefully today will be the day we do.

I liked how you didn’t try to fix me

when I was damaged

how you used to let me handle

my own feelings

instead of trying to save me

I never once considered

that maybe that meant you didn’t

care enough about me

to want to mend my broken pieces

back together.

Mending -{renata ferretti}

I still wake up in fright. Jump when I see a drop of blood. Scream when I see something move in the dark. It has only been a year ever since that day, and yet, every day after I still have nightmares. Why couldn’t I just have followed him? Why did I not chase after him? Stop him? I could have saved him.

It all started a year ago. I was walking through the busy streets of London and I accidentally bumped into an older man. He dropped his books that he was holding, and feeling bad, I went down on the ground to collect the old man’s books while yelling out “SORRY!”

He was looking here and there and would not look me in my eyes. I thought that he was blind and felt really bad.

“Is there anything else I can do sir?” I said.

“No. I-I need to get to the station,” he said in a rusty voice.

“Yes it’s right across the street and around the corner. I can walk you there if you want.”

“The street?” He look a bit confused. “Is there lots of traffic?”

“Umm. Yes but I can help you cross.” I pulled on his arm to direct him towards to crosswalk.

“There might be another way. Another way. Must end. It all must end,” the old man rambled on.

I was feel quite scared now. “Come now. Come here. Away from the traffic. Do you need me to call the police?” I looked around for someone to help me.

“No, no I’ll be best on my way. Here darling.” He handed me the books he was holding. “I’ll find my way. My way out.” He started walking away.

I stared at him with shock. “Wait, sir, your books!” I yelled. I tripped on cement and fell tumbling down. The books flew out of my hand. Hurriedly I got up and started collecting the books. I stopped. Something didn’t seem right. I looked down at one of the book titles. The Great Escape: A Way Out. The title didn’t make sense. I looked at another one. How to Prevent Suicidal Thoughts. Now I was really worried. I looked up and tried to find him. I saw him approaching the busy intersection.

“Wait! Stop! You don’t have to do it. Somebody help! He’s blind.” I gestured towards the man who was now walking on the street. Cars swerved to avoid him and for a moment I thought it would be alright. He was almost to the end. Smash. Nobody saw it coming. His body flew, all his limbs twisted, and landed with a splat. Blood oozed out of his dead body. The bus, unable to stop, went over him. Every crack, smash, and pop could be heard as the bus crushed his body. He was dead. It was all my fault. If I could...stop. You couldn’t do anything.

It’s been a year since that incident and I still have nightmares. Turns out his wife and child died in the car accident where he lost his eyesight. He couldn’t take it anymore. It’s kinda weird because he looked perfectly fine when on the street. Well, I guess, nothing is what it seems.

You don't want the power

because it's not very good to see what your mind will do.

I'm sorry for the fact that you

have a little faith on your own personal life.

He was not very far from timid but

the only way to go is the revelation.

The best part about being able to read

is it just barely even when it works.

For the whole world chapter

I have to go back and start with my new book

and I'll be able to see the way you want.

When we will do something else

we can do it together

and we can see what we have done.

So don't tell the truth about what we want to do with our minds.

Pretty much all the time

I want to come get a little bit of the spirit of my grandpa.

Who else would you want to come with me and you.

The world is going through a whole new ballgame,

and I think it's a good day.

Don't be like that

I just want you to be my own.

Happy New Year!

A couple quick updates to start off 2019.

Challenge of the Month

We're working our way through the entries for November and December's Challenge of the Month. Due to the holiday, giving every entry a fair read and determining a winner is taking a bit longer than anticipated. Keep an eye out for an winner announcement in the next couple of days, as well as January's prompt.

New Feature - Email Notifications

We've added email notifications. You'll now receive an email when somebody likes, reposts, or comments on one of your posts. You'll also receive a notification when somebody follows or messages you. If you don't want to receive email notifications, you can disable them here: https://theprose.com/settings/notifications. We're now working to restore functionality for mobile push notifications on iOS. Stay tuned!

We wish you all a fantastic 2019. Great things ahead.

Prose.

I can’t tell if the blinding pain is a memory or a dream, but it’s so vivid that I reach to see if my back is bleeding. Only my wrinkled palms meet my stare and yet, like some warped associative thinking exercise, I see red anyway. My vision has a subtle red tint as if I were wearing a set of proverbial rosy-colored lenses.

“Where am…?” I begin to whisper, but I’m interrupted.

“Bronson Alcott III!”

The disembodied voice crackles through an overhead speaker and hovers in the air a moment before it sinks in. Though my rational mind can’t figure where I am or who called my name, my subconscious mind puts my body into involuntary motion. I feel – more than see – my way through the darkness until I reach an office door. It’s a relic, like me. The chipped paint and scuffed dents remind me of the one that led into Principal Darwin’s office generations ago. There’s a faint orange glow through the frosted pane and that’s when I see the carefully stenciled writing on the glass:

HEREAFTER, INC.

Punctuality is a Virtue

“Next!” beckons the voice on the other side.

The sudden outcry sends my heartbeat into a nervous cadence. My quickened pulse shoots another shock of electricity through my back. Again, I reach reflexively and still no blood. Without a clue as to why, I open the door.

“Close the door behind you, if you would, Mr. Alcott,” says the man behind the desk. “We run a very tight ship here, and you’re about forty-five seconds behind. Punctuality is a virtue.”

The room is small, but the columns of stacked cardboard boxes along each wall make it seem smaller. There’s a perfectly good window in one wall, but it’s blocked by a thick screen. A hobbit-sized bald man sits behind a large mahogany desk, writing meticulously on his notepad with an old number two graphite pencil. If he’s not a CPA, his wardrobe could’ve fooled me: a short-sleeved, white button-up and a black tie. His glasses look much too large for his pudgy face and are slightly steamed. The name plate on the desk reads: Doug Dickerson, Case Officer.

“Pull up a chair, Mr. Alcott,” he says. He pauses from his feverish writing to check his wrist watch. “That’s just over a minute gone now. I’m going to need you to take a seat.”

I can see how he’s working up a sweat in here. It’s strangely humid and the heat of his lamp’s orange glow probably isn’t helping. It takes some effort to lower myself onto the visitor’s chair, reminding me that my sixties are firmly in the rearview mirror. I can feel Dickerson’s eyes on me.

“Sorry, Dick, I’m not exactly a spring chicken these days.”

After I land, I see him tapping his wristwatch.

“I’m afraid we’ll need to omit the pleasantries. We can skip some of the boilerplate material for now. Let’s jump into the meat and potatoes then, shall we? Can you fill me in with the particulars?”

The pregnant pause afterward makes me uncomfortable.

“Sorry? What particulars?”

“Time and circumstance of your death?”

I’m almost ticklish at such an odd question, but it knocks something loose in my head. Without warning, I see the shape of a leaf floating in midair. Like the shooting back pain, I can’t tell if it’s the shadow of a memory, but, I see the imprint of falling leaves etched into my mind’s eye. Leaves so red, they almost look painted.

“Leaves,” I whisper.

“I’m sorry?” Dickerson asks.

“Something about red leaves? Pain in my back?”

“See, this is what happens when we skip the so-called boilerplate language.” I can tell Dickerson’s upset that I haven’t yet grasped some hidden truth. “We spend more time going back to re-orient the individual than if we had just read the script at the outset. Efficiency is a virtue, too, but who cares about what Doug says?! Do you know where you are, Mr. Alcott?”

I try to remember where I was before the dark room, but nothing comes. It’s like the answer is hiding behind an invisible curtain.

“Memory loss, disorientation, nausea…” Dickerson lists symptoms like he’s naming side effects of a strong prescription. “It usually doesn’t take too long to clear up once you accept the truth. Mr. Alcott, you’ve passed on.”

At first, it seems like a joke, but once again the comment knocks loose another tile in this strange mosaic. It fully dawns on me when I turn back and see the stenciled lettering on the office door. It takes some effort to accept it, but once I do, the dam breaks and the memories flood back. I can’t help but chuckle.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” is all I can think of to say.

“Let’s hope not,” Dickerson answers. “I’m Doug Dickerson, the Case Officer assigned to evaluate your file to determine your next steps.”

“Next steps?” I wonder aloud. “Like an upstairs versus downstairs kind of thing?”

“Not quite. Do you remember the particulars now?”

The sharp pain pulses in my back again.

“I got stabbed in the back by the park groundskeeper.” It’s almost an out-of-body experience to hear those words echo in the stuffy office. “That sounds considerably more amusing than it felt.”

“I can imagine. So you were murdered?”

“Affirmative.”

“Did your assailant have any motivation?”

When I think of the groundskeeper’s last words, I can’t help the smug grin that forms on my face. My back twinges again. Now, I can remember the shears of his large leaf trimmer plunging into my back, between my spine and shoulder blade.

“I’d call it fair play, Dick.”

“Can you elaborate?”

“I was walking Deacon through the park, same as every morning for the last fifteen years. The pooch is a relic like me, and we’re both creatures of habit. Well, Deacon’s prone to digestive issues that make it awfully difficult to pick up after him. I take him out nice and early and I never thought I was hurting anybody. Hell, I’ve even heard their feces help the plants grow.”

I pause to see if Dickerson’s getting all this, and he’s putting every court stenographer I’ve ever seen to shame. He’s not even bothering to blink while feverishly writing every word I say.

“Anyway,” I continue, “this groundskeeper fella has been working in our neighborhood almost as long as I’ve lived there. He’s color blind, but he’s a good fella. So, Deacon does his business not too far from where this fella’s raking the leaves. After my pup’s done, I bend over to tie my shoe and when I get up, he runs me clean through with his leaf trimmer. A couple times, now that I think of it. ‘Would it kill you to pick up after your dog,’ he asks me. Didn’t feel like laughing then, but I can’t help myself now.”

“Does the color blind groundskeeper have a name?”

“Vern, I think it was,” I say, wracking my brain to remember the name stitched on his green public works vest. “Stanley, that’s right. Vern Stanley. That’s what it was.”

“Mr. Stanley murdered you for not picking up after your pet dog Deacon? How is that fair play exactly, Mr. Alcott?”

“For one, there was a sign that said, 'Please pick up after your pooch...or else!'' Secondly, when you consider he’s been working the same job for as long as I’ve had my dog. Deacon’s had digestive problems all his life. I never realized until now that Vern took it on himself to clean up the mess.”

“Ah, I see,” Dickerson says. He looks like a snake charmer taking his notes. He wields the pencil as if it were a snake dancing an exotic jig. No wonder he’s working up a sweat.

“Fair play, right?” I ask.

“I’m curious to know why you’d think so.”

“I suppose it’s something of a motto in my town.”

“And where’s that exactly?” Dickerson asks, pausing his pencil-charming for long enough to wipe his sweaty brow before starting up again.

“Oh, just some Podunk forest town in the Pacific Northwest.”

“Did you know Mr. Stanley personally, Mr. Alcott?”

“Can’t say that I did, no.”

“Then, how did you know he was color blind?”

I can’t help but smile. Dickerson looks like an uptight CPA with a generous dose of OCD, but his thorough and quick analysis of my story’s details brings him to this question. The question that could derail my entire evaluation. Just how weighty will this Case Officer’s recommendation be?

“You picked that out, did you?”

I stall for inspiration to strike. What white lie could I weave to steer this elsewhere? I’m not without practice in the art of white-lying, but still nothing comes.

“It was important enough for you to mention it, yes. And yet you struggled to recall his name. So, how did you pick up on such an interesting detail regarding an individual you never knew personally?”

He can tell I’m stalling. I don’t know how long Dickerson’s been working this job, but I have a gut feeling he’s been underutilized at Hereafter, Inc. Perhaps telling the truth will earn me some good will with him.

“Screw it,” I mutter. “You want the truth, Dick?”

“That would be preferred, yes, Mr. Alcott.”

“Truth is I didn’t know Vern personally, no. He was more of…an associate.”

“How is that? Something of a co-worker?”

“More like an accomplice.”

“He engaged in some kind of illegal activity with you?”

“Somewhat unknowingly,” I answer.

“Much like the dog excrement then?”

“Good one, Dick,” I say with only a hint of sincerity.

“You were describing the nature of your partnership with Mr. Stanley?”

“Much like with Deacon’s messes, Vern often helped me clean up several others without knowing it.”

“Can you elaborate any further?”

I wonder how detailed I should get, but decide to err on the side of caution. Dickerson doesn’t seem the judgmental type.

“There was a Jehovah’s Witness, a UPS delivery man, a Republican gopher conducting a survey for some campaign, and an overzealous matron selling cookies on behalf of her daughter’s Girl Scout troop. There were others, but those are the more recent ones.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I…”

“There are two things you have to know about my Podunk forest town, Dick,” I interrupt. The point of no return passes as I delve into my explanation.

“The first is that the old-timers who own it are very serious about certain rules. Some are more serious than others, but there are certain rules that if broken, can get you into a world of trouble. Are you aware of these signs that people put on their front doors that say ‘No Solicitors Allowed?’”

“Indeed, I am, sir.”

“Well, Dick, I don’t have many rules, but I myself am very serious about the ‘No Solicitors Allowed’ sign on my own front door. I don’t take kindly to violations of my right to privacy. I don’t appreciate perfect strangers defiling my doorstep with their egotistical presumptions. I don’t need to be disturbed to listen to something that means nothing to me just because they rang my bell!”

The sharp pain in my back zaps me back to reality – or alter-reality? The red hue in my vision begins to pulse darker in rhythm with the back spasms.

“I’m sorry, Dick, it just really chaps my goat that people expect me to afford them the opportunity to talk at me. To lecture me at my door, about inane things no less! Especially when I warn them against doing so by posting a damn sign on my door.”

“What do you do to them?”

“I don’t do them in on the spot, Dick, if that’s what you’re asking. I give them a chance to get away first. I offer to listen to them if they’re willing to come back the following morning and join me and Deacon on our walk. Only the desperate ones take me up on it and that’s when I do it. In the park.”

“You murder solicitors in open daylight for not respecting your door sign?”

“Not entirely true, not in open daylight. And that’s the second thing you need to know about my Podunk forest town. Autumn is absolutely beautiful there! The dawn air is so crisp you can see your breath and there is a lazy fog that doesn’t quite burn off til mid-morning this time of year. I off them in the middle of the park where no one can see.”

“By what means?”

I hesitate before answering.

“Canine?”

For the first time since meeting him, I see Dickerson flinch. His staccato fits of note-taking stop. He pushes his thick glasses up his nose and stares right into me.

“Are you saying…Deacon consumes your murder victims?”

“Not completely,” I answer, second-guessing myself for exposing such an unadulterated version of the truth. “Whatever larger parts he leaves I can easily cart away to throw into the bin.”

“That explains your pet’s digestive issues. And the blood?”

“The colorblind groundskeeper rakes it away. He can’t tell the difference between those beautiful autumn leaves and the stains left on them.”

“And this is fair play where you’re from?”

“We live by our rules, sure, but we never carry out our punishments in a public way. You hear rumors, you know? I heard that Dorothy O'Connell took a patron home once and cut off his tongue for slurping his soup in her café. It says quite clearly when you walk into the diner: ‘Slurping Will NOT Be Tolerated.’ Fair play, son.”

“Give me a moment, Mr. Alcott.”

His pencil dances to his charms again. I look around his small, crowded office and wonder how hard it would be for Dickerson to request a fan. It’s getting stuffier with every stroke of his pencil. If not a fan, why doesn’t he at least crack the window? I see Dickerson reach into his desk for a clipboard with a stapled packet of spreadsheets on it. He starts thumbing through his notepad and carries out some mathematical equations on the clipboard. After a few minutes, he signals his completion by taking off his glasses and setting them on the desk.

“Your case is an interesting one, Mr. Alcott,” he says, wiping his face with both hands. “Unfortunately, my initial analysis is inconclusive. Some would consider your crimes grossly heinous and yet you show no malice toward the man who committed a similarly heinous crime against you for a similarly trivial motivation. On the other hand, you demonstrate a kind of integrity, albeit a perverse one, that shows a commitment to your values. May I ask you a question, Mr. Alcott?”

I nod.

“Would you behave at all differently if given another chance?” Dickerson asks, folding his pudgy arms across his chest.

“How do you mean?”

“If you had to live your life over again knowing what you know now, would you live it differently? Would you spare the lives of those who knocked on your door?”

I know the answer in an instant, but I feign some meditation before leveling with Dickerson.

“I can’t say with confidence that I would, no.”

“Even if it meant Mr. Stanley sparing your life in return?”

I take a bit more time to think, but shake my head. Dickerson pushes his chair back and waddles to the window screen, yanking it down before it whiplashes upward on its own. Except this is no window, it’s a barn door with a large red leaf painted on it.

“Mr. Alcott, our existence can be likened to autumn in your Podunk forest town. The long summer days wane and as autumn takes hold, the leaves turn pastel oranges and reds. Eventually, they fall off their trees and hunker down for the hibernation of winter. After the shadows of her cold nights fade, the leaves bloom again in spring. Like the cyclical nature of the seasons, I want to grant you another lap around the merry-go-round of life. Can you promise to at least consider mending your ways in exchange?”

Dickerson pushes the door open and the bright light beyond it is blinding. I honestly don’t think I could change my ways, but Dickerson’s analyzed my case and here he is, offering me another chance at living? Who am I to say no?

“Promise to reconsider your ways?” Dickerson asks.

“Why not?” I mutter, shaking his hand. I don’t even notice that my fingers are crossed in the other. “I appreciate the opportunity.”

“Fair play?” he asks.

Dickerson’s almost squinting to read the thoughts behind my eyes. Before betraying my true feelings, I cross the threshold.

* * * * *

The step down to the sidewalk is a smidge wider than I expect, and I almost drop my package on the way down. A strong nostalgia compels me to look backward. What exactly am I looking for? The answer’s on the tip of my tongue, but it’s like trying to remember a dream in my first waking moments. All I can recall is a chubby accountant standing in a doorway, but I don’t see either when I look back. My large brown truck doesn’t have doors, just the iconic logo painted in gold on the side.

Sensing the weight of the bundle in my arms, I suddenly remember my job. I walk up a concrete path through a perfectly manicured lawn and see my reflection in the window beside the front door. I’m not yet thirty, but I notice my brown shirt stretched by my paunch and my brown shorts forcefully hiked up into my crotch by my inflated thighs. I haven’t worked for UPS longer than six months, and already I need a replacement uniform. I promise myself to hit the gym after my shift, but who am I kidding? There’s leftover DiGiorno in my fridge and an XBOX game that’s not going to play itself. It’s a contest of priorities that I always seem to lose.

Just before I ring the doorbell, I see a sign nailed to the door that reads, “No Solicitors Allowed.” For some unknown reason, it feels wrong to violate the warning, though it’s not the first time I’ve seen a sign like this. Something in my gut tells me to turn back, but then I think of my manager lecturing me. Punctuality is a virtue, he’d say. After another moment of pensive reflection, I make my decision.

“Hell, I’ve got a job to do. Fair play, right?”

Wondering why there’s a palpable dread crawling up my neck, I ring the doorbell.

I’m thankful for the writing,

Uniting me to a group of people who

Accept who I am.

I’m thankful to everyone who supports me,

Because it’s hard, I know.

I’m thankful for my voice,

Even though it’s often dismissed.

Because at least I have one,

To use.

I’m thankful for my disabilities,

Because they make me stronger,

Like my depression teaches me,

What my parents don’t.

I’m thankful for my hallucinations,

Because they were always there,

Withstanding constant obstacles to stand by my side,

And save me when I was drowning

With no life vest.