“You don’t have to do this,” Sara whimpered, trembling as she tried not to move lest Thurston accidentally slice her neck.

“Oh, but I do, dear Sara,” he whispered close to her ear. “You know too much, sadly. I really didn’t want to have to do this.”

“You don’t! Really, you don’t! I don’t know anything, Thurston.”

Thurston laughed, pressing the blade a little closer, a little harder.

“No?” he asked. “It wasn’t you asking questions all over town about Missy? It wasn’t you putting the idea in everyone’s head that her death wasn’t an accident, or if not an accident, perhaps some itinerant killer, some fluke, a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? That wasn’t you?”

“Well, yes, but it’s just because, well, Sheriff Parker found her bag on the peak of Roddy Hill and her body in the ravine, Thurston. Missy wasn’t in the habit of just taking off by herself to go hiking. I had to drag her when I wanted to go.”

“You know that. I know that. No one else did, Sara, until you started asking questions all over town. Now you've got everyone including the sheriff curious and wondering about what might have happened to poor Thurston's Missy," he growled.

“Please, Thurston. I promise. My lips are sealed. I’ll go to my grave with your secret.”

Thurston smiled though Sara couldn’t see him. “Yes, Sara, yes you will.”

“Th-“ was all Sara managed to say (Thank you? Thurston?) before he ensured that, indeed, she would keep her promise…with a little help from his straight razor.

It all started in the school yard the day he heard our friend Tom say if you cut a worm in half, it can re-grow the missing part. He didn’t stop to question why anyone would cut a worm in half. Nor did he research the veracity of the statement (which statement, actually, is incorrect; if you cut in just the right spot, the head can regrow a tail…but I digress). Rather, it planted a seed, a dark seed as it turns out, in the recesses of his mind.

When he got home from school that day, he told his mother about what he’d heard with regard to worms and said, “If that worked for people, I would cut you into a million pieces. The world would be a much better place if there were a million of you. You’re my favorite person in the whole world, Mama. I love you.”

His mother’s expression said she wasn’t sure if she should be happy or terrified but she smiled and hugged him, saying, “I love you, too, Jackie. Now you go on outside and play. Billy’s at the back door waiting on you.”

And the moment was promptly forgotten…by Jackie’s mom.

Some ten years later, Laurie Mae Parker disappeared. She was the sweetest girl in Ellaville. When they finally found her, she was buried in a field outside of town. They knew it was her simply because they found the head. The body, however, was…in pieces.

It was the most gruesome, most horrible thing anyone had ever heard of in Elaville. Parents were terrified to let their children go out and play since Sheriff Jackson had no suspects and no clues.

Days, weeks, months passed and nothing else happened; life went on and people began to forget.

Until Georgia Ann Baker disappeared. She was a saint, people used to say. So kind to everyone – children, animals, old people. Unlike the rest of Elaville, Sheriff Jackson hadn’t forgotten Laurie Mae Parker and so he started the search at the same field. The dirt had clearly been recently turned and it didn’t take much digging to find the first pieces. Not long after, they found the head and that was that.

Aside from the grisly nature of the murders, the sheriff was curious about the pattern. He told the boys at the bar, yeah, it was two young, sweet girls, but it was the pattern in the soil that got him. The killer planted the pieces in rows. Row after row. As if he – or she – was planting tobacco or cotton. Not that any killing made sense, but that just seemed to be more than just a little unusual.

Within a year there had been two more murders and Sheriff Jackson was contacted by the Georgia Bureau of Investigation(GBI). They had noticed the cases and, apparently, had found some similar ones in Zebulon, Butler, Smithville and Leesburg. They called it the Route 19 case because, well, all the killings were in towns along Route 19. (Not very original. I am partial to A million pieces, myself.) Sheriff Jackson sent them what information he had, which really wasn’t much, and passed the investigation on to the GBI.

Meanwhile, little Jackie was no longer little. He was a young man, working at Bob’s Hardware. He was Bob’s delivery man. He had started working after school when he was 16 and Bob took him on full time after he graduated. He was a little different, Bob was heard to say while tapping his head, but he worked hard and followed orders. Bob even let him use the company’s pick-up truck as his own, as long as he kept it clean. Jackie, or Jack, as he had asked to be called on his 13th birthday, kept the truck Clorox clean.

His pretty little mama had gone and left him a year earlier, surprising everyone. She had doted on Jack, and him on her, so everyone was shocked when Jack came into church one Sunday crying and moaning that his mama was gone. They thought she’d passed and that he needed help making arrangements, but no, Jackie said. She’s just gone. I must have done it wrong and now she’s gone. Everyone was a little confused, wondering what he could have done wrong that would make his mama leave him, but they just shook their heads, whispering behind their hands and patted him on the shoulder as they took their seats for Reverend Samuel’s service.

It wasn’t too much later that Laurie Mae Parker disappeared.

And then Georgia Ann Baker.

And the others along Route 19…the main road one might take to make deliveries. Just saying…not sure why Sheriff Jackson didn’t make that connection. It was a clue I hadn’t thought about earlier. But someone at the GBI finally did. And that same agent also discovered that all the young ladies were customers of Bob’s Hardware. All the victims' parents remembered the nice young man who had made a delivery to their home. Couldn’t be him, I don’t know how you could even think so, they all said. They had detectives following him day and night for two months before he stalked Ginger Pittsfield. They grabbed him just after he grabbed her…fortunately, before he brought her to me.

He was heard to say, but it was gonna work this time, I just know it, as the GBI led him away in handcuffs.

Dear Dumbass from 10 years ago,

You will not graduate in all black. You will not major in music. You will not get your first phone until you are the wallball champion. You will not love beef forever and ever. You will not learn how to study. You will not use your summers wisely.

You will graduate with high honors. You will help expand a major in which you will basically become famous enough. You will buy your own cell phones and realize glass screen protectors are supreme. You will learn to eat potatoes and broccoli. You will be a talented procrastinator. You will sacrifice your summers because I'm not giving you a choice.

The day will come when you speak English perfectly. You will control your accent, and learn mimicry. You will know how to spell all the ei and ie words. You will have a signature that strongly resembles that of a randomly selected responsible parent or a guardian. You will reread the dictionary twice because you forgot what the word "deadpan" meant.

You will grow up with technology but not the slightest interest in using it. You will take notes by hand because formatting is a formality for other people. You will disdainfully do math in pencil from a recycling bin blue Pentel Twist Erase 0.5 hoping your teacher would trust you to do geometry in ink. You will have a red 0.7 just for show. You will exclusively write with Pilot G2, Uniball Vision Elite, Pilot Precise v5, and dollar store gel pens given that all of them are 1.0 thick or .7 at the very minimum.

You will fill notebooks of bullshit and you'll become obsessed with index cards. You'll take six sexy years of math and it will be extremely worth it (except for integrated 2). You will understand that some people are more evil when they are dumber. You will master the art of the ponytail.

You will become a killer. You will become a bully. You will become a chef. You will become your truest self.

You will be tasked by people who do not understand your world to: adapt to Common Core (business preparation), reverse climate change damage (methane and Costco water bottles), understand statistics (n/a), have a social life, and 31 other impossible tasks.

I am at number 26 on the list: >Relax

You feel like you are seeing life from the bottom of an abyss. There is no color, no joy. All is bleak. Gray. Dark. You spend hours a day locked inside yourself to have enough energy to smile for those who need you to be thus. But you cry in your car. And in the shower. Whenever you are alone.

You will feel like this for a long time. But then one day, you will not. You will reach the depths of despair with a blade in your hand and a silent scream in your throat and you will dig deep and stay the hand and loose the scream.

And then you will begin anew. But better.

Hold on.

Have you ever seen a cloud that looks like a Rabbit: living, moving, breathing. Filling its lungs with vaporized atmosphere. Well if you have ever seen this kind of cloud, you must have felt the urge to just stand there, simply rooted to the spot. But even if you have not seen a cloud like this, or even heard of one, you have surely heard the wind whistling through the trees. Or seen the soft ripples it makes on a pond during sunset? Well, these simple things you take for granted may not be so simple after you here what they really are.

Millions of years ago, when the earth was still young, a great forest inhabited the earth. Now this forest inhabited not only the continent which we call North Amarica nowadays, but every single continent in the whole world! The only living creatures where trees, Patapats (That grew on Patapat bushes, and had the shape and texture of a patato), and rabbits that hopped around on there hind legs all the time and had ears that were so large the rabbits had no need for a house for they could just use there large ears for shelter. In the spring all the rabbits whould gather as many Patapats as they could in their little paws and whould put all the Patapats in their large ears. Then they would make a large fire and put their ears laden with Patapats over the fire and would socialize till the Patapats had cooked. After this they would take one patapat at a time and bash it and mash it until they were satisfied. Then they would grab it with their little paws and eat it up and reach for the next one.

Now it just so happened one day (as you might expect), one of the rabbits spilt all of his Patapats into the fire. Quickly he jumped into the fire grabing 3 of the 30 or so Patapats spilt. And just as quickly he jumped out of the fire, much to the amusement of the other rabbits. Not knowing what to do with the 3 uncooked Patapats he resolved to eat one. Bad idea. As soon as he had swallowed the raw Patapat he began to turn white and to rise up into the sky. The rest of the Rabbits were astonished. All at once they began to socialize and were so distracted that they did not even notice that their Patapats where burning! Finally after an hour or so they relized their Patapats were disappearing. So without ferther a dew they ate as many as they could. Bad idea. Suddenly all the rabbits began to rise up into the air and disappear. So now we have clouds and wind that are actually rabbits and if you hear the wind wistling through the trees, just know that it is the rabbits socializing.

I don't remember much before kindergarten. Sadly, that means I don't remember being Daddy's little girl. I don't remember Mommy having time to tuck me in and read me bedtime stories. I don't remember playing any of the games I see in pictures of my bedroom, or the friends in photos of birthday parties or the Christmas trees and abundant gifts immortalized in album after album.

I do, however, have three distinct unphotographed, never discussed, memories before the age of five.

I remember climbing out of my crib after my afternoon nap and finding Mommy painting my new big girl bed. The sun is shining brightly through the living room window on her face and I think she looks like a beautiful princess. I run, throwing myself into her arms, and sigh "Mommy!"

In the next memory, I wake up in the middle of the night. I lay there for a moment, listening to the sounds of the night. I can't fall back to sleep so I get up and go to climb in Mommy and Daddy's bed.

It is empty.

My heart begins to race. I whisper, "Mommy? Daddy?" No one answers. I tiptoe through the living room to the kitchen and bathroom, then back to the living room. I climb on the couch, eyes wide in the dark, and listen to the silence. I hear the distant rumble of the subway. Hurried footfalls echoing down the street. Eventually, I hear a car stop below. Then, I hear voices. I struggle to hear one I know. I hear a laugh. Daddy?

I jump up and run to the window. I climb on a chair. I listen again through the tiny sliver of open window. I hear his laugh again. I scream, "Daddy?"

"Baby?"

"Daddy! What are you doing out there! You're supposed to be with me! Come home right now!!"

"I'm coming, baby."

In my last pre-kindergarten memory, I am five and sitting in my Auntie Alva's room where I would sleep with Mommy for six months while she looked for a new home for us. Mommy and Auntie Alva are in the kitchen whispering. I am playing music on my little Donald Duck record player. I am listening to Michael Jackson's song, Ben, and crying as I write Mommy a note (she still carries in her wallet the yellowed paper with my childish writing). I write, "Don't worry, Mommy. I will take care of you. I love you."

During the year floods in the village left many homeless. Thank God no one was hurt.

But the homeless people were devastated. All were upset and all were amazed and their hearts were ruined.

Then an old gentleman said that the demolished houses should be rebuilt by means of hashar and lit the lights of hope for tomorrow.

Everyone who can work has come to hashar. Even people from the neighboring village came to help the people with food.

It was lunch. Everyone sat down to eat. But for some reason a little boy didn't sit down for dinner. He was really called. Didn't.

"Yes, he has a heavy ear."

"I think he is full."

- No, the boy has not stopped since the morning. Was he not thirsty or was he tortured?

In fact, this boy, who has been working in the hot and humid weather since early morning, has been amazed and at times surprised. The old man, who had an idea for hashish, came to ask him:

- Look at me, baby! Have you not tasted salt since morning? Or did you not drink some water? It doesn't happen. A little self-centered? Look at that, and the big guys from you are tired of eating too! But you are working hard on the pearl! Tell me, my son, why?

The boy finally spoke and said, "I'm fasting."

The father was in tears. They all fluttered. No, not because of the boy's response, but because they forgot the month of Ramadan when the flood came, and when they were worried about themselves, they forgot about Allah.

Then it became clear why the villagers survived even in such a terrible flood.