Why did I become the villain? It's more a question of when. I can never really decide when I took my first step down the "wrong path".

Maybe it was the first visit to the hospital. Maybe it was the fights over phone calls with the insurance company. Maybe it was when I had to turn to strangers on the internet for help.

I can't lie when I say I did things I shouldn't have done, but it was worth the risk. The hospital didn't care about her, and the money I had wouldn't ever be enough. So I took a risk. And I got away with it. The IRS has greater worries than a single life, despite the fact that it should.

But that risk was worthless because she still left. All of the money in the world wouldn't be enough to save her. I know they'd told me that from the beginning, but I've always been a foolish person, full of foolish hope.

Money was said to fix anything. But apparently, Death doesn't take bribes.

Cambi J.M.

(This isn't a story from my life, but it might someone else's)

A smoldering color,

The last breaths of a dying flame.

The color of fall and the knowledge of coming holidays.

It means sweaters and jeans,

It means hot chocolate with marshmallows,

It means jackets, not coats.

It’s the sound of fallen leaves being crunched upon the ground.

To say goodbye forever,

Is to accept a painful loss.

To know about someone’s disappearance in your life.

Saying goodbye will always be difficult.

To friends, family, and pets.

It is always difficult.

But the first hello,

The first hello is horrible.

It’s a stumble,

A trip,

A fall down the stairs.

Saying hello is a faceplant in public,

One wrong word,

And your chance is gone.

When they went to read the books,

They found only ripped pages and missing stories.

Jagged tears and interrupted sentences.

When they went to their desks, however,

The stories had reappeared,

Taking on a life of their own.

Dragons, boats, and frogs.

Crowns, stars, and hearts.

Pieces of pages,

Folded and creased,

Placed like dolls,

Scattered about on a journey,

To a happily ever after.

Why do you keep playing the victim?

The one who’s lost it all.

The one who gets blamed for everything.

You don’t know what it’s like to be a victim.

You don’t know what it’s like to walk in groups,

Because you fear what someone might do to you.

You don’t know what it’s like to dress in a certain way,

So that you don’t attract too much attention.

Don’t play the victim when you have no idea,

The pain I know and the things I shouldn’t have to fear.

My words are chosen in specific ways,

So I don’t offend gentle egos.

My anxiety varies throughout the day.

When it’s day, I know that I can scream and be seen,

But at night I’m in a defensive mindset,

I’m prepared to protect myself.

Don’t call yourself a victim.

Victims walk down the street carrying knives for protection.

I'm a writer for a comic

A bloody, violent story.

Yet, I'm such a romantic,

So I subject them to horrors,

From which they'll never fully recover.

That way they can experience,

The idea of an imperfect lover,

and the only kind of love,

I've ever known.

What is love truly?

There are so many forms I have lost track,

Lost track of ones that surround me,

The ones on which I fall back.

The love of my friends is something special,

But I worry,

As my love turns into something else,

Their love withers away and the world around me turns blurry.

The love of family is warm and unyielding,

Their arms envelop me with support,

And they try to understand my feelings.

Yet sometimes I hide my love,

Just as they hide theirs,

Because I’m afraid that if I give away too much,

I’ll find that no one cares.

Do you ever wonder if someone will read your words?

If when the sky falls and the rain burns,

Someone will sit and speak them out loud,

Fruitlessly hoping,

That they will escape the terror that holds the world in a vice?

Or maybe they will be scrolling through the old archives,

Sipping coffee and wrapped in a fluffy blanket,

Imagining a world so unlike their own?

Or maybe it will be someone like me.

They will find it through chance as they trip,

Sending papers flying.

Only to pick them up one by one,

And realize,

Sometime,

Somewhere,

Someone,

Was a little bit like them.

And will find peace in the idea,

That they are never truly alone.

It was ironically beautiful weather for such a morbid event. The bright blue sky contrasted harshly against the black smoke that trickled from the burning pyre up into the atmosphere. Nature seemed to take pleasure in taunting us with what would normally be a perfect day by ruining it with a funeral.

It snowed. A lot.

The streets are slick with melting slick slush, tinted brown with car exhaust. It's the kind of slush that slips into your shoes and stains your socks. It stopped snowing a little while ago, and now the sky is a dreary gray. A bland, "blah" color that threatens more snow and hides the sun.

Welcome to Nebraska. Later today we go into a flood warning because the sun will escape from behind the clouds to burn away the ice and snow. The weather here is so haphazard and it's a miracle that the meteorologists still have a job.

Sometimes I wonder if they'd be more accurate by throwing darts at a spinning board labeled with types of weather.

So it's gray. Right now it's like a black-and-white photo. But it's possible that in five minutes the clouds will all part and the sun will shine and we'll all get washed away like the itsy-bitsy spider.