Lainey found it to be true, the fact that wild, feral eyes are drawn to the movements of other wild, feral things. Her own eyes were currently attracted to the prowling's of one such thing, her ears tuned toward it’s guttural reverberations, her senses recognizing something of herself in the way the souped-up roadster crept jerkily towards her, it’s muscle flexing against it’s brakes as though anxious to pounce, the familiarity of it tickling at a salacious memory deep within her.

The car stirred some untamed thing inside Lainey which slowed her steps, allowing the danger to creep ever closer in spite of her natural predilection to flee… even wild things have a breaking point… but then a resigned willingness to either consume or be consumed halted her steps altogether until she waited, allowing the distance between she and it to close. Lainey couldn’t forget. How did one unlearn the exhilaration of lust, or the intoxication of being it’s object. God knows she had tried, but she couldn’t forget the summer heat, the youthful intrigue, the secret hidden trysts. These were, of course, the delectable parts. They were the reasons for the excitement produced within her by the approaching car, and they revealed to Lainey her long suppressed yearnings for those things, despite all that had happened.

Like it or not, Lainey Frost was possessed of a wildness.

“C’mon, Lainey. It’s just a ride home.” Gideon’s eyes were a drug boring into her own, sedating her judgement. They were a drug she had tried before and whose cravings she didn’t want to like, that she was afraid to like. The fire and ice intensity of those eyes seared through her, beautiful as they were, so that Lainey instinctively knew she must pull herself away or suffer another terrible injury as consequence for her addiction.

”What is it with you Galloway boys and these cars?“ Lainey hoped to sound cavalier, but her voice failed her, dribbling the words out meekly, barely even audibly. Lainey understood perfectly well that this specific car was no accident. Gideon had always idolized Noah, just as Noah had idolized their father. Gideon had chosen this car on purpose, and had obviously worked hard to make it just like the one Noah used to drive, the one that had killed him and had nearly killed her. “Please, Gideon.” She tried to look him in the eye, the better to get her point across, but she only melted into that crystalline, Noah-like gaze of Gideon’s.

"Damn these Galloway boys," she thought. "And damn what they did to her!"

“Please Guideon,“ Lainey found her strength. Gideon was only a boy. He was the age now which she had been at two years ago, when she and Noah had…

“I can’t. Just leave me alone, Gideon. Please leave.”

The hurt in his eyes at her rejection nearly changed her mind. Hadn’t she already hurt the boy enough? But she didn’t call out for him to come back. She couldn’t, could she? And even if she had, could he have even heard her above the sudden mechanical storm she’d wrought?

The heavy growl of the small block V-8 as the ’57 Chevy idled away was every bit as frightening as the low rumble from an unseen bear or lion would be from out of the primeval darkness. Lainey knew it to be just as deadly in fact, as she had once danced in that darkness. Cast in her father’s era the car did not look antique, not with it’s custom hood scoop, flared fenders, and chromed out racing wheels, but the Chevy’s heavy heartbeat reverberated through her, rattling her bones, and her nerves, and even her sexuality. When safely away from her, whether from anger or disappointment Lainey could not know, Gideon floored it’s accelerator, loosing 455 cubic inches of mechanical muscle strong enough and loud enough to shake loose the very pillars of Heaven. As the it’s engine roared, and it’s squealing tires spewed a towering chimney of billowing white smoke into the ethereal blue Lainey shrunk down inside herself, the sights and sounds taking her back to that night when love had lived and died for her as quickly as a meteor‘s shower ends.

Like most sixteen year old girls Lainey had once had girlfriends. She had even been somewhat popular, back before Noah. But while those girlfriends had been drawn to the football quarterback, or to the baseball boys, even back then Lainey’s eyes had been drawn to the wild things, to the things the others couldn’t understand, and feared. From Lainey Frost’s very first glimpse of Noah Galloway she‘d known exactly what it was she wanted, and who. Lainey had been standing outside the high school when his souped-up Chevy crept past her, it’s “balls of steel” engine rebellious at being reined-in beside her, spitting and sputtering it’s disgust at her. He’d stopped on account of her, brashly ducking his head for a better look through the passenger-side window. Brown, wind-blown curls splayed from beneath a ratty ball cap. A tight, greasy t-shirt and faded blue jeans completed the “motor head” look. His arm reaching out for the steering wheel had been tanned and muscled, with delicate blue veins which longed to be traced coursing down it’s length. But it was his eyes that captured her, so icy-hot that she found her heartbeat matching the spitting and sputtering angst of the Chevy’s. He’d smiled a crooked smile at her through the window, Noah had, but the smile hadn’t been necessary. She was already aware of his desire, his eyes had made sure of that. She might have climbed in then and there if he’d asked, but he hadn’t, thank heavens. No, the car had rumbled away, leaving behind a million questions and no one for Lainey to ask them of, her heart despairing of ever seeing either car or driver again.

But she should have known better. Eighteen year old boys are hungry, and must eat. It seemed that everywhere Lainey went from that day forward Noah was somehow there, too; whether parties, dances, or ballgames. Things progressed quickly from phone calls, to holding hands, to kisses, and more. Long and lanky, he took her to his home, where she also fell in love with his Uncle Benjamin, and his little brother Gideon, a sparkling-eyed fourteen year old with the same curls spilling over his forehead that Noah sported.

It had been her idea, sneaking out. They drove until they found a dirt road, and a quiet place. She and Noah made love for the first and only time on a blanket laid over a dry, sandy wash beneath a bright, low-hanging moon. They had used whispers there for no real reason as the slow, black water serpentined past. It had been soft, earthy, and innocent. They had proceeded slowly, cautiously, tree frogs and crickets urging them on from the darkness. Noah had balked in the end, afraid of hurting her, content with touching and tickling her most sensitive parts with his calloused fingertips until her body literally ached with wanting him, so that she nearly screamed at him to do it, already! And when he finally did do it, it was even better than she’d imagined, and nicer, and sweeter; his lean body rocking gently atop her softness, and then faster, yet his rigor somehow still soft in her hands, and salty to her taste, as if the tawny muscles of it were melting for her comfort… except, of course, for that tiny bit of pain that warmed her to her core, reminding her that she was now a woman.

He’d kissed her then, gazing into the shadows of her eyes as an easily rolling thunder rumbled like waves towards them from the faraway distance. ”I love you, Lainey Frost.” The words had come to her on queue, right when she’d needed them most, making her so happy she could have burst.

If only she had whispered them back. But in that youthful moment time had seemed no obstacle.

On spindly legs they’d dressed, helping one another in the darkness, giggling guiltily in their clumsiness. Their get-away car had been that lone obscene thing which shattered the stillness of the night. Her insides a-smoldering Lainey had climbed aboard him as he drove, grinding on his lap and kissing his neck, her grooves wetting his mounds through their confounded cotton clothing.

The flashing lights had been a surprise, coming as they did from nowhere. “Oh God, Noah! No! Don’t let me get caught.” But angry parents would not have been so bad.

From her perch on his lap she’d watched the lights through the back window. They were clearly pulling away from the police car when the turns became too sharp. His arms left the wheel to embrace her protectively as the car slid from the road and into a ditch, where the Chevy’s great speed sent it, and them, reeling high into the air.

She’d lost her spleen, and broken her sternum, but Lainey was comparably lucky. Still in the hospital, the funeral had gone on without her. He was completely gone to her, devoid of closure, as though Noah had never been anything more than a sweet, recurring fantasy from her youth. But then Uncle Benjamin had come by, wondering what had happened, seeing if she was ok, but she honestly hadn’t known the answers to any of his questions. She either couldn’t, or wouldn’t remember. Over time, some of the memories returned, in spits and spurts, until she longed to go to Uncle Benjamin now that some of the answers were unveiled, but it seemed that the more time ticked by, the harder that became.

On Lainey’s 18th birthday she was still grieving. Two years of ever-so-slow healing. Her school friends were already marrying the quarterbacks, and the baseball boys, while her stitches, and bones, and memories scarred over. Those girls seemed happy-as-not when observed from afar, from where Lainey watched alone as she spiraled down in her whirlpool of guilt.

And then it had all begun again, as though a wish had been granted. The car had frightened her when she first began to see it on her few sojourns about town; sleek, black, growling panther-like through the streets, or leaping and screeching when kicked, barreling from sight. It’s novelty awakened something inside her; a longing, an urge to track it’s blacktop skid marks right up to it’s very lair, where she might actually pet the beast. It frightened her because she knew her drug now, and she knew her weakness for it. And as she’d known from the start that it would, on one of her sojourns about “it” finally rumbled up behind her, a crooked smile finding her through the passenger-side window.

”Hi Lainey.” He seemed genuinely happy to see her, Noah did, as if he had forgotten what she had done. Of course the boy wasn’t Noah, but it was exactly the same, her feelings exactly the same, only the day and the year being different. The blood inside her froze, paralyzing her in memories, and desires, and shames. Those same icy-blue eyes burned her, bilging long dried-up tears to her surface. Standing there, on the outside looking in, Lainey felt the warmth of other suns, and the warmth of another’s skin in the cool of night. God, how she so longed for him to be Noah.

But it wasn’t Noah, was it. “Gideon?”

He was forced to read his name off of her quivering lips, as her voice failed her, but despite it his smile grew. She had dreaded this moment, feeling unsure about how the younger Galloway boy would react to seeing her, the girl who had killed his older brother, but Gideon seemed genuinely happy to see her.

”Yea. How are you, Lainey? We’ve missed you, me and Uncle Benjamin.”

Not trusting her voice, she constrained herself to a nervous, half-smile by way of gratitude.

”Can I give you a ride somewhere? I’d love to talk.”

Lainey was suddenly sixteen again, standing in front of the high school. She would have climbed in, if he’d only asked. From inside looking out those crystaline eyes burned into her, just as they had before. She could see the desire in them, and she felt it in herself, and she wondered if he could see it in her as she could in him. The thought broke her down so that she had to get away from him, and fast.

”C’mon, Lainey. It’s just a ride home. Can’t you trust me?”

But he had it all wrong, didn’t he? She did trust him. It was her she didn’t trust. Damn these Galloway boys, anyways! “Please Gideon, just leave me alone.”

She was still standing there, staring at nothing, holding her feelings in, tamping them down. The smell of burning rubber was still heavy around her, the shame still hot on her cheeks when another rumble found her consciousness.

Gideon had circled the block and come back. She climbed in, as he’d known she would.

It felt the same, the speed did, the exhilaration, the freedom. It was nothing for those things to toss the heaviness inside her out the opened window. For a moment she was allowed to be a girl again, with a boy. She never imagined she could have that again, what with the warm winds whipping at her hair through, her shrieks weightless upon ticklish rises and under dipping valleys, his laughs at her screams, the bluish veins on his steering arm longing to be traced.

The sun was low when the Chevy finally rumbled them to her curb. “Can I see you again, Lainey? On Saturday, maybe?”

Her mother’s worried face looked out from the window. ”It’s not a good idea.” Gideon was just a kid, though he no longer looked like one, what with his bulging biceps and chiseled features. She would have to be the smart one in this room, if there was to be a smart one.

”Of course it is. Uncle Benjamin would love to see you. So would I.”

”No Gideon. I can’t.” She climbed from the car. “Thanks for the ride.”

She was half way up the driveway when he called out to her. “See you Saturday, Lainey. I’ll pick you up at noon.”

The driveway seemed dreadfully steep as Gideon drove away. Lainey’s feet felt dreadfully heavy walking it. The house waiting at the driveway’s end seemed dreadfully domesticated, her room inside it dreadfully lonely. Her parents seemed dreadfully apprehensive, her future dreadfully docile.

They should not have let her out alone. After two years cold-turkey Lainey had tasted her drug today. Gideon had rolled up her sleeve, and had administered her cure as any good doctor or dealer would, shooting it through her veins and removing the tourniquet, releasing a rush like Satan’s pet "bat out of hell" straight to her heart.

Could she go back now? Could she ever go back after this day’s relapse? She understood her parents, and could not condemn them for their comforts and amenities. But if “they” were right, her friends and her parents, if she succumbed to their cautions, what would their caged life offer her? Roasting beef and darning socks? Could she stand so little, she who thrived on passions? Wasn’t the dullness of them just as deadly to the wildness in her spirit as his injuries had been to her body?

And if she ran, and it were to go with Gideon as it had with Noah, could she survive the trauma again? Perhaps not, but did she care? Wasn’t one form of death the same as another? For two years she had tried it their way, and where was she now? Sad, broken, lost in yesterday and the rush he had given her. Was the spirit pumping through the beating heart not as crucial to it as the blood was? She’d had just a taste, but after today she knew that the spirit was as crucial, and she knew now what it was she needed.

Damn those Galloway boys, and what they did to her.

Yes... she knew exactly what she needed. At noon this Saturday, come hell or high water, Lainey Frost would be ready and waiting.

It was Monday. The machines that marked his breaths, his heart beats, slowed. An unrelieved hum filled the room when his lungs emptied, and his body deflated, motionless. He was no longer. His wife held his lifeless hand, her head upon her bent arm by his side. Nurses who had become friends during his final weeks stood vigil with her. Some cried; some hugged. One put a comforting hand on his wife’s shoulder.

Clearly, it was not with eyes that he saw this. He was dead. And yet, he was there, in the room, hovering, everywhere.

Where was his daughter?

Then, he knew, and in the moment that he knew, he was no longer in the room, but rather, where she was, heavy with child, happy, still ignorant of his passing.

He wondered that he was not elsewhere but gave thanks he could see his baby. If only he could see hers.

Then they were in the hospital and her husband was pale and sickly as he awaited the birth holding her hand and staring at the machine monitoring the baby’s heart, while she sang, loudly, with each contraction.

He watched, waited, till suddenly he felt another presence as incorporeal as his own. And he knew. His grandson.

And as he ceased to be himself and became one with all that is and ever shall be, his grandson took his first breath.

I don't remember very many birthdays before the age of, well, a few years ago. But there is one birthday that I remember that completely changed the way that I looked at my life. Its seemingly unimportant and I may be reaching for some sort of underlying message that doesn't even exist but here it goes:

I can't even recall how old I was turning or which birthday this was, but it was when my parents were still together. The morning was filled with chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream, calls from family members who sang to me on the phone, and I remember getting a limited edition American Girl Doll that looked just like me. She was brand new with light brown hair, and a few freckles- we even added earrings to her ears once I got mine pierced. I felt like we looked so much alike and we shared these traits that made me feel like I was so lucky to have such a great birthday. But once the day ended and the charade that was my birthday depleted, for another 365 days I played with this special doll.

As more and more birthdays went on I started to notice a snag in her clothing, small knots in her hair, and the coloring of her eyes starting to fade. It made me feel like my youth was slowly diminishing just like the freshness of this doll was. Since then, no birthday has felt quite as special, and I can't remember the last time that I truly felt like a carefree kid. Like someone who would wake up with no worries in her mind except whether or not Mom and Dad would make chocolate chip pancakes again or sing me happy birthday together again.

So to me, now birthdays sort of remind me of my American Girl Doll Molly. How we sold her at a garage sale to make more money for my college fund (which I apparently have to save real money for and work an adult job for), and how my childhood innocence seemingly left with her. And with age and birthdays coming and going, I'm constantly wishing I was just a carefree kid again and I didn't have to think about all of the complex things that life continues to throw at me. But I've learned that this life is unforgiving to time, and no matter how nostalgic we may feel towards a special edition doll or a morning full of sugary breakfast food, nothing will ever feel that carefree again.

A like without a read is a box without the chocolates. It's the froth on a milkshake. A kiss blown from the other side of the street. Am I guilty of such false love? Of ticking boxes without bothering to read more than the first few lines? Of course. The little heart looks so much nicer when coloured in, don't you think? A like is my smiley face stamp on the back of your hand for fitting at least one of your yellow plastic pieces through the correct and corresponding shaped hole. It might be considered as damning with faint praise, but then...

how many of you have actually bothered to read this?

At first there was only sleep. Deep sleep. The deepest of sleeps. His heart rate slowed and slowed until his body, for all intents or purpose, lived no more. He saw the body there on the table. His body. Dead. He was dead. He watched the body as he drifted away, untethered from it. He watched it get smaller, and smaller. He watched it not because he cared what happened to it, but because he did not want to turn. He did not want to know what was behind him, what it was that awaited him next. He did not want to know what the answer was to the only real question.

But then he did turn. Slowly. Something far away called to him and he turned, something from the darkness. Deep inside that darkness was a pinpoint of light. It was unwillingly that he moved toward the pinpoint, but he did not walk, as there were no feet on no ground. There were no arms to swing, there was no voice to sing. There was nothing; a vacuum. He could still be analytical! It was a vacuum! He clung to that, clung desperately because he had thought of it. He had thought it!

“I think, therefore I am.”

Had there been a mouth, it would have smiled. He had remembered his Nietsche. He was still him. He could still remember!

The light was closer, only it was no longer light. It was colors now. Prismatic and bold colors. Rainbow colors wrapping around him, embracing him, touching every part of whatever it was that was him. Warm and wet were the colors, like lotion caressing, squeezing him inside, like vaginal walls pulling. Like wet, warm vaginal walls massaging, and squeezing him inside to a place that he did not even know that he could not have resisted.

Had he a mouth it would have kissed. Had he a dream, the dream would be this.

And then it was done. And then he was there, where the ears are music, and the eyes light. There, where the mind was wonder, and where, with the body gone, nothing else could ever matter.

Dr. Abel Cane had come full circle; born of the Mother, taught to suffer, and returned to the Father.

I struggle with the concept of soulmates. It implies that there is just one person who is ideal for you. This seems unnecessarily cruel. What if you live in California and your soulmate is a shepherd in Egypt? The odds of living happily ever after with your 1 in 7 billion soulmate is about as good as me becoming a published author (I have no intention of EVER seeking publication). Sorry, but I have been married to the same wonderful woman for almost 18 years and can honestly and thankfully say I am glad she isn't my soulmate.

Having a soulmate implies that you have the ideal relationship with this person. There is little to no arguing, you both have similar goals, you like the same music, you share parenting views, and your in-laws live on another continent. So, if you're with your soulmate, you should expect to wake up every morning with lovebirds singing outside your window. You smile, stretch, and yawn enjoying the glow of the remaining endorphins left over from your passionate and frenzied lovemaking the entire night before. The previous evening is always romantic. You and your soulmate enjoy a quiet dinner with charming and flirtatious conversation followed by a trip to the bedroom where you make love in the glow of candle light. The lovemaking is always perfect as you both cum repeatedly and neither of you have to sleep in the wet spot when you finally slip into blissful slumber. (tip: unless one or both of you goes off like Old Faithful at climax you should be able to cover the love stew spot with a hand towel) With thoughts of the previous evening sending a delicious shiver through your loins, you rise out of a somehow unsoiled bed. Seeing that you're now awake, squirrels slip in your open bedroom window and bring you your bathrobe. Humming a post coital tune you go downstairs where your soulmate has already made breakfast, but before you eat, more frenzied love making (just not on the dinner table you pervs, people EAT there). After breakfast and afterglow you have a sexy shower together before you both go off to work.

Sounds perfect right? WRONG! Real love is forged in the fires of adversity, compromise, and the frequent desire to hit your mate over the head with a 10 pound sledge hammer. Having a soulmate would be boring. How do you and a soulmate learn to weather the sick kids, financial issues, and sexual droughts resulting from a calendar full of playdates, soccer games, and little to no alone time? Answer? You won't. Your relationship will fold quicker than a Victoria's Secret in Amish country. If everything in your relationship is ideal you won't have a fucking clue when the less than ideal outside world launches multiple 10 pound flaming turd-like problems at you and your fairytale relationship. It is the friction, the differing opinions, the mutual hate for each other's in-laws, and the occasional yelling and screaming fight which tempers a relationship. The world and its problems will break a soulmate relationship quicker than a dollar store vibrator overheats in a porno movie.

So what evidence do I have? My wife and look like we don't belong on the same planet let alone in a marriage that is pushing 20 years. My wife was raised in a church and taught Sunday school. I'm surprised that I'm not struck by lightening on the rare occasion I enter a church. My wife grew up in a town known as, "The Cowboy Capital of the World," and was raised on country music. I FUCKING HATE country music, redneck, and cowboy culture. My wife likes Hallmark movies and romances. I like the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy, Pink Floyd's "The Wall," "This is Spinal Tap," Monty Python, and Mel Brooks movies. My wife enjoyed middle class security growing up. I was raised in the shadow of domestic violence and food insecurity. We have worked hard at our marriage, our rough edges smoothed with experience, compromise, and bouts of quicky love making because the kids will want something else in a couple minutes. It's not perfect, but I would bet on my marriage over any relationship between two soulmates. Fuck, we'd probably kick the soulmate couple's asses when they refer to themselves as such and on the hunch that they probably have a "Live, Laugh, Love" print hanging somewhere in their home. Both would set us off

Look, if you believe in soulmates, good for you. The problem with perfection is it doesn't have the foundation and battle proven strength of a relationship that has survived personal differences while simultaneously weathering the 10 pound flaming turd level problems life throws at them. I don't need a soulmate, I need a friend, sex partner that knows how to keep both of us out of the wet spot, and someone who is willing to forgive my legion of fuck ups. You can have your soulmate, I will take my, "Well this Kinda Sucks but We'll Get Through it" mate and enjoy another 20 years together.

In the heart of a fog-laden town, I inherited a dilapidated Victorian mansion known as Ravenswood Manor—a place long whispered about for its paranormal reputation. With trepidation and a hint of excitement, I embarked on a chilling journey as the new proprietor.

From the moment I stepped foot inside the grand foyer, a sense of unease settled upon me. The air was heavy with an otherworldly presence, and the creaking floorboards echoed with unseen footsteps. As the days passed, strange encounters became a daily occurrence, the hotel's spectral inhabitants making their presence known with mischievous intent.

Guests would awaken to find their belongings rearranged, as if playful spirits had taken delight in disrupting their sleep. Lights flickered mysteriously, casting eerie shadows along the corridors, while chilling whispers echoed through the walls during the darkest hours of the night.

Communication with the spirits was a perplexing affair. They left cryptic messages scrawled on fogged-up mirrors, their ghostly fingers etching the words of the hotel's hidden history. It became clear that the spirits yearned to have their stories heard, their unfinished business laid to rest.

The hotel staff, initially skeptical, were soon enveloped by an otherworldly ambience. Some experienced unexplained cold drafts and the sensation of being watched, while others claimed to have encountered spectral figures gliding silently through the halls. The once vibrant atmosphere of the hotel grew hushed, as whispers of the paranormal spread among the guests, both terrifying and fascinating them.

Legends and rumors, once dismissed as mere superstitions, emerged from the shadows. The tale of a tragic love affair, a forbidden romance that ended in despair, seemed to intertwine with the spirits' presence. Determined to unravel the mysteries, I delved into the hotel's forgotten past, seeking the aid of paranormal experts and delving into local historical records.

Hidden chambers and forgotten journals revealed the secrets of Ravenswood Manor. The artifacts told stories of lost souls trapped within its walls, their yearning for resolution and peace. Yet, as I dug deeper, the spirits' presence grew more volatile, their anger palpable as if disturbed from their slumber.

As the month wore on, the hotel became a battleground of emotions. Fear and curiosity waged war within me, tempting the boundaries of sanity. But instead of banishing the spirits, I yearned to coexist, to uncover their stories and grant them solace. My pursuit for truth became an obsession, driving me to the precipice of madness.

In a climactic twist, I unearthed a hidden diary—an intimate account of the forbidden love that had plagued the manor for generations. Armed with newfound understanding, I sought to communicate with the spirits, to offer them closure and guide them towards the light.

On a moonlit night, within the echoing halls of Ravenswood Manor, I performed a solemn ceremony, inviting the spirits to gather. In a flurry of ethereal presence, their tormented souls found solace, their mischievous energy transforming into tranquility.

As the last ghostly figure dissipated into the night, a sense of peace settled over Ravenswood Manor. The hotel once again breathed with life, its walls resonating with the echoes of forgotten history. Though forever marked by the paranormal, it stood as a testament to the enduring power of compassion and understanding.

And as I stood in the now serene foyer, I realized that this unforgettable month had changed me. I had not only embraced the spectral realm but had emerged from the shadows with a newfound appreciation for the ethereal forces that coexist alongside us—forever entwined with the history and mysteries of Ravenswood Manor.

Watching him be marched off didn’t seem at all odd.  The sirens of the police car blared, threatening to pound out every thought in my head.  The soft crunch of loose gravel over my driveway seemed to seep into my ears.  The figure of the man hobbling away, dragged by two officers, it was like watching two ants take away a large crumb.

The crumb had a large tail, his skin riddled in scales.  He turns back scanning all the fellow residents.  His golden eyes pierced every person.  The swing of his head is followed by the horns protruding over his head.  Long and spiraled, they resembled a ram’s horn if it was to grow upwards.

His eyes land on me, the thin slits of his eyes getting ever smaller.  He digs his heels into the ground using the claws that protrude out of his shoes to turn himself.  He seemed to be shouting something, but the blaring sirens and gravel drowned him out.  I don’t react, I simply look, his tongue whips out, long and slit.  He grew more irate, his fangs gleaming against the siren lights.

The two officers struggle to hold onto him.  The man struggles, trying to run towards me.  A third officer steps out from the police car and takes out a small taser.  The man is too distracted to see, to hear.  The third officer clicks the taser and two small digits shoot into the man’s skin.  The thin wires bouncing between the officer and the man as electricity is pumped into the man.  He stops shouting and trembles for a few seconds before crumpling to the ground.

The three officers load him onto the car and drive off.  The man’s front door is still open, claw marks from his initial resistance still on display.  One of the neighbors starts to gossip to another holding out their phone.  I walk past them and take a peek.

“Local man arrested for killing 3 people”

The article had an image of the man attached.   Hornless, scaless, tailless.  I continue to walk and step over the neighbor’s tail.  I take care to avoid another’s horn.

No one can see.

A tall white block stood above the hedges and orchids while the sun rose. There was a pathway straight to the doors that contained golden knobs. An angel statue stood next to the doors looking innocent. A visitor arrived with a suitcase and a bag, and she knocked on the door. She was excited that she could not wait patiently to explore the pretty world inside.

When no one opened the door this morning, Vanilla, a visitor, stared at the angel statue. She thought she saw the wings flutter and said, “This is not fantasy, is it?”

The maid opened the door as Vanilla stood there baffled at the statue. The maid snapped her fingers, “Are you the visitor for the month?”

Vanilla stuttered, “Y-y-yes, ma’am.”

After the maid closed the door, Vanilla moved her belongings into the living room. The angel statue grinned mischievously. While Vanilla sat on the sofa and looked at the picture frames with silhouettes, the maid gave her the cup of tea and biscuits from the kitchen. Vanilla ate those slowly. “It is so sweet.”

Then, the maid led her upstairs to room 50. Vanilla thanked her and opened the door. “Something smelled like cigarettes,” she thought and dropped her things to find the maid, who was on the staircase. The maid said, “I already cleaned the room yesterday.

Vanilla said, “No, the room smells like cigarettes. You need to come and look.”

The maid followed her to the room. They found nothing as the smell was gone. Vanilla was lost in thought when the maid said, “I need to make lunch so you can stay here.”

Vanilla went inside with her belongings and put them on the carpet. She sat on the bed and thought, “How are the cigarettes not here? Is this a fantasy?”

She explored the closet with curiosity. Suddenly, she found the golden box with a lock outside. She grabbed the box and put it on the bed. She looked around for the golden key, which was not there.

So she went into the hallway in search of the key. Before the maid called her, Vanilla looked at the angel statuette, on the pane in the farthest hallway. That one was smiling, so she ran and bumped into the tall, dark angel’s torso. Then, she looked up as the angel grinned.

The maid shouted her name, “Vanilla!”

The visitor snapped in the maid’s embrace. Her mouth dropped open as the maid shook her hard, “Vanilla, it is lunchtime.”

Vanilla said, “I saw something… that looks like an angel… with large wings… and a smile… that… makes me feel uncomfortable.”

“First, you have to eat lunch. Then, we talk about it.”

In the living room, Vanilla did not eat lunch. She instead hears a story than to explores the hotel. Her thoughts were saying, “Who is that angel? Is that real? Is that a fantasy-like creature? Am I the crazy one here?”

The maid sits beside her at the table and says, “The angel is not what you see. It is a boy dressed in a long robe and has large feathered wings. He was there to impress visitors with his smile.”

Vanilla said, “So is a boy trying to impress me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What he wants to do next?”

“It is unpredictable.”

“What about the statue on the porch?”

“That one… This hotel has many statues, small and large. The boy can bring it to life with his mind and tricks that you see smiles, but it is all just imagination.”

“Creepy.”

“You can go to your room, and I will call you for dinner.”

In room 50, the visitor lay on the bed thinking nothing but wishing the hotel not to give her the creeps. The smile of an angel is the wickedest one. She did not know why she, was brought here. Her parents were out of town for the month that she assumed was the best vacation for them. Vanilla never experienced lonely times on vacation. The hotel experience is the first.

Then, her eyes snapped open to the shadow at the end of the bed. She moved to the side and was on the floor. She stood as the shadow disappeared. “That one is different. It cannot be the angel statue,” she muttered.

She went to the bathroom to wash her face and hands. The angel statuette was in the bathtub. She heard the faucet turning. Eventually, she looked at the tub with shock. Dark angel was smiling at her with his hands on the tub. She turned off the sink and exited the bathroom to dry with the towel. She said, “That is not happening.”

She turned her head to see the angel in the long towel. “Did you just shower?” she asked while her face was red.

He approached her with his hand out to her face. She moved to the bed. He was at the edge of the bed and smiled. She said, “Do not hit me, please.”

Unfortunately, the maid was here holding her shoulders tightly, “Vanilla, it is dinnertime.”

“What did I just see?” Vanilla said.

The maid left first. The visitor sat on the bed. Then, the towel fell to be soft and warm. She stood and went out of the room. As the door closed behind her, the angel statuette on the window pane smiled again.

Vanilla sat on the chair with her stomach growling. The foods on the table were delicious and savory. She grabbed the drumstick and added the barbecue sauce on top; finally, she ate it slowly. The maid dropped off the suspicious cake at the center of the table. Vanilla asked, “What is that? A birthday cake?”

“No, it is for us.”

“That cake is big and round with lots of frosting and…” she found the pair of wings on a candle symbolizing the dark angel.

The maid explained, “He is joining us now for dinner.”

Vanilla dropped the bone onto the plate, and she stood. Before she could leave, the man appeared in a tuxedo and smiled at her wishing her to stay. Vanilla felt suspense in the air. Will I move or sit down as if nothing happens to me? She sat down on the chair with her head down. My life is going to end soon or in a month. Finally, she sighed deeply.

What made her feel uncomfortable, he sat across from her. He was looking at her with indifference. Still looking down at the plate, Vanilla cannot think of an escape. The maid said, “Welcome, Sir Max.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

His eyes glued on Vanilla, who did not move at all. He asked, “What is your name?”

Vanilla looked up and said, “Vanilla. Vanilla Mart.”

“What a beautiful name.”

“Uh, thanks.”

All three at the table sang a birthday song to the angel. She thought that the dark angel’s birthday was today. The maid cut the cake into slices and gave one to Sir Max, Vanilla, and herself. Vanilla stared at the candle with angel wings on the cake.

Suddenly, she took out the candle from the cake. She found the key to the golden box, which stayed in the room. Sir Max said, “The key has chosen you, Vanilla.”

She looked at him in shock, “Chosen one? You mean the box?”

“You can open it later.”

Everyone ate their slices except Vanilla, who stared at the key for any clue. She asked, “Where is the dark angel? You know that his birthday is today?”

Sir Max grunted, “He passed not too ago.”

The maid added, “Not to worry about it, Vanilla.”

The visitor went upstairs to reach the room. She entered and found the box on the bed. She plugged the key into the lock to turn it, but the box moved by the smoke. She smelled the cigarettes in the air.

“Dark angel,” she called him. “Are you on drugs?”

“Give me the key!” he demanded.

“The key has chosen me,” she said.

“Now or never!”

So she submitted the candle with angel wings to his hand. He smiled, “Looks are deceiving. The box is not what you see as a lucky box.”

“You mean the Pandora’s box? I am Pandora, the curious lady trying to open the box and unleash--” Her hands are on the box.

“Give me the box.”

She handed him the box with disappointment. “Why?” she asked.

“You will unleash all the evils and sufferings into the world you live in. Evils are from Adam and Eve’s first sin. I am just warning you.”

Vanilla sat on the bed thinking hard while the dark angel rushed to fly away into the night. He would drop this box into the unforeseen hedge, where he died not too long ago. He thought this would heal his heart from damage. Before he can do that, he must hide the box and key from the maid. If the maid found him carrying those things, she would be furious and call for help. He would be dead for good.

The maid knocked on the door interrupting Vanilla from her thoughts. When the visitor opened the door, the maid said, “You need to shower and sleep.”

“The candle and box are gone.”

The maid asked, “Who takes them?”

Vanilla shrugged. “No idea.”

The maid slammed the door in her face. Vanilla thought, “The maid is not nice. What is her problem? Did she want the box so badly than me? I need to follow her.”

Vanilla found the hotel doors open, so she ran outside, and the maid in the hedge maze, who was looking for the items in the darkness. Vanilla gasped that the angel statue was on the porch quietly with a candle and box in his hands. He was smiling.

He said, “Thanks for your help.”

Vanilla blushed, “I-I did not. I shrug because the consequences are cruel to the world.”

“Lead the maid to the vines, where her daughter slipped and fell to her death.”

“In the hedge maze?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Sir Max was already behind Vanilla. He heard the last words and touched Vanilla by surprise. Then, the angel statue vanished before he got caught. Sir Max demanded, “I heard you and my son are working together, wanting the maid to die.”

Vanilla reassured him, “We are not doing that. We are-- err, um, she needs sleep.”

“Ladies need sleep. You look tired, ma’am,” he looked at the maid, who was in dirty clothes. Her face was sad and tired. She walked past the visitors to the room and showered.

Sir Max and Vanilla were in the living room, communicating quietly. Sir Max warned her not to bring death to the maid because she befriended him since his son passed away. Vanilla wanted to know more about a thing or two between him and the maid. He insisted, “Tomorrow over breakfast.”

“Aww, okay.”

Vanilla showered and slept in the bed with a Minion plushie from the bag. She slept soundlessly with it while the smoke came into her room. It was the dark angel and the two items. He smiled at her and slept with her throughout the night.

The maid knocked on the door and opened it. Then, she found the usual hair next to Vanilla’s head. She came to remove the blanket, a dark angel woke up, and finally, he vanished with the items before she took them. That made Vanilla open her eyes and find the maid looking angry at the empty side of the bed. Vanilla asked, but the maid stormed out of the room.

At the dining table, Sir Max welcomed the maid and talked about the story to Vanilla, who listened carefully. The maid screamed and threw the plates on the floor. She did not say a single word. Sir Max said, “She is not sleeping well, I guess.”

“Right,” Vanilla agreed.

The maid pointed her finger at Vanilla, saying, “I saw her sleep with your son, Sir Max.”

“I did not see him. It was empty on my right side,” Vanilla said.

“Then, that is your imagination? Huh? You are one crazy lady here. I will kill you.”

Before the maid chokes the visitor, Sir Max puts himself between these two females. He said, “Just calm down, ma’am.”

“I am not a ma’am. Just call me Lucy.”

“Lucy, calm down,” Sir Max reassured her.

“Not until I kill the girl and--”

The maid fell on her belly and was silent. The dark angel has knocked her out with the golden box. He looked at her with harsh treatment and said, “You are the troublemaker, Lucy. You should mind your business the way your daughter is supposed to be in the first place!”

“Son, you should have gone!” Sir Max shouted.

“I came to finish my job.”

Before Vanilla asks, the maid stands and grabs the candle key. She is using it to stab the angel’s torso. She was angry for pushing her down to the floor. He turned into smoke, so the box vanished. The maid ran around the hotel until she was tired.

Sir Max said, “He should have gone before the maid tried to kill him.”

“I want to ask him, but he runs away from Lucy.”

“This has to stop completely.”

For an entire month at the hotel, Lucy, a maid, was restless and destroyed many things inside each room, including the rooms downstairs and the kitchen. All she wanted to do was to catch the dark angel and get the box to unlock to release her daughter, the evil one.

Vanilla grabbed her belongings from room 50. She was already outside looking at the sad hotel. Sir Max came with a cell phone talking to the police. The car parked at the edge of a maze and two police people, who reached the building to find the maniac.

Sir Max approached her and said, “This is for her good.”

“What about the dark angel? I have not seen him in a while,” she said.

“I hope my son is okay.”

What she noticed was the dark angel holding the box with his face. He has decided to crush it with his pair of dark wings. She ran towards him, but the wings covered him completely. She heard the box crushed open as Sir Max explained, “That is his job.”

“To destroy the box forever so there will be no more troubles in the world,” she said.

The police came with the maid in handcuffs. They were already in the car. The maid said nothing to both Vanilla and Sir Max. She already loses the battle for her daughter. Then, the vehicle has driven off away.

The wings around the angel disappeared. Vanilla touched his shoulder, so he turned around as a human boy. She asked, “Are you okay, dark angel?”

“I am no longer a dark angel. I am a human boy.”

“So, what is your name?” she smiled.

“Michael Max.” He stood to embrace Vanilla. “Thank you, Vanilla.”

She blushed once more while the candle with angel wings burned in the kitchen fire and exploded the hotel to pieces. The big smoke released heavy cigarettes. Sir Max shouted at the children to move away from the fire. Trio was at the edge of the maze looking at the stunning fire until nightfall.

“At last, that is the end of their crazy lives,” Michael said with a smile.

I swallowed thirteen pills. One for every year that I’d been alive. It seemed like a lucky number.

My mom made me shove my finger down my throat, which I did. She went back to sleep. I took thirteen more and added one of her muscle relaxers– for luck.

I woke her up. Off to Conway Medical Center we went.

It’s a blur between now and then. There are flashes of my mom lifting my legs into our 2001 Pontiac Montana, a blip of me stumbling through the emergency room parking lot, and fluorescent lights rail-roading above my head as scrubs-clad bodies moved frantically around the hospital bed.

A tube forces its way into my throat. I thought I felt it. But maybe not. The objects in the room melt into one another and the doctors and nurses became a singular entity barking orders and confirmations. Black sludge pushes itself into my body.

As my blinking slows, the images swirled into a void familiar, a listless dreamscape, the somber knowledge of the improvements to be found in my absence, that a loss is not truly a loss, that time heals all wounds– of all this, I am convinced. Across my vision comes a flurry of juvenile faces offering nothing more than bitter accusation, memories of the cuts along my arms, legs, and back made with the knife my mother had been trying to find for weeks, a lonely walk home, a move I never wanted to make, and a box in a little girl's closet filled with presents for when her hero returns.

The scene shifts, unnatural choreography formed within my lulling eye. I see my mother, first fresh faced and young, then weary, then worried, crying in a lonely waiting room, biting the brittle nails she’d worked so hard to grow. I remember, five years prior, when her cousin placed a barrel between his teeth, discovered later by his teenage son. My great-aunt threw herself across the closed coffin, wailing for her baby boy. There was a shrine of him in her home, an aging picture set atop a piano that would never be played again. Was this my fate– a picture hung in a living room, stared at often but discussed little, a too-taut heartstring never to be released?

Slingshot visions pulled me from maternal lamentations and propel me into a place I’d never seen, a place that feels like home, where tiny voices call for me and a calloused hand grazes the length of my cheekbone. I saw my mother’s wrinkled face wash over with peace, and one of the few smiles life allowed her creeping across her cracking lips.

Bright lights come into gentle focus. The medical staff is moving less frantically though the seriousness in their steps remains. The tube is pulled from my throat. I gag, cough, and drift off.

When I wake, my mother is by my side whispering a notion of unconditional love. The doctor comes, informs me of my stability. As discussed, he says, if you tried to do this again, we’d have to watch you for a few days.

Three hours later, two officers appear at my bedside. They clasp my hands and my wrists and escort me to a nearby elevator. As I walk, the metal twists around my ankles. One of the officers takes pity and releases the lower set of cuffs, warning me not to run off. The elevator reaches the bottom floor and the doors open. It is twilight, and there is a police car waiting on the other side of the glass entryway. I’m told to watch my head as I awkwardly shift my body into the backseat.

As the car pulls out of the lot, I think of what I’ve seen and wonder- am I truly to be fixed?