Basic Human Rights

Choosing safe abortions breeds dangerous violence.

Unfair Consequences

Choosing an abortion, she procreated violence.

Letting Society Rule

Wrongfully imprisoned. When freed, still misjudged.

Studying my reflection in the mirror, I think about how I’m going to die.

Then I cringe at the sight of my hair, once so sleek and shiny, now dull and wild.

But the longer I gaze at myself, the sooner I begin to see something else emerge.

A glimpse into the past, bathed in a golden hue. It’s Larry’s football helmet gleaming in the sun. Yes, there he is, tearing it up on the football field, stretching his lithe body inches off the ground, levitating to catch the ball. Touchdown. The crowd cheers, he’s a hero, accepting pats on the back from his teammates and coaches. Such fanfare; the noise is deafening. Until the scene changes, and it’s just us in his room, eating the grilled-cheese sandwiches I made.

“I’m proud of you little bro,” I say, thinking about the possibility of him playing for the Hawks someday. He’s only ten but already has the potential to be a greatest of all time, a GOAT, because I am making sure he lives and breathes football every single day. I’m only thirteen but if someone were to shadow us, they would think I’m his mom and he’s my precious child. And this mom wants him to rub my dad’s face in it when he goes pro and signs a million-dollar contract with the Seattle Seahawks, becoming the best wide receiver in Hawks’ history. I can’t wait.

“I wish dad was proud of me like you are, Margot,” Larry says, “But he doesn’t even treat us like we’re his kids anymore. It’s like we’re bugs he wants to squish to death with his bare hand.”

My brother sighs and tears glitter in his woeful brown eyes when he adds, “I miss mom, I wish she didn’t die. It’s not fair for you to be doing all the motherin’. But I’m glad you’re here. If I make it to the NFL, I’ll give you so much moolah, you can buy your own house.”

A car horn transports me back to the present. It’s time to go.

Once I’m at the glass partition, in a room with putty-colored walls and a cup of coffee in front of me, I take a minute to breathe. But soon, my brother’s brought in, his feet in shackles, the green prison garb turning his skin sallow.

Time slows down like a video in slow motion.

Larry’s long hair moves with each step he takes. When he sits down, his eyes bore into mine. I smell the coffee wafting, creating a bitter taste in my mouth, and the Chapstick I smeared on in the taxi, coating my throat, preventing words from shimmying their way out.

And then Larry’s vacant eyes spring to life, shining more amber than chocolate. His features crumple, and he cries. A tremor converges upon the hand that he grasps the phone receiver with, and I become his doppelgänger, bawling openly like an infant wailing for attention.

“I forgive you, Margot,” he sobs. Even though, after being so caring towards me for so long, making me think you were always going to be there, you suddenly ditched me. Even though it hurt like hell when you became bored of me, like a cat that loses interest in a dead mouse it's already played with, and killed. Even though I was nobody to you, and it happened so fast I didn't even see it coming. And even though you left me to party with that crowd of losers and couldn’t care less what he did to me. You’ve no idea of the torture. He once drugged me, dragged me naked across a bed of nails, then burned my thighs with cigarettes. On another of his sadistic days, he stuck my hand down the garbage disposal.”

I watch with stinging, salty eyes as his whole body seems to shudder, and lowering his voice to a whisper, he says “The mangled skin, tendons, tissue, bones, all bloody and unrecognizable, was enough to make me wanna slit my own throat. My football career was over before it began. And the pain, oh the pain. I remember howling with it, like a coyote in the stark, lonely desert, defending its kill, and I prayed that it would end soon.”

He wipes his eyes, bites his lip, and adds “There was one who didn’t look like you though.”

“What?”

Suddenly, my head feels like it’s on fire, a thousand red ants biting their way through my skull.

“What did you say?”

Larry leans in, brings his face closer to the glass casement, and his lips curl into an ugly smirk as he hisses into the phone, “Not all of them look like you, you know?” He pauses, peers down to study his fingerless, mutilated, bone-shattered right hand, and says, “There is one who doesn’t quite… match.” His evil grin spreading wider now, he breathes “and here’s a little nugget of info for you to chew on sis: they haven’t found her yet. She might not have been stabbed to death. She could still be alive.”

My body feels heavy, I’m stuck in a vat of honey and moving through it is impossible. I can almost taste the sickly sweet flavor turning my stomach.

“Lare,” I say like I’m talking to him when he was still a child. Still adorable and lovable. It stabs my soul (no fucking pun intended) that he’ll never again be either of those.

“Are you saying there’s another victim nobody knows about?”

My mind flashes to the stories in all the papers. Like a hair shirt, they are my penance, and for that reason, I’ve memorized every single word.

'The body of twenty-eight-year-old Ingrid Walsh was found in several re-cycling bins yesterday afternoon in Seattle. Ingrid had been stabbed repeatedly in the chest, had her throat slit, and was partially dismembered to fit into the containers.

The suspect, identified by police as 25-year-old Lawrence Duckworth, has confessed to this crime as well as to those of three other young women who were murdered the same way, discovered in dumpsters throughout Seattle within the last three months.

Duckworth was dubbed, “The Seahawks Serial Slasher” as each victim’s throat was cut, and they were all found wearing a Seahawks T-shirt. The victims were also similar in appearance, all had dark hair, brown eyes, and, sources say, looked like his sister.

According to Duckworth’s social media and witnesses who saw him, he was on a Tinder date with Ingrid at Xtadium Lounge, just hours before he murdered her in the back of his van. Duckworth told police the van was soundproofed to the point where nobody could hear her screams.

Sources claim that after the murder, Duckworth sat at home, wearing bloody overalls, holding the murder weapon, and waiting for police to arrest him.'

“Larry? I say with as much pity and compassion as I can thrust into my voice, “You know there’s a part of me that will always be grateful to you for turning yourself in. Before anyone else got hurt. I’m proud of you for surrendering.”

He explodes with a roar, throwing his chair at the glass in front of my face with such force the plastic seat bounces back and goes flying into the wall behind him.

I scream and my screams mingle with his screams while his fists pound the partition and his face twists gruesomely.

The guards are quick though. They drag him away back to his cell before I can even begin to make sense of what happened.

Days later, I’m toying between the idea of jumping in front of the train or swallowing bottles of Ambien.

But I can’t do either until I find out if there’s another victim. And if by some miracle, she's still breathing.

The next time I go see Larry, I make an effort with my appearance. I style my dark hair until it shines like spun silk, put on mascara, my best jeans and cream satin shirt.

But this time I’m careful not to say anything that will remind him of our childhood.

“You look nice today, Margot, I’d forgotten how beautiful you are. Although you’re my sister, I can still acknowledge you’re a stunner.”

“Thanks Larry, that actually means… a lot–”

“–you know why I’m here, though, don’t you”, I ask quietly.

He scoffs, “Of course I fucking know why you’re here. Do you think I’m stupid? You wanna know where the girl is.”

“Obviously… duh,” I say with a twitch of a smile.

He smiles too.

Giving me a wink he says "I like to think of you as Lizzie Borden of the modern world, sis. So... if you show me yours, I'll show you mine."

I hear it then. Stuck deep inside me, wriggling its way out. The chant escaping from our lips when my friends and I were little girls, was pretty gruesome. But we didn't know so we didn't care. We had fun singing it while skipping rope on the sidewalk.

Lizzie Borden took an axe, and gave her mother 40 whacks. When she saw what she had done, she gave her father 41.

"You're not the angel or victim Margot, that everyone thinks you are, isn't that so?" Larry's voice, purring with satisfaction, interrupts my reminiscing.

I have to clear my throat before I can make any sound come from it, and then I bat my eyes and say "so you do suspect that I killed that son of a bitch father of ours, I wondered about that for years". I twirl a piece of my hair between my fingers and look him in the eyes.

"Did you?" he asks, point blank.

"Of course, little brother. And I made sure it hurt. A lot."

"Good", he says. And winks at me again.

"Now, if you share all the gory details, including where you buried him," he whispers, "I'll tell you all about that blue-eyed, blonde-haired girl."

My stomach does a little flip.

Maybe I won’t jump in front of that train after all.

Studying my reflection in the mirror, I think about how I’m going to die.

Then I cringe at the sight of my hair, once so sleek and shiny, now dull and wild.

But the longer I gaze at myself, the sooner I begin to see something else emerge.

A glimpse into the past, bathed in a golden hue. It’s Larry’s football helmet gleaming in the sun. Yes, there he is, tearing it up on the football field, stretching his lithe body inches off the ground, levitating to catch the ball. Touchdown. The crowd cheers, he’s a hero, accepting pats on the back from his teammates and coaches. Such fanfare; the noise is deafening. Until the scene changes, and it’s just us in his room, eating the grilled-cheese sandwiches I made.

“I’m proud of you little bro,” I say, thinking about the possibility of him playing for the Hawks someday. He’s only ten but already has the potential to be a greatest of all time, a GOAT, because I am making sure he lives and breathes football every single day. I’m only thirteen but if someone were to shadow us, they would think I’m his mom and he’s my precious child. And this mom wants him to rub my dad’s face in it when he goes pro and signs a million-dollar contract with the Seattle Seahawks, becoming the best wide receiver in Hawks’ history. I can’t wait.

“I wish dad was proud of me like you are, Margot,” Larry says, “But he doesn’t even treat us like we’re his kids anymore. It’s like we’re bugs he wants to squish to death with his bare hand.”

My brother sighs and tears glitter in his woeful brown eyes when he adds, “I miss mom, I wish she didn’t die. It’s not fair for you to be doing all the motherin’. But I’m glad you’re here. If I make it to the NFL, I’ll give you so much moolah, you can buy your own house.”

A car horn transports me back to the present. It’s time to go.

Once I’m at the glass partition, in a room with putty-colored walls and a cup of coffee in front of me, I take a minute to breathe. But soon, my brother’s brought in, his feet in shackles, the green prison garb turning his skin sallow.

Time slows down like a video in slow motion.

Larry’s long hair moves with each step he takes. When he sits down, his eyes bore into mine. I smell the coffee wafting, creating a bitter taste in my mouth, and the Chapstick I smeared on in the taxi, coating my throat, preventing words from shimmying their way out.

And then Larry’s vacant eyes spring to life, shining more amber than chocolate. His features crumple, and he cries. A tremor converges upon the hand that he grasps the phone receiver with, and I become his doppelgänger, bawling openly like an infant wailing for attention.

“I forgive you, Margot,” he sobs. Even though, after being so caring towards me for so long, making me think you were always going to be there, you suddenly ditched me. Even though it hurt like hell when you became bored of me, like a cat that loses interest in a dead mouse it's already played with, and killed. Even though I was nobody to you, and it happened so fast I didn't even see it coming. And even though you left me to party with that crowd of losers and couldn’t care less what he did to me. You’ve no idea of the torture. He once drugged me, dragged me naked across a bed of nails, then burned my thighs with cigarettes. On another of his sadistic days, he stuck my hand down the garbage disposal.”

I watch with stinging, salty eyes as his whole body seems to shudder, and lowering his voice to a whisper, he says “The mangled skin, tendons, tissue, bones, all bloody and unrecognizable, was enough to make me wanna slit my own throat. My football career was over before it began. And the pain, oh the pain. I remember howling with it, like a coyote in the stark, lonely desert, defending its kill, and I prayed that it would end soon.”

He wipes his eyes, bites his lip, and adds “There was one who didn’t look like you though.”

“What?”

Suddenly, my head feels like it’s on fire, a thousand red ants biting their way through my skull.

“What did you say?”

Larry leans in, brings his face closer to the glass casement, and his lips curl into an ugly smirk as he hisses into the phone, “Not all of them look like you, you know?” He pauses, peers down to study his fingerless, mutilated, bone-shattered, right hand, and says, “There is one who doesn’t quite… match.” His evil grin spreading wider now, he breathes “and here’s a little nugget of info for you to chew on sis: they haven’t found her yet. She might not have been stabbed to death. She could still be alive.”

My body feels heavy, I’m stuck in a vat of honey and moving through it is impossible. I can almost taste the sickly sweet flavor turning my stomach.

“Lare,” I say like I’m talking to him when he was still a child. Still adorable and lovable. It stabs my soul (no fucking pun intended) that he’ll never again be either of those.

“Are you saying there’s another victim nobody knows about?”

My mind flashes to the stories in all the papers. Like a hair shirt, they are my penance, and for that reason, I’ve memorized every single word.

'The body of twenty-eight-year-old Ingrid Walsh was found in several re-cycling bins yesterday afternoon in Seattle. Ingrid had been stabbed repeatedly in the chest, had her throat slit, and was partially dismembered to fit into the containers.

The suspect, identified by police as 25-year-old Lawrence Duckworth, has confessed to this crime as well as to those of three other young women who were murdered the same way, discovered in dumpsters throughout Seattle within the last three months.

Duckworth was dubbed, “The Seahawks Serial Slasher” as each victim’s throat was cut, and they were all found wearing a Seahawks T-shirt. The victims were also similar in appearance, all had dark hair, brown eyes, and, sources say, looked like his sister.

According to Duckworth’s social media and witnesses who saw him, he was on a Tinder date with Ingrid at Xtadium Lounge, just hours before he murdered her in the back of his van. Duckworth told police the van was soundproofed to the point where nobody could hear her screams.

Sources claim that after the murder, Duckworth sat at home, wearing bloody overalls, holding the murder weapon, and waiting for police to arrest him.'

“Larry? I say with as much pity and compassion as I can thrust into my voice, “You know there’s a part of me that will always be grateful to you for turning yourself in. Before anyone else got hurt. I’m proud of you for surrendering.”

He explodes with a roar, throwing his chair at the glass in front of my face with such force the plastic seat bounces back and goes flying into the wall behind him.

I scream and my screams mingle with his screams while his fists pound the partition and his face twists gruesomely.

The guards are quick though. They drag him away back to his cell before I can even begin to make sense of what happened.

Days later, I’m toying between the idea of jumping in front of the train or swallowing bottles of Ambien.

But I can’t do either until I find out if there’s another victim. And if by some miracle, she's still breathing.

The next time I go see Larry, I make an effort with my appearance. I style my dark hair until it shines like spun silk, put on mascara, my best jeans and cream satin shirt.

But this time I’m careful not to say anything that will remind him of our childhood.

“You look nice today, Margot, I’d forgotten how beautiful you are. Although you’re my sister, I can still acknowledge you’re a stunner.”

“Thanks Larry, that actually means… a lot–”

“–you know why I’m here, though, don’t you”, I ask quietly.

He scoffs, “Of course I fucking know why you’re here. Do you think I’m stupid? You wanna know where the girl is.”

“Obviously… duh,” I say with a twitch of a smile.

He smiles too.

Giving me a wink he says "I like to think of you as Lizzie Borden of the modern world, sis. So... if you show me yours, I'll show you mine."

I hear it then. Stuck deep inside me, wriggling its way out. The chant escaping from our lips when my friends and I were little girls, was pretty gruesome. But we didn't know so we didn't care. We had fun singing it while skipping rope on the sidewalk.

Lizzie Borden took an axe, and gave her mother 40 whacks. When she saw what she had done, she gave her father 41.

"You're not the angel or victim Margot, that everyone thinks you are, isn't that so?" Larry's voice, purring with satisfaction, interrupts my reminiscing.

I have to clear my throat before I can make any sound come from it, and then I bat my eyes and say "so you do suspect that I killed that son of a bitch father of ours, I wondered about that for years". I twirl a piece of my hair between my fingers and look him in the eyes.

"Did you?" he asks, point blank.

"Of course, little brother. And I made sure it hurt. A lot."

"Good", he says. And winks at me again.

"Now, if you share all the gory details, including where you buried him," he whispers, "I'll tell you all about that blue-eyed, blonde-haired girl."

My stomach does a little flip.

Maybe I won’t jump in front of that train after all.

Twelve-year-old Caleb Prescott was afraid to go home.

All he could think about was what his foster father was going to do to him when he got there.

He stood motionless for a long time. Until the neon sign of the greasy pizza joint across the street turned off, signifying the late hour.

And Caleb knew it was now or never.

Snapping out of his hypnotic trance, he looked down and was surprised to see the aluminum bar of his mountain bike between his knees; he’d been straddling it the entire time. His grip on the handlebars felt stiff and achy. And the wind moaning through the half-naked trees sounded like the ghost that haunted his dreams each night.

“You got this,” he told himself. “Just sneak back down to the dungeon, and then you can cry yourself to sleep remembering that strawberry smell of her long, soft, brown hair.”

But the truth was that holding on to those memories using the most fleeting of senses –the sense of touch and smell that fades so fast– was getting harder with each passing day. Spending a night in a cemetery, with evil spirits clawing their way out of graves all around him, would be easier, he reasoned.

Case in point, wasn’t he pretty much doing that now? All alone on a dark deserted street, teeth chattering in fear from a creepy sound seemingly getting closer? Like a pissed-off ghost coming for him any minute?

Only this ghost, when he calmed down and listened more intensely, sounded different. More like crying. Like someone in trouble. Not so much a ghost, perhaps, but a real person. Separating the sound from that of the breeze, Caleb decided it was coming from the alleyway.

In a flash, his feet found the pedals and he sped towards the noise, a small-for-his-age, but quick and nimble kid, now on a mission.

Rounding the corner, he hit the brakes and skidded to an abrupt stop.

There on the pavement, under a nearby streetlight, he saw something that broke his heart, at least what was left of it. A Maltese terrier, its fur caked with mud, was whimpering as it lay trapped in a metal dog crate.

The anger exploded in Caleb’s head like shrapnel from a bomb.

Who would do such a thing?

Though he wanted to spring into action, to perform superhero maneuvers fast and all at once, it felt like the opposite was happening. Like everything was swinging in slow motion on a gigantic pendulum. That frustration of taking too long brought tears to pool in his green eyes, clouding his vision, slowing everything down even more.

Finally, his fingers forced the pin in the lock to come loose. Swinging the door open, he crawled on his hands and knees towards the frightened canine cowering at the back.

Caleb brought his face within inches of the little dog. He looked into her eyes and a tenderness seeped into his ragged heart, softening the edges.

The pup licked the teardrops snaking down his face and let him pet her.

“I’m going to name you Midnight even though underneath all that filth, you’re white. But I found you precisely at that time, so that’s your name. Right little one?”

Midnight’s reply was a bark that grew into three consecutive ones, and when she pushed her little snout past Caleb’s shoulder, he realized she was barking at something behind him. A second too late, he heard someone yell “Gotcha!” and turned around in time to see a chubby kid, sucking on a lollipop, slam the cage door shut with a clatter.

Caleb’s heart sank like a thousand-pound anchor to the bottom of the sea.

The freckled boy with orange hair and a Cheshire cat smile, deliberately, almost mockingly, pushed the pin down to lock Caleb and Midnight inside. Looking to be about fourteen, he wore tattered sweatpants and a stained yellow parka.

“Please, let us out,” Caleb begged. “My dog is hurt.”

“Your dog? Really?” the fair-haired bully drawled, “I don’t think so shithead. That dog ain’t yours, you just wanna steal it.”

His lips formed an o shape around the sucker and pulling it out of his mouth with a popping sound, he pointed the fluorescent green lollipop at Caleb. “I think you’re a turd who wants to be a hero by rescuing the ugly mutt, right? he snickered. “Except you’re no hero, you’re just a loser with a black eye. Your bike looks like garbage too, but I might just take it anyway.”

Caleb could swear he heard his rapid heartbeat pulse in his ears, but, somehow, he forced himself to tamp down on his anxiety and tried to think hard and fast on the fly.

“You’re right,” Caleb said. “I shouldn’t have lied to you. But if you don’t mind me asking, what’s your name?” and then quickly added, “So I can show you some respect when I address you.”

The teenager was so caught off guard, he remained speechless for a moment. And though Caleb had never been one of those count your chickens before they’re hatched kind of guys, he felt hopeful.

“Yeah jackass,” the boy finally exclaimed, “you should respect me, so you can call me Richie when you tell me what that bike’s worth.”

“Thanks Richie,” Caleb said, “and you’re right, that bike is on its last legs. If it isn’t the chain falling off, then the handlebars don’t turn, and the worst part? The brakes are shot.

Richie,” he sighed, “it’s not worth more than a penny. But I’ve got something for you that’s much better.”

Richie pulled the bare stick of the sucker out of his mouth and Caleb could hear him crunching the last pieces of candy between his teeth. Throwing the stick on the ground, Richie scowled at the bike like it was a vile thing. Giving up on it, he turned back to his prisoner.

“Whatcha got?” he demanded, adding “it better be good or I’m gonna drown this mutt in the river and make you watch.”

Caleb opened his mouth to speak but closed it again when Richie pulled a BB gun out of a duffle bag next to him and said, “go on, tell me, pinhead.”

Caleb said, “you let us out of here and I’ll give you my last ten bucks.”

He held his breath, then released it when Richie exclaimed “right on, show me the dough.”

With trembling hands, Caleb pulled a ten-dollar bill from his sock.

Richie’s open-mouthed laughter, revealing gaps from missing teeth amongst a few black ones, sent Caleb’s mind sailing back to when being reminded to brush his teeth, annoyed him. Especially when he was tired. Now, the gratitude for his mom’s nagging washed over him like a hot shower after getting caught in the freezing rain.

“You better not think about running before handing me that cash.” Richie warned. He aimed the BB gun, not at Caleb, but directly at Midnight. He said “that runt tried to bite me when I captured it and I wanna shoot it for payback. And fun,” he smiled. “But you give me the ten bucks, and I won’t kill it, got it?”

Caleb nodded vigorously, afraid to make the wrong move until Richie opened the cage and stood aside to let them out.

Free at last, and seconds after Richie grabbed the money with his meaty fingers, Caleb made a beeline towards his bike, calling Midnight to follow him. But Midnight, terrified of Richie, froze when he suddenly stepped towards her, pointing the gun, once again, at her little face.

As Midnight edged away from him, Richie turned towards Caleb and hissed “psst, I was lying. I’m gonna put a bullet in its leg first and then stomp on its face till it’s dead.”

Caleb’s mouth went powder-dry, his stomach lurching like he was on a free-falling plane about to crash. He felt Richie’s threat slam into him, one sadistic word at a time.

With a roar, Caleb rushed at Richie, his right hand curled into a fist and, before Richie could react, he drove his knuckles into the spongy cartilage of his nose. The crunch of bone, followed by Richie’s earsplitting howl, ricocheted down the alley. Blood gushed from Richie’s face. Moments later, the agony splintered through Caleb’s hand like it was on fire.

Caleb wasted no time running towards Midnight.

But before he could reach the little terrier, Richie aimed the BB gun at the dog a third time, only this time, he fired as she took off with surprising swiftness. As Midnight rounded the corner at the end of the alley, she let out a tortured yelp, and Caleb felt sick when Richie cackled in glee for hitting his mark.

Hopping on his bike, Caleb followed Midnight at warp speed. But by the time he rounded that same corner, Midnight was nowhere in sight.

Car headlights, road signs, and blowing trash, all became a blur through the onslaught of Caleb’s tears. Every bit of the fear, anger, and grief he’d been holding so tightly within, tore loose, like a deluge of water from a broken dam. Not knowing where Midnight was, whether she was in pain or even alive, was a new kind of hell.

And speaking of hell, on top of his worry for Midnight, there were the horrors that waited for him when he got back to his foster home.

He still remembered when the social worker brought him there on a hot August morning, dumping him on the doorstep, and heading for the hills right after. The act Deborah, his new foster mom, put on, was worthy of an Oscar and good enough for the caseworker. Determined to make a swift get-away, she never even set foot inside the house. Never even bothered to see where Caleb would lay his head that night.

As soon as the woman drove away, Deborah grabbed him by the hair and pushed him hard through the door as she yelled “get the hell in there, march yourself down to your room in the basement, and stay there until my husband gets home. You understand me boy?”

Caleb understood when Donald came down the stairs three minutes later.

“You listen to me you motherless, unwanted, punk,” Donald spat. This room in the basement? That’s the only place you’re allowed. Food will be left outside your door two times a day, morning, and night. And you’re never allowed upstairs. There’s a toilet and shower here and that’s all you need. Got it?”

Caleb was so scared it felt like horses’ hooves stampeding across his chest, and, unable to stop himself, the moisture began seeping into his underwear, spreading through the fabric of his jeans. His bladder had already been full to begin with, but Donald’s speech, that ugly word “motherless”, made Caleb buckle under the strain. He could no longer hold it in. And now he just wanted to disappear, to die right then and there. Better to see his mom again in heaven, than live like this here in hell.

But it wasn’t over yet. When Donald saw that Caleb had peed himself, he hit him hard across the face, so hard that Caleb flew into the opposite wall. Donald barked, “you’re ten, old enough to be toilet trained for God’s sake. Clean up and wash those filthy clothes in the sink. We don’t run a laundry service here.”

Now, for the millionth time, Caleb cursed the car accident that killed his mom and turned him into a foster kid at such a tender age. Missing her for the last two years was like chemical lye rubbed on a wound, and it was this pain that brought disturbing dreams of ghouls and monsters to most of his nights.

But Midnight had performed magic. In the blink of an eye, she had attached herself to his core; a tiny speck of her love sticking to his heart like superglue.

He had to find her.

But things suddenly got worse when Caleb spotted something terrible.

There, on a telephone pole, was a poster of a little girl holding a dog. A Maltese terrier. It looked exactly like Midnight. The child’s name was Amber, and she lost her dog, Ivory.

Only briefly did Caleb acknowledge the irony of the dog’s name. His pain was beyond raw and abrasive, it was sandpapering all the way down to the bone. Bad enough that Midnight was gone, but now she also belonged to someone else. Shakily he slid off his bike, leaning it against the metal pole, his legs unsteady causing the rest of his body to quiver. All he could do was stand there and sob into his hands.

As the first flakes of autumn snow began to fall, something slammed into his legs. A small, soft, something, that let out an excited bark and wagged its tail. Midnight practically jumped into his arms. He was so happy, he cried even harder. After she licked every tear from his frozen face, Caleb put her down on the sidewalk and knelt to examine her, looking for any signs of an injury.

Other than a scrape on her ear, Midnight appeared to be okay. The BB gun bullet must have only scared her.

But his relief was short-lived. What about the kid on the poster?

He knew the guilt would gnaw away at him if he kept a dog that belonged to someone else.

Memorizing the phone number and digging a quarter out of his pocket, he scooped Midnight up again and headed towards a payphone across the street. Maybe, he rationalized, he’d get an ‘out of service’ message and there’d be no chance of finding Amber’s family so Midnight would have to stay with him after all. Yeah, right, he thought, and

blinked back fresh tears.

One ring, two rings, three rings, … what would he do if the answering machine came on?

On the fourth ring, the machine did come on, but it wasn’t what Caleb expected.

The message told callers that Ivory had been found and was safe at home.

And Caleb’s world suddenly felt different.

With Midnight at his side, he walked his bike towards Donald and Deborah’s place. At least he had blankets in his room along with enough hidden food for himself and for his new best friend.

But when they got there, the house was black. Specifically, a charred black, and those were only the parts that were still standing. The rest had burned down to ashes.

Smoke, thick and acrid, still hung in the air, and Caleb suddenly remembered the six hundred dollars his mom had sewn into the lining of his jacket. And the cheap motel down the road where the owner, seeing the bruises on Caleb's face, had overlooked his age, and rented him a room more than once. And where the vending machine had the best sandwiches, he’d ever tasted.

“Everything is changing,” he whispered in Midnight’s ear, planting a kiss on her head. From now on, he would slay all the monsters for her. And maybe some for himself too.

Twelve-year-old Caleb Prescott was afraid to go home.

All he could think about was what his foster father was going to do to him when he got there.

He stood motionless for a long time. Until the neon sign of the greasy pizza joint across the street turned off, signifying the late hour.

And Caleb knew it was now or never.

Snapping out of his hypnotic trance, he looked down and was surprised to see the aluminum bar of his mountain bike between his knees; he’d been straddling it the entire time. His grip on the handlebars felt stiff and achy. And the wind moaning through the half-naked trees sounded like the ghost that haunted his dreams each night.

“You got this,” he told himself. “Just sneak back down to the dungeon, and then you can cry yourself to sleep remembering that strawberry smell of her long, soft, brown hair.”

But the truth was that holding on to those memories using the most fleeting of senses –the sense of touch and smell that fades so fast– was getting harder with each passing day. Spending a night in a cemetery, with evil spirits clawing their way out of graves all around him, would be easier, he reasoned.

Case in point, wasn’t he pretty much doing that now? All alone on a dark deserted street, teeth chattering in fear from a creepy sound seemingly getting closer? Like a pissed-off ghost coming for him any minute?

Only this ghost, when he calmed down and listened more intensely, sounded different. More like crying. Like someone in trouble. Not so much a ghost, perhaps, but a real person. Separating the sound from that of the breeze, Caleb decided it was coming from the alleyway.

In a flash, his feet found the pedals and he sped towards the noise, a small-for-his-age, but quick and nimble kid, now on a mission.

Rounding the corner, he hit the brakes and skidded to an abrupt stop.

There on the pavement, under a nearby streetlight, he saw something that broke his heart, at least what was left of it. A Maltese terrier, its fur caked with mud, was whimpering as it lay trapped in a metal dog crate.

The anger exploded in Caleb’s head like shrapnel from a bomb.

Who would do such a thing?

Though he wanted to spring into action, to perform superhero maneuvers fast and all at once, it felt like the opposite was happening. Like everything was swinging in slow motion on a gigantic pendulum. That frustration of taking too long brought tears to pool in his green eyes, clouding his vision, slowing everything down even more.

Finally, his fingers forced the pin in the lock to come loose. Swinging the door open, he crawled on his hands and knees towards the frightened canine cowering at the back.

Caleb brought his face within inches of the little dog. He looked into her eyes and a tenderness seeped into his ragged heart, softening the edges.

The pup licked the teardrops snaking down his face and let him pet her.

“I’m going to name you Midnight even though underneath all that filth, you’re white. But I found you precisely at that time, so that’s your name. Right little one?”

Midnight’s reply was a bark that grew into three consecutive ones, and when she pushed her little snout past Caleb’s shoulder, he realized she was barking at something behind him. A second too late, he heard someone yell “Gotcha!” and turned around in time to see a chubby kid, sucking on a lollipop, slam the cage door shut with a clatter.

Caleb’s heart sank like a thousand-pound anchor to the bottom of the sea.

The freckled boy with orange hair and a Cheshire cat smile, deliberately, almost mockingly, pushed the pin down to lock Caleb and Midnight inside. Looking to be about fourteen, he wore tattered sweatpants and a stained yellow parka.

“Please, let us out,” Caleb begged. “My dog is hurt.”

“Your dog? Really?” the fair-haired bully drawled, “I don’t think so shithead. That dog ain’t yours, you just wanna steal it.”

His lips formed an o shape around the sucker and pulling it out of his mouth with a popping sound, he pointed the fluorescent green lollipop at Caleb. “I think you’re a turd who wants to be a hero by rescuing the ugly mutt, right? he snickered. “Except you’re no hero, you’re just a loser with a black eye. Your bike looks like garbage too, but I might just take it anyway.”

Caleb could swear he heard his rapid heartbeat pulse in his ears, but, somehow, he forced himself to tamp down on his anxiety and tried to think hard and fast on the fly.

“You’re right,” Caleb said. “I shouldn’t have lied to you. But if you don’t mind me asking, what’s your name?” and then quickly added, “So I can show you some respect when I address you.”

The teenager was so caught off guard, he remained speechless for a moment. And though Caleb had never been one of those count your chickens before they’re hatched kind of guys, he felt hopeful.

“Yeah jackass,” the boy finally exclaimed, “you should respect me, so you can call me Richie when you tell me what that bike’s worth.”

“Thanks Richie,” Caleb said, “and you’re right, that bike is on its last legs. If it isn’t the chain falling off, then the handlebars don’t turn, and the worst part? The brakes are shot.

Richie,” he sighed, “it’s not worth more than a penny. But I’ve got something for you that’s much better.”

Richie pulled the bare stick of the sucker out of his mouth and Caleb could hear him crunching the last pieces of candy between his teeth. Throwing the stick on the ground, Richie scowled at the bike like it was a vile thing. Giving up on it, he turned back to his prisoner.

“Whatcha got?” he demanded, adding “it better be good or I’m gonna drown this mutt in the river and make you watch.”

Caleb opened his mouth to speak but closed it again when Richie pulled a BB gun out of a duffle bag next to him and said, “go on, tell me, pinhead.”

Caleb said, “you let us out of here and I’ll give you my last ten bucks.”

He held his breath, then released it when Richie exclaimed “right on, show me the dough.”

With trembling hands, Caleb pulled a ten-dollar bill from his sock.

Richie’s open-mouthed laughter, revealing gaps from missing teeth amongst a few black ones, sent Caleb’s mind sailing back to when being reminded to brush his teeth, annoyed him. Especially when he was tired. Now, the gratitude for his mom’s nagging washed over him like a hot shower after getting caught in the freezing rain.

“You better not think about running before handing me that cash.” Richie warned. He aimed the BB gun, not at Caleb, but directly at Midnight. He said “that runt tried to bite me when I captured it and I wanna shoot it for payback. And fun,” he smiled. “But you give me the ten bucks, and I won’t kill it, got it?”

Caleb nodded vigorously, afraid to make the wrong move until Richie opened the cage and stood aside to let them out.

Free at last, and seconds after Richie grabbed the money with his meaty fingers, Caleb made a beeline towards his bike, calling Midnight to follow him. But Midnight, terrified of Richie, froze when he suddenly stepped towards her, pointing the gun, once again, at her little face.

As Midnight edged away from him, Richie turned towards Caleb and hissed “psst, I was lying. I’m gonna put a bullet in its leg first and then stomp on its face till it’s dead.”

Caleb’s mouth went powder-dry, his stomach lurching like he was on a free-falling plane about to crash. He felt Richie’s threat slam into him, one sadistic word at a time.

With a roar, Caleb rushed at Richie, his right hand curled into a fist and, before Richie could react, he drove his knuckles into the spongy cartilage of his nose. The crunch of bone, followed by Richie’s earsplitting howl, ricocheted down the alley. Blood gushed from Richie’s face. Moments later, the agony splintered through Caleb’s hand like it was on fire.

Caleb wasted no time running towards Midnight.

But before he could reach the little terrier, Richie aimed the BB gun at the dog a third time, only this time, he fired as she took off with surprising swiftness. As Midnight rounded the corner at the end of the alley, she let out a tortured yelp, and Caleb felt sick when Richie cackled in glee for hitting his mark.

Hopping on his bike, Caleb followed Midnight at warp speed. But by the time he rounded that same corner, Midnight was nowhere in sight.

Car headlights, road signs, and blowing trash, all became a blur through the onslaught of Caleb’s tears. Every bit of the fear, anger, and grief he’d been holding so tightly within, tore loose, like a deluge of water from a broken dam. Not knowing where Midnight was, whether she was in pain or even alive, was a new kind of hell.

And speaking of hell, on top of his worry for Midnight, there were the horrors that waited for him when he got back to his foster home.

He still remembered when the social worker brought him there on a hot August morning, dumping him on the doorstep, and heading for the hills right after. The act Deborah, his new foster mom, put on, was worthy of an Oscar and good enough for the caseworker. Determined to make a swift get-away, she never even set foot inside the house. Never even bothered to see where Caleb would lay his head that night.

As soon as the woman drove away, Deborah grabbed him by the hair and pushed him hard through the door as she yelled “get the hell in there, march yourself down to your room in the basement, and stay there until my husband gets home. You understand me boy?”

Caleb understood when Donald came down the stairs three minutes later.

“You listen to me you motherless, unwanted, punk,” Donald spat. This room in the basement? That’s the only place you’re allowed. Food will be left outside your door two times a day, morning, and night. And you’re never allowed upstairs. There’s a toilet and shower here and that’s all you need. Got it?”

Caleb was so scared it felt like horses’ hooves stampeding across his chest, and, unable to stop himself, the moisture began seeping into his underwear, spreading through the fabric of his jeans. His bladder had already been full to begin with, but Donald’s speech, that ugly word “motherless”, made Caleb buckle under the strain. He could no longer hold it in. And now he just wanted to disappear, to die right then and there. Better to see his mom again in heaven, than live like this here in hell.

But it wasn’t over yet. When Donald saw that Caleb had peed himself, he hit him hard across the face, so hard that Caleb flew into the opposite wall. Donald barked, “you’re ten, old enough to be toilet trained for God’s sake. Clean up and wash those filthy clothes in the sink. We don’t run a laundry service here.”

Now, for the millionth time, Caleb cursed the car accident that killed his mom and turned him into a foster kid at such a tender age. Missing her for the last two years was like chemical lye rubbed on a wound, and it was this pain that brought disturbing dreams of ghouls and monsters to most of his nights.

But Midnight had performed magic. In the blink of an eye, she had attached herself to his core; a tiny speck of her love sticking to his heart like superglue.

He had to find her.

But things suddenly got worse when Caleb spotted something terrible.

There, on a telephone pole, was a poster of a little girl holding a dog. A Maltese terrier. It looked exactly like Midnight. The child’s name was Amber, and she lost her dog, Ivory.

Only briefly did Caleb acknowledge the irony of the dog’s name. His pain was beyond raw and abrasive, it was sandpapering all the way down to the bone. Bad enough that Midnight was gone, but now she also belonged to someone else. Shakily he slid off his bike, leaning it against the metal pole, his legs unsteady causing the rest of his body to quiver. All he could do was stand there and sob into his hands.

As the first flakes of autumn snow began to fall, something slammed into his legs. A small, soft, something, that let out an excited bark and wagged its tail. Midnight practically jumped into his arms. He was so happy, he cried even harder. After she licked every tear from his frozen face, Caleb put her down on the sidewalk and knelt to examine her, looking for any signs of an injury.

Other than a scrape on her ear, Midnight appeared to be okay. The BB gun bullet must have only scared her.

But his relief was short-lived. What about the kid on the poster?

He knew the guilt would gnaw away at him if he kept a dog that belonged to someone else.

Memorizing the phone number and digging a quarter out of his pocket, he scooped Midnight up again and headed towards a payphone across the street. Maybe, he rationalized, he’d get an ‘out of service’ message and there’d be no chance of finding Amber’s family so Midnight would have to stay with him after all. Yeah, right, he thought, and

blinked back fresh tears.

One ring, two rings, three rings, … what would he do if the answering machine came on?

On the fourth ring, the machine did come on, but it wasn’t what Caleb expected.

The message told callers that Ivory had been found and was safe at home.

And Caleb’s world suddenly felt different.

With Midnight at his side, he walked his bike towards Donald and Deborah’s place. At least he had blankets in his room along with enough hidden food for himself and for his new best friend.

But when they got there, the house was black. Specifically, a charred black, and those were only the parts that were still standing. The rest had burned down to ashes.

Smoke, thick and acrid, still hung in the air, and Caleb suddenly remembered the six hundred dollars his mom had sewn into the lining of his jacket. And the cheap motel down the road where the owner, seeing the bruises on Caleb's face, had overlooked his age, and rented him a room more than once. And where the vending machine had the best sandwiches, he’d ever tasted.

“Everything is changing,” he whispered in Midnight’s ear, planting a kiss on her head. From now on, he would slay all the monsters for her. And maybe some for himself too.

Studying my reflection in the mirror, I think about how I’m going to die.

Then I cringe at the sight of my hair, once so sleek and shiny, now dull, and wild.

But the longer I gaze at myself, the sooner I begin to see something else emerge.

A glimpse into the past, bathed in a golden hue. It’s Larry’s football helmet gleaming in the sun. Yes, there he is, tearing it up on the football field, stretching his lithe body inches off the ground, levitating to catch the ball. Touchdown. The crowd cheers, he’s a hero, accepting pats on the back from his teammates and coaches. Such fanfare, the noise is deafening. Until the scene changes, and it’s just us in his room, eating the grilled-cheese sandwiches I made.

“I’m proud of you little bro,” I say, thinking about the possibility of him playing for the Hawks someday. He’s only ten but already has the potential to be a greatest of all time, a GOAT, because I am making sure he lives and breathes football every single day. I’m only thirteen but if someone were to shadow us, they would think I’m his mom and he’s my precious child. And this mom wants him to rub my dad’s face in it when he goes pro and signs a million-dollar contract with the Seattle Seahawks, becoming the best wide receiver in Hawks’ history. I can’t wait.

“I wish dad was proud of me like you are, Margot,” Larry says, “But he doesn’t even treat us like we’re his kids anymore. It’s like we’re bugs he wants to squish to death with his bare hand.”

My brother sighs and tears glitter in his woeful brown eyes when he adds, “I miss mom, I wish she didn’t die. It’s not fair for you to be doing all the motherin’. But I’m glad you’re here. If I make it to the NFL, I’ll give you so much moolah, you can buy your own house.”

A car horn transports me back to the present. It’s time to go.

Once I’m at the glass partition, in a room with putty-colored walls and a cup of coffee in front of me, I take a minute to breathe. But soon, my brother’s brought in, his feet in shackles, the green prison garb turning his skin sallow.

Time slows down like a video in slow motion.

Larry’s long hair moves with each step he takes. When he sits down, his eyes bore into mine. I smell the coffee wafting, creating a bitter taste in my mouth, and the Chapstick I smeared on in the taxi, coating my throat, preventing words from shimmying their way out.

And then, Larry’s vacant eyes spring to life, shining more amber than chocolate. His features crumple, and he cries. A tremor converges upon the hand that he grasps the phone receiver with, and I become his doppelgänger, bawling openly like an infant wailing for attention.

“I forgive you, Margot,” he sobs. Even though you left me to party with that crowd of losers and couldn’t care less what he did to me. You’ve no idea of the torture. He once drugged me, dragged me naked across a bed of nails, then burned my thighs with cigarettes. On another of his sadistic days, he stuck my hand down the garbage disposal.”

I watch with stinging, salty eyes as his whole body seems to shudder, and lowering his voice to a whisper, he says “The mangled skin, tendons, tissue, bones, all bloody and unrecognizable, was enough to make me wanna slit my own throat. My football career was over before it began. And the pain, oh the pain. I remember howling with it, like a coyote in the stark, lonely desert, defending its kill, and I prayed that it would end soon.”

He wipes his eyes, bites his lip, and adds “There was one who didn’t look like you though.”

“What?”

Suddenly, my head feels like it’s on fire, a thousand red ants biting their way through it.

“What did you say?”

Larry leans in, brings his face closer to the glass casement, and his lips curl into an ugly smirk as he hisses into the phone, “Not all of them look like you, you know?” He pauses, peers down to study his fingerless, mutilated, bone-shattered, right hand, and says, “There is one who doesn’t quite… match.” His grin spread wider now, he breathes, “And here’s a little nugget of info for you to chew on sis: they haven’t found her yet.”

My body feels heavy, I’m stuck in a vat of honey and moving through it is impossible.

“Lare,” I say like I’m talking to him when he was still a child. Still adorable and lovable. It stabs my soul (no fucking pun intended) that he’ll never again be either of those.

“Are you saying there’s another victim whose body hasn’t been found?”

My mind flashes to the stories in all the papers. Like a hair shirt, they are my penance, and for that reason, I’ve memorized every single word.

'The body of twenty-eight-year-old Ingrid Walsh was found in several re-cycling bins yesterday afternoon in Seattle. Ingrid had been stabbed repeatedly in the chest, had her throat slit, and was dismembered to fit into the containers.

The suspect, identified by police as 25-year-old Lawrence Duckworth, has confessed to this crime as well as to those of three other women who were murdered the same way, discovered in dumpsters throughout Seattle within the last three months.

Duckworth was dubbed, “The Seahawks Serial Slasher” as each victim’s throat was cut, and they were all found wearing a Seahawks T-shirt. The victims were also similar in appearance, all had dark hair, brown eyes, and looked like his sister.

According to Duckworth’s social media and witnesses who saw him, he was on a Tinder date with Ingrid at Xtadium Lounge, just hours before he murdered her in the back of his van. Duckworth told police the van was soundproofed to the point where nobody could hear her screams.

Sources claim that after the murder, Duckworth sat at home, wearing bloody overalls, holding the murder weapon, and waiting for police to arrest him.'

“Larry? I say with as much pity and compassion as I can thrust into my voice, “You know there’s a part of me that will always be grateful to you for turning yourself in. Before anyone else got hurt. I’m proud of you for surrendering.”

He explodes with a roar, throwing his chair at the glass in front of my face with such force the plastic seat bounces back and goes flying into the wall behind him.

I scream and my screams mingle with his screams while his fists pound the partition and his face twists gruesomely.

The guards are quick though. They drag him away before I can even begin to make sense of what happened.

Days later, I’m toying between the idea of jumping in front of the train or swallowing bottles of Ambien.

But I can’t do either until I find out if there’s another victim.

The next time I go see Larry, I make an effort with my appearance. I style my dark hair until it shines like spun silk, put on mascara, my best jeans and cream satin shirt.

But this time I’m careful not to say anything that will remind him of our childhood.

“You look nice today, Margot, I’d forgotten how beautiful you are. Although you’re my sister, I can still acknowledge you’re a stunner.”

“Thanks Larry, that actually means… a lot–”

“–you know why I’m here, though, don’t you”, I ask quietly.

He scoffs, “Of course I fucking know why you’re here. Do you think I’m stupid? You wanna know where the girl is.”

“Obviously… duh,” I say with a twitch of a smile.

He smiles too.

Maybe I won’t jump in front of that train after all.

Bailey’s been chained to the fence for hours. She’s all I can think about. Well, other than him of course.

Outside the window, I can’t even see one star twinkling in the cold October sky.

Hot tears fill my eyes and I fight hard to quietly blink them away. Hiding my face behind a curtain of my long blonde hair, I desperately search for a distraction. Him. It’s always him.

Perched on the edge of my chair across the table from Lucas, I blush when he catches me staring into his bottle-green eyes and, when I feel the heat bloom across my cheeks, I lower my gaze to his calloused hands stained with grease and motor oil. Lucas fixes cars for a living, and I’ve been told he makes money hand over fist, even though he’s only nineteen.

My moment’s slashed away when a guttural bellowing makes me flinch.

“Somebody go kick that mongrel in the head and tell it to stop its damn barking.”

When earlier today my Aunt Vera returned on her loud motorcycle madder than a swatted hornet, because the newly inked scorpion on her giant hip didn’t turn out the way she wanted, it was like sticks of dynamite blew up our house. Which is also her house, technically, because she hasn’t any place to live and my mom, her older sister, took mercy on her and invited her to stay with us.

Indefinitely.

One night I dreamt the Harley she straddles, like a cow on top of a mound of manure, sent her wheeling into the air, high above the moon, and then crashed into her green, brown, and rust‑orange body as it landed back down to earth, onto the pavement.

I sobbed when I woke up.

But at least Lucas is here having Thanksgiving dinner with my family of fourteen parents, aunts, uncles, cousins and second cousins. No kids though. Aside from me, they’re all adults ranging from the ages of thirty-eight to sixty-two. Except Lucas of course, but he doesn’t count because he’s in no way related to any of us.

Lucky him.

I watch half-heartedly as he shuffles his deck of playing cards, fanning them out, turning them over in his palms, cutting them in half and waving them in front of people’s faces.

“Please sign your name right across this ten of spades Mrs. Dixit,” Lucas tells my mom.

He slides the card into the middle of a full deck, snugly into the depths of it, packs it in so it’s swallowed up, hidden. Then he immediately pulls a card off the top of the deck, turns it faceup, and shows us that it’s my mom’s card. There are oohs and ahhs all around.

He then folds it in half, putting a bend into that signed ten of spades and shows everyone the slight dip when he places it flat onto his hand. We can all see the card is now signed and bent. He asks my mom to slip it randomly somewhere in the very center of the deck. Again, he uses one finger to pull it off the top of the deck. Same signed and bent card.

Eyes open wide, lips curve upwards, they all want more.

Aunt Vera is sprawled out in a chair right next to me, her long, massive legs stretched wide underneath the table, her rancid sweat glistening on her upper lip. Fascinated by Lucas’s card tricks, she seems to have forgotten about my little dog.

Bailey is a mini-Eskimo with the softest, most kissable fur I’ve been pressing my lips to since I was ten years old. I’m sixteen now.

I continue watching as my uncle reluctantly tears a big chunk off the corner of a twenty-dollar bill. Lucas takes that corner piece and eats it, he literally chews it up, and swallows it down. He then places that same twenty in his mouth where the tear is.

When he slowly pulls it out, voila, the corner is back. The bill is intact once again.

“How the fuck did you do that, you snot-nosed kid?”

Butterfly wings flap like crazy in my stomach. Aunt Vera is going to be relentless now.

“A magician never reveals his secrets,” Lucas winks, placing her under the hypnosis of those exquisite eyes.

“But don’t worry Ms. Dankworth,” he says, “there’s much more to see, so relax and prepare to be entertained,” he points to our family room with rows of chairs and a makeshift stage we set up earlier today.

Just like magic, Aunt Vera shuts her mouth for once.

Dinner winds down and Donna, our housekeeper, clears away dishes and offers coffee, dessert, or brandy. Everyone agrees they’re full and will wait until after the performance.

I barely touched my food.

Yesterday, I hid outside, watching in horror at the things my aunt did in our kitchen.

She placed a bowl of dogfood on the floor and when Bailey began eating, Vera’s leg shot out and kicked her right in the face. My angel squealed in pain and jumped back.

Before I could react, Aunt Vera offered the food again. This time when Bailey timidly approached the dish, she roared and kicked her in the ribs. That’s when I barged in, begging her to stop like my life depended on it.

“We were just playin’, weren’t we, mutt?” she cooed like she’d done nothing wrong.

“I’m just tryin’ to teach it obedience Jaimie, don’t be such a baby.”

I shudder at the memory and my tears fall again when snowflakes dance down from the moonless sky.

For his next trick, Lucas asks quote the most beautiful girl in the room, Miss Jaimie Dixit to assist him on the mock stage. I walk carefully so as not to trip over my own two feet.

Lucas requests the assistance of six volunteers and has me place them all behind the black curtain.

“My dear guests, tonight for my next magic trick, I feel like I need a mesmerizing and lovely shot of inspiration,” he announces, his voice so deep and smooth, I want to savor it.

It’s my turn to be spellbound when he pulls me in.

Something bubbly shoots through my stomach and a tenderness bounces like sunlight along the surface of my skin. His lips brush mine and his tongue pirouettes in my mouth. I’m dizzy with rivers of champagne fizzing through my bloodstream. It’s my very first kiss, my sweet-sixteen kiss. It’s daring and warm, and I never want it to end.

Sadly though, the show must go on, I can hear the din of various reactions mixed with impatience resonating from the audience.

Amidst all of that, I’m suddenly reminded that the tips of Bailey’s ears and her sweet little paws could be frostbitten by now.

My heart is no longer in the magic though I do my part until Lucas opens the curtain to reveal all six volunteers… gone.

“Where are they?” asks my grandfather, wheezing with concern.

“They’re ok sir. Everyone, please come down now,” Lucas calls out and, one by one, they descend our spiral staircase.

But someone’s missing.

A search of the entire house turns up nothing, she’s nowhere to be found.

“Lucas, can you make her reappear, dear?” asks my mother.

“I’m afraid not Ma’am, I’m pretty sure this might be… permanent. Unless maybe she just went for a bike ride…?”

“Maybe,” says my mom absentmindedly.

There’s a lightness in her voice when she claps her hands and sing-songs “Now, who’d like coffee and dessert? And Donna, could you please go fetch our darling Bailey from the backyard, and feed her the turkey leftovers in the kitchen by the warmth of the fireplace?”

Bailey’s been chained to the fence for hours. She’s all I can think about. Well, other than him of course.

Outside the window, I can’t even see one star twinkling in the cold October sky.

Hot tears fill my eyes and I fight hard to quietly blink them away. Hiding my face behind a curtain of my long blonde hair, I desperately search for a distraction. Him. It’s always him.

Perched on the edge of my chair across the table from Lucas, I blush when he catches me staring into his bottle-green eyes and, when I feel the heat bloom across my cheeks,

I lower my gaze to his calloused hands stained with grease and motor oil. Lucas fixes cars for a living, and I’ve been told he makes money hand over fist, even though he’s only nineteen.

My moment’s slashed away when a guttural bellowing makes me flinch.

“Somebody go kick that mongrel in the head and tell it to stop its damn barking.”

When earlier today my Aunt Vera returned on her loud motorcycle madder than a swatted hornet, because the newly inked scorpion on her giant hip didn’t turn out the way she wanted, it was like sticks of dynamite blew up our house. Which is also her house, technically, because she hasn’t any place to live and my mom, her older sister, took mercy on her and invited her to stay with us.

Indefinitely.

One night I dreamt the Harley she straddles, like a cow on top of a mound of manure, sent her wheeling into the air, high above the moon, and then crashed into her green, brown, and rust‑orange body as it landed back down to earth, onto the pavement.

I sobbed when I woke up.

But at least Lucas is here having Thanksgiving dinner with my family of fourteen parents, aunts, uncles, cousins and second cousins. No kids though. Aside from me, they’re all adults ranging from the ages of thirty-eight to sixty-two. Except Lucas of course, but he doesn’t count because he’s in no way related to any of us.

Lucky him.

I watch half-heartedly as he shuffles his deck of playing cards, fanning them out, turning them over in his palms, cutting them in half and waving them in front of people’s faces.

“Please sign your name right across this ten of spades Mrs. Dixit,” Lucas tells my mom.

He slides the card into the middle of a full deck, snugly into the depths of it, packs it in so it’s swallowed up, hidden. Then he immediately pulls a card off the top of the deck, turns it faceup, and shows us that it’s my mom’s card. There are oohs and ahhs all around.

He then folds it in half, putting a bend into that signed ten of spades and shows everyone the slight dip when he places it flat onto his hand. We can all see the card is now signed and bent. He asks my mom to slip it randomly somewhere in the very center of the deck. Again, he uses one finger to pull it off the top of the deck. Same signed and bent card.

Eyes open wide, lips curve upwards, they all want more.

Aunt Vera is sprawled out in a chair right next to me, her long, massive legs stretched wide underneath the table, her rancid sweat glistening on her upper lip. Fascinated by Lucas’s card tricks, she seems to have forgotten about my little dog.

Bailey is a mini-Eskimo with the softest, most kissable fur I’ve been pressing my lips to since I was ten years old. I’m sixteen now.

I continue watching as my uncle reluctantly tears a big chunk off the corner of a twenty-dollar bill. Lucas takes that corner piece and eats it, he literally chews it up, and swallows it down. He then places that same twenty in his mouth where the tear is.

When he slowly pulls it out, voila, the corner is back. The bill is intact once again.

“How the hell did you do that, you snot-nosed kid?”

Aunt Vera is going to be relentless now.

“A magician never reveals his secrets,” Lucas winks, placing her under the hypnosis of those exquisite eyes.

“But don’t worry Ms. Dankworth,” he says, “there’s much more to see, so relax and prepare to be entertained,” he points to our family room with rows of chairs and a makeshift stage we set up earlier today.

Just like magic, Aunt Vera shuts her mouth for once.

Dinner winds down and Donna, our housekeeper, clears away dishes and offers coffee, dessert, or brandy. Everyone agrees they’re full and will wait until after the performance.

I barely touched my food.

Yesterday, I hid outside, watching in horror at the things my aunt did in our kitchen.

She placed a bowl of dogfood on the floor and when Bailey began eating, Vera’s leg shot out and kicked her right in the face. My angel squealed in pain and jumped back.

Before I could react, Aunt Vera offered the food again. This time when Bailey timidly approached the dish, she roared and kicked her in the ribs. That’s when I barged in, begging her to stop like my life depended on it.

“We were just playin’, weren’t we, mutt?” she cooed like she’d done nothing wrong.

“I’m just tryin’ to teach it obedience Jaimie, don’t be such a baby.”

I shudder at the memory and my tears fall again when snowflakes dance down from the moonless sky.

For his next trick, Lucas asks quote the most beautiful girl in the room, Miss Jaimie Dixit to assist him on the mock stage. I walk carefully so as not to trip over my own two feet.

Lucas requests the assistance of six volunteers and has me place them all behind the black curtain.

“My dear guests, tonight for my next magic trick, I feel like I need a mesmerizing and lovely shot of inspiration,” he announces, his voice so deep and smooth, I want to savor it.

It’s my turn to be spellbound when he pulls me in.

Something bubbly shoots through my stomach and a tenderness bounces like sunlight along the surface of my skin. His lips brush mine and his tongue pirouettes in my mouth. I’m dizzy with rivers of champagne fizzing through my bloodstream. It’s my very first kiss, my sweet-sixteen kiss. It’s daring and warm, and I never want it to end.

Sadly though, the show must go on, I can hear the din of various reactions mixed with impatience resonating from the audience.

Amidst all of that, I’m suddenly reminded that the tips of Bailey’s ears and her sweet little paws could be frostbitten by now.

My heart is no longer in the magic though I do my part until Lucas opens the curtain to reveal all six volunteers… gone.

“Where are they?” asks my grandfather, wheezing with concern.

“They’re ok sir. Everyone, please come down now,” Lucas calls out and, one by one, they descend our spiral staircase.

But someone’s missing.

A search of the entire house turns up nothing, she’s nowhere to be found.

“Lucas, can you make her reappear, dear?” asks my mother.

“I’m afraid not Ma’am, I’m pretty sure this might be… permanent. Unless maybe she just went for a bike ride…?”

“Maybe,” says my mom absentmindedly.

There’s a lightness in her voice when she claps her hands and sing-songs “Now, who’d like coffee and dessert? And Donna, could you please go fetch our darling Bailey from the backyard, and feed her the turkey leftovers in the kitchen by the warmth of the fireplace?”

Bailey’s been chained to the fence for hours. She’s all I can think about. Well, other than him of course.

Outside the window, I can’t even see one star twinkling in the cold October night sky.

Hot tears fill my eyes and I fight hard to quietly blink them away. Hiding my face behind a curtain of my long blonde hair, I desperately search for a distraction. Him. It’s always him.

Perched on the edge of my chair across the table from Lucas, I blush when he catches me staring into his bottle-green eyes and, when I feel the heat bloom across my cheeks,

I lower my gaze to his calloused hands stained with grease and motor oil. Lucas fixes cars for a living, and I’ve been told he makes money hand over fist, even though he’s only nineteen.

My moment’s slashed away when a guttural bellowing makes me flinch.

“Somebody go kick that mongrel in the head and tell it to stop its damn barking.”

When earlier today my Aunt Vera returned on her loud motorcycle madder than a swatted hornet, because the newly inked scorpion on her giant hip didn’t turn out the way she wanted, it was like sticks of dynamite blew up our house. Which is also her house, technically, because she hasn’t any place to live and my mom, her older sister, took mercy on her and invited her to stay with us.

Indefinitely.

One night I dreamt the Harley she straddles, like a cow on top of a mound of manure, sent her wheeling into the air, high above the moon, and then crashed into her green, brown, and rust‑orange body as it landed back down to earth, onto the pavement.

I sobbed when I woke up.

But at least Lucas is here having Thanksgiving dinner with my family of fourteen parents, aunts, uncles, cousins and second cousins. No kids though. Aside from me, they’re all adults ranging from the ages of thirty-eight to sixty-two. Except Lucas of course, but he doesn’t count because he’s in no way related to any of us.

Lucky him.

I watch half-heartedly as he shuffles his deck of playing cards, fanning them out, turning them over in his palms, cutting them in half and waving them in front of people’s faces.

“Please sign your name right across this ten of spades Mrs. Dixit,” Lucas tells my mom.

He slides the card into the middle of a full deck, snugly into the depths of it, packs it in so it’s swallowed up, hidden. Then he immediately pulls a card off the top of the deck, turns it faceup, and shows us that’s it’s my mom’s card. There are oohs and ahhs all around.

He then folds it in half, putting a bend into that signed ten of spades and shows everyone the slight dip when he places it flat onto his hand. We can all see the card is now signed and bent. He asks my mom to slip it randomly somewhere in the very center of the deck. Again, he uses one finger to pull it off the top of the deck. Same signed and bent card.

Eyes open wide, lips curve upwards, they all want more.

Aunt Vera is sprawled out in a chair right next to me, her long, massive legs stretched wide underneath the table, her rancid sweat glistening on her upper lip. Fascinated by Lucas’s card tricks, she seems to have forgotten about my little dog.

Bailey is a mini-Eskimo with the softest, most kissable fur I’ve been pressing my lips to since I was ten years old. I’m sixteen now.

I continue watching as my uncle reluctantly tears a big chunk off the corner of a twenty-dollar bill. Lucas takes that corner piece and eats it, he literally chews it up, and swallows it down. He then places that same twenty in his mouth where the tear is.

When he slowly pulls it out, voila, the corner is back. The bill is intact once again.

“How the fuck did you do that, you snot-nosed kid?”

Aunt Vera is going to be relentless now.

“A magician never reveals his secrets,” Lucas winks, placing her under the hypnosis of those exquisite eyes.

“But don’t worry Ms. Dankworth,” he says, “there’s much more to see, so relax and prepare to be entertained,” he points to our family room with rows of chairs and a makeshift stage we set up earlier today.

Just like magic, Aunt Vera shuts her mouth for once.

Dinner winds down and Donna, our housekeeper, clears away dishes and offers coffee, dessert, or brandy. Everyone agrees they’re full and will wait until after the performance.

I barely touched my food.

Yesterday, I hid outside, watching in horror at the things my aunt did in our kitchen.

She placed a bowl of dogfood on the floor and when Bailey began eating, Vera’s leg shot out and kicked her right in the face. My angel squealed in pain and jumped back.

Before I could react, Aunt Vera offered the food again. This time when Bailey timidly approached the dish, she roared and kicked her in the ribs. That’s when I barged in, begging her to stop like my life depended on it.

“We were just playin’, weren’t we, mutt?” she cooed like she’d done nothing wrong.

“I’m just tryin’ to teach it obedience Jaimie, don’t be such a baby.”

I shudder at the memory and my tears fall again when snowflakes dance down from the moonless sky.

For his next trick, Lucas asks quote the most beautiful girl in the room, Miss Jaimie Dixit to assist him on the mock stage. I walk carefully so as not to trip over my own two feet.

Lucas requests the assistance of six volunteers and has me place them all behind the black curtain.

“My dear guests, tonight for my next magic trick, I feel like I need a mesmerizing and lovely shot of inspiration,” he announces, his voice more quiet than usual, and yet so deep and smooth, I want to savor it.

It’s my turn to be spellbound when he pulls me in.

Something bubbly shoots through my stomach and a tenderness bounces like sunlight along the surface of my skin. His lips brush mine and his tongue pirouettes in my mouth. I’m dizzy with rivers of champagne fizzing through my bloodstream. It’s my very first kiss, my sweet-sixteen kiss. It’s daring and warm, and I never want it to end.

Sadly though, the show must go on, I can hear the din of various reactions mixed with impatience resonating from the audience.

Amidst all of that, I’m suddenly reminded that the tips of Bailey’s ears and her sweet little paws could be frostbitten by now.

My heart is no longer in the magic though I do my part until Lucas opens the curtain to reveal all six volunteers… gone.

“Where are they?” asks my grandfather, wheezing with concern.

“They’re ok sir. Everyone, please come down now,” Lucas calls out and, one by one, they descend our spiral staircase.

But someone’s missing.

A search of the entire house turns up nothing, she’s nowhere to be found.

“Lucas, can you make her reappear, dear?” asks my mother.

“I’m afraid not Ma’am, I’m pretty sure this might be… permanent. Unless maybe she just went for a bike ride…?”

“Maybe,” says my mom absentmindedly.

There’s a lightness in her voice when she claps her hands and sing-songs “Now, who’d like coffee and dessert? And Donna, could you please go fetch our darling Bailey from the backyard, and feed her the turkey leftovers in the kitchen by the warmth of the fireplace?”

No one knows where we are. We’re miserably lost.

Amidst the darkness, my mom spots a pinprick of light up ahead.

Driving along the country road, falling snow envelops us like a cocoon, it floats like sprinkled stardust in the milky luminosity of our headlights.

“Up there,” cries my mom, “it looks like a little cottage. Don’t you agree, Isabella?”

“Yeah,” I mumble, noticing that she doesn’t ask my dad his opinion. In fact, she’s barely spoken to him during our trip. Or attempted trip, I never thought we’d get lost on the way to New Hampshire in the middle of December to visit my grandma. Lost on the way to granny’s house? Isn’t that straight out of some gory fairytale? And now a cottage to boot? What the hell?

But here it sits, under the quiet of the night sky, in front of our car, beckoning it seems, and curiosity prances through our minds.

The epitome of an English cottage, it sports a cherry-red door, fairy lights under the soffits, and creeping ivy winding along the stone facade. The light dusting of snow sparkling on the roof gives the illusion of sugar-frosting on a cake. Seriously?

As we approach on foot however, suddenly, the mood changes. I glimpse shadowy figures, half-lit by a pale moon, lurking in corners of the porch, and shudder as a chill traces my spine. The flapping of ravens’ wings startles me. Birds of oily black are perched atop two narrow, but lofty signs made of granite with ‘The Museum of Discarded Children’s Souls’ etched into them. They stand on either side of the door like knights in armor in front of a medieval castle. It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever come across in all my seventeen years.

My dad says, “Let’s knock and ask for directions to Concord.”

The door is opened by a lady wearing an apron tied around her waist smeared with fudge, nutmeg, and cinnamon, scents so inviting I crave tasting them.

“Welcome,” she says, “I’ve just taken the gingerbread cookie cups and fudge caramel brownies out of the oven, come in.”

Amidst the yummy baking smells, I detect something else in the air… a cloying waft of roses. It’s not an entirely unpleasant aroma, but it does strike me as being out of place somehow.

Once inside, although I’m grateful for the warmth, I suddenly freeze. I can’t believe the sight before my eyes. The things I see hanging suspended from the ceiling.

Hundreds of massive multicolored dollhouses and hollowed out spaceships, the size of a smart car, dangle from thick chains. Various items are showcased in them like trophies in a glass cabinet.

I drift from one dollhouse to the next, one rocket ship to another, looking at the pieces lodged within their shells, studying them like my life depends on knowing why they’re there.

“In this house,” the lady narrates, “we have one of our more evocative pieces, these little yellow rubber boots and rain jacket belonged to Jenna Wade, just five years old when her daddy left. See this here, next to the rainy-day things Jenna loved? It’s a brick of cocaine. Her dad liked to party more than he loved her, you see?”

I don’t really see, so I try shaking my head but something’s not right with my body. I suddenly feel… somehow disconnected… detached… a puppet being manipulated by someone pulling my invisible strings.

“Over here,” the lady continues, and I follow her, my feet floating on air like a ghostly being, “we have a football and helmet that belonged to Jonathan Wilson who was only eleven when he lost his father to these types of abominations.” She points to a giant photo of a sleazy woman holding a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Whiskey. She looks like a prostitute.

“Jonathan prayed that his dad would come to his football games to see him score a touchdown. He wanted his dad to be proud of him, but it was not to be. Jonathan’s mom donated these to us just a year after he was incarcerated. Poor kid hit rock bottom after struggling with depression. He yearned for his father so much. They all do, you know?”

We trail behind her like those kids in their trance-induced state, filing behind the Pied Piper, to other exhibits.

A slab of sidewalk nestled in the living room of a blue and purple dollhouse, displays a medley of colorful chalk drawings, rainbows of hues, assortments of shapes. Next to the concrete is a picture of a ranch with a mansion, horse stables, tennis courts and an Olympic-sized swimming pool.

“This was donated by thirteen-year-old Courtney’s dad whose wife, and mother of his only daughter, left them for a rich sugar daddy. Courtney loved art. But she began using drugs shortly after her mom ditched her, started sneaking out, drinking, and her

dad felt helpless. It was tragic. She’s in rehab but, alas, not doing well.”

I start to cry.

I’ve heard the venomous hiss of the word divorce whispered from my parents’ lips.

But despite the hurt stinging my heart and soul, like lemon juice on cuts, the tears I’ve shed are more from embarrassment and jealousy. I’m envious of anyone whose parents are together, and I don’t even care how selfish that sounds.

Carsten and I truly love each other. And though we’re both young, high school sweethearts can end up happily married. They can have the proverbial white picket fence. Carsten’s parents are proof, they’re committed to stay together until death do them part. I want that too. Both sets of parents at our wedding and celebrating the births of our children. I don’t want to spend one Christmas at my mom’s and another at my dad’s. And have my kids call some stranger Grandpa Bob or Grandma Shirley– whatever dumbass my mom decides to fall for, or witch my dad replaces my mom with. If they split, I’ll die missing them both. And to hell with everyone else’s bullshit-take on how blended families can work wonderfully. There’s no Brady Bunch in this cruel world.

My sobs echo, like voices inside a rocky canyon, throughout the museum.

“Come, Isabella, dry your eyes. Let’s have your father look at this particular display,” the lady commands.

Within the biggest dollhouse yet, I spot a pair of pink ballet slippers, a bit worn but still exquisite. Then I gasp. They are mine. I can tell by the ink stain where I once dropped my calligraphy pen when I was hurriedly packing up my school things after dance class.

“What on earth…?” My mom’s voice comes out strangled.

Next to the shoes, there’s a picture of Lorraine. It’s her, I’d recognize that face anywhere.

“This young lady didn’t survive her dad’s abandonment, she was destroyed by the selfish way he discarded her for another family. Poor devastated Isabella died by her own hand. All because of this…” the lady sneers, tapping her fingernail on the photo of Lorraine, “…homewrecker.”

In a sudden moment of rage, she reaches into the dollhouse, grabs the polaroid, and rips it into tiny pieces.

She screams “But he didn’t say no to being seduced by her mom’s best friend. Did he?

No. Instead, he shattered a family for horrid, backstabbing, phony Lorraine. And now beautiful, young Isabella lies buried in the cemetery overlooking the valley.”

Raking her nails down her face, drawing blood, she shrieks “Her mom, weeping rivers of tears each and every day, brings pink roses to her grave. I can smell those roses now, can’t you?”