Dearest Reader,

When I picture you, you're at a desk. Hopefully you are fortunate enough to be elsewhere, like under a 100 year old tree in a part of the world where the breeze is warm, the grass needs cutting, and the feel of the bark at your back is as hospitable and trustworthy as it could be at 100 years of age. But under my suspicion, we are in someway similar to each other. It's more likely you are contained between four walls in a slightly uncomfortable chair and you freeze even at the thought of going back outside because the snow ball from hell came back from it's spring vacation, however short it had been. That being said, I guess my hope for you is that within your four walls, there is a window.

Now that I have you here, I have a confession. My name isn't Ann Cost, shocker, I know. As much as I wish it was, Ann Cost is actually a character I had created in a NaNoWriMo tribute in high school for my English class. I have now adopted the name as my pen name.

The text she inhabited only consisted of twelve pages. Within those twelve, she was daring, witty, and honestly, the best version of myself. She would sleuth along side a character named Jimmy Devly, a young writer searching for inspiration, and Morgan Gren, who was sort of a sheep, truth be told. These twelve pages were crafted in freedom because the only way my teacher could grade it was by word count. (This many words gets you a C and so on.) But the longer I wrote, the more attached to the characters I became and my mission evolved. If I was going to write, I was going to write well. 

And so I edit and rewrite. I learned I could say more with fewer more vivid words but, that left me with fewer words. I emailed it to my teacher anyway. By this time, because of my editing and rewriting, the month was over and I had to turn it in anyway. 

Feeling the weight of my grade being, for a lack of a better word, doomed, I went to bed dreading make up assignments and feeling so stupid for not just repeating what everyone else did. Which was what I thought of as very very very very lame. 

The next day I received an email. It was from Mr. Palmerton my English teacher about my NaNoWriMo assignment.

Good work. You are very talented. I enjoyed what I read.

Your grade = B

I know you were a bit short of the word count for this, but I think you deserve an upgrade. 

That was it. Having never getting praise from a teacher in my whole adolescent career before this email, it opened a window for me. I can do what I love really well and it was different. 

This is how I connect to the world, to all the people just like me in contents of their four walls. I hope for all of you that you have a window too. 

Sincerely,

Ann Cost  

People's judgements turn to compliments

When the weirdos reign supreme

For darkness can be comforting

It was a peculiar thing

And I'll admit it did sting

But I relished in the sense

And the intricate suspense

Everyone says its a knife in the back

But I was faced with your attack

And in slow motion

I saw the knife pierce my heart, no emotion

You, with blood on your hands

Me, with a knife in my chest

I expected outrage from the stands

But your performance progressed

With no complaint or utter of shock

My pain fell on deaf ears and eyes

And I was the laughingstock

Too weak to resist, to rise

I was left to bleed

Without a friend, in my time of need

I looked to the sky

Waiting patiently to die

But my heart kept its beat

It refused to retreat

I looked to the stars

And rose, covered in blood and scars

     We called him James although it wasn't his real name, only his middle name. His real name was Ruben but he hated it and being his friends we respected that. Dan tried calling him Ben for a few weeks but that never caught on.

     He laughed when Dan first called him that. "Ben's my dad, not me!"

     But that was years ago and he doesn't laugh like that anymore.

     As thick as Dan can be, even he's noticed the change.

     "I'm worried about you." I told him the other day.

     He smiled but it didn't seem to touch his eyes, cracking the deep frown lines surrounding his mouth. He riffled a hand through his unkempt hair and I could see him shaking.

     "Why?"

     "Ja--you just haven't seemed right since your dad..." I stopped when pain flashed across his face and he clenched his fists. He kicked his legs against the table , chair creaking as his body swayed.

     "Even Dan can see something's wrong."

     "Nothing's wrong!" James shot upward out of his seat, voice shrill.

     I stared at him, my eyebrows knitting together. There were tears in his eyes and he furiously rubbed a hand over them. He stared at me for a minute, meeting my eyes for the first time in weeks. Suddenly, he turned away and walked out the door, hand moving toward his back pocket where he recently began hiding a lighter. I sighed and dug my head into my hands, knowing the conversation was over before it could properly begin.

He smiled but it didn't seem to touch his eyes. 

And it made me so angry. So completely angry that I  wanted to punch him. Square in the jaw. Just make him angry, or sad or happy or something. This insufferable, beautiful brown haired bastard, who was so full of small notes scrawled in flowing letters, botched omelettes burned on one side, bagged groceries that seemed to never hold milk. This person. This husband. Did not belong to me.  

He belonged to screams that echoed on hard beat ground. To bullets that whistled a dying tune. To small bruises and little hurts. Then bigger bruises and larger hurts. To fears and fallen friends, enemies and evils. He belonged to these invisible things. 

We sat in silence. Looking up I saw blue eyes. Empty eyes. 

I held his hand across the expanse of the kitchen table. A soft stroke across roughened calluses. 

I would start with his hands. Give them something to hold. Something growing, something living, of the earth. 

Then his feet. Wrap them in warm socks and take them on long walks. On hikes maybe, where problems became mountains, and then stones. 

Last, his eyes. 

I could not fill his eyes or even shield them. I could not dim the brightness of grocery lights or hide the daily reports of violence and fighting that appeared on our television. 

For his eyes, I could only offer my own. 

 "Honey? How was your job interview the other day? You wore that navy blue blouse didn't you?", he said, breaking the silence. 

"Yes, I did. You know that outfit has gotten me every job since my  freshman year of college", I said, smiling with eyes that tried to understand, to forgive, and desperately, to see. 

He knew it when there was a knock on the door.

Ten years ago at this day he made a choice. If you look in his green eyes there isn't any regret.How can you regret selling your soul to the devil when he saved your son's life? 

The knock gets louder and maybe the wooden door will burst because of hell's impact. 

Smiling he opens the door. 

"Old friend, you're coming to take what's yours?"

The man in front of him chuckles. 

"It has been mine since your mother kissed the lips of your father, hasn't it?"

He opens the door a little bit wider so the man can come inside. 

"Want a beer?" 

"I'm not here to grab a cold beer. But the Jack Daniels there seems like something I'd enjoy."

He puts two glasses on the black table. He pours each of them a two fingers width. 

Both of them get as comfy as you can get on stools made in Hitler's time. 

"How's Richard doing?" 

Richard, his son. 

"Now happily married. Three kids, loving wife. Still he cheats on her. But the cancer didn't come back." 

"Sounds like his soul's mine already too. But first I go for yours." 

Suddenly the whiskey is gone. The man traces a cold finger down his cheek. 

"It will sting at first, but the pain will be gone soon. Just like ripping of a band-aid."

And he's right. First it hurts like hell literally. Then he sees his son. Happy. So happy that he doesn't feel the pain as darkness comes over him. 

Hello, 

I've been thinking about this for a while, longer than you could imagine. I know that none of you wish this upon me, but I also know that none of you will be harmed by this. You may mourn me for a day or a week, but that's about it. I'm fine with that, I don't want you to mourn me, I want you to move on and live your lives. I can promise you that I'm okay. After this is all done I will be free. Free from the stress, the anxiety, free from my emotions and self hatred. I don't know exactly where I'm going, but wherever it is is okay. Please, whomever cares to read this, do not blame this on you. It's not your fault. It isn't anybody's fault. There was no one thing to push me over the edge, no harsh word or nasty look. The reason I am doing it now and not at any other time, is that now I finally have the courage. I'm not afraid anymore, I simply do not care what happens as long as I get to leave what I am now. I don't like what I am, in fact I hate it. I hate it so much I feel it eating me alive as I wake and as I sleep. I feel as if I have been infested by some uncontrollable parasite, one that has taken over who I am. I used to be happy and free, but now I am a prisoner. I'm imprisoned by no outside force. I am constricted by myself and my thoughts. Two very similar yet very different things. My thoughts don't always agree with me y'know. They usually tell me the opposite of what I would like to hear, but that's not a bad thing. They, at least, tell me the truth. They don't let me pretend I'm anything other than a fucked up kid. It's okay, they can't bother me now. I'm not sorry about this, but I do wish you, whomever, a very happy existence.

Love, 

A fucked up kid

Funny

How the things

I want to do in life

Would kill me

I want to see what would happen

If I jumped off a building

What would happen first

Would I feel anything 

I'll never know

Impulsive

Is what I call it

Impulsive thoughts to do

Outrageous things

I could go into more detail

But

Gore isn't really my style

Loss. Yes I know it well. Which part would you like me to tell?

Well let's see, I adored my Daddy you see, I loved him so much then he walked out on me.

Do you think it was because I loved him too much?

Loss. Yes I know all to well.

Another part to tell ok, had to give my stepdaughter back to parents who didn't give a damn about her just how they could hurt the other with her. I loved her more than life.

Couldn't do anything about it though.

Loss? You could say I know something about it.

Had to send my 13 year old son to a boys home for anger management, he took a butcher knife to my youngest son at the time and was harmful. What else could I do? I had to protect the younger ones too, so I had to love him enough to let him go.

Loss? I know a thing or two.

In 2007 I lost my whole family, (elders) first my great aunt, then my Mother, then GreatGrandmother and then my Granny too.

That was a hard pill to swallow so many funerals within months of each other.

Loss? You could say that I know a little a bout it.

At the beginning of 2015 I had 4 healthy horses. By October I lost two to death and had to give the other two up. The two that died, one was my childhood first horse and he was really old. The other went to a trainer and she changed his feed too abruptly and he colicked he was only ten.

These weren't my pets! They weren't my babies! They were my Soulmates! My breath, my reason for going on living everyday! I knew their thoughts they knew mine, together we were one soul. We loved each other, and I long for them as much as I do for my mother. These sacred Dogs.

Loss? I do know it well.

Just two weeks ago, I got up that morning to find my sweet Gypsy girl (GreatDane) dead in the floor.

She was so sweet and loving and god I miss her so much.

Loss. It's that's empty hole that's felt when that which you cared about is no more. All you can do is weep uncontrollably because of this great loss.

Loss is when what you had is no longer.