His world starts spinning. Within a matter of seconds, he crashes to the floor.

Daisy rushes to his side. She checks his pulse and smiles.

‘‘I will take care of all your estates. There’s no time to waste.’’

Daisy heads to clean Arnold’s tumbler. She wondered if the poison would work right away.

It seems like Arnold had enjoyed his drink, the poison had given it a little extra kick. Maybe she should have paid someone to pulverize him. But that might have taken more time to plan.

#Double~cross

Blood, soaking through my shirt, running down my arms, covering my hands.

Blood, all that I can see, clouding my vision...a friend lay dying by the will of my sword. Blood, it trails down the path I walk, and I hear my name called on the wind.

Blood, my soul crimson, as I take slow steps towards the enemy, loyalty cast aside for gold.

Blood, it catches the gaze of those who trusted my facade, their eyes shining with tears. Blood, it paints the streets, a contract broken, a bond betrayed.

Blood, the language of murder...I've lost everything it seems.

He promised to love me in sickness and in health.

When I felt dizzy he told me to go to bed. When I felt pain, he ignored it. When my legs gave out during a spell, he shouted furiously, "Sit down!" When the doctor told me it might be something worse, that I needed more tests, he didn't hold me. When depression overcame me, he told our thearpist that it was annoying to put away his guns. When I cried, holding the knife, he turned up the TV.

Illness is scary. Sickness and in health, he didn't keep his promise.

Tonight, I'd prove that I was destined to be a legendary actress. My usual ritual would assure my success. After cleansing myself with soap, water, incense and prayer, I descended to the kitchen for the final phase: consuming a bowl of cereal with a knife and fork.

I greeted my father cheerfully as I entered then regarded him with a murderous gaze when I realized he'd gobbled the last of my cereal. The traitor wiped milk from his mouth and grabbed his car keys. He'd return with a new box or I'd cut him open and retrieve what he'd stolen.

[B]etter me than them

[E]very nuance of the lie realized

[T]rying to keep it together

[R]eally though im tattered

[T]hrough

[A]ll the way to my very core

[Y]esterday will be the last of me

[A]nd my tomorrow wont come

[L]ove died when i surmised

[W]hat it was youve done

[O]nly for empty material things

[N]o value placed in me

[A]nother barrier to commodity

[N]ow id trade every oddity

[D]own to my very breath

[I]f for a moment

[L]ost love could be mended

[O]r the open hole in my chest

[S]tiched back together

[T]he value of connection gone.

She is beauty,

          buried in ashes.

She is joy,

          drowning in sorrow.

She is life, 

          shackled to shadows.

She is free,

           perhaps tomorrow.

The last time I ate gluten free chocolate cake was my seventeenth birthday. I laughed as I baked and snapchatted a picture of the crumbly, wheat-less, rather flat looking product to my best friend.

Her name was Sam.

She couldn’t eat gluten and so became the target of the easiest inside joke of our friends. Every box of gluten free cookies, every labeled menu option, instantly found itself the subject of a blurry phone pic showcased in our group chat. She would laugh, roll her eyes, and reply with almond milk directed toward the lactose intolerant unfortunate few.

We had fun that year. Senior year, which despite college applications and AP classes, was also golden and bright and overflowing with love. It was a race against the clock, against graduation, against going off to new lives and inevitably chalking this up to a few old facebook posts and a fond remembrance of laughter.

Far too quickly, it was over. And then we were preparing to split, and she was the first to go, the most permanent as well, moving back to Michigan. And then there were only tearful goodbyes and desperate last hugs and trying to remember her eyes, her smile, her voice, and fingers clasping but slipping away, away, away, gone.

It wasn’t so bad, after the first few days. There was social media, after all, and FaceTime. And soon, we’d all scattered, found ourselves impossibly busy once again, and it wasn’t so bad, but I took it for granted, only wished over and over to talk to her in person.

That winter was cold. Colder for her, though, all the way up north. The ice must have been brutal on the roads, and blacker than the night they were driving in, practically invisible. It was a disaster waiting to happen. And no one’s fault. That’s what they said at least. No one’s fault, no drunk driver, just a cruel trick of fate and no one to blame but the gods. They just kept saying it; no one could have known, could have done much of anything, but that made it worse, not better. I wanted someone to scream at, to hurt, to punish for taking her away from me.

How do you punish a god?

There is no longer a reason for me to get gluten free cake, no reason for me to consider it as an option each year on my birthday, but I’m drawn to it as I walk by, a sharp pain in my chest intensifying with too many painful memories and a longing to be reminded that Sam couldn’t eat gluten at my party, a longing to have that reason to pick up that box with the image of a crumbly, wheat-less, rather flat looking, gluten free chocolate cake.

Hard fallen footsteps beat the ground just ahead. I swallow hard, acid and saliva building in my throat as I force my body to push harder, running faster. Low hanging tree limbs and forest overgrowth slap me in the face as if to punish me for even considering entering their woods. I know I am close! I can smell his sweat on the leaves of the brush as I smash through. I must run harder! I can feel the muscles in my legs stretch to their limits with every leap across fallen logs, and every careful but swift step on the uneven ground. Why can't I see him yet?

I am straining to listen for his footsteps through the deafening beat of my own heart trying to jump out of my chest, and my lungs yearning for more air, be it hot and dry. Sweat and blinding streaks of sunlight blur my vision as I peer through the woven entanglement of forest growth. I see him! Yes! I am so close! I burst out of the forest once and for all, and finally on open ground. I can catch him! I know I can! A deep breath and quick feet, I am breaking away from the tree line and gaining ground. Wait! No! No! No! Darkness is swallowing the ground ahead of me. I can no longer see him! I can't go back. I must keep going. Darkness is all around now. My running is done.

“Hey you? What are you doing out here alone in the woods?”

Allison remembered her mother once scolding, “We don’t say hey you. People that say “hey you” haven’t any manners.” And she stuck out her pointer finger abruptly towards Allison the way she always did when she meant business. It wasn’t Allison’s place to talk back, she knew better, so she never told her mother that pointing at people was also in fact considered quite rude.  But her mother was now long gone and manners aside, her goal was to get the attention of the little girl on the other side of the creek.

The little girl looked to be about ten years old and blended quite well with the forest.  It was almost as if she wasn’t there or more like she was an optical illusion. Her hair was the exact color of the paperbark maple behind her; strands of cinnamon straight thin straws.  The clothes she wore could have been peeled from the bark or crawled out of the soil, and her skin was comparable, just a shade or two lighter. There was no way the little girl could not have heard her call, unless she was deaf.  Even if she was deaf, Allison was sure the girl had to know of her presence, because the creek couldn’t be more than ten feet wide. If the water wasn’t so cold and rapid, she would walk into the water, over to the girl, and tap her on the shoulder to get her attention, another thing her mother would most surely say was rude.

One more time. “Hey little girl, can’t you hear me? Do your parents know where you are?” The girl remained stoic and busy with what looked to be a mock tea party.  There was a fallen tree she was using as a table, bark as plates and pine cones for cups, set for four. Allison stood still watching her, captivated, as she slowly sipped from a pine cone, with her dainty pinky pointing towards the sky, gently placing the pine cone down in its proper place, then moving to the next place setting.  It bothered Allison that the girl never once smiled at her imaginary friends, nor did she allow them to sip from their own cup. Why did she feel the need to stand in for them? Immense identifiable sadness floated down from the canopy above them when Alisson presumed this little girl had no concept of friendship, real or imagined.  It didn’t occur to Allison that she could have been watching herself as a young girl. Many a day she had combed these very trails alone since her mother insisted friends were just a waste of time. “We have each other,” she often said sternly, when the subject came up. More than first realized, Alisson felt the need to get to the other side of the creek, to wrap her arms around this child, and then sip some tea and sit with her awhile, even if she insisted on silence.

“This is crazy!” Allison said to herself, “I’m calling 911.”  The absurdity of the scene suddenly engulfed Allison. “Why is this little girl out here alone in the woods!?”  But she couldn’t call; not because she didn’t want to. Allison was raised to do the right thing. It was as if her fingers wouldn’t work, like she was frozen, a part of the oak behind her.  And she wouldn’t consider just walking away, but if she had, she would have found out that her legs were just as frozen as her fingers. It seemed the early morning dew that surrounded her as she entered the woods was drying up, so she was aware of the passing of time, but felt no urgency to be elsewhere.  She was where she was supposed to be and thought of nothing else, when she heard a sound that sounded like an alarm, but where was it coming from? It wasn’t coming from across the creek, it almost felt as if it was next to her head and it was getting louder making her long to cover her ears, but she now realized she was completely paralyzed.  Scared to death of her circumstance, questioning her lung function, her eyes were the only thing that worked as she kept them on the girl. Once again, the girl lifted her pinky towards the sky, sipping slowly, signaling to Alisson the very same action was all she needed to do to break free. With every ounce of energy left within her own shell, Alisson channeled that strength to her own pinky, attempting to move it ever so slightly, knowing the girl’s instruction was going to work.  And when it did, she took a very deep long sombre breath, barely remembering her dream as she turned off the alarm next to her bed.