The rough sand flows from my fingers to the warm ground as the yellow sun sifts through the purple clouds and I pray that this never ends. That the inevitable is postponed, yet again.

The hum of the wind, the song of the birds, the absence of company, the beauty of bliss. Yet my mind is still wandering to all the places better left unexplored. All the losses I can't seem to cut.

I still hear her faint whispers in my ear. How her heartbeat plays softly the music of life and how her eyes always betrayed her emotions, her joy to be with me. And I with her. Yet if I died it would have been for her.

For us. I listen to the beautiful birds. The aging sun, with the mellow confidence of art. I pray this never ends because if it does I might as well too. The wind now bears the smell of a lurking storm.

It lurks with all the demons needing to steal this art, this picturesque beauty that I pray never ends. My prayer goes unanswered, yet again. And the demons emerge, just like the lurking storm. Brave, merciless.

They bring me pain. And unearth my buried memories as a truce for stealing my art. I accept it just because it's all they offer and I remember those burning embers on her skin when she said she loved me with all her being.

How those red-as-crimson coals burned off her flesh, sizzling with every delight. Forcing tears from her eyes and curses from her mouth. The Women cursing back, and the men, holding me back, said 'Tomorrow, you're next.'

We should have known the chickens would come home to roost. Eventually.

She and I had a secret. One that would cost us everything. And one that we'd share at every chance we'd get. No one knew that when we held hands it was to tell each other 'I love you.' And when we hid from everyone else it was to share a kiss.

All they saw was two girls who just seemed sewn together.

As these waves are rising, I feel her breath slowly fading as my art did only moments ago.

Last night I took her hand in mine and asked if she feared what would happen if anyone else knew. Wouldn't they damn us if they found out? Worse yet, wouldn't they hand us to the Women?

And she stared into my eyes, firmly. Bravely, mercilessly. 'We will go tomorrow. Together. Where no one will find us, where the Women will never think to look. Just me and you.'

I believed her. And I trusted her prayer would be answered.

Then we kissed, shared more secrets and laughter and she told me about a dream she had where we sat on a low branch of a tall tree with nothing but bright red apples. The apples were the sweetest ones she'd ever eaten and they were everywhere. On the ground, some she stepped on, and even on her lap. She wanted the dream to be real. I wanted it to be real too.

Yet, those condemned demons were somewhere nearby and heard about our secret, burning mine and her world to the ground.

The night was awfully quiet when we returned. No one was there to scold us for running out again in the middle of the night.

'Where were you?' Someone asked just when I thought we'd be home scot-free. 'We were just playing. Out in the forest.' Said my love, perplexed at the sight of more village people emerging from the shadows, all bearing torches.

'I saw them kiss!' a child shouted from the gathering crowd and a man stepped forth echoing that it was true, that we sinned against god and the rule of sanctity. A vile act that we did. An insanity that would be corrected by us being mutilated and made into sane good women. A punishment reserved for horrible sins such as ours.

So the Women were summoned.

My hands grew cold but hers was still clasped in mine. I can still hear the noise and bellows of the people that cursed and spat, mocking our love, asking which one of us was the man. I looked towards her for the bravery I so desperately needed, but found something else. Satisfaction. Relief. Because she no longer had to hide anymore.

The tide keeps rising. The breeze is getting stronger and stronger and the waves keep roaring and gushing. Not much time is left.

The Women pulled us far apart, holding her down, asking that the fearless ones hold me back to witness what they do to transgressors. Fearless because touching sinners like us would very well taint you.

The red embers were brought, placed on her lap and the glistening blades pierced her skin as she moaned in pain and begged that it was only her fault. Never once did she apologize for loving me. In the pale moonlight, ours was tested in pain.

The sun caressed my skin when I dragged her out of her prison, a prison that would have housed me when it was my turn to beg for forgiveness as They humiliated me and punished me. Today is when we would have eloped had any odds been in our favor. To carry us to her dream where the sweet red apples lay everywhere. Where no one would find us. They would have left her to die miserably, alone. So I knew in my heart that she would rather die with me.

I grew exhausted, but just kept moving till she fell limp at this very place where I sit. Where my beautiful art once was.

And now she is slowly fading, her breath inching ever so close to silence from losing so much blood.

'Just go before they find you' She mutters quietly, her voice being drowned by the crashing waves in front of us. 'I'm not leaving you,' I tell her, needing to sound as brave as she always did for I know that it is only a matter of time till They find us.

I feel the demons yet again, pushing through the shadows, smelling our fear and hunting us like hounds.

Her eyes flutter weakly as she holds my hand and whispers, 'I love you' before growing still.

I see the torches heading to where we are. They are very close now and even in the pale moonlight I can see them thirsting for our blood, to cleanse it, to cleanse themselves.

They start running and I'm certain they've seen me.

I have no time to mourn my heart's death and I have no strength to carry her corpse to where They cannot find it. So I leave her a kiss and a prayer that she waits for me.

The ocean continues howling and calling out.

I move towards it and wait for the next wave carry me to my love, to where the sweet red apples are.

I was heavily intoxicated as I drove in the wee hours of the night while heavy metal music blasted in my ears. I was too drunk to notice a silhouette standing in the middle of the dark road and before I could slam the brakes, I had already hit the figure. I stepped out of my car to examine the damage but the darkness was all too much with the shattered headlights so I gave up quickly and left. The following morning, I remembered what I had done, though in a haze. I returned to where the accident took place, hoping to find a deer carcass or some animal laying dead. But when I arrived, there was nothing. Just a pool of dried blood. Maybe it was just an injured deer that strolled away to somewhere else. But whatever it was, I was somewhat reassured that I hadn’t killed it.

As I worked on my case, the phone rang and my inside man told me they’d found something regarding the killer that I had been obsessing about –That he killed his latest victim on 456 Avenue here in Golam. On a stretch of road covered only with trees. That the blood found there matched that of a girl reported missing years ago. Just then, I realized that she was the figure I ran over the previous night. Which also meant that the killer was close by the whole time. And must have seen me drive off.

I hung up the phone abruptly while also trying to keep my composure. But I thought about nothing. I couldn’t think. Then I heard this peculiar ringtone. One that I’d never heard for decades. It sounded like a burner phone. But no one ever used those phones anymore. I remembered how untraceable they were back in the day, and how untraceable they still are. And those were illegal here in Golam. I followed the sound to my bed beneath my pillows, where I occasionally left half-filled glass bottles of liquor for my late-night treat. The phone’s screen read “No caller ID” and this sent shivers down my spine. I picked up the phone.

“ Who is this,” I asked, with bated breath.

“Oh, there you are…found our little gift?” Said the distorted voice on the other side.

“Who are you?” I asked again, growing impatient.

“Oh, detective, detective. You need to calm down. You almost blew my cover yesterday, you know that?” The voice said, so calmly, it sounded soothing yet scary.

“You are that killer…you stupid son of a…”

“Okay, now hold on. Don’t be rude Jonathan. I think very highly of you, JONATHAN!” The voice said, almost losing its temper.

I shuddered at the realization that the killer knew my name, where I lived and saw me yesterday having run over the girl and driven off. What else did he know?

“Okay, this should be simple…” instructed the voice, “You will need to deliver something to me from the Golam Police Department, okay?”

I was still stunned. So I lowered the phone to hang up.

“Ah, Ah, Ah…I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Johnny.” said the voice through the phone. Immediately, my photos from yesternight began streaming into my other phone that lay on the kitchen counter strewn with beer bottles and empty pizza boxes.

“What is wrong with you? What do you want, huh?” I said, frustrated.

“Oh and there she is. You didn’t tell me you had a daughter, Johnny.”

“What? Where…”

“I see her coming to your apartment. Oh…and she’s with a boy…Is that your grandson? Beautiful, beautiful…you know I could make sure she never sees you again. Would you like that, Johnny?”

I looked outside the window and saw Nina walking across the street towards my building carrying her son. I began sweating.

“Don’t touch them. Tell me what you want,” I yielded.

“Mhmm, what I want is the key to the Quantum Dome. Get it for me and you salvage the last of your remaining dignity.” Just then, the line cut off.

I was still holding the phone in my hand, my mind racing with anxious thoughts. How could I have been so careless? Did the Syllic killer know that I had always been following his scent for years now even though all I achieved was dead-end after dead-end?

I was so occupied with my raging thoughts that I didn’t hear the doorbell ring.

“Oh hey dad,” Said Nina, “I thought you weren’t in…Are you okay?” She asked, glancing around the room, seeing the hot mess it was in and the piles of documents all titled ‘The Syllic Killer’ lying all over the shelves and on the floor–there was hardly any space to walk on.

“Dad. are you still looking for the ghost killer after all this time? Why don’t you just stop and come home?” She said, concerned about my disqueted state.

“No. I’m fine, sweetie. I’m just close to finding him, that’s all.” like a broken record,I told her what I always did when she asked. Only this time, I actually believed what I said.

“You were close to finding him 10 years ago…you know he was the reason you lost your job at the PD, right? Just forget all this and come home with us. Liam needs you.” She said, urgingly, while gesturing at the young boy scribbling away at my old files on the couch.

But I couldn’t budge. Not now, when the Syllic Killer had reached out wanting my help. All I needed was to think. To think about how I would catch him.

And so like always, I made up an excuse and made sure to talk about how I’d bring Liam the glasses that could magnify sub-atomic particles to replace the ones he broke last Christmas. Just like that, Nina walked out the door.

Immediately, I phoned Neill, my inside man in the department.

“Hey, I need a favor from you.”

“Well my day was great, how was yours?” Neill said, sounding exhausted.

“This is important. Syllic just called.”

“Hey, if you are passed out in a ditch somewhere I can come get you…”

“No, I’m not. I’m telling you, he called me and he wants me to get something for him from the department.”

“Okay, first of all, why would he call YOU? And second, do you think he’s that careless to just reveal himself after all these years of playing phantom? And to a DETECTIVE of all people? You know that…”

“He wants the key to the Quantum Dome.” I blurted out, silencing Neill who knew for a fact that no one without access to the innards of the department would have possibly known about it.

I continued, to ease the silence, “I don’t know what that is but he said it’s in the Department. And you work there so I need your help…”

“No.” Said Neill with finality.

“What? Why not? What is that?”

“I can’t talk now,” Neill said and hung up before I could say anything else.

I left the Golam PD close to 10 years ago when the killer was nicknamed Syllic after his most gruesome murders involving some microchips he implanted remotely in people’s brains malfunctioned. The chips had the name ‘Syllic’ engraved onto them. That was the only thing I knew for sure from my investigations. One thing that was superbly clear was that Syllic was one deranged scientist who was always steps ahead of the police, especially me, who was given the case but failed to solve it despite the numerous murders that Syllic was suspected to be involved in. So they had to let me go to keep up appearances.

But now the ghost had come back to haunt me and the key was the only to finally catch him. But how would I pull that off when Syllic could also damn me if he wanted?

An entire day had passed and still, nothing came to mind. I was panicking. How could I find the key to something I knew nothing about? My phone rang. It was Neill. I scrambled to pick it up, figuring he had found something.

‘You got something for me?’ I asked anticipatively.

‘Tomorrow there will be a convention for every police department in the region. The forensic scientists will be there to assemble the lasts of the Quantum Dome.’

‘Well, what is the Quantum Dome?’ I inquired.

Neill paused before answering. ‘It’s a time machine.’

‘A time machine?’ I repeated while trying to figure out what a time machine had to do with Syllic. And why he wanted to access it that badly.

’Yes. I don’t know how he found out that we were creating one. But if he wants the key it must mean that he thinks we are on to him. With it, we can catch him before he kills more people. Maybe we can reverse the deaths if everything turns out as anticipated. But only one thing doesn’t add up. Why did he send you?... Jonathan? Does he have Nina?

I barely heard anything Neill said after ‘Time machine’ Could the Quantum Dome damn me also?

“How does the Time machine work?” I asked Neill

“Quantum Dome sources memory data from the chips found in some of the victims. Any sort of memory linking the subjects will be compared to create a simulation where the killer can be identified. The Time Machine component will have us see the past and future interactions with anyone he has been with or will be with. Meaning that anyone he shares a memory with might be stuck inside the simulation with him.”

“Wow” was the only thing that came out of my mouth.

Finally, the day dawned. I barely had any sleep sitting at my computer trying to log into my PNC in hopes of finding something about this convention. And as always, my domain was blocked. Neill said he would help me get inside the building but I wasn’t counting on it as much as I wanted to. The burner phone buzzed to life and a text message reading ‘Johnny, key.’ showed up for a minute, before it self-destructed.

Contrary to what I expected, Neill showed up at my door, dressed as sharply as he always did. For once, I was glad to see him. I had to do this, finish this.

Golam PD had barely changed ever since I left 10 years ago. The statue of Lincoln Brown still stood outside with a moldy bottom engraved ‘Officer Of Honor’. I’d always hated the thing and wondered why anyone would look at it and ever feel motivated. I, however, liked the way it reeked of piss. Oh, Golam! City of drinkers and pissers.

As it turned out, Neill was higher up in the ranks than where I left him so getting through security was the easy part.

We walked through the bright corridors, down a long-winded staircase and finally stopped at a laboratory door boldly written, ‘QD’ that stood more elegantly than the rest in the hallway.

“Well, this is you. See ya,” Said Neill, while handing me a spotless white lab coat and leaving me at the mercy of the scientists that were slowly filling the room.

“It’s almost done. Key?” Said one of the scientists to no one in particular. A young lady beside me fished out a hand-sized pyramid from a black briefcase, handing it over to her. If I had to take it, it had to be now. But I needed to know Syllic first.

So the key was fitted perfectly into one of the slots on the QD and we were transported back in time.

The year when it all began was 2020, when Syllic made the chips as a research tool to study the brain hence the mind. This study was unorthodox so he opted to execute his ideas by implanting these microchips remotely without the subjects’ knowledge. This would ensure the information he gathered was finely raw. To learn people’s behavior without them ever knowing. I had suspected it all along. Something must have gone wrong with the microchips to trigger the mass murders. The subjects didn’t die. They were the killers all along. And Syllic was trying to clean up the mess he made before anyone figured it out. So who was Syllic? Who was the ghost? The Quantum Dome sped up as the scientists and I basked in the revelation. But something was utterly wrong. I felt an out-of-body experience, like none that I’ve ever felt before. Like my mind detached from my body, though literally. I couldn’t hear the scientists anymore. Was this what Neill meant when he said that anyone sharing Syllic’s memories would be trapped in the simulation with him? That couldn’t be further from possible, could it?

Then emerged into my view.

“I really thought it’d work this time,” Said Syllic plainly. “Welcome back.”

“Who are you?” I ask, perturbed.

“I am you,” Syllic said, turning to face his stupefied doppelganger.

"I pity those who are not afraid. Because how do they know they are brave? The subtlety of fear is a kind of spell cast by our minds reminding us how imperfect we are. How vulnerable we are, in our human cages. Where we try to fight but we are neither strong nor weak. Just brave. So how do we know we are brave if we are not afraid?"

My soul sold for a price so cheap

The devil had to grin

An artless fall from grace

For a love

That proved finite

And a lie

That grew into my truth.

For a kindness that bore cruelty

In our love that was only mine,

A mindless torture

That I breathed for life

And death.

All that was a drug,

A poison,

A toxin,

All that was you,

But,

Instead of killing me

You gave me life.

Give me life.

But maybe I’m dead.

Will you tell me?

Will you lie to me?

I buried my father at noon,

Where I buried my memories of him,

Years before he went too.

The canopy of silver maples now shelters his body,

As it shelters those dead memories.

And so I wondered as I buried him,

Will he be gone or will he haunt me still.

Will the babel subside or will it only grow,

Lone but with friends,

Hiding under the silver maple,

Happy under the shadow that isn’t here,

Here where I chase demons and angels,

To feel a joy that is only fleeting.

As I stand over these graves,

The echoes that are of laughter,

That resurrect all that I thought was dead,

Reminding me of what I once lost,

Of what I want to remain lost.

As to find it would be to find hurt,

To find past and weakness and guilt.

So I want to bury it all,

Bury it deep,

So the wind won’t disinter the rot.

And forget while needing to forgive,

The life I baptized as death.

So maybe I am the dead one,

As what is a life where all I have will always be lost again,

Where I never wish upon a star,

With my hope as fragile as the twilight.

As I fear this will break too,

And shatter as my soul did when,

I buried my heart at noon.

I can barely recognize myself in the mirror. The deep scars on my once beautiful face are only what I see. Nothing more but a scarred soul, staring at its imperfect reflection. I fear that he will come back to finish what he started, like waiting for a nightmare that will never end, all over again. It was nine months ago but I can still feel his icy hands choking my neck, taste his foul breath beneath my tongue and his distant voice keeps me awake every night. He haunts me as a ghost haunts its flesh, its demons. But he is in prison still. So I am safe. I am safe. I am safe. I have to say the words out loud to believe them but I don’t think it’s working. I need something stronger like the drugs my therapist prescribed. The ones I take in double dosage. I am almost out now, I’ll need more soon. Too soon. And she’ll ask why they ran out so fast. What will I tell her? That my ex won’t leave me alone? Won’t stop talking to me in my sleep? That he stalks me even in my mind? No, I have to make it seem like we’re making progress. I will think about that later, though. Because now I have to go home for the Holidays. Tell my mum and dad that I’m doing perfectly fine since the man that destroyed my life. That my ‘job’ is awesome and my ‘friends’ have all been so helpful these past few months. I can’t wait!

Suddenly, I hear shuffling outside my apartment. I stop brushing my hair to listen. Nothing. Then the sound of footsteps receding. I rush to the door hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious ambler. I open it quickly but see no one, except a large shadow fading down the dark stairwell. Who was that? Maybe some lost person, or a loiterer. One never really knows in this town. So I dismiss it. I am, in any case, running late. And won’t catch the next bus out of town at this pace. As I move back to close the door, I feel something coarse beneath my foot so I bend to inspect it. A small black jewelry case with dozens of glittering gems at the top. The kind used for an engagement proposal. Pompous, pretentious. I open the case, already curious to see what’s inside. A pendant in the shape of an eye lies on a black velvet cloth. Suddenly, my vision is blurred and I can’t seem to carry my own weight. I recognize the pendant. It’s the same one he gave me a year ago when he said I would be his forever. That he would always be where I was, watching. Like the eye on the pendant that watches me at this moment. The voices around me distort into hellish drones. I can’t believe he found me. I can’t believe I let myself think I was safe.

I lock and bolt the door shut, windows too. What else could I do? He knows my every move, he knows how to get to me and destroy me from the inside out. I can't even think of anything else other than to snivel while curled up in a ball on my carpet. That’s how much he has me twirled around his pinky. And he knows it all too well. What does he plan to do with me? Do I report him to the cops? And tell them what? That I found a gift on my doorstep on Christmas eve?

I get up to look for my meds. They must be capable of easing my mind so I can think clearly. That’s when I see a note in the case, hidden underneath the necklace. It is written in cursive, “Hi there, darling…865 Palmview Street 10 PM.” I couldn’t hear myself breathing over the sound of my own thoughts. Thoughts pulsing in my exhausted mind. Telling me too many things at once, all with the same meaning…to end it once and for all. I would go to the address and kill him, the same way he killed my spirit. That way, I would be safe. And it would be true. I just need something crude. Like a knife or hammer. I think a crowbar is better. That way, it would seem like a spur-of-the-moment attack, unlike using a gun or a knife. That he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Nothing will be tied to me.

The janitor’s closet above my floor must have the very tools I need. So I take the stairs and make my way there, occasionally pretending to be on my phone whenever I pass by someone. I reach the tiny room and turn the doorknob, silently praying that it isn’t locked. It clicks open just as a crowd of drunk college kids enter the hallway. I cannot find the light switch in the closet. So I use my phone to rummage through the pile of clutter. My heart pounds in anxiety but this is the first time in a long while to feel an adrenalin rush of this sort, to feel this alive.

I hear someone fidgeting with the door knob from outside and I drop my phone. Picking it up, frantically, I spot a screwdriver from the messy pile of rags and mops. I quickly hide it under my sleeve before the door swings open and I am met with the most inquisitive eyes I have ever seen.

“What are you doing in there?” The janitor asks, empty bucket in hand.

“Uh…I was looking for…some bleach. Spilled some paint on my carpet…” I say, wanting to sound casual and hoping he’s buying it.

“Oh, I actually have some here. You can use the whole thing. They’re restocking soon enough.” He says ardently while reaching into the closet and handing me the bottle of bleach.

“Thank you! It’s just what I wanted,” I tell him, feigning enthusiasm.

“Of course, merry Christmas.” He says, reminding me that I was to go home before I found the gift. But this is more important. I need to finish what he started. Avenge myself as he will not stop until I am dead. That’s what he does. Gets under my skin and toys with my head even when he isn’t here. Oh, how I hate what he’s made me become. A hollow mind in a void body, scarred with past mistakes I always regret making.

It’s 9:55 PM and the cold, bleak wind forces me to sniffle a bit. So I adjust my scarf and hoodie to cover half of my face. This street is lonely. Too lonely, I feel like I’m being watched. Maybe it’s the pendant I put in my pocket. Judging my every move, listening to the cold air warning me against my impulsivity, my need to be mended. But none of that matters now. I am alive at this moment. I can feel the warm blood coursing through my hand, warming the tool that holds my happiness within it. And there’s the man who stole it, sitting on a lone bench in the dark, flowers in his hand. Does he really have the nerve to bring me flowers, thinking I’ll just forgive and forget? After everything he put me through?

I feel a pure rage well up inside me, making me glower coldly as I stealthily move toward him. I can see the headphones he has on his ears. With one swing, I jab the screwdriver in his throat and watch him slumping on the bench, his blood turning the pink roses to red.

The calm night becomes an echo of noises, invisible creatures cursing me from the shadows. Or just me cursing myself? I realize the magnitude of what I’ve done. I run. Maybe it’s just a bad dream. I will wake up from this, won’t I? I take the bottle of pills I stashed in my pocket together with the necklace. But they all spill on the road as I run from my mistakes. I arrive at my apartment, drenched in guilt. I wash my bloodied hands and…where is the screwdriver? I left it there. Stuck in his neck, suffocating the life out of him. No, nothing will lead them to me, right? Pills? They’ll believe it’s a drug deal gone wrong. Flowers? A not-so-bad disguise to hide the pills. Okay. I need to calm down. You are safe now. You are safe…I hear a knock on my door. I check the peephole and see my next-door neighbor on the other side. I put on a beanie to hide my messy hair and adjust my wet sleeves. Then I open it.

“Hi, sorry to bother you,” she says, apologetically. And I nod as I can’t seem to find my voice.

“I was wondering if you saw the jewelry box my boyfriend dropped this morning. He must have got the apartments confused again…Uh…are you okay?”

I think I lost my wings.

And what is a bird without wings,

A fairy without magic?

I have missed seeing the world from above,

Be the one that the rain touches first.

From a storm to mere stillness,

Have I become.

Is this how it feels like?

To be reminded how decrepit I am?

Powerless, disposable?

To not love the way I did,

Be loved the way they did?

Well, I wish I didn't love,

And I wish I wasn't loved,

Because then I wouldn't have lost my wings,

As you never lose what you never had.

Hence the silence, the shut-in.

Drugs that never seem to heal,

Never seem to find my lost wings.

And the hero that told me it would be fine,

Be the best you can be,

You are stronger than you think,

Is now buried somewhere,

Muted by the villain that reminds me,

Of my lost wings, a broken record,

That keeps playing, over, and over, and over.

And so I am left alone.

Oh how I wish to find my wings again.

’Tonight is perfect'. She says to no one. Sapphire moonlight seeps through the thin clouds high above a wife’s head. The wind breezes by slowly, warm and feathery, yet her body shivers. She checks her phone but sees nothing and for a moment, the water in her eyes distorts the city’s view. Her mind goes back to the days when they were in love. How they wrote each other’s names on the beach, shared secrets they promised to never tell, woke up only to sleep next to each other again. He loved her to the stars and back, and she loved him more. That’s what they whispered to each other’s ears and they meant every breath of it. She remembers building their first cot in their new house. Their baby would be the icing on the cake. Perfect meets perfect. A story befitting a happily-ever-after ending. Only it turns out, the child wasn’t his. And the fairytale was only that. A fairytale. Crafted finely in the hands of a wife whose sin was to forget their shared love. A sin that made mankind the original deviant. A sin that makes her stand on this ledge tonight, needing to end it all, wishing against all hope that her husband will text her back, tell her he loves her and forgives her fall from grace. But nothing comes. And she jumps.

Two three thousand miles away, husband sits in a restaurant staring at his phone. He lacks an answer to his wife’s sorry texts. What should he do? Lie that he forgave and forgot? He is certainly no liar to that degree. He quickly switches off his phone when his mistress walks in, wearing a red dress that gorgeously flatters her perfect figure. He leans in for a kiss and before that, she whispers in his ear what she always tells him. ‘Tonight is perfect.’

She feels an inadequacy too real to fathom. One that only comes with age. The wrinkles on her face tell her tale. And the grays on her hair are only a piece of what she has lived. But they will also speak of her death, soon enough. And she is scared too much by it. What if she never meets her love again in the heaven he went to? She is afraid he has forgotten her face, her ageless love for him.

She has a cornhusk doll that reminds her of him. The hairs on its head are the ones she salvaged from his charred remains when he was burnt at the stake. When the rain from sobbing clouds sizzled his melting flesh. They said it was because he was a wizard. But it was she that worshipped at the feet of witches and sacrificed in their shrines at black masses. A measly fascination that was, so many years ago. But now, it is the source of her power. A lovely gift that poisons those that once killed her heart so their hearts can die just as fairly.

She hears him speak from the innards of her cottage, where she keeps the skeletons of her foes, foes that have wandered too far into her forest, that have chosen to disturb her quiet. She lays out these sweet wafers for the children, the hearts of the foes, to stumble upon. A tasty bane to ease her old suffering. She cannot remember how many skulls she has in her home now. She is too old to remember. She hears his faint echoes dancing between the dank walls in the night. And these keep her awake because she is unsure of the voices. It might be him. And it might be the voices of the children that lay dead in the catacombs beneath her house that she never visits anymore.

One night, however, she is sure. She hears the faint whisper of words she silently prayed to hear, “Don’t forget me.” She stops kneading the tough dough and keenly listens. Only silence.

“Don’t forget me,” whispers the voice again.

“Hansel?” She calls out. He doesn’t answer. “Hansel, I still remember you, darling…I wish to see you again…”

“But I have no body.” He says from the dark stillness.

“I will find you a body…tomorrow, my love. I will find you a body, and me too. We shall be together, again.” Her voice croaks as she says this. She wishes for his dear affirmation but none comes. So she continues kneading the dough for tomorrow’s wafers. A bit of salt, a bit of flour and milk, and a surfeit of sugar. The children always like the sugar. But don’t taste it, or you’ll lose the last of your teeth. Then the mortal ingredient in this jar labeled, ‘Little Dead’. A patient venom that will delay death only for a little while. This will bring Hansel back to her, and her to him. Tomorrow. She just needs the bodies of a girl and a boy. Those will be the last ingredients.

She lays some wafers further away from her cottage and closer to a spring with flowers that are likely to be picked up tomorrow, before the sun’s pallid rays have faded. Some, she lays close to her cottage, where the curious children always come looking for scary stories to tell their friends. That way, tomorrow she is certain she will have a girl and a boy.

The morning of tomorrow is beautiful. Thorny roses have bloomed along the clear spring and a small girl comes waddling in, basket in hand. She wants only the best roses, those undisturbed by pesky critters. And here they are, needing to be plucked. She baskets them one by one by one and when it is almost full, she is distracted by something. She sees a small purple circle on the green grass. What might that be? She inches closer. Mmmh, smells lovely. She picks it up, meticulously studying it. Crumby, sugary, soft, warm. Fresh. Maybe someone just carelessly dropped it. She hasn’t had breakfast yet. She’s hungry and it smells heavenly. Better than anything she smelled before. She puts it close to her lips, savoring every sniff and opens her mouth to scratch the itch. Oh, how satisfying it would feel.

Then the church bell tolls. She must be late. The wafer is still in her hand and she thinks to save it for later when she has no hurry.

“Hello, child.” A gravelly voice says. “...I hear the purple ones have the best flavor.” The witch appears from behind the shadowy covert, signaling to the wafer the girl has hidden beneath her basket.

“Really?” The girl asks, unfrightened by the woman’s vile air.

“Yes, just one bite, and you’ll see…just one bite.” She says, eyes dilated with expectation.

The girl uncovers the wafer and devours it, sighing in contentment.

“Isn’t it just how I told you?” Says the witch, in wicked suspense.

“Yes, a bit too…sweet…” The girl says in a slur. She is fading, her legs now like straws. The witch is slowly moving toward her, saying things that the girl can’t quite hear. All she hears is, “Hush…hush, it will…over…soon.” Then silence.

Now all she needs is a boy for her Hansel. There must be one a little dead close to her cottage. So she must will her legs to move fast, or else the venom will get a tad bit impatient. She is getting closer to home, girl sleeping on her back. She sees an outline of someone choking on something. ‘Must be my lucky day!’ She thinks to herself. The boy sees her and rushes toward her, holding his neck and begging for help in between labored breaths. He is slightly bigger and older than the girl.

“Oh, what is the matter, child? Come inside, I’ll make you all better,” she says, opening her door and pulling his hand gently toward her.

Both children lie on a bed surrounded by bloody carcasses and blinking candles. Underneath them is the outline of a sigil with symbols drawn in coal, now fading. The cornhusk doll sits on an old rocking chair, needles pinned onto it to keep it upright. But the witch’s only focus is to bring back Hansel. She recites infernal texts from a book whose pages have been read so much that they are hanging by a thread. Her incantations are an echo of powerful words, emotion. They are her passion and her life.

“Hansel, Hansel, my long lost wanderer, take this body as your own. Let it be your flesh and bone!” She urges in finality and slits her palm to let the dark blood spill into a bowl fashioned from a skull. The boy is stirring. It must be Hansel claiming his new home. The witch is thrilled. Finally. Finally, she recovers what she so unjustly lost. She always knew this day would come.

He sits up straight, eyes gazing ahead as if in a trance. “Hansel, is that you?” She asks.

“Hansel…” she calls again but he only shifts his gaze, looking at her. The girl starts stirring. She is supposed to have breathed her last by now, but here she is, tossing, turning. Maybe the magic isn’t working anymore. But why at this dire time? There must be something she did wrong. Is it the poison? It must be the poison. She frantically flips the pages of her book. Maybe she read the wrong text, said the wrong words. But she would never err as such.

As she erratically fumbles through the book, she feels something painful tear into her skin. She feels the warmth of her blood dripping down to her feet, the blade only going deeper into her flesh until it touches bone and crunches. She turns around and sees the boy holding the knife and staring a deathly stare into her eyes. She wants to curse but her voice is choked by the blood that bubbles in her mouth with every dying breath. The witch falls onto the moist earth, a few moments passing before she is as still as the carcasses.

The boy picks the girl up and carries her outside. He carries her for a while before she awakens. “Where are we?” She asks, sleepily.

“You’re alive, Gretel, and we’re going home.” He says, reassuringly. Gretel doesn’t remember this stranger’s name. But she knows him from some place.

“Who are you?” She plainly asks.

“You don’t remember? We’ve been together since we died. My name is Hansel, silly.”

Hers is a helpless cry,

Tears only she sheds,

From confidant to spy,

Her piece of heaven she transcends.

Taken by evil,

Her kin grows feeble,

All a taint in perfection,

But the killer draws no attention.

A devil basking in pride,

An angel wishing to guide,

Her saviors to redemption,

And she to retribution.

Hers is a journey cut short,

One that only yet begins,

Guilty end for one who sins,

A trial that ends not in court,

But in a heaven she molds.