Some years back I walked into a job interview at the St. Petersburg Times with a big booger dangling from my nose. I did not get the job.

Those born of sophistication may not realize that a booger is really just a piece of dried nasal mucus—or, to put it indelicately, dehydrated snot.

Despite its disgusting reputation and ooey-gooey appearance, snot’s not a bad thing. According to Michael M. Johns III, MD, an ear, nose, and throat specialist, "Mucus (a.k.a. snot) is incredibly important for our bodies. It is the oil in the engine. Without mucus, the engine seizes."

WebMD says our bodies are mucus-making machines that churn out about a liter of the slimy, yellow-green goop daily, adding that mucus “acts as a sort of flypaper, trapping unwanted substances like bacteria and dust before they can get into the body.”

While I’m pleased that my mucus-maker is morbidly functional and helps protect me from bacteria and viruses, I wish it had an alarm mechanism that would alert me to low-hanging boogers and other potentially repulsive excretions.

I found out about my nasty nose-fruit when I went into the restroom following the interview in St. Pete. One look in the mirror, and I knew the job was gone, along with my reputation.

Why didn’t the person interviewing me mention the booger? I’ll never know. One thing I learned from that embarrassing episode is that snot is not funny—unless, of course, it’s swinging from somebody else's nostril. Then I'd probably laugh like a maniac.

SOURCE: https://www.webmd.com/allergies/features/the-truth-about-mucus#1

Los Angeles 1961

     Turning into the dealership's driveway, George jumped off his bike pushing it rather than placing it against the wall. His anger with Sam Locke continued to gnaw away at his young mind. When he was nervous or agitated, George habitually glided his hands into his pockets and balled them into fists. However, today there was something else inside of him, a corrosive malevolence.

     Approaching the building, he noticed his father speaking to David Locke, Sam's dad and the owner of Lock Ford. About to walk inside the showroom George heard an annoyance in David Locke's voice, and stepped off to the side out of view and listened. “

     "Blurth I’m not taking this contract. It’s not a good deal, either get more money or forget it.”

     “Mr. Locke, we sold the same models last weekend for less money, this is a reasonable contract.”

     “Are you telling me my business Blurth?”

     "No Mr. Locke, I’m...”

     “You're what Blurth? Is that what you’re doing now, you believe you can manage this place? You guys are all the same.”

     “That’s not what I’m claiming Mr. Locke, it’s just that...”

     “I’m not interested in excuses, I don’t want the deal,” Locke said slapping the papers out of Mark's hand.

     The owner marched away leaving George's dad paralyzed in the center of the showroom staring down at the scattered papers.

     Emotionally gutted, the thirteen-year-old boy stood by the doorway. It felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach and all of the air inside his body was escaping. He desperately wanted to make sense out of the spectacle between his father and Locke. Yet, instead of screaming, a growing rage began to set his body on fire. It became clear to him the Locke's were terrible people, but something else troubled George. A more revolting picture resonated deeper inside his head.

     Down on his hands and knees, Mark Blurth began collecting the papers off the showroom floor while the other salesmen stood to the side snickering. It was obvious to George that he and his father were also terrible people, weak and easily bullied. Upset with the quarrel between David and Mark, the young couple who had signed the contract stepped around George's father and slipped out of the showroom.

     The afternoon began to chill and dampness engulfed the air as a line of dark clouds appeared in the sky. Rain was approaching but George ignored the cold. Inside his body, another disturbance was mounting. Attempts at pressing back tears failed as they streamed down his cheeks unchecked.

     Manny, one of the dealership's mechanics wearing blue coveralls stepped out from the service area and observed the young boy leaning against the wall.

     "Hey kid, are you okay?"

     Without responding, George turned and ran to his bike. Mark while gathering the scattered papers glanced up and saw his son climb onto his three-speed and a pain tore through his flesh and bones squeezing his heart. He had hoped George had not seen the disgraceful incident but knew his boy witnessed everything. He watched his son pedal away and fiercely twisted the stack of papers in his hands. Mark wanted to cry out to his son and say he was sorry.

     George was confused. Never had his brain experienced so many conflicting thoughts and feelings. Anger, retaliation, pain, hurt, sadness all came crashing down around him like opposing armies converging on a battlefield. He wanted to disappear and simultaneously lash out at the world.

     He pedaled as fast as he could on the busy chaotic streets darting carelessly around onrushing traffic paying no attention to the blaring horns or screaming drivers. When he turned the corner on the street where he lived George saw Angelina Capelli, an acquaintance, but deliberately avoided her. She was a fifteen-year-old girl, with flaming red hair and the hourglass figure of a woman. She called out to him, but he didn't react. She called out again, this time George stopped.

     "What's wrong George, why didn't you stop?"

     "I didn't hear you."

     "You biked right past me you heard me. Have you been crying?"

     "No."

     "Then what's wrong?"

     "Nothing, I don't want to talk about it."

     "Why?"

     "Because I don't that's why."

     "Maybe I can help.”

     "What could you do?"

     "You never know, people talk to me."

     At first, he was hesitant, but after more coaxing began talking to Angelina. She had a way about her. He told her about the conflict at school with Sam Locke but never discussed his father and David Locke. That pain he kept to himself.

     "I wish I could kill that guy.

     He paced with his fists hidden in his pockets and talked about killing the older boy without realizing the consequences.

     "I want to pay Sam back."

     George slammed his hand against the wall, startling Angelina. Quietly she listened to his ramblings. She was good at it. Numerous times Angelina stood and listened to men young and old and their long-winded mumblings. Too often, they wanted more than just conversation.

     “George, have you ever had a girlfriend?”

     “What--, of course not.”

     “Have you ever kissed a girl?”

     “No.”

     “I’m thirsty. I’m going inside to get something to drink, come with me. I’ve got Coca-Cola; would you like one?”

     Ignoring Angelina his mind was elsewhere.

     "Well George, do you want a Coke?"

     “Yeah, I guess so.”

     Taking his hand, Angelina led George into the apartment where she lived with her mother. It was larger than most places in the area, including where George and his father lived. He followed her into the kitchen and stood by the sink, which was overflowing with soiled dishes from several previous meals. Glancing at the kitchen table, there was a half-open box of Cheerios lying on its side along with a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of Weber's bread. Angelina disregarded the mess and kicked the refrigerator door closed. She turned towards her friend holding two bottles of Coke and began toying with the younger boy.

     “Would you like one of these?”

     George not paying attention to Angelina's playfulness kept perusing the room.

     "George, would you like one of these?"

     “Oh, yes.”

     As he reached for the bottle Angelina pulled away.

     "Hey."

     “First George kiss me.”

     “What, stop fooling around let me have a Coke.”

     He lurched forward and gripped hold of one bottle, but the young temptress held it tight and pulled George closer placing her tender lips on his. He tried pulling away but Angelina wrapped her arm around his waist holding him close. When she let go George jumped backward.

     "Why did you do that, don't!"

     “Oh that wasn’t so bad was it George? Now you’ve kissed a girl.”

     “I suppose so, but still.”

     “George kiss me and you can have the Coke. Come here and kiss me. You know you liked it.”

     “I don’t want to, stop.”

     Nervously he made two fists.

     “George I’m not going to be the only girl you'll ever kiss so come here now.”

     Reluctantly George obeyed and moved closer.

     “Okay, now kiss me.”

     With eyes wide open George awkwardly pressed his lips together as Angelina placed her mouth against his. She put the Coke bottles down and resumed kissing the inexperienced boy, pressing her body hard against his until he was pinned up against the wall. Suddenly, Angelina reached down and began unbuttoning George’s jeans.

     "Stop that," he said. He pulled her hand but she slapped it away.

     “Don’t worry George you will love this, all the boys do.”

     He tried pushing Angelina away again, but she was stronger and had him pinned.

     “Stop, don’t touch me.”

     “Stop it, Georgy, you’ll like what I do, I promise.”

    Angelina's mouth muffled his sounds of anguish as she stuck her hand inside George’s jeans. In a surge of strength, he pushed Angelina away and ran out of the kitchen through the living room, and out the front door. Behind him, George heard Angelina laughing. When he jumped off the front stairs he fell and rolled down to the sidewalk.

    As he stood, a sharp pain shot through his right leg. He had sprained his ankle, but the anger and humiliation were stronger than the throbbing leg. George hobbled to his bike and swung his injured leg over the seat, then peddled slowly down the street.

Angelina stood by the open window and shouted, “You’ll be back Georgy once you find out what you missed. Until then, it’s our secret."

     Limping painfully up the stairs to his apartment, he unlocked the front door and saw Mark sitting at their temporary dining table intoxicated, nursing a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

     “George, where have you been?”

     “Leave me alone.”

     “Come here I want to talk.”

     “I don’t want to talk to you. He pushed you around and you let him. We're weak, I hate you, and I hate them.”

     “Don’t say that. You don’t understand George."

     "I do understand. I hate you."

     "Stop it; you doonnn, don't hate me. It’s hard to explain. I--I’m sorry you saw what happened,” said Mark, fragile and drunk.

     “You love that bottle. Shut-up, I hate you.”

     George hobbled down the hall to his bedroom and slammed the door shut. The last shards of daylight died on the windowsill and conceded to nightfall as he cried into his pillow. Today was the worst day of George's young life. Tightness engulfed his chest as the memory of the school incident echoed.

     Struggling for solace, he wrapped his arms around his midsection. Tormented and suffering, he paid no attention as his fingers crawled up his body like tarantulas wrapping themselves around his neck. Slowly they began crushing his windpipe. He gasped but oxygen was a phantom. George screamed but there was no sound and just before he blacked out his fingers relaxed.

    Anger replaced anxiety. The faces of Sam and David Locke popped like strobe lights in his head. Hatred snaked through his body causing him to squeeze his two fists until his fingernails broke the skin in his palms.

     His head began to throb and with each beat, his ankle and head pounded mercilessly. Rocking from side to side George tried to make the razor sharp pain go away. The abusive incidents in the school hallway and automobile showroom replayed repeatedly in his mind. He thought covering his face would free him but each scene increased with emotion. His humiliation festered.

     Inescapable images of George and his father on their hands and knees with people standing over them laughing, pointing, and prodding. Mysteriously George stopped moving and the visions began dissolving. Like a new chapter in a book, the thoughts in his head changed.

     He opened his eyes and stared at the unlit ceiling. His mind zeroed in on a black spot near the light fixture and as he focused, his facial expression began to change. Revenge had taken up residence in his head.

     "I hate them; I hate them," he mumbled the words repeatedly.

     In the mind of a thirteen-year-old, revenge was a fight in the schoolyard beating up the bully. George's mind was not that of a thirteen-year-old, and he was not interested in a schoolyard fight.

     Reaching over he turned on the small lamp next to his bed. His eyes wandered around the bedroom and stopped at the box full of chess pieces on top of the folded board. At first, he gave it no thought then realized to satisfy his revenge required a strategy. The game of chess was to think several moves in advance of your adversary.

     "Anticipate your enemy's moves before they know their moves."

     Still lying down George fell into a hypnotic trance as his eyes closed. He dreamt he was standing over two people kicking them and hitting them with a long stick. Tied down and powerless they both screamed in agony but neither escaped the beating. Unmoved by their pleas for mercy George was punishing Sam and David Locke.

Mamahen was Yushomoto’s prized possession ever since he had moved to India. Being a Japanese, Yushomoto was extremely fond of well-cooked ramen noodles. Yushomoto himself was a part-time sous-chef in his mother’s kitchen in Japan. He knew several mouth-watering recipes of ramen noodles.

Hen comes home

It was on a bright sunny morning of early April when Yushomoto was walking down the lush Arunachal valley that his attention was drawn towards sounds of commotion. They were the joyous noises of boys being hooligans and exulting at the pain of a poor hen, with a trail of firecrackers attached to its feet.

Yushomoto was a compassionate human being who found the sight utterly disgusting. He quickly shooed away the boys, and then, with the help of his pocket knife, carefully removed the firecracker trail. The distressed hen was completely confused of its whereabouts and just ran into the squatting Yushomoto, who was carefully observing her.

Yushomoto looked nearby to see if there were any claimants of the hen. When he found none, he picked the hen in his arms and walked up the valley to his home. Yushomoto was a timber merchant and had a nice big place he called home. He had constructed the house using wood as the chief material and concrete was only sparsely used. He had a beautiful front garden as well as a plush backyard. He lived there alone. But this was going to change, now.

A name means everything

On reaching home, he decided to name the hen. He called her Mamahen. 

The story behind the name was poignant. Yushomoto had lived all his life with his mother, a single parent. She was a tough task-master and provided for their living by selling ramen noodles in various flavors to the local working classes. He learned his discipline and her recipes, both, in her kitchen.

But just like other mothers, Yushomoto’s mother was equally loving and caring. She stayed up nights when he fell sick with jaundice. He hardly saw her sleep those days. His slightest needs were met even at midnight without as much as a grumble. When he recovered, he had to toil hard like always; and to that, she allowed no excuses. She was his role model.

In her last days, Yushomoto’s mother had grown frail but her spirit was still steel. She did not suffer any specific diseases but the battering of life had weakened her. The three main teachings she gave Yushomoto were a disciplined life, honesty towards work and people, and compassion towards humans, animals and plants.

After his mother passed away, Yushomoto was alone. He had learned the workings of the timber business from one of his uncles. From his mother’s kitchen, there was a huge amount of savings. When he heard of a good timber business opportunity in Arunachal, he shut down the kitchen in Japan and moved there. His mother was his sole companion throughout life and thus, he missed her every day of his life. Not anymore. In Mamahen, he sought his mother; and this, was his own little secret.

Getting to know each other

He carefully constructed a spacious pen, for Mamahen, in the backyard. Mamahen was also slowly developing a fondness for Yushomoto. When he was not at the timber factory, he was busy having fun with Mamahen in the backyard or having silent chats with her inside the house. Yes, Mamahen was allowed inside the house when he was home.

Once, during one of the quiet chats while sitting on the floor, Yushomoto was fondly telling stories about his mother to Mamahen. She was looking at him intently and responding with prompt intermittent clucking. In between, she would also keep looking for any stray insects on the floor whom she could convert into a nice warm meal. But the house was clean and so, she had no luck.

Suddenly, even Yushomoto felt hungry. So, he got up and went to the kitchen. Mamahen sauntered behind him; knowing nothing better. She thought she might find some stray insect in the kitchen. But the kitchen was clean too. So she kept pacing the kitchen and clucking intermittently while Yushomoto told her the ramen recipe of the day.

Sharing the meal!

Piping hot ramen noodles with a savory aroma were ready in no time. Mamahen was lurking nearby, unaffected, despite an acute sense of smell. Perhaps, the search for an ill-fated earthworm, or any other stray insect, which she could convert into warm food for herself, demanded greater attention.

Yushomoto sat down at the low-height dinner table and began savoring the tasty meal. Suddenly, he started missing his mother who would often sit across him while they both had dinner. He wanted to share the meal with someone. Just then, it struck him that he could share it with Mamahen! So, he picked a long noodle strand with his chopsticks, kept a saucer on the floor, and placed the noodle on it. After that, he called out to Mamahen.

Mamahen was still busy looking for food when her attention was caught by the saucer and something on it that looked like an earthworm. Her irises expanded, she quickened her pace, and reached out for food! She pecked at it till she thought it was dead. Then, she ate it, piece by piece, with the flair of a conquering knight.

Yushomoto was amused and thrilled at the sight. Never before had he thought that a single strand of noodle could be a reason for so much pride for someone. He felt a filial bond forming between the two of them.

After finishing her noodle, Mamahen looked at Yushomoto with a slight tilt of her neck. Her eyes intense with expression. At that moment, Yushomoto knew that they had formed a close bond. He decided to not just treat Mamahen with ramen noodles every time he made them from then on but to spend more time with her.

©nehasri/Neha Srivastava

~This story was written earlier for a contest on another writing platform. Even though the story got a lot of attention and good comments, it did not place. Since it's a piece from the heart for children, I thought this is a good place to submit.

You, eleven years old and 5 foot four with two cornrows, thick as the grandma's hands that greased them down, nice and neat felt line up to go back to classes when samuel snyder taps you on the shoulder, not to tell you how pretty you hair is, but to point at a darkened circle that has grown the size of a softball on your butt. He laughs and yells that you've peed yourself. And you think that you actually might have peed yourself. You tell everybody that asks, that asks by asking, that asks by staring ,that you sat in a puddle. You think people believe you. The nurse does not. She hands you underwear with loose elastic band left behind from one year and baggy jean pants. She sends you back to class. The teacher notices your change and asks.. You tell her that you sat in a puddle and that makes everyone laugh. You didn't mean to be funny, but you'll take it. Your table partner thinks you smell funny, she scoots far to the left and whispers to another kid. Your stomach feels large, but you aren't pregnant. You know that babies don't get pregnant, even though you aren't a baby. Your large stomach gurgles and you tell everyone that asks by asking and everyone that asks by staring that you skipped lunch. You pretend not to hear it when someone wonder aloud how someone can be so fat is they skip lunch.

At home the people are sympathetic, but they do not waste time. They hand you a pad, and you think about stickers. You think pads are supposed to stick to people. The pad sticks to you and you panic. You are alone now, squatting over a toilet, with a very sticky sticker, attached to your privates. You try to pull it off, quickly, like a band-aid, but too many hairs are involved. You cry a little bit, but you aren't pregnant. Inch by inch, the pad is peeled off. You throw it away. It is a defective pad. You decide not to use them. You spend two hours in the shower, trying to get clean. Your sister tells you that she thinks you were masturbating, but you don't really know what that is. You look it up later on the computer and delete your entire internet history.

Tomorrow will be Saturday and you will spend most of the time lying down and clutching your stomach. You will be surprised at the blood on every trip to the bathroom. You will be surprised with blood on every awakening. Every night before bed will be a guessing game until you decide to wear layer upon layer of underwear, leggings and socks. You wear socks because you think of them as blood caps. When the white sheets remain white the next morning, you will have convinced yourself of your idea. You will share with your sister and she will call you stupid.

You will share with your mom and she will tell you that you smell.

Her lips were dry. The bottom lip was cracked near the corner and I could see a little blood dried there.

“You should drink some water,” I said.

“You should mind your business,” she said.

Still, I got her a glass of water while she shuffled her things from the doorway to the living room. She didn’t have much. She never did like to keep things. “Sit down,” I told her, and she did. I handed her the water. “Room temperature,” I said and she nodded.

“Howard put ice in it all the time.”

“Well, I know how you like it,” I said.

She nodded again and I took her hand. We both knew it was time. Her house was falling down around her ears. Every week when we met for lunch she’d have a new story to tell, about the lawn that was infested with moles– “more holes than earth,” she’d said. Or the awnings– “front bedroom fell off and almost killed the postman,” she’d said. The ice dam was the final straw. Spring came fast, like overnight, and Mary woke up to birds singing and a steady drip of water on her face. Howard probably never cleaned out those gutters, probably not even once.

“Drink your water,” I told her and she did it. Mary had been down like this for a year, ever since Howard died. I never did like that man. He was too handsome and too witty and too unemployed. I never liked him and I told Mary that every single time she had a complaint. I was surprised she trusted me with complaints after all the times I said I didn’t like him, but she persisted. She never defended him to me, but she loved him, I could see it in her eyes when he walked into the room. They were married just about twenty years before he drove his car into that tree on Route 7.

Mary and I drove out there a few weeks after the crash. She said she just wanted to see where it happened. I told her that I thought it was just torturing herself but I drove her out there anyway. Howard had wrecked the only car they had in that crash. The whole of Route 7 was flat and full of farmland. I turned on the radio on the way there. Sometimes driving along on those flat roads was hypnotic and I’d fall into an old car game to keep myself awake, just reciting what I saw over and over: rock, corn, trench, telephone pole, like a catalog of seeing. It drove Mary crazy as it had ever since we were children. My father used to say that I had a one track mind but I saw it more as a means of time keeping. I marked the time by the sun, the road traveled, the song on the radio.

When we drove out past McCauley’s farm to see where Howard died I held my tongue. Mary was already down. She’d been down since even before it happened so I kept my cataloging to myself and we listened to Top 40 radio to pass the time. Now and then, I would look over at her to make sure she was all right. Mary was usually the upbeat one, and the skinny one too. We were fraternal twins and though we looked like sisters, certainly, we did not look as though we shared a womb. I cannot count the times we told someone we were twins only to have them say, “Are you sure?” In truth, I looked like our father and Mary looked a carbon copy of our mother. She got the curly auburn hair and svelte figure. I got the stout body of my father’s German ancestors, basic brown hair, and milk-pale skin. I could say that I didn’t resent her good looks but that would be a lie. I did resent it while we were in High School but not after.

Mary said she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to find the exact spot when we got there. We had a mile marker to go by and we knew it was by McCauley’s place. Tom McCauley was the one who called the paramedics. He heard the crash from his farmhouse. At first, he figured it was kids out racing on the usually abandoned road. Since the interstate went in nobody drove the backroads anymore. Howard drove them because he said it relaxed him but I think it was because he’d been picked on the Interstate for speeding. He might have gotten his license taken away if the officer had given him a breathalyzer but Howard was good about hiding his drinking. The day he got the speeding ticket he was three sheets to the wind. He laughed and told the story about getting out of that “mess” every time I saw him. So, he was driving the back roads around dinner time to get to a “job interview” according to Mary. Most everyone else knew he was headed to the Off Track Betting station on the other side of Brownsville.

We were still a ways off when we saw the crash site. The tire marks were still clear, black rubber streaks that began straight and then curled around like a flourish on a signature, a looping “O” connected to a sullen “L.” Mary saw it the moment I did. The tree was just past the skid marks. There was a scatter of broken glass on the road nearby, twisted pieces of metal and a blackened bite taken from the trunk of the oak itself. We knew the car caught fire. I saw it when Ben went to the impound lot. Mary asked him to go after the insurance company told her they were releasing the title to the junk yard. It was beyond repair, obviously, but Mary wanted Ben to see if there was anything left inside. I don’t know what she was looking for. I don’t think she knew what she was looking for. Ben told us that he didn’t find anything. I always wondered if that were entirely true or if he was trying to spare her some further injury.

It was Tom McCauley that got the fire out. He worked on tractors in the barn on his property. When he heard the crash he went right out to see what happened, saw the flames and got the extinguisher for the fire. He caught that in good time, saving the tree at least, but Howard was already gone. This is back before anyone had airbags and before people wore their seatbelt as a matter of course. Howard hit hard enough to propel him from his seat, through the window, past the tree itself and into a nearby stand of corn. By the time Tom got the fire out and found Howard, it was too late. He called the ambulance and the sheriff and the sheriff called Mary with the news.

I parked on the side of the road as close as I could to the field where the tree stood, but not too close. The drainage ditch kept us from it. Howard must have jumped the ditch and flown straight into the oak. As much as we all puzzled over it, we could not determine just how that might have happened. It was not until that moment that I realized why Tom McCauley and the sheriff were so wondrous about the whole thing. It was a sight to see. The tree would survive. It was already starting to bud up for spring that day, wearing the scar like a badge of honor in the fallow corn field. Loose stalks still stood in lonely patches nearby.

As I was about to make a funny comment about the tree and the corn stalks I looked to Mary. Her hands were on her cheeks. Her face seemed to age far beyond our years. She rubbed the tears into her skin as they fell from her eyes. I put my arms around her shoulders. She felt fragile. I was afraid to hug too tight for fear that she might break apart into dust. After a few minutes, she asked to leave and so, we did.

Now, as she sat in my living room drinking water from the metal cups that belonged to our mother years earlier, we were a pair of widows. I sat on the couch next to her. I held her hand and when she placed her cup back on the table, she took up my other hand and kissed it. She scooted closer to me and we put our heads together. She sighed, “What’s to be done about us?” and I said, “Yes, the widow-y Walton twins.” We sat like that for what felt like forever.

      At first light, Lou watched the girl with the bushy blonde hair sleeping next to him. A tiny thing, she snored lightly, her pink lips parted, and jerked as if caught in a bad dream. She opened her eyes and started; with her dark eye makeup smudged, she resembled a frightened raccoon. Lou realized she was holding her breath.

     “It’s okay. You’re all right,” he reassured her. He got up and walked two yards to the kitchen table and lit up a Marlboro. The cramped apartment reeked of stale tobacco, cooking grease and human sweat. He looked over and saw her eyes flick to his now flaccid penis and quickly back up to his face.

     “Want one?” he offered. She nodded and sat up holding the threadbare blanket to her chest covering her small breasts. He handed her a lit cigarette along with a giant clamshell he used as an ashtray.

     “It’s okay to look. I mean, it doesn’t bother me or anything.”

     The girl hitched the blanket an inch higher and kept her eyes on the filthy window beside the sofa bed.

     “You okay?” Lou asked.

     “Yeah.” They smoked in silence and she spoke again almost whispering. “Is there someplace I can wash?”

     “Uh, yeah. There’s a shower in the bathroom.” Lou got her a bath towel from a rickety dresser and took out a second one for himself. Good thing he had two. After half a minute he realized she was waiting for him to turn away. Initially surprised, he remembered that it was her first time. He turned away, listening to her make the floor under the worn linoleum creak. 

       The water heater clanged to life while Lou made up the sofa bed without closing it. Maybe they weren't done yet, and he had been paid. He smoked another cigarette awaiting his turn and cracked the window, knocking hardened snow off the ledge. The girl came out in a cloud of steam, wrapped in the towel. Lou slid past her hoping there was hot water left. She’d been in there a while.

       The water went cold seconds into his shower; he lathered and rinsed quickly. His ash-blond hair was plastered to his face and neck. He combed it back shaking the cold drops of water from his shoulders. Back in the main room, he dressed in a clean tee shirt and yesterday's jeans and lit up again. He motioned to the girl to take one. She had dressed in the black clothes she had come with: mid-calf leggings under a flounced skirt, a cropped top  showing her goose-fleshed midriff, fingerless driving gloves, Martens laced at the ankle.

     “I have a shirt you could wear over that.”

     “Okay,” she said. Her hair was no longer bushy, but a cap of yellow curls framing her delicate features. The stub between her lips looked out of place.

     “You look prettier without all that gunk on your face.”

     “It was just for…well, last night.”

     “Glad I got to see the real you. What’s your name?”

     The girl hesitated as if just realizing she’d washed off her disguise. She shrugged, as if to herself, and took a drag. “Laura.”

     “Well, hello, Laura, I’m Lou.”

     A forced laugh erupted from her mouth. “This is all very silly, isn’t it?”

     Lou laughed with her, more to accompany her mood than out of agreement. The situation wasn’t silly. It was fucking strange.

     “I don’t have much food in the house but I could take take you out for breakfast if you want. I mean, I have some cash,” Lou looked over at his jean jacket where the money Laura´s friends had given him made a bulge in the pocket.

     “Um, sure, okay.”

     He took her to Marny’s which never closed. At this early hour the dealers and hookers that frequented the greasy spoon were home, sleeping off Saturday night. A fat black waitress who looked like she could have been serving at Marny’s since the seventies shuffled over to their table in her sensible shoes and waited.

     “I’ll just have a bagel and some coffee,” Laura said, handing her the sticky laminated menu. She tried to wipe her hand on her paper napkin and succeeded in tearing it as it stuck to her hand.

     “I’ll have the same, and Jolee, could you make a couple more of those to go?” asked Lou.

     “Sure, sugar. What’ll ya have on ’em?” Jolee looked Laura over with bulging eyes.

     “Cream cheese?”

     “Same for me,” said Lou.

     After breakfast, they returned to the apartment. The morning was sunny but cold. They sat at the kitchen table with the ashtray between them. Lou lit up. Laura declined.

     “So tell me about yourself.”

     “What do you mean?” her tone was guarded.

     “No, hey, I don’t want to make you nervous. I promise you have nothing to worry about from me. But you have to admit, this situation’s a little out of the ordinary, right?”

     “I suppose.”

     “I’m curious about what brought you here. You don’t have to tell me but I’ll bet I can guess a lot of it.”

     “You think so?” she challenged; even her curls shook in defiance.

     “Well, you obviously have money. No, don’t make that face. It’s not just the money your girls gave me last night. I mean, you speak like someone who’s been well educated. You’re dressed to look street smart but your clothes aren’t cheap. Leather jacket and boots, and your friends were wearing similar stuff last night. Not too common around here to see girls trying to look cheap in expensive clothes unless they’re hooking, which you’re not.”

     “We weren’t trying to look cheap, just…unrecognizable. In case someone we knew saw us.”

     “In this part of town?”

     “I know it’s unlikely, but it wasn’t like we came here to buy dope or something.”

     “No, you came to lose your virginity,” Maybe he shouldn’t have said that out loud. Laura looked at him squarely.

     “It was my choice.”

     “So why here? Why me? Not that I’m complaining, I can use the cash. But I’m not exactly, you know, in the profession. Besides, you have a lot going for you, Laura, if that’s your real name,” Lou ignored her accusing look. “My point is, you could get anybody to do what I did. Someone who could care about you. You're pretty enough.”

     “It was what I wanted, okay?”

     Laura’s defensiveness reminded him of his own rebellion in a past life. The argument he'd had with his father before he’d left. He said nothing.

     “Love is a stupid reason to wait for sex," she continued. "Nobody stays together anymore, and the last thing I want is for some pompous ass from the country club to be able to brag that he was the first and hold that over me for the rest of my life."

     So, Laura wasn't just well-off, Lou thought. She was a socialite. 

     "I’m the oldest virgin I know,” realization landed on her face like a veil. “I mean, I was. None of my friends are virgins, and not one of them is still with the first guy she was with. So I decided to stop being one as soon as I turned eighteen. It was my friends’ idea to give me this as a birthday present. But I was totally for it.”

     “So why me?” Lou considered himself a good judge of character and Laura had a streak of determination that belied her child-like face. It couldn’t have been easy to give herself to a complete stranger for her first time. Yet, though there had been some nervous moments, she had showed no fear during the night they had spent together. It had been quick, just like she'd asked for. And then she had rolled away from him lying quietly until sleep claimed her. Yet, for all her bravado, she was naïve about so much. It didn’t seem to occur to her that he could have raped or injured her, or that perhaps she shouldn’t trust someone who had taken her virtue for a sum. Still, she was here because her friends had bought her twelve hours of his time. Laura’s voice brought him back to the present moment. His nicotine stained fingers stubbed out the filter he held.

     “It was coincidence, really. We’d been to a few bars to find someone but I didn’t really see anyone I wanted to get close to. We were about to call the night a bust. We were all kind of drunk and one of my friends said, ‘Damn it, Laura, we’re stopping the next guy we see.’ We were cracking up about it when we saw you leave your building.”

     “I thought it was a hoax at first. Then I didn’t think you’d stay to see it through.”

     “Well, I’m glad it’s over and done with.”

     They sat quietly for a minute during which Lou felt an unexpected twinge of hurt at her words.

     “What’s the matter?” she asked. “You don’t have to worry about me, Lou. You didn’t hurt me or anything. We just made love, that’s all.”

     “Is that what you think making love is?” Lou got up and started pacing. Laura leaned away from him in her chair. He knew he had no right to judge her but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “Your folks must be worried. Or maybe not. God knows what you told them about where you are. Maybe you want to delude yourself into thinking what we did was make love but we didn’t. What we did was fuck, Laura.”

    “You don’t need to make is sound so crass.” Her voice hitched.

    “It was crass. We screwed like two dogs in heat and you paid me for it.” He pulled a bottle and two tumblers out of a kitchen cabinet, one glass, one plastic. After pouring a couple of fingers of amber liquid into each, he put the glass one in front of Laura. He was putting away the bottle when he heard her sob.

     “Hey, hey, baby, don’t cry, now,” Lou led her to the bed with her glass in hand. “I didn’t mean any of that. Look, don’t listen to me.” He put his arm around her as she wiped her eyes and nose on the long sleeve of his shirt which she was still wearing. “Here, take a sip. You’ll feel better.”

     “Why do you even care? You’re just a washed out drunk.”

     “Whoa, there. I’m a lot of things, but I’m no drunk. Look, I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that if you were my sister, I’d want better for you than this.”

     “Do you have a sister?”

     “No, but I had a brother once.” Lou had put their glasses on the floor and pulled Laura next to him on the bed. Her crying had subsided and she put her head on his chest.

     “What happened to him?” she asked.

     “He died.”

     “I’m really sorry.”

     “It was a long time ago,” he said stroking her head. “You’re too young to be so cynical about life and about love. It’s about caring enough to risk putting the other person first, in every sense. Even if they don’t ultimately stay.”

     “You've been there. Did she leave?”

     “She died too.” 

     It had been a year since Gabe and Becca had died together in that car accident; Lou felt the ball of grief and betrayal begin to form in his stomach. Fortunately, Laura changed the subject.

     “Show me how to make love, Lou.” she whispered. And in the hours that followed, he taught her all he knew.

Around the year 1700, in the beautiful green mountains of west-central Africa, a slave was born to the wealthy elder ya-Mitoumaza. He developed into a well-muscled “back” whose job was to build stone structures. Like all slaves he owned no name, but people called him Kamba Mbou – Rock Slave.

One day, on his way back from the quarry, he found a young woman lying beside the path with a broken ankle. She was startlingly beautiful, but he could be castrated for looking indecorously at a free woman, so he tried not to think about her velvet skin as he made a bamboo splint and offered to carry her back to her father’s compound.

“You’re very strong,” she said when he set her down to rest, her eyes appreciating every sinew. Slaves wore only identifying tattoos, so she had much to admire.

“This slave finds the honored lady a thousand times beautiful,” he said aloud, a shocking impropriety.

To his relief she was not offended. “I am Mika, daughter of Koyo. He buys me whatever I like. I shall ask him to buy you.”

“Perhaps he will give this slave freedom, honored lady,” Kamba-Mbou brazenly replied. He inwardly gasped. What was there about her that made him feel so unrestrained, as if his tattoos had suddenly vanished?

“Does your owner mistreat you?”

“No, honored lady, ya-Mitoumaza is generous and kind. This slave loves his master. But he thirsts to hold a spear in his hands like a real man.”

The walk to Koyo’s compound was long and the sun melted away formality. Mika made him laugh at her irreverent descriptions of the King of Sana who wanted her to become his forty-third wife; his heart went out to her when she wished plaintively that her father would sell her not to the wealthiest suitor but to the man who would treat her best. “The king has sons with gray hair, but he still marries a new wife every year even though he can no longer fill either her warmth or her womb.” Suddenly her eyes opened wide. “Your heart is kind and you are strong. I will marry you.”

Kamba-Mbou nearly dropped her. “Honored lady, this slave owns no property and can give your father no bride-price. From today forever this slave will keep you as a treasure in his heart, but please, do not think of more.”

“I will find a way. Besides,” she added impishly, “you wouldn’t dare use a rod on me.”

Kamba-Mbou smiled at her irrefutable logic, and promised he would request permission for them to marry.

The Senior Wife hooted. “A daughter of Koyo would no more marry a flap than a hyena.” She used the most vulgar term in the language for an uncircumcised male.

Undaunted, he appealed to the Elder, who sensed his profound purpose. “It is against the law for a slave to own a wife, but this I will promise you. If her father gives his permission, I will buy Mika as my pleasure and allow you to cohabit.” He cautioned Kamba-Mbou not to be too hopeful, however, since it was unlikely that the ambitious Koyo would sell one of his beautiful daughters as a mere concubine.

Meanwhile, Mika informed her father that she intended to marry Kamba-Mbou whether he approved or not. Koyo beat her with the Rod of Honor and ordered her to remain secluded in the House of Shame until she regained her senses. Weeks passed. After much haggling, he reached an agreement with the King’s ambassador, and Mika was summoned to demonstrate her acquiescence to the marriage by serving a ritual cup of palm wine. Instead, eyes blazing with defiance, she strode across the room and emptied the contents of the calabash over the ambassador’s head.

Scandal poured over Koyo like a monsoon rain, soaking him in humiliation. Koyo beat her with the Rod of Respect, the Rod of Honor, and the Rod of Obedience, but the damage had been done: there was no way he could redeem Mika’s reputation as an insolent, ungovernable woman. He got exactly two offers for her, one from a smirking Egyptian slave-trader, and the other – in the circumstances more than generous – as a pleasure to ya-Mitoumaza.

The Elder kept her for the obligatory minimum of nine days in his bedchamber, and said she could then cohabit with Kamba-Mbou. The Senior Wife considered the “marriage” between Mika and Kamba-Mbou an aberration. In her opinion the Elder had made a grave error in bringing Mika into the compound at all. Allowing a back to share a bed with a free woman would interfere with his duty to fill the wombs of the female slaves, make him difficult to discipline, and destroy morale among the other slaves. Allow such “marriage” to be consummated? Never!

She set him to work on a new House of Hospitality built with special stone from a quarry an exhausting four drum-stations distant, and doubled his breeding assignments. She forbade Mika to leave the women’s quarters except when selected as a pleasure to overnight guests – by coincidence, no doubt, every time the moon-beads in the Senior Wife’s possession indicated Mika’s womb could be filled. The young concubine’s first child, fathered on the bed of hospitality, was a boy who died within two weeks. The second was a sickly son who lived only a few months. The third was a healthy daughter.

Now, cunning as she was in circumventing her husband’s intentions, the Senior Wife was unaware that Mika and Kamba-Mbou had agreed to give all their daughters to the Elder as slaves, the only way they could begin to repay his generosity. On the other hand, the Elder was unaware that the Senior Wife had effectively prevented the cohabitation that he had authorized. Accordingly, on the ninth day, ya-Mitoumaza expected Mika and Kamba-Mbou to bring him their child for her tattooing. When instead, Mika appeared alone with the infant and requested the ceremony of Naming as if the child were free, he was greatly indignant.

“Was this child not called forth by my rock-slave? Is a favor I conceived in kindness to be repaid by defiance and disrespect? Speak, Mika, or the tattoo-man will have double work today.”

Explanations drenched with many tears finally revealed the truth, and the Elder graciously apologized to his concubine for the Senior Wife’s “misunderstanding.” The next day ya-Mitoumaza’s Rod of Obedience, which had mildewed from disuse, shone with unaccustomed luster, and the Senior Wife was confined for nearly a week with an “intestinal” ailment.

Thus, after four years of frustration, Mika and Kamba-Mbou were allowed to leave their beds of duty and lie together. They were warmed with happiness, but the air around them was filled with insults. The Senior Wife called Mika “that she-flap.” Junior Wives threw mud on her laundry. Little children chanted “zi-mbou, zi-mbou” – wife of a slave. Mika didn’t care. She was at last expecting a child by the man she loved.

Kamba-Mbou wept when they handed their beautiful nine-day-old daughter to the Elder. Two more daughters were born to them and twice more, in accordance with their agreement, they gave them up. After the birth of a stillborn son they were blessed with a sturdy little boy whom the Elder named Limoboto, patience rewarded, but to mock him, everyone called him “zi-mbou” like his mother.

“Make them jealous of your name,” Mika advised her son, and he swallowed her words with his whole heart. People began to notice him when he bloodied champion wrestlers, and his spear-throwing was so exceptional that ya-Mitoumaza arranged for him to undergo military training reserved for sons of nobility. Legally, his concubine’s children were considered his, so the Council of Elders could only roll their eyes.

At Final Initiation the son of Mika and Kamba-Mbou pointedly took ownership of the name Zimbou and ignored the stir he caused; he was busy redesigning the war-spear to improve its stability, revamping the system of military communication, and rising rapidly to battalion commander. He was such a charismatic leader that warriors clamored to serve under him. Fathers of eligible young women, quick to forget his humble origins, solicited offers of marriage. The ever-generous Elder quietly bought him a bride from an excellent family, and Zimbou became a respected member of society.

About this time bleached slavers from across the sea grew bold and extended their raids from the coast to the mountains, stealing strong youths and healthy women and carrying them away in chains. The people were outraged. “We are the mighty Bakou, the Conquerors. Do we do nothing to drive these criminals from our territory?” Zimbou organized a party of elite warriors known as The Fearless. They freed captives, burned camps, and sank ships. They killed most of the bleached men, but a few were brought back as war-captives. The Chief had them relieved of their manly parts, confined them in bamboo cages, and set them in the middle of the market to be mocked by everyone. Word traveled fast that slavers were not welcome in the mountains, and peace returned.

Several years later, however, a surprise foray succeeded in capturing more than a dozen young people, including a new bride of Zimbou and a newly-initiated son of the Chief, a youth so intelligent and popular that he was already considered a leading candidate to succeed his aging father. The people were in an uproar, and General Zimbou, who took the raid as a personal affront, vowed to bring the captives back. Not only did he succeed, but stories of his daring thrilled the hearts of everyone.

The Chief and Elders appointed Zimbou as Keeper of the Royal War-Spear and awarded him the title Ko – the great – which by law could be conferred only once in three generations. The Chief offered him six magnificent ivory tusks and three pregnant slaves, but Zimbou-Ko respectfully declined.

“Most noble lord, only one thing I lack. I implore you, most noble lord, grant freedom to my father.”

The Chief took the Spear of the People in his right hand and solemnly tapped it three times. Kamba-Mbou, coughing and feverish, was brought before the Council where the knife-man drew a drop of blood and declared him circumcised. A frail ya-Mitoumaza himself insisted on placing the Cloak of Manhood on his shoulders.

“What name will you own, honored sir?” the Chief inquired.

“This sl—no, I,” he said firmly, smiling at the word coming from his mouth, “wish to own, most noble lord, the name Tou-Mbou, freedom for a slave.”

“Welcome, Tou-Mbou, to the Assembly of Citizens!”

General Zimbou-Ko, supreme commander of the army, knelt before the former slave and presented him an intricately carved ceremonial spear. “This humble gift is for the man I am proud to call my honored father.”

Tou-Mbou’s fingers touched the exquisite spear, turning it over and over in his hands, fearful his heart would burst with happiness. “Thank you, my pride, my son,” he said with tightening throat.

Mika, now zi-Tou-Mbou, respecting the custom, prostrated and presented her husband with the Nine Sacred Rods. “My honored lord.”

Tears streamed down his face while he searched for his voice, hidden under the thousands of flowers of happiness she had planted in his soul. After several tries he was able to squeeze out a single word: “Mika.” It was the first time he had been allowed to call her by her name.

When he passed into shadow two weeks later, clutching the spear in his hand, he was mourned in a way befitting the father of a great general of a powerful army. Tou-Mbou was buried on the east slope of the Mount of the Tortoise, overlooking the field where his grandsons practiced spear-throwing. In the distance his beloved Mika lived out her days at the compound of her son, her mother’s tears of pride outshone only by her widow’s tears of sorrow.

Another day, another drink.

It’s the same drink—scotch straight from the bottle; that is on his easy days. On his harder days it is 2 bottles of scotch, 4 glasses of vodka, and 12 cans of Budweiser. The tv is always on loud; playing either re-runs of Law and Order or sports. Football, college football, soccer, baseball, or hockey. He never sleeps in the same bed as Mom any more.

Sleeping on the old worn-out recliner, still wearing his suit. I never have the nerve to wake him. When he wakes, the devil comes to play. Whispering sweet nothings and barreling anger.

Another night, another body against her.

It’s never the same man; sometimes it’s a woman. At night over the sound of the tv her funs echo throughout the creaking house. I think the neighbors can hear her. I never take the time to remember their faces. They will be gone by morning long before Dad wakes up with a bad hangover.

Walking away with messy hair, marks covering their bodies, and the scent of last night’s fun; they all either reek of sweat or hard liquor, not all at the same time of course. I never ask Mom why she does the things she does. Buying me things to keep quiet. There isn’t a soul in town who hasn’t trailed her, marking their favorite places.

Another morning, another act.

Dad wakes up, going to the bathroom to sober up and take a few pills. He tells mom he loves her before he goes to work, planting a kiss on her lips that touched another. They used to be high school sweethearts. Since the day they brought me home everything changed. There is no sweet kisses or surprises, not even ‘I love you’ before Dad goes to work.

I used to see pictures of them all around the house. Smiling so bright that it blinds me. I once asked mom what changed and she gave me a dark look, only hugging me tightly as if she was trying to take the very breath I have away.

Dad loves me, he tells me so. Mom loves me, she tells me so. Their loves mean different things and I know that. Moms love means not telling a soul that I am alive. Dads love means coming into my room at night when he has had too much to drink; that’s why I asked Mom for a lock. Neither of them have a key. No one is allowed to come in.

Another day, another lie.

Mom works two jobs. Dad works one. Mom has her secret job at night that only a select few can know. Dad puts on a brave face even though he hates his job. Everyone lies, everyone hides something; I am no exception.

Sometimes I dream of what school would be like. Maybe everyone would know my dad, the retailer with the most clients. It is a given that everyone would know my mom, the baker down the street with something to say. And everyone would know me as the girl with so many lies that I wear them as a jacket.

I wonder if life would be different if I was born to another family, someone high class and loves their kid. I wish it would be different. The only escape I have is my dreams, the only source of peace. I wished I could go, then I could pretend to be someone else.

Another day, another misery.

The lock on my door seems to work just fine. No one can come in, its peaceful. That slowly changes to the fighting.

The yelling and screaming of Dad’s voice. Belly aching, low like a growl, and every shout seems to shake my door. Dad came home early today, that is what was unusual. Mom had told me not to say anything about the two men she seemed to bring home. He seemed to have caught them red-handed.

Covering my ears, still faintly hearing them. I can’t tell what they are, something not very nice or worth repeating. Something shattered, maybe glass? I don’t know, I’m too afraid to leave my room but I need to get out of here.

Quickly and quietly, I slowly turn the knob. The smiling bright photos were on the ground and shattered, every picture seemed to be torn in half. Splitting right down the middle between them.

Mom was wearing a silk dress and Dad was nowhere to be seen. Only the after math of the fight was painted against the walls and floors. The bedroom was empty, the two men gone and only Mom was left behind. The kitchen was a mess of glass and water. In the living room, the tv was smashed in. Something crunched under my bare feet, glass cutting and blood took place of the usual empty space. Under the shattered glass and blood was a picture of us. I was four when that happened, ten years ago seemed like a long time.

I had Mom’s wavy blonde hair and small nose, Dad’s tan skin and green eyes. We were all so happy in that moment.

“Natalie?” Mom called my name through a sniffle.

My heart skipped a beat as I turned to find her standing there. Messy hair falling out of a pony tail, bruising up and down her exposed skin. I couldn’t tell if it was from Dad or those men, either way, she looked like a train wreck.

“I thought I told you not to come out of your room.”

“I…I’m sorry, I heard fighting…and I…” I looked back at the picture, quickly hiding it under my shirt as Mom grabbed me by my hair.

Pulling me towards my room, she threw me in. Landing with a loud thud; enough to startle the neighbor’s downstairs but who am I kidding, they won’t come to rescue me. The glass still puncturing my feet, the blood trailed into here. Mom looked down at me with a sinister look; before turning and shutting the door.

My only sense of freedom was short lived. Locking the door, I hurried back onto the bed, grabbing the tweezers from under the pillow and pulled the glass out. I was used to treating my own wounds, it isn’t the first time I bandaged cuts. Though, this was a new experience for me. Normally it’s just on my arms or thighs.

I wanted out and the only way out was to escape.

I can hear her, the voice in the darkness telling me to take those pieces of glass against my skin. I fear her, she knows what I want most.

“Come Natalie, take another chance at freedom. You know it would be better.”

I shake my head and pray tomorrow is another day.

Another night, another attempt.

It was that much different, I listened to her. Those silent pleas in the back of my mind. “Just go through the window and you’ll be free. Like a bird soaring through the sky.”

I wasn’t going to take my chance of freefalling.

I didn’t have much of anything. Just a few pairs of pants and shirts, one pair of worn out shoes and a holy jacket. It kept me warm most nights. Into an old duffle bag that was Dad’s. Pulling my waves into a pony tail.

I knew their routines. Yesterday was something I didn’t want to be a part of again. Mom would be home late, dinner with a client and if everything goes well, she might even go to their place. Dad never broke his routine, going to the bar then another bar, and finally home, filled to the brim of alcohol. He wouldn’t be home for at least a couple of hours.

Taking a breath, opening the squeaky window. I was about halfway out, when I heard Dad’s feet sliding against the carpeted floor. His slurring words carried through the locked door.

“Natalie, sweetheart.”

I knew those words.

“Open the door, I just want to talk.”

I didn’t even risk that, climbing down onto the balcony and then over, heading towards the woods far off in the distance. She was laughing in the distance, I know it all too well. I was free from them and free from her.

Another attempt, freedom at last.

I had never felt the air like this before. Taking it all in, the smoky air from countless smokers, the soft inhale of street vendors, and the sweet smell of freedom. My only source of freedom abruptly interrupted by the soft beeps of something I can’t put my finger to.

“Freedom is short lived,” she carefully whispered. The world around me changed from light to a surrounding darkness.

Something ached besides my feet. Glancing at my arms, newly done cuts I don’t remember putting there, pink and pulsing. My own heart beating in my ears.

Another beep, taking me away from the freedom.

Pulling me back to reality that I so desperately wanted to get away from. Her smile faded in the distance, I knew her but I didn’t at the same time. So far away and yet, close enough to touch. The pain in my heart was immense but not as worse as the pain on my wrists.

I woke up in a hospital. It smelled of bleach and other cleaning products. Something tickled my nose, vision blurring as I took in my surroundings. A machine was to my right, the soft up and downs of my heart fluctuated. A line with liquids trailed to my arm which was covered in a bandage and slowly soaking with a red substance.

To my left was a small desk, covered from one end to the other with pictures of me when I was little. Everything I dreamed of, the freedom of the winds and the smell of the air was nothing but short lived fantasy. My reality was hidden and shrouded in light with shadows hiding things I don’t want to see.

Someone held my hand, I don’t know who that is. A woman with charcoal colored hair slept peacefully. I looked back to the right, she sat near the window; taking in the sunlight. Black covered up to her elbows, covering her hands. Eyes a piercing yellow and no white at all. Sharp teeth that coaxed me into taking freedom. Tears streamed my face as I closed my eyes.

Another time, another dream. Another attempt gone.

There is a monster under my skin, I call her Natalie. She whispers fake words to me. Telling me everything will be better if I just let the red river come out. I know she will be back, she is always back after an attempt, after all, she lives under my skin. Crawling and creeping like a spider. 

I rushed in to a truck stop, three a.m. I desperately needed a coffee and a rest room visit.

I stood alongside her at the mirror. She leaned in deeply over the sink next to me, peering at herself, wide-eyed, scrutinizing her image under the merciless fluorescent light. She was oblivious to me.

I tried not to stare.

She reached for the soap dispenser beside her on the wall, filling both palms with the industrial strength liquid. Then she squirted out more until it spilled over her hands and on to the counter. She spread it over her face methodically, up to her hairline, then down to thickly coat her neck and cleavage.

Her diaphanous gown grazed the floor. Her silver heels were perilously high.

Her collarbones protruded like signposts. She may have been 17.

Do you want some coffee? Some food, I asked, quietly, trying not to infer judgement.

She turned to me, her face still traced with suds. “No. Thank you, Ma’am.”

It was a tone that efficiently headed off anything more. Of course, she was a past master at this, this shutting down.

Who waited for her in the parking lot? In which truck? On what heading?

She needed to eat. How her face must have stung.

She’ll have snagged her dress on those heels.