The last time Dad talked to Aunt Bonnie over the telephone, she said this isn’t normal for Indiana. It’s a BLIZZARD we’re having. This is our first winter here and it’s crazy. It’s coming off the Great Lakes and it’s crazy, everybody keeps saying. The radio keeps saying it. Aunt Bonnie says it. Everybody. This snow storm is nuts.

Plus, we’re all alone from them. We had to move out of Bonnie and Curt’s because their landlord kicked us out. He didn’t like us living there in their upstairs. Now we live in Fort Wayne, like a hour away, in a place called Waynedale. This is how our 1978 starts out. Crazy amounts of snow getting up past the window. We’re gonna get snowed in, and then how can we get out? School got canceled, and I lost track of how many days of school that got canceled so far. Since we can’t go outside, we have to make up games for ourselves in here. Our main place is the hallway. It’s long and skinny. We play masking tape touchdowns. I get on my knees at one end, Doug gets on his knees at the other, and we got a roll of Dad’s masking tape out of his work stuff. We open both bedroom doors on one end of the hallway, the other end of it opens up to the living room so it’s perfect, kinda. I try to roll the tape down the hallway and try to make it go into one of the bedrooms. Doug, meanwhile, tries to roll it into the living room when it’s his turn, depending on what side you’re on. Sometimes I’m over there and he’s over here. We keep score to see who wins. The trick is, you’ve got to roll it at a crazy angle to get it to go in there, kind of like a curveball if it’s a wiffleball, but you’re rolling it.

The other hallway game we do is paper football. For that one, we’re in the middle of the hallway. Me and Doug, we both got paper footballs we folded up like triangles. You have have to make a field goal from the line. The line is the bathroom door. You can’t go over the line or it doesn’t count. You get way down on your stomach and you flick it. Use your finger. The paper football has to go through the goal posts. The goal post is at the end of the hallway. It has to make it between the outline of that door down there. It’s the water heater in there. Also, it has to go over the bottom line of the door, that’s the bottom of the goal posts. We keep score. A field goal is three points. I won 42 to 27 last time.

I have two ways that I flick it. I’m not sure which way’s better. If I flick it longways, it makes it go in a spin, but if you don’t flick it exactly right then it just goes off-to-the-side crazy. That way’s better for long distance. But for up-close or medium, soccer style flick’s better. It looks ugly in the air because it doesn’t spin, it just flips all over the place, and it doesn’t go as far. But you don’t have to kick it just exactly right each time. It forgives you more if you do it that way.

Dad has to go to work still. We don’t know how he got there. He had to dig our porch out first, then dig out the snow behind the car. It's like mountains out there. It’s everywhere snow, every time we look.

Mom listens to the weather on the radio. But mostly it’s just music. She has to face it just right, or all you get is static. All day long it’s the Bee Gees. “Stayin’ Alive.” Over and over and over. Or else the Dolly Parton “Here You Come Again” song, or else the “You Light Up my Life” song that’s Debbie Boone. That’s Pat Boone’s daughter, Aunt Bonnie always says. I don’t know who Pat Boone is. He’s on TV sometimes. But I still don't know. How come people don’t get sick of hearing the same songs over and over? It drives me crazy. Then it’s the news, then it’s the weather. That’s when Mom says, “Hush! You guys shut up. I have to hear the weather!”

The weatherman says it’s a great big bomb of snow that’s coming. A bomb that’s coming this way. So now it’s kind of scary, because it’s already too much snow. He said it’s zero degrees, but the wind chill is minus 40. I don’t know what wind chill means. I just know super-duper cold is what it is out there already.

Sometimes me and Doug play Stratego. I always win ’cause I’m older. He never remembers where my 1 is. He also forgets where I put my 2s and 3s. And he doesn’t use his 9s to find out if it’s a bomb or not. And if he does find out I have a bomb there, he’s super obvious about moving his 8 over there. 8s are miners. They kill bombs. But they can’t do anything else, everything else beats them except for a 9, so they’re easy to get rid of. I get rid of lots of his guys, then I get his flag and win all the time.

Bryan does his inchworm all over the house or else bangs on his xylophone and goes running running running, or else he goes swinging his kerbangers all over the place and you have to watch out, till Mom says knock it off and sit down and quit spazzing. Bryan can’t play with his Stretch Armstrong anymore after today. We found it in the bedroom that we never go into. We keep it closed because of the heat, but we were playing hide and seek in there. We were hiding in the boxes. Then we found Stretch Armstrong. Right there on the floor. He was rock hard. He got frozen. When we thawed him out he got cracks everywhere and his glue was coming out so Mom threw him in the trash.

Puck is in his crib, climbing up and down. Or else he’s climbing up on Mom’s bed. Or he’s playing with his car-cars. Or he’s pulling on the string of his Farmer Says and dragging it all over the house, ’cause that one you can hear.

We have to wear our thermals under our pajamas. We just wear our pajamas on all day, since we can’t go out.

...

Quick! It's an emergency!

Mom says, “Go! Go! Go!”--"You have to get the trash cans."--“Hurry up, quick!” The wind just blew them, all the way down the street. “Hurry up! Hurry up, before they’re gone!”  

I have to hurry and get bundled. "Hurry! Go get them before they get away!" she says. I can keep my thermals on. Hurry, take my PJs off. Hurry, throw my clothes on. Clothes after clothes. I'm taking too long time. Snow boots that go clomp. They have felt inside that’s thick. My poofy pants over my regular pants. My thermals underneath. Big green flannel shirt. My dark green heavy jacket. It has lots of duck feathers on the inside. It fits me like a balloon. Even the hood has duck feathers. It has a strap that goes over my mouth and it snaps. It only goes over my mouth and the bottom part of my nose, my face above is open. My big blue mittens. The top part of my nose and all over my eyes are the only thing not covered. Dad and Mom went crazy on our clothes. We still have our California skin and we have to get used to the snow still.

Mom opens the door and sends me, pushes me out a little. "Hurry up! They went that way!"

I don't want to be out here. It's dark and it's daytime. I can get out of the porch where Dad dug, and through the path in our front yard 'cause that's what he did this morning.  Snow is everywhere Dad didn’t dig. It’s all huge piles that are growing, everywhere you look. There's no sidewalk, it's all snow. The street I have to walk on is ice. My snow boots need better gription so they slip. They just have straight gripper lines, not waffle grips. My eyes sting and my eyelids sting and the top of my nose stings, too. The wind is like a ghost to me in both ears. To get to the street I have to do clunky robot steps. 

Mom said they went that way. I can’t see anything. They must be way, way down. But on the street down, my robot steps get dangerous with the wind. I have to do a new walk now. I have to walk like Frankenstein, leaning way far back when I walk, 'cause the wind is blowing on my back and it will push me right on my face if I don't. Right on my face in the street and the street is made of ice.

My nose hurts. My eyes hurt. My eyelids won't blink. I have to use all my eye muscles to do it. I have to force them.

Finally, I can see them. Both. They’re all the way down there, three or so more houses. All tipped over and skidding, but kind of slow right now. Hurry before the wind picks up. You can’t hear the metal skids because of the wind even though it's metal on ice. They’re ready to go at any moment if the wind gets them again, ready to get blown down, farther and farther down the street. I have to speed up my Frankensteps. I’m doing my robot Frankenstein steps as quick as I can in this bulky suit with these bulky shoes in this bulky snow on this slippery ice. I lean back more, more, more, more, and now I spread my arms out wide and it's a genius thing I thought of. The wind makes me like a sailboat. I'm a sailboat on the ice in the middle of the street. Take me faster, wind. Take me faster. Faster than those cans are moving. There they go. They’re skidding out some more, and now it’s a race, go faster. I go faster in this wind, faster, faster, let’s go, wind. I’m gaining on them, gaining on them, gaining...gaining, here we go. Got them. Grab them with my mittens. Thank God there's only two. Then I blow it when I turn around. I tried to stand up regular, and I almost got blown down. But now I figured it out again. I have to shift my weight far forward, have to lean way down, when I’m pulling them back to our house. Leaning, leaning, way far down into this wind. I can’t feel my face where my skin is uncovered. There might as well be no strap. I can only feel my eyeballs, and my eyeballs feel like a firehose is in front, hitting me with millions of tiny snowflakes. Then I remember the weather guy. He said 40 below windchill. Now I will remember. I will never forget windchill. Never ever never. It makes the wetness in my eyes freeze. I can't blink at all, even when I force it. I think my blinkingness is broken. Whoever made this jacket, they didn't do it right. They should’ve made this face strap bigger, should’ve put more duck hairs in there. It doesn't cover anything, just  my lips. The rest of my face is open to the air and it kills. I’m ducking way, way forward. Every clomping step, I have to walk on tiptoes. My boots go clomp and they don't bend very good, but that’s the only part that can touch the ground when you walk way, way over like this. Way over like this on tiptoes. So bend, boots, bend. I got one trash can each in each mitten. My arms are getting tired and my hands hurt inside my mittens. There better not be lids for these, or else they're gone now. The cans clang and scrape behind me at every step, close enough behind, I can hear them over the howly wind, the whistley wind, and every now and then the wind goes right inside one of the cans and tries to make it a sail and rip it out of my hands. My knuckles hurt inside my mittens. I have to stop a few times to pull the cans back straight again, then I go clodhop tiptoeing some more, these cans keep wanting to bang together and pull me to the one side or the other. Tippy toes, tippy toes, bend, boots, bend, lean way, way forward, we’re getting there. We're doing it. Closer. Closer. Just keep going, keep on going. Come on.

Just one more house and it's like forever.

My tears are icicles, but it's not me crying. It's just my eyes going crazy on me.

Finally, I get there. Have to climb up over the snow pile at the the side, have to put them in there or they’ll just blow away again. I have to do it while pulling on both trash cans. I can’t let one go. The wind wants to grab them again. I slip at it, and slip at it, and then my boots get good grips into the snow mountain finally. Snow can only get in from the front, so there's enough less snow in there at the side. I wiggle up and try to keep my gription and I lift it up and reach it up there with as much as I can stretch out my arm. I have to push on it more to make it go. Then I stretch the rest of me too, stretching out my back, stretching at my shoulders, hoping my grippers on my boots hold out. Please, God, don't let them come out. These cans will go flying. 

Got it and it worked. It’s in there. Now the other one. I do the same stretching thing, stretching and pushing to the max I can do. It’s a little less hard because I have both hands now. Stretching out and push like crazy till I got it. There. I did both. Climb down and lean way over into the wind when at this angle to get to the path that Dad dug that goes to the front door. It feels like nothing without the trash cans, but take away this wind and I'd be falling right on my face. 

Dad did a great path. It's perfect.

Never was so happy to get to our door. I knock and knock and Mom lets me in finally. She locks the doors in case of robbers. It's just like nothing when she lets me in, but my face can't feel normal, and my nose is just a rubber tip that's there.

The warmness of the house hits my face where the stupid strap didn't cover. It's all frozen skin there. My cheeks and my eyelids are super tingly, needles and tingles going everywhere down into my neck. But my nose is still just rubber. I don’t have a nose there. I can see it when I look down, I look down and cross my eyes and it's right there. But when I touch it with my mittens, there's nothing. It's just dead there. I can't wake up my nose.

Mom says, "Go take your clothes off."

Then she goes back to the radio. 

AH Ah Ah Ah

Stayin’ alive

Stayin’ alive

I didn’t mean it. Honest.

They say never to make decisions when you’re angry; but considering there’s not a moment in the past year where I haven’t been angry, I figured an exception could be made.

Why wouldn’t I be miffed? Three-hundred years in the service just to get canned—pension revoked, pointy shoes confiscated, jingle bells ceremonially muted. Truly it was the walk of shame.

The Big Man caught me skimming toys off the other elves’ lines and just like that I’d been handed my notice. ‘Freeloader’ they called me. Where to go. What to do. For a time I considered heading south and trying my luck at blending in, but vestiges of that Will Ferrell movie began to stir in my head and suddenly moderate (s)elf respect turned me against the idea. I could not, I would not end up like that. I’m not an object of amusement—I’m an elven being!

Why do I gotta’ pay the price? It was Bauble who asked if I’d retrieve a few nutcrackers for her. I got ’em off Tinsel’s line, then Mistletoe’s line, then Bob’s. Little did I know none of the aforementioned had given the green light for this. Bauble had been falling behind off and on all year, and she’d been threatened with the dreaded pink slip (yes they still have those in the North Pole; I know—dreams crushed, childhood ruined). She told me all these elves had consented to help her by donating a few wares to the cause. And I could give a very detailed explanation of her sins, but why do that when I could just consolidate it—she lied.

She lied and I got caught. Then she gave me the puppy eyes, so I wound up taking the full rap like the sucker I was. Yep, I’m the freeloader. Me. Employee of the Month 1859 through 1940. Not a deadline missed, and I tell you I was a legend. But that’s over, so...I’m not bitter. I’m still sugar sweet. Sweet as a candy cane. Whoops, it broke. Ignore that.

But onto my regrets. I almost forgot. Two weeks ago Christmas whirred around, as it is wont to do, so I decided to play a little trick on Santa. See, I’d heard of this...special mirror known to invert the personality of the subject and thence materialize said personality. The elves all knew of this mirror, informally nicknamed Rorrim. Nobody really knows where it came from. Legend has it that a thousand years ago a group of elves accidentally messed up building...something and their mistakes culminated in Rorrim. To which I reply, how in the South Pole do you even manage that? That takes some talent in itself. But no matter, it exists, and it’s kind of a taboo among the elves due to its inherently dark nature. Fortunately we have a system. We throw a sheet with happy snowmen faces over it to hide the evil aura seeping from its pores. Problem solved.

But I, being a genius, removed the sheet, and swapped Santa’s normal mirror with Rorrim. Banal revenge, blah, blah. I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal. I mean, Santa’s antithesis is already rumored to exist. Krampus anyone? But Rorrim put something of a darker spin on it. The thing that stepped out of the mirror looked like a scrawny, leathered Santa, who wore chains like a Christmas tree wears garland and whose eyes were much, much redder than my comfort zone could tolerate. He scrambled off, jacking Santa’s sleigh and leaving all the presents behind in the snow. It didn’t take long for us to realize: what’s the opposite of someone who gives?

Someone who takes.

And this wasn’t just a ‘bad kids get punished’ sort of deal. Anti-Claus was bent on punishing everyone, naughty or nice. Like Santa, he made a list and he did indeed check it twice, but this was more in the vein of...the death list from Kill Bill. You DID NOT want your name getting checked off of that list.

Beside himself, Santa rushed to check the coordinates of his sleigh. You see, there’s a tracker installed near the backup motor, in the case of something like this happening—well, not this specifically, just a sleighjacking in general. I’d...be highly concerned if it was the former. Anyways, Santa got the coordinates and it turns out Atnas (yes I just called him that) had yet to reach any houses. He was flying over a field, so Santa hit the emergency eject button and changed his course if you catch my drift. Yes there’s an emergency eject button in Santa’s office that’s synced with the sleigh. I think it’s in case terrorists hijack it—I don’t know; the man’s thought of everything.

So Atnas fell—but he didn’t die. That would’ve been too easy. No, it wasn’t two hours before a breaking news report came to our attention. A strange figure had been spotted wandering along the outskirts of a forest in Iceland.

I’d like to pretend I acted all cool......but honestly I had a practical aneurysm over the prospect of this thing actually killing someone because, yeah, it would kind of totally be my fault. We needed a way to subdue him. But how?

How did we resolve this giant pickle, you might ask. Well, I could tell you that we dispatched a whole elven militia complete with Glock 17s and full drone warfare to perform reconnaissance and terminate Atnas. But honestly Clumsy Klaus just snagged his toe on the mirror and it tipped over and broke. Apparently that’s all you needed to do to kill a Rorrim creation.

That’s it?

WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT?!?!?!

Maybe I deserve to be fired.

So yeah. Moral of the story. Stay away from anything that seeps evil aura: even if it’s covered with a pleasantly inviting snowman sheet.

-------------------------------------------

Notes: And yes Rorrim has been done before, I think multiple places but I could be wrong. When I was younger I saw the “My Babysitter’s a Vampire” take (having looked it up--a tad different; I think it was just a vengeful spirit in the mirror that possessed people and made everyone it possessed bad regardless; I don’t think it turned you opposite or materialized anything) and I and my friend(s?) consequently paired a similar take with Santa Claus...for some reason. I once did a picture of Santa looking into a mirror and seeing his evil reflection. I...don’t know what became of this drawing, but it was pretty cool.

#fiction, #strictlyfiction, #donttrythisathome

It was not that she expected him to be a romantic soul...It’s just that her soul was aching at the lack of romance in his.

It had been fifteen years since they first met. Her thirtieth birthday was coming up, and they were still just...halfway there. Him, supporting her writing. She, supporting his work...Whatever it was that he did.

He traveled a lot, that’s all she knew for sure. Her imagination pictured him as a secret agent, dodging bullets and saving the world.

Her rational thoughts reminded her that she should be able to know if he was busy with such things, since everybody carries their scars...Especially after matches of flying bullets.

But, he was always perfectly fine when he popped by. And it stayed that way, even after they got married. Every single time, he came home safely, without those scars.

Their marriage was built on a strange kind of love. But, more on companionship than love. And the need for each other. They were best friends, and yet, strangers. They were strangely similar in some ways, such as their need for silence and loneliness, and yet they were very different.

He had his filthy blonde hair, always neatly cut and gelled back. The only time she saw it in disarray was right after they woke up in the morning. His hair would then curl, and stand in every direction. She found it kind of cute.

She had her hair all the way down to her waist. Pitch-black, and au naturel. She left it flowing at all times. Loose braids when necessary, but the rest of the time it was just free. It would fold around her shoulders and cup her face.

His eyes were a deep, steel-blue pool of stubbornness. Only a few times did she see those steely eyes soften and look at her with concern and love. Or rather, something linked to love.

The first time she looked into his eyes, they were filled with concern. He was running, and rounded the corner of the store very quickly...bumping right into her. She fell backwards and hit her head hard. When she came to, those two pools were looking down at her. And she fell in love, immediately...

He once joked that she seemed to look into his eyes as if she wanted to search his soul. She meekly replied, “I wish I could.”

He looked surprised at first, and then he smiled one of his rare smiles. “Be careful, dear, for you are so busy searching my soul, that you are laying your own wide open in those honey eyes of yours.”

Honey looked up, her yellow eyes catching the snow outside. She smiled involuntarily. Personally, she preferred autumn, but winter had its quirks. Snow was only one of them...and of course, there was the memories connected to winter.

She closed her notebook and stiffly rose from the sofa. Four hours bent over a notebook, scribbling down her latest ideas for characters, settings, and plots...

It’s what happened when he wasn’t home. She just couldn’t sleep anymore. So, she planned. She wrote. She tried to survive.

Soon, it would be their fifth wedding anniversary...And with each passing year, she realized how much she truly loved him...Her husband...Linnaeus...

It’s as if she fell more and more in love with him, with each passing week. It didn’t matter that they didn’t spend time together; she still fell more in love with him each time.

When he was home, he locked himself in his study, for the most part. Especially during the last month that he was home; he slept in his study, he ate there, he worked there, and he practically kept himself imprisoned there.

The only time he took a break from that room was for some leisure. A quick walk outside in the brisk air. Or some time quickly spent tinkling out a ballad, or minuet, on the piano.

She didn’t understand why he was so anti-social. But, she gave him his space as he placed more and more distance between them. His work was very important to him...she could understand and respect that.

As she fell asleep that night, her life flashed in front of her eyes. And then she sunk into dreamland, a single rose wavering in front of her eyes.

It was the first time he ever gave her any token of his affection. When he asked her to marry him. His hair was unkempt that day. He had shaved, as usual, but he had missed a spot, much to her amusement and his chagrin.

They were standing in the middle of the meadow, bundled up against the cold around them. His hands were behind his back, and suddenly he produced the rose. Her breath had hitched as she accepted it shakingly.

Then, he proceeded to kneel down on his one knee. The world seemed to come to a standstill; even the snowflakes seemed to freeze in midair.

Honey Ehle, you and I have known each other for nine years. You have never tried to change me, but you accepted me as I am. Cold...stone-cold...

You’re not-

Please don’t interrupt me...For nine years we have been accepting each other. You with your romantic soul; I’ve always loved you for it. Me with my coldness.

I guess you can say that I love you in my own special way. It’s not all that noticeable to you or others, but I cannot seem to get you off my mind. You seep into my thoughts, no matter how hard I try to fight you.

Please, do me the honor and marry me.

Oh, Linnaeus!

*three years later*

A man stumbles through the snow, limping through the covered meadow. A warm, woolen, black coat covers his body, reaching down to his ankles. It is wrapped around him tightly. The look is finished off with dark gray gloves and a scarf.

Splotches of red appear and disappear as he continues stumbling through the snow. Finally, he comes to a halt, in the middle of the meadow.

He drops down to his knees, and then places the three red roses on the ground. The tears form in his eyes, but he winks them away and hardens his features. For a silent moment, he allows their time together to flash before his eyes.

Even through all the hurt and pain of the last few years, he hasn’t changed much at all. His hair is still filthy blonde and his eyes still steely blue. He is still fit and well-built; muscular, even.

The memories start to slow down, until the last one remains. A young woman lying peacefully on the king-sized bed, the blankets folded around her in a haphazard manner; like only she could sleep.

She had a smile around her face, for she left the world in peace. She never even knew what happened. Only he knew...For the blood covered her neck, and when she was cleaned up, the slit was seen to be very deep.

He cannot hold it in anymore, and the sobs tear through him. Three years of just coming here, not saying anything. Just dropping a rose, two for the second year, and leaving again.

But, after three years, he had finally brought the criminal to justice. And now, there was time to heal...Or rather, time to realize that he could have done it differently. Trusted the only woman he ever loved.

She once asked if he was a secret agent...If only she had known that she got it right, though he laughed it off...

“I’m sorry, Honey...It was my job, as your husband, to be there for you...Not just to protect you from the danger, but also to protect you from the extreme loneliness...It was my job to be your companion, not just a ghost that popped in every now and then...”

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you...” He forces out, between ragged breaths. His voice breaks, and he cries, allowing the tears to fall holes into the soft snow.

After the storm inside ceases, he struggles to his feet again. With a last deep breath, he turns around and leaves for the empty house...An empty house that haunted him, and yet comforted him.

Within those four walls, he felt her presence. But, within those four walls, he also felt the despair, the result of his failure. And she would never know now why he spent that last week so anti-socially.

He could never apologize. He could never have that time back. He could never fix any of his mistakes. He could never show his bumbling bee that there was romance in his heart. He hid it away, because it was not part of the job description.

But if he could have it all over again, he wouldn’t be such a fool again. Love is not meant to be saved for when you are in a safe occupation, or when you can afford it. It is meant to be shown always, even when there are bullets to dodge, and lives to be saved.

As he trudges away, the snow starts falling again, gracing the red petals. A bit of color in a cold landscape...Like she was the color in his cold world...

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

- 2020/12/17

I had a friend that used to say that you could die at any moment. I always thought they were full of hogwash (Guess I should’ve listened to them after all).

It’s a strange feeling, being dead. It feels like a perpetual dream- walking through a fog.

Five minutes ago I saw my own face directly for the first time- and it was like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.

The funny thing is: I don’t remember dying. I was eating breakfast, and chatting with Laura. It’s been three years since I married her, but she looks as beautiful as the day I met her. I know it’s cheesy, but it’s true. So sue me.

In movies, when a character dies their vision fades to black. They almost got it right- ever since I woke up, all I see is grey.

At first I thought I was having an out of body experience. Which in a way I suppose I was. But as I watched her frantically listen at my chest I realize- I’m not breathing. I lunge myself towards her, and hit -nothing. I pass through her like a shiver in the wind.

Another thing about being dead- you can’t cry.

She called an ambulance, but I could already tell she knew I was gone. Her eyes were flint- almost but not quite unwavering.

When they arrived, she left with them. I trie to come with her- but the moment I tried to leave the house, I jolted back. It only took me a few minutes to realize I can’t leave.

I decided to explore and find out what I can do (If I keep busy maybe I won’t think about what this means). I’m incapable of interacting with anything physical, except when I try to leave the house. It’s like an invisible barrier, keeping me inside.

I watched a video on dissociation once. They talked about feeling as if a shroud separated them from the world- like nothing is real. For the first time I find myself empathizing with them.

When I heard the front door creak, I flew to the front (quite literally, considering my newfound intangibility). And what I saw was a broken woman. I wanted to scream, to hug her, anything to show here that I’m here. But instead, I watched her fall to her knees. I almost didn’t hear her whisper- I wish I didn’t.

“Why. Why did it have to be Luna. Why did it have to be her.” Her voice was unsteady, cracking as she said my name. Without thinking, I tried to put my hand on her shoulder. She flinched, as if remembering something.

Laura slept on the couch that night- she took one look at the unmade bed and silently walked away.

The next day, Bella paid a visit. She lives about five miles away. She sells apples- even has a whole orchard of apple trees in her backyard.

She brought a steaming pie and two glasses of wine. I’m not sure if she understands how mourning works, but I could tell Laura appreciated it.

As I watched them talk I saw a smile return to Laura’s face. I’m glad.

I hovered over Bella while I waited for Laura to get out of the bathroom, impatient. I saw her wipe chucks of apple seed of her vest, as if swating a gnat. Wait. What on earth was she doing to break apple seeds into chucks? My first thought was some sort of recipe, but then I remembered- apple seeds are poisonous. I read once that about 200 apple seeds ground up were enough to kill.

My mind jumped to my last breakfast- served with a helping of nuts. Oh god. No.

I have to tell Laura- but how? I can't do anything. Well. Most anything.

I only have one shot at this- one chance to let her know. I trembled, my hands unstead as I sealed my fate.

As everything faded to black (finally), I knew I have done it. It was worth it, in the end.