I hide them. Under a sleeve or skirt.

Scratches that I have earned over years.

They burn and bleed.

They pull and tear.

I spend extra time every day trying to hide.

I don't want to show my bruises and scars.

Most people show them in pride of the battles they've won.

Yet I don't, I'm shy.

A scar down my heart. A bruise that I've brandished.

I trust nothing, it turns into hurt.

My face blushes when I look for a second to long.

Scared to meet other eyes that bore.

Maybe they wonder whats underneath the long robes.

Sometimes I wonder to. Only for a second.

They told me when I was young that I'm ugly.

One said that only scars could ruin the only beauty I have left.

So they hide. Under fabric, under a mask, under make up.

It's all a fake reality. One meant to hide the pain.

To hide the tears behind a smile.

But it never quite reaches the eyes.

You would know its fake if you look closer.

Only problem is, nobody does.

Nobody confronts the truth. They don't look at details.

They marvel at beauty as a whole.

Not beauty in one place.

I never knew, but that's why I'm ugly.

They never cared to look at tiny details.

Only the whole picture at once.

If they had looked at details they would have noticed.

My thick lashes, the way my lips curve in a smile.

He said that the curl at the end of my hair was beautiful.

He said that my eyes were enhancing.

He said never to fear the scars.

They just show that you survived, they show the battles.

A scar shows that you beat what tried to kill you.

So world, here are my brandished scars. And there meant for you to see.

I'm not hiding anymore, nothing is going behind the scenes.

Real beauty comes from what is there. Not what you are putting up.

Not the make up reality that you have.

You don't need to wonder what 's underneath now. Because here it is.

You know what I'm realizing? None of us were happy. Not ever, not once. We were all miserable, all the time, from the very beginning.

We reminisce on the old days because we weren't as miserable, nobody but a few of us had experienced immediate friends or family death before. We could still lie to ourselves and say that our drinking was normal, our drug use was normal, and our lifestyle was normal.

We could still say fuck it, I'll take care of that tomorrow. We still had a lot left to experience and do in life, and we didn't think it was going to suck just yet.

But happy? No, the emptiness in each of our eyes glinted like a reverse hallmark card. We all saw it in each other, and knew. I think that's what kept us together as long as it has, did, and will. I think that's what society fails to grasp about anyone that isn't them or doesn't fit into the narrative required of us to line up and dress right dress to.

Sometimes one person's normal is the opposite, and we are those opposites. The ones that have to stay quiet or lie when someone asks us if we're okay, or how we met someone, or what makes us friends. We know, but we never talk about it because the stigma of silence spreads beyond the public spaces and into the closed doors where we would drown our sorrows until we could let a mismanaged sliver of the shit that was burning us alive out of our souls.

We reminisce on the old days, because we had people to reminisce with.

Including ourselves.

The emptiness that bonded us together has managed to kill nearly every single person in a 6 block radius, has managed to put us into shitty relationships with shitty people consistently, has thrown us into association with the most slippery of shit bags that exist who we thought were our friends until we needed them most and found ourselves abandoned.

Then we would always come back to each other, and then one day we couldn't.

Must be nice bonding over anything that isn't the only thing that you can think about because everyday it fucking eats you alive.

You want to tell somebody so bad, but you've experienced so much negative feed back when you do or have.. that all you have is that shitty yet fucking beautiful glint of damage, hopelessness, and the fractured emptiness in eyes that in a few short years will close forever... If you're lucky.

If you're like me, you look around and suffocate in front of a room in your apartment, a hometown street, a local bar, or bodega full of ghosts. The emptiness consumes you, and you destroy yourself some more but now? Now you're all alone.

I miss you guys. SM - SE - KE - MM - MS - D - and the one who got away.

"Aren't you going to be late?" I watch Lexi pause packing her backpack to put on lip gloss.

She waves a hand at the table we're standing at--we're advertising the ice skating club--and smacks her lips. "No, I have, like," she checks her watch, "oh crap, I have five minutes to get to class." She grabs her bag. "You'll have to take it from here," she tells me, blowing a kiss.

I make a face at her in response, and she laughs as she dashes across the quad, dodging tables as she goes.

I adjust the flyers on the table in front of me, waiting for the next round of classes to let out and release a new wave of students. There's quite a lot of people here already, seeing as it is the Fall Activities Fest and the weather is nice, but most everyone is attending their own booth. Or they're not interested. Or they're walking by and I haven't said anything.

Moral of the story is I'm not very good at attracting attention. That's Lexi's job.

I pick up one of the ice skates we have on the table. It's for figure skating, and it's Lexi's, so naturally it's coated in glitter. A pile of shimmery dust falls onto the table, and when I set the skate down, I notice it on my hand as well. I try and brush the glitter away, but it just sticks to my palm more.

"So, what club is this?"

I look up and into the face of a boy whose skin is darker than my own. His dreads hang across one of his eyes, and he picks up a flyer off the table, barely looking at me.

"Um, ice skating," I tell him, pointing at Lexis' skates.

He laughs. "Yeah, I thought so." As he meets my eye, though, he tilts his head. "Hey, have we met before?"

I rub my palms together, a nervous laugh coming out of me. I'm staring at a cluster of autumn leaves behind him, getting trampled by a group of freshmen. I think I would've remembered him. "No?"

The freshmen approach, and there's four of them, all blonde girls that probably just came from some sorority table. I can feel the boy's brown eyes watching me as I explain the club to them. He's stepped off to the side, but is listening.

I'm surprised, because most guys won't touch ice skating if it's not hockey. At least, not in a club form.

Two of the girls write down their info on the sign-up sheet, and I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, smiling. Success. Lexi and I promised our club advisor that we'd get a hundred sign ups, which seems very ambitious to me. I think right now we're at thirty.

Make that thirty-two.

The girls drift away, and I look around but the guy from earlier has gone too. I can't say I blame him, looking around at the other tables. Most of the other clubs have cool stuff, like snacks or music or dogs (which is cheating, really) or, in one case, VR headsets. Granted, it is VR club.

The wind blows, and I slap a hand on the fliers before they blow away, but the sign-up sheet, which one of the girls must've pulled out of its clipboard, takes off. I follow it with my eyes as it swirls in the air, a blink of white amongst the orange leaves.

Crap.

I grab Lexi's skate, chuck it on the stack of fliers, and head towards the paper, which just hit someone's ankle but they just kept walking, and now it's under someone's boot, and I almost bump right into someone else, and for a moment I lose sight of it. I stare at the pavement, but it's just crumpled leaves.

"Hey."

It's the same voice, and I startle.

The boy that was at the table before is holding the sign-up sheet, a small smile on his lips. It's enough to make me think he planned this.

"Oh, thanks," I say, but he's not offering me the paper.

He holds it at his side. "It was at Lucky L's, by the way," he says. And those words conjure a flash of images: his dreadlocks, a handful of playing cards, my friend Brie and a bottle of wine.

I press a hand to my eyes, temporarily mortified. Lucky L's, or Lucky Library, is what everybody calls the basement floor of the main student library. It's all archives and study tables and dark corners, and all the upperclassmen have stories of 'getting lucky' down there.

It's a good place to take a break from studying, contrary to other parts of the library, and my friends and I have visited once or twice. Not entirely sober. But we just like to go to chat and play cards.

I don't know why this guy was there that night though.

"I'm sorry, yeah, ok. I remember we played Hearts?"

He nods once. "Do you have a pen?"

Someone bumps my shoulder, and I step backwards to avoid being mulled by a group of Frisbee golf guys. He takes a step towards me in response. "Why?" I ask, a swirl of leaves building around us.

He points at the sign-up sheet, still in his hand. "Your spiel convinced me. I just ran into a friend and was gonna come back to sign up. Until the list found me, anyway."

"Right." I lead him back to the table, where no one is waiting, unsurprisingly. He picks up a pen and scribbles his name, and I try not to seem too obvious as I lean in to see what he writes.

Brad.

I lean back, pretending I never looked. Brad?

When I glance back at him, he's silently laughing. "You should see your face. My name's Amir, actually," he says, filling out a new line on the form.

Embarrassed again, I laugh and chew my thumbnail, a nervous habit I picked up from my mom. "Right. Good."

His eyes flit up at me, that nice warm brown, like the trees. "You shouldn't do that," he says, a faint smile still on his face.

"What?" He's looking at my mouth and my insides all turn upside down so suddenly I think I might need to sit down.

His smile just grows, and he lets the silence linger long enough for me to nervously raise a hand, about to chew my fingernail again.

"Your hands have glitter on them, and it's on your lip," he says, setting the pen down on the table.

I drop my hands and look at them. Shit, I forgot. I rub at my bottom lip with the back of my hand, which is glitter-free. I'm almost afraid to look at him. "Right, thanks. And thanks for signing up," I tell him, wondering where I can go find a mirror.

I notice he hasn't moved. "I hope I'll see you at club..." He sticks his hand out, his eyes flicking between the glitter on my hands and the glitter on my face.

I should be embarrassed still, but I smile and hesitantly reach out my hand. "Shani," I tell him, taking his hand.

He gives me a firm handshake. "I hope I'll see you at club, Shani," he says, then lets go.

I nod. He steps away, shoes crackling on the fall leaves, but looks back at me and waves. His hand shimmers with glitter.

brownies could exist, if the sensory experience of them is not illusory or false. the smell of the chocolate, the steam rising from the moist pores, and of course the taste exist as long as any other sensation, or a memory of a sensation is real.

but if this is so, how could it be that brownies are not at this very moment sitting upon my desk, briefly awaiting my indulgence. it is certain, that if they existed and if they were sitting upon my desk, they would soon be devoured. certainly i have many fond recollections of eating a brownie. yet it is not present either in my mouth, or upon a saucer in front of me.

i could argue, the the existence of a brownie, specifically upon my desk, is contingent on either the acquisition of the ingredients and the preparation of them OR they are to be bought in a bakery, who's staff is accomplished in the fine art of confection-making at large and brownie preparation in particular. if we follow the argument, the absence of the brownie is a direct result of my inability to aquire or prepare such a confection. this possibility is unlikely. bakeries, staffed with talented, duty-bound artists are plentiful and so is the relative abundance of the ingredients. to learn how to make a brownie, one need only search the internet or follow a path of trial and error, to produce such a cake. it is therefore not scarcity the witholds the sweet delight of brownies from my grasp.

could it be, then a question of self-denial or restraint? am i sufficiently adept at delaying my gratification or prioritising or managing my desires and sordid impulses? would i be able to actually hold my motivation to such a degree that brownies could be safely placed in my proximity, without calamitous results? this if course is not a possibility in the least. it is safe to say, that whatever the size of a serving of brownies, be it insurmountablly huge or unreasonably small, all will be devoured. my bloated thorax shall explode, and yet the head shall still relentlessly gorge itslef. indeed one coukd say that the biological expedincy of brownies is no match to the outright mortal threat they pose. not dietery concerns, social repercussions nor pecuniary limits would conceivably serve as sufficient hindrence to overconsumption.

we could follow Occam's razor, down its sharp point, and come to the simple answer that a man coukd be in one of to existential states: in the process of in eating a brownie OR having finished the brownie and awaiting more , though the anticipation may be a discomfort. if i am not eating a brownie momentarily it is a result of the fact that i have depleted all of it.

either of these latter possibilities depend on the surity that brownies exist. if brownies existed all arguments would be about self control, the absence of it, or the material considerations that may lead to the consumption of brownies or to their absence.

however the possibility that brownies exist is not apriori establishable. their perseption through senses, their measurement through emperical devices, could all be a solipsistic trap. indeed their absence is all but assured, when one considers their being on a cosmological scale or a subatomic one. the possible interaction between objects such as the brownie and the eater, or between the fats, sugars, and proteins it cobtains is distinguished only within a very limited scope, which in itself (being the organisns that try to appreciate brownies) is arguably non-existant. the question in that case would not be "why am i not eating a brownie?" but rather "am i a distinguishable enough object from the background, to exist?" or "what is barrier between me and not-me?" OR "could it be that i am a brownie?" none of these questions are answerable. no solution given is absolute. and the fears of reality which they stirr is irreconcilable in the long run.

here, finally, within this existential limitation and distress, a need arises for confort. for a reduction in pain, for a balm to salve the aching heart. if brownies existed, they surely would have been employed in great quantities and bottomless despair.

and yet, there is no brownie.

A girl died.

Her name was Vanessa. She was loved in our school. I'm pretty sure it was only because she was pretty and smart. She was the star player on the volleyball team, everyone was sure she would go pro, make a life for herself. But Vanessa had secrets. A couple people knew about these secrets, just close friends who she had told. She told her best friend, Claire, who told everyone. She was sleeping with the principal. Apparently, her grades were pretty bad, and she needed some "extra help". She performed sexual favors for our principal in favor for straight A's. Of course, this caused a massive scandal in our town. But what shocked us, was that Vanessa was gay. Yeah, our ex-principal, a female. I think that's the real reason Vanessa didn't want this to come out, she wanted to stay in the closet. Her parents are hella homophobic. I'm not surprised she killed herself.

Karrie told me I should write about how I feel concerning the death of Vanessa. Honestly, I don't give a fuck. It's not like were close. She was a basic white bitch. Like, I guess I'm supposed to feel sad such an amazing soul died so young, but I never liked her anyway. She got on my nerves. I wouldn't really care if I was her friend. She wanted to die, we should respect her choice, you know? I'm pissed she died though cause for the next week or so I'm required to go to memorial services and put a flower on her locker and mourn the death and sweet ole Vanessa. If it was 40 so years ago nobody would give a fuck cause she liked girls. I'm glad we're progressive, especially because we're a small redneck town, but I don't care about Vanessa. Nobody's even gonna remember her next month. The next big thing will happen and everyone's gonna start talking about that. All it's gonna be is RIP Vanessa then OMG Ty cheated on Cherry with Ivannia?! Oh shit, forgot, I'm not supposed to know about that. For the record it's fucking obvious, Cherry's just dumb, but that's gonna get out eventually, and I think it might be sooner then later. But don't look at me, I didn't say anything.

-Gina B

"Will you still be here in the morning?"

I raise my eyebrows at the elderly man sitting across from me, "Is there a reason I should be?"

"Well...You know your parents should be back--"

"I know when they'll be back, I'm the one that paid for their entire vacation. I didn't come to see them. I'll be gone before their flight even lands."

I came to see my childhood home, to see if it was what I remembered, or if it was better or warmer even. But no. It was the same house, only now filled with more exquisite decorations--decorations bought with the money I'd given them over the years without even a 'thank you' note in return.

"Linzi, you haven't seen them since you moved out... They're your parents," Kenny's wrinkled hands shake slightly from an emotion that is hidden from his soft, thoughtful face. He's what people would call a family friend, to me he's the grandpa I wish I had. And he's currently house sitting for my constantly emotionally unavailable parents.

The feeling that has always haunts my stomach thunders to life, an unexplainable anxiety. The need to leave. I've been here too long. The air is heavier and the lights are brighter. Too bright. My foot starts tapping a terrified beat.

"Try telling them that, Kenny." Even my voice is shaky. I quickly rise to my feet, and dust off the crumbs of dinner. "I need to go."

"Wait!" Kenny's old joints audibly moan as he starts to follow me up. But I'm already rushing from the dining room to the front door.

"Linzi!" He calls after me, but my expensive fur coat's draped over my shoulder, and my right hand grips my keys and phone.

When the door opens, and the cool night air sinks into my bones, a bit of the anxiety fades. I'm almost gone, almost free.

"Your bags!" Kenny calls, still in the dining room. He's stopped trying to chase after me, because this is what happens every time I stay too long.

"I'll just buy more."

I shut the door with finality; the road awaits.

I wonder where I'll go next, if anywhere will be enough to hold me for more than a couple of days. If I can ever find a place that gives me inner peace, where my soul can be put to rest.

But for now, I'll just be the journeying rich girl the media ponders and my parents ignore.

I sit, crouched in the brush, eyes wide, breathing heavy. I try to slow my breath so they won’t find me. Innnnn, outttttt, shhhhhhh. I am repeating this mantra in my head over and over. I’m kicking myself for wearing a bright red cardigan and my favorite perfume today. They will probably find me. Actually, why was I even here in the first place? Coming into the earnings of my great aunt, who had suddenly died, was the worst thing that could have happened to me. I had imagined exploring the world. Going to places undiscovered. My uncle had advised me to buy a place to live and settle down. But, why? I had never been out of the country before. Let alone, Africa. Ohhh, why did I have to choose Africa?? Paw thumps on the ground bring me out of my thoughts. I lower myself even more, trying to be as close to the ground as possible. Slow, even breathing now I’m trying to plan my escape again. I was with a tour safari group a few hours ago. Until our small jeep was ransacked by a pack of she-lions. Africa was in the worst drought in history and the prey was dying off. These big lions were trying to find anything they could. Our jeep tire had become lodged in a mud plot, a small pond had evaporated. We were absolutely stuck. The four of us in back were instructed to sit tight while the driver got out and tried to free us. He told us we were in Lion-Land. All of the sudden he jumped back in the car and told us to get down! As I was bending over, out of the corner of my eye, I saw five, giant lions surrounding us. One of the gals, I assumed the leader, had jumped up on the driver’s side window and smashed her paw through the glass. The driver tried to dodge her and jump to the passenger side. But all at once, she crashed her entire head through the rest of the breaking glass and pulled the driver out by his neck through the small entrance, encased in her sharp teeth. He didn’t even make a sound. At least it was quick.

Under the brush now, I can see four of the five lions approaching, raising their noses to the air to catch my scent. They were relentless. They wouldn’t stop. I was the only one left. They were about ten paces away from me. I carefully look around again, there was just no where left to go. I had successfully averted them three times now. The leader of their pride I could tell was growing angry. I knew she wouldn’t stop until she had all five of us. One for each of her family with her -they had to survive. I knew behind me was a large, stone wall of sorts. I was in the brush at the base. To my sides, the rock face ran at least thirteen yards in both directions. Too long a distance to dart away, too high to climb. I was doomed. Suddenly I can hear the paws stop. I look forward again, and I can see them all standing in a close group. The alpha turns her head behind her and makes a sound to her partners. They reluctantly disperse back in the direction we all came. Then she turns her eyes straight. Right at me. I try to stifle tears as she starts inching closer, and closer…closer. She has a look, a look that says she’s got me now. I know I shouldn’t run because that would make it all the more exciting for her. I decide to stay there and accept my fate. I lay on the ground and curl up. This time I let my tears fall. I hear her. She’s very near. Small sticks from the brush crack under her tremendous weight. I feel her hot breath on the back of my neck and she starts smacking her teeth. She‘s purring. How insidious.

This is it….

*THUD*

The noise was so startling, I jumped to all fours. The lion lay there, in front of me -still and…dead. Dead? What? My eyes dart around her body in a snap to try and grasp what just happened. I see in her neck a small needle-like stick. I cautiously move just a bit closer to see it clearer, and I immediately back off. Just the smell makes me woozy. Some gravel falls behind me from the top of the rock. I freeze. My eyes wide. I collect that whoever saved my life is probably up there. Who is it? Do I dare turn around? I decide to look, I always have to look. Maybe after-all I will buy a house and settle down when I get home…if I make it home. I’m done with adventure for this lifetime. I take a deep breath and turn around. There, at the top of the rock is a very large man. He has the biggest muscles I have ever seen. He has paint all over in beautiful yet daunting symbols, and he’s completely nude besides a small cloth. He looks at me with wild eyes. I wonder what he’s thinking. I don’t want to find out. I get up and I start running as fast as I can. Anywhere. When I get some distance I decide to glance behind me. Bad idea. The man is right on my tail. How did he get down so fast? I try to pick up my pace, but I’m too tired. I decide to call it quits. I collapse on the ground to accept my fate, once again. He catches up and stops above me. He pulls my shoulders and makes me sit up. His eyes are the most stunning brown I have every seen. So much story in them. I search his face for any emotion of what he might be thinking but there’s none, he’s a statue. And just like that he picks me up and slings me over his shoulders. I make a huge fuss, kicking and screaming. He has a hard time holding me, so he drops me hard on the ground. Ouch. He shakes his head at me, I knew that was the universal sign for “knock it off.” I wouldn’t, though. He slings me up again and I repeat my fit. This time I feel his hand and a tremendous pressure on my neck. Things start fading to black and sleep is coming fast.…where are you taking me? Ohhh why’d I have to choose Africa?

Mara blinked her eyes, then squeezed them shut. How long had she been out for? Slowly, she opened her eyes again. Trying to sit up to look around, she realised that her body was completely paralyzed. What kind of chemical was in that drink?

"Oh, you're awake," Mara heard a voice next to her, "guess I didn't give you enough of that drink. Did I?"

Mara, being unable to speak, was unable to tell Jackie that she should just go to hell. Mara just lay where she was listening to Jackie rant on.

"You know, after today everyone will forget everything they ever knew about me. Why? Well because that chemical wasn't just in your drink. Everybody who drank it will wake up with a minor concussion and forget everything about me. When they do, I won't be anywhere trackable," the warm breathe from her mouth sent unfelt shivers down Mara's back, "have fun getting over the last few years of your life."

Even though Mara couldn't see Jackie, she could tell that she was smirking. Mara felt like punching the girl who she once called a friend.

As she lay her head back on the hospital bed, she waited to hear Jackie's footsteps fade down the hall. While hearing the footsteps, Mara could also here Jackie laughing.

"She's enjoying every single second I'm suffering," Mara thought to herself. She lay there feeling exhausted. The clock, which she could barely see, read 4:25. The second hand kept ticking. Mara couldn't help but think about Mike, she started to fantasize about him coming to check on her.

With Mike in her mind, Mara soon fell asleep.

It had been a long time since Mara had heard the stories about the cryptids. Mara had heard about nymphs, sirens, and most importantly, doppelgangers. It was a cold December night, the night of the winter formal at the high school, Mara was looking in the mirror as she put her makeup on. Suddenly in the mirror appeared a second face, so similar to hers that she quickly turned around; nobody was there.

Mara turned back to the mirror to see that there was only one reflection there. Creepy, Mara thought as she went to tell her parents goodbye.

"Have a nice time," her mother said.

"Be careful, don't take anything offered to you," her father ordered, "who knows what might have been placed in the punch."

Weird, that sounds like Dad's adding to the warning from my doppelganger. If it was my doppelganger. Mara just nodded, "of course, Dad, I'll watch myself."

When Mara arrived at the high school she couldn't help but keep scanning the crowd of her peers. Immediately her eyes locked on a girl who looked quite similar to her, but as the girl turned around Mara could tell that it was one of her friends. Her friend, Jackie, looked almost exactly like her, and almost the whole school year they had been mixed up by friends and teachers.

Tonight's definitely different, Jackie looks a lot like my second reflection I saw earlier. Maybe I should try my best to avoid her tonight, just in case my theory is correct.

"Hey, Jackie," Mara heard a male voice from behind her.

Mara slowly turned around, it was Michael Fischer, the boy that she had had a crush on since eighth grade. Why? Why has he always seemed to think Jackie is more attractive than me?

"Actually I'm Mara, sorry." As Mara turned away to go request her favorite song to the DJ, Michael grabbed her arm.

"I know, I just wanted to see your reaction," he smiled. Mara knew that the rumors about his canine teeth weren't true, but tonight they looked a little exceedingly sharp. Though she knew that if the rumors were true, he would have bitten someone by now.

"And?" Out of curiosity, Mara also smiled.

"You're still mad when people mix you and Jackie up," Michael said, chuckling, "I actually came over here to ask you something."

No way! Is he about to ask me to dance! I can't believe it!

"Do you wanna go outside and dance, I don't like dancing with girls in front of other people?"

Oh, well it's close, but I might have to stay inside.

"Sorry, Mike, could we just dance inside? I feel like it's too cold to go outside."

"Well, if it makes you more comfortable, I guess it won't kill me," he smiled again.

As they glided across the floor, Mara almost forgot all about Jackie and her theory. Until the song ended.

"I'm thirsty, wanna get a drink?"

"Maybe later, I think the punch might be a bit dry," Mara said, trying to make a good excuse.

"Oh, yeah. I'll probably wait until I get home as well."

Is he only agreeing with me because he likes me, or is there something I'm missing?

As Michael walked away, a hand holding a cup appeared in front of her. Mara looked up to see Jackie smiling. Jackie, with her brunette hair in a princess bun, sporting a short black dress, and red and black Louboutins. A small tiara sitting perfectly in the middle of her hair.

"Hey, girl. I was wondering if you were here." Jackie's smile seemed a little inhuman like as she pushed the drink into Mara's hands.

"Don't worry, I already took a sip for you. Drink it, you look dehydrated."

This has to be a threat, is there a way I can fool her into thinking I drank it? Maybe I can tell her that I have to go to the bathroom? Dad never told me how he survived his encounter with his doppelganger, if only he were here, he'd know what to do.

Before Mara could say anything, Jackie was already forcing the drink into her mouth. Mara, trying hard not to swallow, allowed the punch to enter her mouth. I hope Michael comes back, she couldn't help thinking.

Before she knew it everything went blurry.