My skeleton lover lies beneath my bed each night.

Most times, I am blissfully unaware of his presence.

Not every night I am naïve, however-

And tonight I lay here sleepless unable to shake the feeling of him.

He is the emptiness in my chest,

He weighs on me so deeply I cannot be free.

Not of him-

Or my bed.

On these nights he crawls into my bed,

Draws his skeletal hands over my arms,

And his sharp tongue across my back.

He is comforting in a sad way.

The way late night walks and early autumn leaves feel-

A certain melancholy familiarity with a sort of charm.

He plunges his dry tongue through my chest,

bones snapped and my innards rebelling against him in squelching protest.

Screams pierce the air although I don't know if they are mine-

I am disconnected, in a strange way, from my own self.

At last he draws out my bloody heart, its frantic beating now the only sound in the room.

He curls his tongue inward, veins still connected to my deranged body stretching and finally snapping-

Covering my bed and himself in blood.

Finally he places my heart in his mouth, savoring it like a sugar-filled sweet

And devours me.

"Bad news Wasila? What could possibly be worse than being impaled with ice spikes, and losing our healing items?"

"Plenty Rick." Wasila smiled. "If you remember, my abilities allow me to not only absorb someone else's magic ability, but enhance its power too. Within a minute or two those ice spikes are going to grow, and they will no doubt pierce your heart, along with Janet's. It will be the end of the line for you both."

"Well, that's a shame." Janet said sheepishly. "So how did you survive the point blank blast with my laser gun to your head?"

"Simple, there was a special kitten hairpin in my hair that absorbed the damage of the blast. The pin disappeared after protecting me. If it makes you feel any better Janet, if I hadn't used that item, your shot would have defeated me."

"See Rick, I told you she had a hairpin!" Janet laughed before wincing in pain.

"It won't be much longer." Wasila responded gently, dropping her villain act for the moment. "The ice will end your lives in this simulation, then you will safely return to the hub. Did you have any last words before Tate and I claim the win?"

"Yeah, you forgot one little thing." Janet answered.

"Oh? And what's that?"

"We were hoping to stop you ourselves, but we had a worse case scenario plan in order if we failed." Rick stated. "You seem to have forgotten about one of our crew members."

"Essie...." Wasila said with a smile, looking in the distance and observing massive flames generating from both of Essie's hands.

"While we were absolutely intending to take you down, we were also serving as a distraction to allow Essie to charge her new fire spell." Janet explained. "Not only are her flames even stronger, but they have the added ability of locking on to their targets. Guess who those two targets are?"

The ice spikes then spread through Rick and Janet's bodies, striking their vitals and ending their lives in the simulation. As both of their bodies disintegrated into dust, Essie screamed as she sent dual flames flying towards Wasila and Tate.

To be continued....

*****

Training World Arc

Prior stories/chapters from this plotline:

- Team Janet vs Team Sic - https://theprose.com/post/467594/team-janet-vs-team-sic

- A New Adventure Begins! A 20 Word Teaser! (Chapter 109) - https://theprose.com/post/469384/a-new-adventure-begins-a-20-word-teaser

- Coffee And Dreams (Chapter 110) - https://theprose.com/post/469464/coffee-and-dreams

- Infected City Arc Closure (Chapter 111) - https://theprose.com/post/470462/infected-city-arc-closure

- A New Dimension - The Training World (Chapter 112) - https://theprose.com/post/472712/a-new-dimension-the-training-world

- Training, Or Vacation? (Chapter 113) - https://theprose.com/post/476376/training-or-vacation

- The Hub (Chapter 114) - https://theprose.com/post/478137/the-hub

- Janet vs Leftover: Rematch? (Chapter 115) - https://theprose.com/post/481194/janet-vs-leftover-rematch

- Follow Up (Chapter 116) - https://theprose.com/post/484088/follow-up

- Catching Up (Chapter 117) - https://theprose.com/post/484441/catching-up

- Portal To The Next Fight (Chapter 118) - https://theprose.com/post/491899/portal-to-the-next-fight

- Clash of the Mages (Chapter 119) - https://theprose.com/post/499792/clash-of-the-mages

- Team Essie (Chapter 120) - https://theprose.com/post/502330/team-essie

- A New Trick (Chapter 121) - https://theprose.com/post/504534/a-new-trick

- Darn Mosquito (Chapter 122) - https://theprose.com/post/510059/darn-mosquito

- Playing Offense: Rick and Janet (Chapter 123) - https://theprose.com/post/533308/playing-offense-rick-and-janet

- Injured Musings (Chapter 124) - https://theprose.com/post/534943/injured-musings

the way you've looked at me this week

has brought me right back

to believing that you're the one

you feel so close

but so far away

like if i reach out to touch you

you'd disappear

i know there's no way you could understand

what i'm feeling right now

but i want you to

i want to tell you

if you'd listen

i want to tell you that you could have me back

that all you have to do is say the word

and i'll end it with him

we'll be us again

i want to tell you that you could do so much better than her

i'm not talking about me

just in general

you deserve better than her

i want to tell you that even though he's good to me

and i really like him

that no one could ever replace you

no one will ever feel the same

i will never love someone like i love you

but you have someone else

you've moved on

she gives you everything i never could

and i'm sorry

i miss you still

even after all this time

Three sagas which started

from the Timeless Halls

and continued in Middle Earth.

A never-ending story

of good and evil, light and dark, balance and imbalance, life and death, war and peace, and love and hate

among Men, Hobbits, Dwarves, Elves,

the Maia and Ainur.

One decision

can affect the outcome of another.

Heroes can fail in just one move.

But the story rolled on.

I. Of Ilúvatar and Melkor

Ilúvatar is the Great Persona

behind the creation of the World.

He created the Ainur, Maiar,

Elves, Men,

adopted the Dwarves

and Hobbits.

But with his creation,

an Ainu wanted

to surpass his creator.

Melkor is his name.

He corrupted creatures

in Middle Earth.

From making Balrogs to Orcs

and spreading evil in the world,

he believed in that cruel way of living.

But Ilúvatar never left

his Children to his hands.

II. The Valar vs. Melkor

Before the Children of Ilúvatar

wakes up,

the Valar dealed

with Melkor first.

If you were even in their shoes,

you would also be yelling at him with,

"I'm so done with you, you dimwit!"

But even if Melkor

is the strongest of the Ainur,

he's the weakest in morals and values.

He just thinks about himself

and what he can gain—

such a lonely life he had.

But the Valar has a good plan

for him to be subdued.

III. The Eldar, The Naugrim, and The Edain vs. Melkor/Morgoth

The Valar may have saved

the firstborn Children of Ilúvatar from harm

but as long as Melkor exists,

darkness lurks and lives.

The Elves may have been in bliss

even mingling with a Maiar

and marrying that same deity,

but it never lived long

because when the Silmarils

made by Fëanor

were robbed by Morgoth,

everything changed.

At this time, the first of the Dwarves

also woke up, living underneath

Middle Earth's rich caves.

And this started a friendship and rivalry

between the Firstborn Children of Ilúvatar and his adopted ones

made by Aulë, the Ainu of the Earth.

But chaos slowly grew in each soul

that stayed in Arda.

Sauron is one Morgoth's disciples

which stayed strong

and spread his lies to Middle Earth.

Even the first Men,

the Second Children of Ilúvatar,

who roamed

the vast lands of Middle Earth

had their share of being corrupted

by Morgoth's malevolence.

On the other hand,

Fëanor of the Elves

did not give up until

he had his jewels back.

He even involved his offsprings

to search for those shiny gems.

The first Silmaril was thrown

in the sky, staying there.

The second and third

was thrown in the sea

and in a fiery pit in the earth.

This also ends Melkor

or Morgoth's residency

in Middle Earth.

The Valar threw him in the Void

to make him realize his mistakes.

III. Middle Earth vs. Sauron

In this stage, Middle Earth started

to be organized by its rulers

in every state.

Union between different groups

of people heightened in this era.

One group of Men

became the Númenoreans

and were powerful people.

They also had ups and downs

in leading their people

yet the most dire downfall

in their history

is when Sauron infiltrated

and corrupted the minds

of the greatest Men

living in Middle Earth.

The other races

also fell to Sauron's words of evil—

the reason why the Rings

were made in this age, too.

"Three Rings for the Elven-kings

under the sky"—

the only rings Sauron never possessed,

and which Celebrimbor

made without any help

to preserve the Elven domains

and help to ward off evil.

But they still have

a bit of a link

to the One Ring

until it would be wrecked.

"Seven for the Dwarf-lords

in their halls of stone"—

greed consumed the Dwarven lords

for they have a tough tolerance

to Sauron's evil whispers.

But they were still

changed for the worse

which made Sauron's plan work.

"Nine for Mortal Men

doomed to die"—

since they were the weakest

of all the people of Middle Earth,

they became the Nazgûl,

phantoms for spreading darkness,

screeching and frightening people.

"One for the Dark Lord

on his dark throne

In the Land of Mordor

where the Shadows lie."

Sauron made this ring to:

rule them all that lives in Arda,

find them to corrupt their minds,

bring them all to give them misery,

"and in the darkness bind them."

Then in a war,

Isildur cut Sauron's finger

but he still kept the Ring

thinking it was essential

and important.

He was just being tricked

and corrupted

until it betrayed him

in the Disaster of the Gladden Fields

where it was lost.

But, Saruman who is Sauron's disciple

still remains dormant

to spread chaos.

III. Middle Earth vs. Saruman and the One Ring

After years of being hidden,

the One Ring is found

inside a fish caught by Stoor cousins Déagol and Sméagol

where Smeagol killed his cousin

and claimed the Ring for himself

as his birthday present.

As the Ring was in his possession,

it corrupted him into having Gollum,

a crazy evil identity created by the Ring which poisoned his mind.

One time when Gollum stayed

in the caverns of Misty Mountains,

he lost his "precious"

and was found by Bilbo Baggins.

The shrewd funny Hobbit

then used it to have advantage

over some situations.

Its power made him go invisible.

At first it helped him

during his journey

with the Durin Dwarves

but as he grew old, this began to corrupt him, too.

He even said that it made him

live longer yet become

"thin and stretched" in the process.

So Gandalf intervened

and helped with destroying it.

He said that it should be thrown

to Mt. Doom to destroy it.

In the Fellowship

that the races made

in Rivendell,

Frodo, Bilbo's nephew,

volunteered to take the Ring

to Mordor to be destroyed.

In this time,

Middle Earth met Saruman,

one of Sauron's cronies.

He made the journey

for Frodo and his friends

so difficult that one of the people

from their team died

because of the Ring

and the Orcs who hunted them.

Ringwraiths also made the trail

to Mordor seem like a hard task.

But it's fortunate for them

that their team gained friends

and allies along the way.

Aragorn gathered a lot of his kin,

even the ghosts who promised

to fight to take down the almost unbeatable evil.

And everyone took their part

to impart their abilities

to bring light back to Middle Earth.

Sam, Frodo's bestfriend,

also helped him to get rid of the Ring.

Unfortunately, Frodo

was impaired by the One Ring

when they reached Sammath Naur.

Luckily, Sméagol bit Frodo's finger

when he was being consumed

and it fell in the fires of Mt. Doom

with the Stoor calling it his precious.

The Ring was wrecked,

peace came back,

and this started the Fourth Age

where Elves started to diminish

and go to Valinor in the West,

and where Men reigned

in Middle Earth to vanquish

a New Shadow.

You sleep.

You have slept for a long time.

We sleep. It might mean the same thing. We are indiscernible from each other now, but that was not always the truth.

We sleep for so long that we no longer know if we are sleeping. It only makes sense at this point that we are the same.

Again, maybe, or maybe for the first time, you put your head on the pillow before you are gone, gone, forever and never and again and again.

We have memorized the whole world and backward, so we sleep to see something new, twisted variations of our home.

You have seen everything twice over, will see it again in dream, on its head, in reverse. We have seen everything thrice when considered as one.

You sleep. I sleep. Perhaps it is all we have ever done.

I come home to you, asleep. My blood in my own hands as you dream, and I dream alongside you. Maybe we have always been dreaming.

Maybe our blood is choking the rivers and the streams of who we once were before love razed it to the ground, maybe it dances like clouds in the sky, laughs like the trees in our eternal sleep.

Maybe it courses through our veins as it always has, unchanged by our dreams. Wouldn’t that be nice? But the paint on the walls is a sickly red and I fear it is too late for us, maybe always has been. Our love has always been a broken one, darling, no matter how we tried to ink over our snapped bones and bruised tears.

Our love has always been a broken one, darling. We have always been broken too.

Some things are beyond fixing. You were one of them. We were two of them, together. We looked at those that were unbroken and laughed.

Once, we laughed before we slept. I wonder if we have simply forgotten how.

You once said that there was darkness to my eyes. I wonder now if it was darkness you saw, or simply your own shadow.

Am I awake now, darling? Is our room with walls painted red the dream? Did I wake here to this beautiful world of our memories, or are we lost here in a land not our own?

I stood by. I stood by as you took our broken parts and tried to piece them back together and made something worse than we had ever been. I stood by as we fell asleep, as we forgot how to wake up.

I stood by as you forgot who you were, stood by until I did not know either but for the evidence on our walls.

We took our broken selves to a new room, invited our problems in and said welcome home, how I have missed your presence, how I do not know how to live without you.

Our love has always been a beautiful, broken thing, my darling, but I think it is worse than before. I will love you forever in our room where blood drips from the walls and we dream without sleeping and sleep without dreaming and do both at once and neither all at the same time. I will love you forever as our home becomes our grave, as our restless rest becomes eternal.

I will love you forever and I know you will love my remains in turn, in our room of beautiful broken things.

Only remnants.

Only sad, pale remnants were left of the once advanced, conquering nation of America.

Sure it was already broken and ridiculous. Adults ran it all after all.

But it had still been theirs.

A kid could play ball, play a few pranks, and nick a candy bar or two.

The real stuff worth anything in this world. Not bread or gross fish with marble staring eyes, not gems and women’s jewelry glittering and posh, or freaking water. Plastic too. What had happened to all the plastic?

As it stood three battered, battle worn orphans limped across broken pavement that was melting to more and more soil. Tree cover from towering conifers and deciduous jutting from the remains of what used to be cement, metal, and other materials he couldn’t and did not care to think about.

Others.

Others had converted to shacks and lean-to of leather and skin.

Bones as window panes and bars.

Parchment of sale prices and auction in the same tone as even Talia’s skin making them all shiver.

Not a word had been said. Not after a night spent on the precarious hill housing a family of warthogs and hedgehogs. Not when they’d pilfered food off a cart by jumping on and off as it went about its trail.

Not when grotesque vultures and flying taut skinned corpses of fish, lizards, snakes, and humans tried to sweep down for a bite.

Gregory was in the lead. Scouring and crouching, beneath branch work, up pistons of drooping blossoms at least eleven feet tall and double-wide working as this fancy seasonal restaurant.

Come to think… it was, it was spring right now.

Last he’d remembered any grassy terrain, any modern windows or stained glass, the fields of the Keep, had all been buried in furious red and orange leaves.

He pointed toward a completely green pavilion with holey trees. Each indentation of a door made of dewy leaves or curtain moss likely a store.

“Greg I–”

“No,” he said sharply to the new pair.

“Come on–”

“Not. Now.”

He didn’t need to be reminded what a moron he’d been. What a dumb sacrificial lamb he’d let himself turn into. Even if– even if there could have still been time. If Talia–

If Mario had–

If Greg had fought her off. Showed her who was actually in charge and who needed who.

Because right now it was almost like the only people he had left; his ally and this turncoat wanted to baby him.

Well tough because he was the only one they had either.

Upon the pavilion was tranquil, lazy energy. No one at alert. Everyone dumbly happy and trading gossip and rumors.

Talk of the next shipment of grains.

The new press gems.

The fire stones or pearls. Soldiers going en masse to Salem. The witch town and holding state for zealots and dissenters.

All invaluable information.

Sunstones equaled some new staffs ripe to steal or sell on some underground markets. Enough for a militia. That would be entertaining. Hopefully, some up his ass teenager had some balls.

If they could maybe get jobs checking or packing the grain.

They took anyone.

Girls were always in demand to cook the bread.

It looked like vines tied to crude baskets was how anyone got into the upper rungs of shops.

“Hey!” he called to a random passerby. A man with a bald spot and wearing a combination of jopula, modern LGBT buttons, and bleach jeans with an unnatural pink that was not on the market as a natural dye.

Jopula. Ugh, just the word made him gag.

“Ye– yes, what can I–”

He gave them the once over.

“Yes we look a fright,” Talia said. “Positively wretched and demented.” A dark inflection came to her tone.

“No, no,” Mario cut in, turning on the ten-year-old puppy eyes. “Umm I’m sorry but, where’s a clothing shop?”

“Ah ha– hah,” the man laughed nervously. “Right, right on the second story. Can’t miss it. I uh, I recommend Wilhelm Date. When you,” he lowered to a whisper, “don’t need to look like yourself.”

Greg’s eyes widened. All the same, he retained his contemptuous glare. “We can manage. I’d be more worried if I were as jaunty and so obviously suspect my good man.” A stretched, ingenuine smile soured his next words. “Just, food for thought from a rough gem.”

His eyes instantly settled upon the bulging pocket of gold or some other tradeable item.

The man began to sweat.

He looked to Talia whose stare was blank and piercing.

Fanning his face he decided they weren’t worth another thought. A sardonic smile remained on his face.

The basket was an awful experience. And both his friends had insisted upon looking down, even as Mario grew sick from the height, needing to sit at the very end to regain his bearing.

“So small, so small,” he groaned dazedly, dark eyes practically floating and swimming out of focus.

Greg simply picked at the worn fabric of his mandated shirt and pants. The strangling belt on his waist had been taken. As if they didn’t want him to make a noose out of it while in solitary.

“Hey now,” Talia lifted a finger, “I just realized,” a few lookovers as if they needed to be more suspicious, “we have no way to pay for anything.”

Mario and Greg looked at each other. Even he was starting to pity Talia just a little.

Smiling, the boys assured her, “leave that part to us. We have our ways.”

She frowned, clearly not liking the looks of them but letting it settle anyway.

“I am going to die with these two,” mumbled her very grateful self, black hair piling around her face. “May not be too bad. I wonder–”

Cree–py.

Fairies hung about, flying languidly around the customers shopping. Feeders were strung on the ceiling, shimmering with geodes and full of fat golden nectar or sap. Some with leaf shavings giving the shop an air of allergy.

Greg directed them to split off. Don’t give too much hint that they were together. With a nod, Talia complied.

“Keep an eye anyway and be ready to spring that alarm over there,” Greg said pointing out some kind of bell near the counter.

“Got it,” he confirmed. “And besides the usual fare, what should we stock up on?”

“Whatever you can get,” he said. He was seeing a lot of unguarded wallets and seed rations. Not to mention the hanging jewelry.

Not only did Wilhelm Date offer clothing of all sizes and medieval styles but also bubble bottles of potions to string on belts like garland, sword sheaths, daggers, bayonets, masks, charms, and spell texts.

Greg looked about from all the vests, cloaks, and capes. Nothing he would be caught dead wearing except at a Ren fair or a fantasy film premiere. Callously letting each piece drop to the floor he continued on.

Spider silk and caterpillar material the tags read. Some, still in fresh ink and coming off his hands.

“Ahh excuse me,” said the meek voice of a spindly Asian-looking girl. Greg aimed a powerful glare making him yelp like a poodle. “Ahhh! Um, the mess–”

“And? What of it? I didn’t do it.”

There were so many crowds and no cameras to prove he did anything. He’d checked.

“No, no of course not but uhh you seem to be struggling to find something, and well,” he gave him the usual once over, taking in his shredded, stained Keep-wear. “Are you sure you’re in the right place?”

“I came here for a new set of clothes.”

“Yes but, some if not all are more in the Middle range,” she explained. “Hunters and soldiers. People with gold and jewels.”

“Okay, then what else?”

“Excuse me?”

“What else do you have? You have a bargain or clearance bin don’t you?” Greg griped. “Rags and stuff you can’t wait to get rid of.”

“O–over there,” she said pointing to lo and behold a beaten down cart with a load of mixed up, overflowing shirts, pants, and undergarments.

“Now was that so hard?” he asked sweetly.

She moved along with bitter eyes glowering at him, keeping a suspicious glance. Surely she was rearing to call security.

Greg quickly found a black short sleeve top tied at the collar with drawstring but made of linen. Human fabric.

He picked out pants that had to have been recycled from potato sacks and abnormally long stockings.

Making for the back dressing rooms he carved out a path from the thinning shoppers. If he stayed to the walls, leaped from the table of scarves and a display of spinning jewels. Not bad.

Talia was closer to the front door.

And with that cacophony broke loose when the chaotic jangle of the clock bell out of place rang.

The crystals now pulsed a darkly threatening purple.

Crap. Why purple.

For a frightening, petrifying moment his heart had seized remembering his orb. The orb in the solitary room. A companion and burrowing worm of insanity.

Greg growled, pushing down the urge to fling a rock at the offending crystal.

The initial path he had planned was forfeit.

“Go! Go! GO!” Mario bellowed to Talia but still trapped in the panic of fleeing customers, the bell clanging eternally.

Until a wave of a hand and the grunt of a man too wide and tall to be allowed silenced the noise.

If Greg had to describe Wilhelm Date it would be… golem.

Thickly muscled limbs stuffed into a skirt, brambles of blond hair in tasteful braids beaded with small cartilage dipped in liquid amber. A sharply defined face with hints of mossy stubble.

“Do calm yourselves, a false alarm is all,” said his faint, girlish tone whispered to Greg’s side.

Mr. Date or whatever, Greg had no idea as he was completely uninterested in asking, laughing boisterously with each heave that he separated customers off of each other.

“Midnight blue and pale as the moon, Willie approves M’Lady,” he said to Talia whose eyes were frozen.

“Though and correct me if I’m wrong,” he hummed a finger to his chin.

“Powders!” Greg yelled, acting fast with some of the healing grounds. Date shrieked to the powder digging into his eyeballs, sizzling mist coming from his cheeks.

His leg rose to deliver a practiced and deadly spear kick only for the flesh to become clay, encasing his foot in between his stomach, and oh Lord he felt everything! Ugh, there was gooey stuff.

Women screamed, some retched.

Date’s bloodshot eyes peered into Greg with malice.

“Now, now sir there’s no reason to be so dissatisfied.”

He struggled against the entrapment, nearly unbalancing himself while the golem man-woman kept upright.

Then a whoosh of air grazed his ear, making his hair blow.

A searing flash of white burst in his eyelids when Talia swept her new scepter, the quartz a milky white now as a drill spun and drove itself into the sidewall.

She tried again in a wider arc creating a whip of white magic.

And people disintegrated into rainbows of sand.

She gaped. Greg had gone chalk white.

Only her eyes still hardened, resolve turned to complete, unyielding and apathetic steel, biting her lip as she branded the scepter to its side in one hand.

Making use of the glass, after slicing his own hand, Greg slashed at Date’s stomach, embedding the jagged shard in his thigh through the skirt.

The storekeeper grimaced in pain even as his flesh churned and morphed around the uneven shape.

An entire mob had broken out to apprehend them.

Only it wasn’t so easy.

Gregory had absolutely no care for almost anyone, barely did for Talia Perlick and Mario Huarez had known what he’d signed up for when they’d been thirteen and fourteen.

The strikes of magic and weaponry gave Mario plenty of broken wood and metal to work with to do what he absolutely had to. Shunting the throngs aside or giving warning swats to heads and rib cages.

The regular civilian was much easier to overpower with twists of his spine and squirrely street fighting. Easier still with the set of tipped arrows he had picked up that sent them reeling or eyes roiling over their heads.

There was no hope for the door anymore.

Not only had local militia and hunters become aware of the commotion but the bell had been rung again and the now purple store would probably be overrun with royal authorities.

Talia solved that problem courtesy of a liquid fire brew blasting a hole into the floor and another crater into one of the tree walls.

Without hesitation, she grazed her fingers to make a path of crouched backs to act as their stepping stones.

Eyes utterly cold and her silence deeper the two followed her.

Gregory tried to engage her. That was not only some quick, savage thinking but way ballsy and much more ruthless than he’d ever expected out of inexperienced, naive Perlick.

“You could have told me the plan,” she said and she didn’t sound angry.

Instead, Gregory realized she was trembling. Whipping around he could see she was teary-eyed. “I– I had to do something terrible today and– and I don’t know if it can be undone!”

Gregory scratched the back of his neck. “They’re hardly the first. Tens of thousands died just eight years ago and these freaks weren’t even trying. Now at least a third of ’em are galavanting about,” he smiled somewhat cruelly, “I say at least half in there got some of what they deserved.”

“And that’s supposed to make it better that I–”

She stared into her hands.

“So much red. All that red sand, was it their blood? I mean I like a good dissection or torture fest of human blood but that– that was something else. Something demonic.”

“Hey look,” said Mario’s tender voice trying to touch her shoulder and bring Talia out of her weird dark trance. Only for her to flinch as if he were some swamp thing.

“We should get some more distance between us and the crime scene,” she said. “I bet they boil Keep escapees and feed them to the undead to keep them in the underground bowels while trying to gas them deader.”

Okay then.

One could say whatever they wanted but even Gregory couldn’t deny it was moments like that that made him still his hand on betraying her, even if she was likely to do it first.

Seriously… girls that pretty could almost only be snobs.

“Where should we stay for the night now?” Mario asked, turning to Gregory.

Somehow he’d ended up on their flank and something in their sharp, cautious strides made him suspect they very much considered themselves his bodyguards somehow.

Yeah right.

As if Mario’s body were still prepubescent or Talia hadn’t just had a mini mental break about— well okay he supposed she’d had the right.

He’d never killed anyone and sometimes he’d marinated in self-loathing so strong it ripped him apart at the seams in such a brutal yet slow way. No way did someone so terrible, so disturbed deserve a quick end.

“The crags where the San Francisco bridge used to be. It’s an entire grotto of displaced, mostly adults but they’re pretty cool.”

It’s actually where Gregory would have actually liked to go in what was left of California. He’d heard vague whispers of the grotto, but only that it was a decline of craggy rock with new caves, plenty of predators, but some floating strongholds Earth forces had abandoned and plenty of scrap metal from military tech that had been being developed on the human end of things.

“Great, then Golden Bridge Grotto it is,” Mario chirped. Until his stomach gave a mighty rumble. “Except could we–?”

Greg sighed. “Yeah, we could all use a bite.”

He glanced at Talia again. She’d remained mute, looking away without even seeing if she was being stared at.

“Thanks,” Gregory said.

“Huh?” she asked, blinking like a cat. Why did girls do that cute stuff? He seriously didn’t get it. Even the fun boyish ones.

“You saved me,” he said. “I know it’s only because you need me, which is so obvious now.” He scoffed but still softened, “I’ll make sure you don’t have to do that again, but don’t go thinking you’re some hero snapping, you aren’t. You’re just as human and screwed as the rest of us.”

“I suppose I am,” she murmured. “Sorry. I know that kind of stuff is ridiculous, don’t worry.” Talia sighed. “This isn’t some Eragon or Inkheart novel.”

Isaac Jimenez Jimenez 1

Mrs. Wilke

English 9

4 November 2022

“The Dream Of A Lifetime”

It’s the fourth quarter of the NBA Finals with 10 seconds left on the clock with the score being 102- 104. I steal the ball from the point guard, running down the court I see there's only five seconds left, I cross up my defender and shoot a three and – ”Beep Beep Beep” stupid alarm, man that was a good dream, maybe I should go back to bed? “Beep Beep Beep” On second thought I'm gonna get ready and head to the court. As I'm opening my door to leave I get introduced by a furious breeze that hits my face, that feels as if I'm getting slapped in the face by Mike Tyson.

As I walk down the street, I pull out one of my Gatorades from my backpack and take a sip, and taste the sweet-savory flavor of blue cherry hit my tongue. I look around and see a homeless man sitting on the sidewalk by himself reading a newspaper about the Boston Celtics winning the NBA Finals with Larry Bird carrying the team to the Finals. The man looked very clean and tall, but also had an afro. I approached the man and told him “My name is Don” then asked,” What's your name sir?”

He responded with “My name is Davis”

"Nice to meet you Davis Nice to meet you too Don”

“I'm gonna go to the gym=This is, do you wanna come with and shoot some hoops?” I asked

“Sure,” said Davis.

While we walked along on the sidewalk on our way to the gym, Davis noticed signs saying ’1987-1988 Finals here we come, Let's go Celtics!”, on the window of a bakery. Davis commented on the sign and said” The Celtics are doing pretty good nowadays, but when Larry Bird retires the Celtics aren’t gonna make it to the Finals for a while,”

I asked him, “Why’s that?”

“Well because all the good players on the team are getting old and getting slower you know? And basketball requires a lot of running and speed, not only that but the Celtics players need to motivate themselves and their coaches, in order to be a better team. because there are people who dream of being in their position and would do anything to play on Live TV and in front of thousands of people.”

I thought to myself “ Wow, I've never really thought about that before, but that’s a very strong statement.” We arrive at the gym but are met by a huge breeze that hits our faces hard. We walk in and smell the strong odor of cologne and deodorant. We walk around and see people dribbling up on down a court, people playing one-on-ones, two-on-twos, two-on-one, three-on-three, basically any kind of basketball game you can really think of, people were playing it. We both walk over to a court and see a guy shooting and dunking, trying to impress a couple of girls. The girls weren’t even pretty, that’s the thing, they were ugly, like really ugly but hey that's just me though. Davis saw him showing off too and said

“I hate people who show off because once they get into a game they aren’t as good as they seem. It's annoying when people ask you to 1v1 just to act big and tuff just to impress other people. It's honestly irrelevant when you’re 1v1ing someone.”

“Oh dang,” I said, then I asked what he likes,

“I like basketball and giving my time to help people as much as I can. What do you like and hate?” He asked “Well I like to help people and play sports, mostly basketball and I hate when people are very disrespectful and people who are overconfident.''

I noticed we’re both helpful, honest, understanding, confident, and nice people. We sat down, got a Gatorade from a vending machine and talked about basketball, and laughed when people were joking and messing around. Then he asked me If I wanted to 1v1 and I laughed and said sure. He got the ball first and I was on D, and he did a crossover, then pump faked and I stumbled, then landed face down. He helped me up after shooting and scored a three laughing at me. This time I got the ball and he was D, I dribbled the ball all around the three-point line, shot a brick and the ball went out of bounds, and I decided to quit because “I was too tired” and heard people laughing as I said that so we decided to leave.

We walked outside, and down the street along the old cracked sidewalk, and asked “I'm hungry, what about you?”

”Yeah, wings sound so good right now.”

For around an hour or so we drove and finally were at Buffalo Wild Wings. As soon as we got there, the parking lot was packed. There were so many cars there, we didn’t know what was going on so we went inside, sat in a booth and ate our meal. We both ordered 20 boneless honey bbq wings, then all of a sudden hundreds of people with cameras in a group came up to us and asked

” Mr. Dave How do you feel about not being drafted to the NBA, for being the best shooter and most athletic player?”

He responded with

“Oh uh I don't know I'm just gonna keep working hard and keep doing what I'm doing”

We finished our meal and walked out the main door waiting for us were blinding camera flashes, and people asking for Davis’s autograph and pictures with him. By rushing down the sidewalk we into the car, and drove away from the restaurant Davis says

'' Bro what? What was that?”

I don't know but that was weird not gonna lie.

” Yea anyway wanna go to my house? I wanna show you my house,”

He said. “Sure,” I said, we drove to his house which was huge. We go inside and everything is basketball related, he had basketball hoops, training rooms, weight rooms, and a whole bunch of pictures old and newer pictures of basketball players. I took a Gatorade out of a fridge and drank it. I looked around the house and found a room full of old newspapers, which talked about a high school l basketball team going to state and winning the finals and there was a ring that had a picture of Davis which read, seemingly I think is his real name which was Quan-. “You’re awake,” A nurse said, “’huh what happened?” I asked, “You were in a coma”

I entered Grade eight at Kelowna Senior Secondary, a school I deny I ever went to. My high school graduation entry on Classmates.com reads, 'died tragically in Scuba diving accident in Mexico, circa 2019'. I didn't write it, but I left it. All of the toxic people had registered on the website, so I decided it was better if they thought I was dead. I went to school with 330 people. I knew about sixty of them.

There were over 2,000 people at a school built for 800. The premises had failed the fire code since 1979. I had entered the school in 1998. The place was covered in trash and graffiiti. The headbangers threw razors, bottles, and tampons at the walls behind the the smoking area and bathrooms near the far gym, usually used for basketball and high school events. And yes, some of the tampons were used. I nearly regurgitated by bologna sandwich. Even the smell of cigarette smoke turned me off.

Gone were my glory days as an upcoming athlete in the world of track & field, as well as my status as second lead in the school choir. I ended up dumping my creative energies into misplaced bright red and copper glazed vases in weird angular fashion in ceramics classes, as well as scribbling down poetry in journals. I got a handle on the poetry. I never got a handle on the ceramic spinner. Mostly, I just pulled up, baked, and painted red. The rest of my artistic projects consisted of cut-up photo collages of models and celebrities. No, I was not on my way to becoming a serial killer; nobody ever got a note made out of headlines and cut-up newspaper letters from me.

One of the students was the emotive Cluster B personality, Corey Ivanitz. He liked to have dramatic confrontations and meltdowns in elementary school. Sadly, I had to endure him from Grade 5 to 7. He was inherently intelligent and artistic. His abusive father caused his mother to divorce him. After that, there was no court-appointed visitation, for obvious reasons.

The courts worked better back then; there were no honey badgers, M.R.A.s, and M.G.T.O.W.S. trying to force visitation out of bitterness or people accusing rape and domestic violence victims of lying or engaging in mutual abuse. It has always been well-known in Social Work circles that men are generally the instigators of rape, domestic violence, stalking, and abuse. Cases of mutual abuse and female instigators are in the minority.

Ivanitz was obviously suffering from the effects of abuse and the absence of his father. His meltdowns involved turning read, screaming, making threats, scratching on chalkboards with his nails, throwing himself at rows of desks, howling, crying, holding his breath, choking himself, and rolling around in the dirt on the classroom floor. He tried this in art class once; the institution came to take him away. We never saw him again. What was tolerated and managed by his teachers in elementary school was considered unacceptable by our cop-turned-principal Don Ennis. Too bad he couldn't clean up the mess behind the school. I loved punk rock; I sometimes hated the culture around it.

I was becoming a teenager. Slowly, I came to understand the meaning of teenage angst, best expressed by songs written and performed by members of the Northern Pikes or Corey Hart. INXS was all about sex with groupies and a lost girlfriend. It was not particularly substantial past the age of twelve. This was in the late eighties, before grunge and alt-rock became huge. Sometimes, the Pixies, Siouxsie & the Banshees, Sonic Youth, the Psychos, Metallica, and Mudhoney made their way into my music collection. I recall being fascinated by the Jesus & Mary Chain, 10,000 Maniacs, The Sugarcubes, Bjork, and Cowboy Junkies.

All of this music would lead me straight to the dual histories of Led Zeppelin and Velvet Underground at the age of seventeen. I quickly became a connoisseur of alt-rock, but by no means an expert. (I have been put in my place by a few 'musical experts', though I suspect they disliked women who knew something about music and accused them and myself of competing egos. These 'musical experts' struck me as oversensitive and egocentric).

The punk purists disliked any kind of punk music besides the Sex Pistols and the Dead Kennedys. I enjoyed Killing Joke, Lou Reed, David Bowie, Madonna, Corey Hart, U2, Van Morrison, Kate Bush, Voivod, and many mainstream heavy metal groups. I never had that issue with pop music or heavy metal.

A substantial part of my collection were bands like Aerosmith, Bon Jovi, Cinderella, Helix, AC/DC, Black Sabbath, Def Leppard, and other pop-metal or whatever groups. I disliked Debbie Gibson, though she was a good songwriter. Whitney Houston and Sade were favorite singers of mine. I appreciated the vocals of Mariah Carey. When hip-hop began gaining ground amongst us middle-class and suburban white youths, my sister latched onto the likes of Public Enemy and others. I appreciated their music, too. Puritanical tendencies had no place in rock music. These people sounded like early David Bowie fans who couldn't handle change.

Many people reminisce over old friends regardless of their differences once they pass away or become ill; this reaction has never occurred with me. I remember my more casual and upbeat friends with a certain fondness. Sometimes, I struggle to remember Jody's epileptic episodes. Other times, I remember them clearly. We played basketball, wrestled, wrote together, looked through sex manuals, discussed boys, and made commentary on her large collection of Fleetwood Mac records. At the time, we seemed to have a lot in common. Eventually, she moved away in Grade 9 and went to Spring Valley Secondary, near Ziprick Road.

In Social Work and the social sciences, the concept of the cycle of abuse was introduced to explain incidences such Stockholm Syndrome, Lima Syndrome, co-dependency, childhood abuse, addiction, and Battered Women's Syndrome. It

explains how these forms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder work. Of course, I am not a certified psychologist or therapist. As a former Social Service Worker, I am well-trained and well-educated in these matters. I also have the personal life experience to defend what I am talking about.

If you are one of the idiotic, inexperienced, and naive Polyannas on the hard Left who occupies a position as a student of Social Work or today's Social Sciences, the next few pages are not for you. I am never going to agree with you. As far as I am concerned, you are a destructive social force at work. You do not care about victim's rights and do not speak for me. I am not interested in a debate about this matter. Save your opinions for people who will listen.

These are the same people who call race a social construction and pretend it does not exist. They might as well pretend that racism does not exist. They claim there are no visible differences between people on the basis of race. To suggest otherwise is to be called a racist. By no means am I justifying my father's scientific racism and support for apartheid here. I am just pointing out that such views are not the views of minorities or people of color. It is not right to speak for them. I am certain about this point. To pretend that race does not exist makes it incredibly hard to make a case against racism or white colonialism.

Then again, liberalism has been stolen by people who glorify ISIS and radical Islam, who do not care about gay or transgender people, who do not speak for African Americans or Black South Africans, who have alienated the working class, and who do not comprehend feminism. These people do not speak to me. I have always been the moderate progressive/classical liberal. I have a little respect for the Hard Right as I do for these people. Again, save your letters and arguments for someone else.

To discuss matters with these people is to face censorship, arguments, denial, and going in circles. They have no concept of or respect for the simple notion of free speech. For me, free speech means free speech. That means no censorship of any kind.

There is no point in having an artistic or activist bent if you are going to limit the rights of others. Eventually, you will limit your own rights. Not my bag. This includes the use of nudity in advertising, questionable films, burning the flag, stepping in protest of the national anthem, political protest, or any other expression of free speech. I am more concerned about pollution, razors on the beach, and garbage than I am about the practice of free speech. If you don't like it, don't listen to it or read it. And it is up to parents to regulate what their kids have access to. It is not a court matter. Case closed.

The First Amendment provides that Congress make no law respecting an establishment of religion or prohibiting its free exercise. It protects freedom of speech, the press, assembly, and the right to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

Leftwingers are like that boyfriend or girlfriend you just couldn't get rid of. The one who wants the truth and then gets mad if it is not what they want to hear. The one who complains his or her feelings were not taken into account when you stated the truth. The one who takes everything personally. The one who wants the truth on his or her terms, with or without reality.

The one who wants to shape things his or her way. The one who hates reality. The one who confuses reality with fantasy. The one who thinks he or she can control things. The one who thinks nothing bad happens to anyone until it happens to him or her.

The one who is offended by normal conversation. The one who confuses directness with deliberate hurt, abuse, or bad manners. The one who expects to be catered to. The one who wants everything his or her way. The one who always needs an audience. The one with cognitive dissonance combined with suppression and arrogance, but can't or won't acknowledge it. The one who only wants to see what he or she wants to see.

The one who will be different than the others. The one who lives in Polyanna world. The one who thinks it is wrong to express natural, realistic, or negative thoughts. The one who engages in toxic positivity. The one who thinks he or she is special. The one who thinks he or she is entitled. The one who thinks he or she is a savior. The one who attacks others who disagree.

The one who punishes people who do not agree. The one who expects to get whatever he or she wants. The one who thinks he or she can shape the world and relationships to his or her own agenda. The one who lies himself or herself to get what is wanted. The one who forces things to be his or her way. The one who keeps secrets.

The one who uses the past against others. The one who accepts something, then plans to make things his or her way. The one who won't take no for an answer. The one who punishes honest people. The one who spreads lies. The one who is passive-aggressive. The one who expects others to read his or her mind. The one who changes minds all the time. The one lies and lies, but denies it. The one who finds reality an inconvenience. The one who hurts, leaves, punishes, lies, defames, and then comes back for round two.

They have a lot in common with Cluster B personality. I don't expect people to automatically get this, but it has been brewing in my head slowly like tea in a samovar for thirty years. Thirty years of observation from college to rape to travel to relationships to a bunch of other 365 degree stuff, that is.

Does the cycle of abuse cause Cluster B personality? I am not an expert on Cluster B personality but I doubt abuse causes people to develop Cluster B traits. I believe most Cluster B personalities are abusive on some level. That does not mean they are all a bunch of rapists, sadists, domestic abusers, and predators. It means there is a spectrum of abusive behavior. Evidence shows that people who grow up in abusive families repeat patterns. That is what the cycle of abuse is getting at. It was never meant to justify abusive behavior on the part of abusers or to suggest that abuse victims automatically become abusers.

I believe most serious abusers were born with narcissistic, socopathic, sadistic, borderline, and psychopathological traits. They may or may not be abused. Early childhood trauma, substance abuse, and head injuries may correlate with the development of abusive tendencies. However, there is has always been a nature versus nurture debate that is ongoing. As one psychiatric student told me, "Correlation does not mean causation."

I am not convinced that the statistical claim is true, "One-third of abuse victims become abusers". First of all, no definiation of abuse is given here on either side. Abuse runs the spectrum of neglect, control, and verbal abuse down to murder, rape, choking, and domestic violence. I have been on the violent edge of that spectrum as I am a rape and choking victim. For many years, the other stuff looked mellow to me. I suspect Stockholm Syndome combined with being a survivor of violence has made me feel lucky to be alive and far too tolerate of verbal abuse in my own life. I am not a verbally or physically abusive person.

I take offense at someone claiming one-third of abuse victims become abusers. Most of the abusers I have met have never made any claim of victimhood. Many of them, however, have admitted to a great love of hardcore pornography, violent family traits, and dysfunctional childhoods.

It makes sense to claim, however, that one-third of abuse victims end up in abusive relationships. People tend to trace back their steps and repeat themselves in life. It is as if a script is being played out and relived in their lives and heads.

Cluster B personalities are charming and erratic by nature. They do not seem abusive at first. They are masters of manipulation, passive-aggression, gas-lighting, bait-and-switch, acting, pathological lying, guilt-tripping, and veiled hostility. Personality disorders are hard to treat. The most responsive is borderline. Fifteen to thirty-five percent of borderline personalities respond to therapy.

There is some evidence that D.B.T., or Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, is most effective with personality disorders. Leading experts suggest that one to three percent of severely narcissistic, psychopathic, and sociopathic personalities respond positively to treatment. There is always the risk of acting and disguising. These personality-disordered people are known to respond to attention, positive or negative.

The desire for attention is at the core of a dysfunctional Cluster B personality. These days, the I.C.M. may describe them differently. My rapist, the Doctor, was certainly like this. For various reasons including privacy, he will be called Greg*.

When I left him after two months, there was a certain look in his eyes. It was as if the Jeckyll was coming out from behind the Hyde. I thought he was a split personality. His eyes were a mixture of cobalt and light sky-blue. He had the most beautiful and deceptive eyes. They contrasted with his curly head of black hair. He always moussed his hair in a disgusting way. He also put oil in it. I never touched his hair, which he viewed as his crowning glory.

In the morning and before we went out, he spent several minutes fawning over his image, especially his hair. His back was a mess of popped pimples. I never touched them either. The idea that I ever touched or had sex with this man after what he did is probably astonishing to others. It feels normal, if disgusting, to me. It is what I know.

I never really understood Estelle's* problem. She took to drugs like a duck to water. Her first choice was opiate prescription medication. Her acts as a street addict were basically a rich girl's attempts to cozy up to a dealer with access to morphine and crack cocaine. Apparently, there were monthly morphine injection parties at one guy's house up at Mount Royal. Mount Royal is the area on upper Knox Mountain west of Magic Estates. It over looks Poplar Point and is accessible via Mountain Road off Glenmore. Estelle never lived up there; she was an Upper East Mission brat who hailed from Regina, Saskatchewan.

Stories circulated that C.D.* the one who planned these parties. As he was the dealer du jour in the early to mid-nineties in this lakeside town, that would not surprise me. I banned C.D. from coming near me after he produced acid on sheets of stamps and envelopes in Johnathan Segal's restaurant one Sunday morning in April of 1993, when we had gone for drinks.

He kept offering two tabs for $35. I had no interest. He then tried yelling to get patron's attention. That failed to work, so I told him to sit down and shut up. That also did not work, so I threatened to report him to the R.C.M.P.

*Name has been changed.

The lady came over to my counter at 3:25. I remember this fact with clarity because her face was not one I could go easily forgetting and her story much the same. I find myself still unable to piece together the encounter, from all it was she told me and all it was that she did. But what I have found myself thinking is that some aspect is wrong, feels wrong; whether she or I, I am unable to tell. There is a motion of uneasiness and discomfort that arises when the story comes to mind, and it is for that reason I have felt I must put this to paper. To get rid of that God awful feeling.

Allow me to share.

I work at a booth inside of a large retail store where people can sign up for or use VISA cards that the store offers. I run that VISA booth. Every day 20 to 30 people get signed up for a card, some days much more than others. I gain commission for each VISA that I "sell" at a rate of $5 per VISA, a metric that not only motivates me to be the best salesman possible but also to be friendly and alert; the job most notably has improved the latter ability. Most days the booth isn't as busy as other departments of the store, leaving me with makeshift assignments called "projects" that typically need completed before close.

A project itself and all that is required for completion can vary, but usually, projects consist of folding or hanging clothes that have been left in an unkempt manner within a cart so that they can eventually make their way onto the sales floor. Obviously projects don't make up the entirety of my shifts, but they do find their own ways of sneaking into my hours. When the lady arrived, I was in the middle of a project. I was folding T-shirts.

As mentioned, it was 3:25 when she came, and she did so with a cart that was half-full of wintry clothes such as coats, beanies, and gloves. The lady was an older woman with gray hair, older in the sense that she looked to be anywhere between 60 and 80 years of age but was not in need of extra assistance to be, to function. She had come up to the left side of my counter, and being focused on completing my project, some time went by before I gazed up at my surroundings and noticed her intently looking at me yet saying nothing, even after I looked her way. The learned alertness I've become settled into sprung out when I saw her, and quickly I shuffled over.

"Hello, ma'am," I said in my customer service voice, "What can I do for you today?"

"Hi, yes. I'm looking to apply for a VISA card."

"Of course, yeah," I responded in a similar tone, near giddy.

“I’m waiting for my husband, though,” she let me know. “My husband is somewhere.” Her voice trailed off a little.

"Oh, okay."

"I don't know where he is," she said, and began looking around the general area, first toward the stairs and the escalators then to the sports and women’s clothing sections. She looked confused.

"Sorry if I'm bothering you."

"Not at all," I let her know. "The store's been really quiet today. They're really only having me fold clothes because there hasn't been much of anything else to do."

"Oh, okay,” she let out, peering around again with a concerned look on her face. “Do you mind if I wait here for him? He should be here soon."

"No, that's completely fine. I'm going to fold some more clothes in the meantime, and if he comes back and I don't notice, just holler at me, okay?"

"Okay," she responded.

I went back to folding the T-shirts but all-at-once realized that I had ought to offer her some information about the card that she may be curious about come time to apply. I shuffled back over.

"While we're waiting," I said in a friendly voice, "would you like to know any more information about the card?"

"Um, no. I think I'm good," she told me, and so without any way of assisting her further, I then got back into the groove of working on my project.

It wasn't until about two or three minutes later when I had reared up my head from finishing one of the four boxes of shirts I had been assigned that I realized the lady was still there. In the same spot with the same confused look on her face, she seemed to be staring up at the sky, pondering even then where her husband could possibly be. That's about when I truly began wondering where it was he must've gone.

Of course, he could just be in the restroom, but wouldn’t she have known that? Shouldn’t she? Also, we live in an age of technology. Couldn’t she have given him a call and asked his whereabouts that way?

'Maybe her phone is dead,' I thought, trying to rationalize the situation, “Or maybe his is. I don't know.' What became apparent as a few minutes of waiting turned into a good few is that something had to be wrong, and the situation quickly messed with my perception of the time and events.

I had checked the time when she came over and my work phone informed me that it was 3:25 when she appeared. But before long, the time came to be 3:30, 3:35, and even nearing 3:40. Too much time. And that was when the strangest part occurred.

At 3:39 I checked the time again, and as I did, the lady got into her purse and dug around for a little bit before pulling out a small white slip of paper. I became quickly perplexed at the situation. Not only had she dug this piece of paper out of her purse and laid it on the side of the counter, she dug back in for another object, a pen.

I watched it all, enveloped by that point. She took out a black-inked ballpoint pen from her purse, undid its cap, set her purse down on the counter next to the slip of paper, and began writing. I was intrigued and kept my eyes glued, wondering all the while where her husband must be. As she began to write and as I began to try and spot the message she was labeling out, I noticed an oddity.

All she was writing down were numbers, random numbers without any apparent meaning. The lady had just begun writing out whatever numbers seemed on her mind, yet wrote so diligently as if in some way there was some sort of purpose behind the string of numbers.

When I realized she wasn’t writing any words, I decided to let her be and went back to folding T-shirts, feeling weird due to the situation but suspecting that there may be the chance the lady had something wrong going on either in her mind or in being, that maybe what was needed out me of above all else was to give her space, and that I did. For a moment.

“Here,” she whispered. I turned my head in that quick, alert manner I had become accustomed to, and saw as I did that she had folded the slip in half, and had pushed it closer to me as if the message inside was top-secret. She had put her pen away and moved her purse off the counter while I had gone back to the project, and as I shuffled over to pick up the piece of paper she said, “I’m going to go look for my husband. I’ll be back soon.”

I wasn’t sure whether or not I believed her, about her being back soon, and there again came the question of where her husband could possibly be. I hoped she would find him peeking out from around a corner and that they’d enjoy a good laugh about it and sign up, not because I wanted the commission but because her husband's absence had started to worry me. There came an anxiety in the air that pressured me into that state, and the worry on the woman’s face only perpetuated that emotion.

It came to mind then that maybe her husband didn’t exist. Not in the sense that he had never come to be, but the feeling arose that perhaps her husband had been real and had died and some mental aspect of the lady’s being pushed her into thinking he was around, around somewhere. I hoped hard that that motion of mine was untrue.

As the lady walked off I picked up the slip of paper she slid over and opened it up. On the back was the first and last name of a store associate, which I’m guessing was the employee that referred her over. On the inside, where I had seen her begin writing, she had written “0608111480 587890719”. No other markings, no letters, no signature, explanation, nothing. I had to look back and forth between the sides of the paper, neither changing appearance as I did.

I was so drawn into the concept of what had occurred before my own eyes that I had almost forgotten I was still on the clock and became startled when a customer came up to me and asked if the store had any elevators they could use. I told them we did and pointed them in the correct direction before immediately settling my eyes back again on the paper. Her sloppy handwriting, numbers that had been written fast as if remembered and known not as to confuse but to convey a potential message. But I, sadly, did not understand what that message could be, and seeing no better alternative, I stuck the paper in one of the drawers in the counter and waited patiently for the woman to return so I could kindly ask what it was she meant to convey.

But she never came back.

I swear I never saw her again. As soon as she made her way into the women's section, it was as if she had been swallowed by a black hole. I never saw her pass by, talk to any other employee, shop, find her husband, anything. To me it seemed she disappeared and that was all there was that could be said.

Maybe she left the store, maybe she found her husband but had to leave. I’ll never know. I’ve never seen her face since, and it had gotten to the point that while I have relayed the story to all of my co-workers in my department, the fact that no updates have occurred makes me question whether the event actually even took place or if I went crazy and imagined it all. I can’t believe that I did, but the nature of the situation pushes me to question myself.

The lady was a good customer and she was nice for as long as I knew her. She did not yell or raise her voice at me, nor show any signs of aggression. She treated me kindly and treated her husband kindly, never becoming angered by his lack of appearance. I do not believe that she was mentally out of it or disabled in any way, but if my thoughts were correct in that her husband was real but is no longer living, I would be devastated. I wish I could see her again.

If I ever see her out somewhere and she is in need of a friend, I would be that friend. If she needed a hug, I would lend her that hug. If she needed a VISA, I’d get her that VISA.

And if she ever comes back asking for her husband, I’ll ask her if she’s yet to check the women’s section.