The smell of burnt oil burned Salem’s nose as he kicked the abandoned dollie away. He crouched down and ran his hand along the exhaust pipe of the car, pressing his fingers against the crack where it connected to the frame. Sighing, he straightened and walked to the shelf. Pulling a pen from the dirtied Mason jar, he quickly jotted down the issue and pressed the paper to the trunk of the car.

He grabbed his tattered jean jacket from the workbench and slipped it on, leaving the shop. His footsteps blended in with the sounds around him as he made his way downtown, ready to drop onto the couch and home and wake up the next morning, just to do the same thing again.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he pulled the baseball hat farther down over his eyes and lowered his gaze. People brushed against him, but no one looked at him. He didn’t expect them to—after nearly a hundred years he got used to people looking through him.

He watched the thick white lines beneath him as he quickly crossed the street and stepped onto the sidewalk.

“Hello, sorry to interrupt you but if you have a moment—.” They caught him off guard as they stepped out, stopping him. “We’re doing a social experiment and only need a little bit of your time if you’d be willing to help.”

Pulling his hat farther down, he lowered his gaze and went to brush past them with a quick apology but he found himself nodding.

“I have a moment.” The words left his mouth without him realizing and he found himself following the college student to where they were set up.

White tents lined the sidewalk where people stood, handing out flyers and asking people to participate. College students buzzed around, name tags hanging from a lanyard around their neck. Unease settled on Salem’s shoulders as he shifted from foot to foot, offset by the commotion around him.

A few moments later he was led to a booth where he sat down on one side of the divider.

“Hello.” A girl spoke, her voice filled with forced happiness. He heard her shift in the chair before she continued. “So I don’t know if you’ve been told what this experiment is for but we’re trying to prove that talking things out with a stranger is easier than talking to someone you know.”

He nodded silently before realizing she couldn’t hear him. “Alright.”

“So,” she hesitated. “We just talk. Tell me about your day. How’s it been?”

“Same as always,” he answered slowly, his thumb tracing the edge of brim on his hat. “Worked all day.”

“Where do you work, if you don’t mind me asking?”

His heart was racing and he struggled to keep his breathing even, wondering if she could hear him panicking on the other side of the opaque plastic divider.

How long had it been since he’d last had a conversation with someone? He was so used to leaving his thoughts on vibrant sticky notes and sticking them to walls and cars. That was how he communicated with people but now, he was forced to speak, to convey his emotions through words and he found the task daunting.

“I work at a car shop downtown.” He breathed deeply, his lungs aching from lack of air.

There was silence from the other side and he wondered if she too had nodded her head like he had a handful of seconds earlier.

“I’m still in college,” she started and he relaxed slightly as she continued. “It’s my senior year though so I’m hoping to graduate this year.” She paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “I’m majoring in professional writing and journalism and plan on going into that field when I finish. Do you have any future plans?”

He opened his mouth to speak but the words fell silent on the tip of his tongue, as ice-cold and lifeless as the plants the shrouded the sidewalk around them.

“Just living day-to-day right now.” He forced the lie into the air, hoping she would believe it.

Once again, silence was the only response he received.

“I have a few questions to ask you.” Her voice had lost the bubbly tone to it and as she flipped through pages in her notebook, she sighed. “They are a bit heavier so, if they make you uncomfortable, you don’t have to answer them.”

“Okay.”

“Have you ever experienced a great loss in your life?” She’d probably asked the question a million times already that day but he was taken aback by the sudden tenderness in her tone.

It took him a moment to find his voice. “Yes, I have.”

“Do you want to tell me what they were? You don’t have to if you’re not comfortable.”

“My father and younger sister both died in a short span of time a few years back.” He clasped his hands tighter in his lap, feeling his knuckles pop.

She tapped her pen on the clipboard. “How did that affect you?”

“What do you mean?” He’d answered too quickly, too sharply. His chest tightened as he waited for her response, knowing she was seeing straight through his show.

“Did you suffer from depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts, and other such things?” Her voice showed no sign of annoyance or anger but he was positive it was there—it always was.

He opened his mouth to answer her but nothing came out. The collar of his dirty work shirt strangled him as he sat there, staring at the many passing people, all unaware of his presence.

“Once again, if you’re not comfortable—.”

“Yes, I have.” The words tore out of his mouth, making his throat burn as if he was holding down a sob. “And I still do.”

The plastic curtain between them parted as she stuck her arm through, offering him a small business card with a phone number on it. His finger brushed her hand and he noticed the scars that laced around her fingers and wrist, trailing up her arm.

“This is the suicide hotline,” she said as he took it from her. “There are people here for you, I promise.”

For a moment, he almost believed her. She sounded so sincere, so honest, and yet he could tell she didn’t believe what she’d just said.

He tucked the card into his coat pocket and as she fixed the divider, he spoke. “Have you ever used this number?”

“I might have at one point,” she answered slowly. “But, because of personal reasons, I really wouldn’t remember.”

“Fair enough.” The sun was starting to set behind the skyscrapers causing bile to rise in the back of his throat. He forced himself to take a deep breath and stood. “Sorry if this isn’t over yet but I should be heading home.”

“Of course. Be safe.”

She watched his back as he walked away. With a sigh, she set her clipboard to the side and stood, pulling her phone from her back pocket. Panic spiked in her chest when she saw the notifications for 14 missed calls.

The dial tone was drowned out by the sound of the crowd around her she pushed her way through to her friend.

“Hey, Roman, I gotta head out.” The call went to voicemail and it was all she could do to keep herself calm.

“Is everything okay?” Concern washed over the girl’s face making Parker’s stomach sink even more.

“Yeah, I think so but I should hurry.” She tapped the small girl’s nose with a small smile. “I’ll be home late.”

“Be careful!” She called after her as the seething mass of people swallowed her.

It took Parker longer than she expected to reach the institution and in the three-hour drive she’d called her aunt a hundred times only to be forwarded to voicemail.

As she pulled into a spot, she glanced at the broad sign that sat in the front lawn, glimmering in the remains of the setting sun. The words ‘New Hope Hospital’ seemed taunting as she walked into the building.

Her aunt met her at the front desk.

“What happened? Is Dad okay?” She felt herself swaying from side to side as the adrenaline kicked in again, making her stomach flip. “Why didn’t you answer my calls?”

“It’s okay, everything’s fine now.” Her aunt steadied her. “My phone died I’m sorry.”

A sigh of relief left her mouth as Parker collapsed against the welcome counter. “What happened?”

Teagan shook her head slowly, massaging her temples. Her fire-engine red hair was pulled into a messy bun that was slowly coming loose, its strands framing her face. It looked like she hadn’t slept in days but the longer she thought about it, the more she realized it was probably true.

“He attacked a nurse again. They had to heavily sedate him.”

“Can I see him?” Although she didn’t want to lay eyes on the man, she knew she had to. He was her father after all and she was his guardian—it was her job to watch after him.

Her aunt nodded down the hallway and Parker stepped around her. When she reached the door, her hand rested on the handle, its cold metal quickly turning warm within her grasp.

Steeling herself, she opened the door and slid in, quickly shutting it behind her. The soft click of the lock hooking in place sent a shiver up her spine as she stepped towards the bed in the middle of the room.

An IV was plugged into his arm and an oxygen mask covered his face. Safety straps had been secured into place to keep him from moving when he came to.

She dropped into a crouch by the side of the bed, her hands grasping the railing as if they were her lifeline. She didn’t want to look at him so she turned her gaze to the floor. It wasn’t her father that was lying in front of her no matter what she told herself. Her father was long gone.

Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to stand and take his limp hand in hers. She tried to give it a reassuring squeeze but instead, she let his hand slide from her hold and fall onto the startling white sheet.

She turned and walked away, forcing herself not to look back. Her aunt was waiting for her in the hallway but didn’t speak until she did.

“He looks good.” It was a weak attempt at positivity.

“He doesn’t look like himself.”

Anger boiled inside of her, spreading through her veins like a wildfire. “He never does, Teagan.”

She drew back, shock washing over her face. There’d only been a handful of occasions when Parker had talked back and she instantly regretted it when she saw her aunt’s reaction.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, hanging her head. Her shoulders ached and her neck burned and although she’d already maxed out the amount of painkiller she could take for the day, it hadn’t touched the pain that was radiating up her back. “It’s been a long day.”

“And probably a long week.” The hurt was gone from her face, now replaced by the familiar half-smile she knew. “It’s okay, we all have our moments.”

Silence hung in the air around them as darkness settled outside. With a sigh, she glanced at the clock on the wall and ran a hand through her hair. “I should head out now. It’ll take me over an hour to get back and I still have assignments to work on.”

Her aunt nodded. “Good idea. I’ll stay a little bit longer to see if he wakes up.”

Parker turned to walk away but stopped. “Have you heard from Jaz at all?”

She shook her head. “Not since you talked to her.”

“Oh, okay,” she trailed off. “If you talk to her, let her know I need to speak to her.”

“Just call her. Please.”

A bitter laugh left her throat before she could hold it back. “We don’t work like that. We never have. I’m required to answer her calls but she couldn’t care less about mine.”

Without another word, she left. As the front doors slid shut, she stopped, squinting at the gloomy grey of the overhead clouds as they threatened to let loose the tears they’d been holding back.

“Please, not right now. Now’s not the time,” she pleaded. “Let me get home first.”

She knew the clouds wouldn’t head her prayers. Instead, they would leave her to race the rain.

the sun may be down

and the world may be sleeping

but i am here waiting for

something, anything to take me

away from this pain that

only waits to drag me

deeper and deeper into

this spirral of despair.

so i am here,

standing above the city,

among the starry night

that i can’t seem to see,

waiting for someone,

for anything to run to.

For my words to be trashed upon

For your words to be kissed

For I to be branded a liar

And you to be seen as a saint

The world must be blind

as I am the victime of this love

On my first day of work in the city, I got off my train at King and 4th street 51 minutes before I was supposed to. That accounts for a fifteen minute walk from the train station to the office, which is more time than it would’ve actually taken me, but it was my first day, so I calculated for spare. I was so scared something would go wrong that I didn’t even think about what I would do with the 51 minutes I had to myself, and took a breath of relief when I realized I had packed Slaughterhouse-Five in my backpack. It’s a book I have to read for school, but I think I would’ve eventually read it anyway even if it wasn’t. I don’t know why though, because it hasn’t gotten good yet and I’m worried that it won’t ever get good and then I’ll feel guilty for not admiring a book that so many people say is life-changing. I don’t even know why I picked a war story. They sort of anger me. But I’d like to think they anger me in a Mary O’Hare kind of way, so I decided I’d let Kurt Vonnegut go and just read the fucking book.

So anyway, I remembered there was a Philz nearby. I never really go to Philz, but it feels like I’m supposed to like it because everyone does, and I didn’t know where else to go, and I needed a place to sit down to read Slaughterhouse-Five. For some reason I also thought I could handle my coffee without milk that day, which was clearly false, and this is all to say that the whole thing was pretty much unplanned. So I sat down in this deserted corner of the coffee shop, not drinking my coffee, and I opened Slaughterhouse-Five. I took out a pink pen, I think. I’m really particular about my pens, and I’m almost certain it was pink. I think it would be unsettling if the pen was actually purple, or blue, because I characterized that whole morning by a pink pen and I’m not really sure how I would feel if I was wrong about the color. It probably wouldn’t change anything. I feel like it would.

I wasn’t really focusing on the book, because it wasn’t that interesting at that point, and also I was still distracted by my black coffee because I didn’t even think about the fact that it was black when I ordered it, I just sort of didn’t think, so I was sitting in this corner and completely not thinking about anything but thinking about a lot of unnecessary things at the same time. Then this super old disheveled black guy comes in and sits a few feet away from me and he had a walker that was right beside him that I guess he was using before. By the way, I didn’t know it was called a walker. I had to look up “what are the things that old people wheel around” on Google images to figure that out. Well now I know.

So he’s sitting there, and then he just starts mumbling a lot of words I can’t really make out. And he was also facing me, so I thought maybe he was trying to talk to me but I didn’t want to have a conversation with a person I couldn’t understand because it was 7:35am and I didn’t want to do something difficult or be a respectful fucking human being, I guess, so I just kept staring down at this page of Slaugherhouse-Five that I wasn’t retaining. Actually, I wasn’t even reading it. I was just looking at it so that I didn’t have to figure out if this guy was talking to me. I kept thinking, Should I ask him if he’s trying to say something to me? But then I realized that then I would have to talk to him, so I just stayed there, fiddling with what I think was a pink pen, and flipping a page every now and then so that it wouldn’t look suspicious. Not that he probably even noticed.

Then this barista comes up to him, and she tells him that she threw his coffee away because he didn’t come to collect it and it had been so long so it was cold. I thought this was really odd, because it hadn’t been that long at all. And then I realized that if he wasn’t in Philz when I got there, which he wasn’t, he must’ve ordered a coffee much earlier and then went on a walk or something… a walk. There I was, in the city an hour early because I was so worried about being late to work, and this guy who I couldn’t understand wasn’t even worried about picking up his coffee on time. I think the barista was kind of annoyed, but the guy did some more mumbling so she told him she’d make it again for him, and she did, and he thanked her, I think, and that was sort of the end of that.

But it wasn’t. Because the coffee didn’t shut him up. The guy was still mumbling. And still facing me. And it wasn’t even a big deal, but I kept building it up in my head like it mattered or something. I got mad at myself because I didn’t turn to him and ask him if he was talking to me, and I got mad that I was so annoyed that this guy wasn’t letting me read my book even though I was in a public place that he deserved to be in, and I got mad that I was getting so stressed about not understanding a guy that had taken a walk after ordering coffee. That’s the exact kind of person that I should be able to understand. It’s probably the best type of person.

My head got so loud and it felt like one of those dinners where my dad accidentally scrapes his cutlery on a ceramic plate and then apologizes to me because I always react so badly to that noise. It wasn’t even a big deal. I don’t know why I remember it so well.

I was so uncomfortable that I got up. He was still mumbling and (maybe) talking to me as I packed up my things. I tried to be slow and calm, like a normal person leaving a coffee shop. Maybe he noticed. He probably didn’t. I put the book in my bag and the pink pen back in its place and my fingers shook as they closed the buckle of my backpack and then I looked at him and stopped. He was moving his walker aside so that I could pass by him and walk to the door.

I wanted to cry. I hated that I got so stressed out about everything before then. This was just an old guy who took walks after ordering coffee and who moved his walker for me and I didn’t even try to have a conversation with him earlier when I know I probably should’ve.

Gratefully and ashamed, I said, “Thank you, sir,” and his eyes went big and he looked at me and said, “Sir?,” and I was confused by that.

He was mumbling a lot of things and I think what he was saying was that nobody ever calls him sir or he hadn’t been called that in a long time or something like that. I don’t know. I didn’t say anything, because he was still mumbling. Then he said, “What’s your name?”

I understood that. I told him my name and he sort of looked at me accusingly but in a good way and said, “No, really, what’s your name?” and I understood him again. So I told him that was actually my name, it was just a Hebrew name and when he heard that he said “Well, damn, are you Jewish?”

“Yes, yeah, I am,” I said.

More mumbling.

“Well, god, I would’ve never guessed that. I would’ve never guessed you were Jewish!” and he laughed to himself for a little bit.

I started walking away through the space he cleared up by moving his walker and I told him that I hope he’d have a nice day, and he yelled after me, unrelatedly, “Carl! My name’s Carl,” and then kept mumbling. I don’t remember if I said anything after that. Maybe I said it was nice meeting him. Maybe I just kept walking. Either way, he was still mumbling when I left the coffee shop, and I walked out a little bit confused but somehow a lot more calm than I was before.

I wondered why he was in Philz of all places, because his clothes were sort of torn up and he didn’t look too wealthy and Philz sells the most expensive coffee in the Bay Area. And honestly, it’s not even good if you don’t get milk. So then maybe he just really cared about quality coffee.

I started liking Carl more for that. He probably gets black coffee even if it’s not as good, because he seems like the kind of guy who could take it. Maybe that’s why he was mumbling the entire time, because all he drinks is Philz coffee without milk so his veins are filled with solely caffeine. Brewed blood. Pink ink. Or maybe he’s going crazy from having to use a walker and move it for judgemental teenage girls who shouldn’t be getting black coffee or reading Slaughterhouse-Five or not talking to him.

I don’t know why I think about Carl so often now. I’ve started to think that maybe he was talking to me the entire time, and just didn’t care that I wasn’t saying anything, and I like that about him, too. I always stop talking if I don’t think someone’s listening to what I’m saying, I don’t want to bother them. Maybe they’re concentrated on a line of a Kurt Vonnegut book they’ve read seventy-two times because they’re trying to avoid me, for example. But even if I was ignoring Carl, I couldn’t really ignore him, and somehow I ended up finding out that he doesn’t think I look Jewish and he thinks my name is sort of weird and he doesn’t get called sir a lot. So something came out of it, I guess.

To be honest, I still feel sort of bad about the whole thing, but I’m glad that it happened. Mostly, I’m just glad that I called him sir. I’d do it again.

The day is beautiful, and the sun is bright.

But I don’t want to go outside; I rather stay inside.

Waking up without you on my bedside is an awful sight. It is hard to have motivation because you were always my emotional drive.

But you are gone, and I feel an emptiness inside.

So forgive me friends and family if I don't want to go outside.

I miss you, and nobody knows how much energy that takes away from me. I hope my family and friends can forgive me, but I don’t want their pity.

I have worn hand-me-down clothes all my life. It doesn't bother me; second hand things suit me just fine. They've got some life in them which lends the owner authenticity.

Of course, my older sisters have always had peculiar tastes in things, and their things lose meaning quikly. This meant I always had a surplus of their throw aways to rummage through in my wardrobe, but I also had some strange fashions come over me because of the phycedelic material I had to work with. Never grew out of the old athletic boho phase I guess. Looking back, I see myself as a form of vermin trailing in the wake of elegant birds. They spent so much time and resources preening their feathers. I wasn't any more productive for all the floundering for attention I did in my own... special way.

Between struggles with vanity and insecurity we never really got to know eachother. They got along alright for a time, but I couldn't seem to catch up with them until I started dating. Suddenly, they were interested.

Boy talk. They wanted all the juicy details. I wanted to belong. Made me feel obliged to create some details to talk about.

Then the unthinkable happened. We fought, and it got ugly. Perhaps I said things I should not have, but by my reckoning, no lines had been crossed. My eldest sister thought otherwise. She woke up my parents in the middle of the night, and told them all the things parents never want to hear about their daughters. The things shared in a sister's confidence. A terrible breech of trust. If that were all, I might have forgiven, but she persecuted me. Actively seeking to inflict as much pain as she could. My phone and diary were confiscated and used as evidence against me. No one slept that night. Who could sleep through a witch hunt.

The next day, I had to act in a play at my school. My first speaking role. After a series of lackluster performaces, I froze in the middle of my big scene. By the time it was over, I was exhausted and humiliated, and having no privacy to speak of, all I could do was pretend. It doesn't sound like that big of a deal now, but at the time it was enough to destroy me. All I could feel was anger and guilt and disapointment... I was a dramatic teenager. But those emotions left a lasting mark on me.

This was the worst experience of my life thus far, and I had no one sympathetic to talk to. That is what really drove home the betrayal. I hardened a little bit that day. Trust became a delicacy and I hoarded it.

I knew my sister was a vindictive and impulsive. Agressive and unpredictable. I wasn't surprised when she turned out to be a drug addict, or when she spewed foulness about how our other sister in law should have a miscariage during her first pregnancy, or when she screamed that our brother was abusive in the middle of the street. Lies. Horrible lies. Evil wishes. One after another. I wasn't surprised, but it all still hurt.

I suppose I hoped she wasn't as bad as I imagined, but everyone walks on eggshells around her now, and it isn't enough.

All her clothes are new and fancy, but she has no character and never will.

Since the beginning of time, I've served under my God. Delivering her messeges to the people as she required.

On one of my message runs, I was sent to a lovely young woman. These days she's more commonly known as Joan of Arc, but I knew her as ma tourterelle. My turtledove, I honestly never expected I was capable of loving a human, or a human was capable of truely loving me in return.

They had no reason to hurt her, so why did they? Why did they tie her to that pillar, why did they make sure she had no chance to live? Why couldn't I do anything? Her screams, they... They hurt! They hurt so much! I can still hear them, her calling for me. Begging mercy from our God, from the people. Requesting a cross to be closer to God, just as a desprate attempt for the people to stop, to get her out of there!

But they...

But...

Bu-...

But they just watched...

When she was gone, I knew. I knew God didn't want her.

I felt Joan being ripped away from this world and to a land that she didn't deserve. I asked the Goddess why and I only got a response in a threat. I kept asking hoping that I'd get an answer, but I got cast out by the very being that created me.

Now, I'm a demon.

So... Who am I, if I am even a person, to wonder the workings of this world. To question the plan of the Goddess that causes misery and death?

Who am I to want answers?

Who am I to want a life?

Who am I to want to live freely?

If my salvation means that I fall, so be it. I'd rather live than deal with the will of God. I'd much rather, see the love that she so harshly ripped from me, because she was deemed impure!

I'd rather die with love and hatred than exist only to suffer!

She is no goddess of mine.

No...

She took away the only woman worthy of the title and now it's up to me too see that it never happens again.

I'm Mikaela, ex-archangel of war.

And I'm coming for you, Bitch.

Go to the grove

She said

Lick your wounds and heal

It’s ok to hurt but

Don’t stay

Pretending the pain isn’t real

Don’t stay because

The cuts are too deep to see

Don’t stay

Denying yourself what you know you need

Be strong, stand naked in your vulnerability

Own everything you feel

A fair trade is no robbery, that’s true, but

Don’t stay

Where the exchange is not equal

Don’t betray yourself

Don’t stay