She longs for a better life.

A life where her mother would always be home to protect her from the abusive monster they live and are enslaved by,

and a life where that monster,

- the monster that is her father-

would love both her and her mother

instead of drowning himself with alcohol and drugs.

She's tried talking to someone.

Someone who could possibly help or at the very least comfort her,

but nobody is willing to help or listen to her story.

Instead they refuse to believe her,

and simply wave it off as "fiction."

So she smiles.

Smiles to hide what she truly feels.

Smiles to blend in with everyone else around her.

And smiles to assure herself that everything will be okay...

although it never will.

When she meets him,

a boy physically and emotionally covered in darkness,

so mysterious as he tries his best to avoid the people around him,

but yet posses light whenever he makes eye contact with her,

she's able to forget about the hurt and pain that she's been feeling

and actually smile for its purpose.

She finds him to be understanding;

the first person to ever share the same pain that she's feeling.

Although she trusts him

unlike many others in her world,

she's afraid of revealing her story to him.

Afraid of his judgments,

and afraid of his refusal to help and listen to her.

He already brings the happiness she's been longing for,

and she will do whatever it takes to keep and cherish that feeling for as long as she can.

(Character Description of "Inside & Out")

you call me beautiful

                              but darling, don't you

              know that

                                       the beauty of sunrises lies 

                   only

        in

                                                               dust

Depression loves intimacy,

But he doesn't like PDA.

He tells you that he wants you and him

To be a beautiful secret.

But he brands you to remind you

That you are his and only his.

He promises you a forever that

You aren't really sure you want.

But god knows how long you've been together

And nothing seems to break you apart.

So you say to yourself that there

Isn't really anything you can do.

Life just hates you.

Treading unbeknownst in every mind, a lurking shadow without figure. Ethereal, fantastical, a character of the mind, his existence is whispered into the crevices of the world. At the dawn, so it is. He remains elusive in the fabrics of fiction. 

As the beams of life start to emanate across the horizon, his shadow begins to take form and solidify. His imminent presence brings a cloud of dread. As the first icy breath tickles the back of your neck, he steals the irretrievable, leaving only the black knife that pierces you. It is poisoned, spreading its cold, ruthless venom to every fiber of your being. You see him clearly for the first time; an enemy is born. 

You live with the mark of his darkness for some time, before once again you feel the crawl of his fingertips along your spine. The knife drives with familiarity this time, but just as raw, just as agonizing. The animosity turns to ache, capitulation, despair. He is the victor, and you fall slave to his musings, hypnotized by the prospect of finality. He turns you against his opposer, and now a new hatred, a new rivalry forms; he is now your savior from all that is wrong. But he passes by you, leaves you to the pain, the turmoil, as you await his rescue. You beg and plead into the heedless night for the nameless stranger to offer his companionship, to vanish into his domain.

No word, no whisper of his whereabouts. You must move on and let his shadow fade into the distance. For he does not offer comfort. He is distant and cold, fraught with purpose. Let him diminish into the recedes of the universe, you will come to know him in time. When dusk sets in, his figure will loom larger, more vivid, more tangible. No knife, no enmity, an embrace awaits, familiar and welcome, as equals you become with a final breath. 

It was a gray day, but she waited nonetheless, counting aloud the lines on the sidewalk the same as she did every day. A gangly family of pigeons scuttled around her worn leather moccasins, as they always did, and she sat complacent and smiling on the same metal bench beneath the same dying oak tree. She was here every day at seven in the morning with nothing but the company of a cheap bag of birdseed, and I imagined she probably didn’t travel too far away at any given time.

I jogged this path religiously and always wondered if she’d noticed me as I’d noticed her. It seemed no one else who followed this trail paid any mind to her at all, but against the drab landscape of the city park, she stood out like a spotlight to me. Faded pink floral trousers and a tattered white Donald Duck tee were her mainstays, but today she wore a yellow crocheted beanie on her head, pulled all the way over her ears. Yesterday her hat was green, and I’ve even once seen it red with white stripes around the Christmas season. Her head was the only thing about her that ever changed.

Today I stopped. Today I said hello and gave her my name, but her expression didn’t budge. Her counting, however, ceased without a hitch as soon as I spoke. She continued to smile her nearly vacant smile and said, “Hello.  My name's Amanda.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.” I wasn’t expecting a response, so, surprised, I could only reply in observation, “I see you here every day, ma’am.”

I can’t be certain why I decided to approach her. Perhaps it was curiosity, perhaps concern, but as I attempted to read what may or may not have been amusement at my disregard for well-mannered conversation on her face, I sure wished I’d taken the time to think of something thoughtful to say.

“I see you here every day, ma’am,” she replied, and the corners of her mouth rose towards her ears by only a hair. Yes, she was amused.

I didn’t have an intention of being rude, but I couldn’t help but study her. She sat silent, still gazing into the direction I’d come from, so it was easy to stare. Lines had formed in arcs where her mouth curved, as if she had been frozen into a grin for a lifetime. Crow’s feet tapered into soft, pale papery cheeks, and she was tiny, thin as a rail, smelling of peanut butter and mildew. She must have been at least eighty.

“M-may I sit for a moment with you,” I was hesitant for the split second before I asked, but I did so with a friendly nod of my own, and she answered, “May I sit for a moment with you?”

I made sure to seat myself close enough on the metal bench to feel amicable but not too close for comfort, and I attempted to carry on this seemingly one-sided conversation.

“So, are you from here - from Chicago?” She faithfully kept her sight locked on the tunnel I’d emerged from and repeated me once again, “So, are you from here - from Chicago?”

“Um, okay. Yeah, I am. Are you hungry? Would you like to get some breakfast together?” Somehow, her reply was easily predictable, “Um, okay. Yeah, I am. Are you hungry? Would you like to get some breakfast together?”

Obviously this woman was a little loose mentally, so I stood slowly and bent towards her, my palm open for hers. I thought I may as well take matters into my own hands.

“Yes, I am! I’m starving. There’s a little diner right around the -"

Before I could finish, she gripped tight to my wrist - wild, bloodshot eyes burned fervently into my own.  They danced with an ominous menace I'd never seen, and her smile was now wide and maniacal, filled with rotten brown teeth and reeking of decayed meat.

Her voice was different than before, something like a deep Creole accent shot from her putrid mouth as she continued to smirk, "Di'nt you Ma-Ma evuh tell you to don't talk to stranguhs, gal?  That how you get took!"

The "k"she cracked with her closing "took" annunciated a warning so vile that my head spun.  My heart stopped for just that moment, her cackle filled my air so thick I could not catch a breath.  I ripped my hand from her grasp, tripping backwards on my heels, and hit the pavement.  

Then I just ran. I ran away in the style of a campy horror movie victim, knowing I was doomed to something, somehow.  I couldn't hear her laughter as I fled back through the tunnel I'd entered by, but I didn't stop. I dug my feet into the concrete and pushed my knees into the light from the other side, racing for dear life.

But something wasn't right. My heart was screaming, and I couldn't breathe. A sharp stab tore through the back of my skull, and I couldn't help but wonder if I was having a stroke or something worse. My ribs cracked as if I'd never run a day in my life.  This didn't make sense.  I ran marathons on my goddamn period, for heaven's sake!

Heaving, I found the main road beyond the park's tunnel entrance. The little diner I wanted to bring her to sat with an inviting wooden bench out front, so I stumbled towards it for relief.

As I approached, the window caught a glimpse of her yellow beanie. She must have followed me somehow.  How the hell was she so fast?  

I twisted to catch her, aching left shoulder blade and crackling knees, heart still beating out of my head, but she was nowhere to be seen.  I must have imagined it.  

I collapsed onto the bench seat, slouching haggardly and dripping sweat, panting like a dog in heat.  It must have been the panic.  I couldn't understand what the hell about that old bag scared me so badly, but I'd never freaked out so hard in my life.

Suddenly, a faded floral pattern, pink roses and paisley came into focus as I sat nearly doubled over.  Wrinkled hands pocked in liver spots and mottled with bulging blue veins dangled between my thighs.  My thighs.  

I shot out of the bench and pulled myself to the diner window, searching for my reflection, but I couldn't find it.  What stood in that window was a wretched old witch wearing a Donald Duck tee and smirk straight from hell, mocking me.  A yellow beanie sat atop her head.  

I screamed for help, but no one heard.  I grabbed at passersby, but they took no notice of me.  I couldn't run any longer, I was too winded, so I just fell.  I knew I was sobbing, and I knew this was impossible, but touching my cheeks, there were no tears.  Only a smile that would not leave.  Only rotten teeth and the smell of my rank mouth penetrating my nostrils.

I had to get back to her.  She never left the park bench, and she was going to fix this.  I didn't know what was happening to me.  I didn't know if I was dreaming.  I didn't know who I even was, but this was not my body and those were not my fucking trousers.

The walk back to the park was a blur, probably faster than it felt, and my heart never had a chance to slow down.  The tunnel seemed a hundred miles long in my condition.  I was only twenty five, but I had become a corpse in waiting.

Finally, the bench was in view, but she was gone.  I was gone.  I wasn't even sure what I was expecting to find.  People everywhere, but no one that resembled me, and I was the only person here that was her.  No one heard me, no one saw me.  I was nothing.

Sitting on the bench was a bag of birdseed, so I joined it.  I waited for myself to return, to emerge from that tunnel at seven the next morning as I always did.  To find me sitting on this same old park bench, under this same dying oak tree.  I was here every morning, but I never came.  

********

It was a gray day, but she waited nonetheless, counting aloud the lines on the sidewalk the same as she did every day. A gangly family of pigeons scuttled around her worn leather moccasins, as they always did, and she sat complacent and smiling on the same metal bench beneath the same dying oak tree. She was here every day at seven in the morning with nothing but the company of a cheap bag of birdseed, and I imagined she probably didn’t travel too far away at any given time.

I don't know why, but I decided to say hello today, and I did.

"Hello, ma'am.  I'm Brady.  I see you here everyday, so I thought I should say hello."

She responded, "Hello, ma'am.  I'm Brady.  I see you here everyday, so I thought I should say hello."

I experience them now only through the eyes and ears I’ve created. They’ve tried to abandon me, like everyone does eventually. But I still have them this way. I’m the stranger in the walls.

When I met Janice five years ago, she was plain and thus unprepared to be flattered, pursued, showered with gifts by a wealthy older man. The other waitresses at the diner tried to warn her. I heard that too.

“He’s handsome I guess, J, but he’s…There’s something not quite right. I mean…”

“Stop it Bev. He’s just shy, like me.”

“Really? Shy? He taped An Open Letter to the Friends of Janice Mcfain on the door to the downstairs pantry. Mike is pissed. He wants to know how he got back there.”

“Tell Mike to calm down. He’s the Assistant Night Manager, not my dad. And I think it’s sweet that he wants you guys to like him! You and Jenny were especially shitty when we went to AMC last Friday. Don’t think I didn’t see you refuse to share popcorn with us. Really?”

“I…I didn’t want to touch his hand, J! I can’t put my finger on it J, but something is wrong with him. I mean, he’s old and…and there’s something else. I just….Instead of getting mad at me, why not talk to Shell? Talk to Mike and Von too. Your ENTIRE group of friends is creeped out by him. He stops smiling when you look the other away. Did you know that? It’s weird!”

“You’re being a bitch, Bev.” Janice set her jaw and grabbed the grilled cheese on the counter, headed to the front. Beverly grabbed her wrist and the sandwich slipped halfway off the plate. Janice shoved it back in place and licked her fingers.

“Come on, J! Why are you taking this out on me? Listen, sweets, I’m telling you there’s a problem with him. I’m not a hater. I know he’s your…your first. But there’s no way you’re his, right? So, do you know anything about him? Was he marr…Shit. He’s here again.”

Beverly pointed her stubby red nails at me, dead ahead, in my favorite booth. It was my favorite because at ten in the morning the sun glinted off my thick blonde hair and gave me a gauzy, god-like halo. In the past three months, I’d sat in every booth in the place and knew from the reflection on the steel backsplash of the kitchen that this one was the best. Janice lifted her narrow set blue eyes and took in my charcoal suit, my spray tan, my wide smile just for her. She smiled and blushed right through her freckles. That’s when I knew I had her.

We married seven months later. She was three months pregnant with Charlie, queasy and green throughout the ceremony. I thought it was sexy how sick she was. When she puked after the cake, I held her hair back and kissed her ear. I tried to nibble her neck too, but she wasn’t having it.

I’m aware that people tend not to like me, so I worried about popping the question. Her parents were easy enough to deal with though.

I leaned in, hip to hip, pushing Barbara up against the formica countertop.

“You look so young,” I whispered into her ear. “You’ve really kept your figure.”

She laughed and rubbed up against my suit pants. I touched her sagging elbow skin, then her brittle orange hair. She took a swig of white wine and then lowered her eyes at me, trying for smoldering, but achieving cheap. Match win.

I wandered into the living room, clinking the ice cubes in my scotch.

“Hello Sir. How are you this evening?” He stared at the television, pretending not to hear me.

“I wanted, sir, to ask you a question if I may.” I remained standing. This wouldn’t take long and their couch had clearly never been vacuumed.

He turned to look at me, his distaste evident in the tilt of his bushy moustache. I sighed.

“Oh, I understand I’m not who you would have chosen for your little girl, but I can take care of her and elevate her a bit above…” I paused for effect. “Well, above all of this, I suppose.” I motioned with my glass to their shag carpet and peeling wallpaper.

He grunted and turned back to the TV, cranking the volume on Hunting Bigfoot.

And that’s game. I swigged the rest of my glass and walked out, swatting her mother in the ass as I passed through the kitchen.

By all accounts, I was supportive and loving throughout Janice’s pregnancy. When her little sister visited, I rubbed her increasingly fatter back and her swollen, unpolished toes, smiling all the while. I resisted my daily urge to cover her nose and mouth when she snored on the couch. Her bloated, drooling figure disgusted me, but she was mine.

Her shitty diner friends threw her a baby shower and didn’t invite me. That kind of thing really pisses me off so I stepped on her hand when she was on the floor of the nursery folding baby clothes. We both pretended it was an accident.

She eventually stopped talking to them, but it took some convincing.

“Janice, you should be home! That’s it. Period.”

“Calm down Charles. It was one night.”

“Do you really think you should be out at the dives pregnant? Is that what a good mommy-to-be ought to do?”

“Charles, I’m tired. Can we not do this? It was one night. I miss my friends.”

“The friends that encourage you to dance like a whale’s ass and then reopen the diner at three a.m. to raid the pantry bleary-eyed and laughing like a fucking idiot? Is that who you miss? Those friends?”

“How…how did you know we reopened the diner?”

“I know everything, Janice. I make it my business to know things. How’s your hand by the way?”

When Charlie was born, something changed. We were now a complete family. A world onto ourselves. And he was a funny clingy little monkey. He liked being with me, which was good. Really good actually. I found myself totally absorbed by him. I could watch him play with his toes for hours. It was a new feeling for me, fatherhood. It suited me.

But we had sex less, which sucked. I resorted to my old habits. I had many less than desirable methods of alleviating the resulting pressure, the heartbeat in my temples, the burning heat, all of which I hid from Janice. As far as she knew, I was still her darling, if a bit overbearing, husband. But then I caught Janice watching me closely with narrowed eyes when I had Charlie on my lap. Something had tweaked her.

“What?”

“Nothing. Charles, nothing.”

“The hell are you staring at?” My voice ragged, caught in my throat.

“Just….What were you doing last night?” She pulled at one chapped lip. I noticed her pinkie trembling.

I stood up then, fists balling at my side. Charlie slid expertly to the floor, thumb still stuck safely in his mouth and padded off to find his matchbox cars. At two, he was an old pro at ignoring our arguments.

“When? When did you wake up?”

“I just…I woke up on the couch. I don’t remember what time. And. Uh... And I went to check on Charlie and you…”

“And me what?” My voice was pitched low, but I was in a full rage now, shaking, my mind twisting through the various scenarios. What would she do? What did she see?

“Nothing, nothing.” She was beet red. Her still fat face (she still hadn’t lost that damn baby weight) was sweaty as usual. She had saved up all her courage for this moment and then blew it. Ha! Loser.

“You come at me with an accusation, you better have something to back it up, Janice!” I sneered at her, grabbed my new leather jacket off of the back of the kitchen chair and rolled out the front door with a big smile on my face. I love a good win.

Oh, I don’t want you to think I’m a dirtbag or anything. All she saw was me, swinging naked from the exposed beams in our bedroom. Creepy yes, I’ll own that. Incestual child-molester creepy, no.

When I got home from the bar that afternoon, three beers and two scotch and waters under my belt, the dreaded old hamburger smelling crew had descended. She had invited them into my restored nineteenth century home. Crowded in a circle on my taupe and lavender persian rug were seven white trash losers that I used to be able to name. It smelled like red wine and snot. In other words, it smelled like Janice had been crying.

“What the hell?” I stood hands on my hips in my kitchen. From there I was taller than everyone else in the sunken formal room. And better looking, as usual.

I couldn’t see her in the middle of all of the bodies, but I guessed that she was sitting on the far end, one cheek perched on the antique coffee table. Which, of course, she wasn’t allowed to do. The hairy Greek guy answered me instead of Janice.

“You’re not welcome here anymore, buddy,” he said. Then he took two steps forward as I descended into the living room. I faked a lunge and he skittered back on his heels, almost falling on his ass. Pathetic. I looked around and thought through my options. I could easily toss them all out and break a few arms in the process, but the dark-haired wench in the corner with the acne was already pulling out her cell to call the cops.

This little intervention could be a small blip brought on by a few recent events. Maybe that fight two weeks ago before the ballet when I tried to help her with her hair and I burned her ear with her curling iron? It was mostly an accident. Or maybe she was freaked by my erotic trapeze last night? We had a few other recent rows as well. Who could remember them all? Or it could turn into something really big. I was adverse to another prison term, so I decided to play along.

I stepped around the Greek, who had lost his nerve entirely and was looking at his toes like they might start a conversation with him at any minute. I found her cowering on the edge of the table (I knew it!) and grabbed her sweaty palms.

“Janice, love, what’s all this about?” Insert winning smile. Insert kneeling husband with the thick wavy hair. But this time her eyes did not go gooey at the sight of me. She pulled her hands back as if I had bitten her and stood, shakily, to her feet. She quickly turned, showing me the back of her lumpy neck and let herself be wrapped in tight by the arms of that flat faced waitress with the stubby nails. The woman’s beady eyes glared at me over Janice’s matted hair. Her mouth was pursed to look exactly like an asshole. I sighed. This was going to take some time.

I called to Charlie then and waited through the ensuing silence. The others stared at me, willing me to go. I laughed, actually amused. I’m used to people willing me gone, but in my own home? It was almost too much. But I did wish Charlie had come running. I’m not saying I grew a heart like the Grinch when Charlie was born. But I do want him around. I like his goofy face. I like the way he clings to the back of my leg when I shave in the morning. He doesn’t think I’m weird. At least not yet. She must have whisked him off somewhere to hide him from me. Payback is a bitch my dear.

The Greek followed me to the door. I wanted him to say something. I had a buck knife on me and it would feel good to let some blood pour (it’s been years!), but he just stood there, one hand on my new Cherrywood door. The one I had installed after I pulled Janice’s chair out from under her fat ass and chucked it at the door last year. He shut it in my face. That fucker. He’s got it coming too.

Watching from the tree line on Market Street, I saw the loser crew visit in shifts for two more days, but eventually they had to get back to their own horrible lives. Only one car kept coming as the weeks wore on. The old Nissan. The Greek’s car.

I ignored the service of process from her lawyer. Our lawyer actually. She doubled down with both a restraining order and a divorce decree requesting sole custody. So childish, Janice.

I used my key (too dumb to change the locks!) while they were at the grocery store probably buying pop tarts and chicken nuggets. Charlie was going to be obese by eight if I wasn’t there to tell her what to buy. I took nothing from the house. I plan on being back soon enough. But I did leave a lot of things. I left eyes and ears in every room. In every lamp, every outlet. These things are so cheap now. I must have installed fifty of them. Actually, I lost track!

I’m in every wall, in every conversation. I have an apartment downtown and the spare bedroom looks like Mission Control. I watch Charlie sorting shapes into that plastic block thing. It’s possible he’s stupid (being fifty percent Janice and all), but I don’t think so. Lately he’s been getting them all in except the crescent. That one is a bitch. I find myself clapping for him like I’m there. I wish I was actually.

Then three nights ago I saw Janice and Mike the Greek getting it on in my bed. That was unfortunate. For them at least. I was making plans to roll in (she STILL hasn’t changed the damn locks), but I hesitated for some reason and now I’m so glad I did. Because about an hour ago, I watched that Greek motherfucker hit Charlie! Yup, saw and heard it. He was banging away on Janice and Charlie started to cry. This hairy asshole gets up out of my Queen Anne bed, rolls down the hallway naked and opens the nursery. I’m watching as he lifts my son up by one arm and smacks his soft little cheek. I stood up from my monitors and started screaming, exactly matching the pitch of Charlie on the other end. I’ve hit my limit folks! It’s go time.

I’m done being the stranger in the walls. Charlie needs me. Oh, and I might scoop Janice up again. Makeup sex is so much fun…

where 

is that sweet 

  child

    now

ever since 

you cracked 

the innocence

with callused hands

sucked her in

between

tabacco soiled

teeth

and spit her 

out?

she 

comes by

sometimes.

I know that y'all are probably good enough people that you don't need to read this, but I juts want to get this out there. 

Today my dad called me evil, and told me that I had mental problems just because I can taste certain things others can't. He accused me of making false accusations, which I didn't even do. In fact, the ironic thing is that he's the one who was making false accusations against me. In the past, he's said that I'm ungrateful and less than an animal; someone who doesn't care for others and wastes their time.

My mom's not any better. She says that I never use my brain and constantly waste my life. She says that I'm a liar who should just shut up and wait patiently at her side. She says that I should just do what they say to. According to my mom, I have so little worth in life that I should die already.

And you know what? I completely agree. Because that's what I've been told for every single miserable year of my existence. That's why I'm crying right now, that's why I want to die. This is why kids hold razors to their wrists, this is why people become depressed. THIS. IS. WHY. To all the parents who don't understand this, what the hell?! We have feelings too, we're not just your dolls. We have our reasons for what we do. It's not always our fault. 

It's just so completely not okay to tell your kids that they don't deserve to live, they're worthless, they're wrong, or stupid, or ugly, or anything like that. You're our precious parents, the ones who care for us the most... or should. Everything you say makes a huge impact on us. We'll remember things you said to us when we were seven until we're seventy. So please, please don't ever tell your child any of those things, because you will absolutely ruin the rest of their lives. 

Right now, I'm lying on my bed contemplating suicide. I feel like no one would ever love me, since even my parents hate me. I and probably thousands of other kids feel this way... and often because of a few careless words our parents tossed our way. Just, please, don't do this to your kids. Don't let them lie awake thinking about the things you said to them, crying. Even if it's just for a second each day, let your kids know that you love and accept them. For every child that has experienced this sorrow before us. Please.