I stretch and feel my spine groan and pop with the weariness of a much older man. Waking is my least favorite part of the day, recently the lowest point in a mire of low points that make up my daylight hours. I have not been on a winning streak, illustrated further this morning by turning over to find my phone woefully dead, my soft pack of cigarettes empty, and my head already splitting. I typically wake before the hangover sets in and set to work on my next buzz. Alas, no phone, no alarm, no luck.

I walk clumsily into the kitchen, tripping over dirty clothes, beer cans, and candy wrappers. “Austin’s endless forms of filth”, my roommate West would call it. I pour a mug of room temperature sludge from West’s fancy coffee maker, then retrieve my gin from the freezer and pour some into a plastic cup with a squirt of lime juice. Breakfast.

Phoneless, I flip through a week-old newspaper as I alternate beverages. I’ve got a habit of buying newspapers when I’m feeling drunk and optimistic. Tomorrow’s the day, I’ll think, I will wake up and read the news like my dad does before setting out for a productive day of whatever the hell real adults do. Without fail, as the moon and stars fade from sight, so too do my hopes of productivity and assimilation. Newspapers are, in fact, quite boring, and I always feel like I’m missing context. It feels like I’m jumping into a TV show six seasons in.

I set the newspaper down, finish my gin, and hope against hope that I have something leftover in my stash box. I fish a beautifully ornate cigar box, the kind that truly fantastic cigars come in, out from behind the sofa. I open the lid and cannot believe my eyes. My baggie of weed, which had scarcely more than a gram left yesterday morning, is full. There is a bag of pills, oxys by the look of them, and a small container of yellow powder.

Where in the hell did this come from? I go to send a text West, but remember my phone is dead. Damn I wish my phone was charged. Just as I think this, my phone vibrates. I look down, full battery. There is a text from West, reminding me to take out the trash. I roll a joint with the mystery weed, put some jeans on, and go outside, still scratching my head from the surprise box of drugs.

It is raining hard. Our apartment dumpster is quite far from our exit, and I really don’t feel like getting soaked. Immediately upon thinking this, the rain stops. Instantly, the grey gloominess turns to a nice, sunny spring day. In the middle of February. Again, what the hell is happening? I shake my head, thoroughly flummoxed by the strange morning I’ve had so far. I light my joint and walk the trash can to the dumpster. The sun feels amazing on my back. I’m starting to feel sufficiently stoned, and there is no sign of a hangover.

As I walk back, I resign to not waste this good feeling playing the

hermit. I’ll visit my favorite haunts, maybe even get a coffee and stop by the bookshop if I have any cash in my wallet. I extinguish my joint, and allow the high and good feeling to take me over as I recross the threshold. I find a relatively clean pair of jeans, a wrinkled white button up, a decent pair of shoes. I find my wallet and open it to find it nearly bursting with twenties and hundreds. The mouthwatering excitement mixes with a growing sense of derealization in a strange, but not unwelcome feeling.

As I walk the stonecast from my apartment to downtown, I try to piece together what had happened the night before. Though I drink copiously and take drugs with very little caution, I don’t black out often. Honestly, I wish I was spared from memory a bit more frequently. Could I be missing a few hours from last night? I don’t know how I would have gotten my hands on a few thousand dollars and a box full of my favorite chemicals. I certainly remember coming home from the bars, discouraged at not having found a woman to bring home. I remember laying in bed and checking my dating apps. Could I have gone back out?

I can smell my favorite cafe, Yousef’s, as soon as I turn onto 8th. The aromas of espresso, cardamom, and harissa blend beautifully with the smoke from the old arab men who splay across benches and tables outside and argue politics over coffee and cigarettes. I wish I’d stopped for a pack first.

“My friend,” one of the men says, “do you smoke these?” He is holding a soft pack of camel unfiltered.

“Umm. Y-yes,” I stutter. I shake myself. “Yes I do. Almost exclusively.”

“You must take them,” he says with a smile, “They gave me the wrong pack at the store.”

The man continues to smile and hold out that pack as I meet his gaze, mouth agape. I think for a moment that perhaps I’m on a prank show, then remember that most of those target celebrities instead of random unemployed drunks.

“Thank you. That’s too kind,” I say, accepting the pack.

“It is my pleasure. You are a good man, I can tell,” the man says as he pats my hand.

I enter the coffeeshop, and the typically surly owner calls out to me.

“Austin! I just knew you would be here. Tall breve with cardamom is on the counter. No charge.”

“Ah. Thank you,” I say. Not nearly effusive enough a response to this kindness but I am getting freaked out now. I have spoken with Yousef a number of times, but we are not close friends. I’m surprised he remembers my drink order, much less my name. I collect my coffee and take it outside. I sit on a bench facing the road, and watch the cars go by as I light one of the gifted cigarettes. I take a few puffs and try to forget about all the weird shit. A car alarm is going off, kind of ruining the peaceful scene. I wish someone would shut it off. Immediately it stops. The strange feeling of losing touch with reality gives me a chill. I’d love an explanation as to what the hell is going on today.

Just then, a section of newspaper from the old men catches the wind and smacks me right in the face. As I am about to stand to return the paper, I look down and notice my full name on the front page.

“Austin Reeves has gained full omnipotence” the headline reads. I do not remember what that word means. I read further.

“Omnipotence means being all-powerful…” Ah. What?

“In a rare phenomenon which in no way proves or disproves the existence of a God, nor confirms or denies the randomness of the known universe, a local unemployed man has been granted omnipotence for an undetermined period of time. With this power, he can do as he pleases and what he pleases will be so.”

My heart is racing now. If I’m to believe this, all I have to do is think of something and it will happen. Screw it, let’s try this out.

I peer into the window of Yousef’s and see a man eating a lemon poppyseed muffin. I want one, and one appears in my hand. I take a bite, it is delicious and very much real. I look to the road and see a yellow Jeep. I turn it into a double decker bus. Now I’m grinning. Either I have gone fully, irreparably insane, or I have mystical powers. Regardless, I’m going to enjoy myself. I look at the shoe shop beside Yousef’s and it turns into a bar before my eyes. I stand up, light another cigarette, and enter the bar. It’s dimly lit, lined with a few booths, an impressive amount of stocked bookshelves, a fine pool table, and the largest selection of liquor that I’ve ever seen. A beautiful woman stands at attention behind the bar.

“Ok if I smoke in here?” I ask.

“Please. Whatever you like,” she says. Her voice is low and soothing.

“I’d like a drink with whisky. Something amazing. And an order of fries with malt vinegar.” She smiles and nods.

As I wait for my drink and snack I survey the place. It is my dream bar. The art on the walls feels familiar and warm. It smells like vanilla pipe tobacco and coconut. The only thing missing is company. At this point, I don’t know why I’m surprised when people start to trickle in. I suppose I’d summoned them. As the beautiful bartender brings my order, a small group of attractive, well dressed grad students by the look of them ask to join me. With a grin, I gesture for them to sit.

“How cool is this place?” one of them asks.

“It must have just opened, have you seen it before?” Another asks me.

“It just opened today, as a matter of fact,” I say. “I did a bit of design work for the place. Glad you like it.”

The next few hours are a gleeful haze of the most unbridled hedonism I’d ever partaken in. The bartender became a purveyor of not just amber liquids, but various forms of powders and more powerful elixirs. By three o’clock, I find myself nearly unable to hold my head up with intoxication, fully clothed, laying in a hot tub that had been delivered and set up at the request of one of my new friends.

The patrons become more and more impressed and taken with my ability to get them whatever they desire. The room is now filled with rare foreign snack foods, newly adopted puppies, and favorite childhood toys. I am like a skinny Santa Claus with cocaine. More importantly, these people love me. They think my stories are hilarious. They think me to be witty and interesting. I feel none of the usual pity or derision from any of them.

I let my head lay back and look up at the ceiling. It has been painted to look like a canopy of trees, identical to the heavy woods of my childhood summer camp. My head swims, and I wish I was a bit less high. Of course, just as I think this I regain a bit of consciousness.

“Friends,” I say, with my head still laid back. “I think I’d like a bit of solitude to dry off. There’s a change of clothes for each of you in the restrooms and you’ll find that my number has been added to your phone. Austin Reeves. I hope we can do this again sometime.”

I listen to them all leave, speaking in a drunken hush about the insane party they’d just attended on a Wednesday afternoon. I let myself float in the water, thoughtless, and felt a sensation of peace and contentment that I had not felt since I was a young boy. And yet, I must admit, just as I’d felt when I was a child, there was something missing. Nothing seemed to propel me forward, yet I had no desire to stay in the same place.

I exit the hot tub and summon a warm, dry bathrobe. What’s next? What is it that I want to do with this newfound power? Wordlessly, the bartender brings me a spiked coffee and a cigarette. I think of my goals, usually a topic I avoid like poison. I’d always wanted to be a writer. I wanted to write an acclaimed novel. A manuscript appears in front of me. I smirk and drag on my cigarette.

Then my mind wanders, as it often does, to Rachel. I’ve been pining after Rachel for years. We are close friends, but there is something more there. After a few nights of partying, we’ve parted with a short, sweet kiss. Out of fear, and a sense of something like reverence for her, I’d never tried to take it further. This is what I want the most. I want Rachel. I summon a nice pair of trousers, a pressed shirt, and a hip, tweed jacket.

Once dressed, I walk purposefully towards the art gallery where Rachel works. She majored in art in college. We’d lived in the same dormitory, which quartered all of the fine art students, musicians, dancers, theater majors, and various other unemployable eccentrics. I used to get back from parties and find Rachel quite sober in the art studio on the main floor, creating deeply moving and exquisitely strange paintings. She’d listen to me ramble about her art, and on more than one occasion when I drank too much would stop her work to take care of me or put me to bed. Yet, she never seemed to mind. She told me everyone had their ways of dealing with pain, and at least mine made me a better dancer.

I arrive at the art gallery and peer into the window. Rachel is helping a potential customer. She is pointing at the painting in the middle of what I know to be an impassioned lecture. She’s supposed to be selling art, but I know from our conversations that she’s shit at it, giving far too much detail about the works and even criticisms. She’d rather the art go to the right person than the first person, she’s told me.

Her light brown, curly hair falls halfway down her face. Her eyes, a grayish blue, are wide open and alight as they always are when she discusses art. My heart is beating too fast. What do I say? What do I do? If I just walk in and think of us being together will this mystical power make her run into my arms? The thought of this disturbs me. I step back into the alleyway, to avoid Rachel spotting me lurk in front of her window. Maybe if I brought flowers it would be enough to show my intentions are no longer just friendly. Or a gift? A bouquet of wildflowers and a small box appear in my hands. Wait. I’m too stoned for this. If I’m doing this, I need to be sober.

And just then the strangest feeling I’d ever felt creeps down from my forehead, spreading out the rest of my body. It’s as though the chemicals are being vacuumed out of my body. I am suddenly, shockingly sober. I realize I have not been completely sober in maybe three? Four years? Not since a brief stay in the hospital my fifth year of college.

I shake off the unpleasant physical sensation and peer back around the corner into the window of Rachel’s gallery. The realization hits me. I can’t have her. Not like this. I cannot use the power to trick Rachel into loving me as I love her. It would never be real. She’s not a glass of whisky or a box full of pills to be summoned at my will. What was I thinking? I abandon the plan, walking down the alley, then out onto the next street as a familiar feeling of shame and panic takes me over.

The panicked feeling increases, though I’m far from the gallery now. This feeling, the dryness in my mouth, the churning in my stomach, the swimming fluish feeling in my head, is what I remember feeling like when I’m not using or drinking. It occurs to me that I could wish this feeling away, or just reach in my pocket for a pill or a joint, but I don’t. I keep walking until I reach Hewitt Park.

Hewitt Park has always been a haven for me. There is a creak running through it with several romantic footbridges. The fescue grass is soft, excellent for napping. There is a tall climbing tree that I used to disappear into as a child, and a small gazebo I used to sneak into to smoke weed during college. Several years ago, the city poured new concrete around the old light posts and I’d marked it with my initials. The bench nearest this inscription is my favorite place in the world to sit and think.

I sit on the bench and reach in my bag for my cigarettes when I see the manuscript. I decide to open it. I read one paragraph and am in awe. It’s my tone, my voice, but of such a quality that I’ve never read. It’s simple prose but just after a paragraph I’m hooked. I keep reading the uncanny novel, and hot tears form in my eyes. After a few pages I’m shaking and crying and for some reason I’m desperately angry. I didn’t write this, couldn’t write this. It’s better than anything I’ve ever written and I hate it. I close my eyes and the manuscript burns to ash in my hands.

“Hey, you okay, man?” I look up to see my roommate West looking down

at me with concern.

“Oh yea, man,” I say, obviously lying. “Want to sit?”

He sits down and looks me up and down. “Nice suit, man. Did you just set a book on fire?”

I laugh. Almost without thinking, I tell him the truth of my day, finding the money, the drugs, stopping the rain, the newspaper, turning the shoe store into a bar with a hot tub. Then the manuscript. And Rachel. I summon an apple to prove it to him. I hold my head in my hands.

“So you are omnipotent, and you never considered stopping climate change?” West says softly. The thought had never occurred to me. How had that never occurred? I shake my head.

“World hunger? Peace in the Middle East? Any of that cross your mind?” West’s voice is a bit louder now. I shake my head again.

“But you turned a small business into a pleasure den and made it sunny outside?” West says, clearly frustrated at my selfishness.

I nod.

“Well you make a shit god, Austin. No surprise there,” he says.

I think of the world and its ills. I think of ending global warming but I’m not sure how to phrase it. Global hunger seems easy enough. I focus on wanting everyone in the world to have their needs met. I’m unsure if it worked. I want a coffee, and one for West, too. Nothing happens.

“I think it’s gone now,” I say to West. He nods.

“That’s probably for the best,” he says, placing a hand on my shoulder. I can’t argue with him on that.

I check my wallet. The cash is still there. I think of the stash box, and wonder if it is still full. The wind has picked up, sounding an orchestra of rustling leaves in Hewitt Park. The sun is disappearing behind gray clouds. The panicky feeling has subsided some. I remember this, too, about being sober. Feeling lucid and clear. Feeling okay. I set out to buy flowers for Rachel, but somewhere along the way I change paths to check on my stash box.

It was a calm day in the air conditioned auditorium. People were gathering from multiple entrances to settle in their seats while the coordinators set up the TVs and Nintendo Switches people would be playing on. Today was a Smash Bros Ultimate tournament and there would be a lot of people. At first there were only a few of the competitors but as time went on more and more of them came until almost all of them were there filling a large portion of the stage. The coordinators counted up the competitors realizing that someone was missing among them. *Bang* opened the doors as a glistening, tall man strode through the doorway. The competitors saw him and their faces went from a fierce look to one of fear for this man was no ordinary man, but the God of Smash Bros.

Weeknights at Ollie’s Tavern were never busy despite Ollie’s attempts at spicing things up with trivia nights, or free apps specials, or a plethora of other ideas. On this warm Tuesday night, things weren’t any different.

The place was usually inhabited by at least two of four regulars: Lester Freeman, Jonathan Lindbergh, Carlton Davis, or Seymour Spinks, and a couple of newcomers that never come back on account of literally anything being better than here. Only Lester and Seymour were present today, as sodden as ever. The other two are currently battling hangovers from Monday bingo night, a night in which only our four regular joes attended.

A report on the updates of the unexplainable drop in the number of homeless people was playing on the TV.

“Good,” said Lester. “We don’t need anymore bums in this. – hiccup – town!”

Seymour’s eyebrows furrowed in preparation for his side of the debate. “I don’t know, Les. Some of these bums ain’t so bad. There’s one that hangs around the corner and we always have decent conversations.”

“You talk with the bums?” asked Lester, in disgusted tone as if Seymour had told him he fornicates with the dead.

“Well, yeah. They’re people like us.” Seymour takes a large gulp from his mug, wipes his mouth, and belches. “His name’s Sylvester. He’s got a tattoo on is forearm. A black dahlia. A decent fellow, he is. Haven’t seen him around lately, though. ”

“Man, sometimes I worry about you, Spinks.” They continue drinking and chatting.

Everything was more or less the same until a newbie walked in around 8 pm. He was a haggard, balding, mid-thirties looking fellow. The most peculiar thing about this stranger wasn’t that he walked with a limp or his vampiric paleness, or that he looked like he smelled of moldy dust. It was more so that his eyes painted a picture of a man who wasn’t really all there. They had this bleak darkness and depth that anyone could see from a great distance but couldn’t quite figure out what he’s about. An uncomfortable chill emanated from his dark aura. Combine this with the disturbing crooked smile he was wearing and you’ve got yourself a couple of unsettled drunkards trying not to make any eye contact with the man while playing close attention to where he was planning on sitting so that they could make a prompt shift in their seating arrangement if he got too close. Despite this, the two amigos were struck with the faintest hint of familiarity in the stranger’s face.

The stranger takes out his phone and makes a phone call.

“I’m inside,” the stranger says. He hangs up the phone and calls the bartender’s attention.

“Two beers,” he says.

Moments later a pair of headlights dash across the bar and settle in front of the window where the two buddies are sitting, blinded temporarily.

“A Ferrari? In this town?” asks Lester.

A man steps out of the car and walks in. This one was visibly older than the first one, and yet he seemed much healthier. A full head of silver hair, a normal and vigorous gait, no wrinkles, and the body frame of a cyclist. The man’s facial expression exuded wealth and confidence. He looks around and locates the first stranger, smiles, and sits next to him, where the pitcher of beer awaits him.

Seymour squints his eyes in the direction of the new patron and asks, “Ain’t he that rich fellow. Jeff somethin’?”

Lester ponders for a moment and a long-neglected dusty light bulb goes off in his head. “Jefferson Harvey. He’s the owner of that drug company. Uhh --”

“Chemixin Pharmaceuticals! Over there in Langord, not too far from here.” says Seymour. “Yeah, yeah! He took over for that other guy that died, Alistair Brave. Such a shitty way to go.”

What the hell is he doing here? They both thought.

The second man now known as Jefferson begins the conversation with the mysterious stranger. “Christ, you look like hell. Are you sure we’re celebrating something, or do you need medical attention?”

The first man holds up one finger and points his gaze at Lester and Seymour. The two friends tried to avert their gaze as fast as they could, but they knew it was too late: their eyes had met his. The stranger gives them that nerve-racking smile that he walked in with, gets up, and saunters awkwardly towards them. He reaches for his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. From the wallet he takes out a small stack of hundred-dollar bills. He puts six bills in front of each of the men and calmly says “Scram”.

More than glad to get away, Lester and Seymour take the money and scurry clumsily out of the bar. The man limps back to his seat and gestures for his companion to continue.

“Alright Serg, so what’s the occasion? And why here?”

Sergio reaches for his front left pocket and pulls out a small clear vial filled with a blue powder. “I’ve finally perfected it!”

Jefferson gives a puzzled look. “What is that?”

“Why, it’s revolutionary, is what it is,” replies Sergio. He stares at the vial with pure admiration “Life-changing. It sure as hell changed my life. I’ve been working on it for fifteen years.”

“What does it do?”

“Let me tell you a story, Jeff,” says Sergio, ignoring the question. “But first, let’s have a toast in honor of my work!”

Jefferson complies and raises his glass as Sergio does the same. They gulp down the beer and Sergio begins.

“Jeff, today is the anniversary of my father’s passing. I’m sure you know.”

“I’ll never forget it. May he rest in peace.”, Jeff muttered.

“I appreciate it. Before his passing he left me a letter for my eyes only. Obviously, I was too young at the time. I was only four! The idea was that when I graduated high school I would read the letter. So, the day after my graduation, my mother sat me down and told me about the letter and handed it to me. Let me tell you, Jeff, I’m not an emotional man. Never have been. But I’ve never shed more tears than the day I read that letter. It devastated me. Cried like a little bitch.”

He laughs and in turn Jeff chuckles as well.

“Before that moment I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to do with my life. I hadn’t even applied to any colleges yet. But with that letter, I knew what I had to do. I sought a career in chemistry. I did pretty well, too. Made the dean’s list each semester, earned a few scholarships, hell, I even started getting paid to do research amongst my professors by the time I was a sophomore. You could say I was a natural, maybe even a latent prodigy, but to tell you the truth, I had a little help.”

“What kind of help?” asked Jeff.

“A special kind of help. See, in the letter my dad left me, he told me about this mystical place in Tibet. Have you been to Tibet?”

Up until this point Jeff’s attention was wavering but now he was focused. And nervous. “Yeah, I have.”

“Well, the letter had directions to a special cave. It took me almost a week of searching but eventually I found it. As isolated and barren as this place was, you would think that nobody has visited this place. I don’t suppose you’ve been to this cave, have you?”

Jeff simply stares and says nothing.

“In any case, I entered the dark cave. The letter told me to trust my instincts and walk until you can’t walk anymore. But I trusted my father as much as any son could trust. So, I walked and walked in the darkness."

He stopped to take a sip of his beer. When he put his glass down he started to notice heavy beads of sweat rolling down Jeff’s face. Sergio smiled and continued.

“If I had to guess, I’d say I walked for about eight hours in the void. If that’s the case then I could estimate that at the sixth hour my right foot began to ache really bad. I reached down to soothe it a little and that’s when I felt something that horrifies me to this day. Bone. I was wearing hiking boots and wool socks when I started this journey. Then I realized something had eaten away at all of that and then some. My foot had been reduced to nothing but skeleton.

“I’d finally reached a point where I could no longer balance myself. It felt like one leg was shorter than the other. On my last step with my bone foot I couldn’t find purchase and fell to the ground. I tried to touch my foot when I realized it was completely gone. It’s like I was slowly being eaten the entire time. I screamed, Jeff. And screamed and screamed. Louder and louder. All I heard was my own echo but then I began to hear laughter. Very evil laughter. I belt out one last scream when suddenly I’m no longer in darkness. I’m now in this round clearing lighted by torches all around.

“And in this clearing there’s a circle made of red dust –” He stops to peer into Jeff’s eyes. “Well I don’t need to go any further do I? You know what happens next don’t you, Uncle Arthur?”

Jeff says nothing.

“Let me guess. You feel like you have a fever, right? And your chest hurts, your spine is tingling, your eyes feel like they’re on fire?”

His silence was as good an answer as anything else. At this point Jeff was indeed feeling all of that and much more. He was sweating profusely and shivering. His breathing had become more labored. Sergio reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a yellow folded piece of paper. He opens it and shoves it into Jeff’s face.

“Read it you son of a bitch!” he growls. “Ready my father’s dying words!”

Jeff struggles to move his eyes in any direction but the s and danger in Sergio’s voice gives him no choice. His eyes stagger until he gets to the end of the letter.

The Tibetan elixir allows you to switch your soul with another person.

Jeff’s not Jeff. Your Uncle Arthur is not dead. He didn’t kill himself. He got a hold of the Tibetan elixir. He drank the potion and slit his own throat. Your uncle is in Jeff’s body. Then he poisoned me. I don’t exactly know what it was but I do know that its effects are delayed for months. Avenge me, my son.

Sergio grabs Jeff by the collar and pulls him close.

“I just want you to know that you deserve everything that’s coming to you.”

Arthur’s eyes roll to the back of his head and begins to convulse. He falls to the floor. His blood vessels start to bulge out of his skin all over his body. Sergio finishes his beer. He jumps off the stool and crouches towards his uncle. He leans into Arthur's ear and whispers, "This stuff is better than the Tibetan elixir. You asked me what it does. Well, Uncle Arthur, this will make you... immortal."

Smoke slithers out of Arthur’s orifices and he lets out a demonic cry. Finally, his eyes appear to be lucid yet confused.

“W-w-where am I?”

“You’re free now,” replies Sergio. “Now, get out of here.”

He looks at his hands and touches his face and the back of his neck in disbelief. He runs out of the bar frantically. Sergio laughs and pays the tab. As a tip he leaves $600 and tells the Ollie the bartender.“You didn’t see anything, got it?”

Ollie is shaking. He nods but it’s not clear whether it’s from assent or fear. Sergio gets up from the barstool and heads out the door.

Midnight. Sergio is miles deep in the woods. He’s walking towards a worn-down cabin, abandoned before he was even born. Next to the entrance of the cabin there’s a large square hole filled with a stack of decaying bodies. He goes inside and ambles lightly to the master bedroom, bereft of all furniture, and smiles. There’s a large meat hook affixed to the ceiling in the middle of the room. Impaled in the hook is a naked body nobody would recognize unless they knew he had a black dahlia tattoo on his forearm. The man is sleeping but slowly coming to.

Sergio picks up a switchblade knife and jabs it into the body’s belly. “Wake up, Uncle Arthur. It’s time.”

1

I remember being a little kid and having nightmares so real, even after I woke up screaming and sweating I would still be scared to close my eyes. The flashes of distorted, smiling faces looking down at me coupled with the screams that never escape from my throat haunt me even when I’m wide awake. I roll over in an empty bed and savor the smell of the clean sheets. I feel my jaw untighten just a little and my shoulders relax as I moved to check the time. My phone read 8:30 am and next to it, a picture of myself and my sister caught my eye. Both of us were smiling, my hair a mane of brown and blonde, hers a cropped bob. Our arms were slung around one another, just happy to be together and excited for life in a new city. God, I miss that girl. I miss being free from the scary consequences of the world and feeling like there is always someone breathing on the back of my neck.

I forced myself up and into the shower. I don’t remember ever showering so much in my life. Showering until the scalding hot water runs cold. Showering four or sometimes five times a day, scrubbing my skin so hard in places it has become red and raw. I almost didn’t notice until I looked down at my legs while I was getting dressed. I felt disgusted. My body only served as a reminder. I hated looking at my body so much that I covered my mirror with a sheet. I didn’t want to see myself, my body, a tool for that man to do whatever he liked. But today it the day. The police are coming over and hopefully, I can hear the conversation now, they’re going to tell me that they have been working hard and they think they’re getting close. I sometimes have daydreams where I get to go into a police lineup and point out the man that did it. Feeling that power surge up within me, taking back control of my life. It almost made me salivate.

I heard a knock on my apartment door. I live in an apartment building and didn’t buzz anyone in. My stomach immediately started doing flips as I tiptoed to the door. I held my breath before looking through the peep hole only to see two men with badges looking impatient on the other side of the door. My heart continued to pound in my chest as I let them in.

2

I offered the police officers, no- detectives, coffee as they made themselves comfortable at my grey and glass dining table. My apartment is a loft and very spacious. From the table you had a vantage point of the whole room which was plain but messy. I hadn’t cooked food or cleaned, hell, I’ve hardly left my bed in at least a week. I poured them coffee into two matching mugs and saved my extra-large, chipped college mug for myself. I sat at the table, shifting my weight trying to be comfortable under their gaze but constantly found that I wasn’t able to relax. Every interaction with a police officer or detective just leaves me feeling like they don’t believe my story, my account, of what happened last Thursday night. They ask the same questions over and over like they are expecting me to slip up and tell them something completely different and wild.

The first detective finally looked at his partner and then back to me. “I wish we had some better news for you. We were able to catch part of the struggle on the camera outside your building and we’re waiting on our tech guys to scrub it so we can try to get a license plate number. But until then, why don’t you recount your… story, for us one more time since we aren’t the cops who took your original statement.”

My face flushed and I continued to stare into my coffee. A sort of numbness takes over me each time I recount what happened. Like I’m telling a tale about someone else and that this all didn’t really happen to me. I took a deep breath and started at the top. “Okay,” I mumbled, “if you insist.” The second detective clicked open a pen and opened up a tiny notebook that he had taken out of his pocket. He gave me a nod as if to say, go ahead.

“I went out with a few friends on Thursday night, just to hang out for a little bit with some friends that I hadn’t seen in a while. We had a flight tasting at a brewery downtown before just me and Kate went to another bar.”

“And why was it only the two of you going?” the first detective asked.

“I hadn’t seen her in a while. We used to see each other two or three times a week but we hadn’t and wanted time to catch up, just the two of us,” I replied. He gave me a nod, and I continued.

“We got to the next bar, The Peacock, and things seemed fine. It was really crowded and Kate and I sat at a table outside. She ordered us both a drink and a water. I remember that it was so packed on the roof but Kate felt like this group of kids in the corner was looking at us the wrong way. Everything happened so fast. Kate went to the bathroom and I guess on her way back she started yelling and getting into a fight with a girl who was sitting at that table. I don’t know what the fight was about but Kate is like, the sweetest girl in the world. She would never have started something unless she felt like she had to. But I told the waitress that stepped in that Kate and I would leave. As we were going down the stairs Kate started acting weird. She couldn’t stand up, she wasn’t making any sense when she was talking. My only thought was to get her safely to my car so I could figure out what to do next. But I had to carry her, literally carry her, and her purse and stuff and in all the craziness my purse fell and was picked up by someone who later stole my money and my credit card. Someone saw Kate passed out on the ground and called an ambulance. They took Kate away, the doctors told her that she had been roofied with Ketamine and had an allergic reaction. I think I was roofied too but I’m double Kate’s size and I don’t think it impacted me as much. But anyways, Kate was taken away in an ambulance and a cop told me he would take me to a homeless shelter for the night or back to my apartment. I didn’t have anything- no purse, no phone, no car keys, no apartment keys, I mean nothing. The cop took my back to my apartment building and left me there.

Not too long later, I was sitting on the corner crying when an Indian man in a red car pulled over. He listened to me, he told me he would help me and the next thing I knew he punched me in the eye,” I lifted my hand up to my green, swollen face, “and drug me into the alley next to the apartment building. He threw me on top of a dumpster, pulled my dress up and raped me. I don’t remember if he finished. I don’t know how long it went on for. I only remember the smell. The stink of the garbage, it smelled like rotting beef. The next thing I remember is him grabbing me by the ponytail and throwing me in his car. I don’t remember a lot after that. He kept stroking my bare legs telling me he was going to take care of me. He would take me to a motel and take good care of me. Maybe he said it was his motel? I’m not exactly sure. He touched me all over my clothes. I remember we drove on roads that didn’t have a lot of lights. Suddenly, I looked out the window and saw a fire station. We stopped at a red light and when it turned green I jumped out of the car, ran over the median, and went straight to the firehouse. From there the police were called again and they took me to the hospital to wait for Kate to wake up since they didn’t have anywhere else for me to go. And that’s it. That’s what happened,” as I concluded I glanced up. I realized how quickly I had been talking and how fast the second detective had to scribble to keep up.

“Thank you,” the first detective said. “I know its unpleasant to talk about.”

I half laugh and half snarled. It was the first time I looked up to the detective’s scrutinizing brown eyes. “Yes,” I spat, “it is.”

The first detective continued, “We will let you know when we have some more information from the security cameras and go from there. That’s all we have for you today. Thank you for the coffee. Where should we leave our cards?” The detective was finished with me. Just like all the others, came to take from me and leave. He had no intention of sharing anything in return. I walked them out before returning to the comfort of my clean smelling bedsheets for the remainder of the day.

3

I laid on my side in a tight ball, sweating. Another nightmare, I thought, as the images of hands squeezing my throat from behind and eyes looking down on me started to fade from the front of my mind. Curled up like this, I felt safe, my body felt protected. I made a conscious effort to slow down my breath and wipe the tears from my eyes as my heart continued to vigorously pump blood through my veins, ready to escape the danger that lives inside my own head.

That’s it, I thought, switching on the light. I am done. I am done sitting and waiting for something to happen. I am done hiding away from the world. I am done being a victim. I need to go out and find him. I need to know that he can’t hurt me or any other girl ever again. As if I was hit by a bolt of lightning I realized that justice was probably never going to come to me. The police weren’t ever going to help me, they certainly couldn’t keep me safe so why should I trust them to help me now? The answer, I’m not. I felt the gears of my mind shifting, finally fitting pieces together so that I felt like I had a handle on how to run an investigation like this. I know the guy who did this. I talked with him, I spent time in his car. I know how to find this guy if only I can remember some more of what happened that night. If the police won’t do the work that needs to be done, then I will.

4

I walked into the plain brown office building situated in a large plaza close to town. I had never done anything like this before but I figured that I might as well try. I walked inside and scanned the building directory plastered to the wall near the entrance until I found the office number for Dr. Benson. She was the most well reviewed hypnosis doctor that I read about online. I walked into her office and filled out her intake forms which she reviewed with me once we were seated together in her office. She asked me a few questions, mostly about my willingness and goals for the session. Her demeanor was honestly refreshing. She didn’t look at me like a broken Barbie doll, she looked at me like, I would imagine, she looks at all of her clients.

I closed my eyes and let Dr. Benson walk me through a narrow hallway in my mind with short, navy blue carpet. I saw identical closed wooden doors scattered on sides of the hallway. I walked forward, carefully considering each door. Which one was the right one? How do I go back to the right parts? As if she could hear my thoughts, I heard Dr. Benson’s voice tell me that I would be able to see the broken door and to start there. I continued to walk, unsure of how far I had gone until I came upon a wooden door that looked different. It hung off the frame a little and looked as though it had been punched. A fist sized crater in the door sent wood splintering out at weird angles. I grabbed the door knob to find that it was warm, like someone had been holding their hand on the knob for a while, constantly using this door. Just as Dr. Benson promised, I knew this was the one.

I twisted the knob and slowly pushed the door open. It was dark inside, like when you’re standing just on the outer glow of a street lamp. I realized that I was now sitting in the back seat of the red car. The seats were grey polyester and the car still smelled new mixed with the spices of cumin and curry. I watched the large, heavy-set man stroke my leg in the front seat. I heard him tell me that he would take me to his motel soon after he picked something up. He said his motel. So, he does own it. Just then the car stopped at a red light. I looked up at the street signs. Madison Avenue and… the light changed. I saw the passenger door fling open as the car began rolling forward. My black t shirt dress was short and loose and bounced up as I clamored over the median in the road. The car continued forward as the bottom sole of my favorite black boots came half loose and slapped the ground as I ran toward the fire station door.

The fire station itself looked brand new. The sand and grey colored bricks of the building looked hardly tarnished. But the entire station was well lit and I watched from the backseat of the red car as I dropped down to my knees outside the fire house and cried. I sobbed there for what seemed like an eternity before two men in their boxers and white tee shirts knelt down beside me and helped carry me inside. The darkness around me started closing in, all the sharp details looking fuzzier and fuzzier until I opened my eyes to Dr. Bensons sterile, white office.

I rushed out of Dr. Benson’s office with clarity. Now I knew for sure that the guy who tried to take me owned a motel. Probably a motel close to the fire station I ended up barging into at 3 am. I situated my new whiteboard on the wall near my kitchen table which is also where I set up my laptop. I started writing out what I know. Red, mid-sized car. Maybe a Toyota or a Honda. I don’t remember exactly but I know it wasn’t anything flashy. He was Indian and talked about taking me to a motel. Not just any motel, HIS motel. I’m sure property records for the motel could give me a name I just need to figure out which motel it is. He definitely said motel not hotel, right? No, I know it’s a motel, likely near the fire station. The new looking fire station near Madison Avenue. Now, at least, I know where to start.

5

I began my search spree. I started looking up all the fire stations in Albuquerque, focusing on ones that are within a fifteen-minute drive of my apartment. I don’t know how long I was in the red car for but I know that if you drive more than 15 minutes in any direction from my place downtown you’re basically in the middle of nowhere. I tried to see images of the fire stations online but couldn’t see all of them. The fire stations that do have pictures online were definitely not it. I made a list of the fire stations that it potentially could have been and I set out to see them. I drove in a circle around the outskirts of Albuquerque looking for the shining new structure until I found myself driving on Madison Avenue. After four hours of searching, my energy was low. I felt like maybe I couldn’t trust my memory of things that happened that night, even what I remember through my hypnosis session. Maybe it’s all a crock of shit like the real doctors have said again and again.

I drove until I pulled up to a red light. I came to the end of the road. With a sigh, I looked left and right, unsure of where to go next. I decided to turn left and immediate got light headed. When I turned the car, I saw it. A big, light tan and grey brick building. It was the fire station. I pulled into the parking lot and sat there, my hands trembling, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. I had really done it, I found the fire station from that night, I almost couldn’t believe it. Suddenly, I felt bile rise up in my throat, barely making it out of car before the vomit started spilling out of my mouth.

I found the fire station, Station 7, on my list and circled it with a pen I found in my dash. I debated going inside, thanking them for their kindness towards me that night. I paced outside my car with the driver side door open. As I paced, I felt like someone was watching me. I couldn’t stop looking over my shoulder. Was that a person in the bushes? Or just a shadow? I wrote a note on some spare paper in my notebook and stuck it to the door of the fire house with some gum. I couldn’t stay a minute longer. I got in my car and drove to the safety of my parking garage, sprinted to my apartment and I went directly to the comfort of my bedroom to try and get control of my racing heart. Baby steps, I told myself, baby steps.

6

Okay, now for the tricky part. I needed to find the motel. I made Station 7 the center point of my search. From there, there were seven motels in a five-mile radius. I know in my gut that the motel is close to that fire station. Out of the seven motels that came up in my search, one was no longer in operation and another would probably classify more as a hotel than a motel. I kept it on the list but moved it to the bottom, as I thought it was least likely. The five I had left weren’t far from one another and I didn’t need to see them so much as I needed to know who owned them. If I can find the business records or maybe property records for all of them, then maybe I could find the guy who took me. But that also meant I needed to call in a favor.

I got the number for Alejandro through a girl friend of mine. She didn’t ask a lot of questions but she knew something was up. She told me that Alej knew I would be calling him. So, I walked the length of my apartment over and over again, maybe hoping that this would power me up to make the phone call. Alejandro is not someone I know well, I knew him as a nice police officer that sometimes hung around at Sasha and Roone’s house. Sasha and I had become really good friends in the brief time I have lived here in Albuquerque. She was like family to me, inviting me over for Sunday dinner and always including me in happy hour at the breweries. Her house was always the place to be and there was always a diverse group of people coming in and out of Sasha and Roone’s house. Alejandro was one of them and I trust him more than any other police officer I know.

I hit the number and my phone started ringing. When Alej finally picked up I realized it was just like talking to an old friend. I told him what happened to me that night out with Kate and I told him what I had already found out. “You need to be calling the detectives, Mija, not telling me,” he lectured, “but if you promise me that you up will update them, I will find this out for you. And I will find out if you tell them,” his voice was stern. I agreed and thanked him a million times over. After hanging up with Alej, I thought about the detectives that came to see me earlier this week, how different he was than them. I thought of how cold and detached they were even listening to me speak while Alejandro couldn’t have been more kind. And, even better, he agreed to help! This meant that I had to call the detectives and update them if I wanted Alej to follow through on the names of the owners and their addresses. I called the detectives to update them and they sounded less interested than if I had told them I found a penny on the ground. I don’t even really think they have ever actively listened to a word that I’ve said. I thought back to the detective taking notes at my kitchen table. I’m fairly certain that he was actually just doodling on a sketch pad, not noting any important breakthroughs in my case. So what, I thought, I don’t need them. I am going to end this all on my own.

7

I couldn’t take my eyes off my cell phone for two days. For a full 48 hours I wouldn’t go anywhere, even to take one of my four daily showers, without it. Finally, around 8:00 pm on that second day, Alej called me back. He carefully went over all the names that he was able to pull for the five business licenses and property reports. Some of the hotels had two or three different names on the different licenses but I had Alejandro give me all of them. I thanked him again, choking back tears as I spoke. I told him that I spoke to the detectives and I don’t think they’re going to help or do anything. Alej was silent for a moment. “Not all of us are as committed to helping people as they are to getting their paycheck. I’m sorry that they didn’t help you and I’m sorry for what happened to you,” it was like a warm hug over the phone. After we hung up I ran down the list of eight names and my pulse quickened.

I quickly opened up my laptop and went to Facebook. First things first, I wanted to see if I eliminate any of these names as the man who attacked me. I searched, and searched, and searched again. Three of the men I definitely found and between their names and their pictures, I could rule them out. I crossed their names off the list. Three of them I couldn’t find on Facebook at all, and the other two I found but couldn’t see any pictures of them on their pages. The five names that stared back at me from the paper taunting me. I know the man that took me was Indian, I know it. Only one name on the list had an Indian surname, Patel. Mohamed Patel, to be exact. I felt all the blood drain from my head and started seeing spots. I reached out an arm for my bed and slowly lowered myself to the floor. It had to be him. It had to be.

I called Alejandro on my way to the Motel 6 that is only a twelve-minute drive from my apartment. I got his voicemail and told him that I was going to the Motel 6 to confront Mohamed about what he did to me. I told him I figured it out and I was going to make it right. I sped all the way there, ignoring the quick changing lights and traffic signs telling me to yield. Every part of me started sweating despite the air conditioning pumping icy air through the car. The only thing I could think about was the rotting smell clinging to my nostrils, smelling rot in hair for days, smelling rot on all of my clothes, showering over and over again to make the smell of rotting meat go away. I thought of being filled with smells of lavender and soap. I thought of smelling wet dog and coffee. I thought of smelling anything but the smell of rotting meat for the rest of my life.

I pulled into the parking lot. My heart racing and my mind blank. I asked the woman at the front desk to call the owner and tell him that I need to speak with him, it is immediate and important. I remember that she looked at me, I think she asked a question, but all I could do was repeat myself. I saw her eyes open wide, her lower lip tremble as she reached for the phone. Next thing I knew, the elevator door opened and there he was. Only a few inches taller than me but much heavier. He had broad shoulders, thick, hairy hands, and a substantial beer belly. Without missing a beat, I walked up to him and punched him in the eye. He turned to face me, looking both surprised and enraged. Before he could react, I kicked him. With blood trickling out of his nose, I kicked him as hard as I could. I thought about all the years I spent playing soccer and all the soccer balls I had tried to boot down the field and I kicked him again, even harder. He doubled over, onto his side, his arms scrambling to protect his most vulnerable body parts. I kicked, and kicked, and kicked until I felt someone grab me from behind and pick me up. I screamed, loud and wild, until I realized that I was being carried out of the motel.

There were three police cars that I could count with lights flashing and an ambulance pulled up to the entrance of the hotel right as I was being carried out. Paramedics swarmed me, each holding an appendage while another held a small light up to my eyes, prompting me to take deep breaths. Deep breaths, I thought, deep breaths. I noticed my breathing was short and shallow, basically a wheeze, before everything turned black and I passed out.

When I woke up, I was laid out on a stretcher in the back of an ambulance, my arms restrained on the stretcher. I asked the paramedics what happened and they told me that they gave me a sedative as they released my arms. They called me hysterical. Ha, hysterical. If only you all knew. I got out of the ambulance to see only one police car remained, Alejandro was inside finishing up his conversation with the hotel manager. I thanked him for coming when he said, “We arrested him, Mohamed Patel. I just thought you should know that he’s going to jail. You did it.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” I replied, my eyes fixated down at my shoes. I gave him a hug and walked back to my car, feeling numb for that first moment. Is my nightmare really over? Can someone pinch me so I know that it’s real?

A sudden relief washed over me. Tears came pouring out of me and I started to hiccup once I was alone in my car. He’s behind bars, never to hurt anyone again. And I’m the one who did it. I walked with a weight lifting from my shoulders. I stood up straighter, with a bounce in my step. No longer feeling unwanted eyes on my back. No longer feeling hot breath making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. No longer smelling rotting garbage everywhere I go, filling the air all around me. I felt the shackles that had tied to me to my apartment crack and crumble. I felt the invisible chains come loose from my mind. The evening Albuquerque air smelled crisp and fresh. The world pulsed with life and possibility. In that moment I vowed to never allow myself to lose this feeling ever again.

I was on a trip to Greece at the insistence of my sister-in-law and it was there, among the high mountains and swirling clouds, I met a Greek god.

I knew it was Dionysus immediately (thank you eighth grade literature) and I wondered what he wanted of me.

"Make me laugh." He stated simply. "Anything less I will have you executed."

That seems a bit steep, I thought, I'm just an American tourist. However, these were the things Greek mythology was made of.

I considered.

"I have just the thing, but I need a week or so to prepare."

The normally jovial Greek god was silent for several moments, apparently considering my offer.

"I will give you the time you seek, but it better be worth my while." In another swirl of clouds he was gone.

The funniest person I knew was my dad and his writing was just as funny (I thought so anyway, but I may be a bit biased). I knew I couldn't tell my family what I was up to they would never believe me I simply asked for a copy of one of my dad's books and a business card. The next part of my plan was going to be harder, I had to find a scholar at the local university that could translate English to ancient Greek, that was no easy task.

After searching the Internet and making several phone calls I found a scholar willing to hear me out. Again, I didn't mention why I needed such a random book translated into a Greek, no one would have believed me.

The scholar was about five or ten years younger than I was with an average build, dark hair and sallow skin.

He frowned as he studied the book.

"This will take me a while, even with the software I have access to."

"I need it in a week." I replied flatly.

The young man sighed.

"I'll do my best."

I only hoped that would be enough.

I barely took notice of the sightseeing and activities my family did over the next several days. I was too anxious to see how the translation would come out or if the humor would be lost. Finally the scholar called and said the translation was ready. When I arrived in the small cramped office I was handed a large bound folder, the book was all there printed neatly on what looked like an entire ream of paper.

"Hope this is good enough." He said with a small smile.

I nodded and thanking him.

You and me both. I thought.

Lugging the large folder with the rest of my hiking supplies I returned to the trail in the mountains where I had encountered Dionysus. Several minutes later he appeared, as if on cue.

"Have you completed my request?" He asked without preamble.

"I have." I replied just as succinctly.

I handed over the folder.

"It's a story my dad wrote, it's the funniest thing I could think of I thought you might enjoy it."

Then Dionysus sat under a small tree nearby, which was dwarfed by his large rotund frame and opened the folder I hoped his infinite knowledge allowed him the context the story would need, what a "zombie" was and what a "turkey" was. I also hoped the translator had added footnotes for clarity.

Dionysus was silent for what seemed like an eternity studying the pages over and over the only sound was of the turning of individual pages.

He was almost finished reading when he began to laugh. It started softly then turned into a chuckle then a full-blown belly laugh that almost upset the entire ream of paper.

I wondered what had made him laugh but it's possible he found something else funny that a human wouldn't. I waited anxiously.

Finally he filed the papers away in the folder, close it, and set it aside.

"It was interesting." He said mildly. "You humans are funny creatures I'll never understand your actions even with my own knowledge. Funny story, with funny humans doing funny things and birds going crazy. I like it." When I finally looked up he was smiling which made his face seemed even wider and rounder than it already was.

"You pass, mortal. I have never been more entertained." With a brief nod he was gone again. That was a god for you.

I made the trip back down the mountain feeling more relaxed than I had in days. It was certainly going to be a vacation I was never going to forget.

#humor

“They kill the ratfolk first. If there’s a mix, we’re always the first to go,” Newton said.

He picked at his two front teeth as he spoke, sitting across the kitchen table from his little sister. He hated answering her questions about these things. But she had to know.

She had to know that this was not their world. They just happened to live in it.

Newton spooned another glob of milky broth into his mouth. It tasted grey and gritty.

Of course he had cooked it wrong. With everything else he had to do now, he didn’t have the time or patience to learn how mum used to make it.

“Never think it will end any differently, Kass. Humans kill us. They killed mum. They killed dad. They blamed us for the plague. Never think a human will die before you do.”

She always seemed sad with the truth. Then again, the truth was awful. It was heavy with blood.

In the weak amber light from the stove, her wet pink nose twitched into a fleeting grimace before she silently nodded in acceptance.

Kassil was only young, so she still looked mousy. She had a chance if she stayed like this. Pretty. Cute. Likeable.

Newton hoped he could preserve her. But he knew all too well that the world would make her ugly. Life would matte her hair, crack her teeth and sharpen her claws.

Ratfolk never survive on looks alone.

The spoon made a clattering noise as it dropped into Newton’s empty bowl. He was done.

Done having to wait for change. Done feeling live with anger. Done watching Kass tolerate him and, every night, quietly push her dinner into uneaten neatness.

Newton pushed the table away from him. Kassil jumped. He was predictably unpredictable since Dad had died.

Newton paused. Although he didn’t say it, he told Kassil he was sorry. Again.

He frowned to himself. Lately, life had been an endless stream of apologies. Sorry for getting angry. Sorry for getting sad. Sorry for being sorry.

“Go to bed, Kass.” He tried to fake warmth in his words.

She stood up, straighten her nightclothes and gave him a weak smile. Then she scurried off to one of the bunks.

The stove fire had started to die out. It was now desperately licking at the underside of the cauldron. Its sporadic efforts to reach out, to live on, shifted shadows around the rest of the kitchen.

The darkness moved around Newton with an admirable elegance.

He checked to see if she had actually gone before moving the table. He tried to shift it gently so not to make a noise.

Once it was out the way, he knelt and flicked out a pocketknife. He slid the blade between two of the floorboards and, as his tongue pressed against his upper lip, started to pry the wood away from the floor.

With a numb clunk, the floorboard flicked out and roll onto its side. Exposing a hidden compartment.

He reached in to retrieve a small shard of violet glass. He handled it with care, holding it to the light. Wild wisps of lightning crackled within it. Newton’s face split into a smile.

In his hands, he could feel it. The weight of change.

It was time.

The only way to protect Kass, to protect any ratfolk, was to make the world safe. Remove the threat. Mass extermination.

The end of meaningless ratfolk killings and the start of a humanless world. The effect to the cause.

The retaliation.

“If there’s a mix, the ratfolk always die first. If there’s a mix.”

My glance could tell the tale.

My heart was pounding as it waled.

My voice was cracking; my throat swelled.

Their ears ignored; the trail went stale.

If they could read my lips;

read my mind;

Hear my desperate screams;

Oh, how I tried.

That day when I walked into a crystal shop called “stone philosophy”… I was drawn to a green amazonite crystal ball. I brought it to the store owner, the lady said: “it’s weird that as you are holding the stone, it seems like you don’t want to be connected with it, something made you afraid of connecting that part of you with it. Think of a number.” “Three” I said. “There’s something happened to you when you were three years old. Do you remember?” “I don’t” I said….

But what really happened when I was three years old?

……

I was doing “jumping-box” with a group of neighbor kids I took as friends. I was having a lot of fun, playing and jumping around the neighborhood with kids about my age. Suddenly an older sister-like girl, that I looked upon, talked with me in a sharp scolding tone: “Why are you carrying a milk feeding bottle.” I was caught in stupor, feeling speechless and surprised… what’s wrong with me carry a milk bottle? I carried it with me all the time wherever I go… It’s a big glass bottle my mom filled it full with diluted powered milk whenever it’s emptied. But now as someone who I admired and looked upon suddenly questioning me about the very existence of it, I didn’t know how to respond… “How old are you” ,The elder sister-like girl questioned me again. “Three” I answered with a soft voice, still feeling quite uneasy, since all the kids’ attentions were drawn upon the milk bottle that I was holding against my chest. “Look at Lulu, he’s three years too, but he doesn’t carry any milk bottle any more.” She pointed at another kid next to me, that kid nodded. My face was burning, I felt everyone’s eyes were staring at me in a questioning way… I felt very uneasy…embarrassed, even belittled or humiliated... even though I don’t quite understand the reasons behind, why I have to be the one being picked upon, or why I was carrying the bottle, or what is wrong with me carrying it, or why I cannot carry it no more… I just felt that I was castrated, ostracized out of the group… I quickly ran back home.

I told my Mom that I no longer want to carry the milk bottle no more. Mom was in the mid of folding the laundry on the bed, with a gentle and soft tone, she asked: “what’s wrong with carrying the milk bottle”… I couldn’t answer it… just the same way I couldn’t defend myself in front of the scolding tone from the elder sister girl, or confronting all the staring questioning eyes of all the other neighbor kids……

The other day, I suddenly remembered the question from the Crystal shop lady again, “What really happened to me at three years old?” I asked my mom, she said: “Well… that year when you were at the family reunion gathering on the Spring Festival day, you were having a lot of fun playing at grandma’s house… your father suddenly said it’s time to leave, but you were having too much fun playing, you didn’t want to go. So Dad pulled out leather belt, started whipping you… you were very scared and started crying…”

Did it really happened? I asked myself, I don’t really remember… or maybe I do… the fear and scare of seeing Dad pulling out belt and about to whip me… Not too often, but often enough for me to understand that needs of showing absolute respect and obedience to Dad’s order, the order of our house. But most often such military-fashion physical discipline only being conducted inside our house, I guess that was the only time happened to be in another place, rather than within our place.

Even until today I still have dreams that my Dad beating me up again with the same belt… Well… I did try to hide that wide brown leather belt once... That day, when my parents were knocking on the door, instead of opening the door right away, my first response was to hide the belt… So I spent quite few minutes searching for a spot to hide the belt, before I finally opened the door. And when the door was finally opened… Dad was very very mad, but he couldn’t find the belt, so he found a much slimmer leather belt to whip me with it.... Was that my fear of him hitting me, or that my nature in responding to people’s order in a habitual delayed manner, or that my apprehension of my slowness in responding actions had given me a sense of worry and fear of being punished due to it, because while I was waiting for my physical self to put it together into action to respond to the urgent order of opening the door, it would be already too late, and a physical punishment would be already unavoidable…. the time is wasting and Dad was waiting even more impatiently outside, therefore, I felt the desperate urge and despair that I have to hide the belt in the end, so that somehow miraculously I could avoid being punished? since I was already too late in answering the door??… That day’s whipping was very very harsh and painful, even though the belt was much slimmer.

So I still have dreams that Dad needs to whip me once a while, or that I felt the yearning or urges that I need to be whipped once a while… In those dreams, it felt more like a routine that the whipping has to be done, and that’s how my life supposed to be… It creates a momentum to help me move onward with my life.

Yet, my heaviest memory of childhood, was not that from three years old, but more of the mental and emotional pains of being hazed or bullied, in school, in school’s dormitory by classmates, or in swimming classes, by my swimming team teammates or the coach herself... Or the unwarranted emotional abuses in languages from my aunts (my mother side of family)…… Years after years, ever since three years old, all the way till college years…… Everybody was there, at least it felt like the whole world around me was just standing there and watching: my classmates, friends, teachers, coaches, the head of the school, even my own family members… were all there watching, silently; seemed like everybody knew exactly what’s been happening, but the schools’ authority did not stand up for me; the whole big family had witnessed what’s happening within the family, yet no one dared to speak up for me either… I wonder whether that scene when my 3-years-old self got caught being whipped in front of that whole family was the trigger point to open up all the negative energies being charged within that house, or within the whole society, and all the evils and demons within each’s twisted and contorted consciousness, were being encouraged to vent upon my young tender non-judgmental yet deeply wounded heart. But what’s even worse than the combination of all the wounds, cut and knives they had repetitively stabbed into my heart was the whole family and whole society’s deadly silence…

As I grow older, I am slowly learning to forgive each of them… The scars are still there, but I felt more like a third person observing from outside of the picture frame, patiently listening and observing it, and sending compassion and love, to the unmendable sorrowful image, and to everyone that were suffering within the same image. Each one of us in that memory frame, each one of their hearts might have been wounded in some way, I might not understand them back then, I might never be able to understand them, but I shall still able to send them my unconditional love and compassion.. just the same way I sent love to the little me back then… I felt like I and all my loving guides and angels have left fragments of loving reminders back then in different spots here and there.. I should have been able to feel it back then, but I was too much entrenched within my own sufferings, to fully comprehend it, and feeling it impartially… But now as I grow older, all the sorrows and pains from the past made me love the present me even more dearly, and appreciate each tender moment and feelings from people and animals around me even more.

We are all coming into this moment of life with past wounds and scars, but that doesn’t stop us from loving others, and most importantly, loving the self and cherish this moment of life even more.