Sit, detective.

I’m not going to fight you.

Shall we start from the beginning?

In the years leading up to that night, I spent much of my time lurking in the background of her favorite haunts. She’d pretended not to see me, but I caught the avoidant glances. She learned to look for me in each new room she entered but didn’t leave even when she'd taken note of my presence. There were times I thought to give up, to leave her to her ways but truthfully, I couldn't walk away. I loathed yet leaned into the trappings of predatory youth, into the allure of fishnet stockings stretched over Rubenesque thighs and peeling lips smeared with black and stained with wine. She caved, cat in heat, arching her back to the demands of her carefully crafted personality. She’d turned delusion into an art form. It was almost admirable.

I had a slew of elaborate plans. A thousand ways to end the suffering of the beastess of burden. Then one night, I caught her walking alone. I struck up conversation. She hesitated for a moment, then greeted me with a small, naïve smile. She complimented my appearance- Those boots with that dress-soft, but unapologetic. I wish my curls were like yours. I returned the favor- Did you cut that shirt yourself? I used to love that band. How long have you had dreadlocks? We talked for an hour. In that time, I came to know her more than I believe she knew herself.

As we strolled through the burgeoning moonlight, I lured her into the shielded depths of a nearby forest, mulling over the moments that would be her last. And wouldn’t you know- all it took was a few cold words spoken into the darkness of a broken, vulnerable moment. I watched with patient fascination as she spiraled into the rabbit hole, screaming and crying as she fled from invisible monsters hidden within the shuttered moonlight. She ran wildly through the brush, no direction, no purpose. Sweeping trees dripping thick with Spanish Moss tossed her between their branches and threw her further into descent. Finally, a persistent root caught the broken soles of her worn out sneakers and brought her neck onto a slab of granite jutting from the mountainside foliage. While it may have been my focused flick that coaxed the first domino to fall, she truly couldn't blame anyone other than herself.

I dragged her body through the trees until I met the edge of the Reedy. For a moment, I considered tossing her corpse into the water. It was the final stage of at least half of my original plans. But such a disposal began to seem callous and brutish. This was not an act of anger. It was an act of mercy. I didn’t mourn her. But I didn't hate her either. I kicked the heel of my boot into the earth and found it to be surprisingly malleable. I grabbed a sturdy branch and hacked away at the grass until I’d dug a hole deep enough to conceal her remains. The delicate features of my dress snagged on the roots and rocks and though I’ve been to the best cleaners in the city, none can seem to scrub the garment of its stains. In hindsight, floor length lace wasn’t the best attire for the occasion. But there was no excuse to be slovenly. It was still a funeral, after all.

While leaving the scene, I discovered her satchel lying on the forest floor. As I rifled through its contents, I found an old notebook nestled in the very bottom of the bag. Most of the papers were ripped from the spine and left behind frayed yellowed scraps within the metal rings. On the remaining pages, the indentations of heavy-handed ballpoint left a trail of somber clues- fractured lines of sorrowful pensiveness and almost-there epiphanies, a desperate search for meaning in the depths of a vapid, useless void. I returned to her gravesite and buried the notebook beside her. I threw the remnants of the bag into the river.

Her absence was noticed. Quickly. I tried to take her place to subvert suspicion. I catered to the strangers she once called friends, and interwove gentle diplomacy into our conversations, hoping to redirect their sharp focus. But I was clearly not the same girl they'd come to know, and soon the whispers began, thwarting my efforts. I never thought myself to be a villain, and she rejected the idea of victimhood. Regardless of what I know to be true, I’ve been hurled upon the stage, rotting fruit thrown at my feet. I'm prodded with questions about the life I’ve taken and the life I’ve made, but no one cares for my answers.

In a different time, we could have been much closer, our outlook better aligned. She’d be more successful, perhaps a president or CEO. She’d have gone to a university, have a framed degree in an office somewhere. With a little luck and the proper medication, she’d find her name- her real name- on a list in a prestigious magazine. But with the path she was on, she’d have been lucky to be the least weatherworn cougar sitting pretty on a barstool at the local dive. The bartenders would know her by name and her cocktail of choice-"whiskey ginger, no ice with a lime"- would be waiting at her usual spot. It wouldn’t last long. They never did.

Instead, she lies in a sunken grave, maggots wriggling atop the dripping, bloated tissues, stripping her to the purest version of herself. She is no longer a slave to fleeting whimsy or reckless persistence. A garden has grown from her decay, one more lush and forgiving than any I’ve thought to plant before, and yet, she is marked as martyr to those who deny the forcing of my hand.

I sense your expectation, detective. But I'll sing no songs of remorse.

I did what no one else could have done.

She's buried beneath the willow tree.

Xyra limped hastily across the patchy vermilion carpet of her studio. She was two hours away from opening, but an insistent banging had pulled her from her sleep. It was just as well. She'd grown weary of the gruesome imagery that haunted her dreams. Living it once was torture enough.

She hadn't the time to properly grease the rusting gears of her leg, but the rapid fire knocking on her door suggested she put a hold on her morning ritual. The smell of sweat and cheap cologne pierced her nostrils. Humans. They can be so demanding. That's what made them her best customers.

'Shit. My gloves. Where are my gloves?' Xyra mused. No time. She swung open the door to see two suited men standing expectantly in the early morning sun. The taller, broader of the two began to speak with a booming, but gentle voice.

"Xyra Heddingbone?"

"Yes?"

"I'm Captain Leon Hale. Head of the Special Populations Division. This is Lieutenant Randy Ellis. Is this your business card?

Captain Hale unfurled a clear plastic bag and thrust it in Xyra's direction. Xyra recognized the contents of the bag immediately. Gilded lettering glinted in the sun, shining her name back at her.

XYRA'S FATES AND FORTUNE: WHERE DARKNESS MEETS THE LIGHT

She stared at it for a moment, tucked a loose dreadlock behind her pointed ear, and stepped back from the doorway, silently offering the men a pathway indoors. As the officers crossed the steps into the psychic's studio, Xyra scanned the room for her gloves.

"May I ask what this is about?"

The captain's piercing voice broke Xyra's concentration. "Well, Miss Heddingbone-"

"Xyra."

"...Xyra. A human male was found beaten to death in one of the executive suites at The High Life Hotel and Casino. Twenty six years old, name was Davey Simms. He's from a small town in the countryside, one of the few all-human communities left. Here's a picture of him in happier days. My guess is that he wanted to come to the big city, take a walk on the wild side. We found cards for various...alternative interests in his wallet. One for you, the Succuclub and one that only reads 'Demonatrix'. Apparently he never made it to the club, and we can’t get a lead on the Demonatrix. So as far as we’re concerned, you’re the last person to have seen him alive. And given the nature of the evidence, that makes it our case."

Xyra let out a hesitant exhale as her golden irises scanned the picture. "I remember him. Squirrelly. His reading told of money and mistakes. "

"Money and mistakes? That's it?"

"I keep it vague. Especially with humans. Humans don't want the full truth. The truth is scary. Less profitable. I tell them they’ll come into money in Vegas. I don’t tell them about the sticky-fingered hooker that’s going to rob them blind later that night. I'd rather not know about the sticky-fingered hooker to begin to with. So I've found ways to block the information. I end up in interrogation rooms otherwise."

From the corner of her eye, Xyra spotted a set of spindly fingers reaching for the deck of cards sitting on the table nearby. She jumped to swat them away, making contact with the Lieutenant's bony hand. Xyra gasped, clutched her chest, caught herself on a bookshelf and began to mumble under her breath.

"Randy...Human Homicide...they've filled the spot...Disher..."

"Disher?! God, that guy is such a tool-"

"Human Homicide...Randy? You're trying to leave Special Pops? Do you not realize how short-staffed we ar.." Captain Hale peered at Xyra curiously. "Xyra. How did you know that?"

Xyra responded cooly. "It's a gift. Of sorts."

"Say, are you of any relation to the Heddingbones of the Third Circle?" Ellis inquired intrusively.

"Unfortunately."

"I knew it! You look human but I knew there was something off about you...you know what it is? Fingernails and cheekbones. You just look like, FIERCE, you know what I mean? Man, those Heddingbones were some real nasty motherfu-"

"Lieutenant. That's enough. Xyra. Seeing as you are the last person to see Mr. Simms alive, I'd say you're the best lead we have. We could use your assistance."

"Oh and hey, we won't tell anyone about the whole part-demon thing." Ellis added unhelpfully.

"Anyone who needs to know already does. I can show you my papers if you'd like."

"That won't be necessary, Xyra. Lieutenant, I suggest you'd step outside. You've said enough for today. " Lieutenant Ellis shot the Captain a defeated look, grimaced and stepped outside.

"Will you be needing anything more from me, Captain?"

"Well. If you're feeling up to it...I'd like for you to join us at the crime scene."

"I'd have to close the shop for the day."

"I can chat with the higher-ups. See what we can do to make it worth your while. Maybe even keep you out of the interrogation room."

"I need time to prepare. You've interrupted my routine."

"Take all the time you need. And Xyra, I have a request. Feel free to say no." The captain extended a meaty hand. "It's about my daughter."

Xyra momentarily scanned the captain's hand. Finally, she took a deep breath, braced herself and placed her slender hand on top of the captain's.

"The boy is of no harm. Your daughter has...other interests."

"Other interests. Care to elaborate?"

"No. It's best if she does that on her own. Captain...I have a request from you as well."

"Anything you need."

"Help me find my gloves. They were a gift from my mother."

The library got me on a course

Write what you want without remorse

A few months ago, some cells clumped together

Decided they'd be a person

Make me sick,

Constipate me

Make the smell of pickled eggs even worse than it already is

So here we are, 9 weeks later

Updates on my phone about what's formed this week

The ears, the eyes

Heartbeats and blood vessels

Due dates and baby names

Cups of caffeine making me feel shame

Trying to navigate pregnancy brain

...I forgot what I came in here for

Maybe if I walk out and then back in through the door...

Weight gain, I think Isaac will be his name

Should it be a boy at all

I'll be heavily burdened come this fall

Belly swinging, disappearing toes

What will this one's temperament be?

I guess we'll be the first to know

Birthmarks, scars, hopefully a breezy birth

I guess I should wait for the ultrasound first

40 seconds, I've run out of thought

Well, I guess this is all I've got

Just filling spaces with empty lines

As a fetus just bides its time

"Mom, what is...carra...geenan gum?"

"Oh, does that have carrageenan in it? Put it down. Grab that one instead."

"What about this?"

"Let me see the label. No, it has canola oil in it."

"Is that bad?"

"It's inflammatory."

"What does that mean?"

"It...creates inflammation. It's bad for your health and makes you fat."

"Ooh! Mom! I saw a commercial for this! Can we get it?!"

"What's in it? Oh, honey. This has three artificial dyes. Look, there's a naturally flavored version right next to it. It's non-GMO. Go ahead and put it in the cart. Now let's go ahead and get out of here. The family yoga class is at seven and we still need to pick your sister up from her conscious kids crafting class.

------

"Alright ma'am...your total is...$347.62."

"347...oh. Hm. Okay. Can I take this, this, this, and this off of my order? Thanks. Isaac, honey?"

"Yeah, mom?"

"Do you see these items here? Will you run back and get the store brand versions?"

"But I thought they make you sick."

"Not this weekend, they won't. Hurry up, I don't want to hold up the line."

"Yes ma'am."

"Oh, and Isaac-"

"Yeah?"

"Grab a box of Cheez-Its on your way back. Your father will be happy to see them in the house."

"Please, brother. Take me with you."

"I can't, Sarah. You won't survive out there on your own. I can find a holy man and bring him back...besides, who will tend to Mother? That child will eat her soul alive..."

"Father? He is a man of faith. Surely he can-"

"You know as well as I that Father is weaker than he seems...you've smelled the stench of sin on his breath...the way he wobbles as he stumbles in from the wood..."

"You don't surely think Carissa is-"

"Taken? Yes. Have you not seen the happenings when she is around? The way her eyes darken? The shift in Mother's mood.."

"What's all this?" The mother of the babbling adolescents crossed the threshold of wooden doorframe, a dark inquisitiveness in her eye. The youngest of the Boden children, Carissa, peeked curiously around the corner.

"N-nothing, Mot-"

"I'm leaving."

"Leaving? Why on Earth would you leave the farm, Jeremiah?"

"There are evil things afoot. You know just as well as I."

"Don't be foolish, son. This is a family of spirit. No evil walks here."

"Evil walks every day, and in deceptive form." Jeremiah eyes flickered toward the toddler playing amongst their feet.

"Carissa? By god, son! What on earth has possessed you?! She is a child!"

"Was...a child."

"This is nonsense. Jeb, come here into the kitchen. The children are panicked. They believe Carissa has been claimed by evil. "

"Claimed by evil, you say?" The head of the home rolled over on his mat, rose to his feet and descended a ladder into the main room of the cabin.

"Well, Lucifer is known to play tricks. Surely a quick prayer wouldn't hurt."

"You can't be serious, Jebedi-"

"Now, now Abigail. Better safe than sorry. Let's all sit and join hands. Children? Sarah, grab Carissa. Right. In the name of the Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit-"

"ENOUGH!" Abigail roared. Her husband and children ceased their prayers, bewildered.

"I'm sorry. This all makes me anxious. I'm going to make some tea. We can continue the prayer once we're all less hysterical. I have water heating on the fire, anyhow." The family sat in silence as Abigail made her way toward the fire burning in the center of the isolated cabin. A few moments later, the matriarch returned with four cups. An intoxicating aroma travelled along the steam rising from their tops. The family drank deeply as Abigail removed Carissa from Sarah's arms and placed her gently beside her onto the bench. Suddenly, a guttural gasp broke from Jeremiah's lips.

"Sarah! Your eyes!"

Jeremiah recoiled at the visage of his younger sister. The pupils of her eyes were large and black, her emerald irises near non-existent. He whipped around at his father to find his eyes equally darkened. Jeremiah peered into the reflection of his cup to find that his eyes looked the same. The three looked over to Carissa and Abigail. Carissa's eyes were unchanged. Abigail's eyes were going completely dark. Her irises and the whites that once housed them slowly relinquished to a sea of black.

"What's the meaning of this Abigail? What have you done to us?!" Jeb demanded.

"Just a simple herbal blend. From the olden days. You were right about one thing, Jeb. We fiends do like tricks." A serpentine smile slid across Abigail's mouth. A resounding look of horror washed across the family's face.

"M-mother? I don't-"

"Your mother is gone. In a sense. You may get her back. If you play your cards right."

Abigail wove a bony hand across the table. As her palm hovered across the jagged wood, a stack of cards appeared atop the splintered planks. The ominous deck was marked with strange symbols that glowed brighter as the lamp began to die. The roaring fire soon followed suit. The cabin took on a chill, but the family dare not move to seek warmth. The dimming light cast unnatural shadows across Abigail's angular face. Carissa ceased her wailing, wriggled free from Abigail's arms, and ducked under the table clinging desperately to the legs of her older siblings.

"We won't play any games with you, wicked crea-"

"Oh. Dear husband. Dear foolish imbecile of a husband. You don't have a choice." Abigail gestured underneath the table with a single skeletal finger.

"This little one is highly coveted. And I was told not to return without her. But I can't leave without a bit of fun. No, you Bodens have far too many secrets...I'd like to watch you flail. Even just for a moment...this is a game we like to play in The Seven Circles. It has fairly...deadly stakes for us demons. But for humans...well, it doesn't take much to break you down. So I may just take it easy on you. It's all in good fun, right?"

Abigail reached her arm across the table, sliding the ornate deck of cards toward the middle of the fraying wood. She slid a card off the top of the deck and placed it face down in front of her.

"The rules are simple. Each card represents a part of human nature. You then have the opportunity to confess a sin related to this matter, or you must carry out an action of my choosing. The child, of course, is exempt. I am required to keep her intact. She's the least interesting of the lot of you, anyhow. And keep in mind, I will know if you're lying. "

"And if we win?"

Abigail chuckled deviously. "There's no winning in this game. You die or I get bored. Whichever happens first. That said...you may get your mother back before I decide to leave."

"How do we know you won't cheat?"

"You don't."

"And Carissa?"

"Don't push your luck. Let's play, shall we?" Abigail flipped the card in front over her over to reveal a grotesque caricature of the Boden mother. The portrait's eyes were fully blacked out and her naked, emaciated body was twisted to meet the ground in unnatural ways. Small horns jutted from her forehead and her slender feet met to form cloven hooves. The golden lettering at the base of the card read THE DEVIL. The captured Abigail looked at the card with deviant glee and showed it off to the nerve wracked Boden family.

"These cards never cease to amaze. Well, I've already made my confession. Who should go next...?" Abigail's eyes scanned the family.

"Ah, Jeremiah. The dutiful eldest son. Go on, pick a card. You wouldn't dare disobey your dear mother, would you?"

"Being waist deep in thought technically means I'm down to earth"

That's what I've been telling myself

Maybe it's time to put that pensiveness on the shelf

Next to some of the greats

Or at least some of the ones I really like

Maybe this isn't my shtick

Maybe I'd be happier as a mime

or a clown,

Serving smiles on a dime

Twenty cents for a frown

It's all so nonsensical, you see

My local library has a course for writers

They suggested that I set a timer

Anything that comes to mind

No reason, no rhyme

Does that make sense? Nevermind.

There is a freedom in the absurdity of no absolutes

Don't aim the gun, just let it shoot

Poke holes in what seems like it'll bleed

Draw out your every need

Why is that I hate rhymes?

I'll tell you, but it'll cost two dimes

A minute left

Well let's see

Will I take this time to edit...me?

Or will I release into the wild

Nurture that inner child

She's really so demanding these days

I would be too were I in a twenty year haze

45 secs, it's really on now

I'm really thinking about life as a clown

More, more, my child cries

Mommy's busy can't you see?

Trying to record our history

Admittedly, I put this challenge off as I feel like the list will never be complete. My memory flickers at inconvenient times and I'm afraid of skimming over creators that deserve recognition. I'm going to *try* to keep it concise. My lust for metaphor is really getting out of hand....

@fudo has two styles that stand out to me, though his voice always remains so distinct. The first is a series of twisting thoughts. You're taken on a journey (sometimes humorous, sometimes dark) and at the end of it, you're left a little more vulnerable than when you started. The other style makes me think of the intros to shows like Samurai Champloo or The Boondocks- it has what I can only describe as deeply poetic musings wrapped up in an absolute lyrical VIBE. Fudo is a traveling bard that shares deeply or omits coldly as the moment dictates.

@batmaninwuhan never ceases to surprise me. The witty username is what caught my eye, and the uniquely absurd things that come from batman's brain always illicit a chuckle if not a full on laugh. Though the thing that intrigues me the most about how secretly thoughtful batmaninwuhan is. If you ask the right question in the right way, you will be gifted with a perspective equally as unique as batman's sense of humor. Batmaninwuhan is a philosopher that became bored with the seriousness of intellectual circles and now guises as a jester.

@Huckleberry_Hoo has a gift for imparting practical wisdom in a beautifully simplistic fashion. I mean this in the best way. Huckleberry speaks plainly and honestly, but spins tales that leaves you reminiscing on the similar moments in your own life- or wishing you'd been a fly on the wall for his. Huckleberry is the barkeep that offers you a drink to warm your bones and a story to warm your soul should you be willing to stay long enough to hear it.

@rlove327 is deeply reflective. Through his writing, you can tell that he takes the time to dissect his observations, his feelings, and his surroundings before fully expressing them. There is a level of analysis, but it is not cold and mechanical in the way of scientists or mathematicians. Rlove327 takes what he sees, breaks it down, and gives it back in a way that you are able to clearly view it through his lens. In this regard, @rlove327 is an artist, carefully adding brushstrokes so that we can see the world in same shades as he does, even for a moment.

@Finder is deeply pensive. Her works are a direct look into her mind, at least as much as she chooses to allow you to see in that moment. I wouldn't paint her as "no-nonsense", but she has an approach that is slightly firmer, more methodical, and more focused than many of the flowery, loosely ended perspectives seen in creative communities. She will stand by and watch you explore but should you ask for guidance, it will be given- and in no uncertain terms. She is observant, honest, and experienced. Criticism only comes should she deem it necessary, and it is delivered plainly but with empathy still. In this regard, Finder is a teacher, but one that never lost her passion for the medium she's chosen to pursue.

@Estherflowers1 is a truly joyful soul. The human embodiment of a sunflower, if you will. Even when delving into darker subjects, there is still a level of amusement and optimism that for lack of better phrasing, turns that frown upside down. Estherflowers1 shows us that curiosity never dies and a little bit of humor goes a long way. Her unapologetic bursts of unyielding personality put the stereotype of the moody, sensitive writer to bed and make me want to explore parts of the self that aren't so damn dreary. Not all of her journeys have been rainbows and sunshine, but she takes what she needs and moves forward. Estherflowers1 is a worldly older sibling; she flew the nest long ago, but always returns home with eccentric gifts and a story that she'll tell with a twinkle in her eye.

There are so many talented writers on this site. If you don't see your name on any of these lists or see the same few names pop up on different ones, PLEASE do not get discouraged. KEEP WRITING. There is somewhat of an ebb and flow to the community. I've seen beautiful pieces only for their authors to disappear for months on end, if not altogether and I've seen incredible regularly posting authors have pieces that fly under the radar. This is a vast and welcoming community to writers of all skill levels and backgrounds.

There once was a girl named Sadie

Thought to be a charming lady

"Take me at my worst"

"He should have changed first"

She seems to have trouble dating

May 1, 2020

South Carolina

“I’m Puerto Rican! We’re a very tribal people...family is everything. This isn’t natural.”

-Hayden, expressing his frustration with the lack of contact during the quarantine

The past week has been the most hectic point of my life. The moving process has taken almost a week due to Hayden’s 10-14 hour work days and my inability to lift anything heavier than the cat. Silver is still in the NICU, and her care team has given me an estimate of another two weeks until we are able to bring her home. I try to visit her every day, partially to stay on top of the post-partum depression that has crept on me, and partially because she is going through breastmilk more quickly than I can make it, and daily deliveries are now required. The doctors have moved her from intensive care, and are working on regulating her feeding schedule. I’m excited for her to come home, but more often than not, I feel as if the pressure of the move, the lingering trauma of my labor/birthing experience, and the stress of being a broke ass new parent may just crush me. I am doing my best to keep my head above water, and am honest with the hospital staff when they ask about my mental health.

My last check-up was the first time I’d spoken with any of the medical staff regarding the ways in which I felt my labor was mishandled. It’s such a simple statement, but hearing the words “You are validated” come from my doctor’s mouth made a world of difference. She went on to make the point that not only was my experience traumatic, but the frequent trips I make to the hospital force me to relive that moment in my life. And she is right. The first time I went up to the maternity wing of the hospital, while in labor, I recalled a conversation I had with a kind stranger six years prior, while I was there visiting my late grandfather. He asked how I was, and I responded that I was okay, given the circumstances. He replied, “You’re alive, breathing, and on two feet so I’d say you’re doing pretty well.” I’ve always held that conversation dear to me, as a reminder to stay optimistic, but now, when I get into the elevator, this memory starts to stir but is usurped every time I hit the button for the sixth floor and remember where it is that I’m going. The directions for the NICU and The Family Birthplace are on the same sign, and as I walk down the long and deserted hallways, I am reminded of the not so distant past, in which I was in too much pain and on too many drugs to be able to walk the hallways myself and needed to be carted around in a wheelchair by a nurse, hospital transport, or any security guard that was available to do so.

About two weeks ago, Silver was moved into a room with another baby. The whiteboard by his crib said that his name is Ignacio, and that he weighed only two pounds. When I went to visit her the other night, I saw Ignacio’s dad standing by his baby’s bedside. We did not speak or make eye contact. A privacy curtain was pulled in between us, but as I sat holding my baby girl, I could hear Ignacio’s father whispering to his son, speaking of future plans and how much he admired his baby boy’s eyes. He fell silent for a moment, and when the nurse came into to ask how he was doing, Ignacio’s father responded with a cracked voice, and I suspected he’d been crying quietly to himself. It was a silence I knew well at this point. I would start out happy, in awe of my child and the life that I’d created, but soon gave way to melancholy and eventually despair as I reflected on how hard my baby was fighting to survive. I’d try to retain my tears so that I would avoid causing a scene and startling the nurses (or god forbid, the other NICU babies), but they would pour from my face no matter how hard I tried. Yes, I was all too familiar with the kind of silence coming from the other side of the curtain, and mentally offered my well wishes to a man whose pride I did not care to disturb. There are many things the hospital social workers and charity groups tell parents to expect while they have a child in intensive care, but an overwhelming sense of vulnerability is not one of them. He told the nurse that he had to leave because he had work in the morning. She was understanding (all the nurses are) and gave him a plan for his baby’s care. I heard him slide the yellow protective gown off of his body, tell his son “I love you”, and watched him walk from behind the curtain, not looking back whatsoever. It seems like a cold thing to do, but I suspect he knows what I know- that when it is time to leave, you must pull yourself from the baby and force yourself into the outside world. If you look back, you may never leave the cribside. And as much as a parent may want to stay, the life outside the NICU doesn’t stop just because you want it to. As I watched Ignacio’s dad leave his son, I thought of Hayden. He hasn’t gotten the chance to see our daughter since the first two days of her life. He hasn’t held her, watched her, or smelled her scent. The hospital’s coronavirus restrictions limit to only one parent a day, and he is insistent that I be the one who goes. His experience of her is limited to the pictures and videos I take for our family and friends. It is a painful way to experience a child, and I hope that when she is home, he is able to make up for lost time.

I haven’t been keeping track of the virus cases in the state anymore. There’s been too much on my mind, and wearing a mask and getting my temperature taken before I walk into a building has become routine. I don’t find the restrictions weird anymore. They’re just a normal part of life now, and that scares the living hell out of me. My mom is back home until the lab she works at opens up again. The governor is lifting mandatory stay at home orders and some non-essential businesses are opening again. I am worried for Hayden with his job at the retirement community, I am fearful of getting sick and not being able to see my baby again, and I am scared FOR my child, because she is so small and so fragile and there is only so much I can do to protect her against the will of the world.

April 23, 2020

South Carolina

My mother will be back by the weekend. I have some hang-ups about her return, but I know better than to try to get in her way once her mind is made up. Hayden cannot wrap his head around why she is so insistent on coming home when she'll end up having to return in the next coming weeks, but I know my mother- and I know she misses her family. She will probably never verbalize it, but being away from her pregnant daughter and newborn granddaughter is likely tearing her apart.

We've been approved for an apartment and will be moving in the next week or so. I'm grateful that my husband, child, and I will be in our own space, but the chaos of everything happening right now is overwhelming. I am still healing from my c-section, and cannot do much other than pack light boxes and try to game plan. Our daughter is still in the NICU and I worry about being too far from her.

We recently found out that we may have been exposed to the virus. Until the potentially exposed person's results come back, neither one of us has been to hospital to visit her in the past few days. It was revealed yesterday that the original test was spilled in transit and another one must be taken, so we will have to wait even longer. While I feel the test will come back negative, I am burdened with anxiety. The hospital has a camera with a live feed so that we can see our daughter, but it is not the same. Bottles of breastmilk are building up in my fridge, and I worry that she will need the burgeoning supply of milk before I am able to deliver it to her. If I've been exposed, it won't matter- I'll have to throw it all out anyway.

I've been trying to occupy my mind and time with writing and preparing for life during and after the move. I meditated for the first time in months today and listened to an album I haven't heard since high school. In some ways, I am feeling like myself again. In others, not at all.

As he sat with me in the hospital, Hayden turned to me and told me that I would not be the same person leaving that I was when I came in. With each day that passes, I come to see just how right he was.