Awake At Night

She thinks the nights where she can’t sleep are the worst. The solid mass of heart and veins beats her awake. Inside her, it can’t help but scratch at the surface, leaping from her chest, thumping to freedom.

She can feel the words she’s been pushing down start to put up a stronger fight. She can feel that heart haunting from the darkness, pushing poisoned blood through angry arteries. Left atrium. Right. Right Ventricle. Wrong.

Suddenly, staring at the ceiling becomes less of a task of counting the weathered cracks and more of a battle of wills. It’s chambers and valves taunt: Have a heart. Be merciful. Cry your heart out. Grieve.

She can feel all the things she’s been trying so hard not to say etching themselves in the ceiling: daring to be read aloud. Suddenly, the silence in the air becomes less like a hollow mass and more like a weight on her shoulders. A weight from a solid bloody heart, peeling-back her layers like its own. Endocardium. Myocardium. Pericardium. A complexity no one is ready for; an exposure that can’t be forgotten.

 

She can never sleep at night. It’s never that she’s not tired enough, or not worn out enough. She can feel it in her body that it’s ready to be released with hours of rest. But, somehow, her nerves find a way to jolt, and her heart finds a way to sink to the pit of her stomach. Taunting her: Heavy heart. Be sad. Broken heart. Lost love.

For the longest time she thought that maybe she had some kind of sleep disorder, so she started taking sleep aids, thinking that a little extra push was all she needed.

Instead, despite the help, her mind still found a way to fight past it; her nerves would still jolt, and that stubborn heart would find its way to it’s resting place. Pushing that poison through left ventricle. Right. Right atrium. Wrong.

After He left, she had thought that maybe it was that void that kept her body so unwillingly awake. That large mass haunted. Change of heart. Change your mind.

She had tried so hard to push Him from her mind, that maybe she had somehow thought that if she let her body drift off to sleep, that it meant it was drifting out of her control. Out of her control meant that whether she liked it or not, whether she thought she could handle it or not, He would find his way into her thoughts. Let him, it taunted, even now. Be heartfelt. Feel deeply.

If she let that happen, she knew she’d wake up in the morning with a deeper void than she had allowed in the beginning. And that crimson heart would hiccup laughter from a resting place between shaky lungs. I know you by heart, it would taunt. You’re memorized.

Now, many months after she’s started to fill that void fill up, she still can’t find rest.

There’s so much going on all day long; alarm clocks, rustling clothes, shuffling feet, laughter, pen on paper. At night, all that noise comes to settle.

There’s no longer anything to busy her hands with. Thud.

There’s no longer anything to busy her ears with. Thud.

Of all those thousands of people sending small talk and chatter billowing into the atmosphere, she’s the only one left.

She’s the only one feeling what she’s trying so hard not to. Thud.

She’s the only one restless. Thud.

She’s the only one fighting her biggest fear every night: being alone.

But that solid mass of beating livelihood selfishly watches her pain.

It isn’t attractive, but it’s her best friend. It’s selfishly loyal. Honest. With a whole heart.

Even still, sitting in her windowsill, she’s never felt more alone. She can feel the vibration of the window’s glass, resulting from the persistent wind’s screams, but nothing has ever felt more still.

The giant tree feet from her window is quivering, and shaking clusters of crystallized ice from its limbs. Ice has found its way onto the framing of her window, shining in all its midnight glory before the soft winter sun steals it away. Despite the noise and despite the silence, she’s never realized more how feeble we are. How disheartening, it whispers. Devastating, really.

The tricuspid valve is at the exit of the right atrium.

The pulmonary valve is at the exit of the right ventricle.

The mitral valve is at the exit of the left atrium.

The aortic valve is at the exit of the left ventricle.

Sleep is the exit from her mind.

Feet from that giant quivering tree, and behind the window decorated in shiny matted snow, sits a girl waiting for an answer to be carried through on wind. As she waits, she’ll lie awake at night and press her palms to the window, waiting for the trembling glass to lull her to sleep. As she waits, she’ll lie awake and feel the silence swallowing her up, suffocating her eyes closed. Behind those heavy lids, she’s promised a resting place; a false hope of a place where her muscles ease themselves and her mind can allow itself peace. Such a wild-hearted soul, it hisses. So pure of heart.

Just when she thought
it had forgotten about her,

It sang as she cried.

A melody of hiccupped laughter through the left tricuspid valve. Right. Right aortic valve. Wrong.

Each salted truth, a crescendo in it’s melody.
& just when she thought the song was over,
Just when she felt movement beneath her palm,
it sang on.

Cross my heart, it sings. I hope you die.

Time Stops For No One

“Are you Ava Valentinez?” a small, timid secretary asked, glancing curiously over her glasses.

“Yeah, that’s me. Hi.” Ava responded, extending her hand.

Meeting her hand, the secretary responded with a smile.

“I’m Mrs. Lawrence, and you’re going to love it here”.

“I doubt it.” Ava mumbled to herself, before following the overly friendly secretary out of her office and into the halls of St. Marymount School for Girls.

Ava had been nearly forced to move to New York by her family. Her father had lost his job in Arizona due to multiple lay offs in the company that he family had worked at for generations. For a while, they had tried to get by the best they could, but her mother’s secretary job alone could hardly provide the essentials. After what seemed like no consideration at all, her father had decided to pick up the family and move across the country to New York; “The modern day land of opportunities”, her father would call it. Needless to say, Ava wasn’t for the move at all, and had spent weeks refusing to pack and convincing her mother that if she had to leave her friends, she would surely die. Deep down, Ava knew this was what her family needed, but the thought of what she wanted wasn’t ignorable. However, no matter how much she tried to deny the efforts of the move, or how long she tried to convince her parents that it wasn’t fair, the city of Brooklyn still awaited her capture.

“Well, this is it.” Mrs. Lawrence said, stopping in front of a closed classroom door.

The sign next to the door read “Art: Dale Hendrix”.

Art was the one thing that Ava wasn’t dreading about St. Marymount School for Girls. The school was even honored for the art program, which Ava’s parents made sure to include in their ‘why we should move’ pitch. Art was the only thing that allowed her to be exactly who she was; no exceptions. After everything that had been going on with her family, Ava had been starving for a blank canvas to empty her frustrations on. This class, she was certain, would be the sweet icing on this bitter cake.

“Class, can I have your attention please?” Mr. Hendrix asked, clapping his hands above his head to command attention.

The class hushed their conversations and stared hard at Ava. She could feel their eyes on her, and sense their judgments being formed behind their lips.

“This is Ava Valentinez. She’s new.” he continued, pausing only long enough to form judgments of his own.

“Why don’t you tell us something about yourself?” Mr. Hendrix commanded more than suggested.

Ava felt butterflies hurl themselves around in her stomach, as she took a deep breath to speak.

“Well, I moved here from Arizona, kind of without a choice…” Ava started, staring out at the uniform-clad girls.

“All right! Please take a seat back there next to Victoria Eldenrich. Victoria, please raise your hand.” Mr. Hendrix interrupted, causing Ava’s face to flush and her eyes to fall to her feet.

Victoria Eldenrich didn’t raise her hand. Instead, she busied herself by snickering and sneering to her friends, Torrance and Sophia, as she watched Ava push her voluptuous Latina hips through the desks until she found her seat. Together, the three of them whispered remarks about Ava, commenting on everything from her figure down to the way she spoke. Obviously and snobbishly, Victoria would glance over her shoulder, and then smooth her skirt out as the three girls squealed with laughter. With each and every word they spoke, Ava sucked in her full bottom lip, and began filling up a blank page in her sketch book with new drawings. It wasn’t that the girls weren’t aware that Ava could hear the hurtful things they were saying, it was just simply that they didn’t care. The idea of stomping all over people was a game to these girls, and it didn’t matter who they hurt or at what price they paid to do so. After all, their daddies would gladly foot the bill.

 

Ava quietly scanned the lunch room, holding her lunch tray in her hand and looking for an open place to sit. Finally finding a spot that was open, she sat down next to a small blonde girl. The girl looked to be the same age, and was studying out of a Physics text book, munching on an apple in between pages.

“Is this seat taken?” Ava asked.

“Nope. Have a seat.” The girl answered with a large smile on her face.

“I’m Abigail; it’s nice to meet you.” The girl said, taking another bite out of her apple.

“Ava. It’s nice to meet you too. I think you’re the only nice person I’ve met so far” Ava admitted, looking across the lunchroom.

Abigail laughed, and smiled at Ava, “Yeah, you’ll definitely get that here. But I’m glad to give you a glimpse of normalcy”.

Ava’s searching eyes rested on Victoria across the room, as she laughed with her friends and took tiny bites of yogurt between chuckles. Suddenly, Victoria looked up and caught Ava staring at her. Nervously, Ava looked away; pretending like it had been an accident. When she looked back, Victoria’s piercing blue eyes stood their ground, intimidating every fiber of Ava’s being. If Victoria was trying to establish her dominance in this school to Ava, she was surely doing well at it.

Once she had finished her lunch, Ava headed to the trash can to throw away the remains. As she knocked the material of her tray against the trash can, she heard someone walking up next to her, Jimmy Choo heels clicking on the tiles. Standing to her left stood Victoria, yogurt cup clutched in her hand and hanging over the trash can.

“Listen, you know as well as I do that you don’t belong here. This is my school. If you haven’t figured that out yet, then you will soon enough.” She spat, dropping her cup into the trash, and brushing shoulders with Ava as she walked past.

Ava heard Torrance and Sophia giggling at the return of Victoria to their lunch table, as she remained next to the trash can, tears welling up in her eyes, and her mind blank.

 

Ava impatiently sat through her last class, thinking over all of the witty things she could have said back to what Victoria had said to her during lunch. The scene replayed over and over in her mind, remembering the look of pure disgust in Victoria’s eyes and the snarl in her cherry red lips and she spoke. Lost in thought, Ava scribbled small sketches of Victoria with horns and a pitch fork along the inside cover of her history notebook, and smiled to herself in admiration. Why she couldn’t think of what to say when Victoria was right in front of her was a mystery. It was like she had formed all the smart and witty sentences in her head, but once they found their way to her mouth, the coldness of Victoria’s voice stopped them in their tracks. Victoria’s father may fund many of the events the school holds, but that didn’t mean this school was hers for the taking. Not everyone has had everything handed to them their whole lives. Ava’s parents work hard every day to afford to send her to a school with a bunch of stuck up rich kids, hoping that it would help their daughter have a brighter future than the dim one they held for themselves. Why should the elite rule the school, simply because they were born elite?

Finally the bell rang, and Ava gathered up her things and followed a group of girls out into the hallway, and on to the front archway, determined to muster all the strength she had to give Victoria the piece of her mind that she had been waiting for.

 

Standing on the top step in front of the school, Ava searched the sea of girls for Victoria, glancing from face to face until she finally found her. Determined to say her peace, Ava marched towards Victoria and her friends until something stopped her dead in her tracks. Standing to the right of Victoria was a striking boy dressed in a St. Jude’s School for Boys uniform. Suddenly, he looked up and saw Ava looking back at him. His only response was a simple, lingering smile, a gorgeous, dimpled smile. Flustered, Ava turned on her heels and headed in the opposite direction leaving her courage behind her.

———————————————————————————

“She’s trash.” Victoria said following Chase’s eyes in the direction of her new arch-enemy, and squeezed his arm to catch his attention.

“Don’t waste your time. Besides, we have other charity cases to attend to” she said with a snobbish smile plastered on her face.

Chase tried his best to wiggle his arm free from Victoria’s grasp, and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

Chase had always been ashamed of the way she talked about other people, treating them as if they were always half the person that she was. He had been one of them once, the elite of the Upper East Side, and even though he had been dating Victoria off and on for two years, he had managed to step down off the high horse that they all rode on. It was a shame that the rest couldn’t follow suit.

“Remember, my father’s charity dinner is tonight. I thought you would come to my house and we’ll leave together around 6…” Victoria spoke, somehow finding Chase’s arm again, and giving it a squeeze, sending him out of his thoughts and back to reality.

“Listen, I have something I need to take care of. But, I’ll call you later.”  He responded, trying his best to put on a fake smile.

Chase walked over to the curb, and opened the door to Victoria’s service car waiting outside the school. Reluctantly, Victoria followed behind him, trying to snatch his hand like a cat at a toy.

“Fine.” She huffed, unable to catch what she was trying to.

Victoria leaned against the car, and crooned her neck towards Chase, silently asking for a kiss. Passing her lips, Chase gave her a small, uninterested peck on the cheek. Unsatisfied, she wrapped her arms tightly around his waist and whispered “I love you” softly into his neck.

Chase swallowed hard and simply said “Mmhm. You too”, before pulling away from her and heading down the sidewalk.

Walking along the sidewalk with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, Chase thought over his whole relationship with Victoria. However, through all his thoughts, he couldn’t seem to get the face of that girl he saw outside of St. Marymount’s out of his head. Her features were soft and subtle, unlike the mousy faces of the other girls. Maybe having her on his mind wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

Chase walked a long ways down the streets of Manhattan before he finally reached the hotel that his father owned, the Darwin Suites.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Darwin” the doorman greeted, getting only a smile from Chase in response.

Getting inside the elevator, he pressed the button to the executive floor, and leaned back against the shiny metal of the small box.
Living in the Upper East Side had become a game to nearly everyone. Parents pawned their children off like door prizes, and children relied on their parents’ credit cards like life support. The only rule was that you had to keep up appearances to stay in the game, and not playing dirty was never an option. A smile was never genuine in Manhattan, and the more and more that Chase watched the faces on the street pass by every day, the more and more convinced he was that they were all the same person.

Heading toward the door of his suite, he rummaged through his pockets for his room key. Once he had it in his hand, he was half tempted to throw it out the window and never go inside, but if no one else would take responsibility in his family, he had to.

Inside, his mother was standing next to the counter with a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, and the bottle in the other. Seeing her, Chase rolled his eyes and glanced down at his Cartier watch.

“Isn’t it a bit early?” he mumbled into his watch.

“Excuse me?” his mother snapped, letting the glass of the bottle clank against the counter top.

“I just meant, don’t you think you should hold off a little? We do have Mr. Eldenrich’s charity dinner at 7.” He responded.

Glancing up at her son, and squinting in a mixture of annoyance and drunkenness, her only response was another tumbler full of whiskey as she cowered off to a different room.

Chase sank down against the polished tiles of the counter in frustration, letting the coolness of the tiles burn into his skin. Slowly, he ran his fingers through his hair before resting his head against the counter.

            “What am I going to do?” he sighed in frustration.

 

“Victoria, Dear. Is that you? I laid out some dresses for you from my line in your bedroom for your father’s event. Be a dear and try them on.” Victoria’s mother bellowed from behind her office door.

Victoria didn’t respond, but headed to her bedroom anyway, with loud clunking steps. Standing in front of her mirror, she held each dress on its hanger up to her body. She examined each closely, and with a sigh threw them all back on the bed behind her and headed back down stairs to the kitchen. Opening the fridge door, Victoria pulled out a single slice of chocolate cake that was resting on a porcelain plate and silently ate it.

“You know Victoria, if you keep eating the way you are, we’re going to have to start a new plus size line, and that’s not good for business.” She heard her mother say behind her as she shuffled through the room.

The hunk of chocolate cake in Victoria’s mouth suddenly started to taste sour, as she watched her mother exit the room. Victoria had never been a large girl. The styles and décor of Manhattan clothing designers shudder at sizes larger than a 3. If that’s not enough of a reason to cut down her portions, the constant jabs from her mother would sure to do the trick.

Hearing her mother’s words in her head with each movement of her jawbone, Victoria shoved the remainder of the chocolate cake into her mouth, and forcibly swallowed it down.  Minutes later, she knelt in front of the porcelain of her private bathroom’s toilet. Closing her tired blue eyes, she extended her middle finger inches into her throat and heaved for the hundredth time. A few hot tears slid down her cheeks and dripped into the water, creating small ripples.  Satisfied with the gut-wrenching outcome, Victoria stood up to face the mirror and rubbed her eyes roughly. Staring at her reflection, Victoria tilted her head to one side and inhaled deeply, filling up her once heaving chest. The face in the mirror was flushed and streaked with black mascara around her sad eyes. With a loud exhale, she wiped the black remains off her face with her sleeve, and reached for her toothpaste. Never taking her eyes off the stranger in the mirror, she smeared the minty paste across her finger and rubbed it over her teeth and along her gums.

“It’s your own fault.” She said to her reflection, doing her best to convince herself of it.

 

“Can I have your attention please?” Mr. Eldenrich called to the crowd of people in front of him.

“I would like to personally thank everyone for coming out tonight, and for making your donations to the Eldenrich Charity Fund. It provides a safe haven for the endangered bald eagle. We appreciate your generosity, and I’m sure the birds do, too.”

He finished his speech with a cheesy smile, and a small chuckle, as he lifted his glass to the audience.

The crowd of people raised their glasses in the air and clanked against the glasses of those around them before pressing the flutes of bubbly liquid to their lips, congratulating themselves for being generous.

Off to the side of the crowd of people stood Chase, leaning against the, polished marble of a pillar, and staring at the bubbles dancing in his glass. He hadn’t seen Victoria since they had rode together to the event in silence. It wasn’t that he had never loved Victoria; he had just simply realized the meaning of that love. The love they had for her was the love you can’t help but have; the love that’s left over when the sparkle in that someone’s eye dims. He couldn’t speak for Victoria, but the sparkle had surely vanished for him.

“Do you have a minute?” he heard someone ask from the other side of the pillar.

Crooning his neck around, he saw his father smiling back at him, holding a small red box in his closed hand.

Without responding, Chase followed behind his eager father into a small cigar room, closing the door behind him.

“So what is it?” Chase questioned, eyeing his father’s face, trying to find the answer written there.

“I have something for you…or rather for you and Victoria…” his father started, opening the small velvet box and revealing a shining diamond ring.

“Dad! Are you kidding?! In case you’ve forgotten I’m 17, and believe it or not, a couple of 17 year olds getting married is usually frowned upon…” Chase ranted, plopping down in frustration on the charcoal leather couch behind him.

“Chase, with what’s going on with your mother, this could be a simple way to shine the spot light in a different direction. If people find out about her ‘habit’ that’s it for my clientele, and don’t even get me started on the hotel…” His father impatiently mumbled, picking up a cigar and clipping off the end.

Chase stared in disbelief as his father puffed out clouds of smoke up and around his face.

“Mom doesn’t have a ‘habit’, she has a problem; a problem that can’t be covered up with an engagement.” Chase spat.

“Well, whatever you want to call it…” his father interrupted, blowing his smoke in the direction of Chase.

“No! Dad, she needs help! I’m not doing this.” Chase said, jumping up from where he sat, and hurrying to the door in frustration.

He had only enough time to wrap his fingers around the door handle, before his father spoke from behind.

“Listen, all I’m saying is take the ring…” he began, taking the small red box out of his pocket and extending it towards his son.

“Just think it over. You and Victoria belong together; you always have. Even if you don’t take the ring now, you always will.”

Chase fought with himself harder than he had fought for anything before. The reason everyone thought that he and Victoria were meant to be together was because he had never told them otherwise; he was sure of it. Victoria wasn’t for him. He was sure of that too. If he took the ring, he knew it would be the first step in a long uphill battle. He didn’t want to end up like his parents, unhappy and married for family money. His mother turned to alcohol to ease the regret, and in the same way, his father was no better, busying himself with work and his clientele more than he did with his own family. He didn’t know if he was better than them, but he knew that he should try. He knew what he had to do, whether he was in over his head or not.

“Do it for your mother.” He heard his father say behind him, as he extended the hand that held the ring further.

Silently, and almost unconsciously, Chase reached up and wrapped his fingers around the small box, slamming the door in defeat as he left.

 

Standing outside the cigar room, Chase ran his fingers over the velvet of the ring box, gripping it tight in his hand. He felt like he’s been kicked in the stomach, and as he looked around at all the faces, they all seemed to become the same person. With his head spinning, Chase pushed past crowds of people, desperately needing fresh air. As he made his way to the bright red exit sign, he heard Victoria call after him, but he ignored her. His walk became a run, as he pushed past the final cluster of people and burst out of the door. He didn’t know where he would go, or how to get there, but he knew he wasn’t stepping foot back in that charity event.

Suddenly, as the street light changed to red and the crosswalk sign lit up, something caught his eye. As the traffic cleared off the crosswalk, Chase steadily walked along the indicated space, pushing past even more people to reach the other side. Sitting in the window of Starbucks was the girl he had seen at St. Marymount, sipping a cappuccino and drawing something that she was concentrating intently on.

He thought of turning around, heading in the opposite direction, and keep walking until his legs gave out. But the girl looked so peaceful and welcoming, and his curiosity got the best of him.

“Hi…” he started, sitting down next to her. “I’m Chase”.

“Hi. Ava.” She responded setting her pencil down next to her cup.

It looked like she was drawing the streetlight outside the window, and the images of passing cars behind it, with the words time stops for no one etched along the streetlight.

“That’s really good… You know, I hope you don’t think this is weird, but that drawing is just like my life right now…” Chase mentioned, looking up at Ava’s face for a reaction.

Ava smiled, and tilted her head to one side, glancing down at the drawing before responding, “It’s just like mine too… But wait…” she said, suddenly straightening her head, “You’re Victoria’s boyfriend…I don’t know if she’s mentioned anything or not, but she’s not my biggest fan…and I really don’t want to start anything…”

Chase interrupted her by touching her hand with his, sending a shock up his arm that he was sure she felt too. “Shh. Victoria and I… we have a lot of history together. But as far as I’m concerned, that’s all it is: History.”

“What’s that?” Ava asked, noticing the small red box in Chase’s other hand.

Silently, he tossed the red velvet box onto the table top, and slouched down in his seat.

“My life”, he said.

Chase felt surprisingly comfortable with Ava, and found himself appreciating the warmness of her smile, and the openness of her heart. Ava sat and listened as he talked about the problems with his mother and the way his father always tries to brush it under the social table. He told her about how he’s always been in the middle of everyone’s problems, and how he was always the one who had to pick up the pieces. He opened up about the first time he realized his mother had a drinking problem, and how she had blamed every drink on him. His father’s absence in his life forced Chase to become the only person his mother could lean on. Meaning, each and every night that she would pass out on the couch with a scotch in her hand, he would take it on himself to carry her up the stairs and into her own bed. Soon after, he would dump the remains of the alcohol in the entire house down the drain, and sit down against the counter, counting the hours until she’d be back downstairs, hunting through the house for more to drink. Chase laid his heart out to Ava, in the same way that red box lay resting on the table. He had half expected her to be scared away, or interrupt the way Victoria had always done. But Ava was surely different, there was no mistaking that. As he spoke, the occasional changing of the streetlight would set a yellow glow on Ava’s cheekbones, illuminating the golden flecks in her brown eyes, nearly knocking the wind out of him. The sparkle in her eye shone brighter than any diamond he had ever seen.

“This might sound really crazy…but, do you want to come back some place with me and dance?” Chase asked, holding his breath for her answer.

A small smile danced across Ava’s lips as she spoke “I’d love to…but I’m not really dressed for…”

“You look great.” Chase interrupted.

Together the two of them walked hand in hand across the street, to Mr. Eldenrich’s charity event. They stood in front of the golden swinging doors, allowing the lights of the city to become their backdrop, before they braved the entry. Chase waited at the door, and took hold of Ava’s hand, leading her to the center of the glittering dance floor. Slowly, as they danced, heads turned in their direction. Judgmental eyes of every shade, evaluated the situation, and gave disapproving stares in response. Victoria pouted somewhere in the lining of the crowd, whispering she’ll never belong before she ran off to the bathroom. Chase’s father called his name from somewhere else in the crowd, trying to command his attention for all the wrong reasons. Time stops for no one, but in that moment, for maybe just as long as the song would last, the only two people in the world were Chase and Ava.

Edgar O’Malley

Edgar O’Malley was a lanky, 52 year old man with gray thinning hair, and sad brown eyes. He had spent 27-years of his life in a weathered brick house on a lonely hill just outside of a quiet old town. The house— possibly as abandoned as he was—sat at the end of a winding dirt road, decorated by small potholes, creating a resting place for the freshly fallen rain to transform into mud. The white door of the house hung on worn gold hinges, nestled above a welcome mat that though as old as he was, looked nearly untouched. As the nervous man, hurriedly shuffled out into the damp air, he was welcomed by sheets of fresh downpour, silenced by one loud clap of dominating thunder. He decided tonight was the night; the night that everything would change.

Edgar’s 1992, rusty green station wagon, was perched at the top of the driveway, tires caked with mud. The dark tinted paint around the doorframe had begun to chip away, revealing the raw metal underneath, and the once shining silver door handle had become dull from years of constant pulling and releasing. The car that had once provided a shelter-like transportation for a family of three, now only catered to one. Fumbling with his keys as he trudged towards it, Edgar could feel the cold rain start to soak through his red, plaid, long-sleeved button down and his khaki pants, before seeping into his dingy brown leather boots; untied laces already sinking into the mud like tree roots. He traced the outline of the key pressed to his palm with the underside of his rough thumb; one of the many habits he had acquired over the years, if only to occupy his mind. With the cold metal key securely in the lock, he reached a boney hand out and tugged on the door handle, opening the squeaky door, as he stumbled into the worn, tan bucket seat. Inserting the key into the car, the engine came alive as Edgar smoothed his hair back, and adjusted his wire-framed glasses on his over-sized nose before putting the car into drive.

With a heavy foot on the gas, he cautiously turned down the familiar country roads he had driven a hundred times, as the windshield wipers fought back the rain. The only conversation in the car was between speakers, as the AM talk radio station whispered against the pitter-pattering of the weather. Slowly he wrapped his fingers around the top of the cold steering wheel, feeling it leisurely warm under his touch. Leaning his head back against the headrest, he locked his elbows, and closed his eyes for a brief second, as if bracing for impact. Concerned eyebrows knit together, Edgar glanced down at the words he had scribbled on a small piece of paper: Westbrook Apartments, #605.

The road ahead was decorated by wet reflections of neon signs and streetlights, as the tires pushed and pulled along the tattered pavement. Colorful signs from local restaurants beckoning for business gleamed against the wet windows, and then lingered in the rearview mirror before disappearing as tiny specks in a starry backdrop. Intersection street signs gave a brief iridescent jade and white glow as he passed, as if begging for entry. Madison Street, Willow Court, Monte Street held close company to 12 others, before Edgar came to a halt at a flashing red traffic light. He could see the apartments to his right, hardly a car’s length away. As rocks cracked beneath the weight of the car, Edgar timidly turned the wheel to the right, and came to a stop, parking against the soaked curb in front of the building. As he shut off the engine, and tossed the keys between his palms, he took in a long shaky breath. He sat in silence for what felt like forever, listening to his heavy gold, chain-link watch impatiently ticking as it rested against the underside of his wrist. The hot, heavy breath billowing from behind his lips began to create a light shape of steam across the front windshield. Instinctively, he reached his right pointer finger up and swiped one single line across the mess, revealing the glittering stars in the distance as he did so.  Collecting his thoughts, he leaned his body weight into the doorframe, released his tight grip on the steering wheel, and stepped out into the awaiting downpour. Tonight was the night.

Westbrook Apartments stood 12 stories high, framed with old red brick, and decorated by light streaming through a single window on the 6^th floor: her window; a potted orchid slowly dying on the ledge in the dim light. Edgar marched to the weathered metal doors at the front of the building, and dragged a long finger along the list of names next to it, tapping his finger loudly against the plastic in victory as he found her name. Pushing the button next to her name, he heard a deep buzzing sound, followed by a loud bang as the front door unlocked, and he slipped inside. Quickly, he shook the rain from his clothes, and ran both his hands, palms down, along the length of his body, smoothing his appearance. He tapped the toes of his shoes on the black and white tiled floors, bumping the lingering droplets to the floor, as he made his way down the hallway of the lobby, in the direction of the elevator.

Eagerly, Edgar reached a damp hand out and roughly pressed the upwards-pointing arrow on the elevator panel. The box made of gleaming new steel came silently crawling down, as Edgar nervously scratched the grey stubble on his old chin. The doors spread open, as he scurried inside. Anxiously, he scanned the rectangular array of numbered buttons to the left of the door. As he pressed the pad of his thumb into the circular button for the 6^th floor, he heard nothing but his own thoughts screaming, as the lit elevator buttons started back at him, taunting as they ascended. The overhead jazz music streaming from the single black speaker seemed too high class for the scenery around him, he noticed. The burnt orange elevator carpet reflected up onto the dented steel, and the heavy doors rested slightly apart, giving a glimpse of the twisted wires that were just beyond.  At the 6^th floor, the gleaming metal doors slid open, revealing green linoleum floors, and his past at the end of the hallway behind a solid brown door:  number 605.

Edgar knew that the he didn’t deserve to see her. To date, he had missed exactly 17 of her birthdays, and the other five, he had hardly been present for. That’s 17 celebrations of her birth, 17 valentine’s days, 17 father’s days, and 17 Christmases. Though he’d spent those years apart, bitter over the divorce of his wife, her death had suddenly made him realize that the child that had hung in the balance was now coping with the loss of a second parent, when she never should have lost the first. Edgar had written countless letters in apology, trying to explain why he’d been absent for so long, but as the ink began to spread across the blank space, the apology suddenly seemed too big for the page. Instead, he had tried buying flowers—simple daises, vibrant orchids, or elegant roses—but the buds never seemed to say enough. He knew he didn’t deserve to be in her life again, but as he sat drinking his cooling black coffee that morning, he suddenly missed her laugh; the way it had rumbled in her chest and then echoed off the wall like a symphony. He couldn’t be without her music any longer.

Quickly, he walked down the hallway, eyes to the floor, afraid he might lose his nerve if he dared to pace himself. The scent of citrus cleaning products overwhelmed his nostrils, and the eeriness of the silence made the atmosphere seem as if it was desolate.  One foot clumsily in front of the other, his strides shortened as he almost barreled into the large door. The golden number 605 hung against the door in a diagonal line, each number ascending further down. Just below the 5, Edgar knocked hard, feeling the door vibrate under his knuckles. He waited for what felt like hours—short agitated seconds blooming into long elaborate minutes, gingerly creeping by—until finally the door hesitantly opened. There she was.

On the other side of that golden 605, stood a tall, 22-year old woman, with long brown hair resting on the shoulders of her green cashmere sweater, her slender fingers nervously playing with the hem where it met with her dark denim jeans. Her pale pink lips settled slightly apart, her taught, tanned cheeks flushed with the chill from the season’s touch. Just beyond her figure, the burgundy curtains shook against the heavy wind just outside her open window, slapping their wet fabric against the cream leather of the couch. The teakettle heating on the white stove pierced the silence with its scream. Slowly she dragged her sad brown eyes up to meet Edgar’s identical ones, as she searched them for all the answers to the questions he’d left unanswered for 17 years. The silence that filled the space between them had felt like it had lasted the span of those 17 years all over again, before he lowered his head in apology.

The layout of the apartment was a sharp contrast with the simple surroundings of the rest of the apartment complex. While the building was out dated and old, the inside of her apartment was spotless and new, gleaming white tiled countertops and a shining flat screen television started back at him. She had made a comfortable life for herself, despite the lack of a father. Her apartment was well kept, and as he dared to glance past her at the seemingly comfortable life she had made for herself, he was greeted by the warm smell of cinnamon and the scolding boom of a loud clap of thunder. Instantly goose bumps crept up the back of his neck and littered his forearms as he meekly lowered his head to the stare at his shoes. With his eyes glued to the floor, his ears waited for the sound of the door slamming—of her heart being closed off.—but instead he heard a quiet squeal. Barefoot and timid, she held the door open to her father. Edgar wasn’t sure if the sparkling gleam in her eye was only a florescent reflection of the overhead lights, or if it was a sign of hope; a hint to a chance he might have building a bridge between their lives. A small smile crept across his thin lips and stretched over his teeth, as he crossed the distance between the tattered linoleum just beyond the entry of the doorway and the tan carpet of her apartment—the past and the bright future—before the door quietly shut behind him.

When Skies Are Gray

“When Skies Are Gray”

The thunder clapped outside the broken window, lighting up the edges of the shattered glass. Rain dripped from the open spaces in the ceiling causing water to build up in puddles on the floor. The floor was once a polished wood, but was now dull and ripped apart; a dance floor for the water seeking shelter. Pots and pans decorated the floor, catching dozens of raindrops open-mouthed. The constant thumping of quarter-sized rain droplets on tin, envelopes the bitter harmony of poverty.

Above all other noise in the broken down house, stood one that held no rhythm. Instead, in a room past broken in doors and creaking hallway floorboards the noise called for un-ignorable attention. Nestled underneath layers of tattered blankets was a wide-eyed child, tears rolling down her face, in response, her mother, Sadie shuffled to her bedside wearing an apron around her waist and sweat beads in her hair.

“Shh,Child. Hush, Child” she softly cooed, scooping up the swaddled two-year old, Ava, from where she lay. Resting the child on one hip, Sadie gently rubbed her palm up and down her back, creating small circles as she did so.

“You Are My Sunshine
My only sunshine.
You make me happy
When skies are grey.
You’ll never know, dear,
How much I love you.
Please don’t take my sunshine away.” Sadie sang into her daughter’s ear, brushing her hair back with her only available hand.

“The other nite, dear,
as I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms.
When I awoke, dear,
I was mistaken
and I hung my head and cried.”

As she continued singing with hopes of setting her child’s worries aside, she began thinking of her own. Sadie tried to provide for her daughter the best she couldn’t but as much as the white families in her town swear up and down against segregation, keeping her out of a job didn’t put much fight against prejudice. Her husband had died only a year ago from AIDS, but she still felt it, as if he had died right in her arms through out every second of every day. Sometimes when Ava would wake in the middle of the night in tears, Sadie would think that maybe she has seen the warm eyes of her father in a dream and was unsettled at the hollow feeling of missing the man behind those eyes.

However, Ava hardly had enough time to spend with her father, let alone age enough to register him in her mind as one half of her family. Sadie and her husband had known for awhile that his death was coming, but how do you tell an unborn child that she’ll never grow to know her father because of a disease we can’t control yet?

What am I going to do? Sadie thought to herself, sighing, and gently laying her sleeping child back down into her bed. Quietly, she hummed:

I’ll always love you
And make you happy
If you will only say the same
But if you leave me
To love another
You’ll regret it all some day;

Suddenly there was a loud banging at the front door. Sadie’s eyes shot to the door of her child’s room, and then to the returned tears on Ava’s face. Ava was standing on her feet now, small eyes clamped shut, eyebrows furrowed, and mouth wide open with a wailing scream.

“Ava, Baby, you stay here now. I’ll be back in one minute. You lay down now. Mama will be right back.” Sadie reassured, rushing from the room, and closing the door securely behind her.

Over the past few months, Child Protective Services had been showing up every now and then to check up on Ava. Every time, Sadie would grab her daughter, hide in the back room; blow out all the candles that lit their way. She would not let them take her daughter away. Sadie knew the conditions they lived in weren’t suitable for a young child, but she was doing all she could. However, each time they paid a new visit, it became harder and harder to ignore the sounds of beating fists on wood. They became more and more persistent with each un-invited conquest. They wanted to take her child, and it was because of that that she had decided that this time she would stand and fight for what she cared about.

“What do you want?” Sadie called from behind the closed wooden door.
“Sadie Williams? We need to speak with you regarding your daughter.” A deep-voiced man responded, followed by a loud clap of thunder.

“She, she…she ain’t available for the taking!” Sadie bellowed, feeling the confidence that she was sure she had, slowly escaping her body.

With a few more booms of fists on wood, the deep-voiced man responded.

“That isn’t your choice Mrs. Williams. Please let us in. This is in the best interest of your daughter…”

The man behind the door talked more of the best interest of her daughter, and the more that Sadie tried to ignore the words he was saying, they seeped into her every pore. She knew; she knew that if her daughter stayed in her care any longer she wouldn’t be able to take care of her in the ways she needed to. She knew; but she also knew how much she loved her, and how much she didn’t want to let her go. For that reason, Sadie unlocked the wooden barrier, and with a weary heart, allowed the men to tumble in.

“Please, please don’t take her away from me. She’s all I got left…” She pleaded eyes blurry from welling tears.

The men ignored her plea and headed in the direction of the hallway, stepping over rain-filled pots and pans as they walked. Suddenly, they were stopped in their tracks. Standing knee high in front of the tall men in black was Ava, wiping the tears from her cheeks and the sleep from her eyes. A stuffed bear hung from her tiny fingers, and she looked around with scared eyes.

“Mama?” the little child cried reaching her hand out to her mother and taking a step forward. She was immediately cut off by the blackly-clad men, sending more tears rushing down her innocent face.

Sadie watched the deep-voiced man kneel down to Ava’s eye level and tell her soft brown eyes that they were taking her away for a while. They told her not to worry because she may be coming back, but to pack a few things just in case. Sadie watched Ava’s soft brown eyes look at them in confusion. She knew she didn’t understand, but she dared not come any closer; these men were taking her daughter away.

It’s for the best Sadie told herself, and immediately bit her lip.

“Mama?” Ava called again but was drowned out by a clap of thunder.

“Do as you’re told child. You go pack some things.” Sadie ordered with the only sternness left in her body.

Once Ava had returned with a small pink backpack and her teddy bear still clutched in her hand, what happened next was a blur to Sadie. She vaguely remembered the sounds of the rain hitting the tin pots and the sound of the dominating thunder blotting out every third word the men spoke to her. With every thing they said to her, Sadie simply stared at her daughter, watching her move about as if it was the last time she was ever going to see her. Maybe this is the last time I’ll see her, she thought.

She remembers the sobbing, and the begging on her part to encourage the men to let her child remain with her mother. They ignored her, more of less because they couldn’t make out what she was saying. Sadie remembered the deep-voiced man picking up her daughter and resting her on one hip, the way she had held her before, then heading for the front door. In panic, she sprang for her daughter, reaching for her crying child’s hands and praying to herself: Oh Lord, don’t let this be. Don’t let this be. Ava’s fingers grazed her mother’s rough hand, then stretched over the man’s shoulder, dropping her teddy bear in the efforts to reach her mother. Scooping up the stuffed animal, Sadie held it to her chest, and watched her daughter and three blackly-clad invaders exit through foggy eyes. Quietly, and hopelessly she sand to the silhouette of her vanishing daughter:

“You are my sunshine,
My only sunshine.
You make me happy
When skies are grey.
You’ll never know, dear,
How much I love you.
Please don’t take my sunshine away.”

Lit

The light from the living room television flickered against my heavy eyelids. My red flannel pajama bottoms hung loose against the frame of my legs; my knees bent and pulled up to my chest. The gray cotton of my old sweatshirt kept my slim body warm against the chill of the November air outside the two-story cottage I once shared with my husband. The large plush armchair I sat curled up in was the last of my husband’s things that still remained at the house. Though I no longer felt comfort in our deteriorating relationship, the beige material of the chair became my refuge, the soft fabric swallowing my tired body. Something as simple as an old, worn chair reminded me of the person David was before we had separated; before he yelled instead of talked and drank instead of socialized. My father had warned me that we’d rushed into marriage, but I had insisted I would prove him wrong, moving to a small farming town in the heart of Fulton County, Pennsylvania. Being a city girl myself, I wasn’t settled on the idea of raising swine to make a living; I knew I’d miss the noise of the city. But the more I fell in love with David, the more I fell in love with the tranquility of the country and the beautiful simplicity of our lives together.  Years later, that person was gone—probably states away now—and the woman he left behind now found company in the hundreds of pigs outside in the large white barn, and the quiet flicker of late night television.

“Laser beams… melting their flesh… the smoke sending signals to their home plant…” the man on the Sci-Fi television station droned.

I opened my eyes slowly, the brown of them peeking out between the parting flesh of my lids. As I reached a sleepy hand up to push my chocolate brown hair behind my ear, I pressed the “information” button on the silver TV remote with my free hand. Aliens Revenge the title read, and directly across from it, the time, 5:15am. The program illuminated the dark room with images of green-brown aliens, their slanted eyes massive and intriguing. As the deep voice of the program’s announcer filled the chill air, I soaked up all the details I was being given; mesmerized by the complexity of the small creatures.  Though I might not have believed in it years ago, my separation from my husband had me willing and ready to believe in anything again- no matter how paranormal that belief might be.

“Oh my gosh…” I whispered under my breath, an orange glow illuminating the room from the image of fire dancing across the TV screen. Mesmerized, I watched as helpless cows burned in front of me, the program announcer informing me that it was the aliens’ way of making a statement.

“They wanted to show the humans that they are not only out there in the universe, but more powerful than we ever thought”, he said.

I shifted forward on the edge of my seat, my small sock-clad feet pressed hard into the brown carpet, suddenly attentive and wide awake; sleep the furthest thing from my mind. The glow from the television illuminated my face, tinting the whites of my eyes a pale shade of yellow. As the movement of the flames on the television flicked across my pupils, I felt so engulfed in the paranormal story that I could almost smell the smoke; the thick gray smoke heavy as it traveled up to fill my senses. For a brief second I closed my eyes, the strong odor of the chalky smoke I thought I was imagining, suddenly suffocated the room. Quickly I jumped to my feet, my eyes flitting across the room in a panic, searching for the source of the smell. My eyes settled on the white, unsigned divorce papers on the wooden kitchen table, an orange glow from just outside the large bay window illuminating the heavy black print of the legal document. I slowly made my way across the living room carpet, tip-toeing as I walked, my eyes never leaving the animated glow on the divorce papers.

As I rounded the corner into the kitchen, my jaw dropped at the sight just outside the large window. The massive white barn that housed over 900 pigs was lit and alive with huge angry flames. Though the sun had begun to rise against the night sky, the nearly black smoke billowing from the fiery mess caked the atmosphere, diming the rising sun. I stared wide-eyed and helpless from behind the glass, my small hand coming up to rest against the cold surface; my warm breath forcing a rounded pattern of condensation to spread across the window, fogging the view. As the condensation quietly faded away, I caught a glimpse of something moving along the side of the barn. A large green blur disappeared into the drying cornfield, sending my stomach plummeting to my feet.
“Aliens…” I whispered breathlessly.

An hour later, I found myself sitting on the dewy grass just outside the old barn, shivering under a scratchy black blanket the police had given me. Though my shaky hands had barely managed to dial three simple numbers on the telephone, the police had finally arrived. The Fulton County firemen had arrived soon after, exhausting the flames with large rubber fire hoses, their oversized plastic hats sliding down their sweat covered foreheads. The exterior of the old barn was becoming unrecognizable. As powerful streams of water blasted the once white panels of the building, dark liquid ash dripped down the length of the barn, staining the panels and creating a toxic mud at the base of the building. Just to the right of the building, I could see a handful of police officers whispering amongst themselves, some stealing a few glances in my direction. I couldn’t quite make sense of the looks on their faces, but I imagined the pained expression on their faces was a mixture of pity and disbelief to the story I’d told them when they’d first arrived.

“What happened here ma’am?” A round police man questioned, slowly removing a pen from his shirt pocket.

“I don’t know… I was watching TV and there were aliens burning cows and then all of a sudden the barn was on fire.” I rambled, a shiver racking through my body.

“Aliens, ma’am?” the man asked in disbelief, his badge on his left pocket reading John.

“You are aware that this economy is tough, correct?” he asked, pausing only long enough to watch my expression change to confusion.
“A lot of the people have been setting fire to their belongings in order to reap the insurance benefits…” he began.
“Wait. No. No. No. I did not do this! I even saw someone or something jump into the cornfield!” I tried to defend.
“The cornfield, ma’am?… I’ll be back.” John muttered, before he shuffled off to discuss with the other policemen.

I now fiddled with the blades of wet grass, staring absently into the dry stalks of the cornfield. I know what I saw, I thought to myself. Though I had never wanted to move to the country by choice, I would never set my own property on fire. The idea of ruining something stationary in the life I once shared with David just for money, made me nauseous.

“We got something!” I heard, suddenly scampering to my feet, the warmth of the blanket sliding off my shoulders.

An array of police officers were pulling something out from the cornfield, wrestling it to the ground with their weight. I watched has a large burly officer raided the person’s pockets, tossing a box of matches off to the side. The four policemen hoisted the stranger up by the back of their green flannel shirt, nudging them forward towards and into the light of the rising sun.
“David.” I breathed out between my parted lips, instantly bringing my hand up to rest on my heart. As the loud organ thumped roughly against my chest, I watched the sad face of my husband slowly illuminating by the fall sun. Before I could realize what I was doing, I had begun to walk slowly to where my husband was being lead; the officers forcing his body against the white exterior of the police car’s hood.

“Kerron… I’m so sorry…” David muffled, staring apologetically at my face.
“Why would you do this?” I questioned, gesturing to the charred barn with my free hand, the other still resting firmly on my heart.

“You never wanted to live here. I thought that if I could get rid of the reason we came here, then we could start over.” He responded, before he ducked his head into the backseat of the car.

“David…” I began, the tears in my eyes catching me by surprise.
I found myself suddenly at a loss for words. Something was abruptly different. The absent look in the color of my husband’s eyes made me sick. I had spent months living my life in a sleepless, drowsy fog waiting for something; closure or a rewind of time. But as the door shut on the frost covered police car, the faded eyes of my husband staring out from behind the window, I felt nothing. As the fire in the distance flickered out, so did that of our relationship, leaving behind a mess of ash and long awaited closure.

As I watched the cold metal of the police car, pull onto the dirt road, I silently said goodbye to David. The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach began to diminish, the biting chill of the air outside seemed to warm-up, heating my cheeks. I closed my exhausted eyes for a brief moment, inhaling deeply. I had expected the cold crisp air to slide in and out of my lungs smoothly; to be released back out into the night air as a burst of steam. Instead, I felt hot smoke fill my chest, constricting my throat. I could smell burnt hair as my eyelashes and the ends of my hair curled and melted. I couldn’t move. The flesh on my arms and legs began to bubble and sting. I could hear myself weakly scream with all the strength I had left in my body, before I slowly opened my eyes. Instead of staring out at our old dirt driveway, from beneath the dark, cold sky, I was staring up at the ceiling of the living room; large dominating flames crawling across the textured carpet in my direction, encircling my immobile body.

I strained my eyes against the brightness of the flames around me, the tall frame of a man staring back at me. I could faintly recognize the drunken smirk on his lips, and the brand of whisky in his hand: Benchmark, David’s favorite. I tried to lift my head in his direction—attempt to crawl to my knees— but I couldn’t move. My whole body felt heavy and weighted to the floor as the burning mass of flames began to bite at the fabric of my clothes.

“David. Please.” I tried, the voice escaping my throat almost unrecognizable.

I watched David turn to face me, disconnect in his eyes as he inched closer to where I laid.

“Why would you do this?” I heard myself say, the blood in my body beginning to heat and boil under my skin.

“I never wanted to leave here. But I know that if I can get rid of you; get rid of the reason I was forced to leave, then I can start over.” He spat coldly, turning on his heels, leaving behind a mess of ash and unrequited spite.

Fallen Soldier

The words of bitter notification were etched across the ivory page from left to right. The font was thick and black, and Louise could imagine the words and letter jumping off the page, crawling past her lips, and inching down her throat; caking her lungs and suffocating the life out of her. The shock had begun to wash over her entire body, sending tingles up and down her joints, her slender jean-clad legs nervously bouncing below the pressure of her forearms. Her small hands were clenched over the edges of the letter, knuckles turning white under the strain. Louise could feel her stomach turning beneath the fabric of her brown cotton blouse, as her emerald eyes slowly shifted between the array of sentences. Helpless and uncomfortable, she cautiously reached a hand up to brush a lose strand of brown hair away from her flushed cheek; her golden wedding band catching light from the burgundy lamp on the table beside her. The torn envelope rested below the lamp, the light highlighting the gold lining of the United States Air Force seal in the left corner.

Dear Mrs. Adam M. Wilson,

We regret to inform you of the death of Adam M. Wilson, who did in service of The United States Air Force Division. This gunner died in service of his country.

 

Sincerely,
John Townmen
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs

Her eyes lingered on the word death. The sharp sound of the word made Louise feel like every inch of her body was on edge and under pressure; the kind of pressure that seemed to push past her pale skin and fill up the empty spaces in her bones. Her whole body felt heavy, as she sank deeper into the plush tan couch in the living room of the house they once shared. Her eyes began to give in to the weight, and as her eyelids met, warm tears were released down her cheeks, hanging on the brim of her pale lips before sliding into the crease of her mouth. For a moment, she had forgotten how to breathe; those few tears suddenly making her feel as if she had started to drown.

“Mrs. Wilson…”  Lieutenant Henry Louis began, running his coarse hands along the stiff crease in his deep green military pants. “I am deeply sorry for your loss.”
Hearing nothing in response, Henry shifted his gaze to the shine on his jet-black boots, studying the way the glimmer was broken up by the constant turning of the ceiling fan.
“Mrs. Wilson…” he tried again, pulling nervously at the sleeves of his green jacket, decorated with a variety of pins.
“Did you know him?” Louise suddenly asked, avoiding the brown eyes of the Lieutenant.
“No…” he tried, “…but I can tell by the look on your face that he was a good man. Is that him?” Henry asked, motioning his clean-cut blonde hair at a picture just beyond the couch, sitting atop the brick fireplace.
“Yes.” She answered, climbing to her bare feet, as she slowly made her way to the picture. Delicately, she traced her finger along the silver frame, noticing a tremble in her hand as she did so. “He was the love of my life”, she whispered.

Adam had loved Louise since the moment he met her, the way she’d throw her head back as she laughed, and bring her hand to her heart when he’d tell her he loved her. Despite the disapproval of her father, the two had married when she was 22, Adam being 5 years her senior. The couple then moved to Virginia where he would enlist in the Air Force, the way his father had. Even now, 15 years later, she could still remember the moment he left: The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach as she watched him walk away. The way he had nudged her chin up slighting with the length of his index finger, telling her again that he loved her. Chin up, soldier. It’s not goodbye, it’s see you later, he’d say, a hint of playfulness in his tone as he spoke. In that moment, she had never felt like she could possibly feel as heartbroken as she did then. She had never fathomed the numbing pain of when a “see you later” is suddenly a “goodbye”.

Louise carried the frame cradled in her arm, as she returned to her seat across from Henry. She held the picture between her shaking hands, running her thumb across the figure of her husband before handing it over to the Lieutenant. It was one of the only pictures she had of him from the war where he wasn’t completely put together. The beige hat on his head resting slightly to the side, above his pointed ears. His tan cargo pants were wrinkled and cuffed at the ankles, just above his heavy black boots. His normally crisp, buttoned shirt was cuffed at the sleeves, hanging loose down the sides of his body, exposing the clean white shirt beneath it. Just below his black leather belt, his thumbs were stuffed inside the deep pockets, his left shooting hand bent at the fingertips from years of service. The picture was taken a year ago at a military camp in Vietnam. She remember the way he had complained of the thin screen door they slept behind; the worn hinges and metal frame doing little to hide the madness going on outside. Though he was standing in front of temporary military housing, the metal panels dented and worn from the atmosphere, the small smirk on his face was the same one she’d fall in love with time and time again, when she’d meet him at the airport after they’d spent too long apart.

“If you don’t mind me asking Ma’am, why is his wedding ring on the right hand?” Henry questioned, glancing up at the sad face of the widower as she stared out the large bay window behind him.
“He pulled the trigger with his left hand, so he’d move it to his right. He said it was because he didn’t want to ruin his ring; damage our promise.” She responded numbly, fixing her eyes on a robin outside the window.

The trees outside were covered in floral green leaves, illuminated by the warm June sun. The birds chirped and the occasional laughter of a child would echo through the streets and off the metal of passing cars. Heat rose off the pavement and made the roads appear unfocused to the eye. Though the day would have appeared picture perfect to anyone else, to Louise, the setting outside couldn’t have been more contradictory to the whirlwind of emotions rapidly taking place of the oxygen in her two-story brick home. To Louise, it felt like the dead of winter. The trees were bear, frozen to the touch, and drained of any color. The occasional icy breeze would blow through the sickly branches, tangle in and out of the invisible leaves, and cause a single twitch. Other than the haunting wind, everything else remained silent. Birds outside opened and closed their beaks in slow muted chatter. The ceiling fan above the coffee table, between the two couches ticked as it spun in slow motion. Across the table, Henry seemed to be offering her words of encouragement or understanding, but they seemed to fall heavy on the tan carpet between the two.

“I really am sorry.” Henry repeated, handing the frame back to the woman.
“You’ve already said that.” Louise snapped, suddenly angry at the bearer of the bad news, yanking the framed photograph out of his hand.

“I know you think that I don’t know what you’re going through…” he began.
“You don’t.” she interrupted, staring down at the chipping red polish on her toenails.
“Did your husband ever speak of Marshal Evans?” Henry asked, lacing his fingers together in patience, attempting to make eye contact with the woman.

Louise had faintly remembered her husband mentioning the name Marshal Evans on more than one occasion. The man was in her husband’s Air Force division, he slept on the bunk above Adam. On nights where the chaos outside was too dominating to sleep, they’d talk of all they had to live for back at home. She remembered the way she could hear the pride in his voice when he’d talk about the slightly younger man, as if he had taken him under his wing. Adam had told her that the young man and his new wife were expecting a child, and that when he returned home to her, he’d be returning home to a baby boy as well.

“Why?” Louise demanded, feeling slightly uneasy at this strange man’s sudden knowledge of her life.

“Marshal was my best friend. Known him since we were kids. He died along side your husband, ma’am.” Henry said, struggling to hold back the quiver in his voice as he spoke.
“You think I don’t know what you’re going through ma’am, but love is still love. I would have died in place of that man. But I couldn’t. So, I’m here telling you’re not alone in that pain.”

For the first time since Henry had stepped into her home and handed her the letter, Louise made eye contact with him. She saw the same sadness that plagued her eyes reflected in the brown eyes of the man across the table from her, the distance seeming less like worlds apart. Her body began to quake with sobs, finally giving in to the sadness that had begun to seep into her veins from the moment she ran her finger along the underside of the small envelope, breaking the seal and stealing the heart right out of her chest.
Hot tears of acceptance made their way past the contours of her face, and she swallowed them. The fear for what lies ahead clouded her mind, seeped into her veins, and dug itself into her core, and she swallowed it.

A Mess Is A Mess Anyway You Clean It.

I cleaned my room today. Not just picked up a few things here and there, I actually scrubbed it ceiling to wall. I’m pretty sure I vacuumed every last piece of dust anywhere. It was nice to just sort of listen to music, dance around in my room, and pretend like nothing is changing. But the more I cleaned, the more I found myself organizing things in the way I’ll want to pack them up again. I leave in 3 weeks, and it’s crazy to think about. At one point, I was reaching under my dresser to make sure there was nothing under there that I didn’t want to vacuum, and I pulled out a gold pin in the shape of a ballerina. I had danced my whole life up until I was 12. My room used to be bubblegum pink with ballerina slippers printed around the top of the walls. This last year we finally painted it, and now thats its a deep red color, I find myself almost missing the pink. As dumb as it may sound, it was comforting to know that no matter how bad my day was at school, or how bad of a mood I was in, my room still had that childish charm that I could always come back to. In a way, it was almost like a breath of fresh air to feel like no matter what, I had a place I could just come back and be a child in.

Lately I’ve been doing so good on my own. Without even thinking about it, I find myself almost pulling away from my life here. Today, when I was cleaning, I managed to dump all of Ryan’s things in a box. I was surprised to find that there wasn’t as much of it as I thought there would be. I guess maybe I just figured that since I had the real thing, I didn’t need reminders of him around me all the time. Yet, my room still feels strangely empty without what small reminders I did have. One night, when my dad and mom were helping me paint my room, Ryan was sitting on my bed messing with magnetic words. He started to make sentences, but once I peeked, he hid the wipe-off board and told me I had to wait until it was finished. Eagerly I waited, until he finally flashed the board in my view.

” I love-

when we talk at night

the way you smell

little dumb fights

knowing your always here for me

– you Aly”

Now, it breaks my heart to read it. So, I thew it in the box with everything else that breaks my heart to look at. I watched as the plastic hit the side of the box, and the tiny magnetic words popped off. I wanted nothing that had to do with him left anywhere in my room, so instead of letting the letters just stay where they lay on the floor, I picked up the few that had landed outside the box. I felt like I might throw up when I saw the two words that were nestled in my palm: love, always.

At the time, I gave everything I had to him. At some point, it became not enough anymore. Now, I feel like he stole it. He stole my youth. As he formed those magnetic words on that board sitting on my bed, my ballerina walls became red. I was no longer that little 6 year old girl slipping on her ballet flats and lacing fingers with my mom. Instead, I was a 17 year old girl smiling back at the face of the person who I thought I loved & who I thought felt the same. Now, an entire summer later, I’m a 18 year old adult, resenting what should be the most exciting time of my life. I can’t say that I don’t love him anymore, because when someone takes a piece of you, they’ll always have it. Lately, its been surprisingly easy to breathe without him here. But when I see the glossy eyes of that stupid dog he gave me peeking out over the cardboard of that box next to my door, I can’t catch my breath. When I’m laying in bed at night, trying to find anything to entertain myself with because its hard to fall asleep, I can’t catch my breath. Sometimes the hardest thing and the right thing are the same. Sometimes, when someone leaves us behind, we have to look at it for what it really is: us leaving them behind. He held me back. And the more time I spend upset, the more he’s still doing it. At times, I just wanted him to appreciate me. I wanted him to just smile to himself when I was singing to the radio in the car, or pick up a paper I had written for school, and appreciate every word on it. Just once, I wanted him to lean into me, squeeze my hand, and say I was destined to be great. But now, thanks to none of that ever happening, I realize that even if no one tells us, we have to know we are meant for something great. Without his baggage, I’m not held down anymore. Without all of the reminders of what our relationship was drowning my room, it feels lighter. Without the words “I don’t want to be with you. Things just change, okay?” resting heavy on my heart, maybe I can breathe a little easier too.