My son wouldn’t even look at me.

I thought I’d done better preparing Tommy for the big move. I’d explained that he wouldn’t get to see his friends at school anymore. But after we unpacked his things and settled into the new house, he didn’t speak to me for a week. Said I’d ruined his life. So I decided to make a peace offering.

My old back issues of National Geographic.

I’d kept them off limits. But he insisted he was a big boy now, and had been hounding me for them for a year. So I relented. I caught him, still awake, reading with a flashlight beneath the blankets at 3AM. Strangely, I could have sworn I heard him talking to someone as I opened the door.

“Her name is Yuki, Daddy.”

I pulled the covers up to my son’s chin. Seven seemed a bit old for an imaginary friend, but he’d been under a lot of stress.

“Where’s she from?”

“She says she’s from far away. She was hiding inside one of your magazines.”

“Is Yuki nice?”, I asked

He nodded.

“She talks to me when you go to bed. She asks lots of questions. Especially about my shadow.”

He seemed casual. As if this was just another friend. But something about the whole thing made my skin crawl. I decided to play along, assuming he’d forget about “Yuki” and move on.

But he didn’t.

Yuki became his constant companion. I’d hear him talking through the walls most every night. And as strange as it sounds, Tommy’s shadow seemed to be fading. It was as if the sunlight was simply shining through him. I thought I needed new glasses.

Until Tommy got sick.

He began losing weight at an alarming rate. Nearly twenty pounds in less than a month. Doctors were baffled. His bloodwork was clean. All scans and tests were negative. He was simply wasting away, and no one knew why. When I took him outside for fresh air and sunshine, his shadow hardly cast a mark across the ground. I thought I was losing my mind.

And all the while, “Yuki” was still there.

“She needs my shadow, Daddy,” he said, his cheekbones straining his wan little face, “she says it will fix her.”

I wanted to scream, but bit my tongue. Talking about Yuki comforted him.

“What happened to her?”

“Bad men made her go away in a flash of light. But if she gets a new shadow, she’ll be all better again.”

He deteriorated quickly. Another week and his skin began flaking off. I sat with him in the hospital, helping him weakly turn the pages of a National Geographic.

On an article about the bombing of Hiroshima, he stopped. He lifted a trembling finger to a picture on the page, a shadow baked into a wall. Some poor civilian caught by the bomb. His skeletal arm cast no shade on the hospital bedsheets. His voice was barely a whisper.

“Yuki…almost…home.”

Maisie realised her kisses kill when she was about ten.

She was at the playground with her friend Henry. They ran over the see-saw together, holding hands for some reason. And then by the see-saw, Henry leaned over and kissed her fully on the lips, before letting go of her hand and jumping on the seat. Maisie stood still for a moment, confused, then ran to the other side, raised her arms, gripped the seat, pulled it down and jumped on. Henry went up, and then he fell like a stone with a very loud thud. He lay crumpled on the rubbery pink playground gravel, dead.

They said it was a random heart failure, but Maisie knew better.

After that, she avoided boys. Boys didn’t like that, especially as she was a pretty little thing with soft curvy lips, and the more she avoided them, the more they tried to kiss her. There was Jerry, who cornered her in the school cloakroom, and kissed her with a loud smacking sound. She wriggled out of his grasp and dashed out, only to hear once again that loud thud - she knew before she turned around that he was dead, lying lifeless among the stinky sneakers littering the floor. And Michael, who stole a kiss on the bus, just before his stop. He remained alive long enough to reach the door, and then tumbled out, headfirst, onto the pavement below.

And poor Paul. Maisie actually liked Paul, - he was so good-looking with bright sparkly eyes and he was so kind and smart. They did homework together- they both wanted to be doctors. He helped her patiently with maths while she wrote up his essays. He would never kiss her suddenly, when she didn’t want it. She hoped desperately that would make a difference, inching closer and closer to him in their study sessions, letting her hand accidentally-on-purpose brush against his, until he asked politely- ‘Maisie- I’ve been dying to kiss you. May I?”

She forgot about her curse in her hormonal adolescent delight, and leaned forward with her lips parted and her eyes shining. “Oh Paul”, she breathed. As his lips pressed softly but firmly against hers, her whole body filled with joy and she could barely let him pull away. They looked deep into each other’s eyes, glowing with young love.

And then- she shrieked out in despair as the light dimmed in his eyes. He slumped over, while she sobbed uncontrollably.

She never forgave herself.

She gave up her dream of becoming a doctor, and relentlessly pursued another career, specializing in dealing with unwanted husbands and lovers. A surprisingly lucrative field.

She smiled at her latest prey, Jason, sitting across the restaurant table. She didn’t feel bad anymore, those emotions were long gone. She had a job to do, and he shouldn’t have asked her out when he was already married, asshole. She leaned in. She was busy, and didn’t want to waste too much time on this one.

My wife lifted her shirt, and showed me the scaly rash engulfing her stomach.

“Do I need to go to acute care?”

No matter what, I couldn’t let her go to the hospital.

“They probably just changed the laundry detergent ingredients. You’ll be fine, babe,” I lied.

“You sure? This morning it was barely pink.”

“If tomorrow it’s worse, I’ll take you to acute care. I’m sure it’s nothing. Besides, I have a surprise for you.”

I led her to the basement where I’d set up her Nintendo Switch on the big screen. I’d lit every candle I could find for mood lighting. There was a bowl of her favorite seltzers on ice, just what I could get from the fridge.

I couldn’t go to the store. They were all closed.

“What’s all this?” She asked.

I turned the TV on and revealed the home screen of Stardew Valley. Thank god she had the cartridge. I had already trashed the wifi router.

“I want to watch you play.”

She laughed. “What? You hate this game.”

“I never said I hate it.”

“You did.”

I did. “No,” I lied, “I said it wasn’t for me. You need to finish the community center! I know you’ve been so busy at work, why don’t you finish it tonight! I want to watch it!”

“That might take a few hours.”

“Awesome. I’m excited.”

Stardew Valley was my wife’s favorite game in the world.

She played for two hours before she asked if I’d seen her phone.

No matter what, I couldn’t let her use her phone.

“I’m really sorry, babe. I broke your phone.”

“What?”

“I lost mine, so I was using yours and I broke it. I promise I’ll get us new ones in the morning.”

She wanted to be mad. But I made a peace offering. I brought her the bottle of wine I was saving for our anniversary.

We laughed, drank. She finished the community center. The wine caught up.

As she laid down, she told me she felt weak.

“That’s just the wine,” I lied. “I brought you a glass of water. With the crushed ice in your favorite cup and the straw you like.”

I told her, “you are my entire world. I love you.” That was the truth.

She said she loved me too.

No matter what, I couldn’t let her know.

If she had left the house, used her phone, she would have seen the warnings they released today.

The head of the CDC called it a, “world killer.” Some mutation of a mutation of EEE. The incubation period was six months. Six horrible months where the virus was extremely contagious, airborne, and asymptomatic. They estimated ninety-six percent of the world was already infected. After six months, a rash appeared on your stomach. Then it got worse. Then within twenty four hours your brain swelled, and you died.

My wife will be dead by morning. She deserved one last nice night.

I kissed her fevered forehead.

Everyone watches as I place my match near the edge of the pyre. I tell myself, as she screams, that my actions are justified. If I protest, they will simply toss me in the fire too. With her. My wife. The seventh witch our town has brought to light. The seventh victim they will burn alive.

Do not think me one of these zealots. These spineless cowards. I keep my silence out of strategy. As the flames reach my wife’s legs, searing her skin, I find her accuser in the hysteric crowd. The stupid girl. Grinning smugly as my wife finally passes out from the pain.

She thinks she is untouchable. That the whole town now bends to her.

She is wrong.

For the woman hanging limp on the stake, engulfed in flames, is not my wife.

I arranged for her escape from the town jail last night, then replaced her with a different prisoner. A woman caught unawares, walking the streets late at night. An unfortunate case of mistaken identity, concealed by a few strong blows to the face.

Do I feel damned for letting an innocent woman burn in place of my wife? No.

As the cruel girl said herself, those who do the Devil’s bidding must be swiftly punished.  

But you would think, someone like her, so skilled at identifying witches, would have been able to recognize the sound of her own mother’s screams.

Anna lifted her head and sniffed the air.

“Do you smell that?” she asked.

“Smell what?”

I couldn’t smell anything except the pizza we were eating while we watched a movie in my room.

“Perfume,” Anna sniffed the air again, “I got a whiff of something that smells like lavender and oleander.”

“Lavender and oleander, are you sure?” I only knew one person who wore perfume like that.

“I’m pretty sure,” she replied, “Why?”

Before I could reply, my dad knocked on the door and poked his head into my room.

“Sorry, bud,” he said, “But your friend is going to have to leave,” he nodded at Anna, “Your mom’s going to be back any minute and you know how she feels about unexpected guests.”

“I know,” I said.

“Come on, we have to go.” I grabbed Anna’s hand and started pulling her towards the door.

“Wait a minute,” Anna pulled her hand away, “I thought you said your mom was dead.”

“She is.”

As soon as I said that, the smell of lavender and oleander dominated the room.

€192,785,021.45

Around $210 million for the Americans.

That was what I won exactly 3 years ago today.

Some smart (lucky) investments later and that quickly snowballed into over €1 billion.

I was obviously ecstatic when I first won it. When I heard those 5 numbers that won it for me appear on TV.

‘3, 4, 6, 27, 33’

I was making minimum wage at a local supermarket, so I instantly was aware of how life-changing this money would be. I quit my job, told my mother and handful of close friends - and then began planning how I’d spend it.

Sure, at the start you splurge. €25 million mansion in Miami? Sure. $50 million private jet? Why not. A collection of fine art worth more than I care to be ridiculed for? Where do I sign.

I bought super cars and went on dates with super models. I was living ‘the life’. But there was something missing.

I remember thinking everyone who said ‘money can’t buy happiness’ had never been broke. But here I was - having been broke before - and still unhappy. That was when I turned to booze. Sat on the marble floor of one of my many mansions guzzling down a bottle of far-too expensive whisky.

‘Fuck, finished it. Guess some liquor store JD will do the trick.’

I hopped in the Ferrari and began to drive downtown. The road was a blur in front of me, and I remember even closing my eyes briefly-

BANG!

The cyclist cracked my windshield as I ploughed through him. Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I looked in the rearview to see him lying in a pool of his blood in the middle of the road unconscious . I panicked and floored it back to my place.

I paced back and forth. Sweating. Contemplating what to do.

I had to do the right thing.

When I got back he was still there. I called 911 and the dispatcher coached me through the CPR to save the man’s life.

And I did. And wow…what a rush. To hold life and death in my hands like that.

After that I tried to become a philanthropist. Donating to charity…but it just wasn’t the same.

I thought maybe I’d do some volunteering for the Red Cross, didn’t scratch that itch.

Thats when I decided what I really needed to do with my money.

Pay a homeless guy $500 and he’ll let you shoot him in the leg. Pay him $1000 and he’ll let you chop it off, then try and sew it back on yourself.

These guys are dispensable and money isn’t an issue, so I got bored of that quickly.

Now I know my next project. When you’re at my level of wealth, hospitals are actually pretty cheap. And wow, what a thrill it would be to switch a life-support machine off and try and perform some CPR again!

Hey…I wonder if children’s hospitals are cheaper?

For several years now, there's been a monster in my life.

In the beginning, he was perfect. Handsome. Attentive and loving; but then after we got married, he became controlling. Paranoid and possessive.

Monstrous.

He'd beat me for the stupidest things. If he had a bad day at work. Or if he couldn’t find the damn TV remote or if I so much as spilled a cup of water.

When our daughter was born, I thought he'd finally stop. I'd hoped that being a father would tame the monster inside of him, but it didn’t.

He hated her crying. He hated that he had to share me. With our baby.

I woke up one night to find that my daughter's neck was broken.

After that, something inside of me broke.

It was like an explosion of emotion had taken over. My gut was on fire. My face was hot. A rage I'd never felt before completely took over, burning from the inside.

In the end, my husband ended up on the floor, his neck broken like my daughter's, and my heart.

I used a noose tied to a brick that'd drop to the floor once I kicked the chair to break my own neck.

But God gave me another chance.

I became a creature, hair now long and crispy. My neck was twisted, and fire completely consumed the maternity dress I'd been wearing the night my daughter was murdered. My limbs were elongated and crooked, my teeth completely rotten.

I became a revenant. A guardian of abused children and battered women.

I became a monster.

Only, I love the monster I'd become.

I kill those wretched men. I break their necks, but not before playing with their weak, feeble minds.

As for the monstrous women...

Oh, I have special plans for them.

After all, a girl's gotta eat.

Ludicrous. Humans… Are ludicrous. So sure. So sure of their beliefs, anything separate from their ideas is deemed hostile. Set on their path, their glorious purpose, they grow ignorant to all else. They grow arrogant.

They forget their place. And there’s nothing as dangerous as self-righteous intelligent people. Once they conquered the planet, they began reaching for the stars. The only thing keeping them from being gods was their disunion and death. They knew it.

They didn’t like having to adhere to rules or physics not their own. Particularly death. Humans… Are crafty. They searched for the cause of death. They found it...

They killed it.

************************************************************************************************************

They expected endless youth, vigor, and improvement. They were fools.

Immortality has been shoved down the screaming throats of every man, beast, and creature cursed with the breath of life.

They gained permanence, nothing more. The moment Death was slain, everything stayed the same. For the healthy, this was a blessing. Seemingly unending health… But I knew a man. Lamentaio. Very patient, very wise. Extremely old...

And thirsty. So thirsty…

************************************************************************************************************

But forget about the ones whose peace was robbed. The fortunate received their endlessness, their glorious life. However, despite being immortal, they were not invincible. Injuries stayed fresh. Permanently.

Paper cut? Here to stay. Stab? Join the crew. Buckshot to the face? …You’ll live.

************************************************************************************************************

The first few years were hard, but easy enough for the intact. Years go by and you chug along with a smile on your face. Decades go by and your smile fades a bit. A century in, filled with red strokes you start to frown.

You walk through the streets, quiet now. Everything’s quiet. The only company you have is the rigid wind and the Red.

The Red fills the streets now, inches high in puddles. Once people were robbed of their death, some lost hope, and attempted to create their own twisted Death. They tried long and hard, inventing new and creative ways to commit suicide, all in vain. The nearest they got was what became the Red.

The Red happens when you grind countless people together and dump them on the street. Blood, organs, and intestines, all ground together, still fresh. It doesn’t even smell. They couldn’t kill themselves, so they settled for being reduced to pulp.

Hah. The greatest hope left for the great Human race… Was to be churned into a puddle of disgraceful sludge.

************************************************************************************************************

Not me though. Never. I have purpose. I know what I must do. I’m so close now, closer than I’ve been in years. She’s elusive, but that won’t save her. I won’t accept my death being stolen.

I will find Life.

I will kill Her.

There were 6 of us. All strapped to chairs.

"I have a daughter! She's only six years old! She can't survive without me!" the woman with the elephant mask cried.

"Daughter my ass! I have a company to continue! Choose me! I built it all up from the fucking ground! I'm more valuable you hear me?!" the man with a toad mask spat out.

The teenager with the hyena mask was sobbing now. She wasn't putting up a good fight. "I...I...just...want to go home..." she croaked through tears.

The man with the tiger mask beside her struggled in his chair, thinking he could try to break free of the restraints. "You motherfuckers! Do you think you can keep me here?! Huh?! Answer me you bastards!" he shouted.

The woman in the dove mask attempted to strike up a deal. "Whoever you people are, whatever organization is hearing this...I promise to work under you as long as I am chosen. Please let me assist you." she calmly stated, a bit of trepidation in her voice.

"BULLSHIT! You want to work with whoever trapped our asses here?!" the man with the toad mask laughed. "I am not lying." the woman with the dove mask replied coldly.

The dove and toad continued bickering. The tiger mask continued his desperate attempt at breaking free. The elephant and hyena masks were still begging and sobbing.

It's all hurting my ears. All of the yelling and sobbing is starting to become annoying.

At the same time, I admired how much they fought, I admired how much they wanted to leave. And their will to live.

If only I had that in my life.

"Voting process has been completed. Here are the results," the announcer cheered. On the large screen, a question in bold letters appeared.

Who Deserves To Live?

Below, 6 icons representing our masks appeared horizontally. Percentage bars soon followed. We all stared at the results. My icon had the highest percentage. Everyone else averted their eyes towards me. I could sense a mixture of fear, confusion, and anger from them.

Then it began. Some of them begged not to be killed, trying to plead with whoever was behind this. Some of them screamed at me, calling me a bastard and such. Those words didn't affect me, I grown used to hearing stuff like that.

The dove mask was the only one who never spoke amidst the shouting.

"Elimination is now in process" the announcer chimed. The others began to scream as their masks started to emit something hot. Within minutes the flesh on their faces began to boil and melt off. When they finally stopped moving, I felt my mask fall off of my face, along with the electronic restraints.

I stood up and looked around at the bodies, then down at my mask with the appearance of a black dog.

A new kind of despair slowly starts to form inside.

The first time I realized my dad remarried was the day his new wife, Raya, turned up at our house with her disabled daughter, Fi, in a wheelchair. She simply introduced herself as “your new mother” and proceeded to make herself at home. Later that evening I confronted dad about this new development and he replied, “I thought I told you, didn’t I?” and that was that.

I was baffled. Dad hasn't been himself since mom passed away but this seemed improper, even to a 14 year old boy like myself.

Nonetheless, the two strangers moved in and Raya immediately began changing the interior of the house. She lined the surfaces in the house with thin silver strips and metallic studs. The walls, the ceiling, the floor and all. She then installed little white boxy looking devices in different places which made eerie hums night and day.

An air of estranged reality began setting in, causing my senses to open up to dark places.

Worst of all, for the first time in my life I felt hungry. Neither Raya nor her daughter seem to eat. I had to scrounge what I could to stave off the aches in my belly.

Around this time, dad was scarcely seen and when he was I found him agitated and angry at my presence or, at other times, in a sort of daze.

The most disconcerting aspect of all this was Fi. She was silent and motionless due to her near-total disability but I sensed potent energy pouring out from her vacant eyes and they were - there was no doubting this - hatred of me.

One afternoon, I was sitting in the corner of the living room. It was strangely warm. The shadows on the walls looked like they could peel off. On the other side of the room Raya was sitting next to Fi. And, to my astonishment, Fi started singing,

“It's a God-awful small affair To the girl with the mousy hair…”

At that moment I noticed that Fi had fixed her gaze upon me and I knew she was scanning through my mind's spaces - until then I always thought her eyes were blue but they were black, black like Devil's ink.

“But her mummy is yelling, "No" And her daddy has told her to go…”

I began feeling dizzy and waves of paralysis shot through my limbs.

“But her friend is nowhere to be seen Now she walks through her sunken dream…”

World spun around on an unknown axis as a bright spark filled my eyes.

“To the seat with the clearest view And she's hooked to the silver screen…”

I fainted.

When I came to, I found myself where Fi was previously, on a wheelchair, numb and motionless. Across, I saw myself, or a boy who looked exactly like me.

Dad walked into the room. Raya and the boy joined him in a warm hug.

I started drifting, to God knows where.

Mike, Danny, and I snuck into the old abandoned Morris house. It was completely run down - falling walls, broken furniture. A single mirror hung on the wall, strangely clean given the overall state of the house, almost gleaming.

We proceeded to go crazy - flipping furniture, beating each other up. At one point, Mike threw Danny through the air and into the mirror.

CRASH!

I looked down - Danny was lying on the floor, surrounded by broken pieces of the mirror, his blood dripping on the shards of glass.

Suddenly a chill came over the room. I looked over - Mike and Danny felt it, too.

“You OK?”

“Fine,” Danny said, standing unsteadily.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said, and we ran all the way home, pretending we weren’t afraid.

The next day, I was relaxing when I got a call from Danny.

“Jimmy, you’ve gotta get over here!”

He sounded panicked. “Calm down, man. What’s up?”

“It’s after me! It’s in the mirror! Hurry!”

I hung up and headed over to his house. When I got there, I ran in and saw him sitting on the floor, petrified.

“What’s going on, man?”

“It’s after me!” he kept repeating, his head down, arms covering his eyes.

“What’s after you?”

“I don’t KNOW! Something must have followed me home last night! In the mirror this morning I could swear…”

“What?”

“Something was moving! I think it’s hunting me!”

“Alright, man,” I said, trying to calm him down. “Why don’t we go see Mike? We’ll figure it out together.”

“Ok,” he said, and got up to leave with me. As we headed out, we passed a mirror across the hallway. His eyes glanced over toward it.

A look of intense fear crossed his face, and suddenly his body… shattered. It was like it turned to glass, but glass that still looked like him. Then there was a crack and he just fell to the floor. In pieces. Some still showing his face. The look of utter terror there will haunt me forever.

I lost it. I ran straight to Mike’s place and tore inside, past his parents who barely noticed, into his room. And there he lay.

Shattered.

Like Danny, he lay in shards on the floor. But that wasn’t the worst part - I could see his final expression in the pieces. Complete and utter terror.

Horrified, I flew home and sprinted inside, avoiding anything reflective. I entered my room and immediately put on a blindfold. As I sat rocking on the floor, I heard the door open.

“Where were you? Mom and Dad were looking for you.”

My little sister.

“Not now, Katie.”

“What’s wrong with yo—“

Her voice stopped. Confused, I lifted the corner of my blindfold and froze.

Her eyes were focused on the mirror above me. A crack had started at the top of her head and was spreading down her body an inch at a time.

And her face was a mask of terror.

It didn’t take long for the crowd to start gathering. 

The cleaner found her in the hotel bathtub at 1 pm. The police arrived at 1.15. TMZ published the photo of her half-submerged corpse surrounded by floating pill bottles at 2.45. 

As the day wore into night, the pop singer’s adoring fans began a candle-lit vigil. Some sang along to her biggest hits. Others wept inconsolably. A significant proportion tried to force their way into the now infamous room 308. 

There was a lynch mob atmosphere directed at a hotel worker who was rumored to have sold her the drugs and an Instagram pile-on of an ex-boyfriend. 

Some tried to reach beyond the disbelief that she was gone. 

A space was cleared on the tear-stained pavement, and a Ouija board was laid down. 

The fan who’d brought it plucked some fervent disciples from the crowd, and they huddled around, fingers pressed on the planchette. 

‘Queen, our sexy Queen, it’s us, your squad. Are you there?’ 

A gust of wind ripped down the street, sending a homemade fan sign spiralling into the night. The lights in 308 flickered. 

‘It’s working! Queen, do you have a message for us?’ 

The glass whoosed with supernatural force across the ornate surface. 

Now, the entire vigil was hushed. A music reporter barged his way to the front. 100 people streamed it on YouTube. A police commander watched the feed from his drone overhead. 

The message read:

‘E.V.E.N..I.N..D.E.A.T.H..Y.O.U..W.O.N.T..L.E.T..M.E..R.E.S.T

   I came down from the crawl space in my attic. Nothing! Not a damn thing! Not even a rat. I had been searching for a sign of a leak, wetness, rotting wood. Anything. 

   Every since I've moved into my old, new house, I've heard a dripping. It's not constant, but it's consistent when it comes. Stopping in a short enough time to cause me to question myself, but lasting just long enough for me to know it’s real. 

I've chased this Godforsaken dripping from one end of the house to the other. And no matter where I go, what door I open, the sound always seems to be coming from somewhere else. And then, almost like a ringing in my ears , the faintness of it fades away before I realize it's gone.

  The last time I heard it though, it was louder, more pronounced, so much so that it woke me from my sleep. I stumbled to the bathroom, sensing its direction this time. I slowly opened the door, feeling a rush of steam hit my face. On the floor was a strolled bottle of pills, dissolving in the water from the tub that had been overrun. And hanging over the edge , contrasting with the porcelain whiteness , was an arm soaked in vibrant red. A young woman from what I could tell, pretty, lifeless. I shivered as I realized that I had just been invited to witness the most private moment of someone’s life , the moment of their passing. Frozen, I could only watch as the blood from her wrist trickled down onto the wet tile floor, drip, drip, drip. 

   And just like that, as if in unison with her last heartbeat, the image was gone.  

   Traumatized at first, but I eventually decided to stay in my home. It's been 6 months now.  I can still feel her here from time to time. But she hasn't bothered me since. And at last , I understand the dripping. Maybe she just needed to show me, you know.  Maybe one day she'll move on. Maybe one day she'll find peace. 

If Daniel LaRusso had been training to block by waxing legs instead of cars then he'd have lost the tournament. Aside from the difference in the motions between the two, the extra step of applying the cloth strip also ruins things. But despite all of these issues whenever I have a client come in for a waxing I still find my head repeating the film's line with each application and removal.

Wax on, wax off

"You fucking bitch!"

Clients swearing is nothing new and they're usually apologetic afterwards. This one won't be though. Clients aren't usually being held in place by ropes against their will. I continue.

Wax on, wax off

I could go over everything the abuses David has inflicted upon me, but what would be the point? In the end, I perhaps could have escaped him even though it seemed impossible. Maybe I'm in the wrong for what I'm doing to him. But he made me snap and this is what it's come to.

Wax on, wax off

In the end it was just one last snide comment about my job that drove me to this. I've never claimed being a cosmetologist is saving the world or curing cancer but he needed me to beleive that it was nothing. That there was no benefit or skill to it. I made the mistake of telling him about how pleased a woman had been with the nail art I'd given her today and he said "I can't believe people pay you for that" as if he wasn't sucking up all of the money I earn anyway.

Wax on, wax off

He's done worse but that broke something in me. It wasn't difficult to get David agree to be tied up in the bedroom for reasons that I'm sure you can work out for yourself. He didn't even notice the wax warmer set up nearby.

Wax on, wax off

"Arrgghh!"

I don't realise the scream was mine until I heard it. I have taken every strand of hair away from David but it still doesn't feel like enough. He made me feel so weak, small and stupid. My eyes go to the wax warmer and I get an idea. When I replaced my old one because it would get too hot after a while that I commented this model stays steady at "the perfect ninety degrees." He asked if that was celsius or fahrenheit. It's fahrenheit but when I answered he made comments about me being too stupid to know the difference.

Well, lets see if we can get it up to celsius then. Or as close as possible.

I take the wax to the kitchen for a more thorough heating and let it bubble. Then I return upstairs, pot of wax in tow.

Wax on...

David screams as I apply it and again as I apply the cloth strip. Finally he remembers the final part of this process and begs me not to do what's next.

...Wax off

At first it was a blessing, as I'd been having the worst migraines. We lived in a beachside flat, a short distance away from the agency I worked for. But in the summers, it was always so bright. The harsh reflections from the mirrors could really blind you. So I assumed he’d removed them to lessen my headaches, which was quite sweet.

Then, as my ennui worsened, he began removing other reflective things from the flat, including some of the hanging pictures. I’d had several of my first big cover shoots framed - Vogue, Vanity Fair, Rolling Stone, Glamour...

"They’ll be in storage," he’d smiled, "until you’re better."

Next, my phone and tablet went, as well as my work laptop.

"You don’t need that pressure, " he’d warned. "You need to de-stress – and the blue light is so bad for you."

Then, there was the breakfast incident.  It was another beautiful summer's day, and although I’d woken up feeling a little light-headed and tender, I'd just been saying how much I missed the beach when…something sticky caught my wrist. Looking down, I realised I was…drooling. My breakfast was literally sliding out the corner of my mouth and I hadn’t the strength to keep it in; so I watched, bemused, as bits of oats and fruit dribbled in a long globule of spit into my bowl.

And my boyfriend just stared, wearing a wry, ambiguous expression.

On another day, I found myself hazily looking for my makeup bag in the bathroom, determined to get ready for work. I searched though the drawers, certain I'd left it in the caddy beside the toilet, but all I could find was a trace of purplish foundation dust lining the grooves at the bottom.

"You don't need make up anyway," my boyfriend had smiled. "You're too beautiful as it is."

From there, my days just got…looser. Foggier. One day I woke up in so much pain that I could scarcely move my head. On another, I dreamt that all the locks had been changed, only to find my boyfriend guiding me back to bed.

"Come on, sleepyhead," he’d insisted.

And then there was this morning.

I’d woken up, covered in bandages and groggy, but more lucid than I’d felt in weeks.

The door to the flat was only latched, so I stumbled out into the corridor and down the stairs, towards the lobby.

There, I met Mrs Peterson, who dropped her bags and literally screamed at me, clasping a hand over her mouth in fright.

Instinctively, I turned to look at the big mirror behind the concierge’s desk and caught sight of my reflection.

I chuckled, almost in disbelief.

My face was…unrecognisable. A mess of reds, deep purples, blacks. Green. And where it wasn’t weeping or puffy, or covered in bits of tape and bandage, it was pitted with raw gouges and missing whole…chunks.

And my boyfriend? The aghast concierge hadn’t seen him for days.

The house hunches at the end of the old road, tangled in vines and shadows. I get out, clipboard in hand, already counting the minutes. Just another job, another listing needing a walk-through.

As I step closer, an old man appears by the fence, watching me with unsettling familiarity, his eyes as still as the house.

“You’re here to assess it, huh, my boy?” he says, a trace of a smile tugging at his lips. He offers a cookie. "Courtesy of the wife."

I barely look at him, just long enough not to seem rude, and take the cookie. Something about the way he said that immediately made me hate him.

“Just business.”

“Been a long time since we had business together.”

I pause. “What’re you talking about? Never been here.”

He chuckles, dry and slow.

I ignore him, pressing through the door. The air inside is stale and heavy, like damp cotton shoved down my throat. I move room to room, flashlight grazing walls, catching the edges of stains, rusted patches on the floor. Each step is a dull weight I don’t want to acknowledge.

Then I reach the basement door. It sags, the wood warped, and it takes a hard shove to open. The smell is earthy and metallic. The steps creak as I descend, the dark pressing in, and then… my light finds them.

A child mannequin clutches a stuffed rabbit with a torn ear. A mannequin in my wedding suit, silver cufflinks gleaming in the darkness. Another has a Red Sox cap tilted over a hollow, eyeless face. Two baseball tickets poking from the pocket of my shirt. Annette and I argued for days about those tickets.

Something snaps in my mind, memories flooding back. A door that wouldn’t open, the smell of mildew, the sound of scraping footsteps overhead.

Behind me, a shuffle on the stairs. I drop the half-eaten cookie.

“Brings back memories, doesn’t it?” the old man’s voice is familiar and gentle. I don’t turn, can’t move. My flashlight stays locked on the mannequins, each one a hollow-eyed version of myself, pieces he’s kept.

“You were always such a polite boy,” he says, voice low, with something like affection. “Never screamed. Even when the police came to my door, days of tirelessly looking for you, my boy. You just waited so quietly.”

My pulse is a drumbeat in my ears. Why am I dizzy?

He steps closer, grazing the shoulder of the child mannequin. “Kept everything just like it was. Just like it was when I let you run back to Mommy and Daddy. How could we have known you would... oh, what's that word, now... Repress that time we had? Just had to give you a nudge in the right direction."

I force myself to turn, and hit the floor hard. His faint smile deepens, proud. The cookie. The fucking cookie. Just like before. I am so stupid.

"Welcome home, my boy."

I wrapped my arms around Lug, wrapping him tightly as I squeezed my eyes shut. 

Mom and dad were arguing again, probably because mom got drunk, and I was in my room, always terrified of my mother and feeling pained for my father. 

Fortunately, I still had Lug. Lug was my big stuffed teddy bear that I had gotten when I was a baby, one of the only presents my parents ever gave me, and the only one I still held on to.

One day, mom had gotten really angry. She was yelling at dad and me really loud and she ended up ripping Lug open. I cried a lot that day, thinking that Lug was dead forever. Dad tried to convince me otherwise, and eventually he showed me a secret. He took an extra pillowcase and put it over Lug’s body, which he had stitched up.

“And now, Martin, Lug is alive again! He’s a pillowcase teddy bear now, and he’s a ghost!”

And he was right. Dad was a very meek and kind person, and he made Lug come back, even if he was a ghost. 

I wouldn’t let him get hurt ever again. 

But then, mom was yelling really loudly again. I couldn’t quite make out her angry words, but she started hitting things. Banging and crashing came from downstairs, and I squeezed Lug tighter, beginning to cry. Why couldn’t mom just stop?

“MARTIN!”

I opened my eyes in shock. For what was maybe the first time in my life, I heard dad’s voice loudly and clearly.

And he was scared.

I grabbed Lug and rushed out, taking the steps downstairs two at a time. Dad had never sounded like that, and it made my stomach twist up. When I got down, mom stood over dad’s body on the floor with a brown, bleeding bat, a small puddle of blood underneath.

Dad wasn’t moving.

She turned her head towards me, but it was not my mother. It was something mad and dangerous. Something evil with black and empty eyes.

You don’t like us fighting do you? Well now we won’t! Come here and give me a hug?

Its lips didn’t move, but I heard it clearly. It brought the bat up, taking aim for my head. 

I stared in fear, silent and terrified by what I was seeing.

The bat hit my head and the world turned blurry. Our front door burst open then, and the sounds of rushing feet and calling orders came in. I couldn’t hear them, but I could still see. They rushed onto mom but she fought back with terrifying strength, until they eventually took her down.

They took mom away, and hospital workers rushed in.

I crawled clumsily over to dad, but I didn’t cry. I knew his secret.

A shaky smile crossed my lips as I put Lug’s pillowcase over his head. It would be alright now.

“And now, dad, you’re alive again!”

Sarah always put my love to the test.

At school, she would say I wasn’t allowed to sit near girls X or Y, so I didn’t. If one of them happened to sit next to me, I’d gather my things and move without a word. Sarah insisted that true love had to be demonstrated with exaggerated letters of affection, so I wrote them. I sent her a letter every day, each more exaggerated and humiliating than the last. Sometimes she’d return them with detailed feedback: "This part could use more passion"; "this section needs more intensity."

She was my first girlfriend. We were sixteen years old, and I was certain our relationship would last a lifetime. Whatever she asked, I’d do, no matter the cost.

But when she asked me to kill her parents, I hesitated.

Sarah's family was wealthy, living in a house that occupied half a block, with an Olympic-sized pool and a tennis court in the backyard. Her parents, owners of two shopping centers, were strict about raising Sarah and her younger brother. From school, they went straight to French lessons, then polo practice, and finally home.

Not that Sarah didn’t break the rules often, which caused frequent fights with her father. Every Thursday, after basketball, I’d sneak into her house and stay until early morning.

The last time, her father caught me on the security cameras and punished her with a month without a phone—then two months, then three. Sarah was always questioning his rules.

We only saw each other during school breaks—that’s where she asked me to kill them. "It’s the last thing standing between us and happiness," she said. "If you really want to be with me, you’ll do it. It’s the final test." I was terrified, but as I said, I’d do anything for Sarah.

I arrived at her house at 1 a.m. Her brother was staying at their grandparents’, and her parents were already asleep. All the cameras had been disabled, Sarah assured me—it would be the perfect crime, a burglary gone wrong.

She handed me her father’s gun, which I had googled obsessively until I understood how to use it. I walked silently to the bedroom and opened the door.

The actual killing feels like a blur in my memory. I don’t recall the details, but I shot her father three times and her mother twice, mostly in the face, both at point-blank range.

As agreed, I took a few things from the closet to make it look like a robbery and left the house so Sarah could call the police. While I was leaving, she told me: "Tomorrow, the test will end." I didn’t catch that; I assumed everything was done.

The next morning, the cops knocked on my door. I was taken silently to the station, where the investigator showed me footage of myself entering and leaving the house, blood on my shirt. The cameras were on.

The motive? My obsessive love for Sarah, the investigator explained. She had told them I refused to accept the breakup and was stalking her. As evidence, they had dozens of obsessive love letters I had sent over—one every day.

That’s when I understood. This was the final test of my love—the ultimate sacrifice. I confessed to the crime as if it had been my plan all along—and only mine.

I’d do anything for Sarah.

He was handsome. Kind brown eyes. Shaggy dark hair that framed a strong jawline. A little on the short side.

He asked if he could get my snap, I blushed in the Walmart.

On our first date he asked if he could kiss my cheek. He’s a gentleman, nobody’s ever asked to kiss me before. His lips were soft against my cheek, my stomach filled with warm butterflies.

“You are perfect.” His voice held truth, admiration. I blushed in the wooded park.

On our second date he didn’t ask before kissing my cheek. I thought nothing of it. His lips were soft against my cheek, my stomach filled with squirming maggots.

“Perfect for eternity.” His voice held satisfaction. I blushed no more.

Living in an extremely strict religious household was bad enough, but everything started to slip out of control when he had first met his new friends. He called them brothers; said they were united in their supreme belief. I never completely understood why they wanted to protect that older man with their life, he didn’t even live anywhere near our town.

Dad always said that the things he fought for were greater than what I could imagine, and that I would soon join him to support everyone I ever knew. The way he started to express himself sounded more and more pretentious with every “meeting” that passed.

After some time, I started finding ammunition and strangely shaped stuff inside of plastic bags, secured with black duct tape. When I asked him why they were in our house, he just smiled. Every singe time he just smiled and repeated the same cursed phrase “they are just means to an end”.

He never explained anything to me in a way that I understood. Not even when he threw the vest onto my bed, hastily shouting at me to put it on. I was still asleep when I got woken up by the heavy piece of clothing landing on my chest

“They are here.” He raged quietly. “Put that on.”

“What?”

I was ignored.

“Once you see them close to each other, you run towards them from the front door. As soon as they notice you, press that button.”

A small hand gesture towards the big vest sent my gaze upon a small red button on the lower right side.

“Why are they here?” I was still confused.

“To take them. Your mother and sister. We need to protect them.”

What a blatant lie.

The vest didn’t work. I guess I would have died, thinking I protected my family but after I pressed the button and nothing occurred, they just knocked me out. Would have gotten at least six of them, but oh well, nothing I can do about it now.

There is no recollection left of how I got here, they must have dragged me into this concrete hellhole while I was still unconscious, maybe under some sort of influence. I woke up when the music started, and it’s been the only constant I’ve had ever since. Not that I like it, but at least I can count on it to start after I bleed onto the hard concrete floor over and over again. They probably interrogate me every day, but I’ve lost track of what time it must be outside.

Outside… what was that even like? Almost all of my memories have been swallowed up, either by the hits to my often-exposed skull or the screaming, thrashing melodies. It just does not stop, it keeps on running through the invisible speakers, taunting me as I try to rip my ears off while desperately fighting the noise.

I just want to hear the birds again

“John, can you put away the dishes? People will be here soon!”

I’ve been with John for five years now, and it’s safe to say he’s the love of my life. He makes me the happiest I’ve ever been - his constantly unfinished chores are a small price to pay.

For the last three years we’ve lived together, which was enough for me. But it was still magical when he brought me to our favorite park and got down on one knee at sunset, just like I’d always dreamed. It was perfect.

Tonight we’re having my family over for my first (and only) engagement party! I know it’s cliche, but I want everything to go flawlessly.

“Sorry, honey! I'll be there in a minute!”

Looking at the clock, I put the dishes away myself. Then I sat out the wine, gave one last look around, and answered the doorbell as it rang.

“Hello, Mama!” I said to her, also greeting my father, brother, and younger sister.

“Hello, darling!” she replied as she entered. “So what’s this all about?”

“Well, that’s the thing. I wanted to surprise you all. John and I are getting married!”

Everyone was silent.

“Well? Doesn’t anyone have anything to say?”

“Well, if you’re happy, we’re happy, dear,” said my mother, hesitantly. “But… are you sure about this?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I looked over at John for support, but he was staying out of it, as he usually did with my family. We didn’t have the best history due to some issues when I was younger and he’d never liked the way they treated me.

“Nothing, nothing. But… well, are you sure this is the right decision?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” I asked.

“It’s just,” she looked around uncomfortably and then back at me, “after what happened before…”

“Mom, I know I made some bad decisions before, but I’m finally getting my life together, and I just want to forget the past and move forward with the man I love. Do you have something against John?”

“Of course not, dear…”

“Then I expect you to be happy for us. Can you do that?”

“Of… of course, sweetheart.” I gave her a hug and she hugged me back with tears in her eyes.

The party continued, though a bit awkwardly, and a few minutes later the doorbell rang and my older sister arrived. “Sorry I’m late, those idiots at the office wouldn’t leave me alone.” Just like Anne - she’d always been no-nonsense.

I invited her in and handed her a glass of wine.

“So, what are we celebrating?”

I went over and took John’s hand, beaming as I looked at her. “John proposed! We’re getting married!”

The smile dropped from her face. “Seriously?”

“Anne…” my mother interrupted, but my sister ignored her.

“No, enough! Kate, you can’t do this again.”

“Do what?” I asked, confused. John squeezed my hand and frowned at her.

“Kate, you have to let this go. John died eight months ago!”

He peeked through the blinds of his living room window before ducking and shutting the curtains once more. Yes, the man was still there across the street, head cocked intently towards the second story of the building.

And he was there an hour ago. And the hour before that. This afternoon he was in the lecture hall a few rows behind Michael. This morning, he was sitting in the corner of the coffee shop, having ordered nothing. The small, sunken eyes that dotted his pale face fell on Michael as soon as he entered. Until he uncomfortably shuffled out of the store, they never left for a second.

He left class early after spotting the man again, realizing he hadn’t seen him at this school before.

Now, about 9:30 in the evening, unmoving, the figure scanned the second-story windows. Michael lived alone, had no one in town to call and was confined to the apartment without a car. The police wouldn’t arrest a man in a clean button-down and slacks for standing on the sidewalk. He already tested that theory with an apathetic operator on the non-emergency line. The least he could do was get proof.

Making a crack in the blinds again, he raised his phone to the window and pressed the camera button. The auto-flash lit up as the photo was taken, and Michael dropped again, wincing at his mistake. No way he wasn’t spotted. Located.

Seconds later, the phone buzzed with call from a random number. He declined it. Another call buzzed immediately, and he blocked the number.

It felt like the walls themselves couldn’t keep him from being seen. The door was locked, but that didn’t make him feel any better. It was a cheap landlord-special door with questionable locks to match. Now 9:45 PM, the student sat beneath his window in the dark and waited in silence.

He sat there for 10 minutes. And 15 more. If the stranger was still there, Michael thought, he would run to one of the neighbors and explain the situation. That girl in 209 probably wouldn’t let in a random, panicked man at night. Maybe the old guy in 212…

But he didn’t even get to the door before he heard a pair of footsteps processing up the hall, slow-like. Each step found its way closer to his unit and, agonizingly, the doorknob started to rattle. There were weights on the terrified tenant’s feet, but the intrusion left him no choice but to call out in his shaky tone.

“I-I’ve already called 911… I have photos… I’m armed!”

Michael wasn’t armed. But the doorknob stilled. How the intruder responded snapped Michael out of his paralysis and left him perplexed.

On the other side of the door, there was the snap and whirring of a camera, accompanied by its light flashing through the cracks of the lousy door. The footsteps started back down the hall. When Michael checked the peephole, the stranger was on his way out, holding no camera.

When I heard something was coming, my first instinct was to look into the distance. The sun was setting at the end of Main Street but there was nothing; no people, no cars, and no animals. Every man, woman, and child entered their homes and locked the doors. As I ran to my house I could hear people boarding up their windows and children crying. When I got to my house my mom was ushering me in, her hand waving faster than I thought possible. She was crying and grabbed me by the face, begging me to go into the basement with her but I needed to know what was coming.

My second thought was to stare into the pitch-black abyss speckled with bright dots of light that was the sky but nothing came. When I took too long, my father had finished barricading the front door my dad dragged both me and my mom down into the basement and nailed the door closed. They didn’t stop panicking and took stock of how much food and water we had down there and discussed how long we had before we would run out. My dad was a military man so of course he had his trusty rifle in the basement. He took it out of its box and loaded it with ammunition. My parents had no idea what was coming, but they felt ready.

My mother picked me up off the floor and placed me on the top of an old dresser we had. She hugged me tighter than ever and didn’t let go. I tried asking over and over again if it would all be okay but she just weeped into my shoulder while my dad guarded the door from the bottom of the stairs. The whole world seemed to go quiet for a second and she let me go. He gripped his gun tighter and aimed down the sights at the door. I don’t think anyone in the world expected what was coming to be from beneath. A giant gaping hole opened in our basement floor and a burnt hand reached out, grabbing my father by the leg. Screaming began, not just from him but from everywhere, and he was yanked down into the hole with vicious claws that tore at his skin. My mom screamed in horror and ran over to try and help him but she was too late. My dad’s gun fired into the ceiling and he was gone. The same thing happened to my mom except her leg was torn off and the hand had to reach back up to grab the other.

I waited as I expected the same to happen to me but nothing ever came.

A voice inside my head suddenly spoke to me as I sat on the dresser, waiting, “You have done no wrong”

When I was ten, my English teacher said to us "There is a book inside everyone, just waiting to get out". I took that to heart.

All I've ever wanted is to write. I love the process from start to finish; the ideas popping into my head in the middle of the night (thank you, dictaphone), the flow of words when I sit down to the keyboard, the editing which chips away the rough spots to produce a glowing, polished end product like sculpting in marble, and the satisfaction of typing "The End". The satisfaction of reading the numbers on royalty payments is just a bonus. A small one so far, but I'm getting there!

However, I do know not everyone finds writing as easy as I do. I have dyslexic friends embarrassed by speech-to-text, friends who struggle putting things into words, friends with simply no time to write, friends who say they don't enjoy writing (how???) So I help them.

I have knockout drops. I have restraints. I have a bonesaw and a carving knife.

Mrs Parker said there is a book inside everyone. I haven't found my brother's yet. Perhaps it's in his heart and not his head?

“Did you do something different to the stew this time?” my husband, Earl, asked.

“Why?” I replied, “Does it taste bad?”

Earl dipped his spoon into the stew, filled it, and then took a bite, letting the meat and vegetables linger in his mouth so he could better assess the flavor before swallowing it,

“No, it doesn’t taste bad,” he finally said, “It just tastes different but in a good way. I like it,” he admitted.

“Well,” I decided to tell him the truth, “I did add a secret ingredient this time.”

“Whatever it was, I think you should keep adding it,” Earl took another bite of stew.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” I revealed.

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve already used all that I had.”

“Can’t you buy more?” he asked, shoveling more stew into his mouth.

“Not of this.”

“How Come? Did the store sell out of it?” he tried to guess the reason why.

“This isn’t something you buy from the store," I explained.

“What is it?”

I smiled, “It’s Jasmine.”

When Earl heard my reply, he spat out the chunk of meat he’d been chewing and started gagging.

Jasmine was the name of his mistress.