Month: December 2019

Once, there was a fair princess. People whispered about her, and sang songs in her honor and named their firstborn daughters and sons after her. She was the ruler– of what?

“I was never told, Mama, of what, of what?”

“Sssh, Lucy, you only need to know that she was the ruler. She was lovely and special and important and she was ours.” 

Once, there was a fair princess. They say that when her feet touched the sand, vines grew. They say that she loved her kingdom with the love of a parent for their children. They say she would have died for us. She was never lonely. She had us. We had her.

“But she must have gotten lonely, right Papa?” Lucy inquired, muddy face beaming earnestly up at her father. “I’d get lonely, all alone like she was…” At this, her older brother interjected, face growing red.

“You must never say that, child!” Her older brother admonished, glaring at her, “No, she did not get lonely. She lived in a palace made of diamonds and glass and she was never, never wanting for anything else.” Lucy whimpered.

“Didn’t she have emeralds?” A mud-splattered girl had wandered over. She was a few moons older than Lucy and had recently gone to see the Princess. Jealousy burned in Lucy’s heart– she wanted to see the Princess too.

“No, she did not have emeralds– she would never wear anything so vulgar!” Lucy’s mother snapped, glaring at the girl. “She wore robes of the finest blue. Almost the color of the ocean. I can still see it today…” And she trailed off, lost in her memories of the fair Princess.

Once there was a fair princess, and she issued a decree: when each child turned twelve, they would go and have an audience with the fair Princess. After all, she wanted to know more about her people. And when a child had reached twelve moons, they were deemed suitable to go and see the fair Princess.

“Don’t worry,” her Papa told her, stroking her dusty hair with his calloused hand. “Soon, you will see the fair Princess; in one hour, she will change your life, Lucy. You will love her like we do.”  Lucy looked around. All of the townsfolk were smiling, remembering their time with her.

Even though they wore nothing other than rags, even though children died every year of the Black Plague that brought families to their knees, the fair Princess could make everything alright with a simple smile. They never needed to worry, her parents told Lucy. They had the fair Princess. 

“What if she leaves?” Lucy had asked once, when she was still a tyke and did not know any better. “What if the fair Princess leaves?” This had resulted in a stinging slap from some of the other tykes, and soon they had jumped on her, punching and kicking. If her mother had not happened to have come by and seen the scrum, or heard the cries of “Shame! Shame! Shame!” from the village elders, her youngest would have easily been killed. Later, she had learned that it was considered sacrilege to insult the Princess in any way. Lucy didn’t, and still didn’t, understand why, but the memory of being turned on by the other tykes was more than enough to keep her from doing it again. She shifted on the hard ground as an ugly scene of five moons ago came to her mind. 

Five moons ago:

“Once there was a Princess! A fair one! And she was lonely!” A wild-eyed young woman stood in the middle of the square, shouting lies– or so Lucy had thought. Her father clamped his hands over her ears– her mother got up and started toward the young woman, looking worried. People crept from their cottages and stared, some calling for the Guard. “She was lonely because you bastards”– and here she used a very rude word, one that Lucy hadn’t heard before and didn’t care to hear again– “drained the flipping life from her! You let her die! You took and took and took and even when she had nothing to give!” The color drained from the faces of the townspeople. But then, before Lucy could consider what this stranger was screaming about, they heard the pounding of horse hooves. The Guard had arrived, splendid in gold and red. The woman had stopped yelling. Instead, she turned to face them and very quietly said: “I’m right. And you know it. And soon everyone will know it, and it will be your fault.”  

Lucy’s parents grabbed her and hustled her away, just as a high-pitched scream echoed through the air. She turned toward the square, and the young woman was lying on her side, dark hair spread out across the ground and blood leaking from her body. Lucy screamed. 

“Papa, what did they do to her? What did they do?” She was shaking, eyes tightly shut. She could still see that pool of blood in her mind’s eye, growing larger.

Her father’s hands were trembling as they walked past the Guard. “Nothing, Lucy, nothing, she’s just sleeping, she’s fine.”

As they walked past the horsemen, a Guard reached out and grabbed Lucy’s arm. Not hard, but enough to make her flinch. She showed off her yellow teeth as she grinned at the terrified girl. “Don’t worry, little one; the Princess will wake her up.”

Lucy felt puzzled. Why had she thought of that now? It was only a memory. And the Princess had woken the woman up, The Guard had taken the sleeping stranger to the castle, and the Princess had healed her– no, had woken her up. The woman hadn’t been hurt. She hadn’t needed to be healed. Still, something pulled at the back of her mind. If that stranger was asleep, then why didn’t she wake up quicker? Didn’t she scream? With a shrug, she pushed those disturbing thoughts away. 

“Lucy! Lucy, where are you?” her brother called, glancing around. “Come child, in one hour you will meet the fair Princess–we need to get you ready!” Lucy got up, covered in red dust, and slowly began to make her way towards her cottage, glancing back at the town square. It smelled of blood.

“Now, Lucy, what do we say when we meet the fair Princess?” Her mother quizzed her as her father pulled a brush through her hair. It was customary for villagers to look their best when meeting the fair Princess, and that included brushing, bathing, and smiling. Lucy currently wore the finest red frock that her family owned. However, it had rather inconvenient holes at the knees; she hoped the Princess wouldn’t notice.

Absentmindedly, she responded. “O fair Princess, I kneel before you in all of your glory. Tell me your tale. I will listen.”

“Very good!” her father praised, now rummaging with something in a small velvet bag. “This is for you, Lucy.” He pulled a golden chain from the bag, holding it up to catch the light. “My father gave it to me when I went to go greet the fair Princess, and his mother gave it to him, and so on and so forth.”

Lucy’s jaw fell open. “But why didn’t you give it to Elder Brother? He’s older than me…” Her voice trailed off as he placed the chain around her neck.

“Ah, well, trinkets like these are for ones who deserve it…” she waited for him to continue, but he did not, instead calling her mother and brother forth to look. “Come, you two! Doesn’t she look ready?” 

“You look lovely,” Elder Brother said, but there was a hint of jealousy in his eyes, and he looked away quickly. “I especially like that chain.” She felt suddenly nervous, but did not know why.

“Are you ready?” her mother questioned, moving some of her daughter’s hair out of her face. “I’m happy for you. Meeting the fair Princess will… you will love her. And Eldest Son is right; that chain looks very fetching on you, child.”

“The carriage is here!” Elder Brother was standing by the window, staring out at the red and gold carriage. Two women jumped down and began walking toward the house. “This is it,” he breathed, turning to look at Lucy. “Ready?”

Lucy could not respond, so she simply nodded, eyes wide. “Thank… thank you,” she stuttered, looking around the room. “I…”

Three harsh knocks on the door cut her off. “We are here for the child,” someone called through the door. Suddenly, Lucy’s brother swept her up in a sudden, fierce hug.

“Put me down!” she protested, struggling.

“Don’t look at her face,” he hissed in her ear, so quietly that she barely heard him. And all of a sudden, Lucy’s family was all grins and nods and bows as the Guard walked in, questioning them about her. 

“Is this really the girl? She looks small for her age,” one Guardswoman said, glancing over at Lucy.

“She has always been small, Your Grace,” Lucy’s father put in. “Her brother was small too, if you remember.”

The Guardswoman glared. “Oh yes. Do I ever remember. Hopefully this one will be a little more… compliant.”

“She will, Your Grace,” her mother said, lightly pushing Lucy towards the Guardswomen. Then, turning to Lucy, with a sudden urgency in her voice. “Do exactly as they tell you, and everything will be all right.”

“Hold out your hands, love,” a Guardswoman said, kneeling next to the girl. “This part will be a little… unpleasant, but I promise it won’t hurt for long.” Lucy trembled, but did so. She watched as they wrapped iron chains around both wrists, giving her no room to lift her hands and chafing terribly.

“Chains?” Elder Brother put in, a look of horror on his face. “She is only twelve moons…” His voice trailed off as all of the Guardswomen turned to look at him. 

“Be silent,” the first one spat, towering over him. “Or it’ll be more than just your brat of a sister chained, and, trust me, you won’t be going to visit the fair Princess.” He shrank back against the moldering wall, and she turned to the others. “Get her in the carriage. Now. We’ve wasted too much time on these rats posing for people.”

Two Guardswomen grabbed Lucy by the arms and forcefully lifted her. She didn’t struggle. They sat her down, not removing the chains, and tied another one across her lap. She peeked out the window and saw that half of the town had come out, and that they all wore the same expressions– not ones of pride or joy, but absolute, destroyed horror. Hot tears slipped down her cheeks, and she did not know why. Looking down at the chains that bound her hands, she noted that there were red stains on them, and that her wrists were bleeding as well. A Guardswoman glanced back at her.

“Don’t worry, dear. You’re lucky you’re wearing a red frock– no blood will show.” Lucy bent her head. 

“Thank you, your Grace. You and the fair Princess always know what is best for me.”

The Guardswoman chuckled softly, leaning back against the plush, red leather seat. “Good girl.”

Once, there was a fair Princess. And each year, she summoned children to her castle to meet her. And each year, those children returned, talking about the fair Princess– how good and kind and lovely she was. But one day, a boy did not. He disrespected the throne. He was punished. Hopefully, his sister will be better. We have waited a long time for a girl like her.

Lucy did not know how long it had been since she had been shoved into the carriage. The sky was darkening, and she was so thirsty. She sat uncomfortably on the seats, whole body bouncing each time the carriage bumped. Over a pothole, she assumed. The carriage stopped, and she was suddenly thrown forward, painfully, the chain around her waist pulling her back.

“Get up.” She did, knees and wrists bleeding. A Guardswoman leaned over to unbuckle the chain from around her waist, and half nudged, half pushed her out of the carriage. She stood, looking around herself. About twenty Guardswomen ringed her, all with the same expressions of disdain. And… arrows. They had arrows. A memory pierced Lucy’s mind– of the young woman lying on her back, eyes empty and blank. They killed her. They killed her! They lied, they lied! She gagged.

“Are we sure this is the girl? She’s awfully…” 

“This is the girl. I’ll have no arguments about it. We’ve waited a long time for a street rat like her.”  Lucy curled her lip at the now all-too-familiar insult, but said nothing. The Guardswoman who had threatened her brother walked up, inspecting Lucy. “Move, you little urchin. The fair Princess don’t have all day and neither do I.”

Lucy stumbled forward, biting her lip. I will not cry. I will not let them get the satisfaction of seeing me cry. She lifted her chin, looking at all of them. “Where am I to go exactly? Will the fair Princess come to get me, may her name be praised evermore?”

“No, you hedge-born idiot,” the Guardswoman jeered, raising one arm to point at the drawbridge that loomed behind them. “You are to go there. You are to talk to the fair Princess. You are not to run away. Do as we tell you.”

The drawbridge was dark and ominous– dark water moved slowly under it, as small silver fish flopped belly-up, eyes blank. The Guardswomen shuffled behind her, occasionally kicking her shins to try to make her walk at a faster rate. As they entered the castle, shadows loomed and rats scurried across the floor, picking at the overturned plates of food. The floor was sticky– with what? She didn’t know. 

“Walk down that hallway and knock on the door.” The Guardswoman pointed down a long dark hallway, the gold braid on her uniform gleaming amid the disrepair. What do you get out of this? Lucy wondered, staring up at her strangely blank face. What do you want from me? I don’t have anything to give! Leaning towards her, the Guardswoman unhooked the chains on her wrists.

“Move. Are you deaf?” She did, starting to walk toward the tunnel. As she turned back, the Guardswomen were gone, swallowed up by the darkness. She fought the urge to run. I will not die here today. I swear on every god I know that I will not die here today. As she turned on her heel, the chain around her neck became warm and began to glow faintly. She didn’t notice.

Once, there was a fair Princess. And she was loved by everyone– by her people, who taught their children how to look up to her and adore her, and who taught their children’s children. But the fair Princess was lonely. She did not want to be loved anymore. Children loved her, and she could talk to them, and feel less lonely for a time. But then… one night she left. Her people could do without her, she thought. She would go somewhere where she could be… herself. And not the fair Princess.

Oh, how wrong she was. The same night, the same night that she ran, they caught her. She protested. She would not, she could not stay, she had nothing left to give. So– they killed her, saying that if in life she could not stay, then in death she would. 

They bound her spirit to them. And she searched for the girl or boy who would free her at long last, who would let her go from her decaying body. They had always brought her girls and boys, but the girls and boys all loved her, and could not or would not help her. There had been a boy. Once. But he had been taken by the Guardswomen before he could free her. And as her body mouldered, her kingdom fell into disrepair. The girl is my last hope. I need her. 

Lucy leaned forward and knocked on the door. It was a large, slime-covered door, but no one answered. With a huff, she leaned forward and opened it. Her first thought was that the drapes needed to be opened; the room was much, much too dark. She took a step into the room, noting that jewels littered the floor. A massive gold throne was in the middle with something or someone on it.

“O fair Princess?” she called, taking a step closer to the throne. “I have come. Tell me your tale.” The room was oppressively silent. What should I do? As lightly as a rabbit, she bounded to the throne and leaned over the fair Princess. She bit back a horrified scream, reeling away. Because the Princess was a skeleton. She was dressed in a tattered, blue gown that had what looked like bloodstains on it. Golden chains bound her hands and knees, and a circlet hung off her head. Her body had been entirely stripped of flesh. Lucy had never wanted to run more than she did in that moment. 

“Help me,” a voice rasped as Lucy turned for the door. “Please. Help me.” Although the fair Princess’s mouth did not move, Lucy knew that it was her voice, which was strangely comforting. Almost like her father’s, when he prepared to tell her a story. So Lucy did not run. Instead she walked toward the throne and placed her hand on the fair Princess’s forehead, almost as if to check for a fever.

“…You asked my brother to help you, didn’t you?” she whispered, strangely not feeling frightened. 

“Yes. And he would have. But the Guard took him away, and I have been trapped here for two agonizing years until you came.” Lucy nodded. That was just like Eldest Brother; always trying to help.

“I… I don’t know what I can do,” she murmured, not taking her eyes off the fair Princess. “I don’t know if I can help you.”

The fair Princess seemed to raise a skeletal hand to point at Lucy’s neck, where the golden chain had suddenly gotten much, much warmer. “Yes. You do, lass. Like father, like daughter, I see.” Lucy blinked.

“You want this? It’s just a useless trinket…” The chain was now burning her neck and she tugged at it fruitlessly, pain mingling with surprise.

“Would it be burning like that if it was useless? Nothing is useless, lass.” The fair Princess straightened suddenly, eyes on the door.

“Girl!” The voices of the Guardwomen could suddenly be heard, along with the clomping of their heavy boots. “Girl!”

“Make haste, Lucy!” the fair Princess spat, watching Lucy struggle with the chain. Lucy tugged at it harder, and it slipped off her neck, glowing gently in her hand.

The door burst open. Several very angry-looking Guardswomen stood in the door, gaping first at Lucy, who clutched the chain tighter, and then at the fair Princess, who had pushed herself up into a sitting position. “Put the chain down,” one spat, taking a step toward her. “Put it down. Now.” In one quick movement, Lucy swung the chain around the fair Princess’s neck. The biggest of them started toward her. And from that moment on, Lucy remembered

                                            Nothing. 

Lucy got up. Her dress was soaked in blood and she hoped it wasn’t hers. She turned to look at the throne from where she’d been bodily thrown across the room. There was no-one on it, only the golden chains trailing off of it.

“O fair Princess?” she whispered, limping across the room as agony stabbed through her leg. “Reveal yourself?” No answer. A hand touched her shoulder, and she flinched, whipping around. The fair Princess was standing next to her, no longer a skeleton. She was every bit as lovely as she had been before.

“Lucy.” Lucy blinked at her, noticing for the first time that the Princess appeared to be melting away, into the sunbeam that she stood in. She smiled at Lucy kindly, draping something around her neck. “Thank you.” 

“Where– the Guardswomen?” Lucy’s hand went to her chain again. 

“Gone. Go home, lass. I never got to.”

Lucy dipped her head. “Where will you go?” 

The fair Princess’s shoulders shook for a moment before she grinned at Lucy, responding. “Wherever I please.”

Once, there was a fair Princess. And she was lonely. But her kingdom could not bear to let her go, so they bound her to an iron throne. And she waited for over one hundred moons. One moon, the right girl came; and this girl was steadfast and true, and this girl freed her. And the fair Princess was no longer lonely. Eventually, the right girl led us into prosperity, and she told us the story of the fair Princess, and that she was lonely. And so we will tell the story of Lucy, our flawed girl and queen to our children. And they will tell it to their children’s children. This is the way it has always been and the way it will always be.

A city doesn’t need the sun. Humanity has made so many artificial lights that some might call the one provided by Mother Nature obsolete. Now, the sun gave the living many benefits. But forces were at play all across the world. And beyond. The living were on their way out. A city doesn’t need a sun, and when these forces finally reached their claws up from the mists from which they were concealed, they planned to grab and extinguish the sun. 

                                                                ***

On a dark and stormy night in Hollywood, there was an actor named Billy Hart. He sat in his room and cried, for his dreams were falling apart. He just couldn’t keep a role. No matter how hard he tried, he was fired from every one of them. Did he just suck? Was he really that bad? To make matters worse, he knew that his sponsors wanted results. He got a lot of money from them, and they wanted something in return. Something he couldn’t give. As the clock ticked, ticked, ticked, his dread grew and grew. He supposed there was no reason for them to call, but he knew they would. 

Tick, tick, tick, tick. He wondered what time it was. How long had he just been a miserable mess on the floor? He didn’t know if he wanted a break from all of this by fainting, or for the sun to finally reveal itself. It was a dark and stormy night, and he hated that. He wanted more lights than that from the street and the electric sky. 

Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Billy jerked his head upwards, looking at the most expensive thing he owned in his apartment: a grandfather clock. He bought it just to feel fancy, one of the few times he could afford it. He had a particularly good part then, and as much as he loved that role, the movie went through production hell and never got released. The clock had been a manifestation of failure in his eyes since, and now it had released a new feeling: dread. The pendulum seemed to move to him with every Bong! like a swinging executioner’s axe. This symbol of fatalism seemed to mesmerize Billy, holding him still. He starred in silent terror for what felt like centuries. 

Midnight.

When the clock finished its ghastly wail, there was a moment of silence. Billy let himself breathe for a moment. Then, the phone rang. It was a much quieter sound, a small little dingle-ingle-ing instead of the thunderous Bong!s, yet they too were foreboding. The phone rattled in its receiver, like a small, scared, trapped animal. Or perhaps more like an undead mummy in its tomb. Like one you’d see in the movies, of course. Mummies did not move. 

It continued to rattle and squeal. Billy was terrified of the confrontation that laid on the other end, and it was not one he wanted to embark on. Yet, he could not stop himself. Both hands trembling, he used one hand to pick up the phone and bring it to his ear, and the other to press the button and then weakly and ineffectively wipe the tears from his eyes. 

“Heh heh heh…” said the voice on the other end. “If it ain’t Billy the Kid!” 

It was exactly who Billy feared it would be. His sponsors. 

“Uh…” Billy nervously began. “Hey, Gianluca…”

“Billy, my fella, I told ya you can just call me Gi! We’re friends ain’t we?” 

“Yeah, friends…” Billy timidly replied. 

With much more enthusiasm, Gianluca responded, “I thought so! Heh heh…” 

Now came the moment Billy was anxious about. “Uh… Gi… there’s… something I gotta tell ya.”

 Gianluca interrupted him. “Ya don’t have to be the bearer of bad news, kid, I already know.” 

Tears began to return to Billy’s eyes. “Gi, I’m trying my hardest, honest! I’m so sorry, man! I really want to pay you back! Heck, I’ll cut out my… other purchases too…” He looked back to the ground, where some leftover white dust was lazily laid out. 

“Nah, I know how you fellas are. Ya don’t gotta stop,” Gianluca responded with what might have been sympathy. He then muttered, perhaps not intended to be caught on the call and heard, “Besides, we’d lose a bit of money if you’d stop…” Gianluca returned to speaking at a normal volume. “Well, Billy, these matters are complicated. I think we gotta talk it out in person.” 

“Oh,” Billy responded. 

“So I should stop at your office when tomorrow?” 

“Actually,” Gianluca replied. “I’m in your neighborhood right now. Can I come on over?” 

“S-sure,” Billy complied. 

“Thanks kid,” Gianluca said in delight. “I’ll be over in five seconds.” He then added, “Heh. Count it, even.” He hung up.

Billy was confused, and slowly put the phone down. The last statement was sarcastic, right? Just a bit of humor that Gi was known for. And yet, Billy found himself counting. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. On “five,” lightning struck and thunder crashed. Billy felt a shadow loom over him. A second of silence, and there was a tap on his window pane. Heart pounding, Billy slowly turned his head to face the window. 

And there he was. Standing in the window, hundreds of feet above the concrete, was Gianluca Hayden. The mouth of Yellow Crown Enterprises, holding a black umbrella, wearing a black trench coat and a black fedora, with a red tie and a white handkerchief in his breast pocket, and a gleaming smile on his face. It was the mouth of Billy Hart’s sponsor. He stood on the tips of his toes on the window sill, and below him were hundreds of feet of nothing until you hit the ground. Behind him, blinding light flashed on a sheet of dark grey. 

With a tip of his hat, Gianluca said, “Good Evenin’ Billy!”

Billy was too terrified to speak. He always knew that the Yellow Crown was not the most trustworthy organization. And he knew that his “buddy” Gi was a bit… eccentric. But what was happening now was too bizarre to explain or deduce. It was otherworldly. 

Billy felt his muscles moving without desire. He slowly began to stand and with his arms out like a zombie from the movies, made his way towards the window. Gianluca held out a single hand, and Billy stopped in place. Then, Gianluca turned his hand swiftly and without explanation, the windows unlocked themselves from the inside and slowly opened. Gianluca gracefully walked into Billy’s apartment, closing his umbrella as he did and flicking his hand again once he was inside, causing the window to close once more, though it remained unlocked. 

“Sorry if I brought any of the rain in, Billy.” Gianluca casually began. “Hey, thanks for letting me come over at such a late hour. I think I work best at this time, actually. The boys and I consider ourselves to be a couple of night owls, ya know?” Making his way to the other room, he exclaimed, “Anyway, let’s talk business.” 

Billy followed, slowly, silently, and still in shock.

Gianluca made himself at home on Billy’s couch. Billy finally worked up the courage to ask something, though it was certainly not the question that was the most important in his mind, for he was too shocked and scared to ask it. “So… you wanna drink?” 

“Heh, nah,” Gianluca politely replied. “I have a… specific preference with my drinks. I plan on catching some of that later tonight, so I’m good at the moment. But thanks for the offer! So how about you get yourself something to drink and I can return ya with another one, eh?” 

Billy did as he was told. Perhaps after a night of misery, dread, and crack, caffeine was not the best choice, but Billy wasn’t known for making good choices, especially on a night like tonight, when nothing made sense and stress was at an all time high. How was this happening? Was he even awake? Was he still high and did he imagine Gi in the window? Did Gi just come through the door? It hurt Billy’s head to think about it. 

Returning with a cup of coffee, Billy sat next to his enigmatic agent. 

“So,” Gianluca began. “Let’s lay down the facts.” 

Billy nervously nodded, taking a sip at his coffee, hoping it would ease his nerves. 

“So you lost the role. Again.” 

Billy sighed. 

“This is fine,” Gianluca assured him. “Really, it is. A minor setback. I can set ya up with another one real quick, trust me.” 

Billy looked up. 

“However, ya still don’t have enough money to pay us what ya owe us. In any capacity.” 

Billy winced. 

“This, too, is okay. Billy, my man, the Yellow Crown is a flexible organization. When we can’t get money, we find more creative and manageable ways to create mutual benefits between us and our clients.” He quickly flashed a smile at Billy. 

For a second, Billy thought he saw sharper teeth in Gianluca’s mouth, but he quickly dismissed this. “What were you thinking?” Billy finally responded.

 “Well,” began Gianluca. “First of all, we might need ya to do a few more… favors for us? Don’t ask me what they are, because nobody knows yet. We’ll reach ya when we need ya. Does that sound good, kid?”

 “Well, if I have no other way to repay you…” Billy warily agreed. 

“That’s the spirit kid!” Gianluca encouraged, slapping him on the back as friends are for some reason known to do. Billy was startled, but he felt he wasn’t in a position to question anything Gi did. 

“But there’s one more thing we gotta do for this bargain.” Gianluca continued. “If you’re gonna help us out on a few more projects, and we’re gonna continue supporting you, you’re gonna need to make a few… lifestyle changes. And I’ll help you out, don’t worry. So you okay with that?”

 Billy was really unsure. He honestly wanted to say no. But he knew where his resources were coming from. If he wasn’t being supplied money or job opportunities from these people, his dreams would fall apart and he’d go broke in no time. He’d have to get a worse job or die on the streets. Probably both. He’d either have to settle later in a much more embarrassing way, or now, in the hands of a successful, albeit shady, organization. 

Billy did not notice, but as Gianluca began speaking again, he subtly flicked his hand. Billy did not see this either, but it caused all the windows in the room to silently unlock and open. Mist began pouring into the room, unaware to Billy. 

“Besides,” coaxed Gianluca. “It’d really improve your life. You’d probably start cleanin’ up your act, doin’ a lot more. It seems all the stress of this whole mess has made you age quicker than you should. We could help ya feel younger. So what d’ya say?” 

Billy sighed. “Sure, Gi. Whatever you think is best.”

“Ha ha, great!” Gianluca exclaimed. “We can start right now, actually. Just let me do something first.” Gianluca turned so he was facing away from Billy. He closed his eyes and put his hands together, and began to mumble to himself. “Thank ya, Lord, for lettin’ me have this one. I promise I won’t fail you.” 

Billy finally began to notice the mist in his apartment, how his couch was now adrift on a thick ocean of it. Everything seemed to have become grayscale. Like so many of the oddities of the foreboding night, Billy was incapable of asking about it. Once again, he responded with the wrong inquiry. “Uh, Gi. Ya prayin’ to God?” 

Gianluca was completely silent for a moment. He slowly began to lower his hand, and then tilted his head up and cackled. He actually cackled. He then slowly turned his head to Billy, opened his eyes, and said quietly, calmly, and maliciously, “Not by a long shot.”

He then pounced at Billy like a predator in the wild. Billy quickly turned his eyes towards the face of his suddenly violent agent and “friend.” The last thing Billy saw before going under was that he was right with his earlier thought; his teeth really were quite sharp. 

Billy felt Gianluca’s teeth pierce the skin of his neck. Billy couldn’t move away as Gianluca held him still with superhuman strength. Billy felt the worst, most excruciating pain he had ever felt in his entire life, of which was soon to end, for exactly 13 seconds, but he could not scream. His bodily functions stopped before his consciousness left. That went alongside his blood. And for a brief moment, the actor Billy Hart was dead and gone. 

Gianluca removed his mouth from Billy’s neck. He took the handkerchief out of his breast pocket and made it match the color of his tie. Then, he knocked Billy off of the couch and onto the floor. His corpse splashed in the surrounding ocean and the mist flew up around him as it briefly parted, before it cascaded back down and covered him. He was now but a dark blot in it. But Gianluca knew what came next. Though he knew he’d risk dirtying the couch, Gianluca stood up, looking down on the corpse of Billy. It began to squirm and writhe. Billy was not awake for what happened next, but he sure as hell did move. 

A loud sound came from below the misty sea. It sounded like a cross between a roar, squawk, a screech, and a moan. Then, the corpse of Billy began to rise, quivering. He was completely changed. All the pigment had left his skin, and he was white as paper. His eyes had already been bloodshot from the stress, but it seemed the blood vessels had all exploded, as they were now completely red and pupil-less. The point of his ears had grown very long, and they seemed no longer able to support their own weight. Every bone in his body could be seen through his skin, including each individual piece of his spine in his hunched back. He seemed to curl himself. His teeth were now similar to that of a prehistoric saber-toothed tiger. His fingers had grown into long claws, which tightly gripped the floor. The tips of his shoulders somehow lengthened into long, bony pillars covered with stretched skin. Growling, Billy turned his tilted head towards Gianluca, and looked at him with a look of pure, concentrated, uninhibited rage and hunger. He barked at Gianluca as he pounced, prepared to rip him to shreds.

Billy was never able to, however, because Gianluca was prepared. He bounced up from the couch and levitated in place, and then twisted his hand once more. The mist rose up and twirled around Billy in midair, and even though mist was in most circumstances not physical, it restrained him. He squirmed in it and howled louder than before. 

A voice spoke in Gianluca’s head. “Is it done?” It said with a thick Russian accent, almost as though it were a thought in his head.

 Gianluca knew better, of course. “Yes, my lord,” he responded aloud. “The neonate is secure. Another to your all-powerful army of the undead, Lord of Darkness, Czar of Malice. I return to you now.” He gave a quick bow in Billy’s direction, though certainly not intended for him. Then, he raised his other hand, and the mist rose and became ever thicker. Now, nothing could be seen in the apartment, for even the two dark blots quickly faded. 

From within the mist, Gianluca could be heard: “Billy Hart, you are invited to the manor of Count Gregor, lord of the vampires, master necromancer, bane of all that’s holy!” 

Soon, the mist let up, and left through the windows where it came from. And not a soul remained in the apartment of Billy Hart, starving artist.     

The End…? 

“Taz, the psychologist from the adoption agency is here. She’d like to ask you a few questions,” Dad says to me. This happens every year. I run out of my room and into the living room, where I see a tall young woman standing in front of me.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tazu,” she says. I wave shyly in the corner and get out my phone to talk to her.

I am autistic, what most would consider “lower functioning,” and I can’t speak with my mouth parts, so I use a text-to-speech app to communicate. “Pleasure to meet you too. Now what is it that you would like to ask me?”

I pray that even though she now knows I’m non-speaking, she will assume competence and not condescend to me or treat me as subhuman, in a way. That is a stigma that many nonverbal autistics such as I know all too well. That’s why I hate labels like high-functioning and low-functioning: low-functioning means your capabilities are ignored, your humanity brushed aside, and high-functioning means your deficiencies are ignored and you can’t get the support you need; basically either way it sucks, and you often have to go through life alone.

Fortunately, she treats me normally. “All right, first question: are you happy here?” she asks. I nod my head. I am so happy with my dads, though the trauma of my past still haunts me.

“I’m glad to hear that, Tazu. Next question: Do you feel safe here?”

This is a tricky question. It appears to be analyzing two variables: immediate, actual safety and perceived safety. I assume that for this evaluation, what she really wants to know about is actual safety, and I don’t want to give anyone the impression that I feel unsafe with my dads. 

I decide to be honest. “To be honest, occasionally not so much. I mean, my dads treat me well and I feel very safe in their care. But sometimes I get these irrational fears that my dads are secretly planning to turn on me. Or that one of them could do… what my mom did to me. But it’s completely unreasonable. I know they would never do that. So yes, I occasionally worry about my safety, but I know those worries are not rational.”

“Thank you for being honest with me. Final question: my results tell me you’ll be able to hold a job someday. Is that something you are considering?”

I frown and hesitate for a second. “I highly doubt I will ever be able to hold down a job. Who would hire an autistic girl who can’t talk?” 

I walk out of the room, feeling utterly hopeless. My dad sees me and walks over to check on me. “Hi Taz, you look sad. What happened? Did the evaluator talk about anything upsetting?” 

“Yes,” I type. “She thinks I can get a job.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand why that would upset you.”

“I can’t get a job. No one would hire me.”

“What do you mean?” my dad asks. “You’re smart, funny, and a brilliant writer. I’d hire you.”

I roll my eyes. He just doesn’t get it.  According to the latest statistics, 85 percent of autistic adults are unemployed, and for nonverbal people, the statistics are even higher. It is statistically very unlikely that I’d ever be able to hold a job. I’m just thinking realistically and long-term here. 

“You KNOW me, Dad. Employers don’t. They’ll just see a weird, too short girl who can’t talk. Autistics don’t get hired.”

“Sure they do,” my dad replies. “What about Einstein? Newton? Dickinson? Heck, there are even rumors of Hitler being autistic, and look how successful he was! I mean, I’m not saying you should become Hitler, but you get the point.”

“First of all, I don’t want to be associated with Hitler. You do know he KILLED autistics along with countless other people, right? Besides, those were the exceptional people. I’m not exceptional.” 

Dad giggles. “First of all, I don’t promote Hitler. Second of all, you’re exceptional to me”, Dad replies. “But you’re right. Employers don’t know you like I do. I’ll tell you what. There’s an autism resource fair next Sunday. Why don’t we find out what your options are?”

I sigh. “All right, let’s go. But if I don’t like it, you owe me a trip to the ice cream place.”

Dad laughs. “It’s a deal,” he says. 

ONE WEEK LATER

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. A too-short Japanese/Korean-American teen with long wavy hair and wide eyelashes stares back. 

Fun fact: 15-20% of autistic people are nonspeaking. Another fun fact: only less than 2% of them get jobs. Final fun fact: I am one of those 15-20%. 

It’s really hard to believe, at age sixteen, that I’m still alive. When I was trapped in the misery of my childhood, I never thought I would make it this far. For years I had expected, and later hoped, to die. Then it happened, and for a while I thought I had my wish. But then my dads rescued me and life started to seem worth living. 

Could I have actually died, probably? Died briefly and been reborn? Nah, I don’t think being reborn as the exact same person is a thing. When I was a little girl and hospitalized, no one would tell me what was going on. They didn’t think I’d understand, because then I didn’t have any method of communicating. 

On to much lighter things! I’m going to an autism resource fair! For a future I thought I’d never survive to see! Wow, I’m really bad at changing the subject. Alright, let’s think about cats. And the color purple. Purple cats? 

I put on a purple shirt, one I’ve worn every other day for the past year. Wearing purple makes me happy—so why not be happy every single day? 

I brush my teeth and hair, put on deodorant and chapstick. With my poor motor skills, chapstick is about as good as it gets. Best to play it safe.

I’m all ready! I bounce up and down, read a few poems, and play quiet classical music while my dads are still asleep. 

Dad drives me to the fair when he wakes up. Dad points to a display board advertising a new initiative called “Hiring Neurodiversity.” “See, Tazu, this agency will help you get hired without an interview!” he says excitedly. 

“And how long will that job last once they find out I can’t talk?’

“You don’t know. Don’t assume the worst.” 

Just then, a tall, thin man walks up to us. He has blonde hair, hazel eyes, and a big blue “Autism Speaks” t-shirt with a puzzle piece logo. 

“Hello, sir,” he says to my dad. “Are you finding any helpful resources?’

“Yep, lots of great information,” Dad replies.

For an alternative definition of great. Most of this stuff is for newly diagnosed toddlers. Do they expect us to magically poof out of existence at age 18? 

“I’m so glad to hear that! My name is Jackson and I work for Autism Speaks. We’re working on fundraising and finding a prenatal test and cure for autism. We have a budget chart if you would like to see it. Now who’s this little girl?”

I take a glance at his budget chart. It seems like they make a lot of money, and only 4% of it goes to helping actual autistics. The rest go to research, which I assume means finding a way to wipe us out of the gene pool and preventing us from ever being born. Yeah, so much for Hitler being autistic. Might as well be named Auschwitz for Autism. How is autism “speaking” if you’re trying to eradicate the people who have it in the first place? 

“This is my daughter Tazu.”

“How nice! Can she hear us?”

“Yes,” I promptly reply. I am autistic, not deaf.

“Oh, she types. How… nice,” Jackson replies, looking displeased.

 “Anyhow, Tazu loves to write,” Dad says.

I share a nature poem I have recently wrote with Jackson. 

“You have a very talented child,” he says to Dad. “Autism Speaks is working on an anthology about autism and the strain it has on families. Would she like to write for us?”

Wow. I never dreamed this could happen. Somebody in the real world thinks I’m good and wants to publish my writing. Screw my first assumptions about this group. A eugenicist wouldn’t want to publish my writing. Sure, he has some questionable viewpoints, and he talks about me like I’m not there, but at least he’s offering me opportunities.

“YESYESYESYES!” I type. 

Jackson smiles. “A personal story would be great. Something that could reassure and inspire parents of kids with this devastating disorder.”

Wait… parents? Like my mom? I wanted to write for fellow autistic people, not the people who did what they did to me… this isn’t… this doesn’t really…

“She’s tired, isn’t she? I’ll send you an info packet about our next autism support meeting. I think it would be helpful for you both, especially Tazu who needs to understand what parents go through. It’s so hard when your child lacks empathy and love is a one-way street, isn’t it?” 

Wow. Now I REALLY hate him. I try to forget and instead see this as an opportunity to share my voice and combat what seems to be the COMPLETE LACK of actual autistic input in this organization. 

A bit later, Dad drives me to the ice cream place as he promised. “Whew, that was HOT!” he comments. “And the drive here was so long! I’m all worn out for the day.”

“We would have gotten here sooner if you didn’t blab on to EVERY SINGLE PERSON YOU MET,” I type. “You’re like a dog sniffing the butts of other dogs.”

I smile. It doesn’t matter that the fair was hot and boring. It doesn’t matter how hurt I was by Jackson wanting to “cure” me of who I am. None of that matters. Because publish publish PUBLISH! 

I turn to my dad for a second. “It’s just—it was a little strange how that man was talking to you about me when I was right there. Also how he’s all into cure and prevention and stuff.”

“Yeah, I didn’t love that either,” he replies. It just felt a bit off.”

“But it’s not important. More important is that I COULD GET FLIPPING PUBLISHED!” 

Dad smiles. “I’m so happy for you too! But to be honest, the way that man talked worried me a bit. Like he didn’t see you as a full person. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“I think I can handle it.” I reply.

“That’s good.” Dad checks his phone. “Hey, I just got an email from Jackson about the autism group. It’s in two weeks. Do you want to come?”

“Sure,” I say. “I’ve always wanted to meet some more of my fellow Autistics.” 

                                                  …..

I pace back and forth, the light shining brightly in my room. I can’t believe I’m going to an autism support group later today. What if they don’t like me? What if they want to get rid of me? But what if they’re really nice? I don’t want to miss out on a great opportunity!

It is 4:30 in the morning. I get up and wake my other dad up, whom I call Pop.

“Hi Taz! You’re up early. What’s up?’

“Hi, soft drink,” I playfully type.

“No, I’m Pop!”

“Hi, champagne. Icky!”

“Your dad and I love that you hate the taste of alcohol.”

“No, icky you!”

“Careful, Taz. Insult me too much and I’ll have to disown you!’

My smile fades. The flashbacks from my old past come flurrying into my head, no matter how many times I try to get them out.

“Oh no, Tazu, not for real…” Pop says. “I only meant to tease you like you teased me. Not make you sad. I would never really… do that. Other teens say ‘I hate you’ to their dads. If ‘icky’ is the worst thing you call me, I think I’m good. Plus… you’ve smelled me after going to the gym. Given how stinky I get, I’m lucky YOU still love ME!”

I hug Pop tightly. Of course I will always love my crazy old Pop. 

I fall back asleep. At a fairly more reasonable time in the morning, I do my daily routine and prepare for the group. 

I walk into a large penthouse, filled with mostly adult parents who as far as I can tell are not autistic. Most don’t have kids with them. Some wear blue puzzle-piece t-shirts with slogans like “AUTISM SPEAKS: IT”S TIME TO LISTEN” and “MY CHILD IS PART OF THE EPIDEMIC BUT THE EPIDEMIC IS NOT PART OF MY CHILD!” I only see one kid, a blonde-haired little girl. 

“Ouch! Daddy, get it out! It hurts, it hurts!” the girl screams. 

“Cassandra, just suck it up. It’s just a tag. Don’t bother me,” her dad says. He’s wearing a shirt that says “VAXXED: SOUNDING THE ALARM FOR MY VACCINE INJURED CHILD.” I know how uncomfortable tags scratching against my back can feel. Non-autistics don’t seem to notice, but my dads have always been sensitive. I’d offer to help, but I don’t want to make a bad impression on the group. A young teenager, wearing a sweatshirt that says “Autistic pride worldwide,” escorts the girl to a small room, where I see a bunch of other kids.

Then, the support group starts, and I follow Dad to the group. 

“This group has been lifesaving for me,” the orange-haired mother of the young teenager exclaims with a smile. ‘It’s been a bit tough ever since my daughter first told me she might be autistic. She discovered it through Tumblr or something. We always thought of her as shy, introverted, maybe even a genius. We denied her diagnosis for a while, but she persisted! Now we’re looking for a professional evaluation.”

Another mom speaks up. “How wonderful! We’ve been helping prepare my son for adulthood. Just found out he has moderate to severe developmental delays in regards to self-care. I hadn’t noticed. I love this group too, though the negativity can sometimes overwhelm me, if I’m being honest.”

“I agree. So much focus on the cure and the missing piece of the puzzle. If you asked my daughter, she’d tell you that her autism is a culture, and only a disability because of society.”

My first impression was completely wrong. These supportive parents, listening to their children and their views on being autistic.

“We, um, appreciate your concerns,” Jackson replies. “However, our group is based in Autism Speaks’ mission statement, which is to find treatment, prevention and a possible cure for autism. Also, autism can be soul-crushingly devastating at times, and it’s important not to whitewash it. However, we understand how it is so easy for those of us with… higher-functioning kiddos to forget what it’s like for other parents.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose that’s true,” the second mother says. “Anyways, our son just had a neuropsych and was diagnosed with moderate to severe developmental delays. His motor skills… his disorganization… his ability to do chores… I always thought that he just couldn’t care less about learning to drive, but now there are cognitive problems holding him back!”

I consider this for a moment, then type to give my insights. “Well, when you’re autistic, development is not linear. For example, some people think I can’t understand them because of my ability to speak.” I glance at Jackson for a second giving him an evil eye. “But I’m rather deep thinker and have good cognitive abilities. Dad has tried teaching me how to drive a car, and it usually ends in confusion and sensory overload. So a smart boy who struggles with household tasks is totally normal for autism.”

The two parents nod appreciatively, while the other parents in the group scoff at me. One man turns to his wife and whispers “I don’t believe she really has severe autism. She’s nothing like my child.” 

“Tazu, you’re here to listen, not comment,” Jackson scoffs, then turns to the group and says “self-absorption is a symptom of autism. This is why we must fundraise for a cure.” 

“Anyways, how have everyone’s weeks been?” Jackson redirects the conversation.

“Mine was awesome! My daughter said her first word! Just like a normal child,” one dad says.

“That’s great!” Jackson replies. “She is on her way to functioning like a child without autism.” 

“Horrible. Cassandra made another mess. Paints all over,” the dad of the little girl with the itchy tag says. 

“My daughter used to do that. She said she was going to be an artist. I just told her that if she makes a mess, she cleans it up! I had the most lovely artwork, though,” the mother of the teen girl says.

“Well, you have a very high functioning daughter,” Cassandra’s dad says. “Cassandra’s results could never be called art. It’s just a mess. Cassandra is low functioning. She’ll never fit into society. We’ve been implementing behavioral interventions but I really don’t see the benefits. All the shrieking! And the bizarre motions with her hands! At this point, sure, I don’t expect total compliance, but at this point I’m fed up. This intensive therapy is just not working. I want my money back.” He sighs. “All this because of a measles vaccine.”

I shudder. Intensive therapy….

Four years ago….

Torture. Torment. Terror. Treachery. Nope, when you’re autistic, it’s just treatment. And that’s what I was subjected to, for forty hours a week. A therapist would come over and do drills with me, 6 hours a day, every day. “Touch green.” “Look at me.” “Say ‘I love you’ now.”  “Good girl.” “Do what I say or you’re a bad girl.” “Let’s see if you’ll behave.” 

I didn’t know it then, but there was a word for this: ABA-based behavioral therapy, with aversives, the only scientifically proven treatment for kids like me.

“You need to look at me, Tazu,” the tall, intimidating, slightly overweight therapist Becca, says. Oh no, not this again, I can’t do it. It hurts too much. 

“Do as I say or you’re a bad girl.”

 I immediately look up. It immediately sends my thoughts scattered in a million directions, and it’s almost as if she can read into my soul. My eyes start watering and burning and I can hardly focus. Spears of hot pain rush through my eyes and and and

I look away and start rocking back and forth to calm myself. 

“BAD GIRL!” Becca yells at me, and spanks me. She reaches for her bottle and sprays vinegar into my mouth. I am miserable, but I can’t resist. Being a “bad girl” will only make it worse. 

                                                       …..

Intensive therapy. Behavioral intervention. Total compliance.

That’s what Cassandra’s dad wants done to her. The same kind of nightmare I lived. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. 

I can hear Dad’s voice. “Tazu! Tazu, look at me!”

“EYE!” I shout. “No eyes,” Dad says. “No eye contact. Just Dad. You’re with me now. You’re safe.” I hug him tightly. He’s right. Aversive therapy is in the past. If a therapist ever hurt me, my dads would fire them. No more forced eye contact. No more punishments. I’m safe.

“Can you smell my shampoo?” Dad asks.

I reach for my phone. “I also smell your B.O,” I type. 

I hear the voice of the orange-haired mother. “Maybe you guys would like to step out, go to the kids’ room for a minute?”

“I’m fine,” I say. “Jackson said I’m supposed to be, um, learning what parents go through. I can’t do that in the kids’ room.” 

I begin rocking back and forth to put out the internal fire happening in my head.

“That’s the same thing that Cassandra does! Her father lets her do it in public? Negligent! She’ll never go anywhere if she acts this strangely,” Cassandra’s dad says. 

Dad sighs. “Tazu, you might not need a break, but I definitely do. Will you come with me?” 

I nod and follow him to the kids’ room. I can hear Cassandra’s dad in the background. “I don’t know how that man puts up with that daughter,” he says. “If I had a child who didn’t talk and acted like that…”

“That went much worse than I was expecting,” Dad says. “Some of those parents were so judgmental about their kids. I’m so sorry I exposed you to that.”

Just then, the young teenager with the “Autistic Pride” shirt comes up to me. “My name is Stella. What’s your name?”

I reach for my keyboard. “My name is Tazu. I’m 16 years old.”

“Really?” she asks. “You’re so small! I read that anxiety can cause stunted growth in girls. That study wasn’t specific though. It only said ‘girls.’ Like do trans girls count? What about trans guys and non-binary folks? Is it based on gender identity or sex assigned at birth? They really should have specified.”

“Yeah, they should have,” I agree. As a pansexual cis girl, I also dislike cisnormativity. 

“Yeah,” Stella says. “Wait, what were we talking about before?”

“We were discussing the mystery of why I am tiny,” I type.

“Well whatever you are, tiny is cute!”

I blush. “Thank you,” I reply. 

And then a little girl gallops into the room. She has messy blonde hair and blue eyes. She looks about 7 years old, 8 maybe. “I’m Cassandra! Or Casey if you forget.”

“Nice to meet you! This is Tazu, and I’m her dad,” Dad says.

Casey wiggles anxiously. “Are you friends with my dad?”

Not in a million years, Dad silently mouths to me. “No.” 

Casey relaxes. “Why didn’t you stop Tazu from wiggling?”

“Because I think people can wiggle if they want to,” says Dad.

“Wow,” Casey says admiringly. “You’re awesome. Tazu, I got an idea. Can you abobt me too?”

“Do you mean ADOPT you?” Dad says.

“Yeah! Dad wouldn’t mind. He wants to send me away. He thinks I’m annoying. He thinks I’m, um, hurt by a vaccine or something.”

Just then, her dad comes in. “Cassandra! There you are! Sorry about my daughter. She has no sense of boundaries.”

“Oh, okay. Well, see you next week for the next meeting?” Casey asks. 

Yes, it was a bad meeting. Yes, it triggered me. But I can’t help myself. This little girl, mistreated by her father… I can almost see my past self in her.

“Of course I will see you next week,” I say. “We are friends now.”

DAD POV

Casey reluctantly trudges back to her dad’s car as I stare in shock.

Tazu just agreed to go to another meeting.

To return to the place that set her off.

To expose herself to people who could remind her of her past.

How can I protect her? How can I protect her from the PTSD, the nightmares, the distrust of anyone around her?

It took so long to get her to trust us. I don’t want to risk that progress. I take a deep breath. Maybe I’m just being an overprotective father. “Tazu, I get that you feel bad for Casey, but I want you to think about yourself too. You screamed at that meeting. It looked like you had a flashback.”

Tazu nods her head. She gets it.

TAZU POV

“I understand,” I type. “Casey’s dad is a jerk, so is that other man, and Jackson didn’t stop them. Plus the fact he thinks autism was caused by vaccines—if I ran a group that alone would be a reason to expel someone. But that’s why we SHOULD be there. To give that girl a bit of light in her life.” 

This is a dilemma. A conundrum.

I like that word, conundrum. If I could talk, which I can’t, I would say the word out loud over and over, just to taste the crispiness of it. 

Jackson walks over. “Hello! Now I know Tazu had unreasonable behavior at the meeting, but I hope she’ll come to next week’s.  It’s good for her to think about her audience and not let her low-functioning autism get in the way.” 

I nod. This seems to make Jackson happy. 

Just then, Stella’s mom enters the room. “So sorry about that meeting,” she says. “That man has an attitude problem. Do you want to come to the beach with us? We’ll be talking about boring grownup stuff like mortgages and parenting, but our daughter Stella will be there.”

I nod. 

I am at the beach with Stella and her best friend, Jeffery, who is also autistic. We have a nice conversation about art, the world, movies, and cat videos, which Stella loves.

Stella and Jeffery are very cute. Especially—especially Stella. I have been noticing… things. “Are you a couple?” I ask. They both start laughing maniacally. “Boys aren’t my type,” Stella says. “And gay girls aren’t my type,” says Jeffery. “We’re best friends.” 

I switch the subject, embarrassed. “Anyways, Jackson from Autism Speaks asked me to contribute an essay—”

Stella and Jeffery exchange a concerned glance at each other.

Later, I work up the nerve to ask Stella out. A grin spreads across her face and she starts rocking excitedly. I assume that’s a yes. A big silence surrounds us until she finally says “I could tell when I first met you that you… swing that way. I may be socially delayed, but I have a very fine-tuned gaydar.”

I laugh. 

A few days later:

Me and Pop walk into a large office, with blue puzzle pieces all over it. Jackson is right there, wanting to discuss my opportunities.

“I’m so glad you guys could make it here,” he says. We discuss the essay. I’m getting paid a lot! “Besides the essay, I’d like to offer you two amazing opportunities. One, my coworker is making a documentary about autism and its effect on families. She invited you to speak for it. Two, a reality TV show would like to interview you.”

“YES YES YES YES YES!” I type. I’m going to be TV famous! Hooray!

“Glad to hear it,” Jackson says. “Your name will bring us so much publicity.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Hi guys, thanks for reading! I wanted to include a little guide for how to best interact with autistics. Yes, I am Autistic myself, though verbal. 

1. Respectful language: Most autistic people prefer using “identity first” language (“autistic people” or “autistics”), rather than “people with autism.” This is because autism is integral to our identities and isn’t a disease that can be separate from us. As well, we prefer not to use terms like “suffering” or “struggling” with autism because it’s just who we are, not a burden. As you read the story, pay attention to who uses what language.
2. Charities: Organizations like Autism Speaks have been criticized for lack of autistic input and negativity. Instead, support organizations like the Autistic Self Advocacy Network, the National Autistic Society, or the Autism Women’s And Nonbinary Network. Some red flags for a bad charity are: the use of puzzle pieces or the color blue, promotion of a cure, lack of autistic board members, and promotion of abusive or damaging “autism conversion therapies” such as the behavioral treatment Tazu was subjected to. In part two, you will see an example of a good charity.
3. Help us out socially, but respect our boundaries and don’t force us to socialize. (Yes, disabled people have boundaries too). 
4. Let us flap, bounce, rock, etc. This is called stimming and it is actually organizing for autistic brains. As well, don’t force us to make eye contact.
5. Eliminate the word “retarded” from your vocabulary and don’t use “autistic” as an insult.
6. Always assume that we’re capable: If someone can’t speak, talk to them anyway. Chances are, they’re just as bright as Tazu.
7. Amplify the voices of actual autistic people.

My Silent Resistance PART 2: 

Pop takes me to a small office to be interviewed for the documentary. I’m so excited! Ready to change the world, influence the national conversation about autism, spread the word to make sure that what happened to me and the abuse Casey is living through doesn’t happen again. I want to save all my fellow autistics, or at least make a difference to some of them. I know it can’t happen in a day, but at least this interview is a good step. It’s support group day today, and I’m thrilled about missing this one, though I was hoping to see Casey again. Jackson gives me a blue puzzle piece shirt to borrow for the interview.

I wait for what feels like an hour, maybe two. I’m so bored! I hide behind a plant and rub my hands against it. I throw off the Autism Speaks shirt. Writing for this company is okay, but I don’t think it quite deserves me publicly advertising it. Just then, a young woman, wearing an Autism Speaks shirt, walks up to me. “Hello, Tazu,” she says in a coo-like voice, as if she’s talking to a puppy. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” 

“Sure, ask away,” I say. 

“When did you learn that you had autism?” she asks. 

“Um, I kinda always knew. I mean, it was kinda obvious. My parents thought I couldn’t hear them, so they talked about it all the time in front of me and how much of a burden it was. They whispered ‘autism’ like it was a dirty word. I was diagnosed early, I think?”

“And how do your parents feel about it?” she asks.

Dads. Focus on dads. “My dads love me for my true authentic autistic self.  They try to accommodate me the best as possible. They take me to respectful therapies that don’t try to change who I am, but make my life easier as an autistic person. The therapies they take me to help maximize me rather than normalize me. Trauma and fear still get in the way sometimes, and I still have occasional meltdowns, but with their support and love, I’ve grown into a somewhat well-accomplished autistic person.” 

Not well-accomplished enough to be able to hold a job outside of an autism organization, though, or even hold myself together in a job that is in one. Not well-accomplished enough to get over the fear, the pain, the flashbacks, the inner ghosts from my old life. 

I sigh. Probably won’t share that with the interviewer. The stereotype is that autistic people have no feelings besides desperation and self-hatred, and I don’t want to give way to that stereotype. 

“Um, we use Person First language here. You’re not ‘autistic’, you’re a person WITH autism. Anyways… what about your REAL parents?”

My… “real” parents….

When I was little, my parents never bothered to teach me to communicate. I was always trying to please them, but it never worked. They never talked to me, but in my dealings with them (or perhaps as they would put it, their dealings with me) I discovered three things.

1. That my parents didn’t like me. They spoke of having another child, a “normal” one, to alleviate their suffering, but also expressed concern that the next kid would also “turn out wrong” (i.e, autistic.) When they did have another kid, they quickly changed their mind and aborted the baby because “imagine how hard her life would be, growing up with a sister like that!”  Whether I got a sibling or not, the point was this: In their eyes, I was a Worst-Case-Scenario, a Tragic Outcome, a Defective Factory Product, a baby they’d have aborted if they only knew what it would become. I was a failure.

2. The reason why I was a Failure, a Not-Quite-Human-Person, and not “normal” like the people I looked up to, was because I “had autism.” No one ever talked directly to me about this (“she’s too incompetent to understand her affliction”) but my parents spit it out in front of me like it was a dirty word.

 “All this because of.. autism.”
 

“You really should go easier on Tazu. Her defectivity, her…. autism.. she’s not the one who cursed us with it. It was Jesus. Jesus Christ wronged us and made our life hell… made our daughter hell.”

 “Autism prevents my daughter from ever being fully lovable and us from ever gaining our sanity. Why do all these self-righteous social justice warriors tell us it’s a gift, a ‘neurodiversity’, a hidden joy? There is no joy in this child.” 

“I want out of this… autism. I want out of this monster. I want out of this child”. 

I never really knew what “autism” meant, but all I knew was that I had it, it was a monster, and therefore I was a monster, could never be lovable, was a curse from Jesus. When I really came to understand myself was when I later discovered the autistic community online, who were probably the “self-righteous social justice warriors” my parents tried to shield me from. Before I met them I saw the world in two groups: Failures and Normals. When I found this community, my world was changed- more than changed. A whole new world, populated by people like me. (Some of them also said that Autism Speaks was a hate group, and I’m starting to see that from my time here, but… who cares? Probably just a vocal minority). To my parents however, autism was far from a culture. I learned that if I stopped having autism, Mommy and Daddy would like me, and I’d stop being a Failure. I’d become a sacred Normal, like Mommy and Daddy and Becca were. 

3. Because I had autism and was a Failure, I was never safe. Therapists would scream and pin me down and lock me in the dark, all in the name of compliance training, applied behavior analysis (ABA), hard work, “tough love.” People say ABA is like dog training for kids… I couldn’t disagree more. No reasonable dog trainer would treat a dog that way. My mom tortured me too at the therapist’s recommendation. My dad was the more sympathetic one. He was the one who made the comment about autism not being my fault but being Jesus’s fault instead when my mom yelled about how much I had robbed her of. (He was a very devout Christian who also happened to believe being gay was a sin). He was the one who called the police when it happened so I wouldn’t die. He didn’t hurt me or anything, didn’t abuse me, didn’t hit or punish me. He always said “I love the child but hate the autism” while my mom was more like “hate the child because of the autism.” But for all the abuse it caused me, being on the spectrum with parents like mine gave me a unique (dis)advantage.

Non-autistics are always so discreet. There’s a meme I saw on the Internet: a smiling zombie going look at me I’m a neurotypical, I give weird hints about things instead of just telling people! So much confusion, so much fuss over not being rude or offending people, and it’s like, just tell me already! But because my parents assumed I couldn’t understand them, and they hated me so much that they had every intention of being rude to me, they said exactly what they thought of me right to my face. They gave me suggestions for how to make them like me, and I didn’t even have to ask: don’t be so loud, stop those bizarre motions with your hands, start speaking, make eye contact. Because of this direct advice, I lived to appease them: but it never worked. 

My.. real parents….

I want to speak. About my experiences with abuse and self-hatred, about the trauma that came along with living with parents who hated me and my brain, even about it. But something in this woman tells me it’s not safe. I want to speak so badly. Want to resist, but I can only resist through actions, not words. And if my resistance is silent, it’s pretty much useless, right? 

I kick my leg up. “NOOOOOO!” I scream. The fire starts up in my brain again. I’m so ashamed. I’m having a meltdown—on live TV! 

I can hear the interviewer saying “Defiance is a symptom of autism. Individuals afflicted with the condition may have tantrums for no reason. You can see how this must feel for parents.”

How this must feel for parents…. how would my mom feel?

 i hate her i hate her she’s ruining my life

gotta get rid of her we must get rid of her now

burden strain crisis epidemic 

I start crying, then bang my head against the wall as hard as I can to make the pain more physical than emotional (in the background, the interviewer says, “self-injurious behavior is a symptom of autism”). I type “TURN OFF CAMERAS” mid-meltdown, but she doesn’t listen. 

I’ve just proven myself unworthy of dignity. The public is going to see my meltdown and think that’s what autistics look like, all we’re capable of. I’ve let down the community I promised to serve.

To avoid further humiliation, I dash out of the building. (I’m preparing for the interviewer to say, “elopement is a symptom of autism” any minute now.) I text Pop to come get me, and tell him about the interview and what a disaster it was. He texts back, “I’m sorry to hear about what a PITA that woman was. Can you hold on for a few minutes? Still at the support group. Parents are being PITAs there too. I was just about to call them out on it and give an angry speech on how au-some we are before you texted!” (PITA is text talk for pain in the ass). He texts again, “Love you my fellow Autie. Stay strong. I should be there in another hour or so.” (Pop is also on the spectrum, though verbal and neurotypical-passing).

“See you in an hour, champaign!” I text back, completely recovered from the meltdown. 

That gives me an hour to hang out with Jeffrey and Stella. I text them and they meet me next to the Autism Speaks building. 

I tell them about the interview, how annoying that woman was, how she publicly humiliated me and it’s going on a documentary. “Utterly disgusting,” Stella types. “Has she ever even met an autistic person, or is she just going off Autism Doesn’t Speak For Sh*t and a whiny parents complaining group chat?”

We all laugh. 

I start questioning myself. This is the only organization that’s been actively criticized by the people they claim to support. No one says the Cancer Foundation doesn’t speak for them, or the NAACP is a racist hate group. It’s not even just that it’s focused on parents either—no LGBTQ person says Parents and Families of Lesbians And Gays doesn’t speak for them either. If Autism Speaks is so bad, why am I working for them? Because I’m pathetic and can’t survive in any other jobs? Which matters more—selfish survival or giving back to my people, my community? The community that taught me not to hate myself, that helped me realize that I actually was a person worthy of respect, not a Worst-Case-Scenario or Defective Factory Product, the community that raised me since the day my dads took me in—is that really worth losing for a so-called “job” where I won’t even be listened to? 

We go out for ice cream. I try an oddly satisfying new flavor-maple with pieces of bacon in it. We have a nice conversation, and Stella and I plan our date. 

We return to the building, and Pop is there waiting for me, along with Stella’s mom and Jeffrey’s mom. 

“Hey guys!”, Pop says. “Stella’s mom was just telling us about an autism positivity group they go every week and thought you guys might want to tag along. It starts in two hours.”

“I guess it sounds fun,” I type. “I’m a bit skeptical of autism groups now though.”

“Don’t worry,” Stella says. “It’s a different kind of group… a better one. The moderator is autistic along with everyone else. People are free to be and move as they want. There are even free fidget toys! And NOBODY treats us as subnormal, like we’re foreign creatures. No negativity. I promise!” 

“There’s a parent group too,” Stella’s mom says.

“I’m not a big fan of those,” Pop says.

“Ours is different. Mostly autistic parents with autistic kids. No negativity there either. And I can assure you, they’re very dedicated to speaking out against Autism Speaks.”

“I don’t know about it. What do you think, Tazu?”

I consider it for a while. “Sounds AU-some!” I finally type. “Let’s go!”

A few hours later

We walk into a huge, loud building with lots of people. A woman hands me, Stella, Jeffery, and our parents tiny pamphlets. “Welcome to the Autistic Self Advocacy Network!” she says. “Our goal is to empower, accept, embrace, support, and give resources to autistics worldwide. So, are you guys here for the support groups?”

Stella and her mom were right. This seems like a much better type of group already. There is a box of fidget toys, many kids and adults of all ages bouncing and flapping freely, everyone is wearing shirts and pins like “AU-TASTIC” and “GOD CREATED AUTISM TO DECREASE THE ASTONISHINGLY HIGH NUMBER OF BORING PEOPLE ON THIS EARTH,” and there are posters on the wall like “you are welcome here,” and “your brain is not broken.” That noise though! I cover my ears, and the chaotic drilling in my eardrums softens. (It’s not as loud as the Autism Speaks penthouse though. Why is it even called a penthouse? Just sounds like rich people apartments to me. Then again, rich people apartments sounds like an oxymoron.)

“There are noise cancelling headphones in the back if you need them,” the woman calls out. “We try to keep ASAN as sensory-friendly as possible. So sorry about all the noise.”

I get my headphones. The woman escorts us and our parents to our support groups. As I’m following her, I notice a huge drawing. On the top of it, it says, “NeuroQueer: Supporting transgender and gender nonconforming autistic people since the beginning of time.” A thousand people have drawn photos of themselves. 

I open my eyes. Fluorescent lights above, voices chattering, desks scraping. I sit on a hard wooden seat while a tall figure looms over me. It waits until the talking ceases, the tables settle, and then it speaks. A low, gravelly voice, sending chills up and down my spine. The voice is shrouded by itself, but not unintelligible. 

“Where is your paper, Wilson?” Here he pauses, and it seems like my math teacher is rising in size. “Taylor? Davis?” 

The kids next to me, also jammed in desks, seem to shrink in their seats as the monster turns to each of us. All the other students have left, leaving three of their peers to face the wrath of this beast. I wonder about those other students. They’ll be at recess now, laughing, playing, knowing that they’re not in trouble and they won’t suffer in the least. I remember when I was one of those kids. Bouncing carefreely out the door, straight As, never in trouble. Of course, that doesn’t appeal to me now. Ever since–

“I announced it three times yesterday,” the voice jolts me back. With a whimper, the kid on my right, Jordan Davis, begins to speak, but is silenced by the creature’s next words. “Three times, Davis. Close your mouth.” The figure turns away in disgust. “You will see me after school. Three thirty. Do. Not. Be. Late.” His words, though not loud, leave our ears ringing as we murmur our consent, rise from our seats, and quietly file out of the room. 

“Bro, Grossman’s a beast!” Prince Taylor, my best friend, says. 

“Yeah man, you don’t mess with the Grossmonster,” I say, punching him back lightly on the shoulder. “I thought Jordie was gonna pee himself!” Prince cracks up, playfully nudging our timid friend on the shoulder. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Jordie’s pale skin flushes, and he brushes his blond hair out of his earth-colored eyes. He used to be a teacher’s pet, but hasn’t fully conformed to our system. 

“Man, you need a haircut!” I say, grinning. 

The kid’s eyes roll again. “At least I don’t look like some military-school dropout!” 

We all laugh at this. Before my mom got depressed, she tried to send me to some hardcore “Academy for Troubled Teens” or something. Prior to leaving, she shaved my head, but then she couldn’t make me leave the house after that. My hair is still growing back, leaving me looking like a small, hazel-eyed Justin Timberlake.  

“After all that trouble, I don’t think I want to endure the lunch monitor screaming at me for no apparent reason,” I say, smirking. “Wanna skip?” 

“Sorry, man, we got English next period, and you know Mrs. Jones calls parents,” Jordie says, and Prince nods.

 “Alright, see you in detention.” I stroll down the hall nonchalantly towards the back entrance of M.S. 13. 

Suddenly, someone comes out of the classroom on my left so quickly that I have no time to react. She plows into me, knocking me to the floor. 

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” I look up from my spot on the floor to see a girl with long, black hair and deep, olive eyes. She’s wearing faded jeans, orange Converse, and a Penn State sweatshirt. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, embarrassed, hurrying to my feet. I try to step past her outside, but she moves, blocking my only way out. 

“Where are you going?” she asks me suspiciously. 

“I, uh, think I left my water bottle outside.” For some reason, I’m thrown off by this girl’s sharpness. Mostly, the hall monitors let me pass, but she’s different. 

“I think you’re lying.” She says this definitively, no doubts about her statement. 

Relax, D. I think. She’s just another seventh-grade student who probably won’t care too much if I sneak off. After all, it doesn’t affect her in the least. Why should she worry? 

Offering her a lazy smile, I begin to continue past her down the hallway. 

As I’m about to open the door, I hear a whisper. 

“If you do that, I’ll tell Mrs. Jones,” The girl stage-whispers, turning the heads of some students working on laptops in the hallway. 

I sigh. There’s no reason to argue with this girl. What’s the point? I would just get in more trouble. 

D, maybe there’s no point in skipping. You’re broke and will get caught by the security guard anyway. There’s nothing to do without Jordie and Prince, so lay off it. 

I cast the girl a glare, and march off towards the cafeteria. 

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

“Dude, we thought you had chickened out on skipping or something!” Prince says. “So this girl stops you?”  

“That’s right, man,” I respond. We stop in front of Grossman’s classroom. Jordie knocks, and approximately fifteen slow seconds tick by until the daunting man opens his door. He grins, and leads us to three desks in the middle of the room. “You will sit here in silence for half an hour. If one of you talks, ten minutes will be added to your sentence.” 

Sentence. The last time I heard that word was in a courtroom. My dad stood in the middle, head bowed, hands shackled behind his back. The judge banged his gavel. “Mr. Wilson, you have been sentenced to four years in federal prison for breaking and entering, theft, and the injury of other citizens.” 

Next to me, my mother burst into tears. “Why, Frank, why?” I heard her mumble through her grief. My father’s lawyer, Bill, turned to me. He looked angry. He opened his mouth to speak, but what comes out is Mr. Grossman’s voice. 

“Wilson, if you want to stay, by all means, be my guest. Your friends would be disappointed though, I’m sure.” 

I jerk awake, and look up to see my evil teacher towering above me. I grab my bag and race out the door as fast as my legs can carry me, beating my friends outside by ten whole seconds. We joke around for a couple minutes, but soon we have to go. 

As Jordie, Prince, and I part ways, I sit on a bench in front of the bus stop, staring down at the floor. I hate detention, but I hate my father even more for being in jail and doing all those stupid things. I dig around in my pocket for the unfinished math homework, checking the bus schedule as I pull it out. While I was stuck in detention, the bus came and went, so I have half an hour to wait. Shrugging and checking around for any classmates that may catch me doing work, I begin on the algebraic equations. They’re actually not that boring, and by the time the bus comes, I’m almost finished with the paper. Smiling to myself, I complete the last two problems on the short bus ride to my house. 

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

When I get home, I find Mom crashed on the couch, bottle of wine more than half empty next to her on the floor. Previous stains are located on other places of the old green rug that Dad gave to Mom when they got married. I don’t bother hiding them under old newspapers anymore, they’ve basically become a part of the shaggy piece of cloth. Mom’s still in her waitress uniform when I cover her with a blanket, the soft corners falling over her sleeping form. Her breath wafts up to me, the alcohol heavy, as I kiss my mother on her pale, overworked cheek. Turning away, I lug my schoolbag down the hallway to my room, not one thing out of place. Everything is tidy and neat, unlike the rest of the apartment. I fall asleep twisted in sheets that offer no comfort to my dreams that night.  

I’m standing in the middle of my math classroom. The Grossmonster is standing there with that annoying girl from the hallway. The teacher sneers. Your father’s in prison? Detention, see me at three thirty. I start to protest, and then I hear laughing. I turn around to find Adam and Jordie laughing their heads off. What happened? I cry out, and suddenly the whole school–Hannah from Biology, Toby from History, Alex from English–they’re all there, surrounding me, laughing their heads off. It’s maniacal laughter, their heads thrown back and fingers pointing. I look down at myself, and realize that I’m not wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants anymore. My outfit has changed drastically. I’m dressed in a gray jumpsuit, no pockets and a number tacked to my chest. The walls of the classroom begin to transform, forming a cell, but my classmates are with me, closing in…

I wake up covered in sweat and shaking. It was just a dream, I tell myself. I get up and shuffle around in complete darkness, my hand shaking as I grope around for my cell phone. It’s 5:24 AM, so I do what I always do after a nightmare–I search up my father’s case. 

Wednesday, November 16, 2010-–Marcus Wilson, with a history of federal offences and warnings, has finally been convicted of theft. The crime occurred earlier this year, when two armed, masked figures stormed a jewelry store and stole two diamond necklaces, one sapphire stone ring, and three pairs of pure gold earrings, three inches in length. One employee was injured in the process, receiving a broken wrist after being roughly shoved into a glass cabinet and falling to the floor. The other workers survived with minor injuries. Marcus Wilson and Anthony Johnson both pled guilty and were sentenced to four years in federal prison. Marcus has a wife and child, and Anthony has no family members that we were able to contact. The suspects and their families were not available for comment. 

I shut off my phone and walk to the living room, where my mother is watching the local news. 

“Morning, Mom,” I say, rubbing the last bits of sleep from my eyes. “You’re feeling better?” 

She gives me a watery smile. “I love you, Dashiell. You are your father’s son…”  Her half-lidded eyes return to the TV, and I nod to please her, now pondering the thought of what my dad was like as a young man. When he wasn’t involved with drugs, gangs, crime… I plop down next to her and put my head in my hands, unable to get the thoughts about my father out of my head.

“Hey Mom, how long has it been since we’ve visited Dad?” I know the answer. The last time we visited, I got really angry at him. We got into a yelling fight, and the visit was canceled early. It’s been over nine months. 

“Honey, I don’t know. Sometimes things go by in a blur, or they drag out slowly…” Her words are beginning to slur, so I take the bottle of wine from her hand and set it aside. We watch TV until I realize I’m going to be late for school. 

“Bye, Mom!” I shove last night’s paper into my schoolbag and run to catch the bus. 

I decide that after school, I’m going to do something that I haven’t done in nine months.

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

I square my shoulders and walk into my dad’s temporary home. The guards pat me down, I sign some papers, and since I’m thirteen, I don’t need a parent or guardian here with me. The big security guy leads me through the familiar hallways, down the metal stairs, and into the basement, where Block C is located. We pass a couple doors, I read the numbers. J-9873. M-4277. O-3858.  I wonder how all these men got here. What did they do? Do they have families that visit, or do they just waste away in their cells for fifteen years? Are they actually guilty, or were they framed for a crime? I realize all the questions and words buzzing around in my head are making my hands sweat and my mouth dry. I lick my lips and take a deep breath. We stop outside a door that reads W-8309. I know that number very, very well. 

“Wilson, you got a visitor!” The guard yells at the door. I can hear shuffling inside the cell, and there’s an awkward silence. 

“He’s being pretty good. He could be out soon.” The guard continues. I nod, and then two hands are placed gently through the gap in the middle of the door. I stare at my dad’s hands. They look pretty normal, no scabs or scratches. That’s good, I tell myself reassuringly. The guard cuffs Dad’s hands quickly, expertly, and they withdraw. The door is opened. 

My father stands, head down, hands cuffed in front of me. He’s wearing a gray jumpsuit like the one I had in my dream. My father raises his head, and I look him in the eye for the first time in months. His face is hollowed and gaunt, his eyes sunken and his cheekbones quite prominent. 

“Dad?” I ask, my eyes already filling with tears. He’s unable to speak, I see his eyes light up with shock and sadness, and I can’t help but rush to him, hugging, loving, wanting. We stay like that for a long time, until I pull away. 

“You’ve grown so much, Dashiell. I haven’t seen you for such a long time…” He says, voice hoarse. His shaggy brown hair falls into his face, and he wipes it away, along with a stray tear. 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. 

He looks at me for the longest time. Finally he whispers, “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Dashiell. I should never have gotten involved with Anthony and those guys. I’m sorry for being hard on you. Will you forgive me?” 

Without hesitation, I hug him again. “Yes, yes, yes,” I say. We end up moving to a table inside my father’s cell. He asks about Mom, and I tell him she’s a bit of a mess. He gets up, takes something from under his pillows, and returns. He gives it to me. I examine the bundle. It’s a stack of letters, bound by a piece of twine. 

“I wrote these to your mother,” Dad says softly. “I’ve decided to work on the better me. When I get out of here, I won’t look at the gangs and my old buddies again. I’m going to be a new man, Dashiell. A new man.” He seems delighted with himself, so I smile as well. We chat for a little more, and of course we reach the inevitable subject–school. I spill everything; skipping school, the trouble my friends have got into. When the guard signals that our two hours are almost up, my father takes my hand. 

Looking me in the eye, he says, “Son, you may not be the most well behaved kid at school. Actually, it sounds like you and your buddies are the troublemakers. And it sounds cool at the time, but you’ll start getting into serious trouble. You’re definitely going to regret what you did, and there’ll be consequences. That’s exactly what happened to me, and I beg you not to go down that path. Please, son, choose what’s right and be the better person. Stay away from people who lead you down a dangerous path. Remember, I love you, and your mother loves you too, so please avoid situations that are.” 

He squeezes my hand, and the guard escorts me out of the room. As the door closes, I wave and say just loud enough for him to hear; “I love you too, Dad.”

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

Epilogue

When D got home, his mom was snoozing on the couch. He gently shook her awake.
“Hey, Mom. I… visited Dad today.” Feeling tired, he left the letters next to her bottle of Bud Light and retired to his room early. When he woke up and strolled down the hall the next day, the smell of eggs and bacon reached his nose. Rubbing his eyes hard, D saw his mother making breakfast in the kitchen, a pile of open letters on the counter. As he got closer, he saw the letters contained his dad’s handwriting. 

“How much bacon, D?” his mother asked. 

D went back to school that day. He walked in with Katie and a smile on his face. Looking the feared math teacher in the eye, he held out a neat, fully completed homework assignment. When Prince started making cat noises during the lesson, D didn’t join in. Jordie and Prince came up to him later that day.

“What’s up with you, man?” Jordie looked concerned, but Prince had a menacing look on his face as he stood defiantly behind Jordie, arms crossed. 

  “I… don’t want to do this anymore. I’m sick of playing around, getting in trouble, and never taking anything seriously. We’ll get into bigger trouble, you know.” 

Both his friends’ expressions hardened. 

“I thought we were real friends, Dashiell,” Prince spat at him. They walked away, wanting nothing to do with him anymore. 

It was sad to watch his old friends ignore him, but Dashiell started hanging out with other kids after that, grades improving as well as his various relationships. 

 A few months after D’s visit, his father went on trial for the last time and the judge let him go. D’s life was finally piecing back together, especially since his father came back. 

A sustained shriek rips through the raven-dark air. A young boy emerges from a building, his eyes alight with fear. He takes a step into the night, slowly at first, and then sprints. He reaches the opposite sidewalk and disappears into another building. 

Shoes. Thousands of shoes. In every color, shape, and size. Here, near the street lamp, there’s a pair of black leather pumps, stomping up and down in a frenzy. Across the block, a pair of well-worn, mud-caked hiking shoes performs a tapdance. Over there, down by the red brick townhouse is a collection of neon sneakers. All of them dance around this angry Sun-on-Earth. It cackles and dances and glints. It plays and spreads and reaps the block of its population. 

A young woman clutches her shawl, tears wetting the soft cloth. She is the source of the scream. Her mouth is open, her sound lighting the thousands of ears grouped around the fearsome fire. 

A man in a navy-blue pinstripe suit holds onto his briefcase for his life. His daughter is gone. His watch shines with the reflection. She’s disappeared into the mass, yet to appear. Which mass?

The people scream, but the young boy is deaf. All he knows is that his mother descended into the street thirty minutes ago and he hasn’t had dinner yet. He treads to the floor-length window and screeches a sound he cannot hear.

They lick the street and eat the sidewalk without a moment of consideration. Buildings are devoured in a matter of seconds. It advances. The brave knights who hold the hoses and those too desperate to try to salvage their own lives are the only ones who remain near this beast. It growls and laughs at the few helpless and stupid enough to tease it. It pounces and engulfs them. 

A second sun emerges. It tears the sky heavy with tears into a dreadful begonia. The stars fall, one by one. 

The person in only a purple Peanuts t-shirt advances into the flower, ready to be eaten.

This is a flower of night. It fades and crumples and grays as another one takes its place, ravaging the sky. 

The fire was beautiful. It was the color of wheat in harvest season. It smelled of cinnamon and campfires. It glinted like a million mirrors and faded like a tired firefly. It kissed the earth with passion, love almost. 

No one will remember this. They will remember only the old man who limped and leaned on his old wife. They all limp. Every single one of them limps, whether their limbs be lithe and lean or wizened and broken. They are oldened, every one of them: wrinkles line their faces like old war-paint; their eyes are sunken and flighty. They will remember the picture released in the press, the following day, a lifeless representation of the arid desert lacking everything of the city’s breath. An urban tundra, frozen over, for none to survive.

The flower has faded.

As I was walking home, sobbing in the rain, I get a text saying, I’m sorry, I love you, I hope you will be happier than you were with me. I keep crying as I’m walking to the nearest Seven Eleven because I hated Chinese food and right before he dumped me, Dan, brought me to a Chinese restaurant. Even after three years of dating, he still doesn’t know me. But I forget about him, so I walk into the Seven Eleven. 

I start getting slushies and realize that my mascara is all over my face. People at the store are staring, but honestly, who cares? I then buy a bunch of chips. After they kick me out for almost falling asleep on the floor, I walk into the Starbucks attached to the Seven Eleven. I decide to get a venti iced coffee with two shots of espresso. I know, terrible choice, but I personally hate sleeping, and it was already around 3 AM and I need to be at work by 8:45, so I guess I could just deal with it. When I’m done drinking my coffee and eating my cookie dough cake pop, I leave the place. 

As soon as I walk out of the Starbucks, I realize it’s not raining anymore. That kind of cheers me up. I don’t feel like getting an Uber looking like this, so I decide to just walk home. I’m now walking in an alley and I notice it smells so bad. As I’m thinking of what could be in the dumpster right next to me, my stomach starts to churn. But since I’m already grossed out, I might as well text Dan stuff that I’ll probably regret in the morning. 

I start texting him, You don’t deserve anyone you no good heartbreaker. I know, sounds cheesy. Right after I send the text, I hear a sound. It’s quiet but I’m able to hear it. I look around and say, “Is anyone there?” Having a scary movie preference, that is the dumbest thing anyone could ever say. 

So I decide to look around, I then turn back to the dumpster. I was hesitant to lift up the top of it. But I eventually start to hold my breath and open up the dumpster. The smell is repulsive. I want to throw up. As I turn on my flashlight from my phone, I look down and see the most terrifying thing I would ever see in my life. 

It was Dan. He was wrapped up in a black bag, but I could see his face through the clear colored grocery bags. He was so bloody. He looked like he was in a fight then hit really badly. His face had scratches and bruises all over it. His chest was like a lagoon of blood, it was disgusting. I wanted to scream. My ex-boyfriend that I loved endlessly was in a dumpster, dead and soaked in his own blood. I wanted to pull him out to see if he was still alive and able to survive. But I wasn’t stupid. It’s the twenty-first century. People are going to lie, for example. If I’d call the police right about now, what would I say? That I just magically found a dead body in a dumpster that I just happened to be looking through? They’d also find my fingerprints if I checked if he was still alive or pulled him out. So calling someone was not an option at all. But I loved him, but he didn’t love me. I wanted to die. He was so special and kind, except for tonight. 

As I got home, I realized that my apartment door is unlocked and a little open, so I take my taser that I keep in my purse and hold it up. I then walk into my apartment and see that there is blood everywhere. On the walls, on the floor, and on the doors. I cannot believe it. What if this is where Dan died? What if this was something else that didn’t have to do with Dan? As I walk around my apartment, I realize my fridge was open and leaking red liquids. I was terrified of what could lie behind the steel refrigerator door. As I open the door, I see a heart. A bloody, big, red heart. 

I fall on the floor from the shock. I start crying hard, and then have a couple panic attacks. But then I say to myself, what the hell am I supposed to do with this? I can’t call the police because my fingerprints are all over my own house. So I decide to do something crazy, I decide that I would be doing some early spring cleaning. So I put on some sweats, go to Target, get the buy four get 1 free bleach sales. But first, I had to send my boss an email saying that I was sick and couldn’t come to work, so that by morning he’d see my email. Then started scrubbing, scrubbing hard. 

After about six hours of bleaching my house top to bottom, left to right, and side to side, I was so scared of what would happen in the future. Was I supposed to live with this forever? Well I can’t, if you were asking. I honestly want to know who would do such a thing. But before I can think of anything close to that, I have to sleep. I need to rest every part of me that I could think of. Then I start thinking of Dan’s family. He has a sister and two brothers, he has a 5-year-old niece and a cat in his house. He was only twenty-four. He had such a big career in law ahead of him. But then I started wondering who could’ve done it. I start to think of who could possibly have had a grudge against him or even someone who wanted to ruin his career, but that was going to be a hard one because Dan was a famous lawyer for celebrities in LA. After that, I realize that I just can’t sleep. So instead I head to Dan’s house, but I need to prepare for anything. I have an emergency gun and a taser. I also pack a first aid kit just in case I get into an accident. I do realize that I could either be killed or go to jail. 

As I was getting ready to leave for Dan’s house, I remember that I need to make sure that my boss at work knows that I am “sick” and can’t go to work. So I grab my phone from my kitchen counter, check it, and then realize that I have a lot of missed texts and calls. I even have a voicemail in my inbox. So I open my text app. I first see one of my friends from work, Melanie, had texted me, Where are you? So I text back that I was staying home from work today. 

Then I go back to check who else had texted or called me. The text right after Melanie was Dan, and I was anxious to open it. What if the person that did it texted Dan from his phone while he was put in the dumpster to decay? I wasn’t ready, so I just go on to check my voicemail box. And of course, in my voicemails there are possible scam messages, so I go through all of those and block most of them. And after that, I go to check if I have any left, and I have one more. I was thinking I had just missed another scam call, but no, it’s a voicemail from Dan’s phone. I was so scared I could feel my goosebumps spreading everywhere from how scared I was. I know that I was eventually going to have to listen to it, so that time might as well be now. So I carefully open it and put my ear against the speaker. At first, all I can hear are the breaths from someone, then I realize that it’s Dan breathing. It sounds like he was out of breath and running. But what I was about to listen was going to ruin me for life.  

So I’m still listening to the voicemail from Dan, but as I’m closely listening, I hear a guy’s voice come in. He sounds drunk, and I can’t really understand what he’s saying to Dan, which gets me annoyed. But then I hear a door close, so that means the guy either left or someone else is now there. I hear a girl’s voice. It sounds so familiar. It sounds like she was whispering to him or the other guy there. I’m just not sure who the people were. After that, Dan and his “friends” went back and all I could hear was music being blasted and screaming for about an hour in the voicemail. Then I hear the girl whisper again, and I hear Dan and the girl get out or go away from the loud music. I got scared, as if, maybe Dan was cheating on me the night he died. But that wouldn’t matter because we would have already been broken up by that time. As I am still listening, I hear some kind of argument happening. I hear Dan saying, “No stop, I can’t do this anymore, just enough!” As I hear this happening, I quickly understand that whoever Dan was with could’ve been the person who killed him. And that I need to listen very carefully. 

As I’m still listening, I realize that I might’ve known where he went but before I can think, I hear a loud crack and what I thought was a hard fall. I was thinking, the girl that was with Dan at that very moment, or whoever he was arguing with, had hit Dan in the head with something hard. Then waiting for a sound to come up, I hear him say in a vulnerable voice, “Why did you do that to me?” And I hear the girl say, “Because you never loved me.” I then hear a gunshot sound and Dan choking. I was crying so hard. I had just heard the love of my life get shot in the middle of the night. I was disgusted. I wanted to throw up. But I needed to stay strong throughout this experience. 

So I now grab a piece of paper from my bulletin board to write down every girl that I have in record of knowing Dan. I write down some ex-girlfriends, some girls from work, and some friends. After I’m done writing, I put the piece of paper in my bag, lock my door, and leave my apartment. 

As I’m in the taxi to Dan’s house, I start thinking really hard about everything Dan’s ever told me. Maybe there’s a clue on who could’ve done this to him. But I then realize my phone was ringing. I see that it’s Melanie so I pick up. I asked, “Hello?” in a ratchet voice to make her think I was sick. 

She then asks, “Where are you right now?” 

I then panic a little, deciding if I should tell her I’m at home eating soup or if I’m going to the doctor. But as I think about what I’m going to tell her, I start remembering the horrors from last night. At some point I just go with saying, “I’m going to a pharmacy downtown to get medicine.” 

Then she for some reason sounded annoyed, but I just don’t really care right now. She says, “Oh, ok.” She also says in a cute subtle voice, “I can totally bring you soup later when you’re back. I could just let myself in. I still have your keys!”

 And I just tell her to leave them under my door mat after she leaves work. 

But instead of saying, ok, she just says, “Well I’m here right now. I wanted to see how you were feeling.” 

I was kind of confused, but I had to hang up because I needed to pay for the taxi and because I was here at Dan’s house. I was scared of how I would react to see his house, because well, there’re pictures of us together all over it. 

As I walk into the house, I flash back to all the great memories Dan and I had. All the ferris wheel rides, the date nights, the cute cuddling nights at home. Even before we even started dating, I had gotten sick in the middle of a little meetup we had and had to go home. He then showed up at my house with a cute care package that had a teddy bear, chocolates, and a bunch of calming stuff. Going through this is an emotional rollercoaster. I was first in shock, then fearful, then just depressed, and now I’m just a mess. But I really feel like Dan is in the room with me right then and there. It’s hard being there, but I kind of have to. I then start looking around in desks and drawers for any notes or reminders to where or who he could’ve been with. But as I’m skimming each room and piece of paper I can see, I find something weird. 

It looks like some kind of document, at first I was like, Oh that’s just Dan being a lawyer. But as I look through it, I see that there are these confusing notes on it. It looks as if it’s some kind of code. It’s a bunch of numbers. So after waiting and doing nothing for like ten minutes, I finally decide to something productive and search up the numbers of the piece of paper into Google. When I am done writing these literal ten numbers into my phone and messing up the order about five times, I enter it and press search. 

There are only two things that come up, this weird dating website, this website called White pages, and then even more random numbers. After researching on both of them, I decide they are all pointless and aren’t getting me anywhere. So I start thinking, and I realize there are enough digits for it to be a phone number. So as I dial star six seven just in case I don’t know who it is, I dial the rest of the numbers. As it’s ringing, it goes straight to voicemail. And the first thing I feel once I hear the voice of the voicemail is that my heart deflates, my jaw drops from how shocked I am, and I start to cry a little. 

It’s my best friend of two and a half years of work add two years in high school. Melanie. I can hear her voicemail saying, “Hey, it’s Melanie, leave a message.” I was terrified, but there’s no possible way that it was her. She doesn’t even really know Dan. I’ve never even introduced them. My happiness just disintegrates immediately. But the more I think about it, the easier I realize it could’ve been, if she in fact, was the killer. She has the keys to my apartment. And on my little keychain with all my keys. And I told her where I was last night at Starbucks and Seven Eleven. She had everything she could need to kill Dan, or even me! I was terrified and then I realize, someone was at the door. 

I grab my gun ready and loaded, walking slowly down the hall to the front door. My gun is ready to fire, and I have pepper spray in my pocket. I’m ready to go through anything. As I open the door carefully, I see pink hair, Melanie’s hair color. I quickly grab my pepper spray, open the door quickly, and spray her in the eyes. As she screams in pain, I push her to the floor, I take my gun, and say my last four words to her. “Go die in Hell.” Then I point my gun at her, right in her forehead. 

I shoot. 

The last thing I will remember of Melanie and my ex-boyfriend are the blood coming out of their mouths.

3 and a half months later

Now, you all might be asking, what happened? Well, let me tell you. 

After my terrifying experience three months ago, I checked into a mental help bunker, which basically meant I took a break from reality, a couple months of doing therapy and meeting new friends. I started getting sick a lot of the time. I knew in the back of my heart that I was in fact pregnant with Dan’s baby. I was thinking of all the exercises that my therapy had taught me, but I couldn’t resist and just started bawling. So I then checked out of the therapy bunker and went back to the real world. I then had Camille. She looked exactly like Dan. I eventually had to go back to work, but I went to a different place. I also ended up disappearing completely from Dan’s family because I couldn’t bear seeing them. I’m still guilty of that. So yeah, that’s just my life. 

5 years later

“Sweetie! You are going to be late for school, come get your bag, and give mommy a kiss!” I say.

 “Ok, I love you, bye mom!” Camille says as she leaves from the back door. But about five minutes later, she comes back through the back door again saying she missed the bus again. 

In a silly voice, I say, “Ok, I will just drop you off on my way to work. No worries, Milly.” As I’m grabbing my car keys from my kitchen counter, I hear my phone ringing. I was expecting it to be my boss, Larry, asking if I was working today because I had told him before that I might have an opportunity to check out houses near Camille’s new school to move into for a few years. 

But as I check my phone, and it’s an unknown number. I answer and the only thing the person on the other end of the call says is, “Hey.” 

I pause for a minute in silence to realize the heartbreaking realization I had just made. Instead of asking questions, the only words that come out of my mouth are, “Daniel?”

My invention was complete. After seven years, my work had paid off. I walked around the lab, admiring the beautiful machine I had created. It was a proton collider. The first invention I had ever succeeded in making. 

“Chloe, Richard, Dylan. Come down and look at my latest project!”

 My lab was the basement of our house, and my wife always warned me not to blow anything up here. She and my two kids ran down the stairs, ecstatic to see my new invention. As soon as they laid their eyes upon the collider, their eyes brightened. 

“WHOA!” my kids shouted as my wife hugged me with tears in her eyes. 

“You’ve done it Daniel!” she said. “For seven years, everybody mocked you. Laughed about you. Now you can laugh at them. Mock them.” I smiled at this. The thought of laughing at everyone who laughed at me was enough to make me laugh.

“Well, let’s see how it works Daddy!” Dylan shouted impatiently. I smiled at him. 

“Of course.” I walked over to the collider and turned it on. It immediately began to hum as thin balls of energy began to form at the two endpieces. They grew and a thin beam shot out, connecting them. As I marveled at my invention, something odd began to happen. It seemed as if something was stuck within the beam. In the middle, there was a bulge that grew at an exponential rate. When it reached the size of a basketball, it stopped growing. I looked at it curiously. Then I realized what it was. It was too late. 

“RUN!” I shouted at my family as the bulge exploded, opening up a black hole the size of a car. 

I grabbed onto the table and shouted again, “RUN!” My wife grabbed my kids and ran to the back of the lab, frantically looking for something to help me. The black hole grew bigger and stronger as the table I was grabbing onto began to slide. 

“DANIEL!” my wife shouted as I let go of the table and grabbed onto the steel pipe. Hot water moved through the pipe, scalding my hand but I held on tight. As I looked at my wife, she stared back at me with determination. She moved closer to me, making sure she didn’t get sucked in by the black hole and reached out her hand. The pipe groaned as the black hole now grew to the size of the room. I looked at her and closed my eyes. Taking a deep breath, I let go of the pipe, just as it exploded and leapt towards my wife’s hand. She looked at me and reached out even further as my fingertips met hers. Then the black hole grew once again as my fingers slid off hers, and I flew through the air towards the blackhole. I stared right at her and shouted over the howling wind, “I love you Chloe!” as everything went black.

I woke up in a field, surrounded by all sorts of miscellaneous items from my lab. I tried to recall what  had just happened. Memories started to flow back into me as I grew more and more frustrated. Yet again, I had failed to create something that worked. As I looked around me, something caught my eye. It was the garden gnome that Dylan had made. That could only mean… Yes. I was in my yard. My house was right in front of me. Perhaps it had all been a dream. Perhaps I had fallen asleep and… 

“DANIEL!” a familiar voice shouted. I turned my head to the voice. It was my wife Chloe. As I stood up to tell her what I had dreamed, I realized she was glaring at me. 

“What’s wrong?” I asked. 

“I told you to never show your face to me or my kids ever again and you have the gall to just show up in my yard and make a mess!”

 I was shocked. Chloe had never spoken so harshly to me before. 

“GET OUT OF MY YARD! NOW!” She shouted as I stared at her. 

“Chloe I just…” 

“GET OUT BEFORE I CALL THE POLICE!” 

I looked at her one last time and walked away from the house.

I just kept walking. I didn’t know where to go or what to do. As I passed a supermarket on my right, a man walked out and I immediately recognized who it was. 

“Ryan.” I said through gritted teeth.

 He had been the person who had mocked me for trying to make a proton collider and even sabotaged my attempts in the process of creating it. “Oh Daniel. How are you doing?” 

I was surprised to see he was being so nice to me. Normally, he would be such a jerk but he seemed so different. “Umm.. I’m great.” I turned to walk away but he stopped me. 

“Hey, we’re still on for today’s dinner right. 5:30 at John’s?” 

“Umm.. Yeah I’ll be there” I replied and walked away. I was so confused. Why was everyone so different from how I remembered them?

At 5:30 that night, I walked up to John’s and looked for Ryan. He was sitting at the booth at the far left corner so I headed towards him. He smiled at me and I sat across from him. The waiter came with some bread, so I ripped a piece off the loaf and started to eat. Then, something caught my eye as I choked. The man walking through the door was me.

I stared at him and he stared at me. We just looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Then he looked at Ryan and back at me. He dropped his cup and it shattered on the floor. 

“Umm.. Ryan?” he asked.

 Ryan stopped mid-chew and turned around. When he saw my doppelganger, he too choked on his bread. I tried to piece everything together. Why had everybody seem so different from who they were and why was there a clone of me?

 Then I remembered how I ended up here. Everything started to fit together like a puzzle. 

“Ryan. Other Me. When I tell you this, do not freak out. It might sound crazy but it’s true. Ryan, before when I met you outside the supermarket, I was with my family. I had created a proton collider that opened up a black hole that brought me here. When I got here, my wife acted like she hated me and you acted like we were friends. However, in my ordinary universe, my wife and I love each other and you are my worst enemy. This led me to believe that I was in an alternate universe. One that is the exact opposite of what I live in. That means you are my antimatter.”

Ryan and Other Me stared at me like I was crazy. Then they laughed. “Daniel. I’m sure that you’ve had a long day. Maybe you should just go home and rest for today.” Ryan said. 

Other me looked at him and back to me. “Well, it may be possible. Although proton colliders aren’t supposed to create black holes. If you make a mistake with the wires, it may malfunction to create one. But what kind of universe have you ended up in?” 

I looked at him. “Let’s find out. Other Me. Shake my hand.” I extended my hand to him. As soon as our hands met, pain seared from my hand. Almost like a burning feeling from acid. I quickly retracted my hand and looked at it. The entire layer of skin on my hand had burnt off. “This is what happens when antimatter meets matter.” I said to them.

“Well if this is true, we have to find a way for you to get home,” Ryan said to me. 

“Well let’s establish something. If I have any more physical contact with Other Me, we will both be completely destroyed. No more touching alright?” I looked at Other Me and he nodded. “Okay. I think I have a way for me to get back to my universe. I need to make another proton collider in order to get back home. It’s an extremely risky move and I could theoretically end up in any other universe or possibly even get stuck in the time-space continuum, but it’s the only way. Do any of you have a lab lying around anywhere that I can use?”

Ryan just shook his head but Other Me’s face brightened as he looked at me and asked, “Did you say proton collider? I have a lab with one already made. The problem is where it is…” 

I looked at him excitedly. “Where is it?” 

He hung his head low. “It’s in the basement of Chloe’s house.” 

I looked at him. Just why. Of all places, WHY?! “Oh yeah. What happened with Chloe?” I asked. 

He sat down. “It’s a long story. Let me tell you.”

“When Chloe and I got married, we each had different aspirations. I wanted to be an inventor who created inventions that changed the world. I wanted to travel around the world and enter competitions and constantly keep learning. Chloe wanted to start a family and raise them to do great things. I decided that my dreams could wait and I would help Chloe raise a family. After we had our second kid Dylan, I decided that I would enter a small competition in our state and invent something. When I won first prize, I realized that I had so much talent and I could be an amazing inventor if I had the chance. I decided to go big. Without telling my wife, I bought a plane ticket to Australia to go and compete in the international competition. Surprisingly, I won and although my wife was upset with me for not telling her about it, she was proud. After winning the international competition, my wife thought that was the end of my journey and I should come home to be with my kids, but I wanted to become even greater at inventing. I wanted to solve the world’s greatest mysteries. When my wife heard about this, she and I had an argument. I decided to go my own path while she followed hers. For the next three years, I learned many things about the world and even managed to solve three of the world’s greatest mysteries. Then I found out my son Richard had been diagnosed with a brain tumor. I automatically headed home only to find out that he had already died. Heartbroken and clueless what to do next, I tried to go back home, but she closed the doors on me.”

I looked at Other Me. He had gone through so much. “I’m so sorry.” I managed to get out. He looked at me and said 

“We have to find a way to get inside the lab with or without her permission.” 

I nodded my head. “When should we try?”

That night, we all met in front of Chloe’s house. The mess from before had been cleaned up, and all the lights in the house were off. We walked to the front door and Other Me took a key out of his pocket. 

“Don’t tell her I have this,” he told us. “She hasn’t changed the locks on the door since I moved out so I still have access to the house.” He slid the key into the keyhole and turned. With a small click, the door was unlocked. He slowly opened the door and stepped inside. Ryan and I followed, careful not to make any sounds. We walked towards the basement stairs but as we opened the door, Someone turned the corner and stopped in their tracks. It was Dylan. 

He looked at me and then Other Me, and then Ryan and back to me. I could tell he was confused, so I whispered to him, “Dylan, don’t tell your mom we were here. Just go back to sleep and forget any of this happened.” 

He stared at us as if we were crazy so we just closed the door to the basement and walked down the stairs. I looked at Other Me and he looked at me, smiling, with tears in his eyes. “He’s grown so much,” he said to me. “I haven’t seen him in seven years.” 

I smiled at him. ‘Hopefully you can see him again someday,” I said. 

The three of us walked down the stairs, and I looked around the lab. It looked exactly like my old lab. I asked Other Me, “Where’s the proton collider?” He pointed over to the machine covered in a blue sheet. I walked over to the machine and took the sheet off. Then I unscrewed the screws that held a steel plate on. After the steel plate was off, I looked through the wires. Everything was the same as the one I had made except for the ones right on top. They were twisted together, but when I did it, I had tied them together. As I untwisted the wires, I thought about my wife. My kids. I thought about how Other Me had it so hard. Wife hating him, dead child. I almost wanted to give him my place and let him live in my universe. 

After the wires were “fixed”, I walked over to the other side and turned it on. The energy began to flow just as it had before. Then, I heard a loud harsh voice. 

“DAAAAAANIEEEEEL!!! HOW DARE YOU COME INTO MY HOUSE WITH YOUR FRIENDS AFTER WHAT YOU DID BEFORE! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!” Chloe was at the back of the lab glaring at me. 

Other Me came out of the shadows. “You’ve got the wrong guy,” he said. “I’m sorry, Chloe. For everything. But we need the lab just for another minute.” 

“No” she replied curtly. “Get out.” 

“Please Chloe,” he pleaded. 

“Well first, why are there two of you?” she asked. 

“Let me explain,” he said. 

I looked back. The bulge had already started to grow. “Guys, I think this is my cue to exit.” I walked over to Ryan and gave him a big hug. I turned to Other Me, and I nodded my head. “Thanks for everything” I said to them as I turned back. The bulge exploded once again as it dragged me in. But this time I was prepared. I closed my eyes and let the blackness overwhelm me. 

I woke up for the third time that day. I looked around and saw the garden gnome. I hoped it wasn’t foreboding as I walked up the steps. I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. After a couple seconds, the door opened and I saw the love of my life standing in front of me. With tears in her eyes, she threw her arms around me and I wrapped my arms around her, patting her back. I saw Richard and Dylan in the back, so I invited them into our embrace. We hugged for what seemed like forever. Once we had released from our embrace, I smiled at them. “Let me tell you everything.” 

As I walked inside, I heard a crash outside. I turned around and looked out the window. Other Me and Other Chloe were back.