Two-Tone

It was the wrong color paint. It was close, but this wasn’t horseshoes or hand grenades. I knew it wasn’t quite right last night, but I told myself it just wasn’t dry yet, that it would look different in daylight. It would match.

I lied to myself.

I brush my fingers along the now two-tone wall. Bone dry. Cross off that excuse. The entire length of wall is covered in bright sunlight, but this section stands out, a quarter of a shade less blue than the rest. I can’t blame the light. I’m out of excuses and rationalizations.

I step back and tip my head to the side. Maybe I’m just being overcritical. Maybe no one other than me would see the minor difference. I close my eyes and stand in internal darkness for a moment, cleansing my visual palette. I breath, then open my eyes. The two colors stare back at me. Still just obvious enough that no one could overlook this.

The good news is I have time to fix this. Jerome won’t be home until tomorrow. A little over twenty-four hours. I pull out my phone and snap a picture of the wall from far away, then move closer to the line between right and wrong to grab a close-up.

I don’t go back to our local hardware store. Me buying paint twice in two days would be too memorable, Bob or James might tell Jerome. Besides, they failed to get me the right color the first time.

Instead, I point my car toward the huge box store on the edge of town. Here, I can be anonymous. But, there are eight million paint options. I’m overwhelmed, peering at the images on my phone, holding slips of paper next to it, searching for a match, when I am rescued.

“Are you trying to match a specific color?”

The voice questions the obvious, but I embrace it anyway. I need the perfect color.

“I have this,” I point to my screen and hold the phone out to the dark-haired man standing next to me. His orange apron is a bright clash to the calm green of his eyes. Neither of those colors matches what I’m looking for.

“I need this.” I shift my finger, directing his green eyes to the right, to the original wall color.

“Yeah,” he says. “Matching to paint is really tough.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and looks around, maybe hoping for a solution to fall from the sky. “If you bring in an item, we can get you a matching wall color, but matching paint is never perfect.”

I sigh.

“That’s why I always recommend buying more paint than you’ll need. Too much is always better than too little.”

I sigh again and add an eye roll since he’s looking around again instead of at me. I have extra paint. It’s just not the right color.

“You should probably start over. Repaint the whole room.”

His words break my heart. But he’s right. That’s the only way to get the room back to one color.

I choose a bold orange. Not quite as bright as his apron, a bit more red, but so different from the grey-green-blue-bland walls that me suddenly painting the room might make sense. I can play it off as a surprise for Jerome, as me watching too much reno-TV while he was away.

By the time I unload the paint and rollers and drop cloths and brushes into the living room, I’m exhausted. I want a shot of whiskey and a nap, but pour a cup of coffee and get to work instead.

The job takes the remainder of the day, and part of the night. The walls are a hideous sunset when I am done. I hate it, but at least the walls are all the same color again. I drop onto the couch, satisfied that I’ll wake up to a job well done.

The walls look better the next morning. Sunlight splashes through the windows, enhancing the warmth of the walls, making them glow. I did good. This actually looks okay. I check my phone for the time.

Not the morning. I slept far later than I had planned. I thought I’d have time to shower and style my hair, put the room back together for Jerome. It’s now 1:30, and he could be here within half an hour. The walls are finished, but I need to clean up the room, get rid of the painting mess and supplies. I’ll have to forget about the shower. Maybe I’ll just get him to take one with me later.

I scramble, tossing brushes and rollers into the dumpster outside in the alley, tapping lids back onto buckets and stowing the extra paint downstairs. The paint guy was right, it’s hard to know when I might need to do another touch up.

I am picking up the last of the drop cloths when I hear Jerome’s car in the driveway. I just made it. He’s going to get to see the room in its finished state, just with one extra bag of trash. And a filthy me.

I look down, bunching up the cloth to shove it into the last waiting trash bag. There’s a stain on the wood floor. I thought I had protected them, contained all the mess. That was the point of all the drop cloths. I guess I was more careful when I was painting than I was when I killed that man two days ago. This stain is blood, much too red to be the paint on the walls.

It’s too late. Jerome is here. He’ll see the blood, the one remnant from the tiny mistake I made. I covered the blood on the walls, but I can’t cover this, or replace the floor.

I’ll just have to add Jerome’s blood to it.

I drop the cloth and go to find my knife.

Inspiration

I wanted to paint his hair from the second he sat down across from me. Jet black. Just long enough to fall in waves across his forehead and brush against his brows.

I think he spoke as he sat, but I was too busy imagining the stroke of my brush against canvas, recreating those waves, to reply. Eventually I pulled myself away from his hair long enough to speak, long enough to convince him that I was a mostly normal human.

That’s when I noticed his eyes, slate grey. Perhaps if he were wearing a different shirt, something other than black, they would have a hint of color, some blue or green. But against the stark solid black of his hair and clothes, they were the unyielding grey of storm clouds.

I wanted to paint them, too.

My wrist turned, swirled the brush in a gentle circle, leaving behind imagined traces of the paint on my palette back in the loft.

He saw the movement, and smiled. The smile changed the planes of his face, revealed architecture I hadn’t noticed. This I didn’t want to paint. This I wanted to sculpt. I needed to copy the lines and shadows, the edges gently rounded by flesh.

He asked if I played an instrument, if that’s what the movement was. I told him I was an artist. His smile turned, twisted, the storm in his eyes darkened as he offered to be my model.

I couldn’t say no. I took him home.

I don’t think he believed I really wanted him to be my model. I had to convince him to stop removing clothes after he peeled off his jacket, convince him to sit on the stool near the window instead of sprawling on my bed.

I got lost in the paint. The black from the tube was almost a match to the deep dark of his hair. I added just a touch of Prussian blue, a dab of Brown Madder. I took a long moment choosing my brush, trying different ones until the weight felt right, allowed the perfect curve of my wrist.

When I looked up, that smile of his was back. He seemed to be enjoying watching me. I didn’t look away as I slid my brush across the canvas. My eyes traced over the strands of his hair as my brush transferred those lines to the canvas.

It should have been perfect. Instead, it felt off, just a bit wrong. I looked at the canvas, tried to find my mistake. It was the paint, the brush, the canvas. The whole thing.

This was the wrong medium.

I stepped to my work bench and found my sketch book, a knob of charcoal.

Across the room, his brows furrowed as he asked what I was doing. I didn’t explain, just shook my head and told him to stay where he was.

The second the charcoal hit the page, I knew it was right. His hair, his eyes, his skin. All black, white, and grey. I was wrong to add any color. The sketch was fast out of my fingers, strokes and smears of coal racing across the page to form the man in front of me.

I don’t know if it was five minutes or fifty when I came out of the sketch and back to the real man. He still wore the smile, but seemed to have lost his shirt, revealing even more amazing architecture.

I waved him over to show him the sketch. He stood behind me, looking down over my shoulder. I felt the warmth of him, waves of him washing over me before he made any actual contact.

His hand brushed my neck, swept aside my hair. His lips fell to my skin, landing on the tender flesh where my shoulder joined my neck. Shivers raced down my arm, across my chest.

I was surprised by the touch, how deep it traveled. Even more surprised by the sweet salt smell of him. I wanted to taste that scent, touch him, absorb the lines of him into my hands.

So I did. It only seemed fair to let him touch me back. For all I knew, he was an artist, too.

He fell asleep before I did. I sat beside him while he slept, my eyes tracing every curve, every sharp line. I wanted to trace those lines, but I didn’t want him to wake. I wanted to study the shape of him in peace.

I moved away from the bed, quietly shifted materials until I found my clay. Safely at a distance, I sculpted him. The silky grit of the clay between my fingers was more intoxicating than the velvet of his skin had been.

The clay felt right, but what I was making was still wrong. I was missing something, some part of the structure that made him him. Something below the surface, hidden within.

I moved back to the bed, studying him where he lay, trying to see what was beneath his skin. I was looking for the answers, searching for what my clay was struggling to replicate.

I wished I had X-ray vision.

I opened the drawer of my bedside table and removed the closest item. I turned it in my hand, testing the feel of it as I had tested the feel of my brushes.

I climbed onto my bed, rising up on my knees next to him. I raised both arms above my head and blew out a breath before dropping my arms and all of my weight onto his chest.

The ice pick slid in, stabbing through his chest as easily as a knife through butter. His eyes flew open, the storm raging in them. His arms lifted, but he was already mostly gone, unable to push me away. One hand brushed against my arm as his hands fell back to the bed. A shiver crawled over me again.

I watched his eyes, watched the shifting of the grey until it iced over, leaving only slick, cold stone.

I looked to my hands, to the blood that seeped up around the ice pick. It was a deep, rich red, just like the blood that flowed in my veins.

There must be more. I reached back to the drawer, removed the other item. The metal scalpel was cold against my palm, unnatural compared to the wood of my brushes, the wooden handle of the pick. I waited for it to warm, become part of me.

Then I opened him.

I thought I’d find his secrets inside, the mysteries he held that made him so beautiful on the outside. But he was just like all the others.

Abandon

I’ve spent my whole life waiting for someone to see me. I’ve just wanted one person to look at me, see what I can do, and reward me for it. I haven’t been looking for a big reward. I only need some small sign that I’ve really been seen. Give me the job, the promotion, the employee of the month plaque. Anything.

Thirty-six years and it still hasn’t happened. I’m still invisible.

I’m tired of waiting.

I turn the key and settle my hand against the rough wood of the front door. I could drag my hand down, impale myself with splinters. Instead, I pull my hand back to reach for the knob. Flakes of white and blue stick to my hand, layers of the past passed from this ancient house to me.

This house is my reward, the one I chose for myself, scrabbled for cash to purchase. Quit my job for.

This abandoned house is my future. This house is how I will make the world see me. This house is how I will finally get what I deserve.

I brush the past off my hands and walk through the door to my future. The house smells every bit as old as it is. A century’s worth of dust and mildew crawls up my nose, forcing a series of sneezes.

It takes me a moment to catch my breath and I am left dizzy. A flick of my wrist and the windows on the first floor open. A wave of my hand and the dust carpet in the house flies out into the yard.

I turn in a slow circle. As I turn, the overhead lights flicker on revealing the deeply scratched and stained wood floors, the peeling layers of wallpaper, the broken lathes poking through crumbling plaster.

My eyelids drop closed and I continue to turn, lifting my arms as I pivot. Three turns. I stop turning and open my eyes.

Beneath my feet the floors give off the rich glow of well-tended oak. The walls are unbroken, smooth surfaces painted a deep burgundy. The room is brighter, the light fixtures now clean, polished glass and crystal.

I smile and head for the stairs.

As I climb, I trail my hand along the banister, sending tendrils of color and polish ahead of me. By the time I reach the top, the rooms are ready for me.

On my right is a sitting room, three black velvet chairs, two side tables with legs so ornate there is no chance of ever dusting them. Well, not for most people. The floor lamp in the corner has a blood red shade, tinting the room rose.

On my left is the room I have most been looking forward to. No chairs here. A single table stands just above waist high. It is long, a little over six feet, but only three feet wide. The perfect shape for an adult to lay on. I wasn’t willing to sacrifice and go with steel to make clean up easier. Again, for me, it doesn’t matter. I chose mahogany here.

I skate my hand across the surface. Silky smooth, almost soft. I consider climbing up, laying down to test it for myself. But I don’t really care if they’re comfortable.

I reach up and adjust the overhead lamp. Right now it’s dim, so I turn the knob, testing the range. The room goes from candlelight to surgical theatre in a count of three.

It’s all perfect.

I look to the wall to check the time. No clock. I sigh and twitch two fingers to fix the problem. I only have five minutes before my first appointment. I have cut this close.

I turn, again three times, this time to perfect myself. A floor length black skirt. A simple black tank under an elaborately beaded flowing shirt. I’ll take that off later, when we’re ready to begin. Wouldn’t want to ruin it.

The doorbell rings.

I glide down the stairs to meet my first client.

He’s a large man. Larger than I expected. Maybe too large for the table.

I lead him upstairs and ask him to wait in the sitting room. Across the hall, I tap the table to adjust it for him. I slip off my shirt and replace it with a gleaming white lab coat.

I call him to me, invite him to take his place on the dark wood. I don’t ask if he’s comfortable.

I close my eyes and settle my hands on his temples, letting myself imagine what he wants. It’s unclear. I linger there longer than I should, shifting my focus back and forth, trying to focus.

I force myself to relax, to let go. He finally flickers into view. He’s already a big man, but oddly he wants to be bigger, taller, more muscular. He wants to be sculpted.

Again, I smile. Now that I know what he wants I am ready to begin. Keeping my eyes closed and my fingers on his temples, I start to reshape him. His legs are the first to be noticeably different. They are shrinking, the muscles beginning to atrophy. His torso follows.

I didn’t get what I wanted, what I deserved out of life. Why should I give this man what he wants and thinks he deserves?

His wants flicker into view again. It’s not just bigger that he wants. There’s something else there, something he’s hiding. Deep in the process of changing him, I abandon myself to his vision.

He is huge. Strong. Ferocious. And he’s smiling. Smiling down at what his hands are doing. They are wrapped around something. Wrapped around someone.

I am a moment too late in letting the vision slide out to show me what he’s holding.

I am a moment too late in taking the strength from his arms.

His hands have found me, snaked around my neck, cutting off my oxygen. Cutting off my power.

I lift my hands to him, wishing I could change him into sand that would blow away on a breeze. My hands are ordinary, mortal, and useless against his own.

The table crumbles into dust, dropping the man onto the floor. He doesn’t let go, taking me down with him. The lights flicker off as wallpaper sprouts on the walls, peeling down like drooping flower petals. 

Everything I have done is coming undone. Including him. His once again powerful thighs pin me to the floor as he gets his deepest desire, canceling out my work, canceling out my life.

One last time, I fail to get what I want.

Tink

Tink.

Tink.

My eyes fly open. I look first to the window, which is blissfully empty, then to the clock’s glowing red numbers. 2:00. Of course it’s two in the morning. That’s always when the rocks hit my window.

Well, it used to be. It’s been months since the last time.

I look again to the window, searching for any shadow or sign of him. The only shadow is the long skeletal finger of the naked branch outside. I’m glad it’s November and the window’s closed tight. Even though it’s glass, it makes me feel safer, like there’s a layer between me and whatever lurks outside.

I wait for another stone, my gaze bouncing between the window and the clock. When the clock hits 2:07 and there hasn’t been another one, I start to think I imagined it. Maybe it was a sound in my dream, something my brain transferred to the world around me. Maybe it was the tree branch, swaying and tapping on the glass.

I roll over and pull the comforter up high, tucking it in tight around my neck and ear. With the sounds of the world muffled, I drift back off to sleep.

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Tink.

For the second night in a row, the sound of pebbles on glass wakes me. This time I’m pretty sure I wake with first tiny stone. I feel like I’ve only been half asleep, my brain merely floating on the edges of dreamland, listening and waiting for this sound.

Tink.

I check the clock, even though I know what it will say.

2:00. It’s always, always 2:00.

I sit up and lean toward the glass. I can’t see the yard below, just the tree branch whose shadow stretches across my bedroom floor in the splash of moonlight. I could get up, move closer, look down. Just the thought makes my heart jump into a sprint.

I won’t look.

I stare at the glass, wanting to see if it really is rocks or the tree branch that has woken me again. But there’s nothing. When I peel my eyes from the glass, the clock reads 2:16.

I flop back and stare up at the ceiling until sunlight crawls into the room.

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On the third night, I try to stay awake, stay up and alert, ready for the sounds when they come. But last night’s short sleep catches me sometime after midnight. I don’t know I’m asleep until the sound breaks into my slumber.

Tink.

I don’t have to throw back the covers since I’m sprawled on top. I dart to the window, since I’ve realized my time is short. I only get two tinks.

I crouch down at the wall, my fingers on the sill, and slowly lift my head so that my eyes can peer out into the night.

Tink.

The second stone almost makes me scream. It almost makes me pee my pants. It totally tips me over onto the floor. I clamber back up and peek again, desperate to see what’s there, equally desperate to have missed it.

I’m just in time to see his back. He’s already turned to walk away. His head turns, looks over his shoulder. His eyes find my window as if drawn by a magnet. As if drawn by me. He sees me seeing him. He winks. Then walks away.

I slump to the floor, my heart slamming the adrenaline through me. He’s back. He knows that I know he’s back. And that wink. It means something. He’s thinking something, planning something. But what?

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I must have fallen asleep. I remember sitting there under my window, trying to figure out what he would do next, what I should do next. I remember the sun slanting in through the window, spilling across my feet. And then nothing.

The clock says 2:00 again. But this time it’s the afternoon, my room full of afternoon sunshine. I missed class. But, really, could I have gone anyway? Three nights of interrupted or absent sleep would not have gone well.

Twelve hours until he visits again.

I consider leaving, calling a friend and asking to stay with them. I consider boarding over my window. I consider burning down the house, honestly.

Twelve hours is a long time to ponder a problem, predict what’s coming next and imagine how you’ll deal with it. And yet by 1:58, long after the sun has tipped over the horizon and given the sky to the moon, I still have no idea what this night will bring. I have no idea what I will do.

What does he want?

I pry myself from the window and sit on the edge of the bed. I’ve looked out the pane of glass so many times that I still see the sidewalk below, a sharp white in contrast to the winter dark lawn.

Tink.

He’s here.

I step to the window and look down. There’s no reason to try to hide. We both know that I’m standing here, looking down on him, waiting for him to throw the next stone.

Tink.

I lift my hand and press my palm flat to the cool glass. He steps toward me. I imagine the crunch of the crystallized blades of grass beneath his shoes as step after step draws him closer to me.

He starts to climb.

I could open the window, give him a way to come inside. That’s what I did months ago, the last time he came to see me before our long break. I waited, though, until he reached the top, until he placed his hand against the glass, our palms warming the thin layer that separated us.

So I wait. Once he reaches the top of the trellis, he stretches out a hand, mirroring me.

The glass doesn’t warm.

I repeat my motions of months ago. I slide my hand down, let it join the other on the sash of the window. I lift the window. He smiles, like before.

Before he thought I was letting him in, like I had done night after night. But that night he was wrong. Instead of welcoming him, I reached out and shoved.

It wasn’t an accident. I was careful with my air, careful to push him toward the concrete of the driveway.

Tonight, though, I have no plan to push him away.

I’m smart enough to know you can’t kill a ghost.

Speed Dating

“Who in their right mind does speed dating on Valentine’s Day?” I asked Callie as I buckled myself into the passenger seat of her tiny red car. What I really meant was “How in the hell did I let you talk me into going speed dating ever, especially today?”

Speed dating always seemed a bit desperate, a bit like sorting through as many humans in as short a time as you could in the hopes of finding one salvageable one. On Valentine’s Day, I was bound to be scraping the bottom of the barrel, the people who couldn’t find a date on the day of the year when everyone was practically required to find a date.

The people like me.

Really, someone else was likely climbing into a car on the other side of town having the same unkind thoughts toward me. And we were headed toward each other. We would meet in an hour. In a dark bar full of people we’ve never met before. Full of people we might wish to never see again.

The only good news was it was February in Chicago. Cold enough to justify the layers of clothes, the scarf, the gloves that I was hiding inside. I could probably keep the layers in the bar without getting a single strange look. On the down side, it would make it easier for the guys across the table to hide as well. We would all be able to walk out of the bar with the same secrets we walked in with, if we chose.

“It’ll be fun,” Callie said as she pulled away from the curb.

I was not convinced. But I had agreed to go. I didn’t have a date. I really should stop being so pessimistic and nasty and give the night a chance. At the very least, the odds were good that I’d get a free drink or four out of the evening.

Bridget’s Bunker was the brightest building on the block when we pulled into the lot. Flashing neon beer signs battled against strings of red heart lights draped across the front windows. It was so cheerful it made me nauseous. I really needed a beer. Or a shot of tequila.

I stepped out of the car and pulled my gloves up snug on my wrists in a futile attempt to protect me from the cold. It seeped in, getting through my barriers far easier than the Hallmark holiday cheer.

It wasn’t much warmer inside once we pushed our way through the front door. I swear Bridget, or whoever the real owner was, had left the heat turned low, thinking that the bar would be so crammed with bodies that we’d keep each other warm. Right now, though, the bar was less than a quarter full. Every push against the door let in a fresh stream of cold air that washed over everyone inside. Fine by me. I could keep all my layers, all my barriers.

I barely had my first beer in front of me (purchased by Callie- the guys here were so not brave) when a voice crackled through the speakers calling for our attention. I followed instructions, settled myself into a booth to wait for my string of wanna-be Prince Charmings.

The first gentleman caller laughed a lot. Too much. A deep, forced chuckle that made it clear he really had no sense of humor. Or he was trying to cover for a very inappropriate sense of humor. I wondered for a moment if he let that laugh loose when he saw animals on the side of the road, thrown there by cars. I wondered if I would only hear his true laugh when he hurt someone. Hurt me.

Next.

My second date didn’t laugh at all. Not even a glimmer of a smile cracked across his face. This was much more curious. Much more appealing. What would it take to make him laugh? What was the last thing that made him laugh? I tried a dad joke. Nothing. I tried an embarrassing story. Nope. I was reaching for my gloves, desperate to know what would work when the buzzer sounded and he stood and walked away.

I missed my chance. That might have been the guy I was here for, the guy that would make dragging myself out for public shaming worth while. But now he was on to the next girl. Someone else was likely to catch the man that might have been mine.

I wasn’t willing to let another one go. The next one could be the right one, or the one after that. And I had a way to know.

I peeled off my gloves and slid my fingers down the side of my beer glass, letting the cold drops of water bathe my fingertips. It was a palate cleanser.

Date number three settled in across from me. This was by far the handsomest of the three men I’d met. Dark waves of hair dipped low over one brow. Ice blue eyes were doubly bright in comparison to the stark dark of his hair. A strong jaw framed a mouth that looked softer than any pillow.

I only debated for a moment. It wasn’t really a debate, more a confirmation of what I had already decided. I wanted to see this one, see him all the way.

I leaned closer, stretched my arms across the table so that my hands were in easy reach of his. I turned the left hand over, revealing the delicate flesh of my inner wrist. My right hand dropped a bracelet on the table.

“Could you help me with this?” I asked. “It’s so hard to manage these clasps with one hand.”

His mouth twitched into a smile, a not-so-gentlemanly thought clearly raced across his eyes. But his hands did exactly what I wanted. They slipped forward and picked up the bracelet.

His fingers fumbled with the clasp for a moment as he struggled to figure out how the delicate metal moved. Then he slipped the cool metal under my wrist. As he pulled the ends of the bracelet up to latch the clasp, his fingers brushed against the tender skin at my wrist.

It began.

A wash of warm spread up my arm and into my chest before pouring across my face. As the wave reached my eyes I started to see.

I saw the two of us together in the park, his dark good looks a contrast to my pale, washed out features. We were both smiling. We were both happy. At least it looked that way.

I saw the two of us dancing at a wedding. Not ours. A bride coasted across the floor behind us, her smile outshining ours easily.

I saw us sprawled on a white sandy beach, ocean waves rolling up to splash across our toes. We didn’t notice. We were too busy kissing.

I saw my hand reach out to lift up a knife, the blade dripping blood onto the white tile of my bathroom floor.

I didn’t see him hurt me.

I never saw the men I touched hurt me, never saw less than love in their eyes. But they must have hurt me. All of them. Somehow. Why else would I stab every last one of them?

The High Price of Dreams

They’re more expensive than I thought. I mean, it’s only three tiny orange pills, combined, they are still smaller than the nail on my pinky finger. I wasn’t prepared to pay so much for so little. Three hundred dollars. A hundred bucks for one little dream. Insurance doesn’t cover these, they’re still too new, too experimental.

I know they’ll be worth it.

Any dream about David would be worth it.

But these pills guarantee perfect dreams. All I have to do is take a pill and then focus. The doctor that wrote the prescription suggested writing about the dream I want to have. At least a page, but three is best. So many threes. Her warning had a three, too. No more than three pills. More than three is dangerous. That’s why the come pre-packaged as a blister pack trio.

It’s fine. I’ll only need one pill anyway. I just want one dream of David. One dream where we are together. I know we’ll be great together. We’re together every day, anyway, why not make it more permanent, more personal? We should be couple-together, not just co-worker together. If I have my dream, I’ll be able to visualize it when I see him in real life. I’ll be able to translate the dream into reality. I just need to see it clearly first.

Thus the pills.

I swallow the first pill, chase it with a glass of sweet tea. I wonder if David likes sweet tea? I write the question on the top of the first page of the sparkly green notebook I bought at the drugstore along with my pills just for this. My dream journal. It’s smaller than a regular spiral notebook. Does that mean I need to write more than three pages? I add the question below the sweet tea.

I close my eyes and try to imagine what I want my dream to be. It’s hard for me. I just can’t see any of it clearly. The only word that comes to mind is together. I want us together.

I write the word and then my hand starts doodling. Do pictures count as part of the page? I sketch out two stick figures and give one of them David’s dark curly hair. The other gets my long straight hair and a tiny skirt I’m not brave enough to wear in real life. I’m not even brave enough to buy a skirt like that, or even touch one in the store. I add hands to the figures and link them together.

What else?

I close my eyes and shift back against the pillows, trying hard to see David and me together. It’s so comfy and warm and it’s been a really long day with appointments and errands. I feel myself drifting and try to open my eyes to write more words, but it’s too late.

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I wake up screaming in the sunlight, kicking hard against the covers that have bound my legs together, holding me captive in my bed.

I’m shaking everywhere, but most of all, my hand. I want to shake it right off my body, shake the lingering feel of the flesh that had been holding it too tight.

I don’t like thinking that about David’s hand. David’s hand is lovely: strong lean fingers sprinkled with feathery, light hairs. The hand that had been holding mine in my dream was far too muscular, the skin rough. Scaly. It was a claw more than a hand. But in my dream, it belonged to David.

The pill worked. I dreamt about David and I together. In my dream, I was wearing a blue jean skirt that skimmed the tops of my thighs. My hair was long enough that it brushed the waist of the tiny piece of denim. David’s hair was curly dark brown, just like in real life. He walked beside through the halls of our office, headed from the elevator to the cafeteria. As we walked, his hand brushed the back of mine, then shifted and circled so that we were holding hands.

The trouble was my picture, my words, what I imagined. I wasn’t clear enough about David’s hand. So what clutched me in my dream was the guess of the dark recesses of my brain, I guess. It created a claw thing for David, instead of the human hand he really has.

Once I settle from the dream, I get ready and head into work. It’s a long, boring morning. But I have lunch to look forward to. Maybe today I can walk with David. Maybe today he’ll reach out for my hand like he did last night.

When lunch rolls around though, he’s nowhere in sight. I head to the cafeteria alone.

I don’t see David all day.

But I think about him a lot. I think about what I want to dream next. I need to be more specific this time. I need to imagine every detail.

                                                                          ##

I pull out the notebook as soon as I get home. I need to give myself more time to write, more time to imagine what I want to see.

Will it work if I write before I take the pill, though? To be safe, I dig out some loose-leaf paper. I’m going to write a rough draft first. Then I can copy it into my dream book after I take the pill at bed time.

I snuggle into the couch with old episodes of Grey’s Anatomy playing on TV. Mostly it’s just on to keep me company. But there’s also McDreamy and McSteamy. They both remind me of David.

Before I know it, it’s eleven o’clock and I haven’t written a single word. I got too distracted by the boys that aren’t quite my David. Shit.

I pop the second orange pill out of the blister pack and chug down a glass of water as I turn to a fresh page in my dream journal.

I can’t get the episodes I just watched out of my head. Seattle Grace fills my head, with David sometimes flitting through the halls, his white coat flapping as he rushes to save a patient. He doesn’t get center stage, which is weird. Maybe because I didn’t see him today. The McDoctors are fresher in my mind’s picture.

I scribble some words down. It might be part of the script from one of the episodes I saw tonight. It’s a conversation in the hospital cafeteria, though, so it seems safe enough. David and I could have a conversation in our own hospital cafeteria any day I’m working.

I manage to write two pages of stolen dialogue before I forget what happened next. I stare at the page for five minutes before I decide it’s good enough and crawl into bed.

                                                                            ##

For the second morning in a row, I wake up before my alarm, a scream exploding out of my chest.

Again, what should have been a lovely dream about spending time with David turned into a nightmare. It was mostly based on what I wrote. David and I were in the cafeteria at work, chatting while he worked on a cup of coffee and I speared lettuce with a fork. But then another David walked up and pulled out a chair. At first, it was just confusing. Why were there two Davids? But then they started getting nasty. They were arguing, fighting. They both wanted my attention, but I think they wanted to kill each other even more.

I started screaming when the first version of David pulled a knife longer than my arm and the second version of David pulled out a gun that looked like it had four barrels. I jumped between the Davids, hoping to stop the fighting, but they both kept advancing. I think it was the big boom of the gun that woke me up, thankfully before any bullets ripped into my flesh.

I take a long, flaming hot shower. I can’t stop shaking. I was scared for my Davids in dream. I’m still scared, but I can’t tell if my fear is for David or myself.

This time, I kind of don’t want to see David at lunchtime. I’m not sure that I could sit across from him at a table and not expect another version to walk up.

Lucky for me, there is no sign of David at work. Again. I hope he’s okay. Maybe that’s what I’ll try to dream about tonight. Making sure David is alive and well.

But it’s my last pill. I have to make sure this dream is perfect.

                                                                              ##

This time, I’m smart enough not to get distracted by Grey’s Anatomy. I don’t turn on the TV at all. I turn on music instead, avoiding anything with words. I find a nice, soothing cello playlist. It’s mournful and dreamy, but there’s nothing there for my brain to hold onto, nothing to bleed into what I write on the page.

I can’t shake the thought of something being wrong with my real David. There have been some days I haven’t seen him at work, but I can’t remember it ever happening two days in a row. What if he’s really sick? He could be lying at home, on the verge of death, with no one there to take care of him. He might need me. I don’t know where he lives. But I can imagine it, right? If I imagine the apartment he calls home, I’ll be able to see him there when I close my eyes. I’ll be able to find out what’s wrong, why I haven’t seen him.

I pop the last orange pill from its plastic shell and begin to write.

                                                                           ##

I can’t breath. I managed to drag myself out of the worst nightmare I’ve ever had, but the weight of it still sits on my chest, crushing me, keeping me from pulling in any air. I flail myself free of the covers that have me trapped and flop onto the floor. The impact is enough to jar my system, shove out the stale, oxygen-less air. I am finally able to pull in a fresh breath.

I found David. In my dream. He was in his apartment. Well, the apartment I imagined for him. He didn’t answer the door when I knocked the first time. So I knocked harder. The door wasn’t quite closed all the way, so my second round of knocking made the door swing open.

I called out to him, and heard a faint whisper of an answer from down the hall. I followed the feeble sound and found him. He was in bed, pale, with dark circles under his eyes. He looked just as gorgeous as always.

I rushed to his side and settled onto the edge of his bed. His forehead was fire-hot under my fingers as I pushed the hair back from his forehead.

“Sonya,” he whispered. My name was a caress from his lips. It made my breath catch, my skin warm with a sudden rush of blood.

I wanted to listen to him say my name over and over again, but instead I shushed him. He needed to save his energy to get better. I laid one finger across his lips to keep him from talking. He stretched out an arm and pulled me down, nestling me into the space next to him. I settled my head on his shoulder, my hand on his heart.

That’s when he burst into flames and I woke up, suffocating from the sudden loss of oxygen from the room.

This morning it’s an ice cold shower to cool the fire I still feel dancing across my skin.

It hits me when I turn off the tap. That was my last little pill. My last shot at the perfect David dream.

                                                                             ##

David isn’t at work when I arrive. But I have an email of explanation. Sheila in accounting heard that his sister is visiting from Australia. So he took the week off to show her Chicago. He isn’t sick at all. Maybe that’s what went wrong with the last pill. Not only did I create a fake place for him to live, I gave him an illness he doesn’t really have. I strayed too far from reality.

I needed another chance. A chance to imagine the perfect scenario. One that I knew enough about to bring in all the right details. But I’m out of pills. And I know the doctor won’t give me another prescription. They say it’s dangerous. So is losing my dream. Losing my David.

The internet saves me. I find a pack of pills on Craig’s list. Well, it’s not a full pack. Two pills. Two more chances to get this right. I only need one.

A phone call, a meeting outside Taco Bell. Two tiny orange pills tucked into my pocket.

                                                                             ##

It’s the weekend, and I use every second of it. I spend two days thinking about David, writing notes, imagining a series of potentially perfect moments I could share with David. On Sunday night, I release one more little pill. I hold it in my hand, stare at it, turn it over as I select one moment from my notes.

I swallow the pill, open my dream journal, and write a description of seeing David in the elevator. Feeling his hand slide behind my back, pulling me into his chest as his lips land on mine. I write three perfect pages then snuggle under the covers.

As I drift off, I hear the doctor’s voice in my head. “Only safe to take three…. Side effects…. Danger……”

                                                                             ##

She was wrong, though. I don’t dream at all. It’s a dark, soundless sleep. I wake up laying in exactly the same position I tucked myself into last night.

I stretch, shift, roll over. David’s head is on the pillow next to mine. His dark curls are almost sharp against the clean white of the pillow. His lashes almost as dark against the lightness of his skin. His eyes open, revealing the flecked green of his eyes. I have only a moment to get lost in their depths before his mouth opens, revealing two rows of razor wire teeth. I don’t have time to scream before he lunges and I am lost in him.

I Saw Mommy Kissing

I’m sure you’ve heard the song. It’s everywhere during December. Cute little kid, chirping about sneaking out of bed to peek at presents and getting the unpleasant surprise of Mommy smooching on Santa. Like most things in life, the reality isn’t quite so cute.

It was Christmas Eve, or maybe super early Christmas morning, I didn’t check the clock when I slipped the covers down over my flannel-covered legs. It was long enough past bedtime that the wooden floors had given up any lingering warmth and were shockingly cold against my bare feet. Rather than fumble to find my slippers, I lifted up onto my toes to minimize contact with the floor. (And to be sneakier. Every seven year old knows that tip-toeing turns you into a ninja.)

Mom and Dad always left my bedroom door cracked at night. They said it was so they would hear me if I called out in the night. But we all knew it was to let in a trickle of light from the hall, so that I wouldn’t be afraid there alone in the dark. The bonus of the open door was I didn’t have to worry about the creak of the old iron handle when it turned. I only needed to nudge the door, slip it open a tiny bit more, just enough for me to squeeze through the opening and out into the hall.

It was quiet everywhere. But not dark. The tree was lit up in the living room, sending shafts of shifting reds and greens down the hall to my feet. I followed the path the dots of light created on the floor, knowing they would lead me to the presents nestled under the tree. I wasn’t going to open anything. I just wanted to pick them up, feel the weight, test for shaking pieces. I wanted to guess and dream about what was inside.

As I reached the doorway to the living room, I realized it wasn’t as silent as I initially thought. There was a gentle rustle coming from the living room, the sound of fabric sliding against skin. I was just young enough that I wasn’t sure if I was about to catch Santa in the act, or catch my parents pretending that Santa was real. I wanted to know, though. I wanted to know exactly who it was that put presents under the tree every year. So I didn’t turn away, return to bed. Instead, I crept closer to the wall, leaned forward a bit, so that I could peer around the doorway and see who Santa really was.

It was my mom. And a man. Not my dad. Not Santa, either. This man was tall, dressed in rough dark clothing that looked like it had been covering his body for weeks while he rolled around in the mud. Or worse. He was wearing some sort of strange hat that I couldn’t quite see. I couldn’t see it clearly, or his face, because he had his head tipped down, his lips apparently locked on Mom’s. They were kissing.

My seven year old brain couldn’t process this. Mom kissing someone other than Dad. I must have stepped forward to try to see more, gather more information to help me figure out what was happening. I must have made a sound, a creak of a floorboard, a sharp intake of breath, a startled “no.” They heard me. I was caught.

Mom spun to face the noise in the hall, maybe thinking Dad had caught her in the act. Her movement revealed the man behind her.

What I thought was a hat was a large set of curved dingy white horns. Below the horns, his face was a twisted snarl of scorched flesh broken by tufts of wiry black hair. I pulled air into my lungs to scream, but I wasn’t able to make a sound. I just held the air trapped inside, frozen in place along with every muscle in my body.

Sensing my urge to scream, Mom made a shushing gesture and whispered at me to be quiet. We didn’t want to wake up Dad. I kind of thought that was exactly what we should do. Wake up Dad so he could deal with the man-thing that had been kissing Mom.

I slumped to the floor, the hard thump of my tail-bone against the wood finally knocking the air out of me in a whoosh. I closed my eyes, wishing that when I opened them I would see an empty living room. Just a tree. No Mom. No strange goat man. I would have been happy at that point to lose all the presents if the people went with them.

When I opened my eyes, the man was crouched on the floor right in front of me. I don’t know how I didn’t hear him move across the floor. From here, I could see his filthy feet. They weren’t feet at all. They were hooves. I also don’t know how I didn’t smell his approach. He was foul. How did Mom stand kissing this?

Then he smiled. Broken black teeth jutted from raw red gums.

I so wanted to scream. But he held one gnarled bony blackened finger in front of his ruined mouth.

“Shhhhh,” he said. His voice was deep, dark, sandpaper. “You’ve been a very bad boy.”

We stared at each other. He seemed to be waiting for me to say something, maybe argue that I was really a good boy, but I couldn’t form any words.

“I like to punish bad boys at Christmastime.” He reached for me with his final word.

I found my voice. “Technically I didn’t do anything wrong,” I whispered. “I didn’t get a chance to peek.”

The man goat pondered this technicality for a moment, but must have decided it wasn’t enough for me to avoid punishment. His hand began moving again.

“She’s been worse.” I lifted one trembling hand in the air and pointed to where Mom still stood next to the tree.

The nasty man thing froze, his head tipped to one side.

“She’s married,” I explained. “But she’s been out here kissing you.”

That slow slimy smile spread across his face again, a chuckle that sounded like rocks in a tumbler rolled out of his chest.

“You’re a very smart boy,” he said as he stood. “And you’re right. She’s been a very, very bad girl.”

The second he turned his back to move to Mom I was gone. Down the hall and into my room. I risked the clattery screech of the doorknob to make sure it was closed and locked behind me before I climbed into bed and buried myself under the covers.

I don’t know what exactly he did to Mom. I didn’t hear any sounds from the living room. I never heard footsteps in the hall, or voices. She was just gone when I woke up in the morning. Dad seemed mildly puzzled, but not really surprised. It was like he always thought she would disappear without a trace, leave us behind when she moved on to the next thing.

I never told him what happened that night. I never told him that I saw Mommy kissing Krampus.

The Doll in the Driveway

It's Spook-tober, so I was in the mood to deliberately write a creepy tale. Dolls are scary, right?
 
There was a doll in the driveway.

Weird, yes. But not really shocking. I had seen little girls walking on the sidewalk, riding their bikes, skating in the street. There were clearly small humans nearby. Small humans that were likely to play with dolls. Small humans that might lose track of their toys, forget them when they were called home for lunch.

I stopped my car halfway up the drive. The doll had been forgotten, left behind, but that didn't mean it was okay for me to run it over. Someone loved this doll. Someone would miss it eventually and retrace their steps. I didn't want to be responsible for disappointment and possible devastation.

I left the car running as I got out to move the doll and clear a path to the driveway. The doll was warm in my hand, having soaked up all of the late afternoon sun. It was a floppy doll, understuffed, loose and shifty in my hands. As I lifted her up, her ceramic head and dark brown curls fell back. It looked so uncomfortable that I found myself adjusting my hands to support her head. Her head was heavy, especially compared to her almost empty body. Caught in my hand, she was positioned to look up at me. Dark brown eyes that tipped open and closed with the bobbing of her head.

I didn't like her looking at me. I tipped her head back to force her eyes closed and turned to lean her up against the front step. I wanted her to be super visible when her best friend came back to retrieve her. The eyes popped open again as soon as she was upright. It's just a doll, I told myself. No reason to feel weird under her stare. But I did. It felt strange, and I had to force myself, but I turned my back on her and walked back to my car.

As I pulled into the garage, my eyes were drawn back to her. She was staring at me, at my car. I hit the gas, in a hurry to get out of her gaze. I swear her head was turned toward the street, not the driveway, when I set her down. It's just a doll, I said again, out loud this time. There was no way she turned her head to watch me.

I closed the garage door just in case. I locked the door that separated the kitchen from the garage and checked the front door. I told myself it was just to make sure the little girl didn't wander in when she came to retrieve the doll. I might have believed myself.

Binge watching reality TV helped me forget about the doll. Until I turned off the TV and tried to settle into bed with a book. The little brown-haired doll child kept popping into scenes of the story she had no business inserting herself into. She interrupted a battle. Then a make-up make-out scene. That was too creepy to bear. I caved and closed the book, and took a pain/sleeping combo pill in an attempt to make her disappear.

Sleep eventually stole me. The creepy she-doll followed. Dreams of making coffee were twined with the doll's eyes popping open as she turned her head to look at me.

I woke up with a sleeping-pill hangover, feeling as if I hadn't slept at all. It was more than an hour before my alarm was set to go off, but there was zero chance of me falling back asleep. Again, I pretended that the doll on the driveway had nothing to do with my issues. I pushed the thoughts of her aside and drug myself through the shower, into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. Only when I had a cup of sweetened caffeine in my hand did I allow myself to go peek out the window.

Impatient, I headed straight from the coffee pot to the front window and shoved the heavy blue curtain aside.

She was gone. No floppy body leaned against my front step. Thank God.

Every cell in my body relaxed. Deeply satisfied by what I did not see, I took a hesitant drink of flaming hot coffee. It was the best coffee ever. I turned to go tuck myself into the corner of the couch to enjoy the rest and try to gear myself up for the day ahead.

She was sitting in my spot.

The mug slipped from my hand, cracking as it hit the hard floor, splashing scorching hot coffee over my toes. I screamed. The sound made the doll turn her head to look at me. It also made me wish I hadn't dropped my coffee. I wanted something in my hand to hurl at the creepy little doll-child. I wanted something to make her stop moving. I wanted something to make her go away.

I swear she raised an eyebrow and one corner of her mouth twitched up in an evil grin as she started to move her legs, her arms. She was trying to climb down out of my cozy spot.

I stepped away. My back hit the edge of the window sill. I was out of room. She was almost to the floor. If she made it, I imagined she would be able to dart across the floor to me. An image of her reaching for my legs, her mouth opening into a bloody, angry maw flickered in my mind. I screamed again.

Then I realized I still had a moment before her feet got to the floor. I was wasting time. I forced myself to look away from her, to turn my body and run. I was halfway down the hall before my brain caught up and I realized I made the stupid, trapped-in-a-horror-movie choice. The front door was closer. I should have gotten the hell out of the house instead of moving toward a space where she could trap me. There was no door to the outside on this side of the house.

I did the best I could to recover from my stupid decision. I slammed and locked the door to my bedroom. If nothing else, I had a solid door between us. Between my legs and her gnarly little teeth. Which I hadn't really seen, but was totally convinced she had.

What were my options? My cell phone was sitting on the table next to my bed. I could call someone. 911. Or Jessica. But what would I say? There is a doll holding me hostage in my house. There was no way to explain what was happening to someone over the phone. And I couldn't just ask someone to come over. They wouldn't be prepared, ready to defend themselves from the deadly doll.

So no calling for help. I would have to find a way out of this. A way around her.

I looked at the bedroom window. Technically, I could use it to get out. The problem was what was waiting on the other side. Right under my window was a cluster of rose bushes. Rose bushes that I had neglected for too long. They were hugely overgrown, a tangle of branches and thorns waiting to pierce me like a shish kabob. I wasn't that desperate to get out. Not yet anyway.

I moved back to the door and pressed my ear against the wood. I was careful to keep my feet far away from the narrow gap at the bottom. I wasn't sure if her skinny little arms could fit through, but I wasn't going to risk it. I held my breath to make the room truly quiet. I didn't hear anything. But she was a small, floppy little doll. I was sure she could be stealthy as she crept down the hall. I waited, hoping to hear anything, any sound that would tell me where she was, even if it was right on the other side of this door.

Nothing.

I was tempted to throw the door open and make a run for it. But she could be right there. She could have made a stop by the kitchen to grab a knife.

I stepped away from the door and moved into the attached bathroom. Somewhere in one of these drawers I had to have a mirror. A small one that I could slide under the door, allowing me to see where she had gone. By the time I found one, the bathroom floor was a disaster. I had made so much noise digging that it occurred to me she could have picked the lock and made her way in. She could be waiting on the bed for me.

I crawled across the floor and peeked around the bathroom door jamb. The door that led to the hall, the door that I had closed and locked, was open. I stopped breathing. I couldn't breath, couldn't make the muscles move to pull in air. I could make my eyes move. I scanned the room, expecting her to pop out at me. When I wasn't attacked, I could finally draw in a breath.

For a moment, I considered closing myself in the bathroom, putting a door between her and me. Again. But from the bathroom, I had no outs. No phone. No windows. Just me. In a bathroom. Until the end of time, possibly.

I also considered standing and making a run for the door. Turning my back on the bedroom, on the bed and the hidden space underneath it, however, was not happening. No way was I leaving her an open, undefended path to sink her needle-teeth into the back of my legs.

I had to find out where she was. I had to find a way around her. Which meant looking under the bed.

I sat in the doorway, staring at the bed. I wished I could will the stupid plaid bed skirt to lift up into the air, show me what or who was hiding underneath. It did not move.

I started to move across the carpet, crawling on all fours, ridiculously aware of every swishy-crunch of my hands and knees crushing the carpet fibers. There was no way she was going to be surprised, no way she would miss the fact that I was moving toward her hiding spot.

Halfway to the bed, I froze, convinced that she wasn't under the bed at all. She was clearly in the closet, peering out through the slats at my exposed back as I moved away, oblivious to her impending pounce. I could go check the closet, but then my back would be to the bed. I could back out of the room into the hallway. But what if she never came in the room at all? What if she just nudged the door open to trick me into coming out?

Commit, Sara. Talking to myself again. I refocused on the bed skirt, restarted my momentum across the carpet.

I was going to puke. I was going to pass out. I was going to pee on the floor like a terrified, over-excited little puppy.

I held it all in, held it all together. Finally close enough to touch the skirt, I paused again. I just wished I could see her, wherever she was. She'd be so much easier to deal with, so much easier to avoid. To escape.

I was trying to escape from a doll. This was ridiculous. I was a big girl. I needed to pull up my big girl pants and just deal with the damn problem. I reached out and flipped up the skirt.

She didn't jump out at me. Nothing jumped out at me. With my big girl pants firmly in place, I scrunched down and tipped my head to the side, determined to see anything that was lurking under the bed.

There she was. Sprawled a foot or so from the foot of the bed, her arms and legs thrown out as if she had fallen from a great height. She wasn't moving at all. I waited, expecting her head to turn, her body to roll toward me, her limbs to scurry her in my direction. Zero movement, not even a flinch.

I wanted to poke her. But from the side where I was half-laying on the floor, I couldn't reach her. Not without crawling under the bed with her. Not happening. I took a deep breath and scrambled around the corner of the bed to the spot where she must have crawled under. I didn't let myself pause before I moved the skirt to reveal her. She was still still. Still floppily spread out. So I poked her. No reaction.

I pinched her red fabric shoe and pulled her toward me, watching her eyes as she slid across the floor. They stayed tightly closed. She stayed locked inside the doll body, refusing to reveal herself to me again. Honestly, it bothered me. I wanted to see her, wanted to have a chance to really face her.

With her just lying there, all of the tension drained out of my body. I couldn't physically maintain that level of vigilance, that level of panic. So given this moment of calm, it all fell out of me. She was just a doll, lying still on the floor where I could clearly see her.

I turned and sat with my back to the foot of the bed. After a moment's hesitation, I picked up the doll, held her under her arms in both of my hands, her eyes level with my own. They had drifted open as I lifted her. We stared at each other. Well, I stared at her. She did nothing. Because she was just a doll.

I closed my eyes and blew out the last tendrils of tension. That 's when I felt it. The tightening of the little doll body. I slowly opened my eyes. She was looking back at me. Really looking.

She lunged, giving me only a second to wish I had just run her over.

If you're still in the mood for spooks, I have a short story on Amazon, free with KU!

 

The Day I Fell For You

They say when you're dying you see your life flash before your eyes. You get to relive your life in snippets, like a highlight reel. It's true. It's also not the whole story. I know there's more because it happened to me. Well, not the dying part, not quite.

I almost died when I was thirteen. I was a gymnast then, so the whole thing shouldn't have happened. I was used to walking on a balance beam, doing cartwheels, flips, whatever. I was coordinated, graceful. But there aren't obstacles on the beam. There aren't small children running from their parents, weaving in and out of the crowd, tangling themselves in your legs.

I tripped. That's all. I should have been able to catch myself, save myself. But I was standing at the top of concrete steps leading into our church. When I fell, I tumbled. Unlike the beam, there was no padding, and I had no control over the physics of my fall. I don't know how many steps I hit on the way down. I don't know how many times my head made contact with the unforgiving concrete.

I do know that I woke up in a hospital bed with one leg and one arm in casts. It was hard to see them, because my head was swaddled in a thick layer of bandages.

I also know what I saw when I fell. While I was falling, the steps disappeared. I wasn't really falling. I was dreaming. Remembering. I saw my fifth birthday, the trampoline my parents got for our back yard. I saw my sister get married when I was six. I saw my brother get his drivers license, then the crash that dented the car, but left my brother unscratched. I saw my parents get divorced. I saw us move halfway across the country. I saw my niece the day after she was born. I saw the plane that took me to Hawaii for competition. I saw the dress I put on that morning before I climbed the stairs. I saw the little girl start screaming and pull away from her mother's hand.

Then I saw beautiful green eyes, flecked with golden brown. I saw my hand, saw the ring Daddy gave me for my twelfth birthday, lifted to a curved smile for a kiss. Those green eyes looked over my hand, staring into me. I saw my hand twined with the hand of green eyes.

That's what no one tells you, the rest of what you see when you're dying. You don't just revisit your past. You get a glimpse into your future.

I saw you.

When I woke, still alive, I knew you were out there, waiting somewhere for me to find you. I didn't know when it would happen, and that was okay. I had the promise, I just had to be patient while fate worked to fulfill it.

It took five years to find you. I spent five years scanning crowds, looking into the eyes of strangers for that exact speckled, sparkling green from my memory. When I finally found those eyes, there was zero doubt. I knew it was you.

There was one small problem. You didn't know it was me. Not yet. You didn't see my vision, you didn't see what I did when I fell. To you, I was a stranger, you didn't know what we meant to each other, what we would mean to each other. I had to show you. I had to convince you that we were meant to be.

Two years. That's how long it took to show you we weren't just friends. That's how long it took for you to finally let me in. But I did it. And here we are, on our one year anniversary. This is my favorite spot, alone with you, overlooking the entire town sprawled below us.

Today we are celebrating our love, the love I fought so hard for. And I think today is the day. The day I saw years ago while I was falling. This is the day you will finally make new promises.

It's almost dusk, so I know it will have to happen soon. Your eyes catch the last of the day's bright light. The golden flecks are on fire. Right now your eyes are as beautiful as the day I fell. The day I fell for you.

"I love you," I say. I don't want to push you, but maybe this is part of the vision I didn't see. Maybe part of the story of this moment is that I say the words first, encourage you to confess what is in your heart.

You return your love to me in a nodding smile. "And you wore me down, convinced me that this was meant to be."

You get it. You get that I couldn't let you go, couldn't let you walk away. You are mine. You were promised to me, my prize for surviving.

Then it happens. Your eyes are glittering golden-green diamonds as you catch my hand in yours and lift it to your lips. I watch my ring glide up, nestle below your nose as your lips land on my knuckles. Your fingers interlock with mine, sealing us together.

I wait for you to reach in your pocket, pull out the new ring that I know you have tucked inside, ready to slip on my finger. That's why we're here. You're ready to promise me forever.

But you don't reach for your pocket. Instead you stand and pull me to my feet in front of you. You start to back away, pulling me with you away from the blanket stretched on the overlook's thin grass. You want this to be perfect, so you're moving us closer to the view. It's a waste, though. I can't look away from your eyes.

I follow your feet all the way to the edge and wait for you to sink to one knee. Again you surprise me. You pull hard on my hand, pulling me close for a hug. Or a kiss. I let my free hand fly up, my arm aimed to wrap around your neck and hug you back, pull you into me.

But I miss. My hand sails past you because you aren't there. You have stepped aside and set my hand free. I can't catch hold of you. I can't catch hold of the ledge. I can't catch hold of myself. I am falling. Again. This time it's not for you.

This fall is different. This time I only see my past. Moments since the first time I fell flicker through my mind. Most of them show you. Your face when we first met, the pinching around your nose and mouth as if my appearance displeased you. Your beautiful sun-flecked eyes rolling when I found you over and over again. Your mouth dodging mine, landing instead on the hollow of my cheek.

As I fall I get to watch you fail to fall in love with me.

Just before I land I realize the whole truth. What I saw the first time? It wasn't a promise. It was a warning.

Fortune Cookies

I often find writing dialogue to be incredibly painful. This nugget, however, poured out of my fingers in ten minutes-ish. I'm not sure why I wrote it as straight dialogue initially, and I thought about going back in and adding dialogue tags, actions, and descriptions. But I decided to leave it as is and leave much up to the imagination of the reader. I'd love to hear what you envisioned in the scene in the comments below!

"I'm just doing what the fortune cookie said. Who am I to stand in the way of fate?"

"So if the fortune cookie told you to jump off a bridge, or rob a bank, you'd do it?"

"That's my fate."

"Wait. Since when are fortune cookies the same as fate?"

"The cookie is just a tool, how the universe communicates with you."

"So the universe gives you a heads up for what's coming, what you've earned, or whatever?"

"I guess."

"What if you don't ever eat Chinese food?"

"Then you don't get to know what's coming."

"If the fortune is really your fate, what's with the numbers? They never work for me."

"Cosmic combinations."

"What?"

"They're probably not lucky numbers here. They're more like coordinates for a place."

"That you can't get to. Cause it's not on Earth."

"I guess."

"So what's the point?"

"Information. It's all just information. A recording of places and events."

"But the events of the fortune don't happen in the place of the coordinates, right? The fortunes are your fate, your future here. On Earth. But the numbers are coordinates for something, somewhere, else."

"I guess."

"That's the third time you've said 'I guess.' Are you just making all of this up?"

"I guess. I mean, no one can know for sure what the fortunes and numbers and whatever else is stuffed in the cookies really means."

"Except the people who stuff the cookies."

"I'm pretty sure it's machines. They automatically cut the slips and lay them on dough and fold them and package them and everything. Untouched by human hands."

"Who writes the fortunes?"

"No one knows."

"Someone knows. They don't just magically appear in the fortune cookie factory."

"Maybe they do."

"Ha ha. Magic isn't real."

"Isn't it? You seem to believe in the fortunes."

"No. That's you. You're the one who blindly did the thing the cookie told you to do. I'm the one who questioned it."

"But it seems to be working out just fine. Which suggests it is exactly the thing I was meant to do. Fate. You know."

"What if my fortune cookie told me to do the opposite. To stop you from doing what you're doing. What then?"

"What do you mean?"

"Which fate wins?"

"We would both just have to fulfill our fate, what was in the cookie, and see what happened."

"So we don't get to know the effects of our fate, we just have to do the thing?"

"Yes."

"Well then, I guess I have to."

"Have to what?"

"Stop you from making a terrible mistake, no matter what the cost. That's what my cookie said. It's not my fault, it's my fate."

Maid of Honor

"I'm so happy for you!" I pull Tanya close and wrap my arms around her in a convincing hug.

"Are you sure? It's not too much?"

I shake my head. "You're my best friend, right? I should be standing next to you when you get married."

"It won't be weird? With Kenneth and everything?" I wish she hadn't brought up Kenneth. I want this to just be about Tanya and me. This is something I'm doing for her and me, not for him.

"It'll be your special day. And it'll be great. In fact, I can help make it great. Make it your dream wedding. I can help you keep the press and paparazzi away."

Tanya's face wrinkles. "How can you do that? They are all over this story. Our story."

She's right, of course. I've gotten over a hundred phone calls over the last week. I finally turned off my phone and tucked it in a drawer until this whole thing moves out of the public eye. "My dad has a boat. I know how to sail it. What do you think about a wedding at sea?"

There is a long moment of silent thought. "It sounds good to me, peaceful. I'm not sure if Kenneth will go for it, though."

"You can convince him," I say. "You can convince Kenneth of anything."

I'm right. Convincing Kenneth has never been an issue for Tanya. This wedding is no different. Flash forward two days and Tanya has managed to convince Kenneth to give her exactly the wedding she wants, regardless of the promises Kenneth made to other people.

This is how we all end up on Daddy's boat. I shouldn't call it a boat. It's a sailing vessel. A yacht. Huge. White. Shiny, new, and ostentatious.

Tanya is beyond impressed. "I get to get married on this?" she squeals when she steps onto the dock.

"Yep. This is where you and Kenneth get to make your forever vows."

"Oh, my God." Tanya looks pale, as if this is all a bit too much for her. "Is Kenneth here?"

"He's below decks."

Tanya moves toward the ramp, but I put out a hand to stop her.

"You can't go see him. It's bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding. You can't see each other until you walk down the aisle."

"Okay. I guess. When will that be?"

Tanya really did let me plan everything. She has no idea what's happening here. "Dusk. The water is beautiful at sunset. It'll be perfect."

Tanya squeals again. I smile and lead her on board. Tanya stops when she sees the heavy red velvet curtain blocking off part of the boat. "What's that?"

"That's were the ceremony will take place." I paste yet another smile on my face, but I don't think Tanya sees it. She's too caught up in the curtain and what is waiting behind it.

Her hand falls onto my arm. "Thank you so much, Mary. I can't believe you did all of this for me. For us, Kenneth and I. It means a lot to have you here supporting us."

I can't say anything to that. So I smile again and lead Tanya to her room.

"The food smells delicious, by the way. Who did you hire?" Tanya asks.

"No one. I did it myself."

"God, Mary, that's a lot of work."

"Not really. It's a tiny wedding, remember? No more work than cooking dinner for a couple of friends."

"True. But still..." Tanya trails off as we reach the door to her room. "Is my dress here?" she asks as I turn the handle to let her in.

"It's waiting inside. I hope you like it." Really. She let me pick the dress, even. I could have brought a brown paper bag and she wouldn't know. I didn't, though. But I also didn't bring the sparkling white gown she might be imagining. I think what I picked for her is so much better.

Tanya steps into the room, her face glowing in anticipation. I follow behind her and close the door. She stops a few feet into the room, frozen by the sight of her dress.

"It will look amazing on you. It will make the ceremony perfect," I say when Tanya remains speechless.

"Are those.... flames?" she asks.

I nod, then realize she can't see my head move, she is still staring at the dress. A yellow so pale it is almost white. Flashes of bold orange and red flames leaping up from the trailing hem. I move in front of Tanya and lift the dress from its hanger. "Try it on. Let's see how it fits."

"I'm not sure about this," she says. "I always thought I'd be married in pure white."

I want to tell her if she really cared about the dress, she would have been involved in picking it out, but I don't. Instead I say, "Trust me. Just try it. Besides, only like four people are going to see it. If you don't like it, don't release pictures."

Tanya stares at me for a minute, then caves and begins to shimmy out of her pencil skirt and into the flaming gown.

I zip up the back for her and look over her shoulder into the mirror. "See. Perfect."

"What is Kenneth wearing?" Tanya asks.

"Don't worry," I reply. "You'll match."

I leave her in her room to finish some final details. Tanya doesn't hear the sound of the lock clicking into place as I step out of her room. I can't have her wandering the boat, finding Kenneth before it's time.

It takes longer than I expect to get everything and everyone into place. Kenneth puts up a bit of a fight, but I manage to make him stay in place at the impromptu altar and wait for Tanya to come to him. I worry that Tanya might have gotten antsy, tried the door and realized it was locked. But apparently she was so entranced my her image in the mirror that she didn't notice how much time had passed.

"Already?" is her replay when I open the door and say "Let's go."

She's fidgety until she gets to the door and hears the music playing. "Pachelbel's canon. My favorite," she says and calms instantly.

"I know," I say. "You told me." She told me everything, all her likes, all her dislikes. She let me into every single one of her thoughts, as if I was her personal confidante instead of her competitor. Maybe that's why she won in the end. She assumed from the very beginning that it would be her standing next to Kenneth at the show finale. I never had that confidence, that assumption, that he'd pick me. I always thought I had to earn it. Earn him. And I failed.

I stop in front of the curtain. Tanya is frozen beside me.

"I don't know if I can do this."

Months of her fighting to win. Fighting to win Kenneth. And now she has cold feet. I wish I could say it surprised me. But I always questioned whether Tanya really felt anything for Kenneth or just wanted to win. Now I know. It was never about Kenneth. Tanya just wanted to beat everyone else. Including me. She doesn't really love him like I do.

I sigh. "You won, Tanya. This is your prize. You and Kenneth together forever. There are twenty-three girls who wanted to be here now, right where you are. Including me. But Kenneth chose you." I give her a smile, hoping she doesn't look past my mouth, hoping she doesn't look to my eyes.

"Go ahead," I nudge, both with my words and my hand on her arm.

Tanya reaches out a hand and clasps the edge of the curtain. She turns to look at me again. "I'm sorry you didn't win. A little. Not because I don't love Kenneth, I do. I just think you deserve to win, too. There should be a prize for the other girl left in the final show. Like a clone or a little brother, or something." Tanya laughs.

I do get a prize. One I made for myself.

Tanya pulls open the curtain. Kenneth waits for her on the other side, where I left him. Seated on the edge of the altar, his suit in tatters draped over his charred flesh. Tanya pulls in air for a scream as I clamp my hand with the soaked rag over her face.

I was never willing to be the runner-up.
                                                                                                                                    

The Reaper's Rope

Nine knots. I’ve counted a hundred times. Once a day, every day. Every time I count I wish the number were lower. Every time I count I know it will only get higher.

I don’t know what will happen when I get to ten.

I doubt it will be anything good.

My fingers worry the tangled twist of rope, as if the mere manipulation of a knot will shrink it until it disappears. It doesn’t. The knots are permanent, a reminder of what I have done.

My door swings open. He didn’t knock. Again.

I don’t have time to tuck the rope away. It wouldn’t do any good to hide it anyway, he’s the reason each of the nine knots exist.

“You ready for another one?” he asks, a bright smile lighting his eyes. He’s excited for me, ready for me tie the tenth.

I try to echo back his enthusiasm, mirror back his light. But I can’t. Instead I turn and hang my rope back on its nail. “I guess.” I can’t tell him no. That’s possibly the one outcome worse than a tenth knot.

He waits for me to turn back to face him. I feel the weight of his stare until I turn. He lifts a hand toward me. I hold back a flinch as I see the slip of white pinned between his fingers.

I hold his gaze as I reach out and take the paper. “Thanks.”

“I’ll see you when you get back,” he holds the door open for me, waiting for me to head off. Does he know I don’t want another knot?

I force a small smile and step past him, close enough to feel the wave of heat pushing from him. He’s a furnace about to explode.

I hear my door click shut but I don’t turn to look. I know I won’t be able to pass through the door again until I complete my task. He won’t unlock it until I return to tie another knot.

I focus on one foot in front of the other. All the way up the stairs until I’m forced to stop and wait for him to unlock the door and let me out.

He drops a hand on my shoulder as he pulls the door open, letting in a stream of sweet clean air. I pull in a deep breath, replacing the stale air I’ve been steeping in. His hand slips, drifts down my arm as I step forward and out.

“I’ll see you soon.” The door slams, separating me from his voice. I am free.

And not at all.

I shift the paper in my hand, wanting to read the name written on it. But the longer I wait to read it, the longer it will be until I have to tie another knot. Lucky for me, the darkness is deep. I can’t see the path in front of me, much less the penciled name.

My feet find their way, moving toward the main road and the street light that marks the corner. It’s been several months, but I don’t stumble. Any sticks or rocks that dared to stray here have already been banished. I wonder for a moment about the people who get that task. Are they the opposite of me? Free to move outside only during daylight?

Under the lamp, I unfold the slip of paper.

Jacob Tanner.

My breath stops. I know this name. Not in the his last name is Tanner, so I know where he works way. I know this name in the we went to kindergarten together, celebrated our birthdays together way. He has made my tenth knot personal.

I bend, tuck Jacob’s name into my sock. I start walking.

A block from the house where my mother lived, I turn right. Two houses down on the left. I stand on the sidewalk and look at Jacob’s house. The windows are dark. No dog barks a warning. The air that moves toward me from the large garage is a bitter burning, even though they aren’t working now.

Here there are rocks at my feet. I scuff one loose, pick it up and aim. The rock pings off the metal frame of a window on the second floor. I wait. The silence continues. A second rock, a second ping. A light flickers into life a moment before the glass shifts.

Jacob leans out, looking into the darkness. There are enough street lights here to give the night a bit of a glow. It is enough for him to see me. “Caro?” he whisper-calls.

I lift a hand. I’m not sure if it’s a greeting or a warning.

His hand mirrors mine. He disappears from view.

It takes Jacob less than a minute to get to me, but an eternity of thoughts move through my mind. It’s a mixture of memories: birthday cake, carols, and trampolines, interspersed with blood and sadness.

I have no plan. We stare at each other, contributing to the quiet. His eyes skate over my face, as if he is trying to read my truth there. I’m glad that my progress is marked in knots on a rope, rather than marks on my skin. I’ve seen myself in a mirror, I look the same as I did when I was still unknotted.

Jacob looks older. Finally a grown-up instead of boy. His eyes are still blue in the pale light. When they meet mine, I know I can’t. Killing Jacob would be the same as killing myself. I don’t know what he did to deserve his name on a slip of paper. I don’t care. I don’t know what the penalty will be for failing in my task. It doesn’t matter.

“Help me.” It’s my voice. Soft and shaking.

“How?” Jacob asks.

How can he help me? Can Jacob hide me?

My name would be scrawled on a piece of paper. Someone else would be sent after me. I could become another’s tenth knot.

I look away. There is no answer here. Nothing I can do to save us both.

Jacob’s necklace. A shark’s tooth wrapped in golden wire.

I reach out and touch the point, then grip it tight and pull. The cord breaks.

“Caro!” Now my name is muffled exclamation. I don’t answer the question stretched across Jacob’s face. I grab his hand and pull it toward me, slash hard with my other hand. Blood spills in his palm, trickles into mine.

I don’t look at his face. I don’t want to see the betrayal there. I don’t want to explain that I am really saving him. And maybe saving myself. I just squeeze, milk the thick red liquid from his hand onto my hands, let it drip onto my pant leg, smear a swipe across my cheek.

The smear mingles with the salt water slipping from my eyes. I let it all run and reach out for Jacob one last time. My fingers trail down his cheek, leaving a mark that I know he will wash away.

I want to say goodbye. I want to say more. Instead I turn and walk away, back into the darkness of the night. Back to him.

At the door, I press my palm to the scanner. It swings open, the building breathing out onto me.

He meets me at the foot of the stairs, ready to let me back into my room. His eyes read the story on my skin. “Good job. Sleep well,” he says, his hand reaching for his keys.

My hand is faster.

I snatch the keys, twining my fingers through the rings and thrusting all in one motion. For the second time tonight, blood spills across my hand. This time it is from a neck. This time it is fatal.

He tries to grab me, tries to hold himself up. As long as he is standing, he is alive, after all. His hands scrabble over my shoulders, my arms, his fingernails drawing blood of their own. But they fail to keep him up. He falls at my feet.

Again I turn and walk away. I add to the blood on my pants, wiping the keys across my thigh as I move to my door. It takes four tries to find the right key. Not bad, considering there are at least twenty keys on the rings.

I hold the door open and drop the keys to the floor in the hall. I pause for a moment, my gaze torn between the hallway and my room. The door swings closed, the lock clicking into place as I reach for my rope.

I begin to tie the tenth knot.

Luck

This would be much more dramatic if the quarter slots still took actual quarters. It’s deeply unsatisfying to swipe my card and watch the tiny number appear on the screen instead of dropping in my last piece of shining silver. I miss the feel of the cool metal, the scrape of the coin against the slot, the chink as it drops into the depths of the machine. I miss pulling the big handle.

So I close my eyes. I let my fingers feel out the single oversized button on the smooth plastic console in front of me. I push.

Now the sounds are right. The chunk, chunk, chunk of reels locking into place. But almost drowned out by the increasing volume of the whooping electronic “music” that’s been added for dramatic effect. Even with my eyes closed, I can tell something is happening. My pulse responds to the insistent screaming of the box in front of me, reaching a stuttering step as the sounds crescendo in a wailing siren and the sound of fake cascading coins.

My eyes fly open. Five black cats are arched on the screen, hackles raised, mouths sneering as they hiss in anger that I have taken their prize. I won. I won a lot.

And I have drawn every eye in the room. Some are above smiling faces, people who are happy to see someone taking money from this building, a reminder that they too might win. Others look almost as nasty as the cats, pissed that my win has lowered the odds that they will.

The only pair of eyes that matters is flat, neutral. Cold. Brown eyes should be warm, inviting. But right now his are mud. Not harmful, exactly. But dangerous if you fall in, forget to keep your head clear.

I watch him as I smile as all of my new friends, the congratulators that have formed a circle around me, patting me on the back, offering to walk with me as I cash out the ticket that the machine has so kindly printed for me. I clutch the ticket tight, not daring to slide it into my bag or pocket. Fingers have their ways of getting into those places. I can’t let this go.

He can’t let me go. He won’t let me go.

I wonder what the odds are that I can cash this slip and make it to the bus station before he has his fingers wrapped around my arm.

Probably no better than the odds of me hitting this jackpot.

But this is Vegas.

I think I’ll take those odds.

Heels

Prompt from They Fight Crime!
He’s a scrappy devious gangster in drag. She’s a brilliant gold-digging mercenary on the trail of a serial killer.

“Now those are some killer shoes.”

I take a moment to appreciate my footwear before looking up. Rich purple bands twine across my feet, around my ankles and calves. Mirror-bright silver heels catch the pulsing light in the room, throwing it in a million directions. If I were to stand, they’d add three and a quarter inches to my meager sixty-four.

I force myself to look away, focus on the voice that spoke to me. I expected a man, a tough guy looking to pick me up. The voice was smooth, a deep rumble that cut through the whiny high-pitched squeal in the club.

Standing in front of me is a woman. Wearing a dress identical to my own. The dress I bought because it was a perfect match for my shoes. Swirls of purple, black, and silver. Barely there straps holding up a shifty, flirty tube of fabric.

I look again. She’s not a she. The voice didn’t lie. This is a man. In drag. In my dress. Admiring my shoes.

His hand reaches out to touch the shoe on the end of my angrily bouncing leg. He missed a detail. There is hair on the back of his hand, hair on his fingers. All the way up his arm, actually. A match for the dark locks he has smoothed behind one ear.

“Don’t touch.” I carefully shift my legs, tucking the shoes under my chair where they are safely out of his reach.

He retracts his hand as if I were a dog that had just nipped at his fingers.

I guess I kind of did.

“Sorry. They’re expensive. And fragile.” I flash him a smile and look over his shoulder. I can’t tell if we are attracting attention because we are two women in a bar or because we are a spectacle in a double-dress. I’m okay with the first. Not with the second. A double-dress spectacle could make it hard for me to get what I want tonight.

I find the eyes I am looking for. They are pointed in our direction, but don’t touch my dress-double. They are locked on me, skimming over my skin. I can almost feel them.

I look away before the body holding those eyes realizes I’m watching him. I focus on the man next to him, but ignore the center of my vision, widen my eyes to catch everything I can in the periphery.

The man I am after is under-dressed by the standards of his club. But he looks good, without a doubt. Jeans worn soft cling to his thighs. A tight blue T-shirt drapes the muscles of his abs under an unbuttoned flannel. Golden-blond hair waves over his forehead, skims over brows that slash above his steel blue-grey eyes. The T-shirt is deliberate, I decide. He’s playing up the storm in those eyes.

“Where’d you get them?”

I startle a bit. I’d forgotten about my not-even-close-to-a-twin standing in front of me. He’s also not a twin to the man I am after. My not-twin is skinny. The dress that kisses my curves hangs like a bag over his lack of muscle. His eyes and hair are dark, banishing the light that the golden man throws around the room.

Without me asking, dress-boy drops into the seat next to me. Apparently he doesn’t care if we make a spectacle. Maybe because he is a spectacle all by himself.

“I made them actually,” I respond as I shift to make sure golden-man can see me around dress-boy.

“Really! They are spectacular.” This guy is freakishly obsessed with my footwear.

But they are spectacular. I guess I shouldn’t hold it against him.

Before I can stop him, he has slid one fur-trimmed hand down my calf to lift my foot into the air. He tips his hand, shifting my leg like he is holding a glass of wine up to the light. No glass of wine is this pretty, this sparkly. We are both entranced for a moment, watching the light bounce and scatter.

We aren’t the only ones who see. I feel his eyes a moment before I look up and catch the golden man staring.

I extract my leg, careful to mind the heels. It wouldn’t do to cut my not-twin and give away the surprise. “It’s time for my shoes and I to get to work,” I say as I stand and move toward my prey.