Nothing.

Then a square white glow emerges, undulates on the blue walls like movement underwater.

A set of small hands move across a keyboard, like a pianist reciting a known melody. The light reveals hands connected to thin wrists and forearms. The tapping of the keys melds with muffled voices in the darkness. Wires string down from ears and uncombed hair into plugs. A pause, then a sigh, and the tapping continues. The screen changes colors, but the glow remains.

The full image:  a plain young man lies on a plain twin bed with a plain old life.

But what does the screen depict? Images move into focus, then quickly erase. Twitter, facebook, tumblr. Eyes linger on an internet browser tab, the cursor hesitates.

A click, and a video loads. The typical man appears, strutting, allowing desperate hands to cling on to his torso, his chest. Power, virility without grace. Bounce, flex, the worship goes on from muscle to muscle. Moaning, pumping, removal of clothing. “Oh, oh baby, yeah, ugh, harder, spank my ass, oh!” The pattern continues for minutes of fleeting passion, and then abruptly stops. No tapping, no voices, but the whimper of a lovelorn puppy. There is no lust in the dark. The young man clutches his pillow like a real body, nuzzles against the pale cloth flesh.

The mind throbs. The heart crumbles. The glow dissipates, and blue becomes black.

This is one facet of life.

*

You wouldn’t know him. You’d see him everywhere at once: in a street, in a crowd, on a bus, in a book, in a film, in yourself. He’d be the one in the back of the classroom fifteen minutes early, saying nothing. He would read, always reading. Duras, Murakami, Joyce. Without words, he could be what you expected:  quiet, shy, clad in dark clothing and thick glasses. Short for a young man, tearing at his fingernails. Unimpressive, uninteresting, unenticing. Your eyes move to a more interesting target as the teacher drones on with another lecture. But he’s still there, writing with fervor. The details aren’t worth your time.

The hours pass. You might see him in the dormitory, might accidentally brush against him in the hallway. “Sorry,” he mumbles, staring at the floor as he briskly walks away and out the door. You think for a moment whether he lived in the same building as you did, then think, ugh, he touched me, as if slime exuded on the shoulder of your shirt. The thought ends, and the day continues as if you never saw him.

Yet he’s still there. They say college is a step above high school, but you find yourself with your clique, like a murder of crows, up to the same old tricks. Calculating eyes watch their prey, waiting for a vulnerable moment. He should have known better than to enter your territory. Your territory: a place where all the men look the same: athletic builds, sleeveless, name-brand clothing intentionally tight. The gym is an exhibition, a runway, an all-you-can-eat buffet packed with the finest delicacies.

“Look at that lame fatty,” your friend says, pointing to the young man. “He looks like he’s never stepped foot in a gym in his entire life.”

“One of these things is not like the others,” another sings, with a smirk on his face.

“He’s lifting fifteen pound weights—like that’s going to help him. I’ve seen girls do more than that!”

And on, and on. You might join in the fun, as if you were watching a really bad B-movie. But the young man doesn’t hear any of the taunts and continues his modest workout. He weaves around the machines, avoiding his reflection in the wall-sized mirrors. Maybe he instinctively knew that he didn’t belong, but it takes courage to even try, doesn’t it?

You wouldn’t know what it’s like. And you never want to know. So go on laughing.

*

Why bother?

The den of unspeakable evil: a college gym. It was a place he avoided throughout high school, favoring a cigarette-laden bathroom to change clothing. But now there was no choice, no relative option. Had it not been for his friend’s prodding, he wouldn’t have even tried. Good for your self-esteem, your health, just do it. It won’t hurt, like a doctor says with a gleaming syringe. 

A question pulses: “Do I dare disturb the universe?”

Yet he was alone, in this world of sun and unforgiving steel. A wad of pages full of scribbles and stick figures performing movements was his only guide. The movement is awkward, so much like meeting a new person, stumbling to find the right words.

“How do you do, Mr. Dumbbell?” The weight clanks angrily in response, unhappy with its partner.

A quiet snicker in the background. From an angle, the large mirror reveals a loose gaggle of bodybuilders, resting between sets. Bored and looking to pass the time. Familiar with the jeers of bullies, he moves around the machines, tries to camouflage into a row of treadmills. Tries to not pay attention, and they’ll disappear. He’s miniscule, he’s not worth it. One more exercise, and it will be over. Breathe in, breathe out.

But another quest: his coat remains in the locker room. The open doorway, around the corner reveals that musky odor. It’s too quiet, yet he’d know if somebody had followed him around the building. Clutching his jacket from the hanger, he glances up from the ground at the slight noise ahead of him.

In a moment, there is the nude figure, as if he had peered at Apollo bathing in the wilderness.

He only needed one moment to capture the haunting beauty of it all: trimmed hair drenched in amber hues, eyes lowered on a torso. Trace the neck, moving to the trapezius, to deltoids. Biceps, triceps, forearms full with cords of muscle and veins. Broad pectorals, pushing out in the warmth of the room, creating a slight shadow over a grid of abdominals. The latissimi flare outward, like a bird preparing for flight. The globe of his gluteus, like the fourteenth night of the moon, slides into a set of heavy quadriceps and impressive calves. The muscle finally finds its way to sizeable feet, and power seeps into the carpet.

Unreal.

He dared not look further; the scope was enough. Before the being could notice, the young man fled. Finding shelter outside by a tree, he sighed deeply. Just one moment, and the urge for self-destruction returned, as if a knife had been pushed into his body.

Later, in the blue-black darkness, the vision would remain. And there, he wished he could end everything.

*

You watch as the young man scurries for the locker room. Your friends continue their chatter, but you remain silent, as if you actually feel something for the guy. You don’t know what that feeling’s exactly called, and it’s bothersome, heavy in the pit of your stomach.

“Come on,” a friend says, nudging your bare shoulder. “He should’ve known better. Like he thinks that it’s going to be so easy. He’d be better taking some magic pill; he’s not going to make any progress with baby weights.”

Easy. You had it easy. When you started going to the gym, back in high school, it was acceptable to start with small weights because everyone was, besides those that had been lifting since they were an infant. There was no competition; the field was leveled. Perhaps the young man was too afraid to try when he was in high school. You remember the type: shy, insecure, the kind that therapists and counselors drooled over. But that was his loss, and now the young man had to make up for it, if he could.

It was so easy back then, so easy now. You seized the opportunity and built yourself up at the right time. So you didn’t have to worry about weakness, about insecurity. Sure, everybody wants to feel loved and fit in, but you were “normal”. Growing up in a suburban town, playing sports, whatever was in season: football, basketball, baseball, or soccer. It was fashionable, and as long as you did and said the right things, it was simple to be popular.

Over those years, friends multiplied like flies. You even managed to have a girlfriend, though females never interested you. There was an image you had to uphold, though you were sure to drop her once you left for school. You could never understand the “others”—kids outside your orbit, your gravitational pull. What was it like to be alone—not just without anybody at the moment, but all the time?

College really is like high school: the same cliques, although more of them, still form. Those first moments at orientation define your future, and while you were socializing with the other athletes, what about the others? What happens to those individuals left behind in the social dust? They’re doomed, and that’s their own fault. Why worry about other people’s problems?

And yet, at the orientation cruise across the harbor, among the waves of dancing freshman and the percussion of silverware, perhaps you remember the young man, alone at a table, watching the ocean at dusk from a window. Perhaps he stared at you for a moment, finding your strengths and flaws, judging you. Perhaps you were just imagining things as you broke eye contact, fist bumping another student.

Are you that transparent? Is he that transparent?

At the gym, another friend knocks you again. “Hey, anybody in there? Wake up, bro—you said you were going to spot me at the bench press.” You nod in reply, wondering why in the world this freak was bothering you so much. Oh well.

The workout continues in the dim-lit dorm: pulling up, pushing down, the sweat piles on with your partner. He reflects you: the same strong build, the same cocky attitude. But college isn’t so much about academics or romance than just having a good time. It wasn’t like you were planning on getting married with this guy, so what did it matter? You knew what you were getting into without being affectionate.

No cuddling, but your partner, grinning, offers seconds in the dorm hall showers. There’s privacy in the early morning, when everyone’s trying to sleep off their hangovers and skip their next classes. In loose clothing, you make your way to the showers. Your partner eagerly tugs you down the hallway, until the creak of a door makes him lose his grip. A figure emerges from the RA’s room, moves swiftly to another doorway. The young man looks down, but makes sure not to bump you as you pass. But you’re not thinking, as you open the shower stall; let the hot water trail across your naked bodies. You’re not thinking, as hands massage your waist, rub lotion on sensitive areas.

This pleasure, this is what life is about, not pain.

*

He remembers the friendly knock on the old door and the cringe that would follow. Those dark, cockroach days, hiding, surviving but unsure how. It was a resident assistant’s duty to nose in people’s business.  He was just down the old hall, waiting.

Every week, he would come. The giant at your doorstep, far too chipper for his own good.  The intentions must be false. Eventually, he refused to take “no” as an acceptable response. And there he was, in the RA’s room: the worn, plush arm chair, the warm glow emanated from lampshades. Evening tea with cream, soft jazz music dripped from speakers.

“So, tell me about yourself,” said a kind, deep voice.

“I—“

That’s how a friendship, perhaps a first, starts. The young man hesitates, but slowly releases his tension. Breathing calmly, hands stop trembling over long nights. Quiet evenings shift into early mornings on duty, long conversations move with the shift of light. At once, the overzealous RA transforms into a musician, struggling to live, to love.

Trust is a hard concept to swallow. Honesty unlocks all the passageways, creates a white vulnerability.

“It’s OK. Do what makes you feel comfortable. You can tell me whatever you want,” the giant said one night. Dark eyes expressed concern.

“I…did something awful.”

A pause. Incapacity to verbalize. He pulls off his right shoe, removes a black sock, unfurls the ribbon, its color matching the stain of the gauze pad. The wound was raw, throbbing, but starting to heal.

As the young man re-covers his foot, the giant stares, understands.  “The Achilles tendon? But usually people go for—“

“As men, we are taught to be invincible. ”

Another pause. He remembers the pounding of the water, the steam rolling across flesh. He remembers the collapse, the thud onto tiles, the muffled sobbing. Unconscious. Desperate. Pink disposable razors, fillets of skin, red liquid swirling towards the drain. He remembers hobbling for bandages.

This is one facet of life.

A brother clairvoyant, the giant pulls the arrow out. “I know what you need…let me make a call in the morning. I’m here for you—I want to get you the help you deserve. You need your rest; tomorrow will bring a change.” Empathy: a foreign language.

Another sip of tea, a firm handshake, then back to the hallway. He swerves around the two strong figures moving towards him. He can’t touch that, he won’t touch that.

Bathed in moonlight, he sleeps.

*

You wake. Blankets rustle slightly as you move to check the outside world. A crack grows, and bleached light filters through the window.

A pair of strong, calloused hands tugs at your ankle, pulls you back into bed. You look behind at the naked torso, the face transitioning between consciousness and sleep. He lets go and stretches his arms, almost flexing his biceps. “Mmm,” he moans, “Morning babe.  Last night was so incredible.”

“Incredible,” you might mumble, glancing back outside. Through the glass, you see the lawn two or three floors down. You see the scattered trees, bare but still swaying. And beyond the cliffs, you see the horizon, where the ocean meets the sky, so far away, yet so close. It’s nothing new, but for some reason, you can’t keep your eyes off that expanse of blue and black.

“I wished every time we fucked it was that great. We need to do that more often. Weekends just don’t cut it for me, babe. It’s not like anybody’s going to interrupt us; we have this whole dorm room to ourselves. Can you believe that fucking RA thought that we were just friends? What a moron.”

You release your eyes from the horizon, and you slide back into bed. Your partner moves closer, plays with the light hair on your chest. He lightly smiles. “Who cares about that guy, though. Mmm, I’m so glad I finally have you. I wonder when you’d figure out that I went to your games just to see you run around…and what a sight that was, in those tight pants…”

He continues. You remain quiet.

“What were you thinking about last night in the showers?” he asks.

“Nothing, honestly,” you reply.

“Well, it had to be something. I’ve never seen you get into me so much. Guess it wasn’t that fucking loser that lives down the hall though, huh? Wonder what he was doing up so late, seems like the kind of guy who’d go to bed early because he’s obviously not getting any. Seems like he’s not hibernating in his room anymore, he was at the gym the other day. What the hell was up with that? At least he left before he hurt himself. What a fucking weirdo. It’s almost like he’s stalking you…”

You’re half-listening, the conversation isn’t too engaging. But…

Stalking you.

Could it be possible? You knew you were hot property; there was no doubting that, especially with another attractive individual groping you every moment he got. Perhaps it was mere coincidence that the young man seemed to be everywhere he went. You went to a smaller university compared to others in the area, but it wasn’t like there were that few students where one would keep standing out. And the young man was so average, so unremarkable. So why did he keep thinking about him?

You interrupt your partner’s monologue. “Why does it bother you so much? Almost sounds like you have a crush on the guy.”

His eyes widen, and he pretends to vomit. “That kid? Ugh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I just don’t want anybody to even think that they can take you from me, and if that I have to destroy that loser, I’ll do it. You’re mine, all mine,” he murmurs, two fingers slowly tracing your genitals.

Not thinking, you say, “The water…”

The fingers stop moving. “What water?”

“Last night.  You were wondering.”

“Oh, OH. You think it was the hot water that did the trick, eh? Well, if that sets you all a-quiver, then I’ll make sure to get your hot ass in there with me more often.” More fingers move across your skin, squeezing your gluteus muscles.

Shuddering, you pull back, get out from the blankets.

“What’s wrong, babe?” he says.

You want to look at him, but you face a wall. “I need to get ready for class, take a shower, you know. “

“Shower, huh? Want me to come with you?”

“No, there might be too many people now. I don’t want to be late for class, and I want to grab breakfast, too.”

You look at him carefully. Sarcastically, he frowns, pouting his lips. “Oh, alright. But I want to get breakfast with you. Some of the gang might be there, too—they say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, especially for growing boys.”

“Yeah, I can tell something’s growing,” you mutter, eyeing the popped-up pyramid under the sheets.

You fling on some loose clothing, grab your shower caddy, and give your man a light kiss. A release, then you head for the door, wondering what might happen today, if anything.

*

The morning continues.

It is the middle of the morning, but the room is dim with muted light. Clothed, but wrapped in dark blankets, he types. He types slowly, methodically, each key is intentionally pushed. His eyes scroll with the screen, entranced.

A knock pierces the air, the door shudders slightly from the weight of large knuckles. Hesitant, he looks up from the laptop at the door, stumbles to his feet.  Turning the handle, a friendly smile emerges from the darkness.

“Hey there, friend,” says the RA, looking down at bewildered face behind the door. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Fine, I guess…”

“I’m glad to hear that. Mind if I come in for a moment?”

“No.”

Grabbing an empty chair, the giant makes himself comfortable. “Listen, I’ve got some great news. I made a call to the counseling services this morning—“

“Counseling?”

“Yes, counseling. I don’t know how you felt about that, so I made an appointment for you to see a counselor there. He’s relatively new—just started last semester—but I know him and he’s a great guy. I think you’ll get along. What do you say, hm? I know you’ve got some time this morning.”

Bewilderment flushes to terror. Was the young man that insane? But then again, what other solution was there? His right Achilles’ tendon tingled slightly.

The giant smiled again. “I know you might be nervous, but I assure you that therapy isn’t just for nut jobs. I mean, hey, a normal guy, so you’ve just got to trust me on this. Do you?”

If there was any trust he could grab onto, it was in this man. The young man nods.

“Excellent! The appointment’s for 11 a.m., so we’ve got some time. Do you want to get breakfast at the cafeteria first? I’m starving.”

“Breakfast? With you?”

“Of course.  Unless you don’t want to, or you’ve already eaten.”

“No, I haven’t…so I guess…”

“Then it’s settled! Get your jacket, it might be cold out.”

The young man quietly placed his jacket over his shirt, slipped worn shoes over socks, and moved out of the door into the unknown.

Though empty, the hallway contained traces of activity. The two moved across the narrow hallway and down a flight of stairs to the exit. Beyond his room, his warm cocoon, the outside air was cool, startling. It wasn’t far to the cafeteria; just a lawn and a couple streets to cross. The gravel of the sidewalk crunched underneath their feet, making up for the lack of conversation. With each footstep they took, it felt as if time was slowing for everyone but them. An outside force pressed a fast-forward button, the students’ stride hurrying faster between buildings, but their pace remained steady.

At this hour, the cafeteria was emptying. A perfect atmosphere for conversation. The giant unzipped his coat and placed his coat on a chair by a window, nudging the young man to join him. The young man followed his friend from the table to the continental breakfast, picking up items here and there, and then returned to the table. He peered out the window, viewing the courtyard below. A wreath of evergreen encircled a walkway, leading to a patio scattered with leaves. He could see another dormitory and a building connected to it, but no people entered or exited its doors.

“See that building over there?” said the giant, after munching on a bagel. “That’s where the counseling services are located. They used to be in this building, but after the university acquired that building, they moved there. More room to spread out. And with the student population rising, counseling really needed the space. You should’ve seen it in the basement…it was cramped, awful.”

“I can imagine.”

The attempt at conversation was broken momentarily by some hollering or shouting. Both men looked to the other side of the cafeteria, noticing a group of jocks who were obviously excited about something. Perhaps a game was won this morning, or somebody got a new girlfriend.

Jocks. Them.

“Pfft,” the giant muttered. “Typical ‘bro’ behavior over there. No respect for others. But what can you do? Guys like that will never change.”

“…I’m surprised you’re not like that,” the young man says quietly.

“What? Like one of those muscle heads?  No, it’s not for me. Some of those guys live in our hallway, and I can get along with them, as it’s my job, but I’m far too out of shape to go beyond formalities with them. All they think about is partying and sex. That’s what they really come to college for: a good time. Meanwhile, others, like us, actually come to study, to grow as individuals.”

“My RA last year…he was like that,” the young man replies. “I thought all RA were like that…he was awful. He lived next door, and his rap music was always blaring. The walls must have been made of paper.”

“Oh, certainly not! We don’t all treat our jobs like free money; some of us actually perform our residential duties and not treat our floor like frat houses. Maybe I’m just more traditional and think the job should be taken seriously. Although the free room and board is a nice perk.”

The young man said nothing. So, then, was the RA just doing his job to help him, or did he truly empathize and care for him, wanted him to get better? Once the question was formed, he erased. He knew the answer.

“What are you thinking about?” The giant asks.

“Nothing.” After a pause, he adds, “Nothing important.”

The giant looks at the young man, focused in telepathy, but quickly gives up. “Alright, no worries, friend.”

A smile. Nobody has ever smiled at him before, or not in a long time. Nobody has ever wanted to have breakfast with him before. He had become accustomed to coming to meals early to avoid crowds, hiding in the empty corner. The experience of sharing company with somebody was foreign, yet exciting. He attempted to smile back, forcing the edges of his lips to curve upward, but the result was unconvincing.

“How do you eat grapefruits plain like that?”

“Huh?”

“Your grapefruit,” the giant says, pointing his knife at the young man’s bowl. “I can only eat them if I sprinkle sugar on the top. It’s too sour otherwise.”

“You get used to it over time. And even grapefruit has its own tangy sweetness to it, if you give it a chance.”

“You might be right.”

The conversation continues, and the cafeteria slowly empties. They finish eating, return their trays to a soapy conveyer belt, and leave the room.

The morning air blows, tugs gently on the tree branches. It is a short walk and flight of stairs to the counseling services.

The young man approaches the manila door, but feels his fingers twitch for a pen. They long to write the word “RUN” over and over again.

A large hand presses his shoulder. “Nervous? I know. Don’t worry, really. They’re here to help. I’m not leaving you alone. Trust me, please.”

The young man nods. Trembling hands slowly pull the door handle open, into a new world.

(In a tan Toyota Camry, a FATHER, in driver’s seat, makes his way through Rhode Island, landscapes passing by in the background. In front passenger’s seat, a SON rides and looks out the window. A foreign yet soothing female voice, in New Age style, sings from the CD player. The song is “Era of Queens”; the album has the same name.)

PLAYER: (Inhaling) Hōyehdiohbadadabahādiyeidihōdiyeidi 

FATHER: (Chanting) Serengeti, Serengeti.

PLAYER:  Yōrehdiyobadadabahādihyedihyāra

FATHER: (Still chanting) Look for yeti, look for yeti.

(Pause)

FATHER: Is this Kelly Furtado?

PLAYER: (Exhaling) Hōōōōhōāyōhōāyōh Hōōōōhōāyōhōāyōh

SON: No, Dad. It’s Origa—Olga Vitalevna Yakovleva , if you prefer.

PLAYER: Badibapabadibapa badibapabadibapa badibapabadi heiyehōdiyōhā

FATHER: Oh.

(Pause)

What language are they singing?

SON:  Russian.

FATHER: Oh.

(Pause)

SON:  You should recognize this CD, Dad. I’ve had it and played it for the past couple of years.

FATHER: Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.

PLAYER: Boodooboodooboodoo bingding boodooboodooboodoo dingling beeyoom sheeyooah

SON: You never pay attention to anything, do you? You go through life in a fog of cluelessness, farting your way around without a clue.

(Pause)

FATHER: Nuggets of gold.

PLAYER:  (Exhaling) Beeyum sheeyoooshium shidishidishidishidishidi beeyum sheeyooshiiium whooooaam

SON:  What?  A cloud of nuggets?

(Pause)

FATHER:  A cloud of thorns.

PLAYER:  (Inhaling) Hōyehdiohbadadabahādiyeidihōdiyeidi  Yōrehdiyobadadabahādihyedihyāra

SON: What do you mean, ‘a cloud of thorns’?

(Pause)

FATHER: Headache.

 SON: Garbage.

PLAYER: (Exhaling) hōōōōhōāyōhōāyōh hōōōōhōāyōhōāyōh…

Innocence constantly finds itself in a false position where inwardly innocent people learn to be dishonest. The system of affections is too corrupt for them. They are bound to blunder, only to be told they cheat. In love, the sweetness and violence they have to offer involves a thousand betrayals for those who are less innocent. 

Her innocence died with fury.

            In those elliptic days, she was always brooding over desktops, tapping unsteadily, rolling eyes, pouting. Pale skin mismatched snarls of black hair, with the occasional grey or orange thread, suggesting foreign islands.  She only wore glossy pink caps when shaved dots were evident at the back of her skull. But the hair always grew back, and all was forgotten.

            With her mercurial mind, she was constantly at odds with strangers and allies. She could never concentrate on the patterns of numbers and words that flowed through the classrooms. Nothing made sense. Her parents struggled to fully understand their daughter, but many evenings ended with absurd conflicts, brass handles. I remember the dirty, swollen feet, the sullen face in the moonlight.

            Fight or flight; her mind had one agenda. Once she charmed her way onto a plane to Indiana. The illusion of love grapples the willing, and her prince smelled like cigarettes and cheap vodka.  Even the authorities couldn’t defy her without a struggle.  Plastered smiles accompanied the homecoming, but the circle always revolves backward, the routine continues.

            It is no wonder that the doll was finally broken, thrown carelessly into the well. She is the eternal witness to the wound, the plastic squint drowned in the mud. I see her pallor stare at me ungently from every pool, my Ophelia.

Death. Water and death. Death by water.

I’m surrounded by swirling bodies, and I’m their caduceus. I cannot relinquish this wet seduction, pulling me under the dark waves. I’m entranced and horrified by their existence, the way they move. The way she moved, undulating up and tumbling down. The bodies clutch the cold sand. One by one, the phosphorescence of the moon leaves them, they revolve endlessly down.  As we left the shores, we return to the shores. Once we were all jellyfish.

Her skin was pale, she was nine and three quarters uncoiled. The nebulous echidna. No two snowflakes are alike, the patterns don’t match. Her drained, eyeless form hovers.  Sallow scales, rotten teeth yawning, screaming from her abyss. My room smells like rotten fruit and soured milk. My sister veils the discovery with an aubergine towel, my mother sees nothing but grimaces in the distance. She was content in misunderstanding the grotesque.

Even in death, my darling Tamora was beastly adorable. She was neither monster nor human, neither nymph nor mortal; a chimera of sorts. I loved the manner in which devoured her prey, pulling apart meat like a dog and gnashing the flesh from her grim caves.  She’d eat five-sixths of the world without permission, and then vomit it up later. I remember plucking the bones and white mucous from the rock, wondering what else would vanish.

Too much salt, not enough light. She was damned from the start, my sister.

            Through the glass, the burnt umber of her irises scrolled upon the curtains of water.  She watched the strands of beads roll across the window and wondered if the heavens would raise and expose another panorama. Yet ocular strokes caught nothing but a kaleidoscope of umbrellas swirling in stray gusts.  Her mirror clouded with steam until she drew lines across it.

            She always draped herself in white. When patterns of light come together, it creates that ambiguous shade. Smirches of brown pasted onto the cream of her blouse, but after hours of meticulous engineering, nothing else mattered. Her lithe hands were too often caked with earth that splotched across her arm, as if she had contracted an epidermal virus. Sighing, she returned to her unfinished task. This was a room of her own.

            From the waifs of heat emanating from the corner of the room, she craved what she couldn’t have. Fumbling through her pockets, she found the box of metal. She liked to snap the container: open, flick, close. It was as calming as the smoke that permeated from the chalice, hints of forbidden places. Her lungs welcomed the perfume into her body, then slowly released. This was the closest she could return to forgotten habits.

            There was something alluring about warmth, spreading out in gentle arcs. She tapped the steel cylinder of her furnace lovingly, recoiling quick enough to elude pain. Soon enough, the machine would stop and she could continue her project. She never relied on the metronome of clocks; with the hustle of the outer world, she could count each drifting moment.  

            While the machine hummed quietly, fur swished between her feet, lightly brushing ankles. The patient glow of the calico’s mismatched eyes knew something, but the woman couldn’t touch the unknown psyche. Curiosity poured from his extended claws, tugging the coiled yarn tumbling across the floor.  It was a rarity to discover him among the dominion of females. Nevertheless, with a soft mewling, he demanded access at her doorway. It was her only relinquishing maneuver.

            With a click, she knew that the moment had arrived. She carefully opened the matrix and withdrew from the compressed heat. Bravery forced her to peer into the kiln, upon with laid a ring of creation. She carefully lifted each piece from the chamber to a crowded shelf to prepare for the next coat. Each miniature beast was so detailed that their celadon scales seems to protrude from their otherwise chalked skin. She prided herself upon her craft, though such was more of a hobby compared to the vessels of sculpted tradition. Yet among the creatures, one loomed over the rest: the glossy jade of the chameleon seemed to undulate in the radiance of shaded lamps. In that instant she couldn’t decipher the sloth or malice in the lizard’s bulging eyes. Ashes to dust, it lost her trivial design.

            Her eyes returned to the window. The rain had thinned, though cumulonimbus stirred in the distance. The calico leaped upon the sill and curled into a strange oval, soaking up the peeping sunrays. She leaned against the concrete, basking in the success of the clay metamorphosis. Yet the ambience of the room had transformed as well; the clouds of warmth seemed to dissipate.

            “The time has come.” she heard a deep voice rumble from anywhere, “Beatrice, the time has come to undo.” Silence, and nothing but stray earth.

Knots of amber hair sloped without grace. She fingered each strand as she sat in front of the closed door. Had she washed her hair good enough this morning? Her fingernails remembered the glossy odor. What was the vague shadow in the window? She traced a loose thread on her shirt. The snap made her twitch. The sterile walls only made her tug harder. The shadow inched further as if time was her enemy. The flutter of her heartbeat danced in the seconds passing by.

A click followed a pause. She stepped forward and felt the world oscillate behind her. The shadow drifted across the room, faint in the tumble of the afternoon. Wires pulsed into machines with a declared hiss. Fluorescent lights ticked at an unsteady beat, as if it was a telegraph. Her parading eyes fell upon the knobs and veins of a hand sunken by age. She did not need to touch the jaundiced figure to sense the ambient cold. This was life: through needles and blood, medicine and steel. They only disrupted the natural chaos of things.

“Heather,” a ragged voice whispered. She surveyed the room, but she was the only life there. A shadow is not life, but a projection of life. Its amorphous figure connected to nothing, slowly crossing the off-white corners. Yet something else was there, creating the snarls in her hair and the breath on her neck. The heels of her shoes wished to recoil, but her joints could only pirouette in response.      

The open passageway no longer led to that hostile room where she waited, but to elsewhere. No longer sat an audience of chairs, but an overgrown field. The parched straw hummed as the wind moved across each string like a gentle hand. Among the harvest was an elderly woman in the haze of the afternoon sun. She arched her back while stroking the dried straw with a scythe—a gentle death. The woman didn’t hear the crunch of footsteps towards her as the wind pushed back wisps of grayed hair; she continued her residual task under the shade of a large parasol.

The shadow beckoned Heather towards the woman, and she followed in a guilty fashion. She remembered the valleys of the face like a crumpled map, the omniscient cold of those blue eyes that always snapped in her direction as a child. She could sketch the sepia outlines of her memory. Like an old photograph, they lost color with age, but still remained. The shadow drifted further until reaching its target, then seemed to consume the woman whole in black like a cloak.    

Heather tried to force some words, but her tongue only slashed out, inviting oxygen in. The woman slowly looked up at her granddaughter. “Heather, what a surprise. It has been long since I saw you last. You have grown into a wonderful young woman.”

She cringed at the quiet timber of the woman’s voice, and mouthed a ‘thank you’.

“It’s quite all right, dearie. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. What is written has been done…thus spoke the ancients. But alas, even the gods must die. I am but their handmaid.”

Riddles. The mystery of ages.

Heather tried to utter something, but failed again. “Call me Evelyn, if you may,” the woman added, returning to sift through the straw. The girl couldn’t distinguish awe from dread. Evelyn noticed a dilapidated butterfly touch the edges of a stray poppy and tenderly snipped the flower. Picking it up with her fingertips, she seemed to gaze into the eyes of the insect. With trembling hands, she grasped the butterfly in her palms, then opened to reveal nothing but dust. She ground the poppy with ease, leaving the remains on the bare ground.

“Grandmother, how can you live like that?” Heather whispered.

“It is not a choice. I love no longer.” The eyes of memory glared at the girl. “We have no control when the time comes. Now I cut the loose threads of this wasteland. Waste, and nothing more. If you want, you can measure these threads and make use of yourself. All you need to say is ‘yes’ and all shall be done.”

The shadow created the form of two loose arms, clawing at the girl. She firmly shut her eyes, resisting what she had been offered. The shadow retreated at Heather’s decision, returning to cloak over the grandmother.

“Perhaps we have an alternative after all is said. Take heed, Heather, in affirming your words and actions—they will come for you later.” Evelyn gazed into the mirror of the blade, as sallow flesh emerged. All vanished.

With open eyes, she saw a smile in the crevices of the moon. The dream seemed lucid and nebulous among the lines of noise. Heather hugged the etherized patient adrift in a sea of blankets.

“Now there is something to live for,” she murmured.

Sun in Cancer. Another was born. She is Gemini. Two are one. The eternal belief. Loving family abound. Had another sibling. An older brother. Life is blurry. Bumping into things. Glass brings clarity.  School comes next. The old routine. Peers and lessons.  Happiness was simple. Sister was gone. Yet still bossy. I always listened. I always obeyed. No other thought. Grades go by. One, two, three. Girl s are nicer. At least then. Very few friends. Somehow I thrived.

Father left home. Away, but close. Mother never remarried. He still tries. No such luck. Nobody’s “the one”. Somehow I survived. Not much trauma. Such strong resilience. Things became worse. Silence became virtue. Judgment then disappears. Is that masculine? To say nothing? I don’t know. Male and female. What am I? Very odd times. Middle school blues. Friends start disappearing. Writing poetry helps. Voracious reading ensues. Words make sense. Orientation is directed. Language becomes strength. Feelings are exchanged. I had ventilation. Things became easier. Academia was possible. Though awkwardness remained. That drowning feeling...

College brought freedom. Rhode Island bound. No overbearing parents. Social struggle continues. Writing, then breathing. Therapy helps mind. Social anxiety disorder. Chronic depression realized. Everything placed together. Muses bring strength. They can relate. Others, not much. We thread together. There is purpose. Books bring wisdom. No more teaching. Libraries bear future. School may end. Yet learning doesn’t. Not understanding self. It will come. Patience will help. Silence is useless.

A voice sings. I can live.