There’s a guy I know. He wrote a book. Yeah, we all write books. But his book? I’m mad I didn’t write it.

Everything about this story I felt to my soul. Wanna-be Deborah Harry snarky bitch? Three imaginary friends built from trauma? Screwed-up family life? Supernaturally delicious mystery?

I gotta tell you … Sean Thomas McDonnell is always like this. Talented, funny, crazy. And all that awesome bleeds through every page of CHERRY KILLS. I mean, LOOK at this cover:

Cherry Kills wants to be left alone.

Unfortunately, her Alternates: an overprotective lug, a happy-go-lucky child, and a mute rabbit the size of a man, have other plans. They’ve haunted her since her father’s violent death, following her from grimy punk clubs to the TV-static halls of her apartment building. The doctor calls them hallucinations, symptoms of trauma.

But when her Alternates start interacting with the world around her, Cherry realizes it might not be all in her head.

I read this book in one day. I’m gonna read it again, too. Because that’s how much I love Cherry Kills. God, I hope Sean writes another Cherry Kills book or I’m gonna die. (You hear that, Sean? You are now responsible for my life.)

You want to buy this book. You really do. Use this discount code: PRETTYEVIL15 to get 15% off. Go on. I’ll wait. Buy the book, and then come back to enter the contest.

CHERRY KILLS PRETTY EVIL FICTION CONTEST

GRAND PRIZE: Cherry Kills Mug + Cherry Kills Sticker Pack + 1 Year Paid Subscription to Sean’s newsletter, Automatic Writer

Three Winners: Print Copy of BLOOD IN THE YOLK1

ENTRY FORM: https://forms.gle/VtRpxF15cpnABDWW9

Use PRETTYEVIL15 for 15% off CHERRY KILLS (print or ebook). Buy now!

I’m sweating. Sun shines. I wipe my neck. It’s hot. Too hot for such a lovely spring day.

Fucking climate change.

Humans suck.

I scrape the earth with wounded fingers.

“It’s your fault, Todd,” I mutter. “You and your stupid nature walks.”

“You say something, Celeste?”

“I hope your balls fall off.” I look over my shoulder. Grin. I taste the blood on my teeth. Swallow it. Swallow it with my hate.

He kicks me between the shoulder blades. I plant face-first into the divot I’ve created in the earth. Of course. Because that’s the kind of day I’m having.

Let’s go to Haven Woods, he said. C’mon, babe. We’ll have a picnic. Isn’t that awesome? Besides, haven’t I promised you some ‘just us’ time?

Yeah. Silly me. I was thinking dinner and movie, maybe wine and sex after, but no, no. Nature Walk Todd insisted on taking me to Haven Woods.

You know the legend about the Haven Woods, right? If you make a blood sacrifice on the spring equinox, you’re granted a wish.

That’s what Todd believes. Like the trees are fucking genies or whatever. But … well, I gotta admit Haven Woods has a different vibe. It’s little darker. Smells kinda dank. Rotten, almost. Vines cling to old, thick-trunked trees. And I feel, I dunno, whispers. I can’t hear them. Not really. Like I said, I feel them. In my soul.

“The hole’s not big enough,” complains Todd. “Dig some more.”

I get onto my knees. Spit dirt out of my mouth. “You should’ve done this part,” I say. Because why not? What’s he gonna do? Kill me? Ahahaha. “It’s called pre-planning.”

He slams his steel-toed boot into my hip. I grunt as agony ricochets through my leg. Damn it.

“Shut up, you stupid cunt. Dig.”

I dig. I only have my hands. I guess Todd figured bringing a shovel might reveal his actual intentions. He did bring a picnic basket, though. Food? No. Ritual blade. Duct tape. Black candles. You know, the usual shit you need for sacrificing your girlfriend to the forest gods.

Six months ago, this festering dickhole found me, the overworked, underpaid, starved-for-love orphan working as a data processor for his parents’ company. It wasn’t like I had a life. I worked. I went home. I read books. Sometimes, I ordered takeout as a treat. Woo.

I didn’t have anyone to love. Not a cat. Not even a plant. I couldn’t handle the thought of a living creature depending on me to keep it … you know, alive. As anyone can see, I can’t even keep myself alive.

Anyway. Suddenly, I had Todd. The perfect boyfriend. Attentive. Sweet. Understanding. Affectionate. I was so in love, I didn’t notice that he carved away my connections with the outside world.

I don’t feel like you’re safe in this neighborhood. Move in with me.

You don’t need to work. I can afford to support my girl.

My friends are idiots. I don’t want you near them.

Oh, my parents are abroad right now. I promise you’ll meet them soon.

Tears fall. Mix with the sweat. Maybe digging my own grave was dumb. But even a few extra hours alive was worth the torture of it all. I like breathing, okay?

I feel the whispers. More of them. Rising. Falling. Like the wind. Like a song. It’s warm. Almost comforting. Weird. Eh. What do I know? Maybe this is you’re-gonna-die kind of stuff. Last moments of life and all. I’ve never been on the brink of being murdered before so I really have no experience.

“That’s enough.”

He pushes me into the shallow pit. Rolls me on to my back. Binds my wrists and ankles with duct tape. I think tying me up is superfluous. I’m beat all to hell. Every part of me aches. Throbs. Hurts. Even if I run, where am I going to go?

He puts tape over my mouth.

He places the black candles around me. Lights them. It’s freaking three in the afternoon. Whatever he’s doing should happen at midnight, right? Isn’t that the witching hour?

He pulls a small, leather bound book from the picnic basket. Opens it. And reads.

I don’t understand the words. I don’t think he understands the words.

Todd makes his wish. Money. Billions. More than tech bros. More than oligarchs. More than Arabian princes.

What a dumb goddamn wish. He really thinks killing me, a fucking nobody, a shitty IRL NPC, is a big enough sacrifice for his ask? You know what I wish for, asshole? That you die. Horribly. I want the tree genies to kill you.

whisperwhisperwhisper

Wind whips limbs. Shakes leaves. Scratches bark.

WhisperWHisperWHIsper

Todd lifts the knife. His eyes are dark. Pupils wide. His smile is manic. Crazy. All teeth.

WHISperWHISPerWHISPEr

The blade glints in the sun. Slashes downward. I close my eyes.

WHISPERWHISPERWHISPER

I don’t feel the blade. I feel the blood. Warm. Splash face. Soaks hair.

WHISperWHISPerWHISPEr

I choke.

WhisperWHisperWHIsper

Can’t. Breathe.

whisperwhisperwhisper

I hate him.

I hate—

I awake.

I live in the whispers. The whispers live in the trees. Earth. Sky. Nature. All of it. We are the wind. The song.

We see him. Whistling. Walking away. Happy.

Hate pulses in our veins. Gives purpose to the vines that loop over our limbs.

He doesn’t notice how we crawl toward him. Slither. Slither. Slither.

We wrap around his legs.

He cries out.

Falls.

We wrap ourselves around his flailing body. He screams. He pisses himself.

We are pleased.

We envelop him. Cram ourselves into his mouth. Bore into his flesh. And we squeeze.

Squeeze.

Squeeze.

Until he is silent.

And we are sated.

Read more Spring Fever: Horror in Bloom stories!

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a month ago · 5 likes · TiF Team and Garen Marie

Bad childhoods are required. You can’t have a broken one without a bad childhood. It adds too much bitterness if they were loved. You want sweet? You want soft? Then they gotta suffer early. It’s like baking a pie. You need the perfect crust. The tasty foundation.

Trauma is also the sauce, you see? Trauma sauce. Like whipped cream. Or caramel drizzle. You don’t like sweets? Okay, what’s your trauma sauce? Marinara? Cripes. Whatever. The point is that someone suffering from chronic post traumatic stress disorder since they were a kid is optimal.

Yeah, depression’s good, too. Anxiety? There’s a lot of those. I guess it’s okay if you like electric lemonade. Zappy citrus. Not my vibe, but anxiety is in everyone. It’s like corn syrup, you know? Fucks up the real flavor, but whaddaya gonna do?

Therapy? Yeah, that can ruin a broken one. Some of ’em heal right up. Others do okay, but they got existential scars. Nah, I don’t like ’em myself. I think scars are chewy and tasteless. Not like the pain that pulses in the soul, simmering for a whole lifetime. That’s de-lish-essss. Yeah, yeah. Like marinara. Man, you got no imagination. Settling for red sauce like a broken one is some sticky plate of pasta.

What? No way. You actually got one in a trap? What kind of broken one did you catch? Wow. Foster care at such a young age. That’s tender. That’s … tasty. Not much meat on those fractured bones, though. I guess you could tag ’em. Put ’em back in the wild till they’re bigger.

Shit. Last call. Gotta get up early, right?

Them broken ones ain’t gonna sacrifice themselves.

Buy Me A Coffee

I still think about Soma’s Reflection. (It’s for paid subscribers. To read it, get a paid subscription to Ether Dreams or buy a copy of the multi-author tribute to the Twilight Zone: The Midnight Vault.)

Edith Bow is soul-mated to Emil Ottoman. He’s amazing, too. Two people who are that incredibly talented co-existing in the same space should result in a planetary explosion. I don’t know why Earth is still intact.

WHY AM I TELLING YOU ABOUT EDITH AND EMIL?

To put it bluntly, they need financial help. This isn’t a GoFundMe plea. This is a “check out the cool stuff you can get with a donation” plea. Learn more about Emil and Edith’s dire situation. Emil’s post is here and Edith’s post is here.

THE GOODIES!!!

EDITH BOW

From December 6, 2025 → March 19, 2026, I am writing personalized, stream-of-consciousness, zero-draft stories to anyone who wants to support my relocation fund or just wants to middle finger the patriarchy.

When you donate, you give me a three word prompt:[ 1 noun, 1 verb, 1 adjective]

• I will have to incorporate all 3 into the story somehow, stream of consciousness, zero draft; just how I’ve always done it and how you see it here on this publication (besides very specific niche stories que in The Diary Entries)

• You have 2 options here: Be tagged with your publication as a personal anecdote, and I will write whatever it made me feel at the time, that will be completely public.

• If you decide to keep it private, I will email you a personalized note on how it made me feel, the post will still go public with your name as [REDACTED] and you will have an email link that connects to the title.

• All posts go public, all posts will be free to read.

• None of the posts will support bigotry, provide harmful phobics, and be anti anything I ethically stand for; if you give me money and expect me to write hateful diatribe, thanks for the free money, no returns for bigots! If it’s especially Nazi propaganda, my WW2 grandfather’s ghost is standing over you with a rifle to the head and my bloody knuckles aren’t bloody enough.

Tier Options:

• $20 → 400 words

• $30 → 600 words

• $50 → 1,000 words

• $75 → 1,500 words

• $100 → 2,000 words

• $100+ → No word limit + ultra-personal extras

• Any number you want where you have issues with systemic oppression and want to middle finger corruption is up to your discretion. The writing project is purely optional.

P.S. I might write over the cap limit no matter what you give me, if I absolutely love the prompt. These limits are for me personally to restrain myself, but I have no guarantees this can turn into a series in the future with just three words. If it becomes a book, you get the book for free with my signature, a note and acknowledgement if you allow me.

EMIL OTTOMAN

The Structure of Generosity

$15 – New Year Letter & Card (also, the best international option)

• One Television Sky New Year card

• Hand-numbered

• Personally inscribed with your name and some Emil static

• New Year letter that’s actually a story, not social theater bullshit

• One unique page from the long-form story tucked inside

This is the “keep us housed” base. Every one of these matters. And there IS a baked in cost. The first 40 cards are $.35 a pop + $.78 base postage +toner and time.

This is also good if you’re overseas. Because postage has turned into a luxury.

The option for getting the bootleg first book from Television Sky, my first pub, something that BR Yeager’s legendary Pearl Death novella in cards will be classed with.

$35 – Bubble Mailer of Goodies

You get everything above, plus:

• A padded mailer stuffed with small, strange, occultly/curated items from my shelves and trinket box:

  • mini-zines, stickers, weird little prints

  • oddities that should not go into storage

  • ephemera that feels like it fell out of another life

I have a lot of obscure shit. You might as well get some of it before I have to pay movers to haul it one more time, because I’m not boxing everything up. And I’m always downsizing. Who knows, you may get something worth a lot more than the package it came in.

$50+ Full Care Package

You get the card + story letter + unique page, and:

• A bigger, heavier, weirder package

• The more you give, the more I will dig:

  • strange, rare, or out-of-print books

  • limited-run objects

  • odd relics that have lived with me through multiple eras + why they’re important

  • genuinely valuable, but extremely “what the fuck is this” artifacts

This is “Emil raids his own archive for you” tier. The more you give, the more you get. Give me fifty bucks and I may give you a hatpin I wore while I made a milli on tour, give $500 and you may get a Ghostface Killah Adidas track jacket or the only unsigned copy of Fight Club I own (movie cover, I know it’s the original because it’s unsigned) a short story cut from a notebook. You’re a whale with more money than god? I’ll put PEARL DEATH on the block. (go try to find it for sale, or find a price for one of the original run. People who have this do not sell it.)

How to get one

If you want in on the first 40:

Email: EmilOttoman@gmail.com

Use one of these subject lines so I can keep track:

• NEW YEAR LETTER – for the $15 tier

  then GIFT BAG – for the $35 tier

  or GIFT BOX – for $50+ care package (ADD +$10 for a card from my personal collection of greeting cards. yes, it’s a thing. This is in service of. Well, read the one footnote, OK)

In your email, include:

• Your name

• Your mailing address

• Which tier you want

• Whether you’re okay with getting something TRULY weird / obscene / obscure in your package

I’ll respond with payment details (PayPal / Venmo / Cash App / Wise, etc.), confirm you’re in, and assign your card number.

FINAL THOUGHTS

I appreciate you taking the time to read this post. If you can give, give. If you can’t, then consider becoming a free or paid subscriber to Edith and/or Emil’s newsletters.

Ether Dreams

Ether Dreams is a publication where I write stream of consciousness prose with a pugilist minimalist style. It's a multi-genre publication. Somewhere St. Louis.

By Edith Bow

Burnt Tongue

Fiction is Culture. No gods, just authors. Underground lit. Ritual crit. The gospel of the broken sentence, dissected by the "Official Unofficial Editor" of the Fiction tab.

By Emil Ottoman

THANK YOU!!!

In a dark basement, a dying woman makes a final plea. No gods have ever answered her prayers. No angels have appeared to save her. In the last moments of her despair, she summons the only creature willing to help. What happens next is yours to witness … when the Midnight Vault opens…

Getting summoned willy-nilly was so irritating. Especially after I had settled down with my favorite snack (crispy bat wings, if you wanted to know) and the newest season of Divine Demon Divas (think The Real Housewives of Hell meets RuPaul’s Drag Race).

I mean, really. It’s not like modern-day humans understood ancient summoning symbols for devils.

Most of the time, they found a dusty book or unreliable website or, worst of all, some moronic ghost hunter spouting nonsense on Season 23 of No Ghosts Here Because Ghosts Aren’t Stupid Enough To Interact With The Living, or whatever the hell they’re calling their fake shows these days.

Soooo when whoever cast the summoning spell rudely interrupted my “me time,” I appeared in my most fearsome demon form.

She didn’t scream, which was unusual.

My pure black gaze, over-sized horns, bared fangs, and sharp claws usually inspired piss-your-pants fear. But she looked at me with dull eyes, completely unaffected. It was as though I was the least scariest thing she’d met all day.

I looked around the creepy, dark basement. Brick walls. No windows. A big, ugly door that was no doubt locked from the other side. On the floor, a sleeping bag. In the corner, a bucket.

That’s all she had? A sleeping bag and fucking bucket? Barbaric.

You should’ve seen her, poor darling. She wore a ripped and bloodied nightgown. She looked malnourished, her cheeks sunken, her limbs thin and frail. Bruises and burns and cuts filled nearly every inch of visible flesh.

I honestly didn’t know how she’d managed the summoning spell.

“I want you to kill … him,” she rasped.

“The one who did this to you?” I asked gently.

“Yes.”

“Murder is costly. The price you pay directly reflects your ask.”

“What’s a soul worth?”

“Nothing. I’m afraid you don’t have much to bargain with, honey.”

“That figures. If you can’t kill him then kill me.” Her fingers trailed her neck, and I saw the finger-shaped bruises unfurling from her throat like the wings of butterfly.

“You don’t need me to kill you. You’re nearly dead now,” I said. “What if I heal you?”

“Refill the human punching bag with new life? No, thanks.”

“I could heal you and help you leave this place.”

“No point. He’ll just find me. Or another woman.” She tapped a piece of torn paper by her hip. “Found this in the wall.” I followed her gaze to a crumbling brick that had been removed.

I reached down and speared the yellowed note on the tip of my claw. When I lifted it, I saw my symbol written next to a summoning rune. Underneath was 9-1-1.

“You’re nine-one-one.” She laughed, but it turned into a rough, prolonged cough. Dark blood dribbled from her mouth. “Hell can’t be worse than this,” she whispered.

Offering a metaphysical lesson to someone whose death was imminent probably wasn’t the move. But…“Humans don’t go somewhere else after death. That’s not how existence works. What you do here only matters … um, here.”

She nodded, but her expression was every inch of I-Don’t-Care. Her chest heaved and tears rolled down her face. She somehow managed to keep her sobs quiet, a lesson she’d no doubt learned from her psychotic captor.

“I’m so tired.” She patted the spot next to her. “Sit with me. Hold my hand.” That’s when I noticed she’d written the summoning spell in her own blood. It had dried almost black on the concrete floor. This horrible basement was her tomb. My bloody symbol her epitaph.

I sat down next to her and she laid her head on my shoulder. She didn’t complain about my knobby bones or leathery scales. Instead she treated it like the softest pillow she’d ever used. She took my hand. Large as a frying pan. Rough as sandpaper. Claws black and sharp. Her tiny little human digits threaded through my thick beast fingers. She held on tightly.

“The bargain I want to make is that you stay with me until I die.” She closed her eyes. “What’s the price?”

“Your corpse.”

Her eyes fluttered open. “For what? Dinner?”

“Ha, ha, ha. That’s dark, honey. I like it. No, I want to possess your body.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want to know why?”

“Nope.”

“Very well. The bargain is made.”

Her eyes closed again.

I don’t know how long we sat there. It could’ve been five minutes. It could’ve been five hours. It could’ve been forever.

Her breathing slowed.

Her grip on my hand loosened.

She released a final shaky gasp.

Then she was gone.

I don’t know what was wrong with me. I … I kissed the top of her head. A good-bye she didn’t even feel.

And…

And…

I didn’t cry. I didn’t. It was the dirt from this filthy place that irritated my eyes. And no, that feeling squeezing my chest wasn’t my heart aching. I didn’t have a heart. I was a demon. A big, scary, evil demon.

I carefully put her on the sleeping bag and sat next to her, holding vigil, until I heard her tormentor moving around upstairs. Doors opened. Floors creaked. TV blared.

Heavy footsteps clopped on the stairs. I turned into inky black mist and sank into her body.

He unlocked the door and opened it. He stomped across the floor and kicked her … well, me … until my eyes opened. She was weak. No strength in her muscles at all. But I didn’t need to rely on her puny human body. I had demon energy.

I stood up. Punched him the stomach. Laughed as he flew across the basement and hit the wall.

Stunned, he rose to his feet. His light blue eyes were icy. Soulless. He roared and rushed toward me.

I let him get closer. Even let him put his hands around my neck. Then I shoved my knee between his thighs and crushed his jewels.

He yowled as he released me and dropped to the floor.

Snort. What a baby.

I picked up him by the throat. Held him in the air. “I could’ve been in the group chat dishing on Divine Demon Divas, but no … I have to be here dealing with your cruel, dumb ass.” I smacked him across the face. “That’s for ruining my evening.”

“And this…” I squeezed him like a tube of toothpaste. Larynx cracked. Spine shattered. Blood and brains leaked from his eyes. Nose. Mouth. I dropped him. He landed with a wet splat on the concrete. “This … is for her.”

In a world where cruelty is the point, compassion can still find its way into the darkest of hearts. What is evil? What is good? Those are questions with answers that might surprise you … in the Midnight Vault.

Details are here:

The Midnight Vault

Submission Guidelines

Jump to: How Do I Participate? | Artwork | Twilight Zone Structure | FAQ…

Read more

6 months ago · 136 likes · 32 comments · Shane Bzdok and J. Curtis

Check out the stories from last year in The Midnight Vault!

So it’s a novel parsed out in chapters, right? No.

Recommended Reading: How to Write Serialised Fiction by Simon K. Jones

Serial Fiction 101:

• Every reading app has a minimum word count, but generally each installment should be around 1,500 words.

• Each installment should end with a cliffhanger/hook.

• Installments should be released consistently. Consistency is more important than any other aspect of serial writing. For most reading apps, authors should post at least once a day.

• Always write ahead. If you can, be 10 episodes ahead of your posting schedule so that you always have a buffer.

• Any genre can become serialized fiction, however, there are built-in audiences for romance, romantasy, and fantasy.

Popular Romance Tropes

Billionaire, CEO, Secret Baby, Secret Marriage, Contract Marriage, Enemies to Lovers, Best Friends, Dump the Nephew and Marry the Uncle, Rebirth, Royalty

Popular Fantasy/Romantasy Tropes

Rebirth/Reincarnation, Transmigration, System, LitRPG, Time Loop, Xanxia (pronounced shyan-shya)/Cultivation, Villains, Isekai (pronounced ee-sea-kigh)/Portal, Royalty, Gaming

Reading Apps:

• Radish

• Tapas

• Royal Road

• Wattpad

• Webnovel

• Substack

Keep in mind that readers don't care about your talent or how beautifully you write. They want three things from you:

• Consistency (posting at least once a day)

• Cliffhangers (bring on the drama!)

• Fulfillment (tropes and character types)

Check out my serial fiction at Web Novel. Get the first 30 chapters of Reborn Heiress: Escaping My Contract Marriage with the Cold CEO.

Recommended Reading: What Actually is a Substack by Simon K. Jones

Setting Up Your Substack. Three questions you should answer before you start your Substack:

• What is the name?

• What is the purpose?

• How much time/energy am I willing to commit?

Substack has a step-by-step guide for setting up your Substack for the first time here:

On Substack

Setting up your Substack for the first time

Substack’s tools are designed so writers, podcasters, and video creators can do their best work, supported by their subscribers—whether that’s exploring a creative side project or building an independent media business…

Read more

3 years ago · 320 likes · 141 comments

Recommended Reading: The Hidden Substack Features that 99% of Writers Don't Use by Wes Pearce

Crafting Engaging Content. The type of content you create depends whole-heartedly on the purpose of your Substack. No matter what you want your Substack to do, to gain traction and readers, you’ll need to:

• Post consistently (at least once a week).

• Engage with your audience (Notes, Chat, Live Video).

• Make friends with other Substackers.

Building a Subscriber Base. Posting consistently, engaging with your audience, and making friends with other Substackers will be the foundation of your subscriber base. Let your readership grow organically because the readers who choose you for your content will usually stick with you.

Recommended Reading: What to Do When Your Substack Isn't Growing (At All) by Matt Giaro

Monetizing Your Newsletter. Getting readers to pay for your content means having content that’s worthwhile for them. This is a more difficult sell for fiction writers. Getting a reader to commit to $5/month or XX/year for just one writer's fiction is a hard sell.

Getting subscriptions relies on your purpose, your consistency, and your Substack’s importance to your readers. Building subscriptions is often slow-going. Substack offers metrics to show you which content is the most popular, which allows you to create more content based on what engages your audience.

Recommended Reading: What Is The Average Paid Subscriber Conversion Rate on Substack? by Casandra Campbell

Join Michele’s Discord and Get Exclusive Access to the Substacker Channel. When you use the free invite link, post in welcome-and-rules and let me know you want the Substacker role.

https://discord.com/invite/tEY4Y3RJyP

I’m running down the street. Bare feet. Aching body. Ripped dress. It’s dark.

The kind of dark that’s only found at 3 a.m.

Behind me, my attacker’s shoes scrape against the cracked sidewalk. In the distance, a dog barks. Moonlight bleeds through tattered clouds. Street lights sputter. Neglected houses crumble like ancient tombstones in a forsaken graveyard.

My chest heaves. My heart pounds. My muscles strain. Run. Run. Run.

Shit. I’m slowing down. My lungs struggle to draw in air and my legs feel like melting gelatin. I don’t have a destination. Away. I want to get away. An abandoned park appears on my right. I veer into it. Beyond the vandalized playground is a city forest. Maybe enough to hide in. Climb a tree. Hide in brush. Don’t know. Don’t know.

Blood streaks my face. Mixes with cold sweat and hot tears. My feet protest the rocks and sticks hidden in the tall grass. I ignore the pain. I focus on the tree line.

I’m almost there.

Safety. Survival. Just a few more steps. Go. Go. Go.

He catches me around the waist. We both go down. Agony explodes through every nerve ending as my wounded body is crushed into the hard, cold ground. I smell dank earth. Wet grass. Copper blood. Crickets chirp. Wind rustles dead leaves. His breath rasps in my ear. “You can’t escape, sweetheart.”

He rolls off me and I claw toward the trees. He grabs my ankles and flips me onto my back. He straddles my waist. Rage contorts his features. He’s a monster. How could I believe he ever loved me? How could I let mistaken gratitude rule the heart he eviscerated with lies and betrayal?

His fist swings toward my face. Crack. Pain shatters my jaw. Then I fall into the dark.

The kind of dark that’s only found at 3 a.m.

Buy Me a Coffee

Buy Me a Ko-Fi

It’s lonely. This house, I mean. The rooms are filled with beautiful things. Vases and furniture and paintings and antiques and carpets and knick-knacks. All expensive. In this world of monetary wealth, your worth is determined by what–and who–you own.

The mansion sits on a cliff and below it is the raging Atlantic sea. I think that’s all the sea knows how to do. Rage. It must be a woman, right? A woman’s fury slams against the rocks of helplessness and crashes against the endless shores of discontentment.

Our anger drowns us.

How many times a day do we die? We choke on the salty waters of pain. Little pieces of our souls dissolve into the dark ocean. Our hearts are no longer ablaze with love or passion or hope. Only ashes and embers remain.

I lean over the balcony, far enough that gravity might betray me.

It doesn’t, and I’m disappointed.

My bare feet might offer less resistance, so I stretch up on my tippy toes. I’m not brave enough to launch myself into the black, churning ocean below. But maybe the rain will aid me. Maybe I can tumble over. Become part of oblivion.

I want so badly to be nothing. Why can’t my being explode into atoms, dance in the air, rising up, up, up until every particle of Alice Avery is melted by the sun? No more existence. Gone.

Gone.

I bend over the banister, stretching out my arms as though they might become wax wings. My toes cannot anchor me anymore. My heart spins and my stomach drops and the rain pummels. I will fall.

I will fall.

“Alice!”

My husband’s arms wrap around me and he yanks me backward into his tight embrace. We’re both breathing hard, our bodies soaked by the endless rain.

“What the fuck!” he yells.

“Let me go.” I punch at his arms, but he’s solid muscle. Tall and good-looking. Moody and dark. No one knows his darkness better than I do.

It matches my own.

He scoops me into his arms, strides through the open French doors, and throws me onto the bed. I scuttle back, but he grabs my calves and pulls me down.

“What are you doing, Grant?”

“Punishing you.” My husband can forgive any of my transgressions except one: Leaving him. He removes his clothes, fabric smacking wetly onto the marble flooring. He’s beautiful, and I wish he wasn’t. I want him every time. Every goddamned time. Even with his desperate gaze promising retaliation.

“Grant.” His name holds my plea for mercy, but he’s unmoved by my trembling voice. My silent tears. My shivering flesh.

“Take off your nightgown,” he demands.

I want to defy him, but he’ll punish me for that, too. Sometimes, I resist so that he will penalize my body in the way I adore, but tonight … tonight I want to drown in the ocean and extinguish my cold, cold soul.

I’ve waited too long. My disobedience destroys yet another nightie. He’s so strong that ripping the silk is the same as tearing tissue paper. Panties are dragged roughly down my legs and tossed to the floor.

Grant stretches his big body over mine and he bites my neck, his teeth sinking into my skin. I hiss at the pain, and he bites harder. He makes me bleed then he lifts up on his elbows, his harsh breath tainted with the scent of copper. My blood smears his mouth.

“You can’t leave me,” he says raggedly. “Do you understand?”

“I can leave you,” I whisper. His gaze shows panic and fear and wrath. I cup his face. “I can leave you,” I repeat. “But I won’t. I won’t.”

I offer myself as penance. Invite him to mark my flesh with his mouth, with his hands. It’s not long before his retribution turns into veneration. The ocean rages, and my husband worships me. Here. Now. I know that I will fall.

I will fall.

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I wrote this for a contest. It’s pure fiction. My Gen X childhood was not cozy, warm, or sentimental. But still … we writers dream.

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I don’t want to work on his stupid song. 

Yet, all my other compositions refuse my pleas. All those but his are silent.

Booking the university’s smallest music hall is a rare opportunity. Even for a Friday night. I’m lucky someone canceled last minute and allowed me to take the spot. 

The campus is nearly deserted because there’s a party or a dance or … a something somewhere. But there’s always a party or a dance or a something on the weekends. 

I like this small, cozy theater the best. The acoustics are sublime. And I wish, oh how I wish, I could play anything else. Sing anything else.

But his song is like the beat of my heart … strong, stubborn, sorrowful.

I take the composition notebook with his song to the piano. Open it to the first page. I lay my pencil beside it, in case inspiration strikes, and I start to play…

Soft at first. I’m walking up the steps. He’s there. The morning light a halo over his dark hair. Broad shoulders. Protector. Warrior. Angel. 

The music gets less soft, notes closer together. God, the ache for him makes my belly feel hollow. 

I’m trembling. 

And so are the piano keys. 

The wind in his hair and then he turns. His gaze meets mine for a microsecond. His jaw clenches. His eyes narrow. 

Now a short crescendo because I see the demon.

My fingers fly across the keys as the intro blends into the rhythm of my heartbeat. 

I feel the presence of someone else beside me.

I open my eyes.

He’s there. Sitting on the bench with me.

“Pretty,” he says.

“Me?” I ask. “Or the song?”

He smirks. “Do you need a compliment?”

“Yes.”

He closes the distance between us. He gaze drops to my mouth. “You’re pretty,” he says with a voice that wraps around my heart like a silk ribbon. “Your song is pretty, too.” The ribbon tightens and my heart, my foolish heart, constricts.

His fingers slide around my neck, his palm pressing into my throat. There’s enough pressure against my trachea to cause pain.

He whispers, “You called me here. Remember that.”

Yes. Yes, I know. I invited him into my reality with music.

He repays me with silence.

#Yearn

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I never liked Lorraine’s damned dog. The Chihuahua had been a mama’s girl since day one.

When my wife was alive, Princess at least tolerated my presence. Now that Lorraine’s dead, the little beast won’t stop chomping on my ankles.

I’ve taken to wearing two pairs of socks.

Not that it does much good. I swear to God she has a shark’s bite. She draws blood every single time.

I tried to give her away to my neighbor, but the old bag claimed she was allergic to animal dander.

Yeah, right.

That woman had cats slinking in and out of her house all day. Truth was, she didn’t like dogs. Or maybe she didn’t like Princess.

Couldn’t blame her. My mild dislike of the tiny terror had morphed into burning hatred. I called the local pound to come take her away, but they wanted to charge me an owner relinquishment fee of $200.

Can you believe that? Humph.

Lorraine committed more than enough financial infractions on behalf of Princess.

A pink leather collar with embedded fake diamonds. Monthly spa days for the dog, which included painting the furry brat’s toenails. Special dietary food because Princess has a delicate tum-tum, Harold.

I’d be damned if I let my wife’s mutt cost me a nickel more.

My ankles were so sore, I could barely walk. The wounds inflicted by Princess didn’t even have time to heal because she assaulted me daily.

I called several dog charities, but they all wanted donations before they’d even consider taking in Princess. Are you kidding me? That’s extortion. I wasn’t going to be blackmailed into getting rid of that horrible little shit.

I decided to leave the gate open in the backyard.

I let her out for potties, and I saw her peel around the corner of the house.

“Good riddance,” I muttered. “I hope a car hits you.” Trust me, you’d feel the same way about that furry pain-in-the-ass if you had to deal with her.

Lorraine said I wasn’t a “dog” person. Truth be told, I’m not an animal person at all. I don’t get the attachment people have to their pets.

You like animals? Go to the zoo. Don’t create one in your house.

Dogs blanket the furniture with their hair, they poop everywhere, and they bark incessantly.

Do you know how many noise complaints we’ve gotten because of Princess? Her relentless yapping is like listening to a jetliner crash into a glass factory.

The night Princess took off, I’d slept the best I had since Lorraine died. The next morning, I actually woke up smiling.

You can imagine my disappointment when I found Princess in the kitchen, waiting for her breakfast. She had this expectant look on her face. I knew what she was thinking. You’re a sucker, Harold.

“How did you get back in the house?” I marched to the sliding glass doors that led into the backyard and opened it wide. “Go on. Play in traffic.”

Princess ignored me. Instead, she looked down at her food bowl, the ceramic one Lorraine had special-ordered with Princess imprinted on it, and barked.

I slammed the door shut and locked it.

“I hate you,” I said.

But I still filled her bowl because with her mouth occupied she wouldn’t be using my ankles as chew toys.

I skipped making myself something to eat so I could get in my recliner and put my feet up. Princess was too small to jump onto the furniture. My poor abused ankles would be safe for a while. At least until I had to go pee.

I turned on the TV, listening to CNN as I used my laptop to search for ways to get rid of Princess.

I found a forum for local dog lovers, and it had a specific thread for re-homing pets. I started typing.

Retiree needs new home for pet of my dearly departed wife. Chihuahua is snow-white. Named Princess. Includes dog crate, two dog beds (pink), food bowls, nearly full bag of dry food, and all toys.

I paused, wondering if I should ask for payment for all of Princess’s crap. Then I thought better of it. People were cheap. They might not take the dog if I insisted they pony up some cash.

After adding a picture of the beast, I clicked “Add Post.”

I looked down and saw Princess sitting next to the recliner, staring up at me. “Your new owner will get everything I paid a pretty penny for,” I told her. “I bet that makes you happy.”

She barked.

Damned dog.

After lunch, I went to take a nap and Princess nipped at my heels all the way down the hall.

I did my best to ignore her.

I’d owned the one-story three-bedroom ranch-style house for decades and had shared it with three spouses. Lorraine had been my third wife. Before I met her, I’d been divorced and widowed with wives one and two respectively.

I met Lorraine standing in line at the pharmacy.

Like me, she was in her sixties, and we hit it off right away. We married less than a year later.

When you get old, you don’t really have stringent relationship requirements. It’s more about settling into routines and trying to remember which medications are yours.

I only had two problems with Lorraine. First, she liked to spend money on stupid things like craft projects and “updating the decor.” Second, she bought that awful Chihuahua from a breeder without asking my opinion on the matter. Isn’t she adorable, Harold? I just lubs her!

You wanna know how much she spent on Princess? $1200.

I wanted a new set of golf clubs, but you didn’t see me going down to the sports store and throwing $100 bills at the salesclerk.

I’ll admit I fumed about that dog for months. Lorraine tried to get us to be friends, but Princess knew I resented her, and she responded in kind.

Princess tried to follow me into the bedroom, but I used my foot to shove her away.

She chomped down on my big toe, shaking her head viciously, as if she was trying to tear it off.

“Ow! Stop it!” I kicked my leg, flinging the demon off me. I slammed the door shut then I limped to the bed and slid under the covers.

Just as I dozed off, Princess started barking.

“Shut up!” I yelled.

She stopped for all of two seconds, and then started yapping her fool head off again.

I got out of bed and looked for something to throw at her. A pillow was too soft. I rummaged in my closet until I found the umbrella.

Hah! She hated that thing.

I opened the door and shook the umbrella at her. She yipped in fear, tucked her tail, and ran into Lorraine’s craft room.

Chuckling, I shut the door and then put the umbrella next to my nightstand. I now had a weapon to keep her at bay. I crawled back into bed, triumphant.

I didn’t wake up from my nap until almost supper time.

I fully expected Princess to launch herself at me, but when I left the bedroom, she was nowhere to be found.

Still, I carried the umbrella with me into the kitchen while I fixed myself a microwavable meal and opened a can of beer.

I put my dinner and beer on a TV tray, settled into my recliner, and watched Jeopardy in relative peace.

Afterwards, I got on my laptop to check and see if anyone responded to my post on the dog forum.

Oh, I got responses all right.

Response 1: OMG. Are you serious? Princess lost her mother, and you want to traumatize her further by booting her out of the only home she’s ever known. That’s downright cruel.

Response 2: What kind of monster wants to give away his dead wife’s pet? You should be ashamed!

Response 3: I hope you rot in hell for trying to get rid of Princess.

Trolls. Every one of ’em.

I deleted the post.

You’d think people would be happy about getting a free purebred dog with all kinds of accessories. Instead, they were a bunch of bleeding hearts worried more about the dog than an old man’s peace of mind.

Her Royal Highness didn’t put in an appearance all night, even forgoing her dinner. I poured food into her bowl anyway, accidentally spilling it. Meh. I left the pellets on the floor. She’d eat them eventually.

My toe throbbed from Princess’ bite.

I popped a couple of ibuprofen before I went to bed. I didn’t want to think about the dog, but I worried she was up to no good.

A quiet Princess was a destructive one. She’d ruined my favorite pair of slippers, eaten three of my computer cords, and ripped up several spots of carpet.

My only hope was that she was demolishing something of Lorraine’s for once.

I hadn’t gotten around to cleaning out the craft room. Humph. Lorraine didn’t have an artistic bone in her body, but it didn’t stop her from painting and knitting and whatever-the-hell else she tried.

I didn’t really care if Princess wanted to eat the yarn or glitter or paint brushes. I hoped she choked to death. It sure would save me some trouble.

As I stared up at the ceiling, Princess gnawed on my mind the same way she gnawed at my ankles.

I turned on my nightstand lamp, irritated that I had to check on the furball. I stood up, knees creaking and ankles throbbing, and shuffled across the shag carpet.

The second I opened the bedroom door, the stench rolled over me like I’d been hit in the face with a shovel full of manure.

I knew immediately what Princess had been doing. I crossed the darkened hallway and turned on the light in the craft room.

The smell was even worse up close. I pinched my nose shut as I surveyed the unholy mess. Princess sat in the middle of it all, staring at me, unremorseful as all get-out. Hot, molten rage surged through me.

“I’m gonna kill you!” I yelled.

Princess bared her needle teeth at me then she darted across the room, barking.

I remembered too late that I had left the umbrella in the living room.

I turned and ran. At least, I tried to.

My ankles and big toe hurt so bad, I couldn’t move as fast as I wanted. But as soon I got my hands on that umbrella, I was gonna beat that furry snot to death.

I’d only gotten three steps into the living room when I felt her tiny sharp teeth sink into my left calf. I cried out, dragging her along as I limped toward the umbrella leaning against the recliner.

“I’ve had enough of you!” I screamed.

Princess let go, but only so she could attack my ankle.

I felt her teeth rip through my tendons and suddenly, my foot didn’t work anymore.

I fell forward, my forehead smacking against the coffee table. Warm blood trickled down my temple.

Princess went to work on my other ankle, growling as she chewed right through my skin and muscle.

I didn’t care about the umbrella anymore. I needed help. I dragged myself to the recliner, using it as leverage to get the cordless phone I’d left on the end table.

My hands shook, but I managed to keep my grip on the phone and dialed 9–1–1.

“My name’s Harold Singer.” I screamed in pain as Princess yanked chunks out of my lower thigh. “I’m being attacked!”

“I have your location as 457 Maple Street. Is that correct, sir?” asked the operator urgently.

“Yes!” I heard the weird snuffling noises Princess often made when she horked down her expensive food.

I looked at the floor and saw Princess dining on the pieces of muscle she’d torn from my thigh.

Blood stained her maw as she chewed and chewed and chewed. She stared right at me as she masticated my flesh, daring me with those beady little eyes to try and stop her.

“Hurry! She’s killing me!”

“Police and ambulance are on the way,” said the operator. “Try to get to a safe location.”

“Nowhere is safe,” I cried.

Princess disappeared right before the police busted through the front door, guns drawn. I could hear her incessant barking, though. She must’ve retreated to the craft room.

“Shoot her,” I demanded as the policemen entered the living room. “She’s out of control!”

“Where is the assailant?” asked the shorter of the two police officers.

I pointed to the hallway.

They looked at each other and I heard the taller one say, “Good God, it smells bad in here.”

“It’s all her fault!” I yelled. “Go get her!”

“Stay where you are, sir.”

Like I had a choice. I rolled onto the floor and lay on my back.

My head hurt worse than my useless feet.

Blood smeared the carpet.

My socks were in tatters and so were my pajamas.

I put my hand against my thigh, pressing against the blood spurting from all the wounds Princess had caused.

I felt like all the air had been pressed out of my lungs and I broke out in a cold sweat.

“Help me…” My voice was a mere whisper.

My heart beat faster and faster as the edges of my vision grayed.

Dear God. I was having a heart attack.

I heard the cops run into the living room and yell into their radios. Then everything turned black.

I woke up to a weird acrid smell in my nostrils and the unfamiliar countenance of a young man wearing a red shirt with EMT embroidered on the left side.

“Get that outta my face,” I said. “What are you doing? Trying to kill me?”

“No, sir. These are smelling salts.” He put a white tube into the opened satchel next to him.

Confused, I looked around and realized I was lying on my couch.

The EMT took his kit and rose, making room for a new person. The man who squatted next to me was dressed in a suit. He had short brown hair and serious blue eyes.

“I should be at the hospital,” I said, outraged. “I had a heart attack!”

“The paramedics assure me your heart is fine,” said the man. “It seems you had a panic attack and fainted. My name is Detective Gary Monroe.”

He lifted a black wallet from the interior pocket of his jacket and flipped it open to show me an ID and a silver badge. “Do you know why I’m here?”

“Because I called the police for help.” A shiver wracked my entire body. I squinted at him. “Well, did you kill her?”

“Kill who?”

“The dog! I can’t hear her barking anymore, so you shot her, right?”

He shook his head.

I sighed. “Too bad. I guess you muzzled her and took her to animal control.” I shook my finger at him. “You put her to sleep, you hear me? She’s dangerous.”

He stared at me, brows furrowed, and I knew he didn’t believe me. Princess is too cute to hurt anybody, silly. That’s what Lorraine always said when I confronted her about Princess biting me.

“Well, wait are you waiting for? Take me to the hospital.”

“You want to go to the hospital?”

“I’m wounded.” I pointed at my thigh. “See?”

His gaze flicked down. “I don’t see, sir.”

What an idiot. I put my hand against my thigh, expecting to feel ripped cloth and sticky blood, but … I looked and my pajamas were intact. I didn’t have any wounds.

“What about my feet?” I lifted them and saw that the doubled-up socks were pristine. No blood. No holes. No nothing.

“I don’t understand. She … she chewed through my ankles. I couldn’t walk! I fell and hit the coffee table.” I reached up and touched my skull. I felt a bandage on my forehead.

“You had a small cut above your eyebrow, sir. Not even deep enough for stitches.”

“It’s still her fault!” I yelled. “She tried to eat me!”

I saw him look to his left at a uniformed patrol officer. “Get the dog.”

“She’s still here?” Panic burbled and I sat up, swinging my feet off the couch and planting them on the floor.

“Mr. Singer, can you tell me why we found the decomposing corpse of your wife in the back room?”

“Well, she died,” I said.

My nerves were shot. I was worried that the policeman wouldn’t be able to contain Princess. She was vicious. She’d find a way to bite me, I just knew it.

“It looks like Mrs. Singer died from severe trauma to the head,” said Detective Monroe. “We found copious amounts of dried blood on the umbrella near the recliner. Did you kill your wife, sir?”

“Of course, I did!” I yelled, impatient with the detective’s questions. “She got mad at me for disciplining Princess. That horrible dog bit me. Again. Princess is scared of the umbrella — that’s why I got it out of the closet. Lorraine got in the way, is all.”

The policeman returned, carrying a wrapped bundle in his arms. “Detective Monroe?”

“Show him.”

He leaned down and lifted an edge of the white blanket. I recognized the knobby little head of Princess, though her eyes were closed and she was unusually still.

“What’d you do?” I asked. “Knock her out?”

“She’s dead, Mr. Singer,” said Detective Monroe. “I think you killed the dog first.”

I couldn’t keep my eyes off Princess. I swear I saw one of her ears twitch.

“You got mad, grabbed the umbrella and struck the Chihuahua. Your wife tried to protect the dog and you used the umbrella to beat her to death. Is that about right?”

I definitely saw her ears move. Princess wasn’t dead. She was faking.

“Mr. Singer?”

“I didn’t kill the dog,” I said, pointing at Princess. “See that? She’s moving.”

“The dog is dead, sir. And so is your wife.” The detective grasped my forearm. “I’m arresting you for capital murder.”

Princess’ eyes popped open and she pulled her lips back to reveal those sharp little teeth. She growled.

“Do whatever you want, Detective,” I said, staring at the snarling face of Princess. “Just keep that damned dog away from me.”

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“Let me go.”

“No!” Tears stream my face as I grip her hand with both of mine. Rocks bite into my abdomen. I feel weight on my legs … someone holding me down to keep me from following her over the edge. 

A gaping maw of darkness swallows the space between the cliff and the moonlit lake below. Blood streaks her face. Her hair whips in the wind. Terror fills her gaze. 

I can save her. 

Her injured hand grips a jutting rock. I hear the scrape of her bare feet trying to find purchase on the cliffside. 

My heart pounds. 

My muscles strain.  

I can save her. 

I pull with all my strength as she tries to push upward.

I’m dragged further over the cliff. The one holding on to me shouts cuss words, adjusts position, stalls my body’s slide.

“Help me, damn it!” I call over my shoulder. 

“If I move, you both go over.”

“Then move!” My vision blurs. I blink away the tears. If she’s gone, there’s no point to me.

“It’s okay.” She puts her injured hand on top of mine. For a moment, hope sparks. I meet her gaze, and I see her intention. 

“Don’t!” I scream. 

I can save her. 

She bends my fingers back. Hard. Quick. Pain erupts from my joints. My hand refuses to withstand the agony. 

Not even for her. 

My fingers release. She slips out of my grasp. 

Then she’s falling. 

Falling into the darkness.

Buy Me a Coffee

I’ve learned that I will

make smoothies

for people who are not you

I don’t get annoyed

when asked to run errands

because the asker is not you

I do not hide from

the people in this house

like I did when I lived with you

Fear is gone

Depression a distant memory

Anxiety a less constant companion

I easily do all the things

you wanted from me

because those things

are

not

for

you

So now I know

my truth about

the relationship

gone like fog burned away

by the sun

it was never me

it

was

y

o

u

Guilt is devouring me.

Inch by inch.

It feels slimy and cold and it makes this weird slush-suck sound as it creeps up my calves. I can no longer feel my feet. They’ve gone numb.

The cold rain pelts me, but the miserable weather doesn’t bother the guilt.

The guilt is immune to everything. It only has purpose. No obstacles.

As the guilt gnaws along my legs, they’re going numb, too. I don’t have a lot of time left, but I’ll tell you as much as I can before the guilt finishes the job.

Tonight, I got my 30-day chip from AA. I’m only 22, but I picked up my first beer when I was 12 and from that day onward I found more than enough reasons to keep drinking.

It’s the usual stuff, you know? Dead mom. Abusive asshole dad. Foster care. Juvie. Blah, blah, blah.

Forget about all the bad decisions I made through the years. I’ll skip to the day I decided to never drink again.

I woke up in a cheap motel room.

I was lying in the bathtub with an empty fifth of Wild Turkey abandoned on my chest. Clenched in my hand was a glittery pink barrette. Inside it were long strands of blonde hair.

I was covered in blood. Mine, I thought. But as I checked myself over, I realized I didn’t have any injuries. I pushed the bottle off me, flinching when it clinked loudly against the ceramic tub.

Every part of me ached. By the time I got to my feet and staggered to the sink, I felt like I’d lost multiple rounds in an MMA brawl.

Hang on…

Ugh. The guilt’s creeping past my knees, its slimy tendrils twisting around my thighs. Did I mention the smell?

Guilt reeks.

Rotten and sour like expired meat wrapped in sweaty gym socks. I’m trying not to gag. The closer it gets, the harder it is to ignore the stink.

Where was I? Oh, right. I felt like I’d been stomped on by Godzilla.

My head throbbed, pain pulsed in every muscle, and my mouth felt like I’d been gnawing on cotton balls. I remembered renting this room for a couple of nights. Going to the bar up the block.

What was it called? Maverick’s? Mackaw’s? Something with an M. I sat at the bar and drank myself stupid.

I stumbled out at closing time, pulled up my hoodie and hunched my shoulders against the cold, and then…

Nothing.

I didn’t remember a goddamned thing.

I’d blacked out before, waking up to a haze of memories floating through my mind like cigarette smoke. Sometimes the images were mere flashes. Spilled beer. Dropped joint. Falling on my ass because I felt like I was trapped on a Merry-Go-Round spinning, spinning, spinning.

But this time? I had an empty place in my head. My own personal black hole.

I stared in the mirror at the dried blood on my face and neck. I looked down at my T-shirt and saw blotches all over the light blue cotton. I opened my hand and studied the barrette.

What the fuck, man? This was obviously a little girl’s hair accessory. I didn’t know any kids. So how’d I end up with it? And why was I covered in someone else’s blood?

I’ll admit that I was afraid to leave the bathroom. I wasn’t sure what I’d find. Before I could wuss out, I opened the door.

The motel room was empty.

The bed hadn’t been slept in. My black hoodie was on the floor and my wallet and smokes were on the dresser. I exited the bathroom and scooped up the hooded fleece jacket. I stuck it under the lamplight and studied the fabric.

Bloodstains.

I shed my clothes and took a long, hot shower. I scrubbed my skin until the tiny soap was gone. I got dressed in the only pair of jeans I had left, a wrinkled T-shirt and my ratty sneakers. I rolled up the bloodied clothes and balled them inside the hoodie, tying it up like a present for the Grim Reaper.

Oh, man. The guilt has almost reached my hips. I can’t feel my legs at all. It’s weird not to have any sensation below my torso.

I’m only half a person now.

Better than nothing, right? Hah. I’ve been nothing my whole life.

Anyway. With the clothes under my arm, I walked to the greasy spoon down the block. I entered the alleyway, opened the Dumpster, and shoved the clothing under a pile of rotted cabbages.

Since I’d just ditched only jacket I owned, I hit a nearby thrift store and snagged a camouflage hoodie for $3.

Between the motel fees and my bar tab last night, I was down to almost nil. As I headed back toward the motel, thinking about what I could do for some quick cash, I saw the sign.

Alcoholics Anonymous. All Are Welcome.

I don’t know why I turned toward the building, or pulled open the glass door, or walked down the hallway into a room with threadbare carpet and rows of metal chairs.

But I can tell you why I stayed.

They had donuts and coffee. For the price of the only meal I’d get that day, I attended my first meeting.

The last 30 days have been a mixture of hell and hope. Mostly hell. Until I got that chip. The only thing in my life I honestly earned was that shiny token of my sobriety. It’s nestled in my pocket with the barrette.

I was so happy after the meeting, I walked into the greasy spoon and asked about their Help Wanted sign. I applied for a job as a busboy. Can you believe it? I was trying to be an honest-to-God working joe. After I handed in the application, I almost felt worthwhile.

Fuck. That hurts.

The slimy crap squeezes up my rib cage. How can I feel both numb and freezing? I’m really cold. Even my teeth are chattering.

So … so I’d been staying at the local shelter, and if I didn’t get in by curfew, they’d give my bed away. I left the diner, intending to haul ass.

She waited for me outside.

“I wanted to thank you,” she said. She looked like one of those moms in TV commercials touting sugary cereal as part of a nutritious breakfast.

Her shiny blonde hair was pulled into a bouncy ponytail and she wore a heavy coat that went past her knees. I could see her jeans and expensive trainers. An oversized purse dangled from her arm.

“Um … you got the wrong the guy,” I said. “I don’t know you.”

“I’m Natalie.”

Natalie. She even had a TV mom’s name. I shifted from foot to foot. I don’t know why she made me feel so uncomfortable.

Maybe it was because I’m not used to talking to people who don’t worry about food and shelter. People who have jobs and pay bills and live in houses without holes or graffiti or the rank smell of cooked meth.

“You are not the wrong guy,” she insisted. “I’ve been looking for you ever since the … the accident.” She paused, licked her lips. “Don’t you remember? It was about a month ago. After 2 a.m. on a Tuesday night.”

I’m stumbling out of the bar. My head is swimming. I can’t walk straight, but I want more booze. I’m not numb enough. Across the street is a 24-hour liquor store. I stagger between two parked cars.

I got enough money for a fifth of Wild Turkey. I know exactly what it costs down to the penny. I hear the blast of a horn. I look up and see the truck’s headlights aimed right at me.

“I’d picked up my daughter from the babysitter’s and I wanted to get home. I tried to take a shortcut, but I got lost. My daughter was whining because she was tired,” continued Natalie, her voice stark. “I was tired, too, and I snapped at her. Then she started wailing. Screaming. I only took my eyes off the road for a second.”

The truck veers around me, missing my sorry ass by mere inches. I get to the sidewalk, the neon sign of the liquor store shining like the bright welcome of a church. That’s what this place is. My church. Then I hear the crash. The smash of metal against metal. I wheel around…

“The truck hit my car hard. We flipped over.”

I don’t want to hear anymore of Natalie’s story. Dread swirls in my gut like I ate those rotten cabbages. And underneath the moldy vegetables were my secrets. My sins.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You need to take off, okay? It ain’t safe around here.” I attempted to move past her, but she put her hand on my arm. I looked down into her sorrow-filled blue eyes and knew I couldn’t escape.

I hear the roar of an engine and the squeal of tires. The truck’s tail lights disappear into the darkness. Then I see the other car. The Volkswagen is rocking upside down like a turned-over turtle.

The woman crawls out of the car. She’s dazed. Her head is bleeding. I help her to the curb. “Grace…” she whispers. I crawl inside the car and unbuckle the unconscious kid from the seatbelt.

“You were drunk,” she stated. “But it didn’t stop you from being a decent human being.”

Natalie’s hand still gripped my sleeve.

Maybe that’s why I noticed the green sludge on her shoulder. No bigger than a lime, but as she spoke, it flattened and started to expand. “You didn’t know it, but Grace was already dead when you got her out.”

I swallowed the knot clogging my throat. “She was dead?”

I don’t think Natalie heard me. She kept talking. Kept filling the space between us with her anguished words. “You were so careful with her. Like she was the most precious thing you ever held. That’s why I needed to find you before I…” She shook her head. “Thank you. For your kindness to her.”

She let go of my jacket and dropped her arm. The purse slid off and landed sideways on the ground. She didn’t seem to care. She started sobbing, covering her face with her gloved hands, so she didn’t see the pill bottle roll out.

I bent down to retrieve the purse and the little orange container. I glanced at the label. Klonopin. Filled today. A sick feeling curled inside my stomach. I pocketed the pills and stood up, handing her the purse.

“Thanks,” she said, wiping her cheeks. “God, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said.

The sludge on her shoulder stretched longer and wider. It was an ugly green color and looked like someone puked up spinach gelatin on Natalie’s coat.

“You have other kids?” I asked.

“Tommy. He’s six. I … haven’t been myself lately. I feel like I’m drowning. I can’t breathe. I can’t sleep. I can’t … anyway. My husband is a really good father. The best.” She huffed out a breath. “He wants me to go to therapy. He thinks that will help.”

“Maybe it will.”

“Maybe.” The goop on Natalie’s shoulder crawled down her arm. “I used to think I was strong. But I’m not.” She leaned close and whispered, “I took my eyes off the road for a second. I killed my baby. The guilt is eating me alive.”

In her eyes I saw the hopelessness that I’d seen too often in my own gaze. Reflected in her agony was the decision that I’d always been too cowardly to make. I glanced at the gelatinous thing undulating on her coat. I knew what the vile creature was. Natalie had given it a name.

Guilt.

She cocked her head. “Did you introduce yourself? I don’t remember.”

“I’m Charlie.”

Natalie held out her gloved hand. “Nice to meet you, Charlie.”

Was it nice to meet me? I didn’t think so. She was right, you know. Her daughter was the most precious thing I’d ever held. And I was the reason little Grace had died. If the truck hadn’t swerved to avoid me … goddamn it.

I grasped Natalie’s outstretched hand and then pulled her into a tight hug. While she clung to me, I grabbed the slime and yanked it off her. It felt like cold snot and it struggled in my grip like a wet cat.

After a moment or two, Natalie moved out of my embrace. “Thanks. I needed that.” She blinked up at me. “I feel better.”

“I’m a professional hugger,” I tried to joke. I put my arms down, and thought for sure she’d see the blobby creature wiggling in my hand. But she didn’t notice it all.

She smiled. A genuine smile filled with warmth and caring. The kind of smile I’d never seen on another human being’s face until I went to AA. Natalie rolled her shoulders. “This will sound strange, but I feel like a huge weight has been lifted off me.”

“I’m glad,” I said.

I saw the relief in her gaze. The sorrow was still there, but now I saw hope. If you have hope, you can heal. That was one of the lessons I learned during my whole month of sobriety.

“Take care of yourself, Charlie.”

“You, too,” I said. “Go home to your family, Natalie.”

She nodded, her expression thoughtful. She offered me one more smile before she walked away. I felt like she was gonna be alright.

I hurried into the diner’s alleyway and dropped the wiggling slime into the Dumpster. At least I thought I did. I turned to leave, but I couldn’t move my feet.

I looked down and saw the guilt clinging to me. I tried to get it off me, but removing the creature was an impossible task. Then I realized I’d stolen its original victim.

I was its new sacrifice.

I dragged myself around the big green trash can, sliding between it and the diner’s brick wall. As icy rain poured from the dark winter sky, I took out the Klonopin prescription and dry swallowed pills.

The fetid slime is climbing up my neck and spreading down my arms. Soon, it will cover my chin and slip into my mouth. It will crawl down my throat. Squeeze my lungs. Suffocate my organs. Fill my heart.

Then it will make me disappear.

Look, I’m no great loss to society, okay? I’m an asshole always looking out for number one. What have I contributed to the world? Jack shit. Getting thirty days of sobriety was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but what was that compared to a mother’s grief for the loss of her child?

Shit, man. I told you.

I’m nothing.

Nothing at all.

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After the fifth person died choking to death on the droning creatures, people in the tiny town of Maple, Texas were so terrified, they didn’t go outside anymore.

They even skipped church.

That shows you how bad things had gotten. Ain’t nothing ever come between these folks and Jesus. I guess suffocation by bugs was too much Satan for even the truest believers.

The irony? Their Christian beliefs had jack-all to do with what was happening to the townsfolk. The real problem had to do with complacency.

They took for granted their abundance of blessings.

My wife and I had taken up residence in Maple a couple of weeks before the invasion. We lived on about an acre of wooded land about five miles away from downtown.

We could hear the constant thrumming of the cicadas, but the insects didn’t pay us too much mind.

Still, I have to admit I was impressed that Preacher Colton Hart, Sheriff Gary Boudreaux, and Mayor Chester Mills had waded through the thousands of cicadas to come see us.

“You sure are lucky, Tiffany,” Mayor Mills said as he unwrapped himself from the coat, hat, scarf, and goggles meant to protect him from bug invasions. “You and uh — ” He glanced at my spouse. “Erm, Ellen, don’t have hardly any of those little devils out here.”

Ellen took the mayor’s items, offering kindness the old fart didn’t deserve. “Yes, we are lucky,” she said. She gathered the coats from our other two guests and hung everything up in the entryway closet. I led the three gentlemen into the living room and gestured for them to sit.

They took the couch. While the mayor and preacher’s expression mirrored uneasiness, the Sheriff seemed comfortable enough. He took off his wide-brimmed hat and placed it on his knee.

Green smears stained his tan uniform and cowboy boots. Even the black gun belt slouched around his waist revealed evidence of smashed cicadas.

The expensive suits worn by the mayor and preacher were much more pristine. Such fussy, vain men. Unlike the Sheriff, who didn’t care a whit about appearance. He was about the job. At least him I could respect.

Ellen took the spot next to me on the love seat, leaning against my shoulder. I wrapped my arm around her and kissed the top of her head. I saw the looks of censure from the preacher and mayor, their mouths squeezing as though sucking on lemons.

Anger flared and I opened my mouth to give them what-for, but Ellen squeezed my thigh — a reminder to stay the course. I swallowed the words I wanted to say and instead asked, “What can we do for you?”

“You can solve the bug problem.” The mayor leaned forward, offering us a smile that didn’t reach his flinty gaze. “We’ve come to the conclusion that God is punishing us for allowing you into our community.”

“Women who live together?” I asked.

“Lesbians,” the preacher spat. He pointed a finger at us and recited, “Romans 1:26. Because of this, God gave them over to shameful lusts. Even their women exchanged natural sexual relations for unnatural ones.” He nodded fervently then added, “And they received in their own persons the due penalty for their error.”

He sat back, satisfied with his chastisement. “The Almighty always punishes the sinners who mock his Grace.”

“You think He — ” I pointed up. “ — sent bugs to punish everyone because Ellen and I are in a monogamous same-sex marriage?”

I looked at my wife.

We both burst out laughing.

“You think God’s wrath is humorous?” Preacher Hart’s jowls shook as self-righteousness bled into his expression.

The man was an ode to the sin of gluttony — from his overweight carcass to the platinum rings donning his chubby fingers. What a hypocrite. He judged our lifestyle to be wrong when he so eagerly fed his own greed with food and money?

“I think you’re confused about who’s responsible for the cicadas,” I said. “The God of your precious Bible doesn’t give two shits about homosexuality.”

The preacher’s mouth opened and closed as his face turned a bright shade of red. “Blasphemy!” he chewed out through gritted teeth.

“For some, maybe. Not for us.” Ellen turned her gracious smile onto the Sheriff. My wife really was the sweetest thing. “You’re not originally from Maple, are you?”

“Moved here five years ago,” said the Sheriff. “My wife always wanted to live in a small town. She had terminal cancer, you see. I’d do anything for her. I wanted her last days to be filled with as much happiness as possible.” He flattened his hand against his chest. “She’s my heart.”

He shook his head, his lips curving into a half-smile. “Damndest thing, though. We were only here for a few weeks when the cancer went into remission on its own. She’s been healthy ever since.”

“That’s wonderful,” said Ellen. Her eyes were wet with unshed tears of empathy. I knew how the Sheriff felt. Ellen was my world. My heart. I’d do anything for her.

“What do you know about thirteen-year cicadas?” I asked.

The Sheriff’s eyebrows rose at the question. “Not much, I’m afraid. Other than I’m getting real good at killing the little bastards.” He grimaced as he waved a hand over his stained uniform.

“Magicicada,” I said. “That’s the genus. Great name, right? They hibernate for thirteen years and then pop out of the ground and swarm to mate and lay eggs.”

“Most folks confuse cicadas with locusts, but they’re not related at all.” Ellen turned her gaze to the preacher and mayor. “You two know all about these cicadas. Been part of the town’s history since the very first days Maple was founded. Isn’t that right?”

“What?” The Sheriff glanced at the other two men. “This isn’t the first time the cicadas have attacked Maple?”

“Enough, Colton. Let’s get this over with.” Mayor Mills got to his feet, producing a gun and pointing it at us. “I am truly sorry, ladies,” he lied. “But you see, we don’t have much of a choice.”

“Hey now,” said the Sheriff. “What are you doing, Chester?”

“You shut up, Gary,” the mayor huffed. “You invited yourself to this little shindig. We didn’t ask you to come at all.”

“You can’t kill them because they’re gay!” The Sheriff moved as though he intended to stand, but the preacher pulled out a revolver and aimed it at the Sheriff’s head.

“It’s the only way,” said the preacher. “You haven’t lived here long enough to understand what must be done. Chester, we’ll have to present three victims. We can’t have the Sheriff blabbing.”

The mayor nodded. “It’s a shame, but you’re right.”

The Sheriff wasn’t fearful. I could see he wanted to de-esculate the situation. “You both need to put down your weapons.” His voice was quiet, calm. “No one needs to get hurt tonight.”

“Oh, there’s where you’re wrong,” I said. “Every now and again the folks of Maple apparently need reminders of the bargain they made to live and prosper on this land.”

Unlike my darling Ellen, I didn’t have it in me to smile at these fools. “Every thirteen years, the cicadas arrive. Think of them as a ringing alarm clock. A reminder to pay a longstanding bill. When the bill isn’t paid — well, you see the result.”

The mayor turned pale. No doubt because he’d finally made the connection between us and the cicadas. I could practically taste the man’s terror.

“Sit down.” I extended my finger then pointed it downward. The mayor’s legs buckled and he fell onto the couch. Ellen waved her hand at the men, and their guns flew from their grips and skittered across the hardwood floor.

“What’s going on?” The sheriff put his hand on his gun belt, obviously uneasy by our little shows of power.

“I told you,” I said. “The original founders of Maple made a bargain. Not only to settle this little piece of Texas paradise, but also for prosperity. Haven’t you noticed how well everyone does here? No one’s poor or homeless. Crime is practically non-existent. Every citizen enjoys good health. Like your wife. And that’s how it remains. So long as they pay the bounty owed.”

The Sheriff was a thoughtful man and I saw his eyes narrow as he considered the situation. I decided to help him out. I took Ellen’s hand squeezed. “Her true name is Eos. The Greeks called her the sky goddess and said her tears became the morning dew.”

Ellen laughed. “I certainly don’t cry as much as I used to.” She kissed my knuckles. “Not since I found Tithonus.”

“The Greeks believed Zeus gave me immortality, but I still aged, withering to the point he took mercy on me and turned me into a cicada.”

“None of that is true,” said Ellen. “Except that Tithonus does have an affinity for cicadas.”

“And you,” I said, stroking her cheek.

“What did they promise?” asked the Sheriff. “The town’s founders?”

“What all gods demand,” I answered. “Sacrifice.”

The mayor and preacher blanched.

The Sheriff’s brows rose as realization hit him. He turned his head to glare at his companions. “You came here to kill them as the town’s sacrifices?”

“Better strangers than our citizens,” said the mayor.

“Thirteen years is a lot of time to plan,” I said, tsking as I shook my head. “I don’t think there’s much of an excuse for not honoring your promise to us.”

“You see,” said Ellen. “Once we eat, we hibernate for another thirteen years.”

“And the town of Maple receives the benefit of our return to the earth,” I added. “All that energy created by our feasting seeps out and blesses those who live here. And we stay sated for another thirteen years.”

“My wife’s cancer … it’s gone because we moved here.”

Ellen nodded. “That’s right, Sheriff. And it will stay gone so long as you remain in Maple.”

“She’s pregnant with our first child. We never thought we’d get to have kids.” The Sheriff pursed his lips. “How many sacrifices?”

“We’re not greedy,” said Ellen. “We only require two humans.” She held up her hand. “No children. Your young are too cute to be eaten. And no animals.” She licked her lips. “Humans are so delicious. So succulent. Animals are a poor substitute.”

“We … uh, have the right people in mind,” said the mayor, his face gray. He took a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped the sweat from his face. “We can work this out.”

Preacher Hart said nothing, but I saw the worry in his gaze. The worry — and the anger. Such a bitter soul.

“We’re not asking to be worshiped,” said Ellen. “Just fed. For all you receive in return, it’s a small price to pay.”

“Or the cicadas can keep suffocating everyone and destroying buildings until nothing and no one is left. There are other towns and more compliant people.” I patted Ellen’s knee. “Isn’t that right, babe?”

“Yes. Though I would hate to start over. I do like it here.”

“Will those two do?” asked the Sheriff, jabbing his thumb at his compatriots. “You eat them. The cicadas go away, and we have peace and prosperity for another thirteen years?”

“Now wait a minute!” the mayor blustered. “I’m not going to be sacrificed!”

“Me, either,” said Preacher Hart. He tried to get to his feet, but one little zap from me glued him to the couch, same as the Mayor.

Ellen and I looked at each other, and I saw the answer in her gaze. We were in agreement. We both stood. “It’s a deal, Sheriff.”

The Sheriff took the hat off his knee and put it on. Then he rose to his feet and shook both of our proffered hands. “Thank you, ladies. Do I need to return for … um, clean-up?”

“There won’t be anything left,” I assured the Sheriff. “You’ll need to explain their disappearances.”

The Sheriff shrugged. “Them cicadas is what I figure,” he said. “Damned shame, really.” He nodded. “Good night then.”

“Good night,” said Ellen. She retrieved the Sheriff’s coat from the foyer closet and then showed him out.

Mayor Mills and Preacher Hart screamed for his help, but the Sheriff left without looking back once. Their cries turned to mewling. I pinched my fingers together and their lips pressed shut.

I hated it when my food whined.

“I like the Sheriff,” said Ellen as she returned to the living room.

“He’s a practical man,” I agreed. I rubbed my hands together. “Now, sweetheart. What do you feel like … pot roast? Or barbecue?”

Ellen leaned over the couch and poked at the men’s bellies. “Barbecue,” she said. “Let’s make it a true Texas feast with potato salad, collard greens, and sweet tea.”

I snapped my fingers and an ax appeared in my hands. “You go on and get the fixings started.” I grinned at our terrified sacrifices. What they didn’t know is that fear made them more tender and tasty. “I’ll get the meat ready.”

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Hi. My name is Emily. Most days, I would rather eat hot coals than do something that would send my husband Dennis into one of his rages.

Like using his laptop.

But I’m doing it.

My husband says I’m stupid. Maybe I am. But I figured out how to create an account on Reddit. Despite the terror making my fingers shake and my heart stutter…

I’m determined to tell someone what happened, even if it’s an anonymous group of people on the Internet.

It’s rare that I’m alone. Dennis works from home. Computer stuff. I’m not sure exactly what he does.

He tells me I wouldn’t understand. That I’m too dumb to have a regular conversation, much less one about his big, important job.

See, I’m a housewife. I’ve never had a job. I don’t know what it’s like to work. Not that I didn’t want to get a job — I did. Dennis wouldn’t hear of it.

We don’t have children, either. I would love to be a mom, but Dennis doesn’t want to be a father.

I’ve been with Dennis since I was fifteen and he was nineteen. He was handsome. Confident. Smart.

I was so in love with him that I believed his lies.

He said my friends were jealous of us.

He said my parents were control freaks who stood in the way of our happiness.

We only need each other, Emily. Run away with me.

So I did. For the last eight years, I’ve spent every day regretting that decision.

Sorry. I didn’t get on here to whine about my life. Here goes…

It started earlier this morning. Dennis woke up in a bad mood. He tripped me coming out of the bathroom. Yelled at me for being lazy because I took too long to climb to my feet.

At breakfast, he took one bite of the scrambled eggs I made for him then he dumped the whole plate of food onto the floor and screamed, “You’ve ruined my day, you dumb fucking cunt.”

I immediately started cleaning the mess. But I wasn’t fast enough. Dennis shot up from the dining room chair and kicked me in the ribs. I fell on my side, my cheek squishing into the scrambled eggs.

He kicked me again and yelled, “You’re fucking useless!”

Hot agony struck my ribs and slammed into my lungs. My body buzzed with a strange, cold energy.

My stomach heaved, and I rose onto my knees right before painfully sharp vomit pushed up my throat and burst out of my mouth.

On the beige carpet, scattered in Dennis’ eggs and my bile, were metal words.

His words.

You. Are. Fucking. Useless.

They were shiny and sharp. Word-shaped blades.

Dennis squatted down, his nose squishing at the noxious smell of vomit. He stared at the words then he turned his glare on me. “What the fuck, Emily?”

The moment he asked the snide question, I felt the uneasy roil of my stomach. Then it happened again. Sharp metallic things sliced up my throat, forcing me to puke them out.

What. The. Fuck. Emily. tumbled into the mushed eggs.

“How are you doing that?” he asked. Anger vibrated in his tone.

“I-I d-don’t know.”

“It’s a trick,” he accused. “You’re fucking with me. You’re doing this on purpose, you stupid cow.”

I groaned as my stomach squeezed and my entire body vibrated with that same weird chill. I vomited You. Stupid. Cow.

The words plopped onto the carpet.

Blood dribbled down my chin and added to the ugly mess of eggs and bile.

Dennis stood up, and I did, too, because I didn’t want him to kick me again. I already felt like someone was stabbing a stick into my lungs. Probably a broken rib. I’ve had them before and I recognized that particular kind of agony.

“Whatever this is,” he said in a menacing voice, “you better knock it off.”

“Those are your words,” I managed to choke out. Blood pooled in my mouth and I forced myself to swallow it.

“Don’t you dare blame this bullshit on me!” His brows snapped together. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

The word-knives exploded out of me. Shut. Your. Fucking. Mouth. jabbed … jabbed … jabbed … jabbed into my husband. Blood spattered his shirt and jeans.

He looked down at the words jutting out of his chest, his expression pure shock. Then he slowly raised his head to stare at me. I saw in his eyes an emotion I had only seen from my own gaze in the mirror.

Terror.

I’d never seen Dennis afraid. I’m ashamed to admit I liked that he was scared of me.

There’s a hideous power in creating fear in others.

In this horrifying moment, I didn’t feel dread and panic.

He did.

“Call me a name, Dennis,” I whispered. Talking was pure torment because my throat was cut to ribbons. I swallowed my own warm blood. It tasted like pennies. “Tell me I’m dumb. Tell me how lucky I am to have you because no one else would put up with me.”

“Fuck you.”

Fuck came out sideways and sliced open a corner of my mouth. But the jagged pain was worth it as Fuck. You. stabbed into my husband’s soft belly. He cried out and backed away, holding up his hands.

“Stay away from me, bitch!”

Bitch hurt coming out more than any of the other words I’d puked so far, but it hurt Dennis more when slammed into his left eye.

He screamed, grabbing at the word. The edges sliced his fingers, and he screamed again. He dropped his bleeding hands and left Bitch in his eye. He turned and stumbled down the hallway.

I followed him. “Say something else,” I whisper-yelled.

“Get away from me!”

“What’s wrong, honey?” My voice was barely audible. And I couldn’t breathe well. I felt liquid filling up my lungs, and realized that between the word-knives and Dennis’ hard kicks, I probably had internal bleeding.

But so did he. For once, Dennis was suffering the same as I was.

He slipped in the hallway. He tried to use the wall to balance himself, but his hand was too slick with blood. The hardwood floors that I scrubbed every day and waxed every week betrayed his socked feet.

He fell face-first onto those floors cleaned by my hands. Made shiny and beautiful under my care.

I got on my knees and rolled him over. All those words he’d screamed at me had embedded more deeply into his doughy flesh.

Blood seeped out of the wounds caused by Shut. Your. Fucking. Mouth. Fuck. You. Bitch. Dennis’ one good eye zeroed in on me. “You cunt,” he gurgled.

Cunt lurched up my throat and spun out of my mouth, cutting through my tongue as it burst out of the side of my face.

I watched as Cunt slammed into his neck, just above his clavicle.

Cunt had the power and force of a machete, slicing through trachea, muscles, bone. Blood burbled from his neck as his head loosened from his spine and rolled until it hit the wall.

So. That’s it.

Dennis died from being attacked by his own vile words.

I’m paying the price, too. But I’m okay with that.

I think … I think I died a long time ago, anyway. Just so you know, I called 911.

I couldn’t talk very well, but the operator got the gist. Yeah. I hear sirens now.

God, I’m tired.

I need to close my eyes for a minu

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