The one thing you don’t want to see on your doorstep is two men with a folded flag. I couldn’t hear the words they said as I stared at the flags and the uniform. He was dead. How could he do this, how could he die on me ? I question as I look at the man , our friend , his brother , holding out the flag.

“Grant what happened” I ask in dismay and grief.

“He got lost” I knew the military has far too many secrets but I had to ask.

“In the sands of time” grant responses with a wince. I bitterly laugh as I say “good one , more bullshit. Go tell your mom that one”. I slammed the door shut and started to weep.

—————————20 years later———————-

“Ma’am , can I help you” the barista asked irritated as i gawked at the man who was walking outside. “No” I said before running after the man. That was my teddy ! But it couldn’t be he didn’t look a day over 20 and I was pushing 40. “Teddy” I cried out as ran smack into him. “Eve” , he asks like he’s seen a ghost and not the other way around. “Yes ?” I just stare at him in amazement not quite sure what to do. His pitch softens as he looks at me and brushes the hair away from my face. “I’ve been waiting 20 years”.

The impossiblity of it all finally hits me. “What , how”. He motions for us to sit down on a park bench and whispers, “I tried to go back … after our fight and got stuck in the future in a time loop. I haven’t been able to leave this day”. Suddenly it feels like yesterday instead of twenty years ago and I sucked back into that horrible memory.

————————-20 years ago————————

We had a beautiful night together. I woke up that morning and lazily kissed him. I was bubbling with excitement to say it. “I love you” I proclaimed loudly and hugged him so close. His body stiffed and turned ice cold. He pushed me away and gets up to grab his clothes. “Have you lost your mind? This isn’t that type of marriage.” His words cut deep and I wanted to cry. Instead I screamed “why did you fuck me then. After all these years , why now?”. He looked like I slapped him and meekly said “Evie , you gave me a home. You had been so sad ….” Tears threatened to spill out as it hit me. This was a pitty fuck. He didn’t come around , he didn’t fall in love. All those little moments where I thought maybe over the years. It was all my mind playing tricks on me but I dared ask “you aren’t in love with me ?” He looks down at the floor but still answers, “My own mother didn’t love me enough to feed me , I can’t be in love with anyone. You know that”. I throw his keys at him and walk to open the front door. “Get out. I’ll mail you the divorce. I’ll watch our dogs when you’re deployed. Now leave”. He gives me one last pleading look before shutting the door and driving off. ————————present——————————— I recoiled away from him. “Doesn’t matter, we are over” I said with venom in my voice and pain in my eyes. “Evie, please. I was scared. I ..” I place my hands over his mouth. “Don’t you even dare. I’m old enough to be your mother now and I don’t know you”. That look if despair that was in them the day I told him I was going to divorce him returned. His gaze steals as he looks at me once more. “I’m not giving up on you or us”. My eyes soften and I cup his jaw gently. “Teddy, I can’t fall in love anymore. Once a clock breaks, it’s broken”. There was a somberness and a bitterness to the air as I walked away. I don’t know if I’ll see him again or if he was really lost in time but it doesn’t matter.

I heard once that hearts chose people not place and that’s why people fight to love those so far away. Perhaps that is also the case with time. I loved him in a time when he couldn’t love me and he loves me in a time when I can’t love anyone.

When I was a kid [I think, because who really knows] I met a Soviet soldier ten kilometres north of Yellowknife, where my dad worked for the federal government of Canada before abandoning us.

What's a Soviet soldier doing in the 70s in the sub-arctic, you ask.

[I don't know.]

Trying to outrun the Devil, he said in broken English.

I sat beside him and tried to understand the story he told me. I didn't, but he seemed at peace after he'd told it, so we sat smoking cigarettes.

“I hope you do it—outrun the Devil,” I said finally.

Impossible, he said. Nobody can do it. You can stay ahead for only so much time. “But,” he said, “before he die, God barter with Devil and Devil say that before he catch up to a man, he give him the peace of the moonlight mile.”

What's that, I asked.

He was gone but the northern lights lit up the night sky and I danced with them awhile.

Then I got on my bike and peddled cold back home.

My mom didn't care where'd I'd been, but you may be wondering: what was a deadbeat kid like me doing ten kilometres north of Yellowknife?

Huffing aerosol cans.

So you can appreciate my self-doubt.

[We are ghosts.]

I never saw the soldier again, never found any mention of him at all, but four weeks later the police found two families massacred in a fly-in community five hundred kilometres farther north.

I left Yellowknife when I turned seventeen. Left my mom, passed out drunk, on the couch. I at least turned up the heat before I went.

[Mercy, me.]

I hitchhiked south.

In 1980 I found myself down in the Big Smoke [Toronto], where I fell in with some older men who showed me how to score and the ways of the world. I had a favourite, Downie. He took to calling me Ghost and I liked that, so you can call me that too.

I didn't know Downie long.

He died in 1981.

Of all the deaths I've known, that's the only one I never got over [except my own.] I wish I'd been with him as he went, but the cops had been raiding the bathhouses, and we were scared.

“Life's fucked up, you know?” Downie told me once. “I wish that when I die, instead of dying, I could evaporate my soul into your body forever.”

[Huff me out of a can.]

He was out of his mind, but that's the closest anyone's come to saying I love you.

As for me, I've died so many times I've lost count. I died ten kilometres north of Yellowknife, but the Devil let me go, and when I set my mother on fire his chase began. The federal government never gave a shit about those dead families. [We're all dead up there.] I exhale Downie; breathe him back in. And if there is a moonlight mile, I'm still waiting for it.

There was a workshop on post; encaustics. It was the perfect opportunity to do some painting again, she thought. Even if it was a new medium. Thirty minutes to post, two hours of creativity, and a quick stop for coffee on the way back. A respite from his clinginess and cries from the constant teething and growth spurts.

The baby monitor was ready. Instructions were given. Her phone was fully charged and the volume up. Down for a nap, and off to post. There, the hot wax was transformed into yellow flowers on mountains, and a little red boat tossed about by blue waves. Two hours of dreaming in wax.

The baby monitor was face down on his computer desk but she could still hear the cries through the speaker. It was clear he hadn’t moved from his chair in several hours. Protein bar wrappers and empty wine bottles littered the desk. The pile of crumpled white tissues had grown.

She picked him up and noticed the wetness. With the wetness always came the redness. Sure enough, his little bottom was screaming. She changed him, dried him, and applied liberal amounts of diaper rash cream hoping to avoid another exhausting trip to the doctor. She fed him, and played with him, and read him a book.

The little red boat went into a drawer, covered with other things. Lost and forgotten.

If the only sun goes out, what do you do? When the light at the end of your tunnel goes out, what do you do to make a new light?

Without that sun in my life, I feel like I've fallen into a pit of deep darkness without any way out in sight. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel anymore, just infinite darkness. And that darkness is cold and isolating and endless. It makes you trapped and lonely.

Down the dim-lighted street, I walk as lost in my own head as one can possibly be. My hands are in my hoodie pockets, eyes straight ahead with my hood covering my face. Walking is one way that is calming to me now, getting away from all the stress of life. Getting away from the reality it brings. 

I’m just really walking without purpose, like most things anymore. A sigh, I take. It mixed with a lack of motivation to do anything anymore. I haven't really talked to friends or found any enjoyment in playing games or watching my favorite Tv show, or I should say our favorite show.

I mean, how could I when all that’s on my mind is her? When I can’t stop thinking about continuing on when I’ve lost the only purpose my life stood for. When all I can think about is her smile, her laugh, her eyes, her happiness and brightness, her - her everything that I’ll never get to see anymore. 

Like, why? Why can’t I! How is this fair, why does she get to die and not me! She doesn't deserve it! She… she didn't deserve it. Why can’t she still be here, I still need her! She can’t be gone yet, I still need her. It’s not fair, why couldn’t it be anyone else? Why couldn’t it have been me?

I should go home, I have work to do. Then I’ll probably go to bed early for the Twentieth night in a row. So Home, I walk still as lost in my own head as before. I can remember her smile vividly, her everything vividly but that's just in my mind. I don’t want to live with the memories, I want the real thing. I just want to hug her, kiss her again. 

I’d give up everything if it meant I could spend another minute with her again. I’d kill to just tell her that I love her once again. I’d Sacrifice myself so she can live her life fully.

At home, I arrive. Tomorrow, I’ll work, eat, sleep and repeat till the end of this life really. So exciting, I can’t wait for tomorrow, another day without her. That one would be day 31. I would visit her but that involves me having to face a reality I’m much more comfortable just co-existing with instead. But work calls just so I can be in this loop of depression forever. Just an infinite tunnel with no light at the end of it.

- "You never realize exactly what you have until it's gone" Modern saying of “"You never miss the water till the well runs dry" by Rowland Howard

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The story begins with Jack, an army veteran returning home drunk to his daughter in a village with a nice view of a city in the distance

Jack sees his daughter, Sharon, in the couch taking a nap with the TV on but to his surprise she's still awake and surprised him with a gift but Jack being all drunk and wasted said now isn't the right time but Sharon looked at the clock it's 9pm and insisted that it's still his birthday so she gave him a present and it was a watch and Jack asked her whete did she get the money. Sharon joked about selling drugs and Jack responded she better help out with the mortgage but suddenly there's a loud explosion outside followed by sounds of helicopters and transport planes and then power went out.

The two rushed outside and saw a huge fire in the city ahead and Jack's brother Tommy just arrived in his motorcycle. Tommy filled them in about the situation that there's a nuke exploding up above and it knocked off the powergrid and before the power went out, Tommy heard in the news that there's an invasion. A squadron of transport planes with jet escorts and attack helicopters are pouring in to the city.

The trio duck into cover as an attack helicopter passes by and the Jack and Tommy discussed what to do next. As Sharon cried worrying for her mother who is a nurse at a hospital in the city.

I have gone into an emotional decline. A few months ago, it was nothing but emotions. Now they are all gone, like they were overused. I am constantly in search for something to do that will bring back any feeling. I recently read "Flowers for Algernon" and that sort of works. I'm using it like hard drugs. I can't get enough. Can someone write me a sad short story like it, or find me one I can read? Thank you 🫶

Hihi, my (19f) sister (22f) claims this is not true but I don’t think she would tell me the truth even if she wanted to just out of making me feel better tbh but I honestly feel like I broke them up. A while ago she decided to sneak her boyfriend in but she should of gave him a diagram or something coz while the house was pitch black he snuck in with a key she gave him and came in with just underwear, but the dumbass ended leading himself into my room and coz it was pitch black he didn’t know. And it got as far as him getting in to cuddle me and sorry tmi but he didn’t actually even realise until he began touching my chest only coz hers is bigger… I turned my lamp on as soon as I felt what was happening, coz I was kind of in that trance of like half asleep half not so I thought I was just dreaming of my boyfriend and I almost screamed but he jumped over to cover my mouth but we must of been loud enough coz my sister came through. They argued for DAYS, and eventually they broke up :( I find this sad and a shame because I really do think he was good for her but I guess she couldn’t get over what happened :(

It was a late freeze in January. The days had been rampant with dust infested breezes, the nights fell to a whisper and the town was a low frenzy. A mash of triumph and tragedy, chaos.. and (dis)order. A whirlpool of luck’s many shades. Latency in our ability to connect naturally… The fear of being natural. Off the range, and willfully in a kennel..

This evening was met with a sequence of pops in the air, a festive hustle and bustle like kernels over an open flame. Suspicion, a lingering mist suggesting opportunistic malice dancing to the rhythm of this celebratory transition.

The purpose of it all had lost its claws years ago. It was a time before I was alive to witness the travesty. Seemingly, it was one of many frigid slap fights with members of the same species. Divisions caused by differing idols of representation, which were just as chaotic and nonsensical as our own. Ever since then, we slowly became… well… a concrete plantation with a defective billboard to the attraction. A spectacle where if the proletariat of patriotic delusion didn’t sing and dance for the scraps of hollow guarantees and mislabeled freedoms, then they were destined to become part of the charade of conflicts through decimation. “Another day in paradise”, the submissive obliged would proclaim with stained grins of shit-eating compliance and deteriorating posture, living out their reductive ambitions.

 Labyrinthine games with no definite rules, but only for a chosen few, were never for those that oversaw and conducted the performance. The confusion of roles within its confines were free to disregard, but never evade. It was all starting to burst at the seams as the starving became ravenous, desperate, and overgrown with agitation. The metamorphosis of a social experiment gone awry, and we were the subjects of a mundane and intimately impersonal chokehold.

 Chanting was echoing through the illuminated shroud of night, a unison, the occasional form of order timed annually, when all conflict ceased for a single breath. The cacophonous rhythm was brief, a burst of revelry followed before the “business as usual” flow of fermented tri-centennial chaos ushered in another run of redundancies and sweet nothings.

 A car show took place by the nearest stream to commemorate some shallow ideology of belonging, a showcase of overpriced manufactured hunks of scrap made in places of vast bounty, places where the tarnished hands are denied access to the fruit of their labor. It was a reality that wept from within the vessels. If you listened closely, you could hear pleas falling on deaf ears, an echo chamber of misery singing a familiar refrain... broken promises. 

Winds of cool assurance that usually eased into the early hours of the new day flowed with punctuality. A brief relief to a façade we tell ourselves is *fine*. The reality is, we lost communal trust when the bright distractions took over our focus and loyalty. The Borg. A collective of polarization.

 It was to be a demanding day, 6am shift, just after sunup. It was fortunate that I didn’t have to go in for another 4 and a half hours. It was fortunate that I didn’t take to the traditional dance with my former demons. A commendable and condemnable gesture depending on the spectator. Freedom in a nutshell, this tightrope above a pit of venomous creatures... Self-loathing projectors… It was a statistical symptom traversing to the other side, only to find a solid wall with a mural of fabricated hopes and dreams illustrated among a shroud, a quilt of hides and fibers. 

Now that the bombs had dissipated into the echoes of a memory, it was time to prep a pot of coffee and have a power nap. Yet another workweek of being the Energizer zombie.

-The Preparation

Impositions of mechanical gurgles and steadily sporadic droplets of stained water cascaded into the glass receptacle. An aroma of a hopeful glimmer painted the air with the yields of Brazilian roasted distress in a can, bold and smooth, as the glow of a bright morning blessed the kitchen’s blackout curtains with promises of opportunity.

 I never enjoyed mornings. It was all an imposition of the senses and the mere thought of it was enough to get my heart racing. The impatient commuters, blazing sunshine, chipper beings born for these hours, missionaries of positive vibes gifting their verbal sentiments like watchtower pamphlets. It was an amalgamation to put an extra strain on the worn and inefficiently charged batteries of socially awkward internalizers that surfaced from the realm of nocturnal meditations and solitude.

The machine broke the silence. “Drink your fuel, you peasant.” It beeped. Sounds of early morning workers of hungover proportions, spectral walks of life, revving their contraptions to expedite warmth, the humming penetrating the old seals of single-paned windows.

There was a time when this was a noble endeavor, a time being a malleable moron, days of existential infancy. A time when every hand was a guiding one regardless of what it held in its grip. There were enough scars remaining to know better, a diminishment of brain cells left from coping with the pandemonium, difficulties to react on a whim. A seemingly fair trade for a cynical old soul. A fair trade for consideration.

As I lie there with my eyes closed, I think about how much I hate being alive—being me. The feel of it all.

I imagine how peaceful it might be to just... evaporate. For my consciousness, or whatever part of me makes me me, to simply dissolve into space, scattering into the cosmic chaos.

I wonder what would come next—not for me, but for everyone else. I think about how little impact I've had on this world and the people in it. If I didn’t wake up tomorrow, it would be a tragedy, but not even a good one. Not poetic in the least. Just another drop in the bucket.

Within a couple months, even the people most affected would go on, as if I were never really here at all. Another coworker. Another friend. Another partner. Just roles for someone else to fill after I’ve moved on. And may they be all the better for it.

Nestled in a cosy café with friends, I happened to glance across the room.

A mop of silver tresses, so familiar it stopped my breath.

I would know your haircut anywhere.

I almost got up and rushed over, ready to call out to you, see your smile, feel your warm embrace, tell you about my most recent adventures - you always loved hearing about those most of all.

I wondered where you had gotten your new shoes from - you had never worn heels before - and what were you doing somewhere so far from home?

I wondered how long it had been since we had ran into each other, why had it been so long?

And then I remembered.

I remembered that phone call, in the middle of the night, how could I forget?

I remembered the endless hours spent in hospital by your side.

I remembered holding your hand in mine, praying for a miracle, whispering loving thoughts into your ear.

I remembered the growing rattle of your breath, the nurses coming in to say it was time.

And then I remembered.

You're gone.

We would share the same bed after sleeping together.

At first, we thought it was too relationship-like, so I’d leave and go back home. But eventually we realised if we both agreed there were no strings attached then it shouldn’t be a problem.

He’d always fall asleep first afterwards, sometimes not even five minutes after. It would give me time to admire his features under the light of the moon. The way his nose is shaped like a ski slope, or the small freckles dotted along his cheekbones. His eyelids always remained still, frozen. He looked so tranquil. I wonder if I ever look as peaceful as him. I sure don’t feel it.  

I fell for him fast, but never wanted to admit it. No strings attached, that’s what we say. I wasn’t about to be the reason this falls apart. I’ll revel in every touch, every breath, every moan I get from him. And I’ll soak in every minute I get to enjoy our time. I don’t need the label.

I didn’t mind her sleeping in my bed.

At first, I thought it might make her think we’re more serious than we are, so I’d always usher her out the door. But now it’s kind of nice to have someone to hold in the night. It doesn’t need to be serious.

I never remember falling asleep, but I always remember waking up in the middle of the night. I’ll turn to face her and listen to her shallow breaths. She always seems so worried, her eyebrows are furrowed, her mouth is scrunched into a pout. It’s like she’s never truly resting until I run my hands down her back and feel all her muscles untense for a fleeting moment.

I don’t think we could ever be together. I’m too caught up in my own life right now, but I do get excited for the nights I know I’ll see her. I’ll make my bed, tidy my room, buy her favourite snacks. It might not be serious, but I’m glad I get to pretend for a while.

When the text came through a couple hours before she was supposed to be with me, I didn’t know how to handle it. I called her phone five times before I realised it was no use.  

I ran and ran until I got to the hospital, I don’t think my legs got time to feel tired. I burst through the doors and slashed open the curtain around her bed.

There she lay, my Angeline. Tied up to machines and covered in wires. She didn’t look like her, it was as if they’d tried to make a body double and missed the mark almost completely.

As I approached the bed, closer and closer to her face, I couldn’t help but notice how calm she was. Her eyebrows were resting, she was taking long, deep breaths. Her mouth was straight.

She looked so peaceful.

I ran my hand down her arm and sobbed into her hair. Her muscles remained tense.

The night seemed to last forever, my head splitting with pain as I remembered every moment together. Tears, like rain on a window, streamed down my face as I howled with pain without my wife. The thought of living alone, without her, killed me entirely, knowing what happened was going to stick with me forever.

“Loc, what have you done?”

Fire was everywhere, my hands trembling with glass stuck in them. I tried to see around me but everything was a haze, I unbuckled from my seat and fell, smacking my head on the ground, further thickening the haze. Getting up, I look over to my wife next to me, motionless, hands dangling and bloodied, fear washed over me. As I'm crawling to her, I hear footsteps on broken glass getting closer, I screamed for help, trying to break my wife free from her seat, but before I could, my feet were suddenly grasped and as I was being pulled away, I screamed “UNITY!”

I suddenly woke, soaked in sweat and breathing heavily as if I just ran miles right before. I gathered myself and checked the time, finding I woke just in time to get to the track. I use all the strength I have to get dressed and as I'm heading out the door, I see my wife's picture on the wall and take a deep breath and continue out. The track I practice at is relatively small, just some dirt in a oval shape with a couple small bumps, and weeds surrounding the whole thing. Right as I pull in, I see Hugo smiling and giving off more energy than I can handle right now.

“You're back!” Hugo exclaimed.

“I guess so, need to distract myself somehow” I replied.

“Hey man, I'm sorry about Unity, she was really sweet and I could always tell she loved you Loc”

“Look, I really appreciate the support, but right now I need to get on the track”

Hugo looked concerned as I walked toward my car, I appreciated him but needed my focus and couldn't give much as it is. I got in, did the usual prep and then turned the key, the car started with a huge roar, loud enough to disrupt thoughts. Everything was ready and thumbs were up, I pulled out to our crappy drawn line and waited for the go.

I shot off the line, leaving a huge cloud of dust behind me, pushing myself and the car as hard as I could. I rounded my first lap, the lap time didn't matter for me right now, my focus was spearheaded on every turn and bump I ran. I felt almost as if I could run away from my pain, I was driving the car but the pain was driving me. As I was rounding my final lap, pushing harder than I felt I have, I suddenly see my wife standing in the middle of the track, my eyes widened, I quickly panicked and stomped on the brakes as I turned off the road, fading into the weeds.

“You okay!?!” Hugo yelled

I was still gathering my thoughts from what just happened, I sat there for a moment as Hugo and my team approached, hopping over bushes and weeds.

“You were doing great man, what happened?”

I gave him a confused look, still sitting in my car and asked “you didn't see the woman in the road?”.

“No man, there was no one there as far as I could tell” Hugo replied.

I stood up and got out of the car, unstrapping my helmet and trying to clear my head. Maybe it was another woman, or maybe it was all in my head, either way, I needed to keep my cool and show that I could still handle a car, it's all I have. The team gathered my car and Hugo made sure I was good throughout the day, almost annoyingly so. I tried hard to focus but I was definitely off, I left early that day to go home, even stopped and grabbed some food. When I got home, I hopped in the shower, my wife kept flashing in my mind, I passed it off as stress then finished upand went to the mirror and stared looking back at myself, 6, 1 guy, with dark brown hair that goes to my shoulders, slimmer body, wishing it was a little bulkier, and a softer face. All I see though, is one word blending it all together, a monster.

“Hey honey, maybe you should calm down the drinking, you've had too many and I need you to drive us back” Unity said concerned.

“I'm fine, I'll have one more drink and then we can leave” said Loc.

“Fine, I know you're good with your cars, but please be careful and go slow and we will switch if we need to”

“I will”

We started heading back, I was light and feathery, felt like I could fly into the sky every time my foot left the ground. We got into the car and my wife was uneasy, she insisted on driving but I argued that I was plenty sober to drive, and then took off heading home.

“Babe, you're scaring me, please pull over, you're all over the road” Unity said concerned.

“No, I HAVE THIS! I'm a 2 time race champ! We ARE FINE!” shouted Loc.

The car swerved and I missed the turn, driving off the road and hitting the ditch hard enough to cause the car to completely flip and slide across the grass in an empty field.

BEEEP! BEEEP! BEEEP!

My alarm clock woke me suddenly and I realized that I was late to the track. I got my gear and left the house in a rush. I drove quickly over and as I was halfway there Hugo called, telling me that I should just stay home and he thinks I'm not prepared to come back yet, I tried to argue telling him that I won't make finals if I can't practice more, but he already got a doctor to sign off saying that I was in no mental condition to drive competitively. My face reddened and I couldn't help but take it out on the car, I went ahead and turned around to go home.

As I was pulling into the driveway and turning off the car, I glanced into my rear view mirror and saw Unity! I quickly spun around and she wasn't there, I swore I saw her again, and now I'm afraid I'm going insane. After getting into the house, I called my doctor and told him what I saw, and he said it was common for grieving husbands to see their partners and it's all in my head. I felt a bit better and moved on with my day. Tried making some food and watching more movies until it got dark. The kitchen was almost finished after cleaning when I heard a door shut just outside my view.

The bedroom door was closed and not only did I not shut it, there was no windows open either. I grabbed the broom and nervously stepped towards the door and opened it slowly. Sitting there on the bed was Unity, her looks hard to define, she was still dressed like the day she died, but was almost see through. I stood there frozen, scared to move but in a way almost excited to see her face again, she just smiled at me. I very slowly approached her and told her how sorry I was for that night and how I could never forgive myself for what happened. She tilted her head and looked almost sad, she then came towards me and put her hand next to my face, I couldn't feel her physically but I could feel her emotionally and knew she was trying to comfort me. I asked if she was staying and she nodded no, as I sat there crying telling her how I wish I could hug her and kiss her one more time she just smiled and slowly disappeared.

To this day, I'll never truly know what happened that night, if it was all a dream or if it was real, but I took it as a sign and continued to move on. There is a photo of Unity in my car and everytime I race, I kiss it and make it clear every race was for her. The championships finally came and as I was sitting there at the line, I gave one quick look in the rear view mirror, smiled and once the countdown ended, the dust started to fly.

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

It was a rule that followed him everywhere he ever went.

It followed him upstairs. It followed him downstairs. It followed him to the bathroom.

It followed him to his writing desk and it was there when he ordered groceries and when he attached those painstaking delivery notes.

It snooped over his shoulders when he checked his pointless dating profiles, and when he found all his DMs read but unanswered.

The rule held him when he looked for notifications on his social media, and when he inevitably found none….

But he was never lonely, because the rule climbed into bed with him each night and it clung to his back when he woke in the cold mornings

And he never, ever doubted the rule— not even when he yearned to stretch his legs and feel the gaze of a human face.

No, even then, the rule held strong. Because he’d peek out his window and see the crushing dark or wince at the blinding light and feel the galloping need for a safe place.

He’d cower say from the very thought of cracking the door— he’d retreat into the trembling safety of his own prison.

There were days where he knew that his life was a tenantless shell.

Days where he could not help fidgeting like a raccoon in a cramped cage.

Then he hated his empty house as much as he feared leaving it.

But stepping out into the naked wilds of the world beyond his door?

Unthinkable.

Impossible.

There was no way out.

Wedged between his frantic need and his immovable fear, all he could do was linger and hate it.

Then one day the delivery orders stopped.

This can’t really be the end. There’s still so much to do, so much to see. Foods to try, places to go.

“I never saw Paris,” whispered words trickled from the dying breathes of a man in his final moments. A noticeable chill hung in the air directly around the man as he sat staring up at the ceiling. The hospital bed was comfortable but it was cold. He missed his bed, his home with its familiar air and scratchy comforter. Looking over and seeing his darling wife in such a wonderful deep sleep.

“Meredith..,” the memories of his late wife exploded like a grenade in his mind. She had passed only a couple years prior but every day without her in his life felt like an eternity. Perhaps he’d see her again, spend eternity in the pearly gates with his beloved. Or perhaps more likely he’d join all the rest in unending oblivion.

The machines and their hums and beeps were taxing on what little strength remained in his frail body. Beaten by time, defeated by grief. He had kept up the fight for so long but there didn’t seem to be a reason to continue. That didn’t make what would come next any less terrifying.

A flat line showed on the monitor and the nearby doctors quietly marked down the time. After seventy six years on this Earth, the man formerly known as Lionel Bruce was no more. Memories of his family hung around in his mind as he filled his lungs one last time.

Next was the fade to black.

It's October. Raining. I like that. I'm eighty-six years old, blind. I've lived most of my life in horrible pain.

When I was twenty-three, I killed my wife and son in a car accident I caused by driving drunk.

That's not the kind of pain time ever heals.

But there was a period—four years—in my thirties when I didn't feel any pain at all.

It was the worst best time of my life.

Ending it was the most difficult thing I've done. I'm about to admit to murder, so bear with me a little.

Not all monsters are ugly.

Some wear lipstick—

red as blood, a hint of sex on her pale face. Dark eyes staring across the bar at me. That's how I met her. I never did know her real name. We all knew her as something else. When I spilled my life story to her she said, “Don't worry, handsome. I'll be your Miss Painkiller,” and that's what she was to me.

It was true too.

She had the ability to make all your pain go away just by being near you. The closer, the more completely.

I can't even describe what a relief it was to be without the pain I carried—if only for a few minutes, hours. Her voice, her body. Her professions of love.

I fell for it.

By the time I realized I wasn't her only one, it was too late. I couldn't live without her. All of us were like that, a band of broken boys for her to manipulate. She gave us a taste of spiritual respite, made us feel there was hope for us—then used it to make us do the most horrible things for her. And we did it. We did it because we needed what she gave us, whatever the cost.

But what kind of life is that?

I came to see that.

That's why I decided I had to break free of her—more than that: to end her.

She, who preyed on the destroyed, the barely-living, the ones who craved more than anything to feel human.

It wasn't about sex, but that's when I did it. She knew I planned to, but she laughed and dared me to try. She told me I'd do anything not to feel pain, and if I killed her I would feel it even worse to the end of my life.

She was right about that but wrong about me—and my last moment pain-free was when I strangled the last gasp of life out of her.

Left her corpse staring in disbelief, put on my hat and walked out the door.

Smoked a cigarette in the rain.

Hands shaking.

The pain rolling back in hard and pure and final.

My wife's last scream.

My son's face.

I was sure someone would come for me, but nobody did.

I did a lot of bad in my life, but I also slayed a monster. Everybody leaves a balance sheet. God, that was long ago…

i feel like the past week i’ve been so messed up in the head. i can’t get the thought of death out of my head. not even that i’m wanting to off myself, but something in my head is telling me i won’t be alive much longer. like i’ll get diagnosed with a sickness or something. it’s not just me. my best friends. my family. everyone. i feel like a sick person for thinking this way but it won’t get out of my head and i feel sick and distraught at the thought. it won’t leave my head. i don’t know what’s wrong with me. is this a gut feeling? am i or someone i know going to die? or am i just crazy? i’m scared

I met him in a restaurant in Lisbon, my eye having been drawn to him despite his ordinary appearance. Late forties, greying, conservatively but not shabbily dressed (always the same shoes, suit and shirt-and-tie,) never smiling, absently polite.

I saw him dozens of times while dining before I took the step of greeting him, but it was during those initial, quiet sightings, as my mouth ate but my mind imagined, that I discovered the outlines of his character. I imagined he was a bureaucrat, and he was. I imagined he was unmarried and childless, and he was.

I, myself, was a bank clerk; divorced.

“I admit I have seen you here many times, but only today decided to ask to share a meal with you,” I said.

“I have seen you too,” he replied. “Always alone.”

We ate and spoke and dined and conversed and through the restaurant's windows sun chased moon and the seasons processioned until I knew everything about him and he about me, accurate to the day on which finally I said to him, “So what more is there to say?” and he answered, “Nothing indeed.”

He never came to the restaurant again.

I woke up the following morning and went absentmindedly to work in a government office: his. He was absent. The next morning, I went to my bank. On the first day, no one at the government office noticed that I wasn't him. On the second, nobody in the bank noticed that yesterday I had been missing.

It was as if I had consumed him—

It had taken him almost fifty-two years to know himself, less than four for me to know him.

—like a book.

I had such complete knowledge of him that I could choose at any time to be him, to live his life—but at a cost: of, during the same time, not living mine.

Yet what proof had I he was gone? That I no longer saw him? If my not seeing him equalled his non-existence, his not seeing me would equal mine if he existed. I began to watch keenly for him, to catch a glimpse, a blur of motion.

I searched living my life and his, until I saw his face.

Of course!

While I lived his life he lived mine.

“I see you,” I said.

“We do,” he replied, and, “I know,” I replied, and I knew he knew I knew we knew we knew.

I began to sabotage my own life to get him out of it. I quit my job, abandoned my house. I lived on the street, starved and begged for food. I didn't bathe. I didn't shave.

He did the same.

Until the day there ceased to be a difference between our lives, and we suffered as one.

“Human nature is a horrible thing,” I—I said, searching a garbage bin outside a restaurant for food. Inside, the lights were on, and at every table people sat, blending in-and-out of each other like billowing smoke.

The most off putting was the sight of a large amount of flies near a dumpster, and what seemed to the the leg of a dog. P.s. A true story what one of my friends had experienced, but I put it in my own words so just in case if it didn't seem to make sense for you guys, hope it fits on here

This is a summary of a true story of a man, an immigrant, born into hardship. At six years old, he was brought to New York City, where he grew up in one of the most dangerous parts of the city. His older brothers forced him into gang life, and by the age of 11, they pinned him to a couch and injected him with heroin. He was addicted by 12. His youth became consumed by gang activity, and drugs clouded his mind. At 17, during a withdrawal-induced rage, he murdered a man over the very substance that controlled his life. He was convicted and sentenced to life in prison.

During his first decade behind bars, drugs and violence were a constant. He was transferred between some of the most notorious maximum-security prisons in New York. One day, he was reassigned to a cell with an elderly inmate, a murderer full of regret. It was through this man that he found his own sense of God, and he got clean.

With newfound purpose, he earned his high school equivalency and began helping other inmates get sober. Eventually, he was transferred to a prison where he had the opportunity to pursue a bachelor’s degree. He graduated with a BA in Drug and Alcohol Counseling. By this time, he had been incarcerated for just over 22 years. Then, unexpectedly, the parole board approved his release.

Upon reentering society, he got a job at a mental health clinic in the same rough neighborhood he once called home. His assertiveness, intelligence, and care for others helped him rise to the role of clinical supervisor, where he ran his own department. It was there he met a coworker, and their relationship blossomed. They married and soon were expecting a child. He was working toward a master’s degree, and she was pursuing her PhD. Together, they bought a home, eagerly preparing for their new life.

Late in her pregnancy, he took her out for ice cream. But as they pulled into the parking lot, who is there to see him pull up behind the wheel? His parole officer. Driving was a violation of his parole, and he was sent back to prison, this time without the possibility of release.

The next governor, who was two years from the election, was campaigning on a platform that included releasing prisoners like him; men who had served long sentences and proven their positive impact on society. But in the meantime, he missed the birth of his son, leaving an empty line on the birth certificate. His devoted wife brought their son to visit him twice a month, determined to ensure the boy knew his father. This child became the symbol of his new life.

Two years into this reinstated "life sentence," he died of a heart attack. He had been in and out of the infirmary for months, but the prison system’s indifference and inefficiency denied him the simple, life-saving care he needed. His death was a heartbreaking end, not just for him, but for all those who loved him and believed in the new man he had become.

Feedback - I'd like to know if people would want to hear this story. Please be brutally honest. There are many more layers and details not mentioned in this summary, but this is what the storyline is based on.

Her hair that was once soft and smelt of coconut was now stained a crimson red and smelt metallic. Her skin that was once soft and warm was now cold and pale. Her eyes that were once full of wisdom now empty and clouded over. Crimson dripping from her nose and only her cracked and peeling lips.

I held her in my arms, tears falling onto her lifeless body. I tried to remain strong, I really tried; but seeing her like this was too much.

Her clothes were soaked, blood dripping into the palms of my hands and rolling down my arms as I held her to my chest.

If only I wasn't too late.