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.

I am part of this family, but I am not kin. Anna is the youngest, and I was adopted barely a month before her mother died.

After that brutal loss I would lie each night with Anna while she cried herself to sleep. I would stay awake, alert for the faintest noise and listening to her gentle breath until the first light of dawn seeped under the fraying curtain, in some misguided belief that I could protect her from further pain.

It was not entirely unselfish, suffering as I was from my own private grief. Anna’s warm, soft tears brought me some comfort that this ache was shared despite my inability to express it, and the long darkness cemented a bond between us. I care for them all, my family - but I love Anna with all that my heart can give. We brought each other something close to happiness, and for that she will always hold my entire devotion.

At some point in a life of suffering you start to think that maybe you deserve all this, and I could see that written in the look on Anna’s face when her father killed himself. She didn’t cry that day or the ones after, as if an expected prophecy had come to be, a certainty that couldn’t be avoided. For months she would cling to me, curled in a foetal position, staring into the darkness.

I am not making excuses, but you must understand that when I saw her pinned to the ground with that look, the one of sad acceptance, I was overcome with violent anger. I remember very little of that moment, my enraged shouts or the blood and the pain. I did not wish the man dead for what he did, but I do not apologise. My remit was and always will be to protect her.

She is crying now. It is the first time since her mother died, and its good she is feeling things again. I lick the warm salty tears from her face as she cradles her neck in my fur, like when we were both small and the world was a terrible place. The sharp sting of the needle makes me jump and she holds me tighter.

I feel so tired. But I can’t sleep. I need to be alert, I need to protect her. My Anna.

The brain tells the heart it just needs to wait just a little bit longer and then we will be finally happy. So the heart sits back and slumbers until the memories of the brain and every time it has told the heart to wait just a little bit longer. Suddenly a cut to the heart jolts it awake. Confused, the heart is unfamiliar with where it is until it notices what looks like the brain. The heart says softly “Brain?” and as this figure turned around and what stood in front of the heart was a beaten and bruised brain. With watery eyes the brain says, “I failed, I couldn’t give you a world filled with what you call love” and as the heart hugged the brain they both fell to their knees as the weight of everything was now split between the two. As they sit there on the ground the heart whispers “you’ll never be alone again, and I am sorry you had to take this on by yourself”. The brain starts to pick itself up as the heart helps them stand up again.

Daisys heart still ached for her auntie. Only thing left in her was hatred and sadness. The world hurt her so badly, so badly it truly hurt to do anything. Even brushing her teeth was a chore in itself. Her bed was her home. She never went to school, never showered. All she felt was pain. Not physically, but mentally. Eating was hard, she managed to get a meal or 2 in but almost always threw it up. She wanted a home, a family, like she couldve been born with but no. Her life was ruined. Everyone else had what she wanted but her. Why couldnt she have that too? The only option for no pain left was death. Cold, unpleasant death. So outcame the knife again, its reappearance was ungodly. Auntie wouldnt be proud but Daisy couldnt care anymore, all she wanted was to leave this cruel world. So again, she slid the knife really deep. But what changed from last time is that she did hit the vein, really hard. Blood went everywhere, her face, the floor, trickling down her pale, shaking wrists. God it hurt, but it hurt her so so good. All she did was lay down, and wait for her demise. It was her time. She could finally live in peace. Forever.

I will write on this account until I die. I don’t trust anyone anymore. I can’t tell anyone anything. We are currently at dinner, and one of the girls talked to me. She was so incredibly rude and laughed at me. The only girl that I still liked and was on my side I feel like is against me. I feel like I shouldn’t be here but I don’t know what to do and I hate this. I feel like everyone is against me

How a man’s life changed in a matter of minutes.

“Mummy, Daddy” said their young 8 year old daughter named Elizabeth.

“What is it sweetie” Said her Mum named Caroline.

“We are late for my birthday party!” Shouted Elizabeth .

‘Okay, Okay, calm down Elizabeth, hop in the car! And you too Caroline!” Shouted their dad named Chris.

They all rush to the car with party food with their daughter giggling Mother slowly getting down the stairs. And Father recording the it all with his new camera. Off they zoom, they get onto the highway to make it to Elizabeth’s favourite beach to meet her friends.

“Guess what honey, we have some exciting news t tell you this afternoon” Caroline says rubbing her belly and look at Chris with a smile.

“Yay” Shouts Elizabeth in a loud scream.

“Chris, we are running late, speed it up a little bit okay” Whispered Caroline.

So Chris puts his foot down a little more, he is now traveling 130kmph on a 110kmph highway.

“Mummy, I’m scared” Exclaimed Elizabeth.

“What are you scared about honey” As her Mum wants to comfort her.

“We are going too fast” Elizabeth said as she held on tight to her teddy bear.

Her Dad then turns his head to tell his beloved daughter its okay; we are just running a little late.

“CHRIS, LOOOOK” As Caroline screamed with the most blood curdling look ever.

“MUMMY” Shouted Elizabeth as they went upside down.

Crash, Chris had just crashed head on to a truck, flipping them up in the air, landing on a metal post going straight through his wife of 15 years. His daughter had glass shards stuck in her neck as she chocked on her own blood drenching her pink princess dress she unwrapped as a gift only 2 hours ago.

“Daddy, Mummy, Daddy, what happened” Asked Elizabeth as she loses blood and starts to fade away.

Chris picks his 8 year old daughter up, she holds on tight to her blood soaked teddy bear.

“I’m scared daddy”

“NOOO, NOOOO, I,   I,  I’M, SO SORRY” Shouts Chris as the small 8 year old body turns into lifeless flesh and he realises what he just did.

Chris then races to his wife with his daughter in his arms only to see a pole piercing her chest, and he then realises he lost his daughter and his pregnant wife. His life changed in a matter of seconds only to save a couple of minutes.

Chris was never the same, becoming an alcoholic to try and numb the pain, watching his last video of Elizabeth over and over again, and eventually killing himself in a car accident taking out a family SUV.

His funeral is held and everyone stands as his body lowers down. Music plays and his soul was finally put to rest. Both sides of the family were there wishing he had never sped up on the highway on his daughter’s birthday.

I know I’m not a good writer but I hope it’s something

...

In a dimly lit school auditorium, a boy in a trench coat sits at a piano, his fingers dancing across the keys. The soft, soothing melody he plays intertwines with his hauntingly beautiful voice.

"When you were here before," he sings, each word merging seamlessly with the piano's gentle rhythm.

"Couldn't look you in the eye," he continues, the piano keys echoing his emotions. "You're just like an angel, your skin makes me cry," his voice and the piano create a powerful, soothing resonance. He pauses, gathering his breath.

As the melody begins to build, he presses the keys with rising intensity. "You float like a feather in a beautiful world," he holds the note on 'world,' the piano's rhythm following suit.

"I wish I was special, you're so very special," the rhythm ascends, heightening the emotion.

His voice lifts as he sings, "But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo," the piano accompanying his increasing tension. He holds the note on 'creep.'

"What the hell am I doing here?" he asks, his tone rising on 'here,' as the piano's notes mirror his increasing tension.

"No, I don't belong," he holds the note on 'belong,' as the piano’s tone lowers.

"She's running out, running out again, ohhh..." he sings, the piano keys reflecting the urgency. "She's runnin' out, runnin' out again, ohhh..." He presses the keys one last time, signaling the end of the song, "Again?"

He turned to the three teens standing behind him on stage, as if sensing their presence.

"Did I play that song too much? I have, haven’t I?" The teens looked puzzled. After a moment, one of them spoke up, "That was a lovely song you played. Were you singing about someone?" She asked, waiting expectantly for his response. The air grew tense as she waited.

"Yes, actually, I was singing about someone," he replied. "You see, when I told him about my identity, he grew distant. He was around, but only until I decided to prove it." He reached for the glass bottle of alcohol on the piano, poured some into a cup, and took a drink.

"He left because it was too much for him."

"What did you prove?" a boy asked.

He turned to them, his eyes glowing red. "That I am the devil."

The teens were terrified, and they began to scream and run through the auditorium, desperately trying to find an exit. "AAAAHHHHHHH!"

He remained seated at the piano, his fingers gently pressing the keys as he resumed playing the same song he had performed before.

The End.

PROLOGUE

The life span of a honey bee is just six weeks. Within that time, they go from egg to larva to pupa to the adult stage and finally their end of life. Depending on their role in the hive, the journey to their demise may vary. Yet, death arrives all the same.

Unlike humans, dying is not known, their sense of self is limited to their natural purpose with little existential dread. One wonders if this is a blessing or a curse. Are humans shackled by the knowledge of their expiration date, or does it free us to make the most of the time we have left?

Fear of death is common. Despite our clear curfew, none of us want this party to end. To many, religion is an antidote for the burden. We tell ourselves that true bliss awaits in the next chapter. But even those with the strongest faith cannot escape the creeping dread of never truly knowing what lies beyond. The thought of heaven helps us get by but the possibility of an eternal void can surely drive any reasonable person mad.

So, we forget. We live as though we are immortal, despite the deepest part of our psyche knowing differently. And though many of us are quite good at powering through, every now and then, we must face our demise. At certain points in our lives, we must have conversations with death itself.

PART I: AGE SEVEN

When you are a child, the world seems abundant. The only end you know is that accompanied by the setting sun and a warm blanket. Death is not a consideration. It doesn’t seem a possibility. That is until it rears its ugly head.

I first discovered death when my grandmother passed. My parents tried to console me, delivering platitudes involving an afterlife with God. Even then, I wondered how we knew about heaven, crying myself to sleep the night before the service.

The day of the funeral opened my eyes to the realities of life. For the first time, I saw my father cry. For the first time, my mother revealed the face of depression.

With the eulogies concluded, our family moved to a hall for food and refreshments. I asked to stay in the church, and for some reason they adhered to my wishes. Maybe they realised how badly the death had impacted me. Nonetheless, it took me by surprise when an old man sat to my left.

I ignored him for a while, hoping he would leave. I didn’t recognise his wrinkled face and stark white hair, so I wondered if he was an estranged relative. His tattered suit and mottled hands left me unsettled, so I tried my best to pray (or at least pretend to).

Sitting on the pew, struggling to understand why my grandma was gone, the old man seemed to read my mind as he spoke. “It’s okay to be scared,” his husky voice remarked. “For many, the fear of death is the greatest of them all.” With tears rolling down my face, I looked over and remained silent.

The man continued, “She lived a long life, a good one I’d say. You may not accept it today. Heck, you may avoid it for years. But one day, you will understand that this is the way it goes.” He went on for a while offering words that seemed to be a mix of comfort and harsh truths. He scared me but I listened intently. “In the end, everyone you know goes away. And then it's your turn.”

As shy as I was, a spectre of confidence propelled a single question. Stammering through my words, I wanted to know who he was, how he knew my grandmother. Despite my stutter, he seemed intrigued by my inquiry and replied chillingly. “Today we meet for the first time. I’d thought I’d see her sooner but she is one tough cookie.” Failing to understand, I ran out the church in search of my parents.

With a thundering shout, the old man called my name as I reached the exit. Stopping in my tracks, I paused for a moment to hear his parting words. “See you soon.”

PART II: AGE TWENTY-EIGHT

By age twenty-eight, I had lost a parent, three grandparents, an aunt, three uncles and a close friend. By some cosmic tragedy, it seemed fitting that my mother would join the list sooner rather than later.

Unlike my father, who withered away from cancer, my mom’s death was sudden. Unprepared, my life swiftly switched to a new era without her. No longer could I call her at night with the latest news from work. No longer could I visit her and buy her flowers.

Her death was another reminder that we all die. The fact still terrified me. A few sleepless nights aside, I managed to avoid my intrusive thoughts for the most part. However, losing your mother forces you to be captured by them completely.

Writing her eulogy was easy, saying it was another story. I was the last to enter the church, wrestling with self-doubts. I knew what I had to do but failed to find the strength to do it. It was then that I noticed the woman staring at me.

In her mid-thirties, she seemed dressed for a business meeting, not a funeral. With short brown hair and thin rimmed glasses, it was clear she was waiting for something. “Can I help you?” I asked. “No, but it seems like I could help YOU.” She responded. “Have you accepted it?” I shook my head confused about what she meant. “Do you understand what it means to say goodbye?”

Puzzled, my mind believed her to be a counsellor, there to help those dealing with loss. I responded with honesty, speaking out of instinct. “I thought I did. But now I’m not so sure.” I stifled my tears. “I didn’t do enough, I could’ve done more.” Edging nearer, the woman was blunt. “That’s true, but what can you do about it?” Letting out a painful laugh, I knew my eulogy was overdue.

“I suppose you are right,” I said. “I suppose I can’t change the past.” Opening the church doors I looked back on the stranger and offered parting words. “But I can give her the tribute she deserves. I can do that.” And so, I began to walk down the aisle to the front of the service. Standing at the podium clearing my throat, the sharp-dressed woman closed the doors in the distance and mouthed her farewell, “See you soon.”

PART III: AGE NINETY

When my days became numbered, I learned to appreciate the things I should have cared for earlier. After a long life, I still thought of death every day. I held out hope for an afterlife, even if my faith often wavered. I didn’t want to die, despite the loss of my dearest wife.

Sixty-two years of marriage ain't bad but I would’ve done anything at all for just a minute more. A month following her death, I felt hopeless. She was more than a partner, she was a piece of me. Leaving my bed felt trivial as did eating. My family begged me to live with them but I wanted to stay home, I wanted to remember her.

The door knocked at ten in the morning. Still in bed, I grabbed the nearest clothes and stumbled to the entrance of my home. Tired and angry, I swung the door open to reveal a young man standing in front of a parked taxi.

“Who are you?” I asked threateningly. “I’m an old friend,” he said. Whether it was my fractured memory or poor eyesight, I didn’t recognise him. Ready to return to my bed, I moved to close the door, sure that he had come to the wrong house. “Don’t you remember me? I was there when you needed me the most. I visited you many times yet it seems you never truly saw me.” I looked back and focused on his face, searching for the answers to his riddles.

His slicked-back hair and thick moustache revealed little and my patience was thin, but he seemed familiar and my soul seemed drawn to his taxi, ready to embark on whatever journey was planned. “Are you still afraid?” he asked. “Are you ready to join her?”

Letting out a sigh of pain, I hugged him. With little thought, I embraced the man I just met. “I’m tired, alone, and for the first time, I’m not afraid of dying.”

In a single moment, I looked back on my life and suddenly seemed ready for whatever came next. Because if there was even a one per cent chance that I would join my beloved, I was ready.

Looking at me with joy, the man led me to his car, opening the back door before pausing. “What is the date?” he asked. Responding with the day and month, the man seemed frustrated with my reply. “It seems I am a bit early. Oh well, more time for goodbyes I suppose.”

Disappointment was replaced by peace as my frail body became filled with love. Stumbling into my home, I looked back towards the strange taxi driver. Behind the wheel, he quickly dropped his window and let out a cheerful grin. “See you soon.” With a smile of my own, I nodded in return and calmly walked inside.

It was a winter night.

A small nymph of a girl made shelter behind a nest of bins. It was hardly enough though. Very…oh so very cold. Threadbare hung on her gaunt figure, her hair slicked back with sweat, soot and now-

She looked up at the sky.

Snow. 

The harsh air bit at her skin. She clutched herself tighter.

A mum, or dad…She stared at the surrounding houses’ windows, lit by candle light. Warmth.

She lowered her eyes in an effort to not deceive herself.  

No matter what she scrounged together - be it bins or street litter - her makeshift clothes were not enough. It would never be, against the natural elements. Her pale face grew red from the harsh stings of the winds.

Any tears felt like dried icicles. Her throat rubbed raw to speak much.

But then a bell rang. She held her breath, as dull footsteps made their way down the narrow street path.

Was it a caretaker? A warden?

Her feeble bones started to shake in fear. She couldn’t run.

She couldn’t-

Peering ever more closely, she took in the figure.

A man.

‘Though not really so,’ she decided. He looked too slim, not too tall; his face betraying his youth. Trudging closer, he held out an apple. 

Like a snake, she pounced to take it. Sudden energy flooding her at the promise of food. Her eyes, locked in at the apple, made her nearly miss the other object he held out to her.

A blanket.

She reached out once more, before halting abruptly. 

The boy didn’t seem to have much either.

In a crackled whisper of a voice, she questioned, “And you?”

He shook his head slowly, giving the briefest of smiles.

Seemingly satisfied, he turned, walking away. Not once looking back.

For if he did he’d have noticed the faint glimmer of hope that now sketched into her eyes. Her stance that now sat stronger, more composed. 

More willing to survive.

But that was okay.

One doing so was enough for the both of them. 

"May hindi ka ba sinasabi sa akin?" Puno ng kalungkutang ang bises ko ng tinanong ko siya. Nakatalikod siya pero nakikita ko ang repleksyon ng mga mata niya sa glass ng condo.

Huwag mong sagutin. Ito ang paulit-ulit na sinasabi ko sa utak ko habang binabalot kami ng katahimikan.

Malungkot ang mga mata niya. Hindi, hindi ako ang nagdudulot ng kalungkutan niya. Patuloy pa rin ang pagkumbinse ko sa sarili ko.

Hinarap niya ako. Doon ko napagtanto na ang mga matang tinititigan ko noon na puno ng pagmamahal ay nababalot na ng kalungkutan ngayon.

"Hindi ko sinasadya. Hindi ko ginusto." Usal niya.

"Ano ang ibig mong sabihin?"

To be continued...

The space between my curtains revealed the new day, forcing me awake. For a moment I remained still, enjoying the peace of dawn. Getting up wasn’t easy but the promise of fresh coffee was enough to pull me from the heavy blanket. In a daze, I marched towards my door and stepped outside. Opening my eyes, I found myself back in bed, and it became clear that my morning bliss was nothing but a dream.

The gap in my curtains emitted the black of night and my phone confirmed the time to be 3 am. I should have returned to sleep but the realism of my dream left me uneasy. Getting out of bed once more, I reached the door and walked into my home’s passage. Again, I found myself lying in bed, with a tint of blue peeking inside.

A dream within a dream, a perilous loop, it was now that fear captured my mind. A panic attack was near but my goal remained clear, I had to wake up. Forcefully shutting my eyes, I followed a technique that I learnt as a child. Thankfully, it seemed to work.

The golden hue of an ending day revealed itself. I remember thinking that I must have fallen asleep when I rested after lunch. Lurching from the clutches of my bed, I darted for my window ripping the curtains apart. The view of the outdoors was as expected, although the orange glow of the setting sun was unlike anything I had witnessed before. It felt as though all worries were lifted from my soul, a childlike emotion with an addictive allure.

The experience left me unsettled. I was scared to remain in my room for the rest of the day, so I decided that my exit was long overdue. To my surprise, the opening of the entrance was followed not by an empty passage but rather by the revelation that at the end of the corridor stood a stranger in my home.

The intruder stood still, staring in my direction. The terror of my situation continued to evolve and while it seemed as though I was finally awake, a new threat emerged with different concerns. With features unclear due to the diminishing light of dusk, the female figure appeared frozen in time. Something about her visage unsettled me, sending chills along my arms.

It was then that I reflected back on the view of the outside, collecting the details in my memory. The earth was still, lacking wind or movement, and the sunset had remained at the same level from the moment I opened my eyes until I reached the edge of my bedroom’s horizon. My friend known as fear returned once more. I was still dreaming.

Checking my hands, scoping the walls around me, it felt as though everything was off-centre by a small margin. The circumstance felt as real as can be yet everything was detached from reality, like a gorgeous painting hastily edited by a different artist. I wondered if returning to my room would alter my environment for the better, perhaps passing through the threshold in reverse would assist me (if not wake me up entirely). Turning around and walking through the door, I despondently found myself back in the passage.

Towards the figure I went, desperate to escape the nightmare. Although dream logic often prevents movement, I soon reached the woman in my home. The closer I got, the easier it was to decipher her appearance. A few steps away, her face revealed a level of anxiety that I could relate to. With long brown hair and a small face, she was as bland and unthreatening as can be.

Unclear what to say, I landed on “What are you doing here?”, as though such a question would impact the nature of what was almost certainly a nocturnal hallucination. Her response startled me and left me in shock. With a sweaty brow, she glanced over and said “I am just trying to wake up.”

As far as I knew, shared dreams were a fairytale at best. Our minds are not some kind of otherworldly train station for souls passing through to the next day (or so I thought). What followed was a lengthy discussion about the events unfolding for each of us. She explained that she had been roaming the streets of her dream for hours. Describing a row of empty buildings, it seemed as though mine was the first to contain an occupant.

Was she a spectre of my mind? Was she truly visiting my dreams? All I knew for sure was that I had to wake up. So I decided to formulate a plan with a person who very well could have been a fragment of my imagination. She explained that she had been trapped in a dream before, with the only escape route being death.

“Dying in a dream will force your mind awake” she explained. “When we sleep, our consciousness escapes the body and roams other realities, killing yourself triggers your mind to return to its earthly vessel”. For some reason, I believed her. For some reason, I believed that she was real.

My home was an apartment on the bottom floor of a ten-story flat, and together we climbed the stairs to the roof. Perhaps the journey only lasted a few minutes but within it, we got to know each other, bonding in our deep-rooted fear of the unknown.

Our personalities seemed to sync and if only for a short time, we built a relationship of the sort that I had dreamed of. However, it seemed bitter-sweet that such an occurrence would in fact happen within a dream. But I still treated it as real, existing in the moment for the few steps we had left.

Emerging onto the open roof, I almost wished that the building was taller. Despite my nightmare beginning with a panic, I had reached a point where I didn’t want to wake up. Looking at the same sunset from before, happiness quickly took the place of worry, even though I knew my dream was coming to an end.

It was then that my emotional state revealed its origins. The stunning sky reminded me of my childhood. I remembered looking at the escaping sun when I was a small boy, fascinated by its beauty and comforted by the feeling it provided. For the first time since then, I felt safe.

With one last look at the protective glimmer of the orange sky, I thanked my nocturnal friend for bringing me peace. Responding similarly, we decided to jump together. Our prison had transformed into what can only be considered “home”.

I don’t remember jumping. I only recall waking up in bed, this time for real. It’s been three years since the experience and while a few dreams have been close, none have brought me the joy of standing on top of the world alongside her. And while I know that she might not be real, I look forward to each night, yearning for the world better than my own, searching for the setting sun.

"I just need to find myself right now and I wish you the best," he said on the phone message as the wind whipped into the phone and babies in the park cried behind him. Then the message ran out, him and his voice gone.

Today hearing that, even though 30 years have passed and the person changed, I was reminded of something that happened long ago. At that time it felt like nothing much had happened, but over time I realized that there was a feeling there that had occurred that I would go on to experience again. And with time I understand that feeling that happened that day.

It was despair, it was subtle for me, my life had been so hard and chaotic that it almost just blended in with all the other events.

We were hot off the freeway. I'd had to keep the baby hidden so the authorities didn't take it as we made the long two day journey from the middle of Florida to Missouri. As we'd taken the last ride I'd pulled my baby from the layers of clothes I had him hidden in, his body warm and languidly laying on my hot skin. He'd gasped for air and we realized we couldn't make it to Missouri like we planned.

We'd stay in New Orleans. When the ride dropped us off on the Rampart in the French Quarter, we were so worn out we decided we'd stay there. The father said he'd go in the small grocery in front of us. Get us some drinks and food. And even though it was the deep, sweltry heat of July in the South, I felt excited to think how I'd soon have a drink to make milk.

And I waited. And waited. Around 30 minutes passed and that's when I got that feeling. Like something dropped in my gut. I knew, he wasn't coming back. I surveyed the grocery, in front of me. It was a shotgun style house which means just one short passage to the back. I never went in the store. I didn't need to. I knew he was gone. I walked around the back to the only exit and realized he had walked in the front door and out the back.

I went back around to watch the front. Numb. 21. I remember checking my pockets hoping I had a dollar. I had nothing, not even a quarter and I thought how I had nobody to call even if I found it. No food, no water, no money, no house and not one single person I knew in the vicinity. I sat with the baby on my lap on a short stone wall and bounced him softly. He was freshly born, oblivious and happy for fresh air.

Later, the father apologized. He explained he just needed to find himself. He could never take care of a baby until he found him self. 30 years passed and he never did find himself. I'm not sure I ever found my self either

But on that fateful day, I learned a very important lesson. When you are down at your lowest, you can't depend on others. They will walk right out the back door on you when they see you weak.

You see up till that time, I had some belief that the people that said they loved me would see my struggles and be motivated to help me. After that day, I never believed such again. Reality hit that day and I realized that most people want to escape you as soon as they see you are in a place that you really need them.

It happened to me again today. It never quite has the sting of that first time, but the feeling is there. The feeling the world dropped out from under me as I process that sometimes the people that said they cared didn't really mean it.

You come into this world alone, you exit alone and sometimes you face your crisis alone. That truth never stops stinging, but it gets easier to feel.

true story

At half past eleven, in the cheap café, sits an old man, alone. No one has spoken to him in weeks. Even the waitress hasn’t a word to throw his way. She knows his order and she is busy, too busy to waste time on an old man who spends hours nursing a single coffee. He sits alone, watching the world over the rim of his cup. Everything seems to move so fast these days.

A small girl is staring at him. She looks to be around five or six. He smiles, but she is shy and turns away and hides behind her mother’s leg. He sighs and looks away. He doesn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable. He sips the last of his coffee. The bitter, earthy taste swirls over his tongue. He relishes the warmth. He cannot afford to heat his home now; and the days are becoming colder. It will be winter again soon.

The coffee is gone now. He sets the cup gently back into its saucer, trying to still the tremor in his hands. They are old now, calloused and swollen with arthritis. The knuckles look like walnuts. They were strong hands once. Able to perform the most delicate of tasks with ease. Piecing together cogs and springs, choreographing their intricate dance. Making the custom watches that he crafted sing their perfect melody. Of course, back then, his eyes were much sharper too. Nowadays he would have trouble even reading a watch.

He unfolds slowly from his chair. His back throbs with its usual ache, but it’s a familiar pain. An old friend. Part of him for so long that if it were to vanish, he might almost feel bereft. As the old man makes his way towards the door, a group of girls enter. ‘Women’, he corrects himself sternly. The last woman sees him coming and holds the door open with a smile. He is grateful. The door is heavy and his gnarled, old hands struggle to grip the metal handle. He opens his mouth to thank her, but she is already distracted. Face turned away, but animated, as she chatters to a friend. Giggling about some recent happening. Full of life and future.

The air outside is cold and he turns up his collar, hunching against the wind as he struggles along the pavement. Leaning on his cane for support, his knees need the extra help, nowadays. He remembers the old days. People used to greet him. He was fairly well known, back when this was a village. Respected for his talent with mechanical watches. The village is gone now. Swallowed up by the city as it spread. The old man doesn’t mind the change. The young families that had flooded to the area have brought life and growth with them. Such is life. The old must always step aside to make space for the new.

As the weeks pass, only the waitress notices his absence. But she is busy, and his seat is soon filled. New regulars, new orders. Life continues as it always does.

A tribute appears in the local paper. “Ode to a watchmaker – The story of a local celebrity. People who read it shake their heads. They muse over thoughts of the things he must have seen, the stories he must have shared, the people he’s left behind. And then. They forget. Such is life.

Welcome to r/ShortSadStories  . Keep share your opinion and don't forget to enjoy!