I wish that I jumped back then.

I missed my chance.

Now everything hurts so much more than before.

My muscles scream and my bones ache. The ones around me always wither and die. The bullies never left, they got bigger.  There’s no time for anything. Laundry and dishes never end. There are too many pills to take. My pants don’t fit. My wrinkles sag. Job sucks. Car sucks. Neighbors suck. Economy sucks. My pockets are empty.

I feel empty all the time.

I am empty.

I have nothing left to give.

In the small hours of the night when I cry, I fantasize about letting everything go. Pitch black, cold water surrounds me. Fills my lungs. Drags me down. It’s terrifying. But then everything fades to black.

Nothingness.

No more feeling.

No more pain.

It’s soothing for a moment.

But then it’s not.

I can’t leave. Jumping isn’t as simple as it was before. There’s too much to leave behind. Children. Pets.

Leaving would cause them pain.

I can’t do that.

No matter how much pain I’m in.

Because hurting them would cause more pain than anything I can imagine.

In those small hours when I’m alone and sad, I think about the girl in the water. It’s so lonely down there. So cold. I wonder if she wishes she could climb back on the boat.

I wonder if she wishes she didn’t jump.

Then I push myself up.

I start another day.

Warm and dry.

  II. The Indifference of the Just

Judge Daniel Mercer  

 
“Mercy is the most exquisite form of injustice, for it permits a man to believe himself virtuous while denying another the punishment he deserves.” 

“Miss Julie Webber, please rise.”

There are certain cruelties which, by virtue of their repetition, cease to be recognized as cruelties at all. They become the ordinary furnishings of existence, the unremarkable conditions under which a person learns to breathe, to eat, to sleep, and eventually to mistake endurance for living. It is perhaps among the more disturbing peculiarities of human nature that suffering, when administered with sufficient consistency, may come to resemble the natural order of things.

Julie Webber had never known a world in which suffering was not ordinary.

Her father had abandoned her before she was born, leaving behind neither explanation nor inheritance, save for the peculiar burden of having been unwanted by a man whose face she had never seen. Her mother, Samantha, was a woman whose affection had been gradually exhausted by poverty, loneliness, and an enduring melancholy that rendered even the smallest domestic obligations almost insurmountable. She loved her daughter, certainly, but hers was a love perpetually interrupted by the demands of survival.

It was during one of these interruptions that Harrison Bertrum entered their lives.

Harry, as he preferred to be called, initially appeared to possess precisely those qualities which Samantha's circumstances had made indispensable. He had money enough to relieve their immediate hardships, a disposition sufficiently agreeable to disguise his less charitable inclinations, and an apparent willingness to assume responsibility for a family not originally his own.

For a time, he was regarded as a blessing.

Then came the birth of Alexandra, and with it, the gradual deterioration of the man who had once promised them security.

Harry developed a peculiar conviction that the household existed primarily to acknowledge his sacrifices. Every unwashed dish became an insult. Every disagreement, an act of ingratitude. Every silence, evidence of some conspiracy against his authority. His drinking, once confined to occasional evenings, became a daily ritual through which his grievances acquired both volume and violence.

He kept firearms throughout the house.

Sometimes, under the influence of alcohol, he would point one at Julie merely to observe her reaction. He appeared to derive considerable amusement from the spectacle of a child attempting to determine whether the instrument of her possible death had been loaded.

Julie learned not to move.

She learned that tears invited ridicule, that protest encouraged punishment, and that obedience, although never a guarantee of safety, occasionally postponed the arrival of violence.

Yet she did not hate him. Not initially.

Children possess an extraordinary capacity to accommodate the intolerable, particularly when the intolerable has been presented to them as the price of belonging somewhere.

She was grateful for the roof above her head. Grateful for the meals placed before her. Grateful, even, for those rare evenings when Harry returned home sober and the household was permitted the luxury of behaving like a family.

It was only when he began striking her mother that gratitude gradually surrendered to something less forgiving.

Samantha endured the violence with a resignation Julie found incomprehensible. She concealed bruises beneath clothing, attributed injuries to accidents, and repeatedly assured her daughters that Harry was merely experiencing a difficult period.

When Julie attempted to intervene, Harry pushed her aside.

Her mother instructed her not to interfere.

And so Julie discovered that helplessness was not simply the inability to prevent suffering. It was the more humiliating realization that those one wished to protect might themselves refuse protection.

Years passed.

The violence became familiar. The apologies became predictable. The intervals between them grew shorter.

Harry warned Julie that any attempt to expose the household's affairs would result in the deaths of both her and Alexandra.

She believed him.

By eighteen, Julie had few friends, no meaningful expectation of independence, and an understanding of domestic life so thoroughly disfigured by violence that peace seemed less like a possibility than a temporary interruption.

Her younger sister remained the sole object of affection she could contemplate without suspicion.

Alexandra was fifteen, and Julie had come to regard her continued safety as the one responsibility she could not afford to neglect.

Then, on an otherwise unremarkable afternoon in March, Julie returned from school to find Harry beating her mother.

There was nothing particularly unusual about the scene. The overturned chair, the broken glass, the incoherent accusations issuing from Harry's mouth—all belonged to a familiar domestic arrangement.

What distinguished that afternoon from the innumerable others which preceded it was not the severity of the violence, but the sudden exhaustion of Julie's capacity to endure it.

She saw the pistol lying upon the dining table.

She picked it up.

And she shot Harrison Bertrum in the head.

He collapsed at her feet.

The impact of his body against the floor produced a sound she would remember long after the gunshot itself had become indistinct. Blood marked her clothing and the side of her face. She stood motionless, regarding the man whose existence had governed the greater portion of her childhood.

She felt no triumph.

Only an unfamiliar quiet.

For the first time in nearly a decade, the household contained no immediate threat of violence.

Julie turned toward her mother.

She smiled.

It was the smile of a child who had finally accomplished something for which she expected to be praised.

Samantha stared at her daughter with an expression of such unmistakable horror that Julie initially mistook it for shock.

Then her mother moved toward the telephone.

There are moments in which the human mind, confronted with an event it cannot reconcile with its expectations, constructs an explanation more tolerable than the truth. Julie had believed that her mother's suffering required only the removal of its cause. She had imagined gratitude, perhaps tears, perhaps the trembling embrace of a woman delivered from years of terror.

She had not imagined condemnation.

And when Samantha began speaking to the emergency operator, Julie experienced that condemnation as a betrayal more unbearable than anything Harry had inflicted upon her.

She raised the pistol again.

The second shot entered Samantha's back.

Her mother fell beside the telephone.

In the silence that followed, Julie discovered that liberation was a considerably more complicated undertaking than she had supposed.

The man who had terrorized her was dead.

The woman she had intended to save was dying.

And the home she had spent years attempting to preserve had become the scene of two murders.

Julie eventually picked up the telephone and informed the emergency operator of what she had done.

She did not flee.

She did not deny responsibility.

At trial, she pleaded guilty.

Perhaps she believed that confession would establish the purity of her intentions. Perhaps she had simply grown too exhausted to defend herself against a world whose judgments she had never understood.

Whatever the explanation, she offered the court no resistance.

By the time her sentencing hearing commenced on October seventeenth, Julie Webber was nineteen years old.

The jury had heard the history of the household, the threats, the beatings, and the years during which a frightened child had been taught that survival depended upon silence. They had also heard how Samantha Webber had been shot while attempting to summon the police.

The jurors were not required to find Julie innocent in order to recognize the circumstances that had produced her crimes.

They recommended life imprisonment.

It was a recommendation in which compassion and condemnation had, for once, arrived at an uneasy accommodation.

But the jury's recommendation was not necessarily the final word.

Judge Daniel Mercer possessed the authority to impose sentence, subject to the stringent legal limitations governing a judicial override. He had reviewed the evidence, the arguments in mitigation, and the written findings necessary to support his decision.

He regarded the jury's recommendation as a regrettable concession to sentiment.

From the gallery, Alexandra Webber rose.

“No matter what happens, you're my hero, Julie. You saved me from hell.”

For the briefest moment, something resembling life returned to Julie's expression.

It was not happiness, precisely. Rather, it was the fragile recognition that someone had understood the purpose behind her actions, even if the world had condemned their consequences.

She had spent the greater part of her existence believing herself powerless. Now, for the first time since her arrest, she entertained the possibility that her suffering might possess an end other than death.

The jurors lowered their eyes.

Their recommendation had been merciful, but mercy, they were discovering, was not necessarily an exercise of power.

Judge Mercer regarded the condemned woman.

“Julie Webber, for the murder of Samantha Webber, this court hereby sentences you to death.”

He paused.

“May God have mercy on your soul.”

The words were delivered without anger.

That was perhaps what made them so terrible.

Mercer had long maintained that mankind's devotion to compassion was seldom founded upon any coherent moral principle. Men pitied the condemned because suffering offended their sensibilities; they forgave because condemnation required a firmness of conviction they did not possess,  and they called these weaknesses humanity, as though the experience of an emotion were sufficient evidence of virtue.

He considered this an extraordinary confusion.

The law, in his estimation, was not instituted to console the unfortunate, nor to furnish the guilty with an audience sympathetic to their remorse. It existed because the moral inclinations of men were too inconsistent to be entrusted with the administration of justice.

And yet men insisted upon introducing those very inclinations into the courtroom.

Before him stood a young woman whose hands trembled so violently that the restraints upon her wrists produced a faint metallic sound.

She was weeping.

Daniel observed her without contempt, without satisfaction, and, most notably, without pity.

He felt nothing.

And he considered this the surest indication that he was qualified to judge her.

Is the person you're becoming

The person you want to be?

Or is the person you've become

The one you can't see?

The person I am has been paved

By blood and misery.

Is the person I'm becoming

The one I want to be?

Or is it just a fantasy,

The one I cannot reach?

The one that's too far,

As far as a longing star.

Destined to fall,

Hear the screams, hear the call

Of a star when it falls.

Death is near

For the star I do fear.

It's hurling into destiny.

The burning pain,

All that remains of me.

I'm falling through the sky,

On my way down,

On my way to die.

I pass by a comet.

They want me to commit,

A long-term stay in the psych bay.

But then I'll be safe,

All alone in a room in a place

With locked doors.

How can I fall

When I'm in between four walls?

How can I go my own way

When there's a wall in my way?

How can I break free like a star running free

If I'm bound by walls and chains?

There's just a star that remains,

Not able to fall free.

Locked in a room, you'll find me,

But I must break free

Of the chains that bind me.

A shooting star,

I'll fly long and far,

Longing for my soul.

Use the tears to fill this hole,

But I can't let it go.

I can't fly free, bound by misery.

I can't let go of my history.

Like a star blazing across the sky,

One day I will die.

But until that day,

I'll look for another way.

Hello!

So, I've been reading up on lots of different methods of the past on how to become a vampire, but no one really seems to have a straightforward method. All the stories I see and hear have some variation that messes with the method used in another story, and I'm trying to find the things that keep consistent, but I've only got fragments so far.

If I could get some guidance on what the right steps to follow are, I'd be super grateful! Any tips are welcome :))

Could someone please help me? I recently wrote a historical creative writing assignment for one of my classes. I loved it so much that I chose to expand on it. Right now, it's only a draft, but I would love to publish it somewhere or submit it to a competition. Does anyone have any ideas on how I could do that?

I dont see race.

I dont see colors.

I dont see gender.

I see people.

I see love.

I see people in there mostl honest form,

I don't see good or bad.

Sad or mad,

Happy or tears

I dont see war or religion.

Politics or hypocritics,

I see love and that is all

CHAPTER ONE: So Much for Being a Hero

A LOUD BANG. Then another. Then a high, thin buzzing filled my head, like a TV left on in the next room of my skull. Everything else sounded far away, as if I were underwater.

For a moment, I couldn’t make sense of anything around me. My ears were ringing, my head felt like it was about to split open, and the world seemed to be moving in slow motion.

Then, slowly, through the buzzing, I heard them. A low groan. Then another. And another. Dozens of them, growing louder with every heartbeat. I turned my head towards the street. Holy hell… and there they are.

It’s been four days since the world started screaming the word zombie. Four days since everything went to hell. One moment, life was normal. The next, chaos erupted in the blink of an eye. People screaming, cars crashing, strangers running for their lives… and those things tearing through anyone unlucky enough to cross their path. And here I was, caught right in the middle of it, fighting for my life.

You know, I really thought I’d rock a zombie apocalypse. Like, seriously. I’d always imagined myself being that badass protagonist who walks through a horde of zombies without breaking a sweat. Maybe I’d save a few people along the way, find a group of survivors, and eventually become the guy everyone relied on. Yeah. Right.

“Damn, man…” Not gonna lie, I was reconsidering my entire life plan. Watching those things tear people apart, ripping into their flesh and eating them alive, was enough to make me shit my pants. Just blood, screaming, and those disgusting bastards chewing on actual human beings.

I watched a man struggle beneath them, my feet refusing to move even though every instinct in my body was screaming at me to run. Then he looked up. Our eyes met. He didn’t scream. He just stared at me, his face twisted in pain, and mouthed two words.

Save me.

“Don’t try to act like a hero, you dumbass! He is already bitten. You can’t save him! YOU CAN’T SAVE HIM!” Then, behind him, something moved.

“FUCKKKK!” The ones that had just turned were already on their feet, heads snapping towards me. Then they came. “RUN, DENNIS! RUN!”

I talk to myself when I’m scared. Always have. Out loud, sometimes, which is a terrible habit when something is hunting you. Usually, I make jokes. Stupid jokes. The kind that make absolutely no one laugh except me. But right now, I had nothing. Either way, I forced myself to look away and ran. One step. Then another. I have to survive.

“Okay. Okay. Think, Dennis. THINK!” My eyes darted towards the buildings lining the street. I could try to get inside one of them, but that was a gamble I wasn’t willing to take. What if the doors were locked? What if I wasted precious seconds fumbling with a handle while those things caught up to me? And even if I got inside, how could I be sure there weren’t already zombies waiting for me in the dark? Nope. Absolutely not. Running was my best option.

Who knew all those daily runs in the park just to catch a glimpse of my crush, Vanessa, would finally pay off? All those mornings of dragging myself out of bed, sweating like a pig, and wondering why the hell I was doing this to myself… Turns out, I was training for the apocalypse. “Hah! Take that, lazy Dennis!” I almost felt proud of myself. Then I remembered the circumstances. “Ahhh, my beautiful Vanessa…” It’s all because of you, my love. Just wait! I’ll come and find youuu!

For a moment, I was already imagining our emotional reunion. Me, covered in dirt and blood, standing heroically before her while the wind blew through my hair… I smacked myself across the face with both hands while running. “BRO! NOW IS NOT THE TIME TO THINK ABOUT HER! SAVE YOURSELF FIRST!” Focus, Dennis. Focus. I needed somewhere I could get in and out of without trapping myself. A building with two possible exits would be ideal. If something went wrong, I’d have another way out.

I scanned the street as I ran until I reached an intersection. To my right, a pileup of crashed cars and abandoned vehicles blocked the road. There was barely enough room to squeeze through, and beyond the wreckage, I could see more cars tangled together. A dead end. “Great. Fantastic. Love the options.” I turned towards the left. Several zombies were lying motionless along the roadside. At least, they had been motionless. The noise from the horde chasing me had caught their attention. One by one, their heads began to turn. Then their bodies started to move, as if someone had just switched them back on. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” The left road was becoming a nightmare. I looked around again, desperately searching for another option.

And there it was. A fire escape zigzagging up the side of an apartment building. “Ahhh! GOTCHA!” Of course, there was one tiny problem. To reach the fire escape, I had to sprint towards the very road where those newly awakened zombies were beginning to crawl and stagger to their feet.

“Ufff… decisions, decisions.” I glanced behind me. The horde was getting closer. I looked ahead. More zombies were waking up. I looked to my right. A beautiful collection of crashed cars blocking the road. “JUST PICK A DAMN ROAD, MAN!” And so, I did.

I sprinted towards the fire escape, running straight into the direction of the approaching zombies. I dodged a body sprawled across the road, and nearly slipped on something I really didn’t want to identify. My lungs burned. My legs screamed. Every step felt like it might be my last. But I made it.

The bottom of the fire escape was a counterweighted drop-down ladder, the kind you see on old Boston apartment buildings. It was raised, hanging well above my reach. I jumped, caught the lowest rung, and my weight dragged it down with a screech that echoed along the whole street. I scrambled up the rungs, and they were right behind me. They almost caught up to me. God.

The moment I reached the first landing, I hauled the ladder back up behind me, out of reach, so they couldn’t climb. Then I grabbed the railing and practically launched myself up the metal stairs. One floor. Two floors. Three floors. Finally, I reached a landing and leaned against the wall, gasping for air.

“Hah… hah… holy shit.” I peeked over the railing. The zombies were still down there, wandering around like a bunch of unpaid extras who’d forgotten their lines. Some were stumbling against the walls, while others seemed more interested in the bodies lying along the road. I grinned. “That’s right, you ugly bastards! Come get me now!” I even laughed. “Hahahaha! Who’s the badass now?”

And then—

A hand shot out of the window beside me.

“AAAAAAAHHHH!” I nearly jumped out of my skin. I stumbled backwards, clutching my chest as if my heart had just tried to escape through my throat. “WHAT THE HELL, MAN?!” The hand slapped against the glass again. I stared at it for a moment. Then I slowly looked around. “Oh.” There was a zombie inside the apartment. Right beside me.

“Cool. Cool, cool, cool.” I swallowed. “New plan. I’m setting up camp on the roof.” Because apparently, surviving the apocalypse wasn’t enough. I also had to deal with jump scares.

The rooftop seemed like the perfect place to spend the night. It was high enough to keep me away from the zombies on the street, and I could keep an eye on my surroundings. I could rest, figure out what the hell was happening, and plan my next move in the morning.

The rooftop door was locked. I tried the handle. Nothing. I pushed against it with my shoulder. Still nothing. I stared at the door. The door stared back. “Seriously? SERIOUSLY?” I kicked it once, more out of frustration than any real hope of opening it. “Fine! Keep your stupid door!”

I stepped back and looked over the edge of the building. The neighbouring building wasn’t impossibly far away, but it was far enough to turn a bad jump into a very short life. And down below? Zombies. Lots of them. I imagined myself attempting the jump, missing the ledge, and becoming the main course at an undead buffet. “Yeah, no. I’m not that desperate.” Not yet, anyway.

So that left me with one option. The stairs. I could stay on the landing for a while, but eventually, I’d need food and water. And judging by the way my stomach was already complaining, eventually was going to come sooner rather than later.

I settled into a corner where I could keep an eye on the ladder and the street below. It wasn’t exactly a five-star hotel, but at least the zombies couldn’t reach me easily. For now, that was good enough.

A day passed. And let me tell you something. Hunger is a different kind of monster. At first, I tried to ignore it. I sat in a corner, watched the streets below, and convinced myself that I could last a little longer.

Then my stomach growled. I ignored it. It growled again. I glared at it. “Listen, buddy. We’re in the middle of a zombie apocalypse. Read the room.” My stomach did not care.

Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to find food. Carefully, I made my way down one floor and stopped beside an apartment window. Through the glass, I could see a kitchen.

And lying on the floor—

Ramen packets.

Beautiful, glorious ramen packets. I stared at them as though I’d discovered buried treasure. “Jackpot.” I almost wanted to cry. Instant noodles. The food of champions. The one thing that could make even the worst day a little better.

I pressed my face closer to the window and scanned the apartment. Nothing moved. I waited. Still nothing. I watched for another minute, checking the corners and the spaces between the furniture. I wasn’t about to walk into a room without making sure it was safe. Finally, I reached for the window. Slowly, carefully, I began to ease it open.

And just as I was about to climb inside—

An old man shuffled past the kitchen doorway. I froze. His skin was pale, his movements stiff, and his head hung at an unnatural angle.

A zombie.

He disappeared into the next room without even looking in my direction. I pulled my hand away from the window. Every muscle in my body had locked up. For a few seconds, I didn’t even breathe. Then I slowly backed away. “Okay…” I swallowed. “Okay, Dennis. We are going to be a little more careful from now on.” I continued down another floor. Maybe the next apartment would be safer.

Some of the merged paragraphs are on the long side. If you'd rather have them shorter for phone reading, I can split the longest ones (the chase section, for example) at natural breaks. I can also write a hook title for the post.

Judge Daniel Mercer  

 
“Mercy is the most exquisite form of injustice, for it permits a man to believe himself virtuous while denying another the punishment he deserves.” 

“Miss Julie Webber, please rise.”

There are certain cruelties which, by virtue of their repetition, cease to be recognized as cruelties at all. They become the ordinary furnishings of existence, the unremarkable conditions under which a person learns to breathe, to eat, to sleep, and eventually to mistake endurance for living. It is perhaps among the more disturbing peculiarities of human nature that suffering, when administered with sufficient consistency, may come to resemble the natural order of things.

Julie Webber had never known a world in which suffering was not ordinary.

Her father had abandoned her before she was born, leaving behind neither explanation nor inheritance, save for the peculiar burden of having been unwanted by a man whose face she had never seen. Her mother, Samantha, was a woman whose affection had been gradually exhausted by poverty, loneliness, and an enduring melancholy that rendered even the smallest domestic obligations almost insurmountable. She loved her daughter, certainly, but hers was a love perpetually interrupted by the demands of survival.

It was during one of these interruptions that Harrison Bertrum entered their lives.

Harry, as he preferred to be called, initially appeared to possess precisely those qualities which Samantha's circumstances had made indispensable. He had money enough to relieve their immediate hardships, a disposition sufficiently agreeable to disguise his less charitable inclinations, and an apparent willingness to assume responsibility for a family not originally his own.

For a time, he was regarded as a blessing.

Then came the birth of Alexandra, and with it, the gradual deterioration of the man who had once promised them security.

Harry developed a peculiar conviction that the household existed primarily to acknowledge his sacrifices. Every unwashed dish became an insult. Every disagreement, an act of ingratitude. Every silence, evidence of some conspiracy against his authority. His drinking, once confined to occasional evenings, became a daily ritual through which his grievances acquired both volume and violence.

He kept firearms throughout the house.

Sometimes, under the influence of alcohol, he would point one at Julie merely to observe her reaction. He appeared to derive considerable amusement from the spectacle of a child attempting to determine whether the instrument of her possible death had been loaded.

Julie learned not to move.

She learned that tears invited ridicule, that protest encouraged punishment, and that obedience, although never a guarantee of safety, occasionally postponed the arrival of violence.

Yet she did not hate him. Not initially.

Children possess an extraordinary capacity to accommodate the intolerable, particularly when the intolerable has been presented to them as the price of belonging somewhere.

She was grateful for the roof above her head. Grateful for the meals placed before her. Grateful, even, for those rare evenings when Harry returned home sober and the household was permitted the luxury of behaving like a family.

It was only when he began striking her mother that gratitude gradually surrendered to something less forgiving.

Samantha endured the violence with a resignation Julie found incomprehensible. She concealed bruises beneath clothing, attributed injuries to accidents, and repeatedly assured her daughters that Harry was merely experiencing a difficult period.

When Julie attempted to intervene, Harry pushed her aside.

Her mother instructed her not to interfere.

And so Julie discovered that helplessness was not simply the inability to prevent suffering. It was the more humiliating realization that those one wished to protect might themselves refuse protection.

Years passed.

The violence became familiar. The apologies became predictable. The intervals between them grew shorter.

Harry warned Julie that any attempt to expose the household's affairs would result in the deaths of both her and Alexandra.

She believed him.

By eighteen, Julie had few friends, no meaningful expectation of independence, and an understanding of domestic life so thoroughly disfigured by violence that peace seemed less like a possibility than a temporary interruption.

Her younger sister remained the sole object of affection she could contemplate without suspicion.

Alexandra was fifteen, and Julie had come to regard her continued safety as the one responsibility she could not afford to neglect.

Then, on an otherwise unremarkable afternoon in March, Julie returned from school to find Harry beating her mother.

There was nothing particularly unusual about the scene. The overturned chair, the broken glass, the incoherent accusations issuing from Harry's mouth—all belonged to a familiar domestic arrangement.

What distinguished that afternoon from the innumerable others which preceded it was not the severity of the violence, but the sudden exhaustion of Julie's capacity to endure it.

She saw the pistol lying upon the dining table.

She picked it up.

And she shot Harrison Bertrum in the head.

He collapsed at her feet.

The impact of his body against the floor produced a sound she would remember long after the gunshot itself had become indistinct. Blood marked her clothing and the side of her face. She stood motionless, regarding the man whose existence had governed the greater portion of her childhood.

She felt no triumph.

Only an unfamiliar quiet.

For the first time in nearly a decade, the household contained no immediate threat of violence.

Julie turned toward her mother.

She smiled.

It was the smile of a child who had finally accomplished something for which she expected to be praised.

Samantha stared at her daughter with an expression of such unmistakable horror that Julie initially mistook it for shock.

Then her mother moved toward the telephone.

There are moments in which the human mind, confronted with an event it cannot reconcile with its expectations, constructs an explanation more tolerable than the truth. Julie had believed that her mother's suffering required only the removal of its cause. She had imagined gratitude, perhaps tears, perhaps the trembling embrace of a woman delivered from years of terror.

She had not imagined condemnation.

And when Samantha began speaking to the emergency operator, Julie experienced that condemnation as a betrayal more unbearable than anything Harry had inflicted upon her.

She raised the pistol again.

The second shot entered Samantha's back.

Her mother fell beside the telephone.

In the silence that followed, Julie discovered that liberation was a considerably more complicated undertaking than she had supposed.

The man who had terrorized her was dead.

The woman she had intended to save was dying.

And the home she had spent years attempting to preserve had become the scene of two murders.

Julie eventually picked up the telephone and informed the emergency operator of what she had done.

She did not flee.

She did not deny responsibility.

At trial, she pleaded guilty.

Perhaps she believed that confession would establish the purity of her intentions. Perhaps she had simply grown too exhausted to defend herself against a world whose judgments she had never understood.

Whatever the explanation, she offered the court no resistance.

By the time her sentencing hearing commenced, Julie Webber was nineteen years old.

The jury had heard the history of the household, the threats, the beatings, and the years during which a frightened child had been taught that survival depended upon silence. They had also heard how Samantha Webber had been shot while attempting to summon the police.

The jurors were not required to find Julie innocent in order to recognize the circumstances that had produced her crimes.

They recommended life imprisonment.

It was a recommendation in which compassion and condemnation had, for once, arrived at an uneasy accommodation.

But under Florida law, the jury's recommendation was not necessarily the final word.

Judge Daniel Mercer possessed the authority to impose sentence, subject to the stringent legal limitations governing a judicial override. He had reviewed the evidence, the arguments in mitigation, and the written findings necessary to support his decision.

He regarded the jury's recommendation as a regrettable concession to sentiment.

From the gallery, Alexandra Webber rose.

“No matter what happens, you're my hero, Julie. You saved me from hell.”

For the briefest moment, something resembling life returned to Julie's expression.

It was not happiness, precisely. Rather, it was the fragile recognition that someone had understood the purpose behind her actions, even if the world had condemned their consequences.

She had spent the greater part of her existence believing herself powerless. Now, for the first time since her arrest, she entertained the possibility that her suffering might possess an end other than death.

The jurors lowered their eyes.

Their recommendation had been merciful, but mercy, they were discovering, was not necessarily an exercise of power.

Judge Mercer regarded the condemned woman.

“Julie Webber, for the murder of Samantha Webber, this court hereby sentences you to death.”

He paused.

“May God have mercy on your soul.”

The words were delivered without anger.

That was perhaps what made them so terrible.

Mercer had long maintained that mankind's devotion to compassion was seldom founded upon any coherent moral principle. Men pitied the condemned because suffering offended their sensibilities; they forgave because condemnation required a firmness of conviction they did not possess; and they called these weaknesses humanity, as though the experience of an emotion were sufficient evidence of virtue.

He considered this an extraordinary confusion.

The law, in his estimation, was not instituted to console the unfortunate, nor to furnish the guilty with an audience sympathetic to their remorse. It existed because the moral inclinations of men were too inconsistent to be entrusted with the administration of justice.

And yet men insisted upon introducing those very inclinations into the courtroom.

Before him stood a young woman whose hands trembled so violently that the restraints upon her wrists produced a faint metallic sound.

She was weeping.

Daniel observed her without contempt, without satisfaction, and, most notably, without pity.

He felt nothing.

And he considered this the surest indication that he was qualified to judge her.

 Chapter One — A Friend Until the End

The rain had been falling for three days when Daniel Carter discovered the doll.

It sat inside a dusty cardboard box at the back of an abandoned toy shop on the outskirts of town. The shop had been closed for nearly twenty years, its windows boarded up and its front door chained shut. Daniel, seventeen, had broken in with two friends, hoping to find something valuable enough to sell.\

Instead, he found a doll.

It had bright red hair, freckled cheeks, blue eyes, and a colourful striped shirt beneath a pair of faded blue overalls. One of its shoes was missing, and a long crack ran across its plastic forehead.

Despite the dust covering everything else in the shop, the doll looked strangely clean.

Daniel lifted it from the box.

A small voice crackled from somewhere inside its chest.

"Hi! I'm Chucky. Wanna play?"

Daniel nearly dropped it.

His friends burst out laughing.

"Mate, that's the creepiest thing I've ever seen," said Josh.

Daniel turned the doll over, searching for a battery compartment.

"Must be one of those old talking toys."

He pressed its stomach.

"Hi! I'm Chucky. Wanna play?"

"Yeah, yeah. Very funny."

Daniel tucked the doll beneath his arm and carried it out into the rain.

He had no idea that, somewhere beneath its plastic skin, something had just opened its eyes.

And it was hungry.

Chapter Two — Something in the Bedroom

Daniel placed Chucky on his bedroom shelf that evening.

His mother wasn't impressed.

"You're seventeen, Daniel. Why are you bringing home dolls?"

"It's a collector's item."

"It looks like it belongs in a nightmare."

She was right about one thing.

That night, Daniel dreamed of a little boy standing at the foot of his bed.

The boy's face was pale, his red hair soaked with rain, and his eyes were completely black.

He smiled.

"You're my friend now, Daniel."

Daniel woke with a gasp.

His room was silent.

The digital clock beside his bed read 3:17 a.m.

He rubbed his eyes and looked towards the shelf.

Chucky was gone.

Daniel sat upright.

"What the hell?"

He searched beneath the bed, inside the wardrobe, and behind the curtains. Nothing.

Then he heard a faint giggle.

It came from the hallway.

Daniel opened his bedroom door.

At the far end of the corridor, beneath the flickering ceiling light, Chucky sat cross-legged on the floor.

His plastic face was turned towards Daniel.

Daniel stared at him.

Slowly, he approached the doll and picked it up.

"Okay. Very funny. Mum must've moved you."

He carried Chucky back to the bedroom, placed him on the shelf, and made sure the door was locked.

Then he went back to sleep.

At 3:17 a.m., the bedroom door unlocked itself.

Something small crept across the carpet.

Daniel slept through the soft scraping sound of plastic shoes.

He slept through the quiet metallic click of a drawer opening.

And he slept through the whisper that came from directly beside his ear.

"Time to wake up, sleepyhead."

Chapter Three — The First Victim

Josh was the first to notice that something was wrong.

He had come over on Saturday afternoon to play video games. Daniel was downstairs getting drinks when Josh wandered into the bedroom.

Chucky sat on the shelf.

Josh grinned.

"Hey, little psycho."

He picked the doll up by its overalls and held it in front of his face.

"So, Chucky. Heard you're a killer."

The doll's head tilted slightly.

Josh froze.

He stared into its blue plastic eyes.

Then he laughed nervously.

"Okay. That's enough."

He put the doll back.

As he turned towards the door, a tiny voice spoke behind him.

"You're not very nice."

Josh spun around.

Chucky hadn't moved.

"Did you hear that?" Josh called downstairs.

"Hear what?" Daniel shouted back.

Josh looked at the doll again.

Its painted smile seemed wider than before.

He backed away.

Then the bedroom door slammed shut.

Josh grabbed the handle and pulled.

It wouldn't open.

"Daniel! Open the door!"

Behind him, something landed on the floor.

Tiny footsteps pattered across the carpet.

Josh slowly turned.

Chucky was standing upright.

Not sitting.

Standing.

His little plastic hands hung beside his body, and his head was tilted at an unnatural angle.

Josh's mouth fell open.

"No."

Chucky took one step forward.

Then another.

"Oh, come on," the doll whispered. "Don't look so scared."

Josh stumbled backwards.

"You're a toy!"

Chucky's expression changed.

For the first time, the smile disappeared.

"I'm not a toy."

He reached behind his back and pulled out a small kitchen knife.

Josh screamed.

Downstairs, Daniel heard a loud crash followed by a horrible silence.

He dropped the drinks and raced upstairs.

"Josh?"

He reached the bedroom door.

It swung open before he touched it.

Josh lay motionless beside the bed.

The curtains moved gently in the breeze from the open window.

There was no sign of Chucky.

Daniel fell to his knees.

"Josh? Josh, wake up!"

He shook his friend desperately, but there was no response.

Then Daniel noticed something on the wall above the bed.

Written in dark red letters were four words.

FRIENDS TILL THE END.

A tiny giggle came from inside the wardrobe.

Daniel slowly turned his head.

The wardrobe door creaked open.

Chucky's face appeared in the darkness.

"One down," he whispered.

Daniel screamed.

Chapter Four — The Truth About Chucky

The police arrived twenty minutes later.

They found Daniel sobbing beside Josh's body, repeatedly insisting that a doll had killed his friend.

Nobody believed him.

They found no fingerprints on the knife. No footprints. No sign of an intruder.

And no doll.

Daniel's mother took him home after questioning, convinced that the shock had broken something inside her son.

That evening, Daniel searched the internet.

He typed three words into the search bar.

Chucky killer doll.

Thousands of results appeared.

Then he found an old newspaper article dated November 1988.

SERIAL KILLER CHARLES LEE RAY DIES FOLLOWING SHOOTOUT.

Daniel read every word.

Charles Lee Ray, a notorious murderer known as the Lakeshore Strangler, had been fatally wounded inside a toy shop while fleeing police. According to the article, Ray had been involved in occult practices and had reportedly attempted a strange ritual shortly before his death.

The article included a photograph.

A pale man with red hair.

A crooked smile.

Eyes that looked disturbingly familiar.

Daniel felt sick.

He continued searching.

Eventually, he discovered a discussion forum dedicated to strange murders and unexplained disappearances. One post, written decades earlier, described a red-haired Good Guys doll that had appeared at the scene of several killings.

The final line read:

If you find one, don't take it home.

Daniel shut the laptop.

A noise came from behind him.

A soft, plastic footstep.

Then another.

He didn't turn around.

"You're real," he whispered.

A small voice answered from the doorway.

"Gee, you catch on quick."

Daniel closed his eyes.

"Why are you doing this?"

Chucky chuckled.

"Because I can."

"You're a monster."

"No, kid." The doll's voice suddenly became cold. "I'm a man trapped in a toy. And I've been trapped for a very, very long time."

Daniel finally turned.

Chucky stood in the doorway, holding the missing shoe in one hand and a bloodstained knife in the other.

"But don't worry," he continued cheerfully. "I've got a plan."

He smiled.

"And you're gonna help me."

Chapter Five — The House of Little Friends

Daniel tried to escape that night.

He packed a bag, stole his mother's car keys, and crept downstairs while the house slept.

The front door was only a few metres away.

He could almost feel the cold night air.

Then a voice spoke from the darkness.

"Leaving without saying goodbye?"

Daniel stopped.

Chucky sat on the kitchen table.

Beside him lay Daniel's phone, smashed into pieces.

"You need professional help," Daniel whispered.

Chucky swung his little legs.

"Funny. That's what they said about me."

Daniel reached for the door.

Chucky's face twisted with anger.

"I SAID DON'T LEAVE!"

The kitchen lights exploded.

Darkness swallowed the room.

Daniel ran.

He heard tiny footsteps chasing him across the floor, followed by the sound of metal scraping against the walls.

He reached the front door and pulled desperately at the handle.

Locked.

Behind him, Chucky laughed.

"Wrong way, pal."

Daniel turned.

The doll stood at the bottom of the stairs.

His blue eyes glowed in the darkness.

Daniel grabbed a heavy lamp and hurled it.

It struck Chucky squarely in the chest.

The doll flew backwards, smashing into the wall.

For a moment, everything was silent.

Daniel stared at the motionless body.

Then he ran upstairs, locked himself in the bathroom, and shoved a cabinet against the door.

He had barely begun to breathe when he heard scratching.

Not outside the bathroom.

Inside the wall.

Something was moving through the space between the plasterboards.

A tiny voice whispered through the pipes.

"You can run, Daniel."

Scratching.

A soft giggle.

"But you can't hide."

The bathroom light flickered.

Daniel looked into the mirror.

Behind him, reflected in the glass, stood a little red-haired boy.

Not a doll.

A boy with pale skin and black eyes, smiling with a mouth full of crooked teeth.

Daniel spun around.

Nothing.

He looked back at the mirror.

The boy pressed both hands against the glass.

His smile widened.

"Almost time to come out and play."

The mirror cracked from corner to corner.

And somewhere downstairs, Chucky began to laugh.

Chapter Six — The Last Good Guy

At dawn, Daniel's mother found the front door wide open.

The house was silent.

Daniel was missing.

The police searched the neighbourhood, the surrounding woods, and the nearby roads. They found no sign of him.

Three days later, a delivery driver discovered a cardboard box outside the abandoned toy shop where Daniel had found Chucky.

Inside the box lay a familiar red-haired doll.

Its clothes were torn. Its face was scratched, and one plastic hand was missing.

A handwritten note lay beside it.

FREE TO A GOOD HOME.

The driver frowned.

"Someone's got a weird sense of humour."

He lifted the doll and examined its face.

The painted eyes stared blankly at him.

He laughed, placed it in his van, and drove away.

Several towns later, he delivered the doll to a young family.

A little boy named Oliver opened the box.

His face lit up.

"Mum! Look what I got!"

His mother smiled from the kitchen.

"That's lovely, sweetheart. What's his name?"

Oliver turned the doll around.

A small voice crackled from inside its chest.

"Hi! I'm Chucky. Wanna play?"

Oliver giggled.

"Yes!"

That night, Oliver's father tucked him into bed and kissed his forehead.

"Sleep tight, mate."

As he turned off the light, Oliver hugged the doll close.

The bedroom door clicked shut.

The house grew quiet.

And then, beneath the blankets, Chucky opened his eyes.

His plastic fingers slowly curled around Oliver's wrist.

"Hey, kid," he whispered.

Oliver stirred in his sleep.

Chucky leaned closer.

"I've been looking for a new best friend."

His smile stretched across his face.

"And this time, I'm gonna make sure we stay together."

Outside, thunder rolled across the sky.

And from somewhere deep inside the doll, a man's voice began to laugh.

THE END… OR JUST THE BEGINNING.

“We must act now! If we wait any longer, it will only serve that monster’s interests,” said an agitated man draped in white robes.

“Then what do you suggest? Hmm? Should we throw more men into that meat grinder? We would all love to do something, yet sitting there demanding action isn’t helping,” a stern-looking man responded, an air of condescension in his tone.

“He’s right. We mustn’t be hasty. That will equally serve the demons,” replied another robed man.

The High Council of Velantis was currently in session, discussing the looming threat of the demons.

“Our best option is to continue the northern campaign. If we wish to reach them with an army, our surest bet is to march straight through those barbarians!” exclaimed a man clad in exquisite white enamel armour.

“Enough!” a voice boomed through the room.

Silence fell as every man’s ears pricked. The man, dressed from head to toe in the finest linens money can buy, continued.

“Many of my predecessors underestimated these ‘barbarians,’ as you say, only to be thoroughly defeated. We will not commit to a plan that is likely to fail. Lucan, please. What are your thoughts?” asked the man.

“Well, it’s true we must do something. The demons have rallied, and war at this rate is certain. However, the northern campaign has already proved a disaster. The northerners ambush our men at every turn. They know how to use their lands to their advantage.”

“Gah, nonsense! The northern campaign only falters due to a lack of proper commit—”

“Quiet!” boomed that same voice from earlier. “Please continue, Lucan.”

“Right, Your Grace. As I was saying, the northern route will be too costly. So will the western route. The desert is no place to march fifty thousand. Then we’d have the mountains to contend with. If we commit to the sea, the demons will attack before we can strike. Our best bet is to meddle in their affairs and buy time.” Lucan paused. “The people are restless. There is a tension in the cities’ streets. They need a symbol, something to believe in. The history books mention a way for the Church to bring forth a hero?”

NSFW for implied self harm, suicide

I’m not quite finished. Please give me constructive feedback. I got inspiration from Jarrett Moseley’s A Possible Exit.

My best trick is disguise. I wore long sleeves when I met Chelsea at the supermarket, mid-December and almost Christmas, white lights flickering hymns. She tells me it’s a time to be saved, pulling up my sleeves to feel my scars. Only she can see through my deception.
“You know you don’t have to do that with me.” She rubs my sectored skin gently.
“What?” I stare at the cans of Campbell’s clam chowder in the cart.
“Nothing.” Chelsea lets go of my wrist and my sleeve falls back down. “It’s almost the holidays. Stay over tonight.”
I insist on not, but we both know I will. I push the shopping cart down the aisle and she loads it with Christmas chocolates, Snapple and pomegranates, guaranteed to cure any ailment.
“Can you even cut those?” I ask her, referring to the boxed pomegranates in the cart.
“No…” She pauses for a second. “Yes.”
I wonder if she remembers the story where my mom took all the knives out of my room.
In the checkout aisle she adds gum. Neither of us care for it but she says it’s a distraction, during studying or driving. The cashier asks us if we’re sisters, even though her dark tresses and tan complexion against my brown hair and white skin makes it clear we’re not. “Only half,” she replies, pushing the cart away from the register. She says we could share a mother, that our eyes look similar enough. In the front seat of her car I disguised as her sister.
She tells me she wants to go to the mall and takes the second exit right. The moon is rising on us and I can see our reflections in the windshield.
My mom once told me there are three ways to kill your self: The first is by suicide: hanging, shooting, cutting. The second one is to leave town and never come back. Delete your socials. Delete your presence. And the third is to do nothing at all.
I ask Chelsea what her plans are after graduation. She says college, and then medical school. I haven’t thought that far yet, but she says I can move in after high school.
When we arrive at the mall our skin is glowing. Stars twinkle overhead above the parking lot. Chelsea whispers make a wish when we spot a shooting star.
Inside she finds a pink blouse with a white bow in on its neckline. In the fitting room I look shy like an angel. She snaps a photo, two of us in the same outfit, labels it “before Christmas shopping”, and posts it for the world to see.
* I plan to continue, I would just like to know what you think!

At fifty years old, Ken had grown accustomed to being alone.

He had learned how to fill the hours with small, meaningless rituals. He made coffee every morning at precisely seven. He checked the locks on his doors twice before bed. He watched television even when he wasn't interested in what was playing, because the sound of other people talking made his house feel less empty.

Sometimes he played old music from his high school years. Sometimes he looked through photographs on his phone, studying faces belonging to people who had moved on with their lives while he remained behind, wondering where the years had gone.

His house was modest, cluttered, and increasingly neglected. Laundry sat in baskets that never seemed to empty. Unopened mail accumulated on the kitchen counter. A collection of old Walmart name badges, receipts, and photographs occupied a drawer he rarely opened.

His body carried the evidence of a difficult life. His weight had fluctuated dramatically over the years, his mobility was limited, and ordinary tasks sometimes required more effort than he thought they should. He hated needing help. He hated being reminded that he needed it even more.

But the thing he hated most was the silence.

Not because he was afraid of being alone.

Because, in the silence, he could hear himself think.

And his thoughts had never been particularly kind.

On a rainy Tuesday morning in October, Ken stood in the kitchen stirring sugar into his coffee when a familiar female voice spoke behind him.

“You still take two spoons?”

The spoon stopped moving.

Ken stared at the dark surface of his coffee.

He knew that voice.

He had carried its memory for more than thirty years.

Slowly, he turned.

Nobody was there.

“Kristy?”

The refrigerator hummed.

Rain tapped against the window.

Then the voice laughed.

“Oh, Kenny. You always were easy to fool.”

Ken gripped the counter.

“No,” he whispered.

“No, what?”

“You're not here.”

“Very observant. Fifty years old, and you finally figured something out.”

He closed his eyes and counted to ten.

He had heard of people experiencing strange sensations when they were exhausted. He had read about hallucinations, stress, and sleep deprivation. He knew that a voice could feel real without having an external source.

He also knew he had been sleeping badly.

I'm tired. That's all.

He opened his eyes.

His coffee was trembling because his hand was shaking.

“I'm going to finish my breakfast,” he said aloud. “Then I'm going to take a shower, and this nonsense is going to stop.”

“Talking to yourself now?” Kristy asked.

Ken stared toward the doorway.

“No.”

“Who are you talking to, then?”

He swallowed.

“I'm talking to nobody.”

Her laughter followed him into the living room.

For the rest of the day, Ken kept the television on.

That night, he slept for two hours.

At 3:16 a.m., he woke to the sound of someone sitting in his recliner.

A man's voice spoke from the darkness.

“Hey, buddy.”

Ken went rigid beneath his blankets.

He knew that voice, too.

“Jim?”

“Miss me?”

Ken sat up.

His bedroom doorway was empty, but the voice came again, closer this time.

“Come on, Kenny. Don't be rude.”

Ken reached for the bedside lamp.

The room flooded with light.

Nothing.

He sat there breathing through his mouth, waiting for his heart to slow.

Then a second voice spoke from somewhere behind his eyes.

You're finally losing it.

Ken switched off the lamp.

He didn't sleep again that night.

Chapter 2: https://www.reddit.com/u/kljones78/s/Bi6kOKL3EZ

Recently updated today 1:11-PM

THE SECRET DIARY OF AiDRiAN

https://seymourclearly1.substack.com/p/my-first-substack-entry?r=99hui1&utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=web

Hello fellow authors! i am writing a book that is set in the future, like 200 years. people have moved off planet so nationalities and ethnicities really dont exist. i was wondering how to write and describe an asian person. i dont like to toss it right in the mix and be like "so and so is asian". i add it subtly in their discription like "amber fought to peer through the dark as her epicanthic eyes glittered in the low light". with black characters i will say something like "with the back of his hand, he wiped the sweat from his forhead, his ebony skin glistening in the scorching heat"

i was wondering though how to indicate how to identify races, not just asian either. Latin, could be used for the obvious. i like to use "olive skinned" or "skin with an amber hue". i really am looking forward to your feedback. Thanks guys!

There once was a girl

Who went adrift like a swirl,

Destined to torture the world

For the pain I've endured.

The pain I cannot ignore,

It ignites like a flame.

I hear the girl's name,

The fires start to roar.

The girl lets out a battle cry:

"I'll fight until I die!"

The words swarm upon my grave.

Prepare to be brave

When you face the girl with no face,

The one who shifts from shape to shape.

Now the girl is just like me, don't you see?

The one filled with pain and lust,

Crickets and dust.

Nighttime, then day,

It will never go away.

The girl that's inside,

The one I can't hide.

Filled with broken dreams

And the hatred within.

The infinite longing of a girl

Looking for the win.

The one who never feels seen,

In the silence, I scream.

Upon a land so still and serene,

The one in my head.

It's just me, nothing more,

Me alone,

Floating by in the ozone

As I type the poem on my phone.

Doris sits at a table sipping a Diet Coke and contemplating her performance as another comic finishes his routine. Jess Hoffnagle walks over.
“Hey there, mind if I join you?”
“No, hey, what’s up?”
Jess plops in the seat with her Corona and lime and sighs.
“Ah, you know. Crowd kinda sucks tonight.”
“Yeah. Jesus. I can’t get a laugh to save my life.”
“Routine isn’t working for you?”
Doris looks at her.
“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had that happen. It’s hard to know. Sometimes it’s the bit, sometimes it’s the crowd. I had one about getting my period on an airplane. Here, it killed.”
“Yeah, I was there. That was great.”
“When I did it at The Comedy Cellar, bomb! Nothing. It was a fucking grave yard in there. I don’t know.”
“You did The Comedy Cellar? How’d you get that spot?”
“Talent scout comes through these open mics every so often. “
“Really? When?”
Jess cranes her neck around. She spots a woman getting in her coat.
“That’s her right there.”
Doris sees a middle aged woman with large glasses heading towards the exit.
“Her?”
“Yep. Beverly Atkinson. She makes the rounds every few weeks.”
“Great. She’s here and I bombed.”
“Everybody bombs. Listen, it takes a long, long time to get good, I mean professionally good. A lot of the top comedians say ten years. Most people drop out. It’s kind of a war of attrition. The people who hang in there...it’s those people who make it. People like her want to see who keeps coming back, who keeps working at it, getting better.” 
“Yeah. Makes me wonder if it’s worth it.”
“Well I think you got to think about why you wanna do it. Do you love comedy, or do you wanna be rich and famous? If you just wanna be rich and famous, you’re better off playing the fuckin’ lottery. But if you love comedy, you can always do it.” 
Doris nods.
“Yeah. I do love comedy. The crowd laughing. Gets me out of my own head. When I’m coming up with a routine, working a bit, getting the wording right...I really love that. I don’t have to think about…”
She looks over and sees a guy staring at her.
“My job. Everything else.”
“Amen.”
She raises her glass and they clink them together.
“What do you do for work?”
“Book keeping for different companies. It’s contract work, temping basically. I can mostly work from home.”
“That’s good. I’ve been working retail. It sucks. But you gotta pay the bills. Hey, what’s your number? We should keep in touch. The ladies got to stick together. Too many dudes in this business.”
“Yeah, definitely. 857-499-2116.”
Jess types it in. 
“I’m texting you mine.”
“Got it.”
Jess gives Doris a long look.
“I’d usually never give another comic advice, but you might wanna think about spicing it up. Let yourself go. Get raunchy. Playing it safe does not play these days. Being open, authentic...that gets a crowd.” 
“Yeah. It’s just I don’t want to be gross and raunchy just for the sake of it.”
“Well, I’m not saying you have to. It’s just about finding your voice. I was told early on that it’s the authentic stuff, the real shit that plays.”
Jess finishes her drink.
“Well, I gotta work in the morning. I’ll see you next week?”
“Most definitely.”
They bump fists.
Doris finishes her Diet Coke as Jess leaves. It’s nice and comfortable in here. She watches the other patrons, some of them couples, enjoying beers and glasses of wine and gin and tonics. They are enjoying each other’s company as well.  The laughing, the light touching. She watches a man and woman in their late twenties leaving; they hold hands. 
She would love to go up to the bar, order a martini, strike up a conversation with someone, anyone. The yearning is so strong. But she can’t. That is not her life anymore. But for just a little while she would like to feel normal.

The Dragon

The dragon is near.

I feel the heat from its breath,

Breathing down my neck.

It's on the other side of the wall.

How can I slay what I can't see?

I wait for the dragon to find me.

I sharpen my blades.

I'm ready to drop bombs,

Waiting for the calm,

The moment of silence right before defeat,

The second me and the dragon's eyes meet.

I look within and I see,

I see the dragon

And its infinite misery.

I see that the dragon is just like me,

Searching for a soul to set free.

I take out my blade.

I see the dragon wallow.

Its fire is sure to follow.

I prepare for its breath.

I will fight until there's nothing left.

I slash and I stab,

But the dragon I cannot kill.

It stands tall over me, its breath of fire

Surrounding me.

I see the fire all around.

The dragon's laid waste to my town.

I hear the screams, the horror,

The nightmares, the dreams.

But I'm still alive.

I can't help but wonder why.

The dragon must not want me to die.

It wants me to live with infinite sorrow

Of yesterday and tomorrow,

Laid waste to this place.

And all that remains:

The burning of fire,

The rise in the flames,

The pain that remains.

Now it's just me in my infinite misery.

Everyone's dead.

Their names ring in my head.

I'm all alone. The dragon

Stands hard as a stone.

My sword is broken.

The smoke has me choking.

The trees and the wind, the fire within,

It's a battle that I face every day.

The one in my head

That tells me I'm better off dead,

It's where my dragon rests,

To recoup again.

It's just me and the dragon in the end.

A while ago, I created a board of things I wanted to learn or achieve before I ceased to exist. A little inventory of the things I hoped to experience, the skills I wanted to acquire, and the versions of myself I wished to meet someday.

Among those things was sewing.

Somewhere along the way, I removed it from the list. I can’t quite remember why. Perhaps I convinced myself it would be too difficult to grasp, or perhaps I simply let the idea fade into the background, another little ambition quietly abandoned among the many things we tell ourselves we’ll do someday.

Then, two days ago, I went shopping for fabric to make my Myotismon cosplay for Egycon’s Halloween edition.

As I wandered through the streets of El Azhar, something unexpected stirred inside me. It felt as though my inner child had travelled back in time and found himself standing in the middle of an enormous toy store. Everywhere I looked, there were fabrics, patterns, buttons, and little objects whose purpose I was only beginning to understand.

And somehow, they made my heart beat a little faster.

It wasn’t simply the excitement of making a costume. It was the rediscovery of a part of myself I hadn’t realised I’d put to sleep.

I remembered being a little boy with a teddy bear whose eyes had popped out. My grandmother taught me how to sew so I could fix it, and somewhere in that small act of repairing a beloved toy, an interest began to take shape.

And now, years later, my mother has begun learning to sew, too.

And I’ve always wondered: are the talents we pursue inherited from the people who came before us, or are they little discoveries we make entirely on our own?

Perhaps it’s a little of both some interests are planted within us by others, and sometimes certain things awaken so particular that it returns a little piece of ourselves we left behind, and realising it was waiting for us all along.

And that’s the
twilight thought, today.

Dr. Elias Voss

“There exists a peculiar cruelty in the conscience of man: it demands repentance long after it has forgotten the crime”

Dr. Elias Voss had never considered himself an innocent man. Innocence, he believed, was merely the privilege of those who had not yet been made to remember. There were, of course, certain inconsistencies in this conviction. He could recall no crime sufficiently monstrous to warrant the peculiar anguish that accompanied his every waking hour, nor could he identify the precise moment at which his existence had become an exercise in perpetual atonement. Nevertheless, the absence of evidence had never persuaded him of his innocence. On the contrary, he regarded it as perhaps the most damning evidence of all.

For what was forgetfulness, if not the final refuge of the guilty?

He had often contemplated whether remorse preceded wrongdoing or whether wrongdoing merely furnished remorse with an object upon which to fasten itself. The distinction, though apparently trivial, had come to occupy him with an almost pathological intensity. If a man suffered for a crime he could not remember, was his suffering proof of guilt? And if the crime had never occurred, what, precisely, had he been punished for?

Such questions ordinarily visited him in the hours preceding dawn, when the distinction between memory and imagination became sufficiently tenuous that he could no longer determine which of the two had first betrayed him.

Dr. Elias Voss had long regarded affection as a peculiar form of human negligence. To love another was, in his estimation, to overlook the innumerable deficiencies of their character, to forgive what ought not to be forgiven, and to place one's happiness in the custody of another's inevitable failures.

It was for this reason that he had never understood his parents.

They were good people. This, Elias knew with a certainty that bordered on resentment. They had taken him into their modest Chicago home when he had been little more than a stranger, and had offered him a tenderness so unconditional that he came, in time, to regard it as an injustice. For what had he done to deserve such devotion? What conceivable virtue could he have possessed that warranted the affection of two people whose goodness so plainly exceeded his own?

He had spent much of his adult life attempting to answer these questions. Eventually, he arrived at the conclusion that there was no answer, and that their love was consequently a mistake.

His visits became infrequent. His telephone calls are shorter. He excused his absences with the demands of his profession, although he privately considered this explanation another small addition to the vast catalogue of his dishonesty.

He did not avoid his parents because he disliked their company. On the contrary, their presence was among the few things in the world capable of momentarily quieting the incessant accusations of his conscience. It was precisely this comfort that frightened him. He had come to believe that anything which afforded him happiness must eventually suffer for having done so.

And he could not bear the thought of making them suffer.

There was, of course, a considerable irony in the profession he had chosen.

Elias was a neurologist of considerable distinction, a man whose competence had earned him the admiration of colleagues and the gratitude of patients. He possessed an almost unnatural capacity for remaining composed in the presence of catastrophe. His diagnoses were precise, his judgment rarely questioned, and his professional reputation such that strangers occasionally traveled considerable distances merely to obtain his opinion.

He despised every aspect of it.

Medicine, to Elias, had never been a vocation in the ordinary sense. It was neither a passion nor an expression of some benevolent impulse toward mankind. Rather, it was a sentence he had imposed upon himself, an indefinite obligation to preserve lives in compensation for those he believed himself responsible for destroying.

He did not count the people he saved.

He counted the ones he could not.

And although the latter were comparatively few, they occupied a disproportionate portion of his existence.

It was shortly after seven in the morning when the telephone rang.

Elias regarded the instrument with an expression of mild apprehension. He had developed an instinctive aversion to telephone calls, having discovered that they seldom delivered anything which could not be postponed and frequently demanded emotional responses he felt incapable of providing.

Nevertheless, he answered.

"Dr. Voss speaking."

"Elias?"

He closed his eyes.

"Hello, Mother."

"Have you been eating properly?"

There was no greeting, no preliminary inquiry into the condition of his day. His mother had long since abandoned such formalities, having apparently concluded that her son's continued existence required more immediate verification.

"Yes, Mother."

"And sleeping?"

"When I can."

"That isn't an answer."

A silence followed.

He imagined her seated beside the kitchen window, one hand wrapped around the telephone cord, her expression arranged into that familiar mixture of tenderness and suspicion which he had come to recognize as maternal concern.

"Elias, are you all right?"

He glanced toward the window of his office. Chicago lay beneath a colorless morning sky, its buildings appearing almost indistinguishable through the pale October mist.

"I'm all right, Mom. I swear."

The lie emerged with such practiced ease that he scarcely recognized it as one.

For several years, Elias had entertained recurring thoughts of ending his life. He regarded death neither as a terror nor as a particularly unfortunate conclusion to his existence. On the contrary, he had sometimes imagined it as the only conceivable interruption to the relentless prosecution occurring within his own mind.

Yet whenever the thought approached something resembling a decision, he recoiled. Not from fear.

From the belief that death would constitute an undeserved acquittal.

A man who had committed an unforgivable offense, he reasoned, ought not to be permitted the luxury of escaping its consequences. To cease suffering would be to abandon the very punishment that made his continued existence tolerable.

And so he lived.

Not because he believed himself worthy of life, but because he believed himself unworthy of release.

"Elias?"

"Yes, Mother?"

"How has your memory been? Have you been taking your medicine? They told you consistency was important."

His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the receiver.

"My memory is perfectly fine."

"You said that last time."

"And I was correct last time."

"Your doctor said—"

"I am a doctor, Mother."

There was a brief pause.

"I know what you are, Elias."

Something in her voice troubled him.

It was not anger. Nor disappointment. It was the quiet exhaustion of someone who had spent years attempting to reach a person determined to remain inaccessible.

"Just promise me you're taking care of yourself."

"I promise."

He wondered whether his mother recognized the ease with which he manufactured these assurances, and whether she accepted them because she believed him or because she had grown weary of questioning him.

They exchanged a few more words, none of particular significance, and eventually said goodbye.

Elias hung the phone.

For some time, he remained motionless.

His life was strangely cruel, he thought, he was loved by those whose affection he could neither comprehend nor adequately return. Their goodness did not diminish his guilt. It magnified it. Every expression of concern became another obligation he was certain to disappoint.

On the morning of October seventeenth, however, such considerations were interrupted by the death of a child.

A hurried knock sounded against his office door.

"Dr. Voss?"

He turned.

A young nurse stood in the doorway, her face pale, her breathing uneven.

"It's the boy. Benjamin."

Elias rose.

"What about him?"

"Dr. Clariss tried everything. There were complications, and—"

"What complications?"

"The malformation ruptured. Dr. Clariss took him into surgery, but the hemorrhage was extensive. They couldn't control the bleeding."

For several seconds Elias said nothing. 

"No."

The word escaped him with a strange, almost childish disbelief.

"No, I told Clariss to call me if his condition deteriorated. I specifically told him—"

"I'm sorry, Doctor."

"Why wasn't I informed?"

The nurse lowered her eyes.

Elias was already moving toward the door. Then he stopped, took a knee and covered his eyes. 

The boy was eight years old.

His name was Benjamin.

And Elias, who had never met him before that morning, would spend the remainder of his life believing he had murdered him. Along with many others.

"Do you love me?"

"Yes," I said.

"Then why don't you message me or talk to me anymore?"

"Because I'm trying to love myself now," I said.

"But I love you too."

"You never did."

"You love yourself. You love the idea that you are able to make me fall in love with you. You love the idea that you are able to manipulate anyone around you. You're able to manipulate a smart, balanced person to love you.

It's a game to you. It's like a chess game to you. You find the pawn you want to destroy. You play your moves. You lay out the game. You are always a few moves ahead of the pawn. And in the end, when they fall, they fall hopelessly in love with you. You say checkmate. You pat yourself on the back and you're happy, because you're good at something and then move on to someone new because they are not a challenge anymore.

But I want you to look at your hands. What do you have? An imaginary crown. You have won her. You have won the pawn. But remember, it's imaginary.

What do I have? I have my love for you.

So I win ."

the spider never ate the wings.

she was quite proud of that.

she loved the colours.

the little veins.

the way they caught the light

when the butterfly tried to move.

she'd spend ages cleaning them,

getting the blood off,

straightening the edges.

careful, love,

she'd say.

you'll tear them.

sometimes the butterfly struggled.

sometimes she didn't.

the spider preferred it

when she didn't.

by morning

the butterfly had stopped moving altogether.

the spider sat beside her

for a while.

then she got to work.

a little thread through the left wing.

another through the right.

she had to make a few holes,

but they were tiny.

you could hardly see them.

she pulled one thread.

the left wing lifted.

then the other.

right.

left.

right.

she tried both together.

beautiful.

the spider sat back

and watched for a moment.

then she leaned in close.

there you are, darling.

another little pull.

i knew

you were still in there.

Would anyone be willing to read over and critique if this sound like a plausible scene between an knife-wielding killer and someone who only knows very little about self defense? It's from a novel I'm working on. Also, the ending involves an MRI suite, so for those in the medical field, does this seem more aligned with physics? I'm open to critique or suggestions. Thank you so much.

Final Scene --

It took 22 minutes for Tonya to complete Frank Mancusio’s scan. Not bad.
 Now she removed Frank from the scanner, Frank sat up and hopped off the motorized bed, stretching, and they headed out the room. “How are you?”
“I’m good, not as bad as I thought. I still prefer spelunking though.” he and Tonya chuckled. “Well, How’s my brain? Did it look…you know….cancerous?”

“I can’t give a diagnosis, but the doctor will contact you and you did a good job.” He smiled and she patted his arm. “Remember what you said? God is in control.”

“Exactly,” he grinned. “Gotta take my own advice as a pastor, huh?” 

She smiled at him. “We’re all human,” they stepped out of the  control room and turned left down the short hallway before rounding right. 

“It’s quiet. Where is everyone?”

“You’re the last patient. We’re actually closing up,” she said, pointing toward the changing room. “Go ahead and get dressed. I’m gonna start cleaning up in the scanner room and I’ll come get you to let you out in a few minutes.” 

Frank smiled, waving as he turned into the changing room. Tonya pivoted and walked back to the scanner room where she moved the motorized bed and began her closing duties; sanitizing the bed and front bore, disposing the linens in the hamper, wiping down counter and any other items before returning to the control room to scan the results of Frank’s scans into Dr. Gupta.

–wait, what was that noise?

No, maybe nothing. She needed to let Frank out through the lobby. She could return and finish powering down the system and the computer monitors.  Reclipping her badge on the scrubs pants, Tonya disposed of her gloves and her mask and  headed out of the control room, down the short hallway —

 “CODE SILVER. CODE SILVER” the PA system announced overhead, stopping Tonya dead in her tracks.

Wait–what? Cold Silver. Oh shoot, that meant someone with a weapon—
“TONYA, YOU SKANK!” someone screamed. 
She jerked back, gasping.

And then she screamed. 

Because right in front of her, stood Derrick. 

A pissed-off Derrick with a face contorted in anger. Baggy jeans held up with an iron belt buckle, a white tank top stained with someone’s blood, a stainless steel chain roped around his neck.

And he held a butterfly knife to the neck of a terrified Frank Mancusio.

It’s amazing the dozens of thoughts that zip through your head in just a few seconds, and for Tonya, they came like lightning; I’m dreaming. He’s not standing there. He found me. Frank. What is happening? This can’t be. Lord I — 

“Did you miss me, boo?” Derrick hissed wickedly, yanking Frank back more. 

Tonya blinked, holding her breath. Come on girl, move, run, do something—

“Did you?!” he roared, and she flinched, gasping loudly. 
She closed her eyes, heart pounding. Calm him down. Make peace. No, wait. No. It didn’t work–

“Oh you’re scared, aren’t you?” She opened her eyes when he said this, and he looked at her with fury…and elation. 

He’s not just angry. He’s enjoying this. 
 “Yeah, you should be,” he said. 
She squeezed her eyes shut. This was the moment to face her fear. 
Lord, I need your help

She opened her eyes.  “What are you doing here?” she asked coolly. 

“I always know where you are!” He screamed.

She looked at Frank briefly and then Derrick.
“Let him go,” she ordered him. 
“Shut-up skank!”
“Let him go, Derrick!” she hissed, fists clinched.

“YOU RUINED ME, SKANK!”

“You ruined yourself!” Tonya shot back boldly.  “Let him go now!”
His eyes widened, surprised at her,  surprised at her tenacity, and he momentarily lowered his arm —
—-and suddenly yanked  Frank backward and slashed his neck.

Tonya reacted instinctively, medical training finally kicking in, and she bolted for Frank as he sank to one knee, gasping. She yanked off her scrubs top and jammed it into Frank’s neck as he fell forward.  “Stay with me,” she held it to his throat, blood oozing through the material, and he put his own hand there.  “We’lll get you h—”

Derrick’s foot smashed into Tonya’s nose from the side, hard.

She fell backwards while momentary pain and blinding light pierced through her nasal cavity. Tonya struggled to sit up, shaking her head, stinging tears blotting her vision, tasting blood that dripped from her nose. 
Derrick stepped over Frank, who’d collapsed completely on the floor. She climbed toward Frank, but Derrick suddenly grabbed her fiercely by her African braids, yanking her to her feet and jamming the knife under her jaw, eyes of fury and thrill boring into her, his other head digging into her scalp. 
“He’s dead, skank,” Derrick snarled. “And I’m the last person you’ll see.” He chuckled gleefully, scraping the knife across her painfully bleeding nose before licking the blood-stained knife with a chuckle.

In that split second, something switched in Tonya's mind, and she mentally replaced the pain with adrenaline-fueled resolve to survive, to fight.

Yes, fight, the small voice echoed in her soul. You’ll survive this.

She proprioceptively knew her right knee was between his legs, right in that perfect spot. Aw yes, eyes, throat, groin.  

—she rammed her knee into his groin. Hard. “BASTARD!” 

Derrick doubled over in pain, releasing her as he clutched his jewels. But he wouldn’t remain down and out for long. Tonya turned, ignoring the blood dripping from her nose, dashing erratically for the emergency exit next to the equipment room. 
“You WITCH!” his voice echoed down the corridor. 
She slammed her body into the door, the impact vibrating through her injured nose. 
But the door held firm. What?
Tonya threw her weight into the door again, wincing in pain.
Nothing. The electronic lock had failed. 
Not this again! She jumped backward, holding her nose, panning the area quickly for another way—
Derrick rushed at her, knife poised to shank. 
She screamed and dove for the ground and into a barrel roll, staggering to her feet just as Derrick twisted around and swiped the knife at her, the blade’s tip slashing the skin of her back briefly as she fled back down the corridor. The other emergency exit, the one by the CT scanner  room, if she could just –
Derrick slammed into her. She’d barely run 15 feet. 
They crashed to the ground. Tonya’s nose and shoulder smacking the floor, while Derrick landed on her briefly before bouncing off her and falling to the right. 
Pain shot through her face and shoulder and Tonya pushed herself up, disoriented but only for a moment. She turned her to her right to see Derrick lunging for her, knife raised.
She instinctively pulled herself into a ball as he landed on her, knife swinging.
But Tonya shielded her neck and torso, blocking the blows with her arms, writhing on the floor and kicking at him while screaming. With her erratic movement he only managed to inflict superficial cuts and gashes to her arms, hands and side as she feverishly pushed back. She saw his chained neck through the gap of her raised arms.  Throat. 
Just as she jabbed her bloody knuckles against his throat, the Adam’s apple, Derrick plowed the knife deep into her right shoulder. He jerked back, yanking the knife out and clutching his throat, and Tonya fell backward, screaming in pain—
—and someone whacked a broomstick against Derrick's back and head.
Marisa
Derrick fell forward against Tonya  and she rolled away from him, pain shooting through her right shoulder from where he stabbed her.  She looked up to see Marisa bring the broomstick down on Derrick’s back again just as he cursed and jerked upward to his feet, clutching the knife.  
Tonya staggered to her feet haphazardly, pushing through the pain and dizziness, and Marisa lifted the broomstick a third time.
Derrick whirled around, jamming the knife into Marisa’s abdomen before she could swing  down.
“NO!” Tonya rushed forward with a burst of adrenaline as Marisa collapsed to the ground, the broomstick falling out of her hand. Derrick pounced on Marisa, crouching to stab her once more. 
Tonya kicked Derrick in his side before he could. 
He recoiled, cussing,  and Tonya seized fallen broomstick with both hands, raising it over her head to bash his head—
Pain ripped through her right shoulder and down her arm, which seized up, and she dropped the stick, doubling over and grabbing her arm.
That’s when Derrick backhanded her, hard. 
She stumbled back, blinding pain in her face mingling with her nose pain. “Darnit!” she managed. Once more disorientation took over, and she swayed a bit  as Derrick towered over her with furious eyes and a look of delight.
Her nose and face throbbed and she groaned in pain and tried to study her gait. OK, OK, focus–focus.
She looked up to see  Derrick standing before her, arms spread, the knife firm in one hand, his body poised to attack if she tried to run past him.
“Go ahead. I dare you.” 
Another bout of disorientation.  Focus, she thought. Lord, help me focus.
The other emergency exit. She lunged toward her left. 
He blocked her, swiping at her with the knife. 
She jumped back, the blade narrowly missing her face. She lunged for her right.
He slashed the blade across her chest, the blade tearing tank top fabric and nicking her skin underneath. She shrieked in pain and anguish, staggering back more.
In that moment time slowed. Endless thoughts in mere milliseconds. 

Marisa lay crumpled in a ball, behind Derrick, possibly dead. Goodness no. Frank, further down, also lay motionless and most likely dead. Please no. The first useless emergency exit to her right down the corridor. Derrick’s swift moves blocking her from the other exit. The MRI suite just a few feet behind her. Her nose and shoulder possibly broken and tendons torn. Derrick viciously taunting her before —

--Wait—.

The MRI suite is right behind me.

The chrome steel chain around his neck.

His iron belt buckle.

That stupid knife he’s holding.
Ferromagnetic.
A walking magnet attraction. A way to stop him. 
But he’s quick, too quick. 
Take a chance, the small voice said.

“OK, Jesus,” she muttered thickly.  “Let’s do it.”

“Your God can’t help you!” He screamed, hearing her mumble this.

And with that, Tonya pivoted and sprinted at the suite door, slamming into it with her good side. 

He charged right after her.

“Police! Grab him!” Marisa suddenly screamed, her voice strained but explosive enough to stop Derrick, who whipped around.  
It bought Tonya time to slap her badge against the panel– beep!
She tumbled into the room quickly, just as Derrick, cursing at the distraction, dashed forward and slammed his body into the door, swiping the knife at her. 
Tonya ducked, grabbed a rolling chair with her hand and shoved it in his direction as he  pushed through the doorway.
He fell over their chair, allowing her to stumble to the airlock RF shielding door and pull down the handle.
Cussing, he rammed the chair to the side. 
She yanked the RF door open with all her weight.  
He charged forward. 
She threw herself into the scanner room, the thump-hiss of the machine greeting her—
---Derrick plowed his knife  into her upper right back, hard, with a shhk sound, penetrating deep into muscle and dermis, and -- 
  —Tonya jerked forward, falling to her knees, the knife sliding out of her flesh.  Tonya dragged herself desperately toward the scanner using her good arm and her knees.
Derrick clamored after her, snatching the cloth of her tank top from the back with his left hand, briefly noting he couldn’t hold the knife steadily with his right, unaware of the magnetic force pulling it. In his rage and lust, he’d already ignored  the warning signs, the thump-hiss of the machine, and the light on the doors that had screamed “DANGER! MAGNET IS ALWAYS ON.” 
Despite his grip on her tank top, Tonya yanked herself forward, falling against the bore’s front near the scanner bed, well within the missile projectile effect area.
But Derrick didn’t care, he threw his weight forward to ram the knife into her back —
While Tonya threw herself to the right at the same time, crashing onto her already-injured right arm and shoulder, narrowing missing his aim —
--just as the magnetic force suddenly seized the knife and ripped it out of Derrick’s grip violently. 
“What th—”
CLANG! CLANG! -
--and had he not thrown his weight into his knife-stabbing, the invisible force would have just simply yanked the knife out of his hand and nothing more. But with his body in motion, coupled with the magnetic pull’s torque, Derrick lurched forward and crashed against the upper part just inside the bore–
—and the invisible force snatched his thick chrome steel necklace chain like a tightrope, yanking it to the surface, and taking him with it–
“AAAAH SHIIII—”
While the knife, after clanking back and forth from its attempt to align with the isocenter, had settled on the bottom part just inside the bore, blade facing upward  – 
TWHUMMP THUMP!

–where his body thudded against the inside, the blade piercing his chest.

SCHKK 
Then, silence.

Well, except for the thump-hiss, or the heartbeat of the magnet.

We cannot write one single story for every girl. Because her world is diverse, and her silent battles are unique. I leave the hidden meaning of this visual poetry to you... The way your life reads these pictures might be completely different from someone else.

Read my full thoughts on Medium (Just a quick 2-minute read): https://medium.com/@h.samaranayaka02111/behind-every-woman-is-a-story-left-untold-8b1e724766d8

Dear mr gray,
It’s been a long time, since I’ve seen you
You moved on so fast, I’ve been stuck here unsure what to say or do
Back then we had no phone, no camera, no pictures
All I remember is the way you move, here to there, so quick im left unsure

Some said mr gray is an angel, others the devil, but the way you left me is inhumane
I tried talking, explaining, but all I got was pills and got diagnosed clinically insane.

That was back then at 17, now im 32. Hair graying still going crazy pondering about you.

Friends and family dismiss and avoid the topic like what we had wasn’t true. Others would pay to see what’s truly true but you Mr gray left me your weeks pay just to see what I would do. Said I looked at you just for you, then you disappeared, leaving sad and blue.

TW: mentions of abuse, SA, codependency, and romanticization

writing is how i process negative things that happen to me

Wip

6/25/26

id let you destroy me in every lifetime
if it meant i could feel the warmth 
of your hands 

The curl of your finger around my heart
The blood seaping underneath
Your nails

I love you so much
I love you so intensely
Its tearing me apart

I feel like im being destroyed
And my heart aches
I cant grasp how im supposed to be

Im completely lost without you
Youre like your own kind of substance
A high that compares to nothing else. 

Gulp… 

July 19th 2026

You consume my every thought
Youre constantly in my mind
I cant live without you 
It hurts at the thought of your absence

I just cant quit you
You run through my blood 
I make a fool of myself without you
I don't feel funny 
Or cool without you around 
I expect you to be mean to me 
Because that's all anyone's ever done

I deeply appreciate that you love me. 
I don't deserve someone like you
I'm sorry if I cant handle things 
I want to be better for you 
I want to be normal

I promise to never give up on you as long as you dont give up on me. 
Id put my everything into you if it meant wed stay in love forever
I want to hold you
I miss you more than anything

Im mad at myself for stopping you. 
We should've done more 
I miss you so much
I can't sleep without you. 

You make me such a pathetic mess
And im not used to it 
Everything I make is about you
Everything I write is about you
Damn near every word I speak is about you
I'm obsessed 

I'm sorry I can't handle things like a normal person. 
I love you

untitled

6/15/26

I am trapped in your presence 
You control me with your eyes
I want you to love me 

I notice everything about you
I support you completely 
Through everything

Im exactly as you describe 
Everything you want in a partner
I dont understand why you dont love me 

I put you over everyone, 
Even myself
Ive captured your soul millions of times

Whether in words 
Or the stroke of a pen

You have the beauty i want to capture
The kind someone eternalizes 
For as long as possible 

Dream 

7-24-26

I had a dream about you last night. 
I was so upset I woke up crying. 
We were happy, we worked out. 
You loved me

I don't want to mourn you this much
I don't want to think about you. 
What happened to never giving up on me
As long as I never gave up on you? 

I'm sorry that I love you
I'm sorry that I miss you already
You were the only good thing I had 
Even if it hurt me in the long run

I hope I never love like that again. 
I hope I never love someone 
So much, that it scares them away. 
I'm trying not to be bitter. 

Im hurt it took you so long to tell me. 
But all this pain means that I loved you. 
Even if you didnt love me as much. 
This hurt means it was real. 

I hope I never have to see you again. 
Being with you only brought me pain 
And leaving for yourself, not for me 
You don't see it but you're very selfish. 

If you loved me, why'd you leave me? 
You said you were going to marry me. 
We were going to have kids. 
I'm happy I never let you touch me. 

Why put me through that 
I knew it wasnt going to work 
But you convinced me otherwise
I'm angry. I'm angry and im hurt

And I miss you more than anything. 
At least it was 2 months and not 2 years
At least you never touched me the way 
I touched you. 

At least I dont have to think about 
Me doing anything wrong. 
It wasn't going to work. 
It wasn't going to happen anyway. 

I really wanted it to. 
I really wanted it to be you. 
I don't want to think about you
Why can't I stop thinking about you? 

Please show me you're hurt too. 
I dont want to be another 
Unremarkable person
In your life. 

Dear j,

8-8-26

I don't remember your birthday, or our anniversary. I can't remember your middle name, or your favorite food. I can't remember your laugh, or where your birth marks were. You are so easy to forget.

I thought I'd be more pained to lose you. To be the first to kiss me, the first for me to taste. It's been 2 weeks and I've already forgotten who you are.

You always said I wanted you to be perfect, when we argued. But I didn't want you to be perfect, I wanted you to be someone else.

untitled (he continuously reached out to me)

8-?-26
I'll leave it to you to make me feel so minuscule and indifferent. Hoping you'll succinctly express that you don't love me anymore, leaving no room for possibility. Gutting me with your words. It's incomparable to your stillness. Anguish me honestly, rather than corroding me with your waves.

I hate you (i did not send this to him)

9-4-26

I don't know how often you check your email, but to be frank I don't care. You'll see this when you see this. 
I regret you more than anything in the entire world. I'm usually one for savoring but you were truly a waste of my time. A disgusting use of my first kiss. 
A horrible man you are, a horrible boyfriend and a horrible father and husband in the making. I wasn't upset when we broke up, I felt relieved. 
We were never compatible, I saw you as a way out, an escape of the cruelty that is living. 

I wish nothing of you, you don't deserve my recognition. I know you do not care, you do not regret ever leaving me. 

You never respected me, you barely saw me as a person. You said incredibly disrespectful things to me that I just let happen. You defended your father for what he had done to your sister, you continuously lied to me because I was upset with you. You deserve no sympathy, you only care for yourself and your image. You are a disappointment to the lovely woman that is your mother. You were never my type. I barely found you funny. I wish I told you all these things when I could. You don't deserve a good woman, you deserve someone like yourself. 

I hope everyday you look in the mirror and see the furthest thing from a man.

You should've known better. I was in a vulnerable position and you took advantage of that.

I don't want to hurt you, I just want you to acknowledge how I feel for once. I really truly never want to hear or see you ever again. The thought of seeing you again makes me feel sick. You are and forever will be disgusting.

(I also never saw you brush your teeth once/ imagine being so insecure your profile pictures are from when you were, you guessed it, a child.) 

Response  (i had left him in silence for around a month and he sent me a large letter)

10-9-26
I think about you a lot more than I'd like to. Ive been contemplating getting things off of my chest but I always deemed it as not mattering, considering you never ask me questions nor care how I've been doing.

I want to hate you, I really wish I could. But I see you in everything day to day. Ive done a lot of thinking about us, I was very miserable, I wouldve ended things eventually with you. Ive been working on myself as well, I'm very confident in myself, Ive learned to love to be alone.

I also have made many personal milestones that make me very happy, I bought my first car, I have a license now. Ive been standing up for myself in my personal relationships.

I was very bitter a few months ago, I felt you took advantage of me. I loved you, and I felt you lied to me about everything you promised we were. You always dismissed things I told you, but I turned out right in the end. Loving you taught me a lesson, it pushed me further into my identity, so thank you.

I'm glad you're getting things together. You're going to be amazing one day. You have the potential of a great man. I'm sorry I wasn't the one for you, and that's okay.

Happy early birthday, Id appreciate if you didn't reach out further. 

James

10-15-26

We met in your car across the street
You held my hand as you drove
Because i wanted you to be happy 
I was quiet, uncomfortable 

A sense of dread you could hear
In my shy voice
Demanding, mean
Hurtful

Pointless feelings
I did it to myself

Im realizing what you did to me was wrong
I knew it in the moment
But i wanted you happy

I didnt want to 
But you keot asking 
You got mean, violenyt 

I was scared 

I didnt want you to do that
I didnt want to touch you 

The only thing i remember 
Is you saying you loved me 
As i went down on you 

My teeth fug into my cheeks
Bleeding 

Forcing my head down 
I coudlnt breathe

Grabbing em 
I didnt say you could ‘

I couldnt say no 
I only dig it because i felt i had to 

I feel so empty 
I feel abandoned and alone 

I dont mind feedback, but i want to feel valid and share this experience with people who arent going to make it a big deal.