axisCHEMICALS

I ruin lives. I know it. My co-workers know it. My boss knows it. But your teenage daughter doesn’t know it. She doesn’t have a clue. She thinks I’m making her life so much better. And depending on her particular side effects, maybe I am.

My daughter is 13 years old. She’s everything to me. My former wife and I got married way too early. She was 19 and I was 20 and we were so sure we had it all figured out. We knew that we were young, but we were dedicated.

We shouldn’t have been dedicated; we should’ve been committed.

We were married for 18 months before we realized how young we truly were. Who wants to spend their 20s having sex with only one person? My wife sure didn’t. And the one thing that almost held us together was my daughter’s birth.

At 21, you don’t have any grasp of what people mean when they reference the “beauty of childbirth.” To be honest, the phrase sounds more sickening than enlightening. It’s the ultimate had-to-be-there experience and once I was there, it all locked together in my head. This person you’ve created, this new life, this tiny version of your relationship with another person. You only need to see her for a second to become irrevocably attached to her.

One look at her face was all it took.

I knew there wasn’t a soul on earth I wouldn’t destroy to protect her.

My little Charissa.

Things didn’t work out with my (now ex-) wife. That’s how life goes sometimes. However, things with my daughter are great. She’s the reason I try my best every day to be the best version of myself that I can be. We’ve always had a close relationship and alot of my better ideas have come from conversations with her.

Some would even say my best idea came from her. I guess it all depends on how you define “best.”

I was talking to Charissa one afternoon when she told me about a book. It was about an ordinary girl who fell in love with a perfect boy. Of course, the perfect boy felt the same way about the ordinary girl. I asked my daughter if she thought this was a realistic book. She’s smart, so she said “No, of course not.”

“Why do you read it?” I asked.

“Because it’s what I want to believe,” she replied.

And that’s when I finally noticed the underlying thread of every single product marketed to young teen girls is: “You don’t know you’re beautiful.”

That was it. Young girls associate with characters who don’t think they’re beautiful because most young girls feel exactly like that. They’ve been barraged with magazines and tv shows and movies that are filled with perfect, beautiful girls. Girls with perfect faces, perfect bodies, and perfect boyfriends. How should a chubby, awkward 13-year-old feel by comparison?

But tell them they’re secretly beautiful and you’ve got their strictest attention. Bella Swan, Cinderella, Katniss Everdeen. These are physically attractive characters that don’t know they’re attractive. They’re so very obviously attractive, but they don’t know it. A teen girl can’t help but think “maybe I’m the same way…”

You wanna believe that you’re being sold these characters because they’re strong, empowered role models for young girls, but they’re all part of a con.

I work in cosmetics. It’s a long story, but basically I’ve always had a natural understanding of science. It paid my way through college and landed me a job at a company that sells products I’ll never use in my entire life.

Charissa’s having trouble at school. Bullying. They call her “fat.” They make up stupid rhymes and nicknames for her. She comes home crying and frankly I’m getting tired of it. I’m tired of seeing tears that belong to the one person in this world I love. I’m tired of not making enough money to move her to a better school. That’s when I realized the connection between my job and Charissa’s issues.

We called it “True You.” What a stupid name. I never agreed to it, but I didn’t have any better suggestions, so that’s what stuck. It’s your basic foundational cream. Apply it in the morning before school and watch as it “enhances your pre-existing beauty.” Every cosmetic ad in the world claims it will make you more beautiful; mine claims to show everyone how beautiful you already are. Why? Because would you rather become beautiful, or have everyone think you’re beautiful the way you already are? For teen girls, the answer was the latter.

We got the product endorsed by every kid that’s ever spent more than 2 seconds on the Disney Channel. We got commercial time during the Kids Choice Awards. We had a float outside the VMAs. If you had a television, you saw something claiming to reveal the “True You.”

Within a few weeks, the money came in it like it was gushing from a broken dam. Charissa’s classmates might have called her “fat” but they certainly never dreamed of calling her “poor.” It wasn’t long before I moved her to a posh private school where our cashflow meant she’d never be bullied again. My little girl was going to be the teacher’s pet, the prom queen, and the student president. And I was going to be the proud parent who signed the checks that made it all happen.

Now before you start judging, let me say this: we did lots of testing before the product went public. We tested it in every way we knew how. But between the test phase and the release phase, I may have made a slight alteration or two. Or six.

I knew I was tampering with something dangerous, but I didn’t mean for it to happen like it has. I accept what’s happened, but I certainly didn’t plan it.

Your pores are very susceptible. Let’s just start there. And what I mean by that is that things can get into them easily. Certain chemicals can cause your pores to widen, making it easier for certain…let’s call them “ingredients”…to slip in.

I wanted to ensure that my product was successful. I didn’t want other young girls facing the kind of self-esteem-destroying ridicule that Charissa was going through. So I amped things up.

I added several things, but one of them was a chemical I’d been testing called rhymothil. It was my own composition and it basically acted as a drug that you could take through the pores in your face. It wouldn’t make you delusional or anything like that. It would just be a slight euphoric sensation. It might, perhaps, make you feel a little more confident. A little more like you were better than you previously thought. A little more like the “true you.”

The product went out 11 months ago. There have been a few…incidents.

In northern Maryland, a 15-year-old was using the product before going to a school sporting event. The euphoria she experienced became so intense that she was convinced she was completely alone as she crossed a busy intersection. Unfortunately, she wasn’t alone at all. It seems wrong to say “thankfully,” but thankfully, the body was too mangled to show any proof that our product was to blame. It’s a widely accepted theory, but not a provable one.

In Ohio, a young girl who’d been using “True You” was discovered dead in her bathroom one morning. She’d dug her fingernails so far into her face that she’d caused herself to bleed to death. That can happen when your face doesn’t stop itching but you don’t feel pain. As of right now, the case is still tied up in court. With lawyers like ours, it’ll stay that way until the other side simply gives up.

There’s another incident that didn’t make the news though. It’s currently taking place in Chicago, Illinois. A girl there hasn’t used the product a single time, but she’s doing great. She’s well-liked at school, her self-esteem has never been better, and all the teachers love her. Her name? I’m sure you already know. Everyone around here does. They all talk about what a great kid she is.

And how much her dad loves her.

And how he’d do anything to ensure that she feels beautiful.

 I used to think this job sucked, but now I’ve just gotten numb to it. Sometimes, I forget it’s not normal.

  I should back up. The job isn’t the important thing. She is.

  So, I have this girlfriend. And she’s…honestly, she’s great. I hate the term “the one” so imagine a cooler term with the same meaning and that’s her. She’s the kind of person you meet and just instantly like. When you talk to her, she has more questions than statements. She looks you in the eye when she smiles. She’s smart and funny. She tells great stories and she uses oxford commas properly. She cares about stuff I couldn’t possibly care less about. But in a good way. Stuff like the environment. Just causes in general, I guess. She’s a friendly advocate for or against a lot of stuff. Mostly against.

  Particularly, animal cruelty.

  Naturally, when we got together, I didn’t give her full disclosure about my job. But it’s hard not to think about it when we’re walking the aisles of the vegan grocery store down the street. She fills the cart with stuff I didn’t previously know existed. Milk, meat, eggs. Somehow these things are all 100% animal-free now. It’s interesting how much harder scientists have worked on saving animals than on saving people. Someone died of cancer last week, but, fortunately, a chicken is still alive. Weird.

  None of this food tastes terrible. In fact, I’ve grown so used to eating fake meat that real meat now tastes strange to me. Sometimes I wonder if I only like this type of food because she likes it and I like her. You know how you’ll tolerate a TV show your girlfriend likes simply because she enjoys it? It was kinda like that. I was watching “It’s Always Soymilk in Philadelphia” at every breakfast and “Tofu and a Half Men” at every dinner. Hey, there aren’t a lot of shows with titles that fit with vegan dietary items. Cut me some slack.

  In case you think you know, I’ll clear this up right away: I don’t work for McDonald’s or anything. No animals are being eaten because of me. That’s not the secret I keep from her.

  In my meager defense, I only half-lied to her about my job. I told her I worked at Vegan Pure Market (“VPM”). It’s the grocery store she gets all her/our vegan stuff from. She thinks I work in their accounting department. Truth be told, I don’t even know what accountants actually do. But I do work for the company.

  I only work 2 days a week. Monday and Wednesday. With so few hours, you might expect me to be just barely getting by, moneywise. However, this is not the case. In fact, I make more money than those accountants ever will. My girlfriend simply thinks I am one hell of an accountant who keeps getting promoted. I don’t know how far she thinks accountants can climb on the corporate ladder, but she must think I’m getting pretty close to the top.

  I got this job the way most people get good jobs: a connection. I knew someone who knew someone who blah blah blah. Someone high up heard about my experience shooting and editing short films in college and, after an interview and some extremely detailed papers being signed, I was hired.

  Most people don’t get to put their college degree to use so quickly, but I was lucky. My “media production” degree was going to be paying back big time.

  But every dollar I’ve made sometimes feels like one step closer to hell.

  Most of my time at work is spent on the internet. You could call it “marketing.” I promote VPM all across the country. Sometimes, I even do global promotions. Sure, there’s no VPM in Sri Lanka, but there should be, right?

  But that’s not the interesting part of the job. The interesting part takes place on Mondays. And it doesn’t take place anywhere near the skyscraper with the company logo on the side.

  On Mondays, I save animals from getting murdered for food.

  How do I achieve this? How am I the savior of animals around the world? It starts with a trip to a company-owned farm in northern California.

  We show up at this farm with a truck filled with animals we’ve purchased at auctions. When it isn’t a Monday, this farm is completely deserted. Not a soul here and certainly not an animal.

  There’s a crew of 5 of us that comprise what our boss oh-so-cleverly named “The Farm Boys.” I won’t get into these other guys’ names, mainly because I don’t know their names. We don’t care to become friends. What we do is not a bonding experience and the less we know about each other, the better.

  We unload the animals (two of the guys are clearly trained professionals when it comes to dealing with animals) and put them into a fenced-in area called “holding.” Usually it’s a couple chickens, a cow, and a pig or two. It varies from week to week. Sometimes it’s all chickens. Sometimes it’s all cows. Once it was 4 cows and nothing else. We all hated that day.

  At this point, my assistant (the boss refers to me as “the director,” though it seems too authoritative in my opinion) gets the gear in place. The animal wranglers ask me which barnyard friend will be “featured” first. It’s easier to do it when you phrase it like that.

  I usually say the cow first. Get it out of the way. After cows, the rest seems easier somehow.

  At this point, the camera is rolling and the “scene” begins.

  You know those PETA videos of the pixel-faced farmers killing animals in the cruelest ways possible so they can be turned into food? Sorry, animal lovers; I’m the “farmer.”

  The sad truth is that there aren’t many actual farmers willing to let ANYONE with a camera onto their property. And the ones that do allow it, aren’t mistreating the animals. In fact, most of them kill their animals in much more humane ways than our own government kills humans. So what’s a vegan company supposed to do? How can we scare people into a lifetime of vegan-product-only living (and purchasing)? It’s not tough to see why we do this.

  So there I am, dressed like a Kentucky farmhand, beating a cow in the head with a cattle prod. It’s awful. The first time I did it, we had to stop the video because I was crying. Shaking. Sobbing like a child. But they already had it on camera. If I tried to back out, all my boss had to do was show that video to the police. He could easily deny any involvement. There are about 10 people total who know what we do. The other several thousand VPM employees have no clue.

  After you’ve beaten a cow to death and thrown a few chickens against a wall until they were nothing but lifeless piles of feathers, you start to forget that you’re hurting another living thing. It’s like hitting home run after home run and having someone warn you that the baseball is in a lot of pain.

  We bury the animals in the field by the barn. Yes, I get paid well, but this is hard work. Imagine digging a grave for a full-grown cow. There’s an empty house on the farm with running water and electricity. We all shower and change clothes there. Then we drive home to our girlfriends or wives.

  “How was work today, honey?”

  “Pretty brutal.”

  I spend the next day at work editing the video and selling it to every animal rights group in America. And you can take my word that there are a lot of those. That’s why we make so many videos; groups don’t buy those videos to promote their cause if all the other groups have the same footage.

  And of course, we sell a lot of them to the animal rights group that my girlfriend volunteers for. Sometimes it feels like we’re giving people cigarettes so that anti-smoking campaigns can have something to fight for.

  At the end of the day, when I’m alone with her, I wonder how angry she’d be if she found out. But then I remember how many vegans there are in our country right now. Most of them made their decision to be vegan because of a video they saw. Some horrible man was kicking that pig in the side. Beating that cow in the face. Swinging a baseball bat into that explosion of feathers that was once a chicken. They’ll hate that man. They’ll swear off animal products simply to get some kind of small vengeance against him. And they’ll do it by shopping at a fine, animal-loving establishment like VPM.

  And they’ll shop there for the rest of their lives. Think how many animals they’ll save. Thousands. Easily. So, my girlfriend could be angry at me. Sure. Or she could appreciate the fact that me killing a few hundred animals over the course of the past year probably saved millions over the course of a human lifetime. I like to think that I could tell her the truth and she’d be open-minded enough to see the big picture.

  But hey, why risk it?

We agreed to never use it. We said it would be too dangerous. Too risky. There was simply too much at stake. But loneliness and rejection can make you do crazy things.

We kept it in the garage, under a tarp. We would throw big parties and not once did someone ask what it was. It looked like a refrigerator under a blue tarp and that’s what we said we’d tell people it was. Maybe no one asked about it because that’s what they all thought it was anyway. If they only knew…

I remember the first time my roommate stepped inside it. I had talked him into investigating the thing.

I guess I’m just the type of person who can’t simply let things be…

He closed the door and I didn’t hear a sound for ten straight minutes. I got really worried. I pounded on the door, yelled his name, everything.

I was about to call the police when the door finally opened.

He stepped out and I can’t forget the look in his eyes. He looked like he had just seen the face of God. I asked him what happened. He gave me a teary-eyed look and said, “I met my daughter.”

I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or call a therapist. I thought he’d lost his mind. He told me not to step inside, but how could I resist? I had to know what caused him to feel like this. As it turns out, I didn’t meet any of my offspring.

But I certainly would’ve preferred that.

I stepped inside and the black door shut as darkness enveloped me. Then, there was a light. It got so bright that I had to close my eyes. When I opened them, I was in my childhood home. I walked into the living room and looked out the window. There was Dad, pushing a lawnmower across our suburban front yard. He looked sweaty and exhausted.

I noticed he was wearing a blue-striped polo shirt. That’s when it hit me. I suddenly knew where I was; I was in May of 1987. I began to worry that it might be May 13.

Then, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to see a 4-year-old boy enter the room. He was carrying a little toy gun. He stared at me, confused.

“Who are you?” he asked earnestly.

I didn’t know what to say. There’s no easy way to tell a child that you’re him. It’s not like he could understand that his adult self was standing in front of him. I mean, I didn’t even understand it.

He walked to the window.

“What’re you looking at?” he asked.

As he looked out, I simply stared at him, in awe of what was happening. Then, I saw him jump a little. Something had surprised him. I looked out the window to see Dad on the ground, face down as the lawnmower drove itself away from him and into some bushes. I realized that this was indeed May 13, 1987. It was the day of my father’s fatal heart attack.

But something was different. Before, I had never seen it. Now, I had a memory of seeing it. I saw my father die.

If I hadn’t been in the room, the 4-year-old me would never have walked to that window and witnessed his father die. And now, as an adult, I had that “new” memory. And I didn’t like it.

The weight of this realization hit me right in the chest and I fell to my knees. I had trouble breathing. I began gasping loudly. I closed my eyes tightly.

My breath came back. My chest hurt less. I opened my eyes.

I was back in the darkness. I pushed the black door opened and rolled myself out onto the garage floor.

My roommate ran to my side.

“What happened?” he practically yelled. “What did you see?”

I didn’t even know how to answer.

“I was…I…I was at home. And I saw my dad. I saw him die.”

He stared at me in shock.

“We have to get rid of this thing,” he said.

But we could never bring ourselves to do it. It had been in the garage when we moved into the house and it seemed almost wrong to destroy something this powerful. It was welded to a wall and made of solid steel, so it’s not like it was easy to destroy anyway.

However, we did agree to never use it again. And for two years, we didn’t.

Then, my fiancee left me for another guy.

I went through alot of pain. I started drinking alot, I tried some hard drugs. I even thought about killing myself. Life without her seemed worthless. I didn’t have much reason to get out of bed until one day when someone told me something that changed my outlook. That person was my sister.

She said, “Trent, you just have to believe that you’re going through this pain so that God can bring you to the person you’re meant to be with.”

With that in mind, things were a little easier to understand. Unfortunately, that peaceful feeling didn’t last forever and I soon became anxious. Was there really someone out there for me? Was she really worth this pain and misery?

At the same time, I had been thinking alot about what we called “the chamber.” We hadn’t set foot in it since that one fateful night. I had started to figure something out. I started realizing WHY we had seen what we saw.

That day, I had been on the phone with my mom for a while, listening to stories about Dad. Having very few memories of him, I always loved to hear Mom talk about him. He had been on my mind alot that day.

I would later find out the same thing went for my roommate. Unbeknownst to me, he had been to a doctor that day and found out he might not be able to have children. Although he was single at the time, being a father was something he had always wanted to do.

I think it was our inner thoughts that determined where we went and what we saw. And that’s where I got the idea: I wanted to meet this “girl of my future” and find out for myself that she was worth the pain I was going through.

My roommate was out of town for the weekend, so the time seemed perfect.

I took a drink of whiskey and walked out to the garage. I slowly pulled the blue tarp off of the chamber and just stared in silence for a moment. I gripped the door handle and cautiously opened it.

The darkness of the chamber seemed to be staring back at me, daring me to embrace it.

I focused all my thoughts on the future, on what I thought this perfect girl would be like. Then I stepped in and hoped for the best.

As I closed the door, I stood still and waited for the light. For a moment, nothing happened. I wasn’t sure if anything would. Was this a one-time experience for each person that used it?

My question was soon answered as the light appeared and was once again so bright I had to close my eyes.

When I opened them, I was in a bedroom. It was early morning and the sun was coming up. As my eyes adjusted to the light in the room, I noticed a bed to my left. Two people were asleep on it. Scared, I ducked into the closet and peeked through the crack in the door.

They looked so peaceful laying there, wrapped in a baby blue blanket on white sheets. The man’s arm was draped over the beautiful woman’s bare shoulder. I quickly recognized him as an older version of me, maybe 35 or so.

I watched in awe for a while before they finally woke up. She rolled over and kissed him. He smiled in a way I had never seen myself smile before. It was what I could only describe as complete contentment.

I was so amazed at how content I looked. I mean, I was living in a worse place than I currently lived in and I would’ve guessed I probably had way less money. How could I be so happy living like this at 35? This woman must really be something.

They cuddled for a while, whispering things to each other that I couldn’t hear. All I could make out was that this gorgeous woman’s name was Melanie.

She got up to use the bathroom and I watched my future self lay on the bed. He was smiling like an idiot the entire time. I guess she really is going to be worth the pain I’ve been through.

Suddenly, a light flashed and I was somewhere else. I didn’t know where. It was some dark street. It seemed like Los Angeles, but certainly not an area I would ever visit.

As the ground solidified under me, I began walking down the sidewalk. It was cracked and uneven. It was raining lightly and the cold air was starting to get to me.

I passed a guy on an old cell phone. That and the fact that no newer cars had driven by made me guess it was about 8 or 9 years in the past. I guessed it was probably 2002 or so.

Up in the distance, I saw a man and woman standing at the corner. The man was small and looked to be about 50 or 60 years old. The woman was dressed in a sleazy shirt and a skirt that barely covered anything. He discretely handed her a wad of money and she counted it. She nodded her head and followed him to a car that was parked at the curb.

I carefully kept walking toward them. As she opened the passenger side door and began to get in the car, she glanced at me for a second. I instantly recognized her.

I was so shocked that I couldn’t even stop myself from saying her name out loud.

“Melanie…” I said. It was barely louder than a whisper, but she heard it.

She looked at me in total shock. She clearly didn’t know who I was. She paused for just a moment before closing the door. The car began to drive off.

It turned the corner about a block up the street. I kept walking that way, unsure what to think of all this.

How could the dream girl of my future, the girl who was meant for me, have been…this? How could I fall in love with someone who had such a disgusting, degrading past? I felt sick to my stomach.

As I got to the next corner, I looked at where the car had turned. I looked down the street and saw the car. It was sitting in the parking lot of an old rundown building. The engine was still running.

I remembered what had happened with my father. I needed to leave this alone. I didn’t need any more new memories. I thought about how happy I had been laying in that bed with her. I thought about how great my future seemed with this woman. I told myself not to worry about her past. All of this had already happened. Don’t mess with it.

But I couldn’t help myself. I guess I’m just the type of person who can’t simply let things be. I had to walk toward the car.

As I got closer, I could see the car shaking a little. I knew why; my soulmate was making money off some sleazebag, probably getting a million diseases that she would later pass on to me.

I wondered if she had ever told me about this past life. Had I known about what she used to be? How could I ever forgive her for that?

I got closer and closer to the car, my heart slamming back and forth inside me.

I took a deep breath and, with more rage than I’ve ever felt, flung the driver’s side door open. They looked at me in complete surprise as I leaned into the car and shoved Melanie off of him. Then, in one swift motion, I grabbed the old man by the throat and threw him out of the car.

He hit the ground with a loud crunch; something had broken. He cried out in pain while trying to pull his pants up. I walked over and kicked him in the side as hard as I could.

“You sick pervert!” I screamed. “What is wrong with you?!”

I kicked him one more time, this time feeling something snap in his chest. He yelled and started to crawl away as best he could.

I turned to Melanie, but her door was open and she was already half a block down the street, running and crying.

I chased after her.

“Melanie! Wait!”

She only ran faster after I said that. I finally caught up to her and grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to turn and face me.

Her face was smeared with makeup and tears, both fighting for dominance.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“What are you talking about? Who are you?” she said, scared and angry together.

“How could you do this?”

“Do what?! You don’t even know me!”

“I can’t believe this! You’re a slut! A filthy slut!” I sneered.

She pulled her shoulder away from my grasp and yelled, “Unless you’re a cop, you better get out of here! My life doesn’t concern you!”

Then, I was gone. I felt like I was flying as images forced themselves into my mind. Were they memories? Visions? I don’t know. I think a little of both.

First, I saw my future self at a church function. It was some kind of “help the homeless” thing. I saw myself meeting Melanie. She looked beaten down and alone. I made her laugh.

Next, I saw a flash of me driving her to church. Then to an alcoholism treatment facility. I hugged her before we walked inside.

The next flash was her throwing me a birthday party. All my friends were there. My mom was there too. She was talking with Melanie alot, smiling. I saw myself smiling at Melanie across the room. My mother noticed and grinned at me, as if to say she approved.

Another flash flew through my mind: I was helping Melanie study for a test. It was for a cosmetology license; she was going to start her own salon.

After a moment, I saw something far into the future. It was Melanie having a baby. My baby. My son. He grew up instantly and I saw him as he worked in a laboratory. He invented something that everyone was celebrating him for.

Then, I was back on that dark street in Los Angeles again. It appeared to be the same night, but a few hours later. It was darker and the moon had moved. I turned a corner and saw a homeless man digging through something on the ground. I walked up beside him and he suddenly ran off. That’s when I saw what he was digging through: he was going through a purse. Next to the purse was Melanie’s body. She had two bullet holes in her chest.

Some more flashes flew through my head: Melanie being with the old man in the car for the entire night. Then, she left him and went home.

But I changed that. Now, she had gone on to find another customer and he lost his temper and killed her. And in my head, I couldn’t turn away as it all played out before me.

I felt myself starting to lose my breath. I fell to my knees, my chest collapsing in shock. Then, just as I closed my eyes, I saw one last flash…

It was me, at age 35. I was waking up in a bed, wrapped in a baby blue blanket on white sheets. And I was alone.

I closed my eyes and re-opened them inside the chamber. I pushed the door open and rolled out onto the floor, gasping for air.

Once I caught my breath, I started crying. Weeping. I came to a realization: the pain I was going through wasn’t for a reason anymore. That perfect girl for me wasn’t out there now. All because I couldn’t accept who she had been. I could’ve spent my life with a wonderful woman who had made some mistakes.

Now, I’ll spend it missing someone I never actually met.

My roommate and I moved out a few months later. We did our best to weld the door to the chamber shut. Hopefully no other curious souls will mess with it.

I found a new apartment. It’s not as nice as the place I used to live in, but it’ll do. Every day, I wake up hoping to roll over and see Melanie there next to me. I want her to make me smile with the contentment she did as I watched from the closet that one morning.

But it never happens. I never smile like that. I never have and now I never will.

I ‘member how dark and cold it was. A little foggy too. Just a dreary night, I reckon you could say. Early fall. 1934.

The sun had gone down and I was headin’ inside from the eastern field. I’d been out there all day workin’ on our old fence. No matter what I done, I’d find it knocked over or broken nearly every mornin’. This’d been goin’ on for a fortnight and I aimed to fix it once more and for good. I pounded those fence posts so far in the ground that God himself wouldn’t go through the trouble of knockin’ em over.

I figured it was the damn coyotes bustin’ it up, lookin’ for food. Turns out it wasn’t.

I grabbed my rusty old mallet and started walkin’ toward the house when I heard a rustlin’ in the trees. It sounded pretty far off, so I kept walkin’. I knew there was a family and a warm meal waitin’ for me back at the house and I wasn’t gonna be distracted from gettin’ there.

When I got about 200 yards from the house, I heard another noise. Somethin’ different. Sounded like a baby cryin’. Real far away. I turned and looked behind me. In the thick of the woods, I could see a few trees shakin’. There hadn’t been a single gust of wind all day. Somethin’ was movin’ through those trees. Movin’ fast. And makin’ more ruckus than it should’ve been.

I looked back at the house. I couldn’t see much of it other than the warm light comin’ from one of the windows. Looked mighty invitin’. But I needed to know what’d been tearin’ up the fence.

I headed toward the treeline, my mallet in my hand. As I got closer, the strange noises just kept comin’. Sometimes they sounded like some kind of animal barkin’. Other times, they were high-pitched, like somethin’ cryin’. I couldn’t make sense of a bit of it.

I stepped past the first row of leafless oak trees and into the woods. I tried to keep quiet, but the leaves on the ground were crackin’ with every step I took.

I stepped real slow, further and further into the darkness. My eyes were adjustin’ as best they could in the dark. Then I saw something runnin’ up ahead of me. I couldn’t make out much more than a shadow. Almost looked like a child. But different somehow.

I ran toward it. The closer I got to where it went, the louder the noises got. Then I saw somethin’ run past me to the right. I reckon it come within 20 feet of me. But it was just too dark to see it. Just looked like another child’s shadow. But it didn’t move like a child, that’s for sure.

That’s when I saw somethin’ that scared and excited me all at once: far off behind the trees, somethin’ lit up. Orange beams of light came pourin’ through the trees. I couldn’t see what they were comin’ from. But they lit up the woods like a campfire, givin’ me enough light to see where everything was.

I looked up ahead and noticed something movin’. From what I could see in between the shadows, it looked like a child. He was a small fella and didn’t look to be wearin’ any clothes. I yelled out, “Hey kid! What are you doin’ out here?” For some reason, the kid stopped runnin’. I suppose I startled him.

He slowly turned around and looked at me. What I saw right there has stayed with me until this very moment. I’m a big man, but I ain’t ashamed to tell you that I was terrified of what I was seein’. I can close my eyes and still see its face, clear as cloudless day.

He wasn’t a kid. He wasn’t anythin’ I’d ever seen. Must’ve been 4 and a half foot tall and he had eyes black as lead. They looked at me and I felt my blood start to chill. He opened his little mouth and let out a shrill scream that made the hairs on my neck stand up. I wasn’t sure if he could see me or if he was just lookin’ into darkness.

I tried to take in what I was seein’, but every bone in my body was shakin’ with fear. I jumped back behind a tree and peeked out, tryin’ to watch without bein’ seen. Then, I saw somethin’ happen that forced me to come to my senses.

The little thing made another noise and a few more of them showed up, all running from the woods, headin’ toward that flamin’ light. When they all got there, I counted about 9 of the things. But one of ‘em was draggin’ somethin’.

I heard that cryin’ sound again and saw what it was comin’ from: they were draggin’ a little boy behind ‘em, like some kind of dead animal they just shot. Only he wasn’t dead.

He was whimperin’, sayin’ a bunch of stuff to ‘em but they just ignored him. Kept talkin’ in those shrill high-pitched noises. He finally put up a bit of a struggle and the little thing holdin’ him by the arm got fed up. He pushed the boy’s face into the ground and started hittin’ him. He was really wailin’ on him. The little boy stopped movin’.

They reached down and started pokin’ him with their long fingers. He didn’t respond. They all looked confused. Finally, they just started draggin’ him again, all of ‘em walkin’ toward that light.

Cold as it was, I still managed to work up a sweat hiding behind that tree, scared to death. They were almost completely gone when I did somethin’ dumb as hell. My hands, covered in sweat, weren’t grippin’ that mallet tight enough. It slipped and hit the ground with a loud thud.

The creatures all stopped walkin’ and turned around quicker than you can blink. I ducked behind the tree, hopin’ they’d just shrug and leave.

That ain’t what happened.

I could hear their footsteps gettin’ closer. They were quiet, but I knew they were gettin’ close. I didn’t know what they were or what they were doin’, but I knew sure as hell that they weren’t out here makin’ friends.

I reached down and picked up the mallet, holdin’ it alot tighter this time. Suddenly, one of ‘em peeked his pale head around the side of the tree and looked right at me. He made that awful shriekin’ noise again, givin’ me one angry look. So I did the only thing I could. I swung that mallet right into the side of his head.

He went flyin’ back into the rest of ‘em, some black-lookin’ blood pourin’ from what was left of his head. They all stopped and looked at him. Then they looked at each other. Two of ‘em grabbed the little boy and started haulin’ him off toward the light in the distance, the rest of ‘em ran straight for me, teeth and hands bare and clenched.

One of ‘em jumped and bit me right on the shoulder. I grabbed the back of his neck and threw him on the ground. I swung that mallet down on his chest like I was choppin’ wood and the result was about the same.

Some more of ‘em started wrappin’ their fingers ‘round my neck, chokin’ me. I started swingin’ the mallet and my other hand everywhere I could. Before I knew it, there were only two of ‘em left standin’. The taller of the two sank his grimy little teeth right into my thigh before I even had a chance to see what was happenin’. I turned around right quick and leaned up against a tree. With his head pressed to the tree bark, I slammed that mallet down and crushed his face against the trunk of the tree.

The other one started to turn and run when I grabbed the back of his arm and snapped it at the elbow. He fell to the ground, shrieking and holding his arm. They all looked similar, but I recognized this one. He was the same one that had beat that little boy. I put my foot on his neck and he was gone before he knew it.

I stood there, mallet in hand, scared to death, with my heart beatin’ so hard I thought I was gonna pass out.

I couldn’t figure out what to do. I was frightened and angry and everythin’ all at once. I started walkin’ toward that light, hopin’ maybe I’d still find that little boy.

I was walkin’ fast, thinkin’ I had to be gettin’ close. Then, the light started to seem further away. It was movin’ somewhere. Almost risin’ like the sun, but not gettin’ brighter. Pretty soon, it was so dim I could barely see it at all.

Finally, I couldn’t see a thing. The light was gone. It had headed out of the woods somehow.

It took me a good two hours of stumblin’ ‘round in the dark before I finally made it back to the eastern field. I couldn’t find the bodies of those things anywhere. I figured I’d come out here in the mornin’ and look for ‘em in daylight. I sure didn’t wanna be out here anymore tonight.

I didn’t tell my wife about it. I told her I’d been lookin’ for the animal that was tearin’ up the fence. She said she’d been worried sick. That was enough for me to know that I didn’t need her worryin’ any more than she already had been. And I ‘specially didn’t want her worryin’ ‘bout somethin’ draggin’ our kids into the woods.

But I worried ‘bout it. Worried alot.

The next morning, I found the spot where I’d left their bodies. I was sure it was the spot. But they were gone. There were trails in the leaves, lookin’ like someone dragged ‘em off. Maybe a bear or somethin’. Or maybe they came back for their fallen friends.

Either way, I never told a soul what happened. Stories like that maybe people look at you different. Even your friends don’t look at you the same no more after that.

We sold every acre of that place the next year. I just got tired of tellin’ my kids to stay close to the house all the time. Got tired of wakin’ up and checkin’ to see if they were in their rooms. Got tired of wonderin’ who that little boy was and what those things did to him.

But movin’ didn’t change that. I still worried. Still woke up sweatin’. Still checked on the kids ever few hours of the night. Still didn’t like goin’ anywhere near the woods or workin’ near sunset.

Finally my wife couldn’t take it anymore. She said I was crazy. Said I wasn’t the same man anymore. She was right, I reckon. She took the kids and went to live with her parents.

No one knows why she left. They look down on us though. Husbands and wives aren’t supposed to leave each other. People in town all say that we broke our vows. That we shamed God by not honorin’ our weddin’ ceremony. And I do suppose we did. But I’d rather they think I’m a bad husband than some town loon.

Now I just got an empty house. I try to sleep, but I rarely do. Most nights I find myself sittin’ in the dark at the edge of my bed, starin’ out the window, watchin’ for shadows. And I’d be lyin’ if I told you that I didn’t have that rusty old mallet in my hand.

Hi. I’m not much of a public speaker, but Dave asked me to step up here and say something. So here goes.

Um,…wow…you know, I look out across this crowd and I see alot of anger. I hear alot of gossip. I feel alot of judgement. This room is a museum of furrowed brows and pointed fingers.

But I’m not here for you. I’m here for the man we lost a few days ago.

You all thought you knew. You thought you knew what he was. And maybe you did. But you certainly didn’t know who he was.

Some of you were family. You didn’t act like it, but that’s what you were. And as for the rest of you, I guess you’re just liars who called yourselves his “friends.” But friends don’t act like this.

This man was only 49 years old. He’d had a tough life. He’d gone through things none of you could understand. As his life wore him down, he turned to alcohol and none of you did a thing to help him. You just sneered and turned away. You watched him stand on the tracks and pretended you didn’t hear the train coming. Now look where we are: he’s in a box and you’re eating finger food like this is some kind of holiday get-together.

I talked to him on the last day. Unlike any of you. On the phone, he told me he was feeling happier than he had in a long time. He said he finally felt free. Free of what? His alcoholism? His depression? No. I think he was finally free of your judgement. He was free of the bonds you placed on him.

I told him I loved him. I told him to hang in there. I told him things would get better. For the first time, he said he knew that. He was so confident that things were finally turning around. Moments later, he put a gun in his mouth and sent his teeth through the back of his skull.

Oh, I’m sorry, does that bother you? Would you prefer I worded that a little more carefully? Would you prefer that I said he “opted out of his life?” He “took a leave of absence?” He “declined to continue living?” Well, too damn bad. It was your words that told him where to buy that gun. It was your hand that loaded the bullet into the cylinder. It was your finger that pulled the trigger.

So go ahead and cringe when I talk about how he sprayed his insides across the bedroom door. You weren’t there when his wife died. You weren’t there when he quit going to his AA meetings. You weren’t there when he got fired. You just watched from the other side of the glass and made comments when he did things wrong.

I did everything I could to make him feel better, but I was just one man and you were a crowd of dozens. You were a whole town that loved to watch him fall. Guess what? You won. He fell hard. And when we put him in the ground this afternoon, I want each of you to realize that he’ll never finish the house we was working on. And he’ll never meet his grandkids. And I’ll never get to have another conversation with my father.

So smile and pretend you loved him. Smile and pretend you miss him. And most importantly, smile and pretend you’re not all gonna burn in hell. When you are, that’s when I’ll finally be able to smile again.

Have a great afternoon and make sure you visit the refreshment table, you bastards. Good-bye, Dad. They can’t say a thing to you anymore.

I remember the first one. Her name was Jessica. She had long brown hair and the kindest eyes I’d ever seen.

She’d been in a car wreck three days ago. The accident had caused, among many other injuries, severe internal bleeding. Her doctors had done the best they could. But no one is meant to live forever.

It was about 5:30 a.m. on a Saturday. Jessica hadn’t left the hospital bed for three days and she had begun to realize that she probably never would. I entered the room and sat in the chair by her bed. She, of course, couldn’t see me until I wanted her to. And I didn’t want her to. Not yet.

I sat there and watched her resting. She couldn’t sleep, but she was trying to anyway. Finally, she gave up and resigned to staring out the window, into the early morning darkness. I watched as tears slowly slid down her face. She knew.

After about ten minutes, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I let her see that I was there. I expected her to be frightened. But that wasn’t the case. She looked at me as if we had met before.

“Hello, Jessica.”

“Hi.”

“I’m sorry about what’s happened. I’m sorry for all of this.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault.”

She tried her best to smile. I couldn’t even bring myself to do the same in return.

“Is there anything you want to do before….you know…”

I didn’t know how to ask such a question yet, but she understood what I meant and kindly responded, “There’s too much to name. But I’m sure that’s how it is for everyone, right?”

I wasn’t sure what to say. She was my first one. I tried my best to comfort her anyway.

“Sometimes, Jessica, it helps to think back on the best moments. It helps people feel like they made the most of their time,” I said.

“I did make the most of it,” she smiled back at me. “I had a family that loved me. I had friends who cared about me. And I had a boyfriend that wanted to marry me. He still does.”

I felt awful. I felt like I was robbing her. And robbing her friends and family of her presence. But it wasn’t my choice. I don’t get to make the big decisions. I just get to carry them out and try to make the best of the situation.

“I know you’re young, but you’ve made a difference in alot of people’s lives. I hope you know that.”

“I do,” she said.

She looked back out the window. It was getting a little brighter out then before.

Without looking back at me, she said, “Where will we go?”

“I can’t tell you that yet.”

“Will I like it?”

“I can’t tell you that either.”

She took a deep breath.

“Will I know anyone there?” she asked.

“It’s likely,” I answered, knowing too well that I wasn’t even supposed to give hints like that.

She looked me in the eyes and stated plainly, “You don’t seem like you enjoy doing this.”

I was taken off-guard by both the bluntness of the statement and the truth behind it.

“You’re right,” I said.

“Why do you do it?”

“Someone has to.”

“I guess so.” she said.

After a moment, tears began to well up in her eyes.

“I just have one more question,” she said softly.

“Ok,” I replied.

“The family that was in the other car- the one that ran into mine- are they all going to be okay? I mean, will they…will they be leaving soon too?”

I hadn’t been prepared for that. Since then, not one other person (out of the millions I’ve visited) has ever asked about anyone but themselves. I couldn’t help but reward her thoughtfulness with honesty.

“They’ll be fine,” I said. “The mother has 46 more years ahead of her and the two children both get to see their grandkids go to college.”

She smiled through tear-filled eyes.

“Thank you,” she said. “You probably weren’t supposed to tell me that.”

I grinned at her.

She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. The sun was beginning to rise and a beam of light started to pour through the window.

“It’s time, isn’t it?” she asked.

I nodded my head.

Normally at this point, I am supposed to take my hands and cross them, putting each one on the opposite shoulder, embracing myself. In an instant, everything fades and it’s over. It’s easy and simple and completely habitual now. But that first time was so much more difficult.

I held out my arms. She watched me and I could see a look in her eyes that I had never seen. It was a strange combination of excitement and terror, loss and hope. She was starting to cry again and I began to feel a sudden urge of compassion for her. A compassion that I’d never experienced. I truly cared for this young woman and the life she wasn’t going to have. I thought about her family. Her friends. The boy who loved her. They would never see this moment. They’d never feel it like this. They’d never understand it. Some of them would never be able to truly accept that it even happened.

Yet I was there. I saw it all. I saw a side of her that no one in the world had. I saw her fear, her anticipation, her love, her hope, and her lack of regrets.

I’m supposed to cross my arms and get it over with. I’m not supposed to think or feel anything. I’m not supposed to tell them anything more than the bare essentials. I’d already broken those rules, so I figured one more couldn’t hurt.

I stood up from my chair and took her hand. She stood up next to her bed, amazed at the fact that she was able to stand at all. The car wreck had broken her left femur and shattered most of the bones in both of her ankles. However, things like that don’t tend to hinder what I can do.

We stood face to face, mine resolute in what I must do and her terrified and in tears. I pulled her close to me and hugged her. She hugged me back tighter than I’d ever felt. Her face was shaking as she cried into my shoulder.

“Okay,” she said.

“They won’t forget you, Jessica,” I reminded her.

“Will I forget them?”

“Never.”

I wrapped my arms around her and crossed them behind her back. As I brought my hands around and touched them to my shoulders, I felt the jolt of her heart coming to a sudden stop. In an instant, we were both gone.

The sun rose and shone through the window onto her now-empty body, peacefully laying on the bed.

Later that day, the doctors would let her parents know that when they discovered her in the room, her arms were folded across her chest and she was almost smiling. Her mother would tell that detail to everyone she knew. “It was as though she was ready,” she would tell them.

I don’t enjoy what I do. I’m not here to brighten things for people. But even in the darkest moments, I still try to make things a little easier for them. I guess that’s the most any of us are expected to do.

Our hands are clasped as her face moves closer and closer to mine.

Our eyes lock, hers entrancing me effortlessly.

Her left leg wraps around me as her black dress slightly slides up her thigh.

She puts one arm around my shoulder, running her fingers against the back of my neck.

She leans back, pulling me with her.

I pull her back up, her warm face now touching mine softly.

The music swells. The room spins. Finally, we are still and the silence falls over us.

I look at her as she gives me an electric smile. Our hands separate. We each take a step away from each other as the room applauds.

I look out at the other students. They’re all impressed. Our teacher says it’s one of the best tango performances he’s seen all year.

The class ends. She walks north. I walk south. After a few steps, I turn and watch her disappear around a corner in the distance.

I take a deep breath and smile. I think about our performance. I re-live those 3 minutes where I was completely and hopelessly in love…and didn’t have to hide it.

29 years ago. It had been 29 years since it happened. There aren’t many things people can vividly remember from that long ago. But this was different. This couldn’t be forgotten. Not by me.

I was 6 years old when it happened. My father had been dead for 2 years at that point, leaving my mother, Anne, to raise me on her own. And she did a great job in my humble opinion. She was the most loving, caring, considerate person I will ever know. Until that day. That day changed things.

I was in my bedroom, playing with whatever toy my mother could afford to buy me for my last birthday. She was in the kitchen and through my closed door I could hear the sound of dishes clanging in the sink.

Then I heard a sound that echoes through my head to this day. 4 steady, solid knocks on the door.

I heard my mother’s footsteps as she went to answer the door. Click, click, click, click, click. 5 steps.

The sound of the doorknob turning. The creak of the door’s hinges. Then, his voice.

“Hello, ma’am.” His raspy, smoker’s voice was unforgettable.

“Hello. Can I help you?” my other politely said.

I could hear a noise that sounded like the man rubbing his hands together.

“Yes, I sure do hope so. I was hopin’ I could use your phone there. My car up and died down the street. Just wanna call a friend to come get me. If you don’t mind, of course.”

My mother probably smiled at him kindly before answering.

“That’s no problem.”

I heard him take two steps inside the doorway.

“The phone is right this way,” she said.

He followed her inside the front room as I heard the sound of the receiver being picked up.

“Thank you so much, ma’am,” the raspy voice said.

“My pleasure,” she responded.

Before I heard the clicking of the rotary numbers, everything became still. The silence was ended by the raspy voice, much quieter than before.

“Is your husband around?”

“What?”

“I was just— I thought maybe if your husband was here, he could take a look at my car, maybe see what the problem was.”

“Oh. No, he’s…he passed away.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am. That’s a shame.”

Another silence. Still no dialing. I couldn’t explain it, but there was a tightening feeling growing inside me. It was as though my internal organs were caught in the gears of a machine that couldn’t stop turning. My curiosity couldn’t be helped as I put my ear to my bedroom door to listen. My mother’s voice was the first thing I heard clearly.

“Sir, are you gonna dial?”

The man hung up the phone. Click.

“No, I don’t think I am.”

Suddenly, I could hear feet rushing to the door. It slammed shut.

“What are you doing—” she tried to say, but something silenced her. I heard the sounds of muffled yelling followed by a struggle.

I could hear the couch sliding on our hardwood floor. I could hear my mother’s voice being stifled and strangled. For a moment, I thought she had said my name. And maybe she had.

I didn’t know what to do or think. I pulled my ear from the door and crawled into my closet. I plugged my ears. I cried. I prayed.

After what seemed like hours, I heard the front door slam.

And, after what seemed like hours after that, I heard my bedroom door open. It was my mother. She found me and hugged me tighter than I’d ever been hugged before or since. Her eyes were bloodshot and tear-filled. Her lip was bleeding and her shirt was ripped in three places.

She never looked the same after that day. She was someone else. The caring, loving, considerate qualities were still there, but something was just different. Part of her had been stolen that day and couldn’t ever be returned.

I asked her if the police would find the man. She said that they weren’t going to look for him. She said that she didn’t want to find him. Then she told me it was a secret that needed to be forgotten. A secret I couldn’t tell anyone. And I promised her I wouldn’t.

Two days later, I found something under the couch. It was a wallet. I opened it and saw the face of the raspy-voiced smoker that had visited our house. “John Leonard.” The picture on his driver’s license scared me. I knew who he was. I knew, in some way, what he had done. And I knew he had changed my mother into someone else. Someone frightened and sad.

It felt like I had found a cure for my mother’s pain and all I had to do was give it to the police and everything would be better. But she didn’t agree. She told me to get rid of it. She said she didn’t want it in her house and that our secret had to remain a secret. I told her I would throw it away. I lied.

29 years have gone by. My mother passed away two months ago. She kept her secret and so did I. But death changes promises and now I have to keep a promise I made to myself the day I found that wallet.

I have looked at that driver’s license every day for the past 29 years. I had every detail memorized, every scratch, every number.

John Leonard is a fairly common name, but thanks to the internet and a little luck, I found him. He lived just 4 miles from the house he visited that day so long ago. 4 miles. That’s all that separated us from a man that destroyed someone I cared about so much.

I walked up the front steps to his house and laid 4 steady, solid knocks on the front door.

I waited for a moment before I heard someone coming to the door. Click, click, click, click, click. 5 steps.

An old man opened the door. He had thick glasses and leaned heavily on a walker. It had been nearly three decades, but I recognized him immediately.

“Hello, sir,” I said, the notion of calling him “sir” nearly sickening me right there.

“Hello there, young man. How can I help you?” he answered, his voice raspier than the last time I heard it.

“I was…just hoping I could use your phone. I lost mine and my car broke down.” I said, nearly laughing to myself at the irony.

“Oh, sure thing, sure thing. Step right on in,” he said.

I stepped inside the house and shut the door behind me. I almost couldn’t believe he didn’t remember saying those same words to my mother. In a way, it made me even angrier; what he had done to her wasn’t even memorable enough for him to recognize anymore.

He pointed to an old black phone on a table in the living room.

“Thank you,” I said, walking to the phone.

He sat down, very slowly, in a chair just a few feet from me.

As I picked up the old rotary phone, I looked at him and calmly asked, “Your name wouldn’t happen to be John Leonard, would it? John Albert Leonard?”

He gave me a semi-surprised look.

“Why…yes, yes, that’s me. How’d you know that?”

I ignored his question and kept digging.

“You’ve lived here for the past 30 years or so, correct?”

“Yes, I reckon I have. Why do you ask?”

Again, I didn’t let his questions distract me.

“29 years ago. Her name was Anne Thomas. You knocked on her door and asked to use her phone. You said you had car trouble.”

He gave me a cold stare. I returned it.

“Listen,” he began, “I’ve made some mistakes in—”

“No.” I interrupted. “You don’t get to make excuses for this. Not for this.”

He tried anyway. “I’m not tryin’ to say—”

Before he could finish, I stepped behind his chair and swung the phone’s cord around his neck, pulling tighter with every word he tried to say.

I moved my face right next to his so I could speak directly into his ear.

“You hurt her. You hurt her in a way you can’t imagine. She lived with it for the rest of her life. So don’t you dare try to defend yourself now. I know exactly who you are and what you did. If it weren’t for her forgiveness and her shame, you would’ve been in jail or worse.”

His eyes began to water as I pulled the cord harder, leaving him gasping as his frail hands gripped the chair’s armrests.

I eased up on the cord for just a moment.

“Say whatever you need to. This will be your last statement,” I said.

He struggled to catch his breath for nearly a minute. Finally, he let out a few measly sentences:

“I was a bad person. I made mistakes. I’m sorry.”

I’d heard enough. I pulled the cord as far back as I could. He barely even struggled.

I looked around the room as his life began to leave him. There were lots of books and pictures everywhere. I noticed a picture of him and an elderly woman. They were smiling. I looked at his face as it was now and could hardly believe it was the same man from the picture. His eyes were wide and watery, his mouth open, his cheeks changing color by the second. I looked back at the picture of him and the elderly woman. I suddenly eased up on the phone cord.

He gasped and struggled to take in oxygen once again.

“Who is that woman?!” I yelled.

He was still trying to recover from nearly 30 seconds without air. But I wasn’t waiting for him.

“Who is she?!”

I smacked his face and he finally coughed out an answer:

“My wife,” he wheezed.

“Where is she right now?”

“She’s down at the library. We check out books every Thursday.”

“Why aren’t you with her?”

“I can’t really get around much. I’d just slow her down, so she brings them back for me.”

I stared at the picture, not even noticing the old man’s continuing struggle to catch his breath.

I looked at him again. He stared right back at me.

“I can’t undo what I did back then. But I can tell you this: I never did that again. Ever. I swear it.”

I clenched my fist and slammed it into his face, breaking his nose. He barely moved as the blood started to trickle from it. Surprisingly, he spoke first.

“I deserve worse. I know that. But my wife doesn’t. She’s a good lady. And as hard as it’s gonna be for you to believe, she loves me. Don’t hurt her the way I hurt people in my past. You’re a better man than I ever was. I can see it.”

“I don’t need someone like you to tell me that,” I said.

“You can choose,” he said. “You can beat me up, kill me or whatnot. Or you can be what I never was: merciful. You can spare my wife the heartache and you can rest assured that I haven’t got much longer to live anyway.”

He left me a choice. And either way, it wasn’t easy. But I knew, deep down, what my decision should be.

Eyes as beautiful as hers shouldn’t be crying. But they were.

It was a huge party and, aside from her, everyone was having a great time. I had just slammed back a shot with my roommate when I saw her there. She was alone. She was crying. And she was gorgeous. Girls like her are the reason we did all this in the first place.

I watched her for a second, waiting for a friend/boyfriend/acquaintance to walk up and console her. But no one showed. She just sat there on the floor, back against the wall, doing her best to wipe away the almost-constant tears. I’m not the smoothest talker, so I poured myself a tall glass to gain the confidence I needed.

I downed half of it and carried the rest with me as I stepped toward her.

“Hi,” I blurted out.

She looked up at me, rather confused and possibly a little irritated. “Hi… Do we know each other?”

“Not yet, but we should,” I answered, the alcohol kicking in.

“Why’s that?”

“Because this is my place and my party.”

She immediately changed her tone. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” I answered calmly, “I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Kyle.”

She gave me a teary-eyed smile and replied, “I’m Claire.”

“You know, we throw these parties so people can have fun. But you don’t seem to be having any. Can I change that?”

“I don’t know.”

“So you’re saying you don’t think I’m capable of being a good, fun-inducing host?”

She smiled again, this time with less tears. “I’m saying that I’ve had a bad day and it just got worse.”

“I beg to differ. I think it just got better. I mean, someone just walked up to you and offered you a good time. Wouldn’t you call that an improvement?”

“It was an offer, but the person didn’t deliver on it yet.”

“False. I believe this conversation is at least slightly more fun than being on the floor by yourself.”

“True,” she admitted.

I slid down the wall and sat next to her.

“Look,” I said, locking onto the most beautiful brown eyes I’ve ever seen, “I know we just met, but if you wanna talk, I can listen. It might help you to just vent a little, you know?”

She took a deep breath and finally said, “I lost my job today. Tonight actually.”

“That sucks. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. My boss sent me a text telling me they had to let me go. A text.”

“So you were ‘let go,’ not ‘fired.”

She scoffed a little. “I don’t have a job either way.”

“But you didn’t get fired,” I shot back. “So it could be worse. Most of life is defined by the way you choose to look at it. Look at this as a ‘letting go’ and not a ‘firing.’ Besides, there are a million jobs in the world. You’ll have one soon, I’m sure.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“So…who are you here with?”

“My sister. If she wasn’t having fun, I would’ve left already. I don’t usually sit and cry at parties…”

“Well,” I said, “you have my permission to do just that at this party. But I’d rather you let me try to cheer you up. Even just a little.”

She grinned a little. I took another drink. She finally looked at me.

“Thanks.”

I looked at her and suddenly felt like the oxygen had been sucked from the room. Her eyes looking through me. Her dark hair framing her face. Her perfect hint of a smile. I couldn’t do anything but smile back. Finally, the air came back to me.

“Don’t thank me yet,” I said. “I haven’t even poured you a drink…”

She grinned a little more.

We went to the kitchen to make drinks and talk. She really opened up, telling me about her family, her last boyfriend, her goals. We started discussing music. Then movies. Then books. She listened to what I do, she watched what I do, she read what I do. I couldn’t believe the similarities. You throw parties for a one-night stand, not for your dream girl. I guess this was just my lucky night.

The more we talked, the more I realized that this wasn’t a girl I could soon forget.

Time flew by as our conversations marched on. Not many people can intellectually interest me, but she did. Every sentence she spoke was clever, informed, and thoughtful. Even her jokes were intelligent. And best of all, they were actually funny. We could each make the other one laugh, but we could each also make the other one think.

It was becoming difficult for me to believe that someone so attractive, in every way, could actually enjoy my company so much. But she did.

A few hours and several shots later, we were sitting on my bed. I leaned in to kiss her and she tilted her head just enough to let me know she wanted me to.

I don’t know any way to describe it other than this: earth-shaking. It sounds silly, but that’s how it felt. Our lips touched so softly at first and soon they were locked so tightly that I felt dizzy.

The glass I was holding fell to the floor, the rim breaking and leaving jagged, broken edges along the top. It rolled across the carpet, neither of us caring enough to stop and even look. We were so deep inside that incredible moment; a bomb could’ve went off and we would’ve kissed as we burned.

I moved my hands to the back of her neck, holding her. We finally broke to collect ourselves. My hands gently framed her face as she pulled back and stared into my eyes, smiling. I leaned in and gave her another soft kiss, lingering on her bottom lip for just a second. As we both opened our eyes, she began to speak…

“Kyle, I really like you.”

I smiled, “Good. It’s a mutual feeling.”

I moved my hands down to her shoulders and leaned in again. This time she pulled away slightly, eyeing my hands.

She said, “But I want things to move slowly if we decide to turn this into a relationship.”

I nodded. “Of course. But we can do other things. We don’t have to go too far.”

I continued leaning in, my hands sliding down her arms. My mouth grazed hers as she pulled away again.

“No, really,” she said. “I have made mistakes like this before and I don’t want this to be like that.”

My drunken mind had a little difficulty not letting my ego get hurt.

“Come on,” I retorted. “We can just—”

“No, seriously. In fact, let’s go back out to the party. We can just talk.”

She smiled and started to stand. Without thinking, my hands held fast to her arms. Gently, but with enough strength for her to stop and notice.

“Kyle, don’t.”

“Just stay here a little longer,” I pleaded.

“No, let’s go out there. I’ll pour you another drink.”

She again tried to move, my hands holding tighter. Her face changed. I wanted to let go, but my body and my brain didn’t seem to be on speaking terms. She began to look angry.

“Stop it.” she said through clenched teeth.

She pulled her arm and I pulled back. She tugged harder the second time and my brain finally communicated with my hands as they released her.

The force of her pulling away was greater than she expected as she fell from my hands to the carpet. She hit the floor, facedown. My eyes widened a little at the sight of her laying there, suddenly still. She began to bring her arms up, trying to lift herself from the floor.

“I’m so sorry,” I said softly, “Let me help you up.”

I staggered to her and grabbed her arms which were now moving less than before. She wouldn’t help me stand her up so I rolled her onto her back to make sure she hadn’t broken her nose or anything.

As I turned her over, face up, I saw two things. Even in my very intoxicated state, I put them together instantly. A jagged-edged glass. A bleeding wound.

Her neck was leaking like a broken dam as she looked at me and tried to speak. A slight whistling sound was the best she could do as dark red blood gurgled from the back of her mouth. I stared in shock, my hands still touching her arm. I pulled back and stood up, unable to think or move away. Her hands twitched as if she were typing something. They became slower and slower.

They finally stopped.

Before I could grasp what I was seeing, the only motion in the room was the trickling blood leaving the hole in her throat. I looked down at her, scared and confused. The blood started to form a large red oval on the carpet. The broken glass was sitting upright beside her. I couldn’t help but feel that it was watching everything.

Her eyes stared back at me, as full and beautiful as they had been three hours earlier.

Eyes as beautiful as hers shouldn’t be dying. But they were.