The beginning of a short novellette.

The old apartment building on Mill Street housed some interesting characters. The building itself had its own charms, little pieces of wonder hidden under the old bricks. Its inhabitants were people who you might want to talk to if you wanted a good story, something really worth talking about. Each had a fascinating tale behind their tired faces. Though it used to be the most exclusive, beautiful building in London, times had changed. As the weather changed through the seasons, the building grew more weathered as well. Its gorgeous architecture became outdated, and its stylish inhabitants moved on, leaving space for the people who couldn’t afford the best.

For one tired young woman, it seemed like the perfect home. She was eight months pregnant, alone, underage, and unable to keep a job. She’d had to quit her old job when she became pregnant- the former prostitute was well aware that a pregnant woman didn’t make a good sleeping partner. She didn’t know the father. She couldn’t even remember his face, let alone his name. She’d been as high as a kite that day, trying to block out her disappointing life. Since she found out about the baby, she’d stayed mostly clean. She was trying to head in the right direction now, trying to make a good life for the kid growing inside of her. She figured that if the kid had a good childhood, it would turn out better than she did. She seemed so relieved when she first stepped into that third floor apartment. It was fairly large for the price. It had two bedrooms, one bath, a small balcony, a fair sized living room, and a minute kitchen. There was plenty of closet space for all her favourite shoes. She sat down wearily in the middle of the smaller bedroom, which she’d already claimed as the nursery, and smiled up at the landlady.

“It’s perfect. I’ll take it.” She sighed happily, and sprawled out on the soft carpet. A thought suddenly came to her. She was the worrying sort, so she looked cautiously at the landlady, who was pulling papers from her large purse, and asked her “Why is it so cheap?”

“Darling, I’ll rent it for whatever I can rent it for. It’s better to get little money for an apartment than to have it vacant and get none. You do what you can.” The young woman nodded. She could easily understand the woman’s reasoning. She herself had always been so desperate for cash, she’d sold her body, the one thing she had always thought was hers.

The woman handed her the forms. She looked down at the first question. It was asking her name. She closed her eyes, slowly breathing out. She could barely remember her name. As a child, her angry father had just called her “you little bitch.” In school, she’d been “the weird kid” or “the loner”. Ever since she’d dropped out, she’d just been “the whore”. She’d never been Gloria to anyone but herself. Sometimes, she’d just sit down and repeat her name over and over to herself, just to be sure she knew it. “Gloria Rachael Castello. Gloria Rachael Castello.” She slowly wrote down the name with the landlady’s pen, each letter adding power to her new confidence. She had a new apartment, she would soon have a child, and she had her name back, too. She was on top of the world, sitting on that floor. She finished filling out the forms, wrote a quick cheque for a down payment, and handed them back to the woman.

“Home,” said Gloria, testing the word. She rolled it around on her tongue, tasted it on her lips, then blew it out with a sigh. This word, too, it was hers.

“Excellent. You can move in next weekend,” the landlady told her, smiling. Gloria stood up slowly, with the aid of the landlady.




Gloria had been living there for about six years now, judging by the age of her son. She’d named him Simon after her brother. The kid was in the third grade at Ballantrae Public School, a small local school with a good reputation. Gloria lived her life for her son. Every year on his birthday, she painted his room with his new favourite thing. This year, her skilful hand had decorated his ceiling with rockets, ready to blast off to the moon. His blue striped walls were covered in dinosaur illustrations. Somehow, the child knew more about dinosaurs than any adult she’d ever met.

According to his teacher, Simon was a gifted child. He’d already skipped two grades, and was still ahead of his class. Mrs. Molson, the kind teacher who was very concerned about him, dropped by the apartment about twice a week. She brought puzzles and toys that were supposed to stimulate his imagination. Sometimes she would watch him play, taking careful notes. Other times, she’d talk to Gloria about his many gifts. She was concerned that he needed to go to a private school that would encourage his intelligence. She’d also encouraged Gloria to have his IQ tested, but she had refused. She didn’t want her boy to be labelled as a specimen to be observed by the ‘scientists’ who called themselves teachers.



The day was still and quiet. Barely anyone disturbed the peace of the quiet street. A few lazy teenagers strolled down the sidewalk with slushies, enjoying one of the last warm days of the year by skipping classes. Mothers took their young children to the local ice cream shop, and young bachelors walked their large dogs. A few scattered leaves blew across the apartment’s weathered parking lot, caught by the warm wind. It was a rare day, one peaceful and wonderful day that Gloria decided to savour.

Simon sat in the living room, watching Elmo dance around on the screen of their small television, while Gloria put away the mugs and kettle which she had entertained Mrs. Molson with. Pulling bright yellow gloves over her small hands, she let the water run into the dishes. She rummaged around in the cabinet under the sink, gradually finding the necessary supplies. A sponge first emerged. She carelessly threw it into the sink without looking, head still wedged into the cabinet. Next, she dropped the soap onto the counter with a little bit more care. Finally, out came an old rag used for washing. She straightened up, let out a long contented sigh, and began her work. Pouring the soap slowly onto the sponge, she watched it ooze into the little holes. She then rubbed the sponge against her gloved hand for a moment, activating the soap. The sponge was quickly covered in suds, and she started to rub the china. She meticulously covered its entire surface, getting every potential germ that might be clinging to her belongings. She glanced carefully over at her son, smiling as he looked up at the television, singing along to ‘Elmo’s World’. She paused in her work, the heavy plate in her hand resting against the counter. She was content with her life. She got a decent salary working as a secretary in an office just blocks away from her home. She has a wonderful son, enough money to afford most things he wanted, and to top it all off, a gentle stream of sunlight was falling into her living room from the large window.

It all happened very fast. She heard shattering glass as her window broke and her eyes bulged as a bullet smashed through the television. The next bullet shattered more of the window and went straight into her son’s skull. She screamed so loud, she could have sworn she broke the glass as the third bullet hit her son’s chest. He was on the floor, bleeding. She hurtled herself in his direction, disregarding the fact that the bullets may very well be flying still. She didn’t even notice when she threw down the plate, which shattered on the kitchen floor. All she knew was that she had to hug her baby, to hold him, to protect him. She threw herself across his bleeding body, slumped across the floor, staining the carpet with his bright red blood. She wrapped her arms desperately around him, screaming.

“My baby, my treasure, my darling, my Simon, my baby, my treasure,” she muttered wildly, tears streaking down her face. She was crying so hard she gagged, rocking back and forth with the child in her arms. She could barely comprehend what had just taken place.

“Mom, what’s the matter?” Simon cooed in his quiet little voice, gently pulling himself from his mother’s grasp. Gloria stared at him, in utter shock. No bullet wounds were visible. She began to stutter incoherently. She looked down at the carpet, and no blood was there. Looking up, she saw that Elmo was still educating his viewers on the colour purple. Wildly swinging her head, the window was perfectly intact.

Gloria was pulled from her confusion as a wild knocking came at the door. She stumbled over to answer, still in complete shock. The neighbouring family and her landlady stood at the door, looking confused.

“Why were you screaming?” asked the old landlady, looking around the apartment with concern. Gloria looked at her, eyes swimming with tears.

“Mrs. Wye, didn’t you just hear three shots? Didn’t you?” Gloria asked desperately, looking for some validation that the horrors she’d just endured were real horrors. As much as she refused their truthfulness, she was so confused that she questioned what seemed like a gift from God.
“No, I just heard you screaming,” the landlady said tenderly, looking at Gloria with a furrowed brow. “Is everything alright?”

Gloria looked back at her son. The same scene which she was initially sure had taken place came to her again. She pointed with wild fear and shock. “Look at the blood!” she cried, seeing her son lying on the floor, blood everywhere. She ran back over and fell to her knees. She started shaking her son madly, a certain degree of insanity in her hazel eyes. “He’s dead, you see? But he’s still alive, I just saw him, he’s alive!” she shrieked, not sure what she was saying, not sure what she believed. Simon began to cry a little bit as Mrs. Wye and Jessika, the mother of the family who lived beside her, came to pull her off her son.

“Mom,” Simon quietly muttered, “are you mad?” Gloria looked at her son, shaking her head in disbelief. She suddenly wasn’t sure. Was she, in fact, insane? Jessika and Mrs. Wye certainly seemed to think so as they dropped her onto the small white couch. Mrs. Wye got down to her knee and looked Gloria in the eye, as though she were a child who couldn’t quite grasp a concept. Knowing Gloria’s past, Mrs. Wye ventured into dangerous territory.

“Gloria,” she said quietly, trying to keep Simon from hearing, “are you high?” Gloria shook her head very slowly. She’d been clean for over six years, she’d never give that up, never.

Very slowly, Gloria stood up and walked into the kitchen. She pulled a broom and dustpan from a messy closet stuffed with old junk that she never used. She walked over to the place where she’d dropped the plate, and began to collect the broken shards of glass. Sweeping each little piece carefully into the dustpan, she was reassured. It was as though she were sweeping up the pieces of her mind which she’d shattered that afternoon, and as she threw them into the garbage, the memories of the horror she’d witnessed were gone. The two women at her couch watched her carefully. In the background, Elmo sang goodbye to Simon, who had gone back to watching the television. Gloria looked over at the two women, closed her eyes slowly, drew a shuttering breath, and clenched her fists a little bit.

“I’m alright now. I guess I didn’t get enough sleep last night. I’ve been watching too many horror movies lately. I’m really alright,” she assured them, getting herself a glass of iced tea. The two women retreated cautiously from the room. It seemed as though they were afraid that if they moved too quickly, Gloria would suddenly snap and begin hurtling heavy objects in their direction. She ignored them as they slowly closed the door, and sat wearily on the couch, sipping her beverage.

In the corners of her eyes, she could still see blood splattered on the walls, or her son’s cold face. She pressed her eyes shut, but the corners of her mind still held the same image, like a poster messily plastered on the wall of a closed down shop.




Gloria tucked Simon into bed, closed the door slowly, and walked out to the balcony. She quietly slid open the door and rested on the railing, looking out at the great face of the moon. She traced images with her eyes, connected the stars to make pictures, connecting the pictures to make stories, connecting the stories to comfort herself. She was still stressed and jittery, made nervous by the happenings of that afternoon. For some reason, turning to the celestial bodies helped to calm her. Though she jumped terribly when a car door slammed somewhere down the block, she was mostly calm. She tried to ignore the shadows dancing around her, staying as calm as she could be. It wasn’t until she heard the sliding door move that she turned around with a terrified squeal.

“Mommy? Why aren’t you in bed? It’s 7:06 in the morning,” mumbled Simon, dragging his teddy bear behind him. He rubbed his eyes sleepily. Gloria took slow, deep breaths, trying to slow her furiously racing heart.

“Four o’clock? It can’t be, sweetie, I’ve only been out here for twenty minutes,” she said to her son, ushering him back into the house. She looked down at her watch, confirming her estimation of time. It was only 8:25 in the evening.

“Simon, are you sure you read the clock right? You didn’t confuse the big hand with the little hand?” Gloria cooed, tucking her child back into bed.

“No mom. Look at the clock. Go see it. Go read it,” Simon insisted, his voice beginning to sound slightly hoarse. Gloria was surprised that Simon was insisting so determinedly, for he rarely insisted upon anything. She dutifully lumbered into the kitchen and checked the clock above the stove.

Gloria stuffed her fist into her mouth to prevent herself from screaming. Dark red stains covered her white kitchen walls, reading “6:66 in the morning” in childish handwriting. Panting slightly, she went to call to her son.

“What time in the morning did you say--” she began, but as she looked behind her, Simon was standing at the end of the hall, enrobed in shadows. He looked up at her, most of his face hidden by shadows, the whites of his eyes sticking out like a dark drop of blood on clean white tiles. His blue and white striped pyjamas hung loosely on his thing frame. A small brown teddy bear hung loosely by its arm, clenched tightly in his small fist.
“7:06, mom. 7:06.”

Gloria quickly did the math in her head. Sixty minutes in an hour… 6 o’clock, plus sixty minutes makes it seven o’clock, plus six minutes make it’s 7:06.

She looked up at her walls, and though it was entirely illogical, she had assumed it would happen; the walls were as white and clean as ever. It were as though it had never happened. She looked back at her son, and he was not there either. She quickly went to his room, and found him sleeping in his bed, as though he had never been disturbed.



The next morning, Gloria tried to pretend that yesterday had been nothing but a dream. She was in a fairly bad mood from tossing and turning all night, afraid of the shadows. Still, she dutifully packed Simon’s lunch, made sure he put on his Elmo jacket, and walked him to school.

Leaving him with a smiling teacher on the grounds, Gloria went on her way down the sidewalk, covered in autumn leaves. Red, orange, yellow, and old brown leaves were crunching beneath her, like a fire crackling as it eats its fuel. The air was brisk, but she enjoyed the change. She wasn’t a fan of the heat, so she accepted the change in weather and walked on. Her feet were slightly sore in her tight shoes with tall heels, but she didn’t mind. She watched her feet moving, one foot after the other, admiring how she looked in the new pink shoes. They were snakeskin, hot pink, and they fit her well. She’d purchased them after months of saving up, seeing them in the shop window every day as she walked from her office to the coffee shop for lunch. Some days, she’d even gone without her coffee and bagel, and saved the money for the shoes. Finally, they were hers, and she wore them proudly. She wore a grey, knee-length tweed skirt and a matching jacket over a hot pink blouse. Her unnaturally blonde hair blew gracefully behind her as she walked towards her mundane job and away from her heavy thoughts.

Gloria entered the air-conditioned building to find many of her colleagues shivering. She walked to her desk and sat down, ready for the day’s activities.



Simon sat at a picnic table on the playground, waiting for Beth to come and sit with him. Though they weren’t in the same grade, they were nearly the same age. Beth herself was a fairly intelligent child, in grade one at the age five. They managed to have rather advanced conversations for children their ages.

As Simon chewed his sandwich, he saw Beth walking over, her usual pigtails bobbing. She wore a different pink dress every day, but Simon liked this one the best. It was pink gingham, like a picnic blanket. At the front was a pocket, with yellow flowers embroidered carefully onto it.
“Hello Simon, how are you doing?” asked Beth politely, sitting down beside him. Her voice was high and sweet, trickling into his ear like sap rolling down a tree.

“Pretty good. You?” Simon responded between mouthfuls of his bologna sandwich.

“I’m pretty good. I got a really pretty new toy,” she answered, happily pulling a plastic unicorn from her pink backpack. “Her name is Marigold. You want to touch her?”

Simon nodded. He put down his sandwich and wiped his hands on his shirt, then reached over and took the horned pony. He stroked the toy’s hair gently, smiling.

“She’s really pretty. Where did you get her?” he said softly, carefully examining the treasure.
“I found her on the sidewalk. I took her home and cleaned her up,” Beth said proudly. “I did a pretty good job, don’t you think?”

Simon nodded. “Wonderful.”




It was almost lunch. Gloria kept eyeing the clock, waiting for the fateful moment when the two hands would meet at the top, and she’d be free for a half-hour. She put her chin on her hand, resting her elbow on her desk, staring at the clock. She’d just finished filling out some documents, and there was nothing else she could finish by lunch. She decided to pack up while she waited, so she could zip over to the coffee shop as soon as lunch started.

She was just gathering her things when the phone rang. She glared at it, then picked it up grudgingly.

“Dr. Kiddy’s dental office, Gloria speaking,” she said automatically. No reply came. “Dr. Kiddy’s dental office, Gloria speaking,” she repeated, clutching the phone to her shoulder as she pulled her jacket over one shoulder. Giving it one more try, she repeated “Dr. Kiddy’s dental office, Gloria speaking.” Nothing.

She was about to hang up when a loud noise came from the receiver. She put the phone back up to her ear. “Dr. Kiddy’s dental--” A loud screech interrupted her. She dropped the phone on the desk, wincing. The screaming continued. She went to hang up, but as soon as she touched the phone, her hand was burned. She pulled it back with a yelp, staring at it with fear. She looked around the office for some assistance, but everyone was gone. She glanced at the clock. It wasn’t moving. Somehow, it had stopped at 7:06. She gasped, her heart skipping a beat, and 6:66 raced through her mind. She looked down at the phone again, and screamed wildly. What looked like bright red paint was steadily streaming from the phone, and scribbled in the paint on her desk was “6:66”.

Simon stood beside Beth as they waited for their parents to arrive. Beth was chattering happily about the stable her father had promised to build for her toy, while Simon glanced up and down the street. His mother was never late. She was always reading on the swings, for her work ended much earlier than his school day. Today, though, she had not yet arrived. He was slightly worried.

“Oh, my mom’s here!” Beth informed him. She smiled at him. “Want to come say hi to my mom, since yours isn’t here yet?”

“Yeah, okay,” said Simon is his quiet voice. He followed her over to a grey minivan.

“Mom, this is Simon, the friend I told you about, remember?” Beth said excitedly.

“Ah yes, Simon. I’ve heard a lot about you,” said the woman kindly.

“From who?” asked Simon is his lowest voice, looking a little bit confused.

“Er, from Beth,” she replied, slightly taken-aback.

“Oh,” he said. He blinked very slowly, and neither knew what to say for a long time. Beth smiled at both of them, mistakenly convinced that they were getting on rather well indeed.

“So, who is your mother?” she finally asked, looking around for someone to take the child off her hands.

“Her name is Gloria, we live next to you. She’s not here yet,” he responded solemnly. Jessika stepped back.

“Oh. You’re her child. I think it’s time you go find her now,” said the woman harshly. She guided Beth into the car, glaring back. Simon could overhear her talking as she buckled Beth into her booster seat.

“You shouldn’t talk to a child like that. He’s an illegitimate child, he comes from a bad home,” she said crossly. She then closed the side door and got into her own seat. She shot one last glare at the lonely child, standing on the sidewalk. No one else was around to make sure he arrived home safely. Without a thought regarding his well-being, she took off down the road.



It took three minutes for the police to arrive. Everyone was sure that someone had a gun to Gloria’s head, or she’d seen someone else killed, judging by the screams. They’d evacuated the building through backdoors. The police surrounded the building. Sending a group of officers to accompany the hostage negotiator, they entered. Everyone was shocked to find Gloria curled up in a ball on the floor, screaming her head off, nothing around her. One of the officers walked up to her and put a hand on her shoulder. She screamed harder.

“What’s the matter? What happened?” the officer asked urgently. Shivering, Gloria looked up, tears in her eyes.

“Six…six…six…Seventy twenty, and the blood, the red, the paint, the blood, the red, the phone…” she rambled incoherently. The officer looked up at her colleagues.

“Let’s drive her over to the hospital. I think she’s insane.”




It was getting dark. Simon was swinging alone on the creaking swing, back and forth like a metronome. His legs pumped, and he stared at the sky, wondering if he could make it home by himself. He wasn’t even sure if he knew which way it was. Sure, he’d walked to and from school many times before, but he couldn‘t recognize his surroundings in the dark. He’d swung on this swing back and forth many times that day, but he couldn’t tell you what everything around him looked like in the day time.

He began to shiver. The night air was different. It was cold, and shed an equally cold darkness across everything around. Shadows masked what would be familiar. He wondered how long he’d have to wait.

Simon slowly stopped pumping his legs, and let the swing slow until he could jump off. Grabbing his backpack, he walked over to the school and tried to open the front door. It was locked, but he could see a light on. He kept watching until he saw a janitor emerge from one of the classrooms. He knocked urgently. The janitor turned his head and saw the child with a desperate look on his face. He was beginning to shiver.

The janitor rushed to open the door for the innocent young kid. Pushing it open, he waved the kid inside, but he remained outside. The janitor stared.

“Would it be alright if I were to come in?” Simon asked politely. The janitor nodded.

“Of course, of course, come in. Why are you here?” he said worriedly.

“My mommy never came and picked me up. She does every day, but not today,” replied Simon, stepping in to the dimly lit hall. “I’m fairly convinced that something dreadful has befallen her,” he said rather maturely.

“No, don’t worry, I’m sure she’s fine,” cooed the old man, ushering the boy into a kindergarten classroom with blankets and snacks. He offered Simon a package of cookies and a juice box, which he hungrily devoured.

“Don’t say that. I’m perfectly content thinking that she’s hurt, or has run into some other emergency. Otherwise, I would feel rather upset that she had forgotten me. Besides, I know that cannot be the case, for she is entirely dedicated to serving me. I’m not really sure why,” replied Simon, crunching on an oatmeal cookie.



Gloria lay in a hospital bed, alone. Machines beeped and chirped. She knew she had to get out, she had to go find her son. She sat up slowly, just as a nurse entered the room. Her uniform was dark blue, an unexpected splash of colour in the forbiddingly harsh, stark white room. The rigid harshness of it all seemed punitive to her, as though she’d trespassed against a secret, something more than colour, and they’d replied by taking away the pleasure of appearances.

“Hello, Gloria,” the nurse said cheerily. “How are you doing?”

“I need my son,” said Gloria urgently.

“Pardon me?”

“My son. I was supposed to pick him up from school, but I…” Her voice trailed off. The nurse nodded.

“Does he have a secondary caregiver?”

“My landlady, I suppose. Or his teacher.”

“Okay, give me their names and phone numbers, please.” She took down the information and went off to look into the situation. Gloria just sat on her bed, curled up in a ball, alone. She was left with her thoughts, left with her dreams, left with her nightmares. Left alone.

Simon was sitting perfectly still in the colourful chair in the kindergarten room. The custodian had abandoned his duties to take care of the young child. The old man stared at the boy with an intense fascination. His pale face looked like the moon, with two flecks of blank grey eyes and some toy glasses supported by his nose. His white face offered a harsh contrast against his thick black hair. The black locks hung in a mushroom cut about his ears. He rested his chin against a thin arm, staring at the blackboard, wondering what had been written on it that day.

A loud noise interrupted their silence. Urgent banging came from the door which Simon has entered through. The two stood at the same time, and raced to the door. They threw it open to see Mrs. Molson standing in a large overcoat, eyes worriedly looking over Simon.

“Are you alright?” she asked, but before Simon could answer, she was already sweeping him away, saying, “Your mother is in the hospital.” She then threw back a hasty but sincere thank-you to the custodian.

Under his teacher’s arm, Simon also looked back at the janitor. “I told you it was an emergency,” he called proudly. His teacher ushered him in a brusque manner towards her car, so he didn’t have a chance to enjoy the crunching of the leaves under his feet or the gentle breeze which had started up. She left nothing to distract him, so he was forced to think of his mother, sitting alone and scared in a hospital bed.

Simon’s lonely face was just visible from the dark car, peering back at the swing set, watching his swings gently sway as though some invisible children had taken to using them. He looked almost like a ghost, looking out with sad, forlorn little eyes.



The small car rolled over potholes and smooth roads, passing dark theatres and centres bristling with life. Its headlights fell on trees and fields, roads and bridges, bars and clubs. Though it was only a twenty minute drive to the local hospital, it seemed like Simon had fallen into his afterlife, a never-ending journey. He was dangling in front of eternity like bait, and being snatched at with greedy claws. Etched on the monster’s face was infinity, the stories of everything that ever was and ever will be. His out-stretched claws were like prison bars, ready to trap any who fell prey to their vicious, sadistic confinement. His ears were tall and slender, ready to pick up your words and twist them around so they came out his mouth, melded into his rotting tongue. This infinity, he was the devil, and Simon was his bait.



When they arrived at the hospital, they were ushered into a waiting room where they remained for a long time, anxiously waiting for their identification to be checked and for forms to be filled out. Simon did not once question what had happened to her mother, if she was hurt, what condition she was in. He simply sat, ignoring the crayons and paper given to him by the attendant, staring at the stark white walls.

When they were finally let in to see Gloria, they found a bare room, perfect in its stillness, Gloria being its only blemish. She was barely visible in her pale blue robes, sitting perfectly still, her head resting on her knees, staring at her feet. Simon walked in solemnly, as though he were attending a funeral. Mrs. Molson hung back, awkwardly standing between the door and the bed. Gloria did not move as Simon somberly approached her. He stood directly in front of her. For a long time, each stared past each other, soaking in a feeling rather than visually recognizing each other. Finally, Gloria opened her lips, but did not lift her head.

They think I’m crazy. Hell, I think I’m crazy,” she said in a half-whisper. She cleared her throat a little bit. “I’m crazy, son. Your mom is crazy.”

“You’re not,” Simon assured her with the expression of a rather intelligent, strong young man, rather than a weak little boy. “You’re just seeing now, looking with more than your eyes.”

“What are you talking about?” Gloria muttered crossly.

“Don’t take the drugs, mom. Ignore the pills the doctors try to give you. Just don’t tell them what you see. Tell them you don’t see anything. Even if you see me lying dead, pretend it never happened, ignore it. Trust me.” Gloria let out the smallest of sighs, and closed her eyes. “Don’t take the drugs.”



Simon stayed in the hospital that night. He lay uncomfortably on the cold hospital bed beside his mother. He didn’t care that people may have died in that bed. He just needed to be near his mother. He knew just how much support she would need to learn to accept it all.



Before anything, it was a smell. An unfamiliar smell wrapped me up in its gentle grasp. It was nothing at first, soft, sweet. It was kind to me, and I wasn’t worried. Then it started to hold me tighter. It was like it was hugging me now, and I wasn’t worried. By the time it had begun to suffocate me, I was so wrapped up in it, I couldn’t tell myself from the smell. It covered my face, melded into my face, made new skin over the gaps so no air could enter. It even covered my skin in a light coating of scent, so even my skin couldn’t breathe. I was being pulled under, I was panicking. That’s when the real torture began. It tickled me, a slight warmth crawling up my leg. I didn’t pay attention, I was so wrapped up in the air I didn’t have. It burned the coating around my skin, then it reached me. I knew, the moment it hit my skin, that I was doomed. I knew I was on fire.

It crawled up my body with an agonizing slowness. I wanted to stop it, I wanted it to be gone, but I couldn’t stand how slowly it devoured me. I wanted to be free, or just to die. If I’d had a weapon, I’d have killed myself right then. It burned, I couldn’t stand it. I wanted so badly to pull away, but I was trapped, rooted to my place. I was coated in weights, pulling me down, keeping me from lifting my feet to run. It was more than discomfort, it was excruciating pain like I could never describe. I didn’t even know what to do with myself. I wanted to scream, but my lungs were empty. Nothing was left. It was then that my vision started getting darker. I can’t remember my last thoughts, I don’t remember it closing in, but I remember thinking that the flickering lights, visible only to me, were fading. I hoped, desperately I hoped, that the fire was leaving. I knew it wasn’t true. I could feel my face melting off, my eyes being engulfed in the flames. I was a human candle, burning, giving light and warmth to others, but suffering myself.

I was a human candle, burning.



When Gloria woke up, she immediately wanted to see her son. She went to sit up, but felt her skin crack, and fell back to her pillow with a piercing scream. A nurse came rushing in, and the scream emanating from her was even more blood-curdling than Gloria’s shriek of pain. The poor nurse never got over what she saw that day; Gloria was a corpse, a burned, black corpse. It was completely unreal. Every burn victim the nurse had ever seen was red and disgusting, but the crispy blackness that Gloria had become was like something out of a comic book. While it was not nearly so gruesome as most burns she’d seen, it was more terrifying than anything. It was like Gloria had been stolen, and replaced with the remainders of the black, burned wood from the fire.

As she would later tell her supervisors amidst tears, sobs, convulsions, and horrific flashbacks, there was no evidence that a fire had ever occurred there. Somehow, though, Gloria’s body was 80% covered in severe burns. It was a wonder she was alive. She was like a pile of soot, lying in unbearable agony on a hospital bed. They wouldn’t give her a mirror, and they wouldn’t let Simon into her room. She was almost quarantined in her room, alone, because nobody had the courage to look at her. She’d lost the sight in one eye which had burned completely out. It had been replaced with drooping black skin. Her face was so deformed, it would be very difficult for her to ever be reintegrated into society.

Worst of all, though, was the maggot bath. Gloria was sure she could have tolerated everything but for the daily maggot bath.




When they first told Gloria about the most effective procedure they could use, she almost laughed. She was sure they were joking. Such primitive medical practices couldn’t still be used in modern times. In the days when you could walk into a clinic and emerge with a new face, there couldn’t be such a thing as a maggot bath.

Gloria was afraid. They told her that maggots only ate dead skin, that nothing she needed would be taken. She almost trusted them in that, but she was still worried; she wasn’t sure if any part of her was still alive. What if they just devoured her whole? What would she have contributed to the world then? A few filled maggot stomachs? She could never leave the earth with only that.




It was two weeks after the burn. They lifted her gingerly from her bed, which had nearly become like a home to her, and put her, shivering, into an empty tub. They then brought in buckets and buckets full of maggots. She had to struggle not to throw up. Her stomach wrenched a few times, and she could taste the vomit in her throat, but she swallowed it down.

She closed her eyes, and she tried to close her senses too, as they poured the maggots over her body. It reminded her of those Halloween parties where you would close your eyes and put your hand into a bowl of food. They’d tell you that grapes were eyeballs and spaghetti was a brain. She felt like she’d plunged her hand, or her whole body, into a bowl of soft pasta. But then they started to move. She tried to remember pasta, but it was hard when little warm bodies were wriggling against her, tickling her, eating her alive. She was afraid to open her mouth to breathe, or even breathe through her nose, in case a maggot crawled inside her. Was she dead inside too?

She was being eaten alive. She would die in a bath of maggots, foretelling her death, foretelling her rotting, looking into the future and seeing the maggots crawl in her, through her. Every part of her was covered in maggots. They engulfed her, like the flames. They engulfed her and swallowed her and became her. When they were done, nothing would remain but a pile of maggots. That’s how she’d be remembered. The tabloids would eat up the story faster than the maggots ate her. She’d be in the news; not her face, but what she left behind.



It was odd for Simon to go back to school. He dragged through the halls, Beth ignorantly chattering away about her dolls and her toys and her favourite new unicorn, while he pulled himself from class to lunch and back to class again. When a teacher gave instructions, he just sat dumbly, either not comprehending the words spoken or not having the effort within himself to do the work. He was like a ghost, floating unnoticed in a timeless cell of noise and laughter, unchanging as the days crept past. His teachers didn’t seem to care, but for Mrs. Molson, who was keeping him at her house. She watched worriedly as he floated aimlessly from room to room, like a dog winding through a park to follow a trail, but never catching its prey. His eyes were slightly glazed over. He never sat down to watch TV or to do his homework, but he never did any activities either. He sort of stood in a corner, staring not quite at the wall, but past it as though more than would be expected was hidden there. It was like he wanted to scratch past the aging wallpaper to discover a treasure, but nothing of monetary value. It was like he expected to find another dimension there, some place where he could live a normal life.



Gloria’s condition had changed drastically. After that first period of time, her skin suddenly became red and raw. It was pussy and yellowing, and she became not frightening but gruesome to see. Nobody was comfortable being in the same room with her. The nurse who had first discovered her had not returned to her job, and nobody was quite sure what had become of her. It hurt Gloria to know that she had so badly damaged the young, enthusiastic woman.

Gloria’s life was a bed of nails. Lying where she was, stuck alone and forlorn in a hospital bed, she was in pain. If she tried to leave, more pain struck her, like shifting one’s weight while lying on sharp rusty old nails; not only was it physical, but she was hurt to see people wince when they saw her, or to have to look away, or to look upon her with pity, or to stare. It was horrible.

Then there was the constant fear. Every time she looked at the IV, she nearly convulsed from fear and suddenly was convinced that it was full of poison. Every part of her told her to rip it out, but she just laid back, closed her eyes tightly, and tried to imagine something better.

On one such an occasion, she laid herself down gently on her soft pillow and squeezed her deformed eyes closed. She was quickly asleep, her tired, broken body falling rather limp.



Everything was dark. I remember how black it all was, and how I couldn’t tell whether my eyes were opened or closed. A dim light then flickered on, buzzing faintly. I’m not sure how it was turned on when nothing was around. My eyes slowly looked around. I noticed that my skin was its pale, golden colour. I wasn’t burnt; I was normal again, even for a brief moment. Then I noticed what was on my skin; centipedes were crawling up my arms. I could feel every leg sticking lightly to my skin, then ripping gently off and sticking back down again. Then the grasshoppers crawled across my face, plastering their painfully sticky legs to me. One crawled across my eye, and I shut my eye and screamed silently as its leg went into the white of my eye. Out from my mouth flew a moth, and when I went to close my mouth again in shock, it crunched down on many different kinds of beetles, their hard exoskeletons crunching under my teeth. Lice crawled in my hair; I could feel them biting the back of my head. Mosquitoes bit my arms and legs, and I wanted nothing more than to scratch the tiny bites, but my arms were tied down. Spiders crawled across my small fingers, tickling me but terrifying me at the same time. Red ants bit my bare toes, and when I wiggled them in pain, they panicked and bit me further, making my feet burn. I was already gagging and convulsing when I looked up and saw the bees. A swarm of bees flew right at me, landing all across my bare body. My mind could barely comprehend out terrified I was. My eyes were twitching uncontrollably as the bees wiggled across me, their small bodies wriggling in a sort of dance across my skin, covered in goose bumps. Oh, how I was afraid.



Gloria woke up from her nightmare sweating. Every second of it was so real, so very real. She could almost feel the crawling, everything still crawling on her. It was like her mind was playing on her greatest fears; her son being hurt, the Devil, fire, and now insects. Some force that knew her inside and out was destroying her from the inside, and she didn’t know how to stop it. Desperately looking to the ceiling, tears welled up in her remaining eye. “Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Just tell me, Jesus, and I’ll do whatever you ask,” she thought desperately.

She was an old Catholic, and pulling out the old rosary that she kept in her bible on the bedside table, she began to say her prayers. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee,” she whispered with conviction in her voice. “Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the our of our death. Amen.” She then moved to the next bead, and began to repeat her prayer again, this time in Latin. “Ave María, grátia plena, Dóminus tecum. Benedícta tu in muliéribus, et benedíctus fructus ventris tui, Jesus. Sancta María, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatóribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostræ. Amen.”

For hours, she prayed to the Mother of God to help her. She prayed for life, she prayed for death, she prayed for anything which might free her from her Hell. She lost her voice, and kept mouthing the words like a song with lyrics that would free her from her pain. She never skipped a beat, the prayer hydrating her as though she’d fallen into an oasis in the desert. She just hoped with every fibre of her being that the oasis was not an illusion caused by hallucinations, as everything else seemed to be.



Simon had always had his problems; he had always been rather subdued, passive, and anti-social. He showed many tendencies of high-functioning Aspbergers syndrome; splinter skills in math and literacy, obsessive compulsions, anti-social tendencies, and a certain level of separation from the rest of the world. However, since the incident, he’d been so much more so, it was like there was nothing alive in his pale little shell. He was just a shell, an exoskeleton with no living creature inside, a skin that was shed by a snake for being to small. Mrs. Molson would spend hours talking to him, and he would just stare. Sometimes it would make her cry just to see him being so separated. She brought him to every kind of specialist after consultations with his mother over the phone. She had agreed to have him tested for various problems; perhaps he was hard of hearing, or mute, or unable to make connections from his senses to his brain? Every doctor returned him from his tests with a puzzled expression. Every test showed him to be fine, but he wasn’t responding. They even tested for ALS, to see if maybe he just couldn’t make connections, but he tested negative. Nothing physical was wrong with him. He had just shut off, tuned out everything else. He stopped going to school, he was barely sleeping, he wouldn’t eat. He just stood and stared, like a china doll with a painted, expressionless face. Nothing went on behind those painted eyes.



Months passed. Simon had spent them staring and standing. Mrs. Molson was frustrated to the point of tears. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t have legal custody of the child, so it was just luck that kept him from being sucked into the system and lost in a world of foster homes and papers, of waiting to be claimed by his mother. The old woman had given him everything she had. She’d spent all she had on tests, but every doctor found him to be fine. An asylum offered to take him in, but she had outright refused. She couldn’t think of her bright pupil as being crazy. It broke her enough to think he was just temporarily frozen.

As for Gloria, things were getting better. She still had her visions which terrified her beyond explainable emotion, but she had learned not to tell the doctors, so they found her to be improved. One day when her new nurse came in to change her bed, she gave her exciting news. “You’ll be allowed home in a week. One week and you’ll see your son. One week.”

Gloria had been preparing since. Any time she wasn’t packing, she was praying that she would reach the day when she could go home. Every night, she crossed off a day on the horse calendar above her bed. She wondered how Simon was doing, and how her friends from work were doing, and how Simon was doing. Oh, she had missed her son so much that she couldn’t bear it. Every night, she would lay awake with an aching heart, wondering how he was doing in school, and whether he had many friends, and every sort of thing a mother could wonder about her son.

The day finally came. She was entirely wrapped in gauze so that nobody would see her deformed appearance. The nurse rolled her wheelchair into the elevator, and said “You’ll have to take it from here. Good luck,” with a friendly smile. Gloria thanked her, and the elevator door closed, a smiling face waving until the last second. Sitting in the dark elevator, her stomach rushed as the elevator began to descend to the lobby. She knew she’d be back almost daily for check-ups, but it didn’t matter. The chance to sleep in her own bed in her own apartment was such a great thought. She knew she still had the terrifying visions, but she couldn’t care. Her freedom, at least the freedom of her environment, was being granted. She felt like a genie released from its lamp after being confined for thousands of years. She wasn’t sure, though, what wishes she would have to grant, or whether her release was permanent.

Suddenly, the elevator stopped. Gloria expected the doors to open and wheeled herself forward, but nothing happened. The lights began to buzz and flicker. Then they simultaneously turned off, leaving her trying not to scream in the dark. “It’s another dream, another nightmare,” she said to herself with confidence. She closed her eye and tried to think about her son, but was distracted. At first, she didn’t know what it was that kept her from her thoughts, but as the sound grew louder, she suddenly knew it. A low scream was echoing through the elevator shaft. From against the outside walls of the elevator, Gloria heard scratching. It was gentle at first, but it grew to be quite violent, angrily trying to crash through the wall and get at her. It was getting closer and closer to its target; the scratching grew to be so rapid and hard that it was inhuman. It must be a machine. Maybe they were doing renovations on the elevator, and had accidentally hit a cord. The power would be on in any second once they realized their mistake, she was sure. She patiently sat in the dark until she heard the metal on her left side breaking. Her initial judgement was right; something had been trying to get in. She couldn’t see through the blackness, but she felt talons tightly gripping her wounded flesh. The talons, or maybe claws, gripped her shoulder tightly and painfully. She started to scream. For help, out of pain, she wasn’t sure. She just needed to scream.

“Why won’t you remember?” came a strong voice. She started, having not expected such an earthly tone. “Remember me. I need you to. Remember me. Forgive me. Forgive yourself.”



Next she knew, she was back in the hospital bed. Her freedom hadn’t even taken her out of the building. So her freedom was an illusion after all; three wishes granted to some third party, and she was confined again.



“Why the hell is this happening? I can’t remember anything in between; my life is just jumping from one horror to the next, like a movie I can’t pause,” she thought to herself. Bitterly, “I don’t even get popcorn.”

Gritting her teeth, she felt hot breath beside her ear. It reminded her too much of her whoring days, how every man liked to think he was special. This is where the dream began, and she knew it; she felt herself being torn unceremoniously away from her conscious mind and plunged haphazardly into her dream, into her memory.

It wasn’t like she’d never done it before; the beating of two hearts together, and the grimace that appeared to the customer as a smile. To them, every moment was pleasure, something special. To her, every moment was another breath closer to her paycheque, and another moment closer to the day when she’d die. Gloria had never meant to get caught up in all this; she’d always wanted it to be special, and she’d never wanted to need it like she did now. It used to be a big deal, but now it was a nightly job. She was never really focused on her duties, just what it lead to; another paycheque, another fix.



This particular man was extremely submissive. He let her sit atop him, thrusting as hard as she could, shaking the bed. She’d conquered many people in this room, people of all kinds. Why shouldn’t she? She came with the room, she was an accessory…no, she was part of the room. Which was the real her? She could no longer tell the paint on the walls from the paint on her nails. When did the curtains end, and her hair begin? The covers on the bed were just her clothes; she didn’t care if they were wrinkled, she didn’t care if they were on or off.

She suddenly heard a watch alarm go off. She was startled by the noise, as she’d hardly been paying attention. She pulled herself away from the man and crawled off the bed. “Time’s up,” she growled in her scratchy voice. He put on a pout.

“Just a few more minutes for your favourite customer?” he asked sweetly, fluttering his lashes grotesquely in an attempt to seduce her, to cheat her out of her money. She had to concentrate her effort into not snorting. She was in complete control of her sexual attractions. She didn’t need it for anything but the pay.

“Blink as much as you like, sweetie. Just raise the tip, and I’ll deliver,” she thought as she crawled back over in her most seductive way. As though he were reading her mind, he grabbed a $50 from the wallet on the nightstand.

“Will this get me another half hour?”

“Nice try. More like another ten minutes,” she cooed, giving him a luscious kiss to make up for her high fare. He shrugged his shoulders as she wrapped herself around his disgustingly sweaty body. “The next fix, remember the next fix…”

(Please comment if you read this! I know it isn't very good, so I need some pretty harsh critiques to make it better. I need this to be good! If you have any suggestions, please comment.)