An old story. Just throwing it on here. Mannnnnn it sucks.

One







A seven year old girl staggered down a lonely street. The buildings around her were crumbled, and dust flew up at her bare heels. She coughed lightly as dust entered her lungs. Her straggly blonde hair masked the beauty that she might have had. Her full, large eyes seemed dull, their warm grey-blue colour faded. All she wore was a brown sack, her feet bare and rough. She was of fair skin beneath the sack, but her shoulders were darkly tanned from the sun, her face burned pink along her nose and cheeks. She looked with worried eyes for any source of food, or something else that she ached for with emptiness equal to the hollowness of her stomach, companionship.
The lone girl sat suddenly down on the stone street. She pulled one knee to her chest, and sat for a while staring blankly at the sky. She couldn’t stop the tears from clouding her eyes, but she could stop them from spilling over, and staining her face. In fact, she’d not allowed those tears to boil over in years. Her face grew pink as she stood and walked on.
The heat coming from the dark red sky was excruciating. Starting, she looked back into the sky, really focusing on it for the first time. Its usual colours of black and smoky grey were gone, leaving nothing but crimson to compliment the clouds. She tugged absentmindedly at the black ribbon tied to her wrist as she scanned the sky, and photographed it with her eyes to recall later. As her eyes studied the sky, her gaze fell upon an inviting, if not empty and unused house. Weakly walking towards it, her eyes fell upon a small patch of grass. Pouncing hungrily on it, she pulled the plants up by the roots and shoved them into her mouth with her small, grubby fist. Her fingernails were long, cracked, and caked with dirt like the rest of her. Her feet were black at the bottoms, and even her ears were clogged with dust so that she could barely hear.
After her short meal, she stood, her attention on the house who provided her the shade she admired as she had been eating. Automatically, she went towards the door. She pushed it, and it fell easily, dust flying up. She coughed for a minute, but put her hand over her mouth to quiet it. She continued to cough as she stepped over the threshold and entered the dark shady structure.
She saw some odd objects lying this way and that. Touching one, she read through her mind that it was called a ‘couch‘. Touching the objects collectively, she discovered that they were called ‘furniture’. Touching one thing on its face at the back of the room, she read “Bookshelf”. Lifting the thing with her thin, yet strong arms, she discovered what looked like a small box. Her perceptive thoughts picked up that it was a ‘book’. Opening the funny box, she saw odd designs on the little pieces of paper that stuck out from the hinges. Her mind read the odd designs, and she assigned each word to a design. This was a story, and she was reading it! She sat for hours, and by the time she stood to leave, she had learned entirely to read, without using her mind.
Too excited to explore the rest of the house, she left again. Her mind raced restlessly as she walked with the book clutched close to her heart. The dusty old book of stories was already her favourite possession. It was the first time she’d actually cried in years, and her face was heavily streaked with dirt to prove it. She hadn’t cried since the night that--
She fell over backwards s she walked right into a wall of debris. She sighed, weary of the world. There was obviously no way around it, so she resigned herself to climbing it. Coughing, she found places for her hands, and pulled herself up. Her leg flailed as she tried to find a place for it. Finding each foot a place to land, she threw up her hands and pulled herself. Her face grew red and hot from the effort. She kept her precious new book clenched between her teeth. The sun beat on her, and the fact that she hadn’t drank anything in three days seemed to be catching up with her. She grew dizzy. The book fell from her grasp, and her last thought before she lost consciousness was “Look, Mom. The ground is coming up to meet me.”



I hide in fear. All around me, silent crying makes me shiver. I’m hidden, covered by mother’s body. Suddenly, a dangerous wave, nearly visible, but more easily sensed, sweeps over us. My mother, who had been clutching me tightly, suddenly lets go. I merely shrink further beneath her shadow. I can see myself shaking, but can’t feel it. I can’t feel anything, as I almost lift away from my body, but manage to shift eerily between more than one world that I can understand. Soon, all my senses come back to me, and everything feels normal again. I look up to my mother, weeping with happiness, my hair falling messily in front of my face as I smile stupidly.
“We lived, mama. We lived.” I look at her face, asking her why she won’t open her eyes, assuring her that it’s over, that we somehow managed to survive. I grab her cold hand, and furrow my eyebrows.
“Mother,” I demand, “stop being so lazy!” Still, she does not stir, and I grow worried. “Mother, why won’t you wake? Mother? Mother!” It hits me slowly, and I think that it isn’t possible that it’s true. I look over at my sister, who’s cold, white face is sticking out from under my mother’s arm where she’d stuck her head out to look around just before it all happened. Suddenly, a wail bursts out from me. I weep and weep, screaming “Mama! Lily! Mama! Lily!” again and again, bruised from their deaths, weak from the war. Suddenly, a furious man walks in the door.
“Papa!” I scream, as I stand to meet him. He throws me down, a panicked look on his face, and I cry out in pain and shock. He walks over to my mother and sister and stabs them repeatedly, then turns to me with his knife, crazed fear in his eyes, and runs at me fiercely. Jumping away and screaming, I hurtle myself out the door, and run until my eyes go black and I fall to the ground.




A shiver flew threw the girl’s body as she sat up. The cold of the night was not lost on her. Shivering, she pulled the dusty old blanket tighter around her, trying to keep all the old air from entering. Slowly gathering her senses, she suddenly felt her dry, cracked throat, and stood to get water, letting the blanket fall. Her legs now long, she was actually a very pretty young woman. Her eyes were an unforgiving blue, her face pink, but somehow not freckled. Her entire body was very tan, for she’d long given up seeking refuge under any garments. She knew she would never meet another human, and the damned Soldiers, as she still called them, wouldn’t hesitate in killing her any longer just because of her attire. No, she knew that she was in an unforgiving land, and she didn’t bother to try appealing to it. Her hair was very dry, and a halo of frizz was constantly visible.
The girl was not young any more. No longer was she weak. She had grown cold, and cynical. She was bored with everything, and didn’t even enjoy life any more. She lived for nothing but the hope of survival for her race, not herself. She knew she had no chance at happiness, not after all that had happened. If she ever managed to achieve her goals, she’d probably let herself go soon after. The world wouldn’t need her after that, and she certainly would need the world. Twelve years had passed, and she was now 19 years old. She didn’t know that, having not kept track of the days, but she estimated something about seventeen, which wasn’t too far off.
She impatiently blew the hair went halfway down her back away from her face as she walked outside of the old building she often chose to live in. She hadn’t found anything sharp enough to cut it with for ages, and it didn’t bother her too much, so she left it. She walked around the old city, looking for anything that might hint at a source of water. She didn’t need to lubricate her throat to talk; no, she hadn’t spoken in years, and really couldn’t think of a need to. There was no one left.
No one left. The thought was always hanging in her mind, often hidden by others, but always there. There were the Soldiers in Black, but what good were they? Until she had learned more about them, she couldn’t approach them, and she couldn’t approach them until she learned more about them. She’d chased herself in circles with this dilemma for years, trying to find out how she’d ever break free of it, but at the moment, she really didn’t care. Her thirst was more important than her sanity.
The night hid the usual orange haze that hung over everything. Plant life was still seldom seen, water was unable to accumulate under the ground. Chemicals kept everything still and dead, chemicals that had silenced the rest of the world, chemicals that should have killed her, too. Throwing the thought violently from her mind, she began to rub her head. There was a sharp pain just above her eye.
It had been longer than usual since her last food. She was weak, and soon began to grow dizzy as she walked through the streets. Perhaps it was her perceptive thoughts, perhaps it was imagination, but for as long as she could remember, she’d called the place The City of the Mires. She had no idea what a Mire was, but it just seemed to fit. The place was her castle; she went anywhere she wanted, owned anything she touched, ate anything she found. It wasn’t as though anyone else would ever need anything from here. Her favourite place to stay was the library, where she learned things she needed to know with ease. When she was around thirteen, she had scraped her leg terribly, and had found information on healing in the library. It was her sanctuary, the one place she still had left to feel happy in. She especially loved reading the stories about people in a better world doing exciting things. She’d even started writing her own stories, though they weren’t very good.
She staggered slightly as her feet, heavily dragging along the stones, caught on the ground. Finally stumbling to her knees, she looked up to the heavens and prayed. All those heavy thoughts that held her back, she released into the heavens. There was really nothing to keep her here; the land was bare, there was no hope of helping anyone here, and she certainly didn’t have enough food. Yet she’d stayed, stayed for all these years, picking the grass that occasionally grew, drinking the water that was likely tainted with disease that she was somehow immune to, reading the books in the old places. Nothing but a sickening, needy sentimentality kept her here, and she was ashamed. She’d walked to the city borders before, and tried to step out, but had felt nauseous as soon as she even started to lift her foot.
The very thought of her neediness for this place was what drilled into her mind as she finished her prayer. Neediness, she thought to herself angrily, is the reason for it. I don’t even know why! It isn’t like I’d ever been here before the apocalypse, it was after that I stumbled on the place. Suddenly feeling attached to it, almost dutiful to it, it’s sickening. I hate this needy body, this needy heart of mine. If only I could leave them behind and let my own thoughts soar… She sighed heavily and stood, rolling her neck. It was stiff, likely from her awkward sleeping position. She’d been having that terrible nightmare again; the one where she was forced to endure all that old pain again. She’d woken up very sore, as though she’d really been in a painful place during her sleep. She shook her head angrily and continued looking for grass.
Finally spotting a patch of about 20 blades, she walked steadily towards it. Her hunger had increased during her walk, and she considered the option of just letting herself die once again. She clenched her fists against her eyes, and sat down growling. Why had it been her? If she hadn’t been the one true human, she wouldn’t be having to save herself to save her race. She’d be able to experience the final escape.
What a spoiled thing I am, she thought to herself in a self-hating tone. All I ever think about is myself. What I need to eat, why I need to eat it… I’m sure others would have it worse, if they existed.
Reaching for the grass, she slowly savoured each blade, chewing them slowly and caressing them with her tongue. She gently sucked the sweet juice from the root, and chewed the green with passion. Opening her eyes after finishing her short delight, she spotted something she’d not seen in years; a dandelion, a precious, delicious treat. She clapped her hands like a child and memorized the spot. Right now, she didn’t need food, just water. Scraping through the dirt where the grass had been, she soon felt mud beneath her fingers. She pulled out clumps of mud at a time, and sucked the moisture out of each one. Digging deeper still, she felt an actual pool of water, just sitting, waiting for her. Throwing her face greedily into the hole, she began to lap up the water in a shameful manner, like a disgusting pet would have in an earlier time. Her curls falling all around her shoulders, a slight smile crept across her naturally pink lips. She’d not seen this much water in a very long time. She reached in to see how deep it went, and found to her ecstasy that she could not feel the bottom, even with her long arm entirely submerged. Jumping up, completely refreshed, she ran with deliverance towards the library where she usually slept. Curling back under an old window curtain, she forgot the cold that still surrounded her, and slept with pleasant dreams.

Light poured spitefully in, heating the stone that the young woman lay on. She groaned angrily as it flooded through her closed eyelids, so all she could see was red. The air around her had transformed in a short time from the frigid night to the hazy morning. The familiar orange glow of the land had once again stained the shelves that the books lay on. As the light stole away her peace, the woman kicked fitfully. A very small, rare grin spread across her unexercised cheeks. She began to pick herself up, slowly pushing herself from the ground. Though she’d eaten just the previous night, she found herself craving the dandelion she’d saved. Denying herself the food, she decided to just have a sip from her new watering hole, and then explore the new area she’d discovered the entrance to the other day.
The woman ambled casually down the stony path. Her arms swung naturally at her ides, her bare wrists brushing against her exposed upper thighs. She glanced warily at the buildings around her, as the path grew more shadowy, and the buildings less familiar. An air of doom surrounded her, and she shivered despite the heat. Eventually the shadows and the darkness became so intimidating that she wondered how she’d managed to walk the path before. Her breath started to come quicker, and far more shallow. Finally, she burst into a frantic run, scrambling along the uneven stones.
Suddenly, the side of her foot caught among the treacherous stones, and she was violently thrown to her knees and palms, her ankle twisting among the rocks.
She’d opened her mouth to shout as an instinct, but nothing came out. Despite her pain as she gently pulled her foot out of its trap, she began to test her vocal abilities, surprised at her inability to speak. She sat , trying to yell, for several minutes, but nothing came out. With a slight sniff, she stood slowly, balancing herself on her one foot. Testing her pain, she rested her foot on the ground, and pushed herself with it onto her other foot. Finding it bearable, she limped down the street in the dark. She knew she’d seen a split of light. There! If she turned her head just so, she could see it in the distance, just a sliver of it. Limping as quickly as she could, she threw herself to the wall of the building, and used it to push herself along.
Suddenly, the blackness broke, and she was faced with a bright, blaring place. She gasped in the light, trying to keep the breath she’d somehow lost. The sky was different, light blue, with sun streaming helpfully in. The girl blinked heavily.
There was an air of difference about the place. It was not normal, not the same as what lay behind her, or perhaps what lay behind her was not the same as this. Though strange to her, it seemed eerily normal.
She stepped cautiously forward, limping sideways in a pathetic manner. She was sure this couldn’t be the place she’d witnessed only days earlier; from the darkness and unfamiliarity behind her, the green hills in front of her, it didn‘t seem right. Nothing was the same. Looking closely at the odd, green ground, it appeared to be grass. Grass, everywhere, not even eaten up, left all to her! Reaching down for it, the moment her hand touched where the ground should have been, where she should have felt the tickle of grass, everything around her disappeared. Behind her, a more familiar street of her own city lay, not in the complete darkness of before. In front of her, she saw what looked to be a giant city, with metal where she’d only seen stone before.
The building reached a frightening level; she was sure that they were pushed through the clouds which seemed white in the still blue sky. Limping towards the closest building, she felt a different, smoother sensation beneath her feet. Where the stones should be, there were large, hard, rocky slabs, all uniformly pressed into the earth. When she finally reached a building, her soft hand reached out for it, and let its cool metal burn into her as she caressed it, letting the smoothness absorb her. She soon threw her face and body against the wall, glad for the cooling sensation that it gave her. She closed her eyes, enjoying her peace, until a sudden noise made her jump. She was not used to noise coming from anywhere but her, and it scared her into falling to her knees, crouching forlornly against the metal, welcoming the shadows. When nothing moved, she eventually came out from her hiding spot, venturing cautiously into the city. It was a complex place; where dusty orange houses would stand, shining metal towers stood before her. The girl found herself wondering where anyone might have slept around here; there were no usual doors, but ones made of glass or material too heavy to be easily pushed or pulled. Most places that she was used to didn’t even have doors, and one could simply walk in. It gave her shivers to think that there might be more odd places like this in the world.
As she walked, she barley looked down, staring up at the intense sky. When an oddly flesh coloured thing was caught in her peripheral view, she looked down with curiosity embedded in her features. A foot, much like her own, stuck out from behind a building. She saw a white piece of cloth come flying suddenly from the alley ahead of her that the foot was sticking rudely out from, and ran to catch it as it fluttered patiently in the breeze. Catching the thing by its corner, she pulled it close to her and hugged it against her naked bosom, feeling its soft texture compliment that of her own skin.
Hearing another rustle behind her, she realized with sudden enthusiasm that she’d quite finished her adventure for the day, and, cloth in hand, scrambled back to her familiar lands.

Back in the sun, she stood on the road beside the dandelion, looking down to admire herself. She’d somehow recognized the white cloth as a garment, and slipped it easily over her dark shoulders. It hung loosely on her, elegantly draped across her deathly thin figure. Beneath the dress, her shrunken breasts drooped pathetically. The skin on her stomach hung as loosely as the dress on her petite bones. Her fingernails were white with malnutrition, her breath smelled from lack of hygiene. Still, as she stood there on that hazy afternoon, dust flying about her, she looked at herself and her world in a different light. She felt oddly grateful for the imaginary water that appeared to lay in the distance, caused by the sun’s rays. She was grateful, too, for the shade that the buildings around her gave.
Clutching the new dress eagerly at her sides, she began to dance. At first, it was stiff, but began to slowly flow, and she spread across the street in her mad dance, like a little girl who is certain that every eye is on her.













































Two





Several days had passed, and the dress was already yellowing from the dust that hung over everything. The girl was sitting luxuriously beside the pond, chewing on the dandelion, and reading a book. There wasn’t a moment that she didn’t savour the delicious, milky taste of the dandelion, and not a moment that she didn’t recognize that there were things in there vital to her health. She proudly imagined various scenarios where she could be; chewing on a delicious piece of a meal as she read in sunlight that didn’t burn, or perhaps watching someone dancing on elevated ground.
The hours ticked by as she sat in silent perfection, allowing the shadows of the day to pass over her with confidence. Her eyes squinted furiously in an instinct to keep her eyes from the pain of the light. Eventually, she grew far too warm, and walked into a nearby building, lazily dragging her feet.
She fell into an old, dusty sofa, sneezing, and then lying still, waiting for the dust to settle. She continued to read there, for she was entirely caught up in the story that her eyes had been passing over for the last few hours. She was oddly bored, though, and was almost desperate for anything to do. Nothing ever happened to her, the days just slowly dragged past as she struggled to keep herself from sinking into an inescapable hatred for everything. Nothing was there to keep her amused, and she sometimes, like now, wanted to break down and cry for lack of anything to do. She wanted to just cry, to just let everything out, but she couldn’t find it in herself to let anything go like that. She was too worked up about everything to forget, but it had lingered too long to be hot enough to ignite a dark flame. Every single moment was becoming another, and she knew that she’d wasted her life thus far, that there was nothing keeping the time from passing as she sat there on that cool sofa, wasting the world’s life.
As she sat, allowing the nothingness around her to once again sweep her off her feet, the girl began to wiggle her toes. There was a certain beat to it, and it went to a tune that she never knew she’d heard, which was running graciously through her head. This odd mental sound, this music, it was strange to her. She’d not heard music since her father used to come in to her bedroom and tuck her in bed, wrapping her up in her blanket like a cocoon. He would sit on the side of her bed and bounce up and down, causing her to bounce as well. Then he’d gently sing a song, and steel away. She remembered it with great fondness, and a sudden unexpected tear came to her eye. Impatiently sniffing and blinking it back, she stood to leave. The small room and the old couch was making her nostalgic, something she hated to be. In a desperate attempt to distract herself, she rashly decided to walk back to the city.
She was too upset, for a reason that she couldn’t understand, to really even notice where she was going. She managed to make it to the intimidating land, and with adrenaline as well as fear, forgot her previous worries, just as she had intended.
She found another of the cold, metal walls, and flung herself against it. Remembering her dress, she turned to face a large glass slab embedded in the wall. Vaguely able to see herself, she merely assumed that she was beautiful, because there was nobody around to judge her appearance anyways. While she was often depressed by her own loneliness, she sometimes would have a shot of optimism, and would, for a short while, enjoy life just a little bit.

Weird um rape story thing? :(

Grasping furiously at the directions on brilliant white sheet, the small and delicate digits of the infant flexed and stretched. Testing boundaries like a fly tests its ability to fly away from a spider‘s web. Too late, child. You’re on your way to development, to growth, you’ll soon be in as wretched a place as I, thought Milaenie viciously. The soft, forgiving baby grabbed her hand comfortingly. She slapped the hand away. The baby scrunched up its pudgy face and wrapped its tiny fingers around Milaenie‘s larger one. She grabbed the babies hand and squeezed, crushing the glass bones. The baby screamed in terror and pain.

Shut up, Milaenie commanded fiercely in her mind. She didn’t open her mouth, though. She preferred using her actions to get her way; she slapped the baby’s warm face. The baby cried harder. She’d read posters before about kids who shook babies, and they ended up disabled. She decided she ought to give it a try. She knew it would shut the kid up for a moment, at least. Grabbing the baby angrily by the shoulders, the tips of her thin fingers digging into its squishy flesh, she shook the kid as hard as she could. The baby’s head violently shook forward and back. There was a crack as the baby’s tiny neck broke. Milaenie sighed. Wasted use of a body, she complained silently as she tossed the body to the corner of the dirty tile floor, into a pile of used old needles.

Walking to the kitchen drawer, she searched for a sharp object. Didn’t these people own any scissors? Finally, she found an exact-o-knife beside a few butter knives. She pulled off the cap and put the blade to her own smooth skin. She used to care where she cut, not wanting anyone to find the scars, but it didn’t matter anymore. Who would care?

Yes she felt remorse. She cut once, shallow. She didn’t want the kid to die! She cut again, deep. It was better than the life the kid would have had. She dug the sharp blade far into her wrist. She loved the kid, damnit! She loved her baby, she wanted a good life for her baby, and what better life than none at all! She cut a last time, almost into her muscle, twisting the blade into her skin. Stumbling over to the kitchen’s medicine cabinet, blood pouring from her arm, she found a bottle or two of acetaminophen, some ibuprofen, other unnamed drugs. She poured them all down her throat, swallowing dry, letting them stick uncomfortably in her throat. At least 40 pills. She walked to the corner and carefully picked up the discarded body, her own blood staining the innocent kid’s sweet, pale skin. She stumbled out of the small apartment, fell to her knees, crawled in the grass. Had to find a destination, had to find a place to die. Fell to her face. Baby crushed beneath her. White, then black, then blank. So tired. She was blind. Oh, the release…



Everything was white. Ceiling, walls, white. Her head was pounding like it never had before. Was she still alive? God forbid. Was she in hell? Better than life. Anything was. But no. As days, weeks, time passed on, waves of movement and sound crashed upon her consciousness, sliding away before anything could register. Voices casually discussed her survival chances, monitors beeped. So she must be alive.

How? How? Oh God, how? Who would pay for her medical bills? She sure as hell wouldn’t. She knew she had to grip herself. She had to find consciousness. She had to wake up.

Wake up.

Wake up!

She forced her eyes open, slowly. A nurse (white, wearing white, light hair, where were the shadows in her pale face, in the pale room?) was tending to her. Her light eyes looked surprised to see a conscious Milaenie. She quickly bustled out of the room. Yes. Leave. I’m awake, now it’s okay to leave. Vicious, of course. It all was, everything in her head.

The nurse came back with a white doctor. Dear God, what she’d have done for a crack of colour, for a shadow, for a fucking rainbow! He walked over to her. Shined bright light in her eyes. Milaenie’s heart raced, she winced like hell, she flipped herself over and shoved her face in one pillow, put the other over her head, hid. What the hell had he done while she was asleep! Imprints from the many fingers that had caressed her over the weeks of coma and near-consciousness angrily shoved into her mind. She shivered and held herself for comfort for a moment. Let go. She wasn’t exactly gold-star companion.

She could hear the white doctor talking to her. Could hear, understand his words, but it took conscious effort. It had never taken effort to understand before. She was so detached, she couldn’t comprehend without thinking. The white doctor stood beside the white nurse, sat down comfortingly on the white bed, rubbed his hand comfortingly on her white, white back. She slapped his hand away, pushed him away, flailed, screamed a wordless note. Get your white ass away from me! She was screaming inside. Shrieked outside. Gasping. Fearing. Oh God, not again, not again.

The doctor must have been a little bit stunned. The obvious didn’t occur to him. Before the more intuitive nurse could stop him, his white hand reached again for Milaenie as he asked her name. Milaenie thrashed and shivered and shook and flailed and screamed without words. Get away, get away!
The nurse whispered something to the doctor. Milaenie didn’t see him nod, didn’t see him leave the room, heard him. The door was closed. Footsteps, close, someone was still inside. White nurse inside, get away! Men were bad, but women were guilty too. Everyone, god damned humanity was guilty! Headache.

Nurse sat down, far end of the room, kept her distance. Good. She’d better. Quietly talked about counselling offered by the hospital for rape victims. Rape. Rape. Rape. Rape. Get the damn word out of my head! My fault. Naïve. I’m naïve. I trusted, I was naïve. Didn’t talk, was raped so many times, wanted out. Offered help. Taken to a new country. Raped there, too. Prostitute. Oh God, oh God, why didn’t I die? I want to die! Let me die!

The white nurse noticed the lack of response. Walked over, looked her in the eye. Milaenie retreated into her pillows again. Here to help, help, help, said the nurse. Here to help, help, help, the man had said. Then he sold her as a fucking slave. She didn’t need help from anyone. She just wanted to caress her baby. Leave with her baby.

Oh shit. The fucking baby. Her fucking baby. She killed her fucking baby! Wail, wail, she let out a wail like a baby herself. White jumps back. Baby, baby, where were the babies?

Where was she? Did they find the baby? In her arms, found, of course. Who brought her here? Why? Normal hospital? In a prison?

Where am I?

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.)