It seemed like eons passed before I finally woke. Morning had broken, and the light turned the nightmarish terrain behind us into a visual paradise, but the path we came on was nowhere to be seen. I looked around for the one I’d been hanging on to for dear life and found her standing close behind me. She smiled and stuck out her hand.
“Hi, I’m Truth.”

“I don’t know if I can take any more of this,” he said aloud to the mirror. The mirror just stared at him. What the hell.

Travis looked around. There was a mirror here, and nothing else. Just white for as far as the eye could see, but it was all so white he couldn’t even tell how far that was. Could be three feet or three miles. The mirror wasn’t very personable and there wasn’t anyone else around. But it was better than nothing. The never-ending expanse of nothingness invaded his thoughts and he had to focus on the mirror to stay sane. Look at the mirror.

“Hello,” the mirror said. So much for sanity.

“Hi.”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” the mirror screamed.

“It was a fucking beautiful day before you started on me,” Travis muttered, and  lapsed into furious silence as the mirror started fading, the white becoming darker as the mirror got further away. Finally, it was pitch black and he could see and hear nothing. The silence was deafening. He screamed and heard nothing, beat himself with his fists and felt nothing. Existence, it seemed, had stayed with the mirror. At least it was peaceful here.

“Hello,” said the darkness.

In retrospect, I actually don’t know exactly where I went wrong. Somewhere along the line, I must have taken a wrong turn or two to land myself so directly in this position, completely opposite to where I started out. I thought I was right then, and I think I’m right now. But who even knows? Who even cares? Who are the bad guys, who are the good guys? Who judges what ends justify which means and if how you do something is more important than getting it done right? I could have started out that way. Maybe it just took a while to finally manifest, cut through the clutter and confusion to find the truth that was always really there. Whatever the path was, it lead me here to this moment.

Speaking of which, focusing might be a good idea right now.

“We seem to have a bit of a problem,” you say coolly. I could throttle you, but I smile instead.

“So it seems.”

Problem indeed. How could one possibly hold so much power and yet be so intensely powerless? Kind of like back when we were in high school. I held your hand and you held mine in the good old summertime, but when the shady lanes turned to dark alleys, your hands were stiff and cold. Opportunities come and gone.

“You know, at some point you’re going to have to make a decision.”

“I know.”

God, it’s cold out. Never mind this jacket, the one you got for my birthday last year. Seems like a century ago now with all that’s happened since then. I mean, you can come to expect change, but soon it starts coming at you fast and hard and rolling with the punches isn’t as easy as it had been. Reflexes slow and bad decisions come with them if you’re not careful. Guess I wasn’t careful enough. Never asking questions, taking you at your word, now those — those were mistakes. Makes me wonder, if the close few were actually the furthest, then what could I expect from the others?

There’s really only one way out of this.

“Allie?”

“Yeah.”

“How are those fingers holding up?”

“Interesting choice of phrase.”

“Just checking.”

Silence again. However this turns out, that was our last fight. Like I haven’t heard that one before.

“Allie?”

“What?”

- Exasperated.

“I’m really sorry about what I said.”

A brief silence.

“So am I.”

“I’m going to go now. ”

“No, you’re not.”

“I love you, Allie.”

“I know.”

A bitter laugh finds its way out of my throat.

“All right, then. This is the way it is.”

I’m not sure what to think as the bullets pass through my chest, throwing me to the floor. Even the smallest decisions, you say, make and break the world. With the last bit of energy, I look up at you, smiling. One world broken, the last one crumbling. One word comes out, but my last words were never spoken.

I never meant to forget. It was out of my power to control the events of that day; the last words I forgot being the harshest, the cruelest. I’m sorry that when I went for that drive two years ago, to clear my head, I left you without apologizing. I just want you to know that you meant, mean everything to me and the times we had together were the happiest of my life. I loved you and still do, and I miss holding you close and listening to you breathe as you slept.

Thank you for giving these memories back to me. I’m going to miss your beautiful smiling face. I’ll always remember you.

The happiness of the memories is just as painful as the knowledge that they will never happen again. I step forward and place the note with a flower on the lowering casket. Goodbye.

make the child-life melt like ice
with its almost translucent angel beauty

When they’d met he was a nice guy, polite and decent and all that. Somewhere along the way they got used to each other and fought over the pettiest shit you can imagine. It was pitiful, really. Two successful rich happy people with a rather unnecessary two-story house, three car garage, and an unused but well-maintained pool in the back, so miserable they couldn’t stand each other (or was it the other way around?)

Jenna felt sick. Not the flu/mild cold kind of sick but nothing serious either, just an unpleasant metallic electrical sensation emanating from just under her breasts to the top of her throat, like she’d screamed and burped at the same time. Damn the milk. Why the hell was she drinking 2% anyway? Twenty-two with an astronomic metabolism and perfect body, and she was worried about another 8%daily recommended intake of saturated fat. Screw that.

The landscape wasn’t changing, but the sun was flashing on and off, white light- like someone had set off a nuke- pulsating. Oddly she didn’t find this out of place or weird, just disconcerting.
Dammit Jim, stop messing with the sun.
It would be just like him to be flicking that switch just to annoy her, like when he’d stomp the passenger-side floor and cringe every time she rounded a corner, approached a stoplight, car, anything really. I can drive as well as you, she thought. Her car pulled up alongside, Ma in the back agreeing with her.
What the hell, this path isn’t ending or taking me anywhere I want to go…

She strapped in to the driver’s seat, turned the car around to head home, turned the radio on. Set it to scan for some familiar tune, but the sound waves turned into worms that tunneled into her ears and into her whole body. She shut it off. God, she was pissed off now.

Ma was talking to Pastor John in the back.
“And I am just going to die of grief, my very own Jenna was playing cards last night! Next week you’ll see, she’ll be one of those lesbians with male things surgically implanted, the gall of doctors these days, they left a scalpel in my stomach last week- yessiree- had to take it out with my own teeth…”
Ma turned into a panda and took Pastor John for bamboo leaves- which he was, suddenly, but then he’d been that all along as well- and ate him. Jenna rolled her eyes. Ma did the most annoying things, had the quirkiest mannerisms, guilt-tripped her into the most delightfully agonizing emotional abyss on a monthly basis, and yet she still cared for her. The ambiguity was unbearable.

The car disappeared, and Jenna was in a black empty chasm but the sun was still flashing brilliantly, all the more annoying now that it was dark in here- unbearably bright, pitch black. Unbearably white, pitch black. Repeat. DadMom was in the backseat, still talking but mostly to theirself now, like Jenna wasn’t even there. She could tell they were talking but it was too quiet in this place to hear them and they were talking silently anyway. But she could read their lips.
“She’ll be a lesbian tomorrow,” DadMom said, and agreed with themself. “Yes, and she’ll get drunk tonight- on the wine of Babylon, likely as not.” DadMom nodded sagely and turned into God (but they’d been God all along, this was normal). Jim stopped flicking the switch, but left it down and it was off and God was invisible anyway.
“Jenna,” God said, not in a booming God-voice but something approaching the real Wizard of Oz. Jenna figured He knew the outcome of this conversation already but answered anyway to see how it went.
“Yes God?”
“Jenna, I just got off the phone to Satan. He says you were playing cards last night.”
I did no such thing, she thought.
“Yes, I did.”
God nodded.
“Well, just checking in. Don’t forget to tithe from your winnings, unless that falls under the strange fire clause… have Pastor John check with me on that later.”
“But Mom ate him.”
“I know, it’s okay.”
And that was comforting, made perfect sense. DadMomGod said “I love you” and she was back alone in the car, driving in the same direction as when she got in- even though she’d turned around. She pulled a U-ee but it didn’t help. Tried again, still nothing and now she was headed downhill as well, with the perfect houses and perfect trees and perfect miserable families flashing by faster and faster, and the instrument panel was alive with red flashing lights, and Jim had put a red lens on the sun and was flashing it again, fast enough to cause an epileptic seizure. But she wasn’t epileptic- so how do you explain the twitching and spazzing and eyes rolled back in her head- the instrument panel was beeping and buzzing incessantly, and she struck at it violently, uncontrollably with her fists-

She sat up suddenly, sweating in her perfect honeymoon bed with perfect Jim by her side, both stark naked and not quite sober. He was already awake, holding her.
“Just a dream, it’s all ok, just a dream…”
After a while the shuddering began to subside, the tears dried. The shattered alarm clock in her hands turned into a knife and she screamed, startling Jim as she scrambled out of bed, wielding the knife in her left hand. Jim said something about calming down and reached for the wine bottle, but the bottle was a knife and she went in for the preemptive strike to the gut, then shoved his protruding innards into his open screaming mouth. He dropped the knife into his leg and she wondered briefly, annoyed, if he’d bothered to sanitize it first. She turned, went into the bathroom and stepped into the shower, turned the hot water on full blast and let it scald her skin, envelop her in comforting, suffocating steam. Thirty-two minutes later she stepped out of the bathroom.

Jim looked up groggily and smiled.
“Hey there, beautiful.”
She kissed him lightly, got dressed.
“I’m going for a jog.”
He nodded and got out of bed, whole and unwounded three steps to the bathroom.
Damn, she left the showerhead on mist again.
Jenna stepped outside and closed the door.

Two seconds later Jim woke up screaming, Jenna holding him in their honeymoon bed. In a few minutes, all was calm.

Then the sound-worms ate them both from inside out.

I wonder briefly what might have happened if I had waited for just two more minutes. Silmar had asked me to stay for dinner, I could have- I wasn’t in that much of a hurry. It was only a four hour drive from Nashville, and it was only six in the Sunday evening.

Silmar was my sort-of girlfriend, twenty years old and open to suggestion when it came to others, but (apparently) I was just a hair ahead in the interest scale, and I liked her. So we played the game. She’d play hard to get or try to make me jealous, and I’d ignore her, then she’d call me and I’d drive to Nashville for the weekend, watch movies, get almost-serious, go to a club and dance around the issue like Hot-Potato-Twister. Never did get quite down to talking about it directly anymore- those conversations inevitably ended awkwardly- but we’d make it clear enough where we were without saying a word. That’s just the way it was those days.

I was trying not to breathe, not to move for fear that the tree stuck through my chest might- damn it. I gasped gently and a fresh spurt of blood painted the trunk dark red. I shouldn’t have even gone this weekend, hell, I shouldn’t have left Nashville in the first place. The job I had had there was perfect and hell at the same time- I hated it, but it paid seventeen bucks an hour for anywhere from five to ten hours a day, however much I wanted to work. The Ad Palace, tailor-making advertisements for local businesses too dumb or cheap to get a real company to do it, resulting in low-quality commercials on TV with a “qualified” (living) actor telling the audience how his diarrhea was gone thanks to ExMerd in a voice so quiet the viewers either strained to hear it or didn’t bother at all- better, didn’t have to turn down the TV between episodes of The Price Would’ve Been Right If Granny Had Survived Walking Onstage. My boss was a complete idiot, raving about his Palace like he’d just put out the latest blockbuster in commercials. We did prints too, or what passed for them. One time he tried to get me to convince Silmar to pose nude for a fad dieting ad, waving his personal 2MP PhotoCannonBallShootScribe X2359L3. I told him she was out of town, and had a good laugh out of it over drinks with Silmar. That naturally led to her making crude and self-deprecating jokes, I told her not to be ridiculous and she was gorgeous, and of course she said to prove it. A wink, a matching pair of grins, and back at my apartment I would.

Cold and clammy, I was in shock and sweating pebbles into the growing stream of blood flowing downhill of me. How long would it take for someone to notice- I couldn’t shout because movement of any kind sent blood spouting from my body cavity (literally!)- and my car was only partially off the road. My head was bleeding too, somewhere. Either that or it was raining on and east of my forehead. Someone ought to notice the destroyed bumper in the emergency lane, the car facing the wrong direction on the I-40 West. That was something she was good at, being observant. Noticed things that most people didn’t think twice about and remembered them, mostly, and made accurate conclusions from them. Might have had something to do with her eyes, a scary shade of deep clear blue, the left one with seven gray streaks as radii. One time I came into her apartment and she asked if I’d had onions on my sub, and if so to please go clean up before we go. I looked at her oddly, and she pointed out the blue tag sticking out of my coat pocket- number 67- and told me that Pub99 had just been rated lowest in the area for cleanliness. I smirked and told her that in that case, I’d have to start spitting in my food to match the taste. She made a face and I went to wash up. I swear sometimes I thought she was stalking me.

My phone rang a yard away from my outstretched hand, and at the thought that she was calling to ask why I hadn’t worn my seatbelt, I laughed suddenly, harshly, and the tree gave way- I may have experienced some discomfort. The bright lights weren’t an ambulance.

Cold. Not like walking through Boston at midnight in the dead of winter- more like the exact opposite of Hell, but not heaven. Ice numbs in an agonizing instant before the skin turns blue, stiffens, turns deathly white, then finally black. Somewhere underneath the skin bones go brittle, joints stiffen, muscles freeze.

It was all so fast. The uncontrollable shudder shook him violently and joints snapped, muscles disintegrated, bones turned to dust, the remaining blood veins burst. Still alive, his heart frozen and stopped, all thoughts instantaneously frozen at the tip of the synapse. And yet there was pain, agony such as he had never imagined possible. His body crumbled, fell rag-doll to the suddenly smooth white powder ground.

And she smiled behind him, shook her head.
I will miss you.
Step forward.

Toren screamed in pain, the slivers of frozen rain all around him, in his eyes, in his skin. The ship, massive as it was, spun violently like the Mayflower in a hurricane. The captain and several crew members had already gone overboard, and most of those left onboard were hanging on for dear life, however abbreviated they realized it would be in this storm.

He stopped, listened. The thoughts had abated for the moment, as if they had taken pause to listen to his pleadings to let him be. No such luck.

More screams, the ship turned halfway on its side, then tossed in the air, turned to the other side and completely around in a whirling gyroscope. Thirteen more were sent flying into the water, dead on impact if not by drowning. Bones shattered, the sharp particles tearing brutally through skin, severing spinal cords and finally filling every conceivable crevice in the body with salt water.

“I don’t have to listen to you,” Travis told the storm. Dream on, the storm said.

Travis walked the deck from end to end unhindered as it swayed and bucked in the storm. He heard nothing but a deafening silence, saw everything, the look of sheer terror on the faces of the remaining survivors hanging on for dear life and in one fleeting moment the ship was on its side and he saw the eye of the storm in front, or rather below him. The rain was behind him, now below him, all around him but he was outwardly unaffected.

The storm didn’t pause to let him think.

Maelstrom! was the strangled cry from the few who had breath left. He was calm, convinced he was dreaming. And then he heard a bold, dark song.

Confutatis maledictis
Flammis acribus addictis:
Voca me cum benedictis.
Oro supplex et acclinis,
Cor contritum quasi cinis:
Gere curam mei finis.

Toren heard the words but not the music and they made him all the more terrified; he nearly prayed the last line then- “Help me-” and finished in a scream as the boat spun again and he was left hanging by a rope off the side of the boat. And Travis, unaffected, was walking toward him, saying the words. But this was not Travis’ reedy seven-year-old voice; power resonated from a deep, strong voice that came from his mouth.
See like ashes my contrition
And suddenly in Travis’ small hand was a torch.
Help me in my last condition!
The ship split in two and circled faster than ever inside the Maelstrom, then both parts burst into a flame unaffected by the water as it circled lower and lower until finally at the bottom they shattered into nothing.

Travis didn’t open his eyes yet. The thoughts were gone. He waited a few moments, then opened them, expecting to see his dark room with the shades drawn and the darkness and deafening silence. Instead he was on a beach, dry and warm as if he’d been basking in the sun for just the right amount of time. He sat up quickly. A torch was stuck upright in the sand next to him, burning brightly and needlessly in the sun. Next to that, lying on the ground, was Toren, face and hands no longer bleeding. Travis crawled quickly over to him, touched his shoulder to make sure he was real- it was all real- Toren’s eyes opened and he sat up, terrified still for a moment with the memory of the storm. But then he looked around and saw the beach, the warm sand, and Travis.

“Father,” they both whispered simultaneously.

“JESUS!” that one screams, silently through the glass and wind. Why’s it gotta be Jesus? I like Jesus. How ’bout I use your religious figure to swear with?
“MOHAMMED!”
Try that for size. Need a new travel-buddy now. Definitely rule out the truckers- they’re about as loyal to non-truckers as George was to Lennie. Buddha H. frickin’ Jones, that one nearly ran me over.

Turn on the radio and hit the scan button to shut them up. There’s Minnesota again, wave and say hi. Double-serving this time, very rare.
“RIGHT NOW YOU CAN GET A BRAND NEW TOYOTA-”
“CAUSE HE’S THE REASON FOR THE TEARDROPS ON MY-”
“- legs were amputated after a grenade-”
“- PUT A HOLE WHERE MY HEART SHOULD BE- EE-EE…”

Hit SCAN again to stop the cycle, hold the 1 to save that station to preset. Don’t know why, since trying to listen to a radio station on the interstate for any extended period of time is like trying to jump on a moving train (and the train is a mirage, speeding from static to Fergie to more static). Song’s over. The DJ makes some stupid joke involving sound effects and a guy getting hit by a car- hey, those are funny… – and one of the five hundred million songs that involve several references to bitches, hoes, hoods, “D’s”, cribs, bling, and of course “lovin’ ” comes on. Joseph Smith, I hate that stuff.

SCAN

A few hours later, there’s under a quarter tank left and it’s getting to be time for some “real” food-Subway is as far as that goes at gas stops. This one has a McDonald’s, and I grudgingly pull in, fill up, park, and walk inside. The line is almost as long and painful as the to-date casualty count. I never was one for euphemisms. But that was a hyperbole. It was nearly as long and painful as a trip to the throne after a week of sausage pizza. Finally, at the front of the line-
“Number Three Meal, please” -without inflection, the give- me- my- food- (crap)- I’ll- PayPass- and- go kind of statement.
A slow sigh, flips her hair back. I feel like the Oracle. Kind of cute… not too bright though.
“Do you want a drink and fries with that?”
A mental double-take. Drink? And fries? AND a meal? What’ll they think of next?
“Uh, yeah.”
She checks her watch, and I wish I had eyes in the front of her head. As if I’m the one holding us up. Where the hell is management? Oh wait, she is…
“You wann that for heah ‘ah t’ go?”
“To go.” With a little inflection on the go, meaning, do I need to light a match under your pretty butt or are you going to hurry up?
“Anything else?”
Will it be a clean guillotine? Apparently not- wait, Jeanine, let me stick my neck in a little further-
“Actually, yeahletmechangeouthatdrinkforacoffee.”
Instant regret. Now I’ve got the worn, torn, line-battered survivors behind me glaring like they recognize me from last night’s episode of To Catch a Predator. Boy, I can forget catching up to the Minnesot’ns now.
“Fuh hee’ah ta go?”
Bite back the sarcasm.
“To go.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Two of each.”
“Fuh hee’ah ta go?”
Are you serious? There’s no holding his one down.
“NAW, I’ll drink the cream and sugar here and take the coffee.”
Now suddenly I’m the bad guy. A steely glare from Cutie McStupid.
“Of course, sir, I’ll be glad to take care of that for you.”
Hokay, don’t get all wet over it or anything. Thank God- no, thank Visa- for PayPass. I’m not too sure God concerned himself too much with that part of the credit company. Though if He did, well, then that figures.
She turns around, heads to the back- I can see it in my ESP now- special instructions for the number 3 with coffee. McLoogie is what I asked for. A few minutes (weeks) later I get the food in a bag, and the cream and sugar on a tray. Ouch. She learned her sarcasm in Mime 101. I slide the whole shebang into the trash can- bin- thing- (SHUT UP!) on the way out. Not sure which part got the hawker but it doesn’t pay to find out the hard way.
Hey, that rhymed. You could make a million bucks like that you know- just add some pimpin’.

Back on the I-(insert random number between anything and anything else here). Heading away, but frankly my dear, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore staying right in the same situation. This isn’t solving a thing. So much for a quick getaway for the week. Swerve around the Buick (are they having an orgy in there or is that a pack of dogs in a rave party?) with the dark tints and make a U-turn on one of those convenient dirt medians that have the sign on it that says…

AUTHORIZED VEHICLES ONLY

Make that an illegal U-turn. Cops these days have the whole Hollywood thing going- you know, Lights, Camera, Action. The safety bumps on the emergency lane let me know I’m pulling over, which would’ve been great if I hadn’t actually noticed that myself. Don’t get me wrong, they’re a great feature- but who likes getting asked for
“License, insurance and registration please.”
I’m always cautious around cops. Some of them can get pretty antsy.
“They’re in the glove box…”
Reaching over, pulling the lever and opening it slowly. Reach in and pull out the papers, slower still until it’s all in plain sight. Look up, but this guy wasn’t even paying attention.
“Officer?”
“Uh, right.”
He takes them, goes back to his car and puts me into his Criminal Database that will forever leave me under intense scrutiny by every state officer who passes by. He comes back a few minutes later with his rugged laptop (because you never know when the coffee’s gonna spill) and says,
“Do you know why I pulled you over?”
Yup, I got the frostiest donut in the box. Never say yes, they’re just trying to make you confess to something else they can charge you with (milk you for more money).
“No sir.”
“You took that U-turn back there, the one with the sign that says NO UNAUTHORIZED VEHICLES.”
Was that what it said?
“Oh.”
“Sign here please, thisisnotanadmissionofguiltyouarejustacknowledgingthatyoureceivedthisticket.”
I make an X on the blank spot on the screen, just to piss him off. He doesn’t notice, just hands me a ticket.
“Righthere’salistofyourpaymentorcourtoptionshaveaniceday.” All business and polite. When I contest this in court, I will truthfully say
“No, Your Honor, that is not my signature”
and get off. No, I don’t remember if someone had borrowed my license… it was a month ago. If the rental company finds out someone else was driving the car, though, there’ll be hell to pay (where Hell=$600 per day). Dawg, I’m tellin’ you, all you need is your grandma’s car jacked up on twenty-four inch wheels and painted sparkly purple…

Back in town the next morning, I turn in the car and get prorated weekly charges on the car, a pittance. Avis probably thought I gypped them. I consider paying for a full two days- what would Confucius do?- but decide against even thinking about it. I was going to go for a week, but changed my mind. Deal with it. The urge to pee hits me suddenly and I think, oddly, that I’m out of lunch meat and haven’t had any pizza lately.

It had been a long couple days for Sylvie, working the graveyard shift at the hospital- three ICU drive-by victims had died, two fourteen year old girls and a toddler. No family to see or claim them had come forward yet, and probably wouldn’t for a couple more days when they realized that Rosita was probably not at a friend’s house anymore. Sylvie shook her head to stay awake. One more hour and she could go home.

Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard were driving in their minivan, going home from their monthly visit to their grandkids in Georgia. Well, their son was there too but visitation issues were complicated. They’d be home in an hour.

The party over, Bob stumbled drunkenly to his Chevy truck, started it up and weaved slowly out of the parking lot and onto the highway. What followed was yet another gross miscalculation, an equation that would not balance in the Justice Matrix. Bob pulled onto the exit, accelerating onto the highway and at 65mph pulled into the far right lane directly in front of the Hubbards. Mr. Hubbard slammed on the brakes, too late- the back of the truck collided with the front right side of the van, which went into a spin, skidding off into the next lane, overcorrected, and turned on its side, directly into oncoming Sylvie in her Geo.

Bob, concentrating on staying between the lines, didn’t notice.

Step outside to a blast of cold air and pull the collar up- not much of an improvement. Walk around campus, head for the library thinking today will be the last time for the next month, slurping Cup Poison deliciously straight from the Cup. Noodles are finger food. Check the phone for the time- watches are so superfluous- confirm it’s too late to see her, she’s not around. The last straw of tired hope reaches and grabs hold like that black gunk that made Peter Parker emo. The wise voice of cynical experience smirks, Really? condescendingly, and in agreement, apathy reigns. It’s not bright out, but the sunglasses steam with another gulp of Poison. The Cup comes down, and there she is, across the street. Who the fuck- some FNG boy toy- sitting in front of her with his hands on her ass. The two smiling, flirting. Wisdom rears its ugly head again- Toldja, dumbass. Collision is inevitable. The ass-hand slapped away suddenly with recognition, step away.
“Uh… hi.”
Yes, see you next term. But suddenly it would be just as well if it was next never. Turn away expressionless, empty the suddenly cold poisonous dregs nuked for 15 seconds on High.

you smile and ask why,
influence heart and mind
with your beauty like delicious poison.

we must wake from this slow-dancing fever
regret this lie and understand
perhaps we will change in time
for there is always a solution

heal as the salt melts
listen to every word
devour air above this hard glass window
laugh with freshly unveiled thoughts
follow them home to my embrace.

Door number one.
Please do not disturb. The slightest perturbation could kill the occupant, sitting still and small on the bed. A small look into her mind reveals a chaos which is brutal in its relentless attack on her consciousness. Somehow sanity finds a clawhold and struggles to keep it. Cast off! the rage screams- Cast off and be done with it! Pass the outer calm, the flicker of the eyelids. The mind torments the soul and the soul returns the favor. They will not stop.

Door number two.
Please do not disturb. The sign has been there for far too long, the occupant hasn’t answered calls for payment or an extension of reservation, and the cleaning crew has been rebuffed for two weeks. The police go in and find that his body has long since left the soul. The fifty-thousand lie in the drain or dried in the sheets, and the starkly empty room reeks of puffy red eyes and tubfuls of tears. Scribble away and break the mirror, dear- you’re still here.

Please do not disturb
the sign says.

“What’s with all the furniture?”
“It’s for you.”
He climbed out of the truck, slammed the door halfway down.
“But… it’s yours.”
“I’m giving it away. I’ve got too much. Besides, weren’t you the one saying you needed some couches for the rec area in the basement?”
I didn’t remember saying that, but it was true.
He was mumbling.
“Coffee table, couple couches, a recliner, and three barstools. Work for you?”
“Yeah, it’s great, thanks. What happened to your-”
“Don’t worry about my whatever. Just getting rid of some baggage.”
Whatever that meant.
We spent the next hour hauling the furniture down to the basement. There was more than he’d mentioned, maybe too much.
“You’re getting kind of full in here.”
“Yeah.”
“You think Tommy will want some?”
“Why not?”
He smiled, flexed. He seemed chipper, happier than usual.
“I’ll just haul this over to him then.”
“Hey, I can come along, give you a hand-”
He waved me off.
“Don’t worry about it. Get that stuff settled, have a beer, and order that pool table already.”
(But the pool table was downstairs, he’d already seen it.)
“Uh, right. Sure. Thanks again.”
He slammed the door, cranked the engine.
“Don’t forget, Thursdays we’re on.”
He looked slightly confused for a moment, then- was it condescension?- a grim smile.
“Of course.”

So not all was perfectly normal, but it was well. Jane was probably just feeling cluttered, which was to be expected with the years past and the kids out of the house. What’s the point in being prepared to seat and entertain exactly no one? Yet another example of life imitating art.

Two days, three hours, and twenty-three minutes later, it became clear.
Just getting rid of some baggage…
Finish the sentence.

He wanted a small degree of consistency, he already had a name. The yard was overgrown to begin with, but she hadn’t touched it since… ever. He couldn’t take it with him, not the trees or the birds or the time spent in the gutter or basement. Twenty-seven years gone to a pillar of salt.
Silence.
Life is in the box. I must think outside of it.
From one illusion to another, one box to a smaller one. The pieces shatter, lives snowballing closely behind take up the particles, the dirt and debris, take them in close as a part of themselves, completely integrated.
They now are faced with a CHOICE.