NAVY PEN

Most of all, I hope my mom dies first.

As her youngest child, born immediately after she lost you, the beloved first-born, I witnessed firsthand what grief to that degree can do to a person. I was created with it; the result of an unimaginable situation our mom could only make sense of mathematically. If you lose one daughter, you add another. Less than a year later, she did. And as I sank into baby clothes damp with their tears, I developed a deep understanding of true sorrow, your first and only birthday gift to me.

Withstanding the loss of another child is not something she would willingly survive. So, as much as it would hurt to lose her, the thought of her navigating this world without two of her babies, a mother with a free hand she doesn't want, hurts more.

And while I'm wishing for things, I hope my sister dies next.

She's looked for you in every man she's ever loved and in the face of every child she's borne. The only way fate could possibly contort itself any crueler would be by forcing her to endure such heartbreak a second time. Your last birthday gift to her was the title of oldest daughter. If I die before her, she would have reigned as youngest, oldest, and only daughter in one lifetime, much too big of an ask for anyone.

In many ways, I am lucky. My birthright is rooted in purpose, something many go their whole lives without. After all, what was I made for if not to help carry their grief? I often spend time trying to assess how successful I've actually been in this endeavor. Has my mere existence provided real comfort or have I been a constant reminder of what was lost? Did they look at me as a baby and regret, if only momentarily, that I wasn't a replication of you? And when I turned seventeen, did they hold their breath for an entire year wondering if the curse had been lifted?

God only knows that if we could switch, I'd agree in a second, giving you a quick hug as we crossed paths and whispering in your ear, "They're waiting for you." Because if, God forbid, I am the first one to die, when they see both of us again, I know that it is you they will run to first.

And so, I pray. I pray that they die before me because while I cannot ever undo their pain, I can endure their loss so that they won't have to survive mine. And at the very end, I imagine that I will hand it all back to God and he might say, "Good work." Maybe you will too.

I grew up in the incoherence of noise — a city whose nights vibrated with the percussion of gunfire and the guttural chorus of arguments between the forgotten. There was a rhythm to the chaos, a kind of discordant music that filled the hours between dusk and dawn. Even as a child, I could sense the voltage in that environment, the tension between what wanted to live and what had already resigned itself to dying. The sirens, the shouting, the shuffling of feet on broken concrete — all of it composed the overture to my consciousness.

In such a place, safety was measured not by silence, but by predictability. If the same voices quarreled each night, I could sleep. If the gunshots came from far enough away, I could dream. What I could not dream of, however, was the presence of my father. I remember seeing other boys with theirs — the easy way they mirrored each other's gestures, the unspoken transmission of security that seemed to pass between them like light through glass. Watching that made me feel less human, as though I were a diagram missing its essential axis. Their fathers were imperfect, sometimes cruel, but they were there. Presence, in such a world, was holiness.

My mother did her best to fill the space, but masculinity in that landscape was not gentle; it was armor. And because I had none to inherit, I crafted my own from silence, observation, and imagination. I told myself I did not need a father. I told myself I was complete. But every assertion of independence carried the faintest echo of despair, the sound of a child convincing himself he could raise his own soul.

What no one tells you about absence is that it has a texture. It is not a void but a field — electric, humming, capable of shaping everything that enters it. My father's absence became the negative pole around which all my longings arranged themselves. And because I had never been taught how to convert longing into creation, it fermented into desire. When adolescence arrived, it did not arrive gently. My first experiences of what I thought was love were less about another person than about the possibility of being noticed. Attention was the closest thing to affection I understood. Every glance, every smile, every brief acknowledgment sent a current through me — proof that I existed. I confused that voltage for intimacy. And when those connections burned out, as they inevitably did, I mistook the ashes for proof that I had loved passionately.

Years later, reading Jung, I would discover the term anima projection — the process by which a man, deprived of integration with his own inner feminine, seeks her reflection in others. But theory came long after the damage. At the time, I was living through my contradictions: pursuing women not as individuals, but as symbols of validation, as emissaries from a world in which I might finally feel whole. Each new attachment shimmered with the promise of recognition, and each ended with the same quiet desolation. Desire, in my world, became a theology. The body was a sacrament through which I worshiped a god I no longer believed in — the father figure who had never appeared. Physical intimacy created, for fleeting moments, the illusion of being seen. In those moments, I could imagine his gaze upon me, approving, almost tender. It took years, and two different therapists, to understand that this was not love but ritual — the psyche's desperate attempt to complete an unfinished circuit.

The first therapist entered my life during my marriage, at a time when my emotional world had collapsed under the weight of its own contradictions. His office was small, unadorned, painted a neutral color that seemed neither warm nor cold. Yet within that space, I experienced something radical: to be heard without judgment. His voice was measured, neither indulgent nor dismissive. He asked questions that cut through my defenses like clean incisions. "Where does that feeling go when you don't name it?" he once asked. I had no answer.

He offered more than insight; he offered containment. In his presence, I could observe the storm without becoming it. He helped me see how much of my life had been spent reacting — to noise, to neglect, to my own fear of invisibility. Through his guidance, I learned to pause, to insert a sliver of awareness between stimulus and response. Self-control was not repression, he taught, but direction — the art of allowing one's current to flow through purpose rather than impulse. Under his patient questioning, I began to see the architecture of my own behavior: the patterns of anger that masked fear, the detachment that masqueraded as strength.

Still, there were currents he could not reach. My marriage, fragile to begin with, cracked under the accumulated weight of misunderstanding and projection. When it ended, I mistook the dissolution for failure, but in retrospect, it was the necessary dismantling of a self built entirely on survival.

Years passed before I entered therapy again. The second therapist was different — younger, more direct, with an intensity that mirrored my own. The first had been a stabilizer; the second was a catalyst. Our conversations were less about restraint and more about recognition. He understood the subterranean link between erotic longing and paternal absence. When I spoke to him, it felt as if I were looking into a mirror that finally reflected not only my face but the invisible machinery behind it.

He helped me see how my pursuit of intimacy had been a coded dialogue with my father's ghost. Each encounter, each fleeting connection, was an unconscious reenactment of that first abandonment. The pleasure was real, but beneath it pulsed a grief I had never allowed myself to feel. To seek approval through connection was to repeat the wound under the illusion of healing it. In confronting that, I began to understand that what I had mistaken for desire was, in truth, the psyche's attempt to re-enter the scene of its original trauma and rewrite the ending.

These insights arrived like shocks — small but cumulative. Therapy became less a conversation and more an experiment in consciousness. I began to notice how the body records absence: the tightening of the chest when someone withdraws affection, the way silence echoes louder than noise. Slowly, I learned to interpret those sensations not as enemies but as signals. The body, after all, is the first text the psyche ever writes.

I also reflected on the institutions that had shaped me. The schools, the streets, the churches — each functioned as a machine designed to convert energy into compliance. In those "ghetto institutions," survival required emotional muting. The teachers wanted quiet, the preachers wanted obedience, and the streets demanded vigilance. Voltage was dangerous; it attracted attention. And attention, in that world, could kill you. So we learned to hide our brightness, to keep our ambitions low, our feelings lower. To want too much was to invite disappointment; to feel too deeply was to appear weak.

But what those institutions could not extinguish, they inadvertently concentrated. Beneath the surface calm, I carried enough unexpressed energy to light a city. It leaked out in inappropriate places — arguments, obsessions, reckless choices — until therapy taught me the one lesson the streets never could: that transformation requires containment, not explosion.

Jung once wrote, "one does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious." My darkness was unacknowledged grief: the nights spent listening to arguments outside, the mornings watching other boys with their fathers. By bringing those fragments into awareness, I began to rewire my internal circuitry. What had been a chaotic surge of impulses became, gradually, an intelligible current. The past was not erased. Trauma does not vanish; it integrates. The old sounds remain — the echoes of gunshots, the distant arguments — but they no longer dictate the rhythm of my mind. Even the memory of my father has changed timbre. I no longer see him as a void to be filled, but as a shadow that defines the contours of my light.

The work of both therapists converged in this understanding. The first taught me regulation; the second, revelation. Together they enabled me to conduct rather than discharge my energy, to channel it into creation instead of consumption. Writing, thinking, mentoring — these became the new conduits for what once expressed itself destructively. Even now, I do not claim peace as a permanent state. There are days when the old restlessness returns, when the city's noise seeps back into my bloodstream, and I feel the phantom pull of the past. But I have learned to listen differently. The gunshots are not omens; they are reminders of what I have survived. The arguments outside are echoes of a world still learning to articulate its pain.

Now, when I consider the concept of love, I do not imagine ecstatic fusion. Love, I have learned, is not voltage but resonance — the steady hum between beings who have learned to hold their own current without extinguishing another's. It requires self-knowledge, boundaries, and the humility to recognize that no one can complete what was never missing, only awaken what was dormant. If my father were to appear now, I suspect I would not ask for explanations. I would thank him, not for leaving, but for forcing me to seek the masculine within myself. His absence, once unbearable, became the negative space through which I defined my own form.

The philosopher in me knows that individuation is endless; the human in me still hopes for rest. Between those truths I live, humming quietly, neither saint nor cynic, merely a man who has learned to conduct his own current. And when I walk through the city at night, past flickering neon and the low murmur of distant lives, I no longer feel apart from it. The same voltage that once terrified me now feels like kinship. Perhaps that is all enlightenment ever was: not escape from the world's electricity, but participation in it with awareness. The fatherless child has become his own conductor. The current hums. The light holds. And in the quiet after the strike, recognize not peace, but presence — a measured hope vibrating in philosophical silence, the kind that hums quietly beneath all chaos, steady enough to illuminate the self I have finally begun to inhabit.

Tears flood down my face. Wipe, breathe, try, repeat. I used to be so smart. Why is everything so hard for me now? Why should I even try? My eyes drill into the list in front of me: Math packet, Read 30 pages, finish science lab, workout. Two hours to do it all before I go to practice. I can do this. This was a pattern I found myself in throughout most of seventh grade. For the first two years of middle school, I worked for hours each night on extra credit, redoing assignments that were already good enough, making sure everything was as perfect as possible, even beyond what it was being graded on. Quickly, this led me to burnout.

Somewhere deep inside me, I still possessed that drive my younger self flourished in, and all I wanted was to get that calmness back. In the year prior, my commitment to dance had intensified, and though I was still committed to school, I was on a learning curve balancing how to split my time with a new, additional focus. It was hard to give myself grace through the transition, so I stayed upset with myself Instead, I was stuck in a cycle: I'd start an assignment, but as I realized I wouldn't be able to finish it as fast as I wanted, I'd start to stress and figure out what I could do to speed up, which would waste more time, which would stress me out more, and I'd wind up needing to cram everything into 30 minutes, ultimately frustrated that if I hadn't overthought it, I would have been able to finish everything. I wanted to control how long assignments would take me and how much motivation I had. I wanted to control the burnout so that I could be as perfect as my middle school self.

I had been a perfectionist for my entire life and always held myself to very high standards, because I felt like if I wasn't doing the best, I would be letting someone down. When my parents would say, "Do your best," I heard "Be the best." Even in preschool, my teachers told my parents how quiet and well-behaved I was, and I already took pride in being seen as "good." Since I had always fought to please my parents, I thought that by having control over everything, I would be able to do so without issue. Because seeking this "total control" was inevitably impossible, it led me into spiraling.

Going into 8th grade, I was still making an attempt to control my time in unrealistic and perfectionist ways. Thoughts like "new year, new me" played in my head as I got ready for school to start. This could have been an opportunity for me to change my ways, but instead, the pressure of the new year and new chance to become the perfect version of myself made it even worse. This cycle had been ongoing for almost two years, and I was at the depths of mental and physical exhaustion. Now everything, even the sport I loved, felt like hours of manual labor, but this had become so routine that I couldn't see the signs my body was giving me.

A month into my second semester in 8th grade, I suffered a severe ankle injury, and after striving for perfection for years, I was out of dance for months. All that dedication just to face a major setback that felt impossible to bounce back from. The first time I went to the doctor, they had told me it was broken, but this didn't sit right with me. I had broken a bone before, and this just wasn't the same, but they were professionals, so I assumed what they said was right. I let things play out until my injury wasn't improving. I went back for another diagnosis, and my heart almost stopped beating at the response.

"Your injury was treated wrongly in a way that has caused permanent damage." Said the second doctor.

My heart sank. My throat tightened. My hands fisted with rage. At first, I wasn't sure who to be angry with, whether it was myself or the doctors, or the injury itself. I wasted so much of my energy for the next two weeks just trying to figure out someone to pin the blame on. Feeling that the doctors were to blame, it sank in that my fate was in the hands of people who had lost my trust. I had reached a new low point, feeling so disordered that I knew I couldn't afford any further mistakes. So, I took control.

"Fake it till you make it" became the phrase I lived by. However, this only set back my progress because I would push myself further than what I was ready for. This cycle had repeated three or more times until I realised I had no control. Other than my physical therapy, there was nothing I could do to speed up the recovery or fix anything. No recovery date I set was true. No medication would heal me quicker. As much as I wanted to hit fast forward, I was forced to live through it beginning to end.

My mindset started to shift from denial to surrender as I realized I didn't possess all the answers. Instead, I began using my frustration to fuel myself and focused on the things I could do while my ankle healed. I was on the edge of recovery and was letting myself take things slow. I began to realize that accepting life as it comes and responding to what I have in front of me is easier than trying to change things to fit my ideal reality. As weeks passed and my ankle finally had the space to heal, I started dancing more, until I was finally able to go to our last competition.

It was that weekend that made me realize the world didn't end when I lost control. Everything went on as usual, and I realised this was one of those times that the world was happening to me. And sometimes that's ok. I learned that moving with the flow isn't always easy, but it makes the process less painful. My mind became decluttered of stress, and focus came with more ease than before.

Ever since the injury, my way of approaching life has shifted intensely. I came to terms with the fact that controlling everything is impossible and sometimes more harmful than useful. I focus on looking for what I can do about a situation, and if there's nothing I can do, I wait until something happens that I can react to instead of trying to make an unfixable situation fixable.

This new approach has given me more freedom to occupy my mind with more important things than stress. I came to the understanding that perfection does not mean greatness. Being great is about being able to react and interact with your surroundings to make yourself the best version of yourself. I used to think giving up my control would also mean giving up my freedom to do what I want, but honestly, I've never felt so free accepting life as it comes.

I wanted a bunk bed. Was my room way too small for one? Yes. Was I 10 and determined to convince my parents that they were wrong because clearly as a 10-year old I have a brain far superior to theirs? Yes. Staring at the miniature version of the real thing on display in my local Walmart I was staring right at my dreams, well one of them at least, my biggest one was to become Hannah Montana, and only now do I know that I'm not that cool, but I've watched Black Mirror, so, enough said.

I know I was being a brat now, but then, no, I could never. My mom, on the other hand, will never admit to being immature. Acting just a few years older than her 10-year-old daughter for longer than I had been alive. Innocently or not, I've asked her, and she says she doesn't remember, so an answer to that question will not be found. She told me something that still haunts me to this day.

"You know your aunt and I had bunk beds as kids and I would have kept them if I planned on having kids." Now because I had a superior 10-year-old brain, I vastly understood what she was saying. Planned. Planned what? Parenthood? We both know because of her religious trauma that she could never support that kind of thing. And yet, here I was. Standing under the humming fluorescent lights in my local Walmart, holding a Barbie doll that I knew would never call my house a home, being made unwilfully aware that I, in fact, was technically a mistake.

My dad told me that I was the best "surprise" he could have asked for. But sometimes surprises aren't fun, like the surprise he thrust on me, 22 years later after his little surprise had been unveiled to the world, he told me that I would have to stop using my voice to help those whose voices had been suppressed just by existing, or else I was no longer welcome in the house that had never felt like home. The same house that just years before that I had left, and when my mother had left him with nothing but the sad broken-down shack of a house and a hefty amount of debt and trauma, he begged me to move back home so he wouldn't have to be alone for the first time in his life. Unknowingly or not, he was telling me to silence my voice just because of the situation I was unwillingly brought into.

Planning was always my mother's thing. Except for my arrival in life. The announcement of my creation was not a plan that my mother had had. But after she got to work on pretending she did. My mother so meticulous; planned out my life for me before I had even become separated from her body. You see, because I was the one thing she hadn't planned for in her life, it was my job. My unpaid, hard labor, backbreaking job, to make sure every one of her plans for me never came true.

After doing this for years my father finally decided to follow in my footsteps and give her another unplanned surprise. He left. But that was my plan all along, I knew that if I didn't leave them, they would never leave each other, without me around to be the martial glue, in a shitty arts and crafts piece that was never meant to stay together, their plans to stay miserable together would not go through.

I was unplanned. But even from the beginning, before I developed my superior 10-year-old brain, my plan has always been to obtain the thing my mother was never told to plan for.

Happiness.

"Mathletes, take your marks, go!"

The clock projected at the front of the lecture hall begins counting down from 40 minutes. I stare down at the packet of problems with an exciting mix of confidence and nerves. I read, "Let n be a positive integer less than or equal to 1000. If the last two digits of n are reversed, the resulting integer is exactly 85 percent of n. What is the sum of the possible values of n?"

I try to set up a few equations and inequalities: n≤1000, n=100a+10b+c, 0.85n=100a+10c+b. Still, I don't know where to go from there, so I skip ahead. It's frustrating to give up a point, especially after weeks of practice, but that's the reality of competitions: you can't spend forever on one problem. Skipping once feels manageable—but after skipping the next question and the one after that, it begins to feel crushing. Blank pages pile up. The clock ticks down from 35 to 30 minutes, and a quarter of my time has evaporated without a single solution. Finally, I hit the last page. No more problems left to skip, nothing left to push out to later.

I've loved math for as long as I can remember. From competing to be the quickest in my second grade class at reciting my times tables, to the comforting feeling of getting perfect integers after solving a system, looking forward to math class has always been a constant in not only my school day, but my entire life. One of my earliest memories with my family was when my parents would hold up multiplication flashcards at the kitchen table to see how fast I could answer a hundred problems. I raced to shout the answers as soon as I could see the problem, giggling when I beat my best time. The only strategy I knew was to speed-run everything. There's a kind of instant gratification in math that nothing else gives me – one solution, one clear answer, everything neat and logical. And I loved the competition too, not just the winning, but the way it pushed me to climb higher levels, learn new topics, and think in entirely new ways. So when I found myself staring at a problem set full of words I didn't know, questions I didn't even understand how to begin, it was crushing. I wasn't used to feeling completely stuck in a subject I loved so much. The confidence I normally carried into math rooms evaporated. All that was left was doubt.

Almost twenty minutes in, and I'd barely written a thing. I looked around to see rows of other students tapping their pencils and scratching their heads. I could tell they were just as confused. For a moment, I felt a surge of short-lasting relief until I looked more clearly and I saw the occasional student light up with a smile and jot something down. What I noticed about all of them, though, is that no one else was frantically skipping through pages. Even the students who seemed stuck were concentrating on the problem they were on, not rushing to see if another one seemed easier. So I realized my best option was to slow down. No more glancing around to see if others were understanding or skipping questions, or peeking at the clock. From now on, I had to just focus on just the next step of the problem I was on. I flipped back to question one and forced myself to look again, trying to set the pressure aside and just understand. I circled terms, underlined what I did know, and let myself move slower than I ever had during a competition.

My mind, still restless, flickered to something entirely unrelated: the crochet shark I'd been working on that week. The slow, repetitive motion of pulling one loop through another, over, under, over, under. Each stitch building on the last, just like the result of each equation led to a new equation that was one step closer to the solution. I reread the first problem one more time, as if unwinding a fresh ball of yarn for my next crochet project, I set up my first equation, n = 100a + b, the first stitch, then expanded it further, n = 100a + 10x +y, the next few stitches around the first ring of the project, then switching the digits, n' = 100a + 10y + x. The first ring of the project was done, now for the next row, n' = 0.85n. With each new equation and new row, I was one step closer to my final product. I'd never rushed crocheting a piece; the risk of messing up a row was much greater than the reward of being able to get the project done a little quicker, but it always grew into something whole. Maybe math isn't too different. I didn't need to solve everything in one brilliant flash. I needed to go stitch by stitch.

I didn't win that day, but I learned that when something isn't working, the solution isn't just to abandon it; it's to find a new way forward. Even if that means slowing down. I learned how to zoom in and see what was actually in front of me instead of obsessing over the big picture. In practice, I focused more on understanding the reasons why a formula worked or the thought behind finding the solution, rather than memorizing random patterns that lead to an answer, and being able to understand every stitch of the solution, instead of just racing for the final result.

Furthermore, I realized the connection wasn't only between math and crochet; I could see this need to take a step back in many aspects of my life. In debate, during the two minutes of prep time we get between speeches, I wouldn't stress about not being able to find the perfect argument in a split second, but instead I would flip through a few relevant sources to find the perfect statistic to prove a point. In piano, I practiced difficult pieces measure by measure, layering progress slowly instead of expecting perfection in one go. I realized just sticking through things, no matter how slow the process feels, is what gets results. Instead of getting up and shutting the piano when a piece doesn't click the first time, I could at least manage to learn a couple of notes or measures by slowing down and allow myself to take some time to understand. I found this was more fulfilling because I actually understood how I reached the answer, rather than feeling as if I was racing blindly towards completion.

Now, when I meet something unfamiliar, like an equation, a debate, or a new crochet pattern, I don't rush past it. I zoom in and slow down, and most importantly, keep going: one stitch, one step, and one question at a time.

Her eyes bolt open. She can feel the energy coursing through her body: zipping from her fingers to her toes and back again like a circuit. She twitches, trying to banish the feeling from her body to no avail. Finally, she sits up and slips out of bed, putting her feet on the cold wood floor. She sighs, resting her head in her hands- still wrapped with gauze from the night prior. "Keep these on," Miracle had instructed. "It'll help." She can see her sister's eyes, filled with deep concern, as she knelt by the hospital bed. But underneath her worry was something much more sinister: fear. She is used to that look by now, especially from her family. It's the same one they gave her after she was released from rehab or before she got that bone marrow transplant as a child: as if she would spontaneously combust if they stared at her for too long.

It wasn't entirely fair. She was only a mess in comparison to her sister. Having been born a few seconds after her, Miracle was something of a surprise and she remained the golden child ever since. With her graduate's degree, successful career and perfect boyfriend- she is hard to contend with. So, Mallorie stopped trying. She decided to stay in her sister's shadow and tried to find comfort in it. But it had become increasingly difficult- considering Miracle's recent foray into masked vigilanteism, making her an overnight sensation.

Now, her face is all over the city: on posters, in commercials and waving on the flag outside the governor's office. People worship her and it's just as nightmarish as it was at every single piano concert, ballet recital and graduation speech. She still remembers her parents wiping their tears as they rose to their feet for every single standing ovation. While she sat quietly in the corner, dying for a smoke break.

They call her the Mage- which makes no sense to Mallorie. To be fair, she has no real power- just a brilliant mind and a penchant for tinkering. And while the denizens of Sterling City are dazzled by her array of sparkling magic tricks and glowing weaponry, Mallorie can see quite plainly that it is all smoke and mirrors. Just like most of the city: filled with uppity rich folks and dazzling smiles that hold no warmth beneath them.

Meanwhile, the Marr teems just below the surface- full of unmentionables that the Sterlites would prefer to forget. But when Miracle came along- she vowed to protect the city from the crime that constantly threatens to drift up from the Marr's seedy underbelly.

It fills Malorie with guilt to know that- by all counts- she should be down there, among the underworld with sweat on her brow and dirt on her face, working tirelessly on the power grid that keeps Sterling City bright, clean and shining. She knows full well that, if not for her parent's money, that's exactly the life she'd be living.

Meanwhile, she works a useless job and has a habit of stealing wallets from other people's purses and slipping baubles into her coat pocket on her way out of the department store just to feel something. She doesn't know why she does it. Perhaps the rush reminds her that she's alive. Or maybe she is simply fulfilling the prophecy her parents laid out for her: the dead beat daughter with more addictions and bad habits than one can count.

But the jolt she gets keeps her alive and the rush is all she's ever known. Her rehab therapist described her as having "dangerous fixation and deep need to possess what others retain." As heady as the wording was, Mallorie had to agree. There had to be something behind her desperate need to hoard the cafeteria forks. Not to mention her unfortunate addiction to snagging her roommate's jewelry. Her classmates took note, earning her the nickname: "The Magpie." Miracle latched onto that pretty quickly- keeping the nickname alive way past its expiration date- much to her parents' confusion. Eventually, she shortened it to "Mags" but the sting remained intact.

To say that their relationship became strained would be an understatement.

After graduation, Mallorie kept her distance. She filled her body with every possible drink and drug, staying out late and sleeping with as many strangers as could find. She was happy to indulge in whatever landed in her lap. But when the Mage appeared on the scene- it reeked of Miracle's usual flashy air. Somehow, she connected the dots. And when Miracle magically started calling again, it was easy to pull the information out of her. But Mallorie had already walked too far down the proverbial road of resentment and Miracle's recent stardom was further proof that she would do anything for attention. It was also further proof that she couldn't trust her sister- no matter how hard she was trying to pretend otherwise. And no matter how many wine nights, brunch spots or movie dates Miracle offered, Mallorie was never convinced.

It all came grinding to a halt when, as per usual, she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The Makers Market was her favorite spot to steal. Amongst the moving bodies and teeming shops, it was remarkably easy to sneak away with whatever she laid her hands on. The day had been like any other, Mallorie was just slipping an ornate deck of cards into her pocket when a commotion broke out at the far end of the Market.

People were scattering this way and that- crying out in dismay. She lifted her head to see a man, presumably from the underground, stomping in their direction with Miracle in tow. There were whispers that the Marrites were starting to mutate- thanks to being constantly exposed to a multitude of toxins every single day. Multiple limbs, oozing sores, hair loss- it seemed too silly to be true so she had dismissed it as mere fear mongering. But she saw with her own eyes that the rumors were true- at least, in this case.

The man was bald with fists made of flames and fire pouring from his eyes. It reminded her of something she had seen in the nightclub after too many tabs. Something that would make her question her very existence and leave her haunted the next day. But it was as real as daylight and she could scarcely believe her eyes. He was spitting fire at the caravans, disintegrating rugs and souvenirs and toys into ash. Miracle was trying to stop him- with little success.

She found it kind of amusing, in a way, to finally see her sister getting humbled. Suffice to say, her sparkly tricks were nothing in comparison to actual, superhuman power. She wondered, for a moment, if she should help, try and distract him somehow- but she remembered how many times Miracle left her to rot and she decided better of it. It wasn't her path, so it wasn't her fight. Let her sister get her ass kicked for once. Maybe she'd learn something. Maybe people would finally see her for who she really is. But, even as she willed herself to move, she found her feet frozen in place, still too shocked at the sight before her.

"Mags- get out of here!" Miracle cried out, waving her hand in the opposite direction. They both seemed to realize, simultaneously, that this was a major mistake. The man tilted his head in her direction, seemingly seeing her for the first time. An eerie grin spread across his face before he sprinted directly at her, knocking her to the ground.

She awoke, hours later, surrounded by shadowy figures. Her head ached from the impact. Among them, the same man from before. But this time, his skin held no flame- just the remnants of ash, smeared on his face in ritualistic symbols. He was raising his hands to the heavens, crying out words she couldn't quite decipher. He looked down at her, smiling placidly, and continued his diatribe. She shut her eyes, trying desperately to understand what he was saying.

"Brethren, we have been crushed under foot for too long. We will no longer be made to serve the greater populous. We will rise up. And with us…a new kind of warrior!" He looked down at her- his eyes ablaze with a holy passion beyond her comprehension. She wanted to cry out under the weight of his gaze- wanted to wriggle off of the cement slab they had tied her to. "My children…come and witness the holy sacrifice. We will bestow a gift upon her. And in return, this Upperworlder will know our pain. She will become our voice, our righteous right hand. She will bring the city to its knees."

She struggled against her restraints to find them horrifically intact. He noticed her movement and held her down under his knee, crushing her lungs. "Soon, little one, you will understand your purpose. You will know your own power. You will become one of us." She did not understand, did not know why she of all people, had been chosen for whatever gift they wanted to bestow. She was under no allusions that this gift would not be a pleasant one.

He reached down to cup her face. "Little one, do you desire a better life?" She licked her cracked lips, swallowed in an attempt to wet her barren throat. "Do you?!" He called out, leaning so close that his spit landed on her cheek. She nodded, trying to appease, terrified of the outcome. "Do you tire of your gilded cage? Of the prison to which you were born?"

"Yes." The sound escaped her lips before she had time to think.

"Good!" He grinned, a terrifying, devilish short of grin. He stood again, addressing the crowd. "Then, gather close, my children and witness transformation; witness freedom."

The crowd drew closer, their eyes full of wonder. Amongst them there grew a terrible hum- a droning buzz that overwhelmed her senses.

"My children, come. Offer your hands to this great mission. Let us give her our gift." She watched, her lungs full of terror, as the crowd surged forward- shoving at the cement slab, pushing it upright. She found herself facing an acidic pool- bubbling with numerous toxins. A scream erupted from her throat as she realized that this gift was no gift at all: it was certain death. They had convinced themselves that she would somehow rise out of his pool with powers unknown- like their leader- and offer them freedom in the form of destruction.

She began to beg, pleading with them to let her go. But they would not hear her. Their droning hum became louder and louder by the second until the leader raised his right hand high in the air. Silence settled like a knife shredding through a string- breaking the tension.

"The Gift… We give it freely," He proclaimed. The crowd responded in turn, repeating his words until it became a chant. "Let this gift sustain, let this sacrifice rise again." Raising his mighty hands, he cried out: "Witness!"

Like a flash of lightning, they slashed her ropes free and dropped her into the pool. She struggled against the goo that ate at her like quicksand. Finally, it devoured her whole. Her lungs burning, her eyes going blind with the neon green muck that surrounded her. She tried to scream but couldn't, thrashed against the oppressive liquid until her limbs were sore from exertion. She sank further and further until her feet touched the bottom of the pool and the acid settled around her, crushing her.

She thought she would die after too many pills or maybe a bad hookup. But being killed by a cult was not on her bingo card. She thought of Miracle and her parents- wondered if they'd search for her or write it off as just another failure. Perhaps they'd be happier without her. Finally becoming the perfectly formed family they always hoped they could be. She shut her eyes tight, feeling the life beginning to leak from every pore as the poison overtook her, bonded with her, became part of her DNA.

She began to write a eulogy in her head that no one would hear- for a funeral that would never occur. Here lies Mallorie Kline- she died like she lived: unfortunately. She would have laughed if she could've. She felt the toxins enter her bloodstream, noticed how dizzy her brain became- almost euphoric. This is death, she thought, quiet and anticlimactic with no fanfare or family to send her off.

Until she felt the muck begin to shift. She wondered, bemused, if perhaps her soul was ascending. She hadn't given much thought to the afterlife. She merely hoped it would be like an afterparty- full of never-ending booze and laughter as old friends reunited and new lovers kissed in the corner.

When she dared to open her eyes, she realized she was floating high above the onlookers, her feet dripping with slime. They looked up at her, clasping their hands as if to pray. Some of them wept tears of joy while others cried out in victory. For a moment, she felt hope- felt relief. She gazed at their faces and felt sympathy for them. She considered, for the first time, that maybe she could be the hero they hoped she would be.

And then Miracle appeared to rescue her, in all her glory, and Mallorie tumbled back down into the pool. She awoke in the hospital a few days later to find her sister at her side, anxiously waiting her return to consciousness.

It didn't take long for the toxins to reveal their work. It was small, at first. A muscle spasm or an electric shock when she gripped metal. But when a nurse touched her arm and wound up electrocuted into an early grave- the doctor confirmed her worst fears: the poison had changed her genetic makeup completely. Whatever this ability was, it was part of her now. She had to learn to control it, to mask it, to smother it completely.

Miracle brought her back to her dingy apartment- stayed with her for days. She begged her not to tell anyone, not to use her powers until they knew more about them and could find a cure. And when she finally took her leave, she left Mallorie to her own devices. The doctors insisted she stayed in bed for at least a month while they ran various tests on her blood samples, trying desperately to find any way to reverse the damage.

But Mallorie wonders if maybe it isn't a curse at all. She wonders if, maybe, she could find a way to use her powers to do something useful.

An idea forms in her head. She slips off her socks and pads over to the window, sliding it open. Outside, the rain pours down on the pristine streets, catching like pearls in the street lamps. She places a delicate foot onto the fire escape and steps out into the night air. She climbs the ladder until she reaches the roof.

The rain pours down- soaking her hair and clothes. She unwraps the gauze around her hands, slips it into her pocket. As expected, the weather makes it easier to feel the energy coursing through her veins. Sparks dance over her skin, enticing her to use her newfound abilities. She stamps her foot down, watches as the electricity travels underneath her skin. A set of sparks emit from her foot and travel through the puddles to fizzle out into the ground beneath her.

She takes a running leap off of the roof, hurling herself into the air. She panics, for a moment, and then wills the electricity to shoot through her fingertips. To her shock, it obeys. Her fingers burn deliciously from the jolts that spread out in a mass of directions, connecting to the buildings around her. The energy pulses, pushing her up into the air and safely onto the next roof.

The feeling is unlike anything she's experienced before. It feels like she is a part of the ecosystem. As if, there was a part of her that always was more powerful than her human body and, now, it is free to escape its confines. The cage door is open and the animal within her can finally reach its full potential.

For the first time, she feels powerful, capable. It strikes her as ironic that she has unimaginable powers- where her sister merely pretends. She wonders what her parents would say but knows all too well that they'd respond with doubt, concern and confusion. They would not celebrate her power. They would not consider the positive changes she could create. They would be afraid that she was incapable of using it and therefore unworthy.

The feeling makes her sick.

She looks down at the ground. She knows the Marrites can relate to her plight. She can glimpse the movement just below the surface, through various cracks and crevasses that make up the spotless skin of Sterling City. Beneath it all is a teeming underworld, cramped alleyways of people selling their wares and seedy denizens jostling this way and that- all lit by dim lamp light that casts an eerie glow on the weary faces passing by.

Her heart pangs. She feels for them- those faceless people who can only live as servants, simply because they were not born rich. Meanwhile, Sterling profits off of their blood, sweat and tears -growing more and more swollen with indulgence because of it. Very few of these stragglers get the opportunity to escape their imprisonment and the few that do are barely able to make a life above Marr because of people's prejudices. Most of them have slunk back below to be with their families- unable to withstand the gossip behind people's hands, the wary gazes and the refusal of service. Sterling offers them one option: turning to a life of crime to survive only to be punished for it.

And her sister help enforce this, gleefully handcuffing criminals and leading them to their jail cells.

She tries again, launching herself off the roof and using the electricity to help her flip mid-air before she slams down onto the third rooftop, rolling to break her fall. She's beginning to think she may have found something that she is actually good at. The thought fills her with an unfamiliar burst of enthusiasm. She knows this feeling will become an addiction for her. She already cannot imagine living without this insatiable energy that brings her to the brink of overload in the most delightful way.

A few yards away, the train screeches- drawing her attention. She can feel the white lightning traveling through the wires beneath the metal structure. It calls to her. She steps off of the rooftop and lets the city's pulsing electric grid lift her into the air and off towards to train.

She slams down onto the tracks, feeling the energy flowing through the metal. It enters her brain. It fills her lungs and makes her feel even more powerful than before. A laugh escapes her lips and a new idea forms in her head- an awful, evil, malicious idea that sends a chill down on her spine. If it was any other day under any other circumstance, she would ignore it- let it drop through the floorboards and pretend she never thought it.

But instead, she feeds it like a pet. She indulges it, lets it grow bigger and bigger- taking up more space in her head. Her first step? The shopping district. She has a few items to pick up.

When she arrives, she makes a beeline for the most swanky boutique in town- a place that has denied her entry more than once.

And there, in the front window is a large poster Miracle- grinning ear to ear- holding a magnificent bag aloft. The text above her reads: "Our Millennium Makeup Bag : Mage Approved ™!" Anger wells up inside of her. Miracle's smile- peeking out from beneath her blue latex mask and brown hood- seems to laugh at her, goad her. She wants to punch through the wall of glass and tear it down. And maybe, with her new abilities, she can do just that.

She can feel it buzzing inside her exoskeleton- zipping anxiously around her spinal column like an insect. She wills it to rise up through her ribcage, passing through her organs leaving a delightful tipsiness in its wake. It slinks up her throat and she holds it there. She places her fingers on it- feels the warmth of the blue energy fizzing underneath her skin. She gazes at the poster again and lets her rage pool within her- starting at the pit of her stomach and hurling it up into her chest.

She opens her mouth to scream- letting out every insecurity, frustration and rejection in her bones- releasing the electricity from her throat. It crackles out of her lips shattering the window pane. She smirks to herself and places a delicate hand on the window frame to step into the boutique.

The coat has been calling to her for weeks now- but she hasn't been able to figure out how to nab it. But now, it's hers for the taking. It's a long, red overcoat with lush black fur trim. Its delightfully gaudy. The sort of thing she has no occasion to wear- but she'd love to find an excuse to take it clubbing at the very least.

She snatches the coat, leaving the mannequin naked before she flicks it with two fingers, sending it toppling to the floor knocking down a jewelry display in its wake. Earrings and necklaces litter the linoleum, glittering in the soft light from the street. She scoops them up tenderly, pleased with her spoils. On a whim, she starts to weave the trinkets into the fur of the coat before slipping it over the gentle curve of her shoulders. She decides that if she's going to be called a magpie- she may as well look the part. Strut around the city in her stolen goodies, mocking the rich while flaunting their most precious items right in front of their very eyes. She gazes at herself in the mirror, turning to and fro, more than happy with the result.

She fishes the gauze from her pockets and grips it between her fists. She starts to wrap it over her eyes. Once, twice, three times until all she can see is darkness. As she suspected, she can see the power grid pulsing- the electric lines weaving through the back of her eyelids like neon blue spiderwebs guiding her through the city. The power is begging to be drained.

She can feel it, even now, threatening to rattle through her teeth and burst out of her mouth. And she loves it. She loves feeling dangerous. After all these years of people treating her like a fragile animal that could bite at the slightest provocation, she can finally give them something to be afraid of. Maybe she can peel back the layers of this city and destroy the system that locks everyone in place. Maybe she can burn this city to the ground and they can build a utopia in its place where everyone can truly be equal. She wonders if perhaps The Magpie within her could morph into something else entirely. Something that could bring Miracle to her knees.

It's been two days since I first saw the Cat Man. I was on the Peloton for the first time in three weeks. Just haven't been able to since it happened. I was in the middle of a climb ride when I heard knocking on the front door. Answered it and saw a man I didn't recognize. His eyes were half obscured by a ratty baseball cap. He smiled.

"Hi, is this your cat? I found him walking in the road. You know, you should really keep him inside, or at least get him fixed so he won't wander so much. Don't want him to get run over now, do we?"

I'd been shaking my head since his first question, but I guess he didn't notice. I had stopped listening anyway when I saw the cat in his arms. It looked just like Moony.

"No, it's not." My nose prickled with incoming tears. "I don't have a cat."

His smile stayed plastered on his face, unaffected by my response and far too cheery for the late hour.

"My mistake," he said. "Goodnight." He walked away, still holding the cat. It looked over his shoulder at me. I could only hold its gaze for a couple seconds before my face started twisting up. I closed the door and finally let my sobs out.

I cried myself to sleep that night, staring at the empty cat tower next to my bed.

It's been four days since I first saw the Cat Man. He comes again, again when I'm on the bike, again with the cat. It's weaving around his feet this time. He smiles like.

"Is this your cat? I found him-"

I have the courage to interrupt him this time. "No, I still don't have a cat. You asked me the same thing the other night."

The smile doesn't budge. "My mistake. Goodnight." But he doesn't leave. I notice blood on his shirt. It looks fresh. I ask if he's okay.

He doesn't look at it or break his smile. "Don't worry, it's not mine."

It's been five days since I first saw the Cat Man. When he comes back, I don't give him a chance to speak, just open the door a crack and say, "Sir, I don't have a cat. Please leave me alone." I want to tell him to fuck off but figure it best not to anger him.

I close the door immediately, but through it I hear, "My mistake. Goodnight." I watch him through the peephole until he leaves, thankfully only a moment later. The blood stain on his shirt is bigger than before.

I pick a scenic ride on the Peloton to clear my head. Norway. It always worked before. But I keep seeing fleeting glimpses of dead cats on the virtual road, their bodies flattened, mangled, bloody. Tears soon mix with sweat. I frantically unclip my feet and stumble into the bathroom. Then I see the sticky note on the mirror.

Make neuter appointment for Moony!

I grab it. How long ago did I write that? I can't remember. I'd put it somewhere I'd look every day so I wouldn't forget. But there was always something more important, more pressing. The ink blurs as sweat and tears seep into the paper.

It's been six days since I first saw the Cat Man. When he knocks this time, I have 911 dialed before I even get to the door. My thumb hovers over the call button as I open it, but he isn't there. I don't know whether to be relieved or worried. Someone had knocked. I dare to hope it's just a kid playing a prank this time.

I'm about to close the door when I see something on the porch. It's the cat. I look at it, it looks at me. Its eyes are neither threatening nor threatened, just aware.

He looks so much like him. Grey tabby with yellow eyes, small frame, fluffy tail. This one's hair is a little more matted. A couple tufts are missing where it looks like he got in a fight. His tail is broken, not bleeding, just kinked wrong in one spot. Tears fill my eyes yet again. As much as I want it to be him, want my best friend back for even one minute, I know it's not him. It can't be. Because I saw him that day, three… almost four weeks ago. There's no coming back from that kind of damage. He was dead before I even got to the road. His ashes should be ready to pick up any day now. Despite this, despite knowing this doppelganger before me is not my Moony, I can't help but smile.

Before I can stop him, he bolts past me into the house. I start after him – cartoonishly backtracking to lock the door – and find him on top of Moony's tower in my room. He stares down at me smugly.

Not that I mind a stray cat in my house, now that I don't have to worry about him and Moony not getting along. But his eyes… They're not dead, but they're not lively either. Staring into them gives me the same creeping shivers that the Cat Man does. I feel invaded, like he's in here, too. I'm granted little reassurance when I return to the door and look through the peephole. In the road stands the silhouette of a man in a baseball cap.

It's been seven days since I first saw the Cat Man. The cat is still on the tower. I try to grab him, but he scratches me. He won't even let me pet him. I put out some of Moony's leftover food. He's not interested. I have the door open (under my watchful eye) until dark in case he decides to go back out on his own, but no luck so far. He's still just sitting there, watching.

The Cat Man does not show. I should be grateful, but his sudden absence disconcerts me more than his presence ever did.

It's been eight days since I first saw the Cat Man. No change. The cat still won't let me touch him, won't play, won't eat. If he's come down from the tower, I haven't seen it. Moony's freshly filled litter box remains untouched. I think I'll call the vet tomorrow. I put a sticky note on the mirror to remind me.

It's been ten days since I first saw the Cat Man. I wake to the sound of droplets hitting the floor. The cat is still on the tower. I don't think I've seen him blink this whole time. The sound is coming from his direction. As I draw closer, I see it dripping off each level of the tower like a malfunctioning fountain, the cat perched atop as its sculpture. I touch the liquid. It's blood. The smell hits me then, and I gag. I reach for the cat to see if he's hurt, but he scratches me again. I step back, cradling my hand. He's just looking at me, into me in a way that makes my soul squirm.

Then, for the first time, he meows. It's a cracked, dry, broken utterance unattainable by any earthly creature. Yellow-green maggots crawl out of the sides of his mouth and up his face. They gather on his eyes before moving on, leaving empty, gaping sockets behind. His mouth hangs crooked. Fur peels off in patches like burning paper. Green and white fungus sprouts in its place.

His eyes aren't there, but he's still watching. I scream and run outside. I turn around expecting to see his decaying figure slinking after me, but I don't. All I see is pavement under my feet and, out of the corner of my eye, a hulking metal shape fast approaching.

I'm cold, but the red puddle around me is warm. Road sediment rubs into my skin. My head feels loose. I've never seen my shoulder from the back before.

Moony's here, on the road with me. He looks like I remember that day. All crushed and twisted. Everything that's supposed to be separate suddenly thrown into one, denied rightful appearance and function. It doesn't horrify me as much now. Because now I know how he feels. He's looking right at me. There's no affection there, no pain, only judgment. A cry rattles my body. I try to tell him what I've spoken to the dark chasm of our home every night since he died.

"I'm sorry."

But it doesn't sound like that coming out; my failing lungs only manage an incoherent wheeze.

The Cat Man approaches. He stands a few feet off, watching. Moony gets up somehow. He sits beside the man and looks at me. Looks at me like the cat in my house did. I wonder if it was him after all, that whole time. I reach for him, but he does nothing. They turn and leave, the Man tossing something over his shoulder. In my blood lands a crumpled sticky note.

END

Donald Trump is serving a five year sentence at Alcatraz. A nickel at The Rock. Ironically, or literally as the younger gen says, a prison of his own making. Jack Smith has done yeoman's work. The Supreme Court refuses to intervene.

To swing a clock hand from where he stands on the left is the Golden Gate Bridge, Marin County, and Angel Island, above is the East Bay with Oakland, the cranes of the Port are prominent, to the right the Bay Bridge, then the South Bay and Silicon Valley, six o'clock the City by the Bay, San Francisco.

He looks at his map and tries to memorize the street names close by; Chestnut, Gough (rhymes with cough, not goo), Van Ness, Divisadero. Lombard, the crookedist street.

It is beautiful in a harsh way, foggy and cold most days. The sun rises over the East Bay, and sets on San Francisco.

The young guard who is a patriot comes by the cell.

"This could be the night Mr. President."

"Thanks McDermott."

Trump is ready. A regimen of push ups, yoga, planks, sit ups, and jumping jacks, and lack of ice cream has him at 219 pounds. The weight that quack doctor, after some negotiation, said he was. He hasn't gotten any taller.

"After this we'll bust Pam and Kristi out too," the guard beams.

"Yeah, maybe not Steven Miller, that guy scares me."

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

An hour later the signal comes from Fisherman's Wharf. The tide is right. McDermott quickly unlocks the door and enters. Gets Trump into the wetsuit, booties, gloves, hood.

"These are your fins, put them on at the last minute, wade out backwards, and God Bless you."

"Fight, fight, fight," he responds, this gets the kid going every time.

They make their way to the beach at the South end of the island. It is the coriolis effect, you are going to swim straight but wind up going in a curve. If he doesn't hit Aquatic Park, one of the piers or even the baseball park would be okay. He enters the Bay, fuck is it ever cold, give a few kicks and paddles, feels pretty good.

He doesn't see the wave from the passing freighter coming. He is pushed so far down he doesn't know which way is up. Just when he is ready to take a breath of water he comes up, coughing.

Now he has an ice cream headache. Is a bit disoriented.

A burning car at a sideshow in Oakland looks just like the light. He sets out again in earnest. Does it feel like he is making any headway? A little.

Time takes a backseat when survival is the goal. He isn't sure how long he swims. In the light of the moon he can make out a bridge tower. Treasure Island. His back is sore. His teeth are chattering.

The tide and his efforts bring him down to the city of Fremont. A large Afghan community resides here. The last hundred yards are harrowing. He is close to giving up and makes a final push, staggers onshore.

As the sun rises he collapses next to a bike path. A jogger sees what she thinks at first is a sea mammal. Then seeing the blue face she screams. She puts two fingers to the neck and gets no pulse. The end of an era.

No, that was too easy, don't do that.

He staggers into an upscale neighborhood by the Bay. The sun hits his wetsuit and warms him slightly. A police cruiser comes by. An officer jumps out, cuffs him and throws him in the car.

"My family had a large soybean farm in Nebraska," the cop lectures him, "A big beautiful farm. Now the bank owns it and we are spread all over the country, only some of us have jobs."

Closer, but not quite it.

He staggers into a neighborhood of pastel colored houses. Rings the doorbell of a house with a Mercedes out front. It is the home of Abdul, who fled Kabul as a boy under the Russian occupation. He owns a Recreational Vehicle dealership. His wife answers the door in a hijab. Good, Trump thinks to himself, I think these people have some sort of cultural rule about not turning down a traveler in need. Sure enough she gets him a towel and makes some hot tea. Lets him change into Abdul's Cal Bears hoodie, sweatpants, socks, Nike high tops. A baseball hat with the name Yosemite on an arrowhead. He looks at his hand which has a faded written number on it.

"Would you call my friend and tell him I got lost and give him your address?"

Trump is watching the street as a black SUV comes barreling into the block and pulls up.

"Thank you Sitara!" He says as closes the front door and walks out into the street.

They think she might be dead. I've opened our text thread at least ten times in the last thirty minutes. dead dead dead It's been rattling around in my head. DEAD! Maybe he'll tell me more when he knows more. Our phone call was just a lot of speculation and then he texted: They think she might be dead. ***** Every buzz of my phone is someone else, something else. Does he think I don't care? I was appropriately comforting. Oh no! I'm so sorry… How is your friend doing? He told me about this tragedy. I didn't ask for the latest soul-crushing news in his life. I actually called to… end things. He's just so frustrating. Not to mention married. With kids. It's not like things ever got sexual. Not an affair. Not not an affair. But how could I cut him off when he tells me his best friend's girlfriend's daughter is missing. Ran away from home, but her truck was found in a precarious spot. I'm not heartless. I am curious. I should text him. ***** Thinking of you. That's nice. That's good. Not too much pressure. No. Wait. He needs something to respond to. One question. He can't handle more than one. The idiot. Thinking of you. How's your friend holding up? Comma. Period. Comma. Period. Comma's better. Less intense. Thinking of you, how's your friend holding up? ***** What was his friend's name? Name? Name? DAMMIT! If I could just look him up, her up. Maybe they've posted online. Thank you everyone, our daughter is home safely. We want to spend time with her, so we won't be online too much. Or maybe the news is bad. They think she might be dead. Is she dead? Is he consoling? Comforting? If that's the case, I'm probably the last thing on his mind. Why would he text me in the throes of crisis? Because he always texted you. Every problem. Every sadness. Every complaint. You were his emotional dumping ground. God, I just wanted to fuck him. ***** Us never talking again was what I wanted. I got what I wanted, but I need to know. Why won't he just tell me? I just need him to tell me. Fuck! Fuck! FUCK! ***** Hey. ***** Hey.