The hunt for Colonel James Woods had been on for the better part of a year when the letter arrived at his estate. News of his remarkable disappearance had reached adventurers from every corner of the globe. From the jungles of Peru to the sands of the Sahara to the frosted peaks of the Himalayas, his friends searched tirelessly. None was as committed to the quest as Rex Henshaw, his handsome young apprentice who had visited dozens of countries over the preceding months, and it was no accident that this document fell into his hands.

While significantly past his prime and directly defying the advice of his physician, the Colonel’s devoted butler, Spartacus, raced through the labyrinth of halls that comprised the Woods estate until he reached his master’s office. Therein stood Rex staring intently at an enormous map that stretched across an entire wall of the room. The world had been vandalized by the Colonel’s young ward, the seven continents barely visible. A chaotic blur of circles and lines littered with darts and thumbtacks. Rex was so focused he did not hear the hastened clop of tuxedo shoes in the hall — despite the echoes —nor the old man’s heavy wheezing as he desperately gasped for air and attempted to gain some composure.

It was not until the Colonel’s favorite pet, a large white tiger named Balthazor, stirred from his slumber and growled that Rex had even noticed anyone else was in the room. He immediately peered over the Colonel’s desk where the beast had been sleeping on a pile of tattered old books and caught his first glimpse of his exhausted and slightly balding companion.

“Master Henshaw… this… just arrived, sir,” Spartacus coughed, reaching into the jacket of his tuxedo and extracting the envelope.

A flurry of papers scattered fiercely through the air as Rex rushed across the room. Balthazor hopped down from the desk and followed casually. After snatching the envelope from the butler’s hand, Rex examined it thoroughly. There was no return address. No postmark.

Anxiously, he ripped it open, a perplexing wrinkle on his forehead. The ragged pieces of the envelope gracefully fluttered down upon the worn shag carpeting, leaving a trail as Rex paced over to the desk. The grumpy tiger followed close behind, taking a brief moment to pause and sniff some shreds of paper before sitting elegantly at Rex’s feet, rubbing its cheek forcefully against his jeans. The black denim complemented its fur, once a vibrant white but now fading to dusty beige. While growing rather husky with age, Balthazor was no less intimidating to anyone except Rex — how quickly he had forgotten that the same tiger nearly took his life on his first night in the estate — who reached down and gently rubbed its head as he unfolded the letter. The beast purred in satisfaction. As he read, Rex’s forehead grew more wrinkled, and his eyes began to squint in thought.

He glared at Spartacus, who remained in the thresholdhoping to avoid an encounter with the overgrown housecat.

“Where’s Archie?”

“I do believe he went out for a drink a good hour ago.”

Making his way across the room, Rex shook his head and handed the letter to the butler, who did not hesitate to satisfy his curiosity.

“Big surprise. When he gets back, tell him to sober up and fill his tank. Michael and I are leaving in the morning, and we’ll need him ready to fly.

“Why rush, sir? This clearly indicates that you have a month before Master Woods is expected to —”

“We don’t know when that letter was written. Sure, it could have been a week ago, but it could also have gotten lost in the mail for a few days — or weeks. This is the only lead we’ve got right now, and I’m not taking any chances.”

With that, Rex departed. The tiger ambled after him, making a point to stop and snarl at Spartacus before it stepped out. The poor butler clenched his chest, and as he tried to lower his heart rate, he could hear Rex’s voice emanating from the hall.

“And don’t forget to feed the cat while I’m gone!”

Dearest James,

Words cannot express my excitement for our rendezvous next month. I know we were just together yesterday, but already it feels as if it’s been years since I last saw your face. Besides, I haven’t been gorilla hunting in years! Everything is set for the expedition — I’ll meet you at a hostel outside of Kisangani. After my plane lands in Bangoka, I plan on stopping by the local bazaar. If I’m not at the room when you arrive, I’m sure you’ll find me there.

Yours Truly,

Helena Bradford

P.S. – I was in Papua a couple weeks ago and found the most beautiful mask for your collection. It wasn’t easy getting it past the natives, but I know the perfect spot for it on your wall!

Having spent several hours staring blankly out the window of the plane, Rex was consumed by his usual paranoia. He wasn’t afraid of flying; in fact he rather enjoyed it. Crashing, on the other hand, he believed would be significantly less pleasurable. He had been calm during takeoff just as much as he had been when boarding the plane. It wasn’t until he had been off the ground for twenty minutes that boredom directed his gaze through the small window to his right, which revealed to him a strip of duct tape strapped around the wing, the end flapping violently in the wind. That was the moment that reminded him who was flying the plane.

Archibald Henderson was once, though very briefly, an esteemed member of the United States Air Force. Archie often boasted of his ancestry, namely his ever-so-great grandfather, the longest-serving Commandant of the United States Marine Corps, who served on the USS Constitution during her victories in the War of 1812. Whether they were actually related has yet to be proven, but at any rate, they irrefutably shared the same name.

While Archie’s fame rivaled that of his supposed great-great-great-grandfather, his reputation lacked prestige. In twenty-seven years of service to his country, he was able to break a dozen records — all of which involved the demolition of aircraft. Of course, he would always point out to his colleagues that only eight of them were actual crashes. His crowning achievement commenced in the air when he ran out of fuel and attempted to return to base, a decision that led to the destruction of eleven aircraft and ended Archie’s hapless yet beloved career in the military.

Rex had heard the story many times. Though it always made him laugh when he had two feet firmly planted on the ground, it never failed to thrust him into hysteria when he was trapped in the air with Archie in the cockpit.

The heart is a crucial part of the human anatomy consisting of four chambers, which allow blood to receive oxygen as it flows through the body’s circulatory system. This definition’s scientific technicality fails to reflect my belief that the heart defines a person. I believe my heart has a distinct way of defining me. I am a patient. I am a patient who has a congenital heart defect. I am a patient with Truncus Arteriosus.

Although these stark details do not offer an accurate portrayal of my condition, my hospital record does. I am a female who is 4 feet, 11 inches in height. I am a patient with a heart murmur caused by a malfunctioning mitral valve. I am a patient whose aorta and pulmonary artery were combined at birth. Consequently, only deoxygenated blood circulated through my body. I am a patient who, before the age of thirteen, had the following procedures: one stent, two balloon angioplasties, and four catheterizations. I am a patient who has had two open-heart surgeries: one at four days old and one at the age of twelve.

Off the hospital record, the two heart donations that I received during these operations are the only reason a jagged green line marches across the heart monitor. Despite these donations, my heart is still incapable of creating a steady THUD-THUD sound like a bass drum. Rather, my heartbeat is a laboring washing machine that generates a sloshy THUMP-schwoosh sound.

THUMP-schwoosh. My heart lurches, pounds, struggles, and survives under the bumpy, white scar that runs down my chest like the links of a long, slender chain. THUMP-schwoosh. My imperfect heartbeat thuds behind sturdy white rib bones. THUMP-schwoosh. The erratic rhythm is a constant reminder of the debt I can never repay, and the noise creates an excruciating conflict inside me. THUMP. I am alive! I can experience sudden epiphanies, unexpected setbacks, askew ideas, and crisscrossing theories that puzzle and perplex but lead to some greater truth. Schwoosh. I ask myself reproachfully, “Am I doing enough? Am I making the most of the life I have been given?” THUMP-schwoosh. My heartbeat is a compass that throbs out the personal conviction, “Live! Live boldly; live up to your potential.”

Despite its defects, I believe my heart defines me. I am a patient. I am a patient with Truncus Arteriosus. I am a person who is small yet mighty, determined, and resolute. I am a patient with a pulsing mass of veins and arteries that makes me a bundle of contradictions.I live in constant excitement for today, and conversely, in constant apprehension of tomorrow. The complex organ the size of my fist provides the aspiration to thrive in glorious existence. Under taught skin and sinew, an effervescence surges within the pulsating muscle of my borrowed heart.

The forest’s canopy was dense and thick, branches twisting and writhing around each other, to the point that hardly any sunlight pierced its great barrier. The leaves were moist and dripping from a recent rainstorm, and many of the forest’s smaller inhabitants rummaged around the forest’s floor. The creatures scrounged for any food they could find, oftentimes each other.

A velociraptor stalked among some nearby bushes. It crept closer and closer to a family of protoceratops, who was blissfully unaware of its imminent danger. Then, like a bolt of lightning, the raptor rushed out of the dark foliage. It sprinted toward the youngest of the frightened creatures and was upon it before it even had time to react. The others fled in fear as the raptor sank its razor-sharp teeth into the protoceratop’s neck, and with a flash, the pitiful thing was dead.

The raptor began ravenously feeding on its prize. But not halfway through its meal, something roused it from its bloody handiwork. A great thunder shook the forest, from the tops of its trees all the way to its roots. The raptor looked desperately at its meal, but dared not cross the path of what was approaching. It fled into the underbrush in shame, taking only one last hunk of meat.

The ground rumbled with each step, as if under the attack of an earthquake. A great form lurched through the forest. His legs were like tree trunks, his tail whipped behind him. His enormous jaw housed huge, razor-sharp teeth. He was a creature that was spoken of in a hushed, reverent tone. He was praised for his rippling muscles and powerful jaws that commanded respect. So much respect that no creature dared mention his goofy little arms.

He was…Mr. Tyrannosaurus Rex.

Mr. T-Rex stomped by the protoceratops corpse without even giving it a glance. It was a paltry amount, not fit for a creature of his magnificence and station. No, he was after larger and fiercer prey; prey that would be worthy of killing. Mr. T-Rex’s destination was a bright light shining in the distance. As he drew closer, the trees grew thinner, and blue sky began to appear overhead. Finally, he had made his way to the edge of the forest.

The tyrant king looked out at the sight before him. A glimmering blue lake stretched out in the land below him, beyond which were golden plains far as the eye could see. The shores of the lake were teaming with dinosaurs of every kind: triceratops, stegosaurus, sauropods; even great pterosaurs dotted the skies.

Mr. T-Rex had to choose his prey carefully. If the ensuing fight was too easy, his reputation would be irreparably damaged. Obviously, the pterosaurs were out of the question, as were the sauropods, the only dinosaurs mightier than he. Stegosaurs had the assets to put up an impressive fight, but, given their infamous stupidity, were more likely to spike themselves in the head than make for a compelling struggle.

No, it would have to be the triceratops. Great juggernauts, armed with long and powerful horns that could easily gut the mighty Mr. T-Rex. They were fiercely territorial creatures who commanded almost as much respect as the tyrannosaurs themselves. But which one would it be? Which one was neither too young nor too old, healthy and in his prime; which behemoth had the might to face him?

Mr. T-Rex eyed a particularly spirited triceratops bull leading its fellows to the water’s edge. He raised his enormous head in celebration and gave out a triumphant bellow that rang across the plains. The thrill of combat entered into Mr. T-Rex’s mind and he twiddled his fingers excitedly; at least he would have if his arms weren’t too stunted to reach each other, but the point comes across all the same.

Mr. T-Rex lumbered out of the forest, stopping briefly to let the sun’s warm rays bask down onto him, energizing him for the fight ahead. As he came closer to the lake, the other dinosaurs became aware of his approach and scattered, fearing for their lives. The triceratops, however, held their ground and formed a mighty phalanx between Mr. T-Rex and the fleeing dinosaurs. Mr. T-Rex had anticipated this and stopped a ways from the wall of spiky death. He had no chance against an entire herd of triceratops; his only chance was to goad the triceratops bull into one-on-one combat. Mr. T-Rex unleashed a savage roar, one that caused the line of triceratops to falter ever so slightly before regaining their composure. The bull recognized Mr. T-Rex’s power and refused to risk his followers’ safety any more. He slowly, but stoutly, broke away from the brigade and stood before Mr. T-Rex, alone.

The other triceratops moved to protest their leader’s decision, but the bull stamped his feet and let out a menacing growl. Nothing could change his mind. The others moved away and anxiously watched the battle that was about to unfold. With a gnashing of teeth, Mr. T-Rex charged the triceratops. The bull, in turn, moved his head upwards hoping that Mr. T-Rex’s momentum would cause him to fall upon his horns. Mr. T-Rex saw through this base ploy and deftly side-stepped the bull and circled around him, launching his jaws at the bull’s back legs. The brute whipped around, swifter than expected, and left a cut on Mr. T-Rex’s snout.

Mr. T-Rex backed away from the bull, impressed by his agility. He would have to plan his next move carefully. The two began circling each other, neither one breaking eye contact. Mr. T-Rex weighed his options. The bull was faster than any triceratops he had ever encountered before, thus negating the option of attacking from the back. An idea crept into Mr. T-Rex’s mind. His concentration returned to him, body trembling with anticipation, stubby arms waving excitedly in bloodlust. He only had one shot at this.

Mr. T-Rex once again charged forward towards the bull, who once again raised his head upwards. This time, however, Mr. T-Rex showed no signs of slowing down. Each footfall brought Mr. T-Rex closer to the bull’s razor-sharp horns. At the last second, Mr. T-Rex raised one of his mighty feet into the air and stomped down onto the end of the bull’s snout, his toes going between the horn at the edge of the bull’s nose. The bull’s head buckled forward and smashed into the ground hard; his two main horns speared into the earth, sending bits of dirt flying into the air. Mr. T-Rex closed his jaws onto the stunned creature’s frill and began wrestling with his head. With a powerful jerk, Mr. T-Rex tackled the bull onto the ground, flipping him over to reveal his vulnerable neck. Wasting no time, Mr.T-Rex tore into the helpless bull’s jugular. He yanked his mouth upwards and ripped out the triceratops’ throat! “Alex.” Blood and tissue were everywhere, flying through the air, splattering Mr. T-Rex’s face! “ALEX.” The looks of horror from the other triceratops at the morbid, gruesome, decimated remains of their former lea-

“ALEX!”

I found myself sitting on the hard, uncarpeted floor of my bedroom. The tyrannosaurus and triceratops figures were in my tightly-clenched hands. Other dinosaur figures were strewn on the floor around me: stegosaurus, pteranodons, apatosaurus; a velociraptor laid motionless on top of my bed. I looked up to see my mom standing in my bedroom’s doorway with an annoyed look on her face.

“Alex,” she said, “you told me you’d gather up all of your old toys a half an hour ago. Have you even started?”

I looked around at the toys scattered on my floor. “I may have gotten a little distracted.”

“You promised that you would take care of all of this before you went back to campus. Now just toss all those old dinosaur toys in the box so we can give them away.”

I looked down at my dinosaur figures and then at the box but made no move to place them in there.

“Actually, I was thinking about hanging on to them for a little while.”

My mom gave me an incredulous look. “You’re twenty. What does a twenty-year-old need with dinosaur toys?”

“Alright just… just give me a few minutes? Okay? Just a few minutes.”

My mom let out an exasperated sigh and left the room. I glanced into the hallway to make sure she went back downstairs. I took my textbooks out of my book bag and quickly stuffed a few handfuls of the dinosaur figures into it. I kept the tyrannosaurus and the triceratops out and continued in my head. The other triceratops looked in horror at the morbid, gruesome, decimated remains of their former leader…

Mr. T-Rex looked up from his kill to see the other triceratops,stricken with fright. He let out an earth-shaking roar, sending the triceratops fleeing away from the site of this great battle. Mr. T-Rex stood above his fallen foe, satisfied that this struggle would be remembered for years to come. He had his share of the bounty and left the rest for the scavengers. No one could say that he was not benevolent to the lesser predators.

Mr. T-Rex made his way back towards the forest, the sun setting across the grasslands. This day was coming to an end, but it was just one of many. There were still many adventures to come, many more challenges. There would always be new trials to face in the life of…Mr. Tyrannosaurus Rex.

I stare at your page like a lone death mask, etched in your eerie likeness and scattered among the throngs of the living. It’s all there, everything factual about you: how old you were, where you were born, your graduating class. I look through pictures of you and friends, smiling and laughing amongst one another without the grim shadow of oblivion about you. Your final writings reveal nothing profound, the scribbled, last minute thoughts before an unforeseen end. In the eyes of any other, you’re still there, working in a diner, listening to music, hanging with friends, and having a complicated relationship while remaining interested in men. But the numerous lamentations of friends and loved ones written upon your wall pay testament to the loss of you, a life cut short and randomly, leaving nothing behind but a hollow visage bearing your smile, your eyes, your face, and a colder world; the electronic ghost of you.

I can’t concentrate because a half-full can of Diet Coke is going flat on my desk across the room. And that’s just too loud. I can’t focus because the smell of Gillette shaving-gel residue is wafting off my upper lip. Every time I inhale through my nose, I can smell the blue soapy film. Taste my own stale-spearmint breath with every exhale. The hypersensitivity comes with the dark of the room. I can’t think straight because there’s a woman in my bed undressing me. I don’t remember her name. Friend of an old friend. I know nothing about her.

“Are you ready?” she asks, grinning, as she throws my shirt onto the floor.

“I just…that should probably go on a hanger,” I explain, “I lent my iron to—“ she laughs before lunging towards my throat. Lips slightly parted, with more appetite than affection, she begins kissing me.

As this anonymous nearly-stranger runs her tongue up my neck, and nibbles my ear from time to time (and as my shirt collects wrinkles), my mind turns to Schrödinger’s cat: my favorite paradox. Start with a cat, a hammer, a vial of poison, and trace amounts of a radioactive substance. And then put them all in a box. No way to see inside. Completely closed off and dark in there.

This woman’s name is Michelle, I think. For some reason, that name comes to mind when she clamps her teeth down around the skin just above my right nipple. She snorts a little and then turns her attention back to my neck. I glance down to make sure the skin isn’t broken, and then let my thoughts wander back to the cat.

In the box, a relay mechanism is set so that if even a single atom of the radioactive substance decays, changes states, the hammer will smash the vial, and release the poison—

“Come on!” she shouts playfully. Actually, it might be Lauren.Maybe Kate. Kelly? No. It isn’t Kelly, but that’s getting closer. Or further. I think.

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t be sorry,” she grunts, “just help me get your pants off.” She tugs at the zipper clumsily.

“Oh, right,” I say. I slide off my jeans, fold them, and lay them by the side of the bed. I don’t throw them. With jeans off, and my bare back against the sheets, I just lie there.

Because the radioactive matter cannot be observed, it occupies all potential atomic states at the same time. Both decayed and unaltered. Logically, somehow, the vial of poison would be both in tact and shattered; meaning the cat would be both living and dead simultaneously inside the box. At least until someone looked inside. How is that possible? That’s the paradox, I guess. There’s no real answer. No satisfaction to be had. “Michelle,” “Lauren,” “Kate,” or another name, thrusts her tongue into my mouth and swirls it erratically.

This girl in my bed sinks her fingernails into my hips and slowly drags her head away from mine. Downward. Sensually blowing, lightly, on my skin. I wonder if she can’t remember my name either.

“Daniel,” she begins. At least one question is answered. “Am I the only one enjoying myself here?” She pulls her head up to look me in the eyes. Puts one warm hand between my legs. I say nothing. I look away from her (just for a moment) and stare at my shirt on the floor. “Dan?” Wrinkles setting in. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” she shouts. Less playful than her first outburst.

“I don’t know what you mean.” I don’t know her at all. I can hardly see her face with the lights off.

She snarls, “Look, I think I’ve been putting out a pretty good effort; you haven’t been.” She laces her fingers together behind my neck, leans back, and pulls me forward on top of her. “And that isn’t fair.” She continues, “You do want me to stay, don’t you?” She lies on her back.

“Of course.” I lie to her face.

“Well, prove it.”

“Fine, I mean, sure…but first, I’d really like to just put that shirt on a hanger.”

She sits up, straight and stiff, knocking me back. “Christ, am I wasting my time?” she asks indignantly. I don’t know what to say. She continues probing, “Do you even remember my name? What’s my name?” I still don’t know what to say. She thrusts backwards onto the mattress, pulling me down again. “What’s my name!” she demands, shrieking, hissing. She squeezes my wrists. Hard. My fingers spasm, and I can’t think clearly.

“Schrödinger’s cat!” I shout down at her, “You’re Schrödinger’s goddamn cat! Alright?” She doesn’t loosen her grip. Doesn’t clench tighter.

She opens her mouth, “I’m—“

“I don’t want to know!” I interrupt. I close my eyes; lids clenched tighter than her hands around my wrists. “Don’t tell me anything.” I lean down and whisper, “I don’t want to know anything about y—“ She cuts me off by biting my lip, pulling me down even further.

If you can’t see inside the box, the atoms of that radioactive substance occupy all atomic states. If you don’t ruin it by looking, the cat is both alive and dead. How far does this go? I don’t know. If I don’t know this girls name, if I don’t see her face, couldn’t she be everyone? Anyone? She moans. Arches her back. She could be everyone. Anyone else.

“Ellen Carpenter, you are a bitch. You are the scum of the Earth, and I pray that you burn in hell!” she said, smashing another one of the miniature, crystal figures she’d spent more than half of her 26 years collecting against the cream colored walls, as if they were the ones she was angry with. She threw an angel this time; it kneeled unsuspecting on a clear crystal cloud with its head positioned against pressed-together fingertips, sending a silent message to God. The angel veered to the left and flew straight into the wall, leaving another pile of crystal fragments like several of its figurine brethren had before it.

I stared at the tiny rainbows each one created as the sun coming in from the large living room windows reflected onto their broken bodies sprinkled across the floor. The battlefield between us was littered with pieces of figurines that had taken flight across the room and either landed safely somewhere, their impact cushioned by the carpet, or hit the wall behind me and shattered effortlessly.

I couldn’t help but feel slightly guilty as she screamed at me. But what was I supposed to do? Apologize? I’m not very good with apologies. I usually just buy cards to say most things: “I miss you,” “I love you,” “Congratulations.” But I’m sure there’s no greeting card, no matter how heartfelt the message, how fancy the lettering, or how catchy the tune, to sincerely express just how sorry I want to feel.

I’d never heard Liz scream before. She was fuming; her usually perfectly-placed dark brown hair bun was a nest atop her head, eyeliner left its trail down her cheek, her green eyes, my own green eyes, surrounded by a clashing faint red, reminded me of Christmas.

“Look, Liz. Don’t be upset. It’s okay.”

“How is this okay?” This was the first time she talked to me as if I was in the room, instead of screaming to the heavens.

“Well—” I couldn’t think of anything. So I stood there, cherry-painted lips agate, wishing the right, or any, words would come out.

She just let out a frustrated yell—I was not the only one at a loss for words—and wound up her arm for another shot. This time a dolphin amid clear cresting waves hit me in the nose. I swore I heard something crack before I felt warm blood dripping into my mouth and watched some of it make its way onto the carpet. There must have been a point in our lives where I stopped paying attention; my sister’s previously weak, waifish frame was throwing figures with the force of a body three times her size. I used to be the burly sister; there was a time when I pushed Liz around. But somewhere along the way the dynamic switched, and I was the one cowering behind a shield of my own hands.

“Elizabeth!” I yelled, alarmed at the mess coming from my face. “What is wrong with you?”

“You, Ellen!” I thought she was about to pop. Her face red, plucked eyebrows huddled together, lips tight, pink and pursed, almost to the point of being invisible, she shot another figure as I thought about whether or not I should rip off the bottom of myfavorite AC/DC shirt to cover my face. The shirt went really well with a pair of jeans I had stolen from an ex-boyfriend of mine that were comfortable and worn in all the right places.

The next figure hit the side of my forehead and threw me off my balance, sending me into the wall. Elizabeth stood across the room, holding a figurine in each hand this time, but as my eyes watered, I couldn’t tell which ones they were. She brought her right hand up, and as she threw her arm back, I ducked down and curled into a ball. I heard glass shattering above me and could feel several shards dropping on top of me, poking any piece of skin not shielded by my clothing.

“Oh my God,” I said, not really sure what to do.

“You can get up. I wasn’t aiming for you this time.” I slowly brought my head up, eyes still half closed, and looked above me to see the shattered glass of her 20×24 wedding photo. Standing there in her off-white wedding dress (handed down to her from our mother), smiling with each and every one of her teeth, and clasping the hands of the man she swore she’d love forever, Elizabeth had never looked more natural.

I pushed myself up from the floor and could feel tiny pieces of glass poking my palms. I looked around for Elizabeth, but she was nowhere in sight. I started to walk toward the door, but I could hear her behind me. I turned around quickly—my face covered—to see her standing there with a bottle of alcohol, a box of band-aids, and a handful of tissues.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“For your wounds, now sit down.” I was understandably unsure as to whether or not I could trust her; maybe she’d have another fit of anger and pour the bottle of alcohol down my throat, whilst straining her vocal chords in a seemingly tribal scream. But part of me felt like I deserved as much, so I sat down.

“Are you done hurting me now?”

“Just long enough to stop you from bleeding on my carpet. I should’ve come over to your house.” I laughed, but she still had a very serious, very angry look on her face. She dabbed alcohol on my forehead, and put a tissue to my nose. I flinched feeling ten again, telling Nurse Angela that my knee didn’t hurt anymore, so she wouldn’t hit me with a second round of alcohol. Elizabeth took a deep breath. Slightly more relaxed she said, “Tell me why.

“Why what?”

“Okay. Maybe the dolphin to the head really messed you up.” This time she was the one who laughed; but quicker than her smile came, it was gone again. “Why Matthew? Why not someone, anyone else?” I shrugged my shoulders. She slapped me. The sound of her hand striking my cheek echoed in the empty apartment.

“Fuc—I really don’t know. It just happened.”

“Things like this don’t just happen. Did you plan it?”

“We never had time to plan anything, it really just happened.

The first time was a little awkward, but it got easier.”

“It happened more than once?” She raised her eyebrow and took the hand she was using to keep my head tilted back and my blood from tainting her couch, to grab my hair and yank my face to hers.

“I didn’t mean anything by it. I swear, Liz.” I could feel her breathing warm and heavy on my face. “I love you, like a sister.” I smiled weakly. She didn’t smile back.

“I hate you, Ellen.”

“How could you?”

“I could give you a list of reasons—I hate you because you’re selfish, you’re rude, you’re irresponsible—I hate you because for some crazy reason you felt the need to ruin my life. I think you’ve done more than enough to establish yourself as the
“wild child” — you don’t need to prove it to me.” It was hard to believe that the unsturdy, frazzled mess of a woman that sat before me was the same one whose never-ending legs and coma-inducing sweetness unknowingly stole away my prom date just five years ago.

“I’m sorry, Liz.” The words spilled from my lips with a hesitation.

I’d never known before; I had less trouble telling her husband all the things I could for him that Liz wouldn’t. Her eyes started to cloud up with tears again; I knew I had said the right thing.

“Did that make you feel good?” she said. I wasn’t sure about her tone, but that had to be what she wanted to hear. How could she not want an apology? I nodded, moving her hand up and down along with my head. “Great, I’m glad you feel better,” she said letting go of my hair. I could see my own greasy brown strands woven between her shaking fingers as she walked away from me. I folded over, my head against my knees, and sighed. I thought I would cry; but all I could do was breathe. It was during this brief moment of calm that I heard a click, and felt the short barrel of my semi-automatic pistol on the back of my head.

I love him. I think I love him. No, I know I love him, because he loves me. He walked me home that first night, and he didn’t have to. He just did. He knew it was the right thing to do. Like when he opens the door for me, or gets an extra dessert for me in the dining hall. He loves me. I love him.

“Yes. Yes I will marry you.”

I want to shout it to the world! I want to run to my parents, my family, my sister and wave my hand in front of their faces. I want to waggle my sparkling finger at everyone I see. I want everyone to know! He loves me, see? Right here on my finger, he loves me. And he’s so tall. When I look up at him, my throat gets tight with excitement and joy. And he’s just like me, but exactly different. We have precisely the same hair color: a sweet walnut brown with strands of gold and silver entwining and weaving together. Perfect. But he’s so tall and thin, and I’m short and… me. And he loves me.

But this whole thing is getting so big and confusing. How many chairs, what type of napkins, how big of a cake, which dresses…. I’m so glad he’s here to help with the decisions. He points out things I hadn’t even considered. Daddy doesn’t always agree with him, but I think Daddy’s just worried about losing me. I know that’s silly. I’ll love him forever.

Beneath the canopy.

Drink the wine.

Break the glass.

“I do.”

Dirty dishes everywhere. That’s what a dishwasher is for! Can’t he get that through his head? I tell him. He tells me they weren’t his, it wasn’t his turn, he made dinner, he does it all the time, he’s busy. I tell him again. He asks me why this is such a big deal? Why am I so angry? They’re just dishes. He loves me. He brought me flowers yesterday. They were beautiful — blue and white. He’s going to go put some more water in the vase, move it closer to the window.

“How was your day, sweetheart? While I water these flowers, can you please do the dishes?”

I’m huge. Bigger than an elephant, a whale, a planet! I have my own goddamned orbital sphere! But then, I feel a kick, and my heart flutters, and I’m a girl again. I’m nervous and excited all the time. And so hungry! He brings me whatever I want, be it pizza with peanut butter or papaya or a great big meatloaf. Mom says it’s natural.

Daddy’s in a daze I think. His little girl having a little girl. I love the smile that graces Daddy’s worn, whiskered face. I hope to God she has his smile.

“Ready, PUSH!”

Not another cry. God, make her stop crying. He won’t move. Make him move. I push him. He ignores me. I know he’s awake. He isn’t snoring. He says he doesn’t snore, but I know he does — great long, disgusting snores that make me want to smother him with the pillow. I kick him so he can’t pretend anymore. But your parents are coming tomorrow, he reminds me. He must be well-rested if he’s going to put up with them all day. Well, I put up with the baby all day, every day. Has he thought of that? I can talk to my parents. He can sit in this bed and sleep all day if he’ll only move!

“It’s not my turn to get up.”

Mom says I have dark circles under my eyes. The second one came so fast. I feel like five minutes went by, and pop! There he was, lying in my arms, his eyes shining brown and loving. His sister’s eyes. My eyes staring back at me expectantly, always wanting and waiting. When will he come home? When will he move the sofa back? When will he fill the ice tray? When can my parents come again? I miss them. I miss the flowers, wilted and gone. Where did you go?

“I’m going to the store. Can you get dinner ready?”

I’m shaking, and I check on the children without thinking. They’re safe in their beds. Sound asleep, unknowing. My whole face burns red, my ears ring. I collapse on the floor between the crib and the princess sheets. I open my arms and reach out to them, but do not dare to touch, lest I wake them. I stretch my fingers as far as they can go and grasp at the air; try to hold it tight in my fist. I cannot let go. I cannot lose control. If I let go, he’ll push me, and I’ll fall. His weapons are words reverberating back and forth in my mind. I must not let go. I must reach out to them. They love me, but his bullets sound in my ears.

“Bitch. I hate you.”

Driving and driving. Rain on the windshield mocks me with every smack on the glass. Michael dozes, but Rachel is awake. Her eyes are big, but she does not speak. I don’t think she knows the words yet. I don’t know the words. Sharp honks wail in my ears, and I revel in them. They drown out other shouts and shrieks that I keep hearing over and over again. As long as there are no sirens, I don’t care. No, I want to hear sirens. The policeman will force me to get out of the car when I tell him I don’t have my purse. I want him to drive me downtown and lock me in a cell where I can stare at the walls silently, and thick cement will protect me from the screaming voices and the pounding rain. But Michael yawns, and the rain turns to piercing hail. I cannot leave him. Rachel is so confused, so lost. So am I.

“Can you direct me to the nearest Super 8?”

The chairs are blue and white. He bought me blue and white flowers once. He watered them so carefully too. Their petals were soft, but these office chairs are scratchy. They chafe at my legs, and I rub them together. He looks at me with scorn. He thinks I am a child. Yes, that is why we are here. Yes, we are in agreement with custody.

We share responsibility for Rachel’s crying eyes and Michael’s angry wails. For now, it’s my sister who hears them and gives them sweets to make it all better. Daddy refuses to hold Rachel anymore. And he won’t look at Michael because he fears who he will see in that small angry face, who he’ll hear in the wordless shouts.

My finger is light, naked. My thumb reaches past the cold pen in my hand to touch the smooth skin. He used to stroke me, touch me, thrill me. He opened doors for me, and I couldn’t wait to look into his loving face. He loved me.

Kindergarten. I think it’s a German word, but that’s when you get your first taste of it, some people even younger, but it’s safe to say that EVERYONE did this from then until they graduated or gave up.

Straighten up.

Turn your head this way.

Big smile, now.

The big umbrellas sending light into your face, a smile missing teeth, and eyes with little diamonds sparkling and doing more to lighten up the picture than any flash bulb could. Every child gets one; it’s their inauguration as a member of a culture of Me. You’re preserved for eternity in a glossy eight-by-ten, for everyone to see.

Your school picture.

Your school picture, I’ve always thought, is so the police will have something to put on the TV news, the papers, and the milk cartons when you inevitably get stolen away by some psychotic pedophile and sodomized to death. They’ll need it to identify what’s left of the body, your remains. Even that’s self-indulgent; your parents assume that their little angel is so important that some coked-out sex pervert would take keen interest in you, their precious child, and a rookie card in the world of child molesters. But, no, you need that picture even more than the police OR your parents EVER would.

Your first professional head shot.

Your parents keep every picture.

Your parents make your portfolio.

You’re a star, it’s all about you, and nothing is going to change that. Reality be damned, you’re young enough to believe in God and Santa Claus unflinchingly. The Easter Bunny died on the cross so you could stuff your face with his chocolatey, rather than golden, idol. You watch TV and you don’t see anyone but yourself. You see yourself, the lights are bright and your words are spun gold. A clever retort slips out from between your lips, and the crowd roars with canned laughter.

Big laugh.

All eyes on you.

Everyone wants to be famous, and they are in their own little way, and there isn’t a single person who’s going to question that; otherwise, they’d be questioning their own existence as the protagonist.

The star.

The leading man or lady, showing off for the whole of their little world. If you’re American, really integrated into the culture, the world is a stage, and everyone is a supporting player; an invisible audiences laughs with you, jeers your enemies, and goads you into performing your melodrama of self-importance.

Me.

Me.

Me.

Your smallest problem is the world’s smallest problem. Your biggest fear is a weight on the shoulders of every man, woman and child in your life. All yours. No one else is like you. You’re a beautiful, important, singular sensation strutting around in front of the audience of make-believe. You wring your hands, fuss over your appearance, dole out sagely wisdom, make the cleverest jokes, and let everyone know who’s in charge: You.

You live and you die, and when you’re gone, the world may as well burn down because you aren’t there to make it wonderful and worth living in anymore. You know it won’t end, though, so you build yourself a mausoleum, not out of bricks and mortar, but out of every act of self-love you’ve designed to reign over everyone you’ve ever met, so you can live on as word of mouth, an obituary, a bridge named after you. Your own little religion.

You’ve martyred yourself so you can outlive your body and soul. Yours IS the word of God, your personal God:
You. Me. Him. Her.

You want them to talk. It doesn’t matter if you’re Pol Pot, Marilyn Monroe, or just some old lady who died alone and was then devoured by her dozen or so cats.

A big scene, you don’t care if you have a million mourners or a million people cheering for your execution. They’re as wrapped up in Them as You are in You.

Them.

You.

That’s all there is, so you perform for your audience of make-believe, even though you know everyone feels the same way. You are Them. The world is just 6 billion-or-so “You”s and a singular “Them.”

And Them is You.

As a babe, I never knew you, and the world was darker for it. Shadows loomed about me like hungry jackals and I hid near the smallest scrap of light I could find. It would be as a young child that I would first see you shyly peeking at me through forest trees, the bright luminescence of your unearthly, child like form drawing me to you like a moth to the flame. Before I can see you in full, you disappear from view, your insecurity getting the better of you. As a young man, I saw you by a lakeside in the snow covered forest, no longer a young child as I, but a young woman with a pale, curved leg, bared naked and beautiful as it reflects off the still, unfrozen water. Yet you still hide from me, my lovely Artemis, disappearing as I come closer to you. It is only as a man that you finally present yourself in full to me, donning a silky white gown that brightens the whole world in the warm, spring air. We dance across the stars, your elegance blinding and binding me to you, making me eternally yours. The seasons pass, the days fly by, and before I know it my body has become old and crooked. You’ve become thin and sharp, but remain elegant as ever as I notice you beginning to fade away into darkness. I ask myself how I can live without you, for you’ve been my eternal partner, furtively glancing at me from between trees and twirling with me among the loving cold of space. But soon my world begins to fade into darkness as well…and the question melts away from my mind.