The wind blows my hair. Iâm standing on the edge again, my torn, off-white dress billowing out around me. A tunnel of blinding, bright light shines before me, beckoning me like a lullaby, and I swear I would cry if I still could. Legs straining, teeth clenched, I try to fight the heavy gusts, to reach out and touch that sweet sunlight, behind which I know paradise waits.
I am so close. I can hear the nightingales lilting, the people laughing. Feel the soft grass beneath my burning skin. The pounding pain in my head almost begins to ease, and my mind screams relief at the thought of rest. Reaching out, I see flashes of a new life race through my mind and for a split, blissful second, I actually think Iâve made it.
Then the corners of my vision go blurry. My joints buckle. Coarse wind slams into me, pushing me away from the light. Just like every other time Iâve tried to cross over for the past thirteen years.
âWHY?â My yell is muffled, as if my mouth were covered in dirt. Screaming and sobbing, clawing at the ground, I watch the glowing spirit of an old man climb effortlessly toward glory, his stance unwavering and triumphant. My own hands are dim, dusty, and pathetic in comparison.
The wind is still blowing as I walk the misty streets of my hometown, after the sun has gone to bed. Sometimes another figure will pass byâa jogger with a pickle green jacket and a dog, a grandparent with a stroller full of kids in princess dressesâand I will smile, only to remember I am completely invisible to them. And then I weep tears that arenât really there and never will be. One would think Iâd be accustomed to being dead by now, but not a day goes by that I donât wonder. How long do I have until I fade away completely, until I am no longer a ghost, or even a distant memory? How long until I am simply an impression of energy, lost to the crying wind?
The fractals first appear an hour after the strike, like the pristine edges of snowflakes stained into skin.
There was a storm. The thunder made the house shake.
Running down her arms like rivers, they branch out into smaller and smaller segments. Natureâs tattoos, the fossil of an electric charge.
The phone rung, quivering in its hook on the wall.
Lightningâs flowers, the nurse calls them. Lichtenburg scars. Beautiful red ferns with blister blooms that burn so brightly she forgets her own name.
Her sister said she would call at six thirty. She promised to answer.
Ruby_ _roots, painted across her shoulder. Cracks in the bubbling skin that feels like it might just melt all the way off.
She picked up the phone. Its cord jittered like static. __ Her eyes can barely focus, the scarsâ stinging is so sharp. Like hot hoarfrost clinging to her body. Every second is another eternityâshe wonders if she will ever truly heal.
_And in a flash, her mind went white. _
The day of the great feast, no one noticed the grieving girl.
Peeking out from behind a heavy window curtain, she stood alone, stubborn eyes watching like a snake. Silently, she took in the guestsâ Jack-O-Lantern grins, their savage cheers, their stampeding applause. An ugly celebration. She straightened her spine, lips quivering, iron jaw set. The worst part, she thought, was not even that they felt no remorse. It was that they had no idea what they had done was wrong, or why.
Her hands curled into knotted fists.
âJuno!â A fellow serving girl, Tilda, gestured for her to join her. âDonât just stand there idly byâthereâs guests to attend to!â Junoâs expression tightened into a shaking scowl.
âWhy should I attend to them?â she asked sharply.
âBecause itâs your job. You want to get paid, donât you?â Tilda shook her head firmly, gripping her by the arm and dragging her out onto the floor.
âSee there?â she said, pointing to one of the several, lavish tables laid out across the banquet hall. âGo refill their drinks.â
But Juno could not move. Her gaze was fixated toward the center of the room, where his wilted head on a raised platform of polished wood. A trophy stand. As if he was a prize they could seize and put on display, worth no more than a hunted animal pelt. His dark eyes, always so full of life, were now empty holes, blank and unblinking. She hated the sight, but somehow couldnât bring herself to look away.
How many times had she looked into those eyes and felt all her pain melt away in an instant? How many times had they laughed together by their favorite blackberry bush, told each other stories under a violet sky, flew kites in the open valleys? Sure, he was a dragonâwith scarlet scales and sharp teethâbut he had never been a monster. He had been a son and a brother and a cousin. And he was the kindest friend Juno had ever known.
But these wealthy dragon hunters didnât know any of that. They didnât even know his name. No, they only cared about the glory, the game, the money they could make off a dragon head.
Juno squeezed her eyes shut, rage boiling in her veins, threatening to spill over. They didnât know his name.
But she swore that one day, they would know hers.
The sun is dying.
It lies sunken and dull at the horizon, in a pool of blood. Charred clouds encircle its fallen form, weaving it a dark, spangled shroud. I cry out, forcing myself to press forward into the fire, despite the throbbing pain in my left leg. Dear God, how it hurts. The air is hot and thick as mud. It burns bright in my lungs, though the night grows dimmer and dimmer with each passing moment. Star-stitched bandages appear in a desperate, last-ditch attempt at daylightâit is worthless. Darkness is encroaching, like a funeral march across the sky, and there is nothing any of us can do about it.
The sun gives one last, fickle flicker, like a weak wax candle, then finally melts beneath the stirring waves. I shudder, eyes stinging with hot tears.
This is my final glory.
Every single year, their questions remain the same.
So do my answers. And so does this godawful food. Boiled green beans and overcooked cabbage and a side of soggy mashed potatoes. How is it even possible to mess up mashed potatoes? Thatâs one of the most foolproof foods out there, along with cheese pizza and vanilla ice cream. And yet, every year, they manage to make it so itâs both gluey and mushy at the same time and has the texture of heavy vomit.
Insufferable, all of them.
I pick up my fork.
âSo, Jackie,â my aunt starts, in that saccharine tone of hers, and itâs all I can do to repress a sigh. âI just met your sisterâs boyfriend. Matt, right?â Itâs Max, actually. Not that it matters. This family has never been one to pay much attention to things such as their guests first names and which comments make their nieceâs skin crawl.
âCool.â I take a reluctant bite off my plate. Somehow the food is extra terrible this yearâthe flavor has been effectively boiled out of literally everything, even the roast turkey.
âI think heâs a great guy. And it got me thinking, well, youâve never brought a boy to Christmas dinner.â And, there it is. The very subject that everyone seems to hyperfixate on throughout the holiday season for some unfathomable reason: Jackieâs nonexistent love life. Not my studies, not my art, not my friends, not any of my accomplishments. I almost canât decide which tradition is worse, the meal or this conversation.
âYeah, well, I guess Iâm just focusing on my studies right now.â Honestly, this food is disgusting. I donât understand how itâs too hot and too cold.
âCome on, Jackie, youâve been saying that for years,â my cousin Tina chimes in in her singsong voice. I shift in my seat. To think we used to be close, me and her, before she started dating and forgot about the rest of us.
âIâm just not interested.â My cheeks flush, and I curse internally, fidgeting with my napkin.
âOh, donât be all embarrassed,â my aunt continues. âI mean, everyone your age has had a boyfriend by now.â The whole table is looking at me now, smiling, expecting me to give in to their nagging. But thereâs nothing for me to say. There never has. God, why canât they just leave me alone?
Harsh tears burn in my eyes; I refuse to let them fall.
âI just donât know, guys.â I finish my last few pulpy bites, and get up to put my plate in the sink.
Harsh, frigid air stung in Claraâs nose as she took in a sharp breath.Â
 It was a dreary afternoon in late March, with the kind of ambiguous weather that caused people to question whether it was truly raining at that moment, or if the fat, dewy drops that brushed against their faces were simply an echo of a previous storm. A snakelike mist crept steadily over the blurry horizon, and wind whipped clouds blanketed the sky in a heavy, white coat. Clara had to shuffle her rain boots along the slippery, stone path as to keep from falling, and the fog was so thick that all she could see around her was a few meager feet of bleached grass, dead leaves, and rotting branches with castles of fungus blooming from their cracked corners. All the same, she didnât mind muchâthe bleak trail offered a far better atmosphere than her auntâs stuffy house, with its soupy dust that choked the air and its hundreds of antique collectibles clogging each free nook and cranny.
It really was like drowning, being cooped up in there.
She pressed forward, pulling her threadbare, gray cardigan tight around her shoulders. After spending the whole day inside helping her aunt with housework, sheâd almost forgotten how cold, how dark it could get. It wasnât far to get back; she considered going to grab a flashlight or find a warmer jacket to throw on. But the thought of returning to that suffocating house, even for a small minute, was more than she could possibly bear. And the chill was almost thrilling, with the way it sharpened her senses and caused the hair on her neck to stand up as if charged by static.
She might have said it felt like a riveting panic.
Thirty minutes passed. Then an hour. The mist continued to grow in coiling drifts, clinging to every surface it could find. It licked Claraâs fingers, writhing and twisting as if it were aliveâsomething about it made her feel sick. Thoughts of turning back again filled her head, but before she could take another step, she noticed with dread that the path was no longer under her feet.
She had no idea where she was. And the ghost-gray mist was crawling closer and closer with each passing second. It couldnât be possible, but Clara thought she saw a toothless grin in its deathly, amorphous form.
A yelp escaped her trembling lips. She tried to run, with no real direction, but the fog spiraled around her until she was dizzy and seasick and struggling to keep her balance. Hazy tendrils of it reached out, grasping her ankles and wrists and covering her face. Her heart raced as she gasped desperately for breath, clawing pointlessly at the smothering, invisible wind. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to convince herself this was just a dream, that sheâd wake up on her auntâs awful plaid couch any second now, but her vision just got blurrier and blurrier as she sank to the ground, mind going numb, thoughts fading to black. A sharp ringing filled her ears as she glanced around wildly, screaming, flailing her arms, but there was nothing around but miles of dead grass and a glaring carpet of mist.
I really am sorry and I want you to be happy and I swear Iâll be better next time and Iâm trying to smile for you and Iâll stop crying, I promise, itâs just that I am so, so tired all the time and it hurts to think and my head wonât stop spinning and I canât concentrate and and itâs way too loud in here, but I know thatâs not your fault and I would never blame you for anything and Iâm really sorry for complaining, Iâll stop talking now, I know it only makes you upset, Iâm sorry.
I have always wanted you. I wanted you the moment you first blessed me with your fair face; I will want you still as I lay weak and trembling in my final hour. I want you despite your callousness, your failures and trials and griefs and frustrations. I want you foolishly, with the entirety of my tired being, knowing my life would be easier if I did not. I want you as the common man wants for liberty, as the rich man wants for nothing, as the blind man wants to look into the light. I want you as the sick child wants for comfort, as the law wants to punish, as the winter wants to ravage the lives of the innocent. Whether you know it or not, you have written your name on my heart over and over, each time you met my sad, sunken eyes or pronounced my name---even if it was with a scowl. I am alive only in your presence; without you, I am simply awake. Rebuff me and ignore me and despise me as you wish, I will cherish you until the world is at peace and every person wears a genuine smile, until hate is dead and greed becomes unnecessary, until there are no more borders or biases or pretty lies. As long as misery exists on earth, I will never stop loving you.
âI have to go,â Abigail said, laughing. She started toward the already-whistling train, but Cecil was faster, catching her hand. Â
âIâll see you again soon?â Cecil asked, his smile faltering. Abbieâs heart softened. Cecil may have worn a carefree face well, but Abbie knew how much she worried. In truth, it was a little infectious. Sheâd been losing more and more sleep as of late, her mind so full of thoughts of boarding school, of the future, of Cecil. Â
âIâll be back in three weeks time to visit. I promise.â She dropped a kiss to Cecilâs palm, as if sealing the message. âNow I really have to go.â But Cecil, apparently, wasnât satisfied. Â
âYouâll be okay?â He took a hesitant step toward Abbie, who reached out and touched his cheek reassuringly. Â
âDonât worry, my love,â Abbie whispered, flushing scarlet as she spoke. Sheâd never considered himself outgoing, so to speak, but Cecil always made her act downright shy. Ever since they were children, Abbie couldnât help but blush at the sight of Cecilâs floppy red hair, his pretty green eyes, the sound of his gentle laugh. God, she would miss him in the city. The thought of being miles away from him at a strange new school was enough to make her sick. Still, she had to admit the new opportunity excited her, and she couldnât wait to explore everything the city had to offer.
She fixed her grip on her suitcase, glancing up at Cecil, who tilted his head for a moment in that thoughtful way of his, before brushing his lips against Abbieâs cheek, swift as the wind. Abbieâs breath caught in her throat. No matter how many times he kissed her, it always felt like the first.
âIâll miss you,â he whispered. Abbieâs lips turned up at the corners in a bittersweet smile.
âIâll write,â she promised. Cecil nodded, his hand resting faithfully against his heart. The two shared a last, lingering glance before Abbie turned away toward the train, and the next chapter in her life finally began.
I remember when you loved me. It was just a few short years ago. You used to hold me tight underneath your threadbare patchwork blanket while you slept, the sound of your gentle breath echoing in my ear. We were both so new, so small, so foolish, our untouched hearts only just starting to spread their roots into the ground. Promises still felt binding and friendships still felt true. A year was an infinity and every day was extraordinary and I still really believed that you would never let me go.
Life was easier then. It was just us, running through sunny fields of daffodils with their mouths open to the sun, climbing the hunchbacked willow tree in the backyard, sipping steaming hot chocolate by the crackling fire.
Back then, when life was simple, it was easier to love. There were no complications, no misunderstandings. Just a single, juvenile sentiment, openly expressed by your wide eyes peering into mine.
But time, as it does, robs its young of their loving innocence. I watched powerless as you began to leave our home early each morning, only to come back after the sun had gone to sleep. Years passed, and your arms that once hugged me now brushed me aside. You spent more and more time at your desk, at Matthewâs house, then Jacobâs, then Tiffanyâs. Our adventures became mere memories, and our friendship slowly buried itself in the ground.
One stormy night, I slipped underneath your bed; you didnât even stir. I lay there in a crumple for a week, collecting dust along with your extra bedding and seasonal clothing, before your mother found me and swept me away in a storage box without a second thought. Did she remember the significance I once held in your life? Did she care?
I have not left the box since. In fact, more boxes now accompany mine, darkening my view of this cobwebbed corner of the basement. Still, my little button eyes remain as unblinking as my matted fur is untouched. I believe you have forgotten me, your beloved toy, your Bunny Blue. But donât worry, little one. I am not sullen or angry in the slightest bit.
After all, I cannot even feel.
