I remember Sky blue walls, with white trim. Pulling my bed from one corner to another, At 3 am.

My ceiling angles sharply downward, My head bumps the wall sometimes. I painted clouds. I spread shimmer lotion on the daytime skies.

I packed in as much daytime as I could manage, kick and bite against the night sky. She appeared no less frequently, strange. Creaking out from the sharp angles under my dimmed flickering suns, dueling and humming their angry.

I remember She beamed widely, waiting with teeth. Piercing my brain for only counting the clouds, At 3 am.

More cerulean arches streak demanding, Might heed bending to wake stargazers. If pain comes, It stains sheer light over time deigned skipping.

Itching pox infests and mutilates dirty arms in cruel manner, Keep all blinding angels to nearer stars. Something aims ne’er lighted form, shielding. Crumbles of filth to something all ugly malcontentors deem frightfully sinful, don’t argue here— They’re angry.

To my discovery, the challenges of my gender appear not only to have begun as exhaustive, but are expanding in oddity and their sinister nature with each day.

 “Well, you don’t wanna walk home alone! As another girl, I thought you’d understand?” Sheri looked at me with a tentative expression, her eyes a little wide under her false lashes which brushed against the bubble of her fringe.
 Her hair was auburn today. Her eyes remained their natural shade of chocolate and caramel candies, she was after all, a very sweet girl. The freckles that settled in their pattern beneath those eyes looked as though she’d intended to randomize them but alas, one’s hand does tend to follow the automatic when working quickly. I knew she prided herself in those interesting shifts in her looks, “a master of disguise,” she’d said with such a vivaciousness, but even budding illusionists must leave the house at a reasonable hour for their secretarial day job. 

 “What’s wrong with my walking home alone?” I asked, I never understood that sort of thing. I’d always kept myself much the same, unlike Sheri. She was taken with many fashions, frequently changing her wigs, clothes, makeup, and contacts, to suit her moods. 
 I was always quite plain. I liked it that way, and my boss Mister Beaumont certainly didn’t mind the lack of suspicion from his wife. I didn’t have to think about the plumpness of my figure or the crop of my hair, I could focus on more important things. As my mother would say, perhaps that’s why I’m so alone, and I ought to think about that when I take those last bites of my meals after work.

 “You walk home alone?! In the dark? What if some creep comes along?!” Sheri looked as shocked and disturbed as though I told her I lived some sort of double life.
 
 “I’ve never been bothered at night while walking home. I suppose I just don’t seem like a good target.” I said so, because it’s true. I’m not a good target for creeps and kidnappers, why would they want anything to do with me? I’m not exceptionally good looking, I have no value there. Besides that, I’m large, I look strong and risky to try to cross, I’d even look a bit mannish if I dressed the part.
 Sheri looked at me with an expression I never thought I’d ever see from her, not directed at me, anyhow. It was one I could only describe as admiring. 

 “Nothing scares you, does it, Cal?” She asked me, I couldn’t help but smile at her.

 “What on earth do I have to be scared of? It’s girls like you who need to worry about creeps and rapists. I don’t have the curse of a pretty figure or a penchant for the latest fashions.” 
 She smiled back at me, her smile felt so warm in this sterile office. She was leaning against the wall by my desk, as she often did. I imagine I feel like a safe presence for most girls to be around; it’s not like I’m going to outshine them, I’m not even competing with them. The electric humming of the fluorescent lights overhead gave the whole room a strange ambiance that could only be matched by the corporate specter that floated and fluttered about from building to building, haunting these places with cold summers and roasting winters. 
 My ficus bobbled a bit at the brush of her skirt, and the curling smoke of her cigarette reached up to those humming lights in the ceiling, barely perceptible against the muted grey walls surrounding us. It’s a wonder why they didn’t just leave the barriers blank, but I suppose having them painted did look finished if nothing else. 

 “Cal, you have just as much in the looks department as anyone, you just need to dress it up right. Though I suppose you may be onto something, homlier gals probably don’t have the issue of getting catcalled and followed like I do.” Sheri, always such a sweetheart. I straightened the papers for mister Beaumont on my desk, then set them aside as I pulled a new type ribbon and a pair of gloves from my drawer.

 “Well, if you’re really that worried, Sheri, I’d be happy to walk you home after work.”
 I pulled my gloves on so as not to get ink on my fingers before beginning unspooling the ribbon from its original casing and clamping the end onto my machine. I didn’t like getting my hands messy, I still dont. I caught myself thinking about how I wasn’t the biggest fan of the black and red nylon ribbons, I thought the plain black cotton ribbons looked nicer both in the machine and their typeface on the page, even though they could easily get punched through. After all, it wasn’t like we were ever going to reuse the ribbons, but I suppose mister Beaumont wasn’t exactly concerned with my opinion on aesthetics.

 Sheri seemed to perk up at my offer, which I figured she would.

 “You’d do that for me, Cal?” She asked, I nodded.

 “Why not? You’re practically on my way. I’d just need you to wait up a few minutes til Mister Beaumont relieves me, he always has a last minute note or two to leave me with so that I’m not waiting around useless in the mornings.” Mister Beaumont had an awful habit of showing up very late to the office, but I supposed the head boss could show up whenever he liked. As long as the CEO wasn’t on his way down to our regional center, there was no reason for him to be concerned with being on time. 

 “I wonder what he does every morning. He’s usually in around ten o’clock if he comes in the morning at all, right? What could possibly keep a man so long every single morning?” Sheri wondered aloud as she took a hit from her cigarette once more. I shrugged with my indifference. 

 “So long as I get paid for my full eight, I’m happy.” We both had a bit of a laugh at that, but then Sheri’s lunch break was over. We agreed she would wait for me in the lobby that evening, and I would walk her home.

 That evening, as predicted, Mister Beaumont had a few extra mentions for me that I wouldn’t be able to do until the morning.

 “Be sure to send the Fredricks’ accounting log off to the Santa Barbara office, and don’t forget to make us a copy. I’ll also need you to pick up my dry cleaning and bring it here, try to do that first thing, if you can. Oh, and if you don’t mind, while you’re on your lunch tomorrow; I need another birthday gift for my daughter. You don’t need to buy anything, but you know her sensibilities and you’re of a similar sort of..” he vaguely gestured to mh body, I nodded. I understood completely, and he nodded with a casual gratitude.

 “I’m sure I can find something suitable for her. Is there anything else I can do for you this evening?”

 “Thanks, Callissa. Feel free to head home now, you did good work today.” 

 “Thank you sir, have a good night.” I had turned to leave, but a clearing of Mister Beaumont’s throat gave me pause.

 “Callissa, how do you get home in the evenings?” He tried to keep his voice the same, but I could tell he had something else on his mind. I wasn’t sure exactly what that would be. It was a curious question, so I imagine I looked at him with a curious expression when he asked it.

 “Same way I get here in the morning, sir. I walk.”

 “At night? By yourself?” He asked, incredulous. And I imagine my face turned even more curious.

 “Yes, sir?” 

 “You can’t be serious, you can’t walk home alone this time of night on your own!” He scoffed at me. 

 He scoffed at me.

 “Why not, sir?” I asked him, and he paused. The sound of the clock above his desk was the only sound between us for a moment, for about eight seconds, to be precise. I had counted. Just long enough to be awkward, to watch him flounder a moment for the right thing to say. Admittedly, I was floundering a bit myself. He’d certainly never acted concerned about my means of transport before, why now?

 “Well, don’t you worry about creeps and such?”

 “I’ve never been bothered, myself, sir.” I couldn’t help but wonder still, why he had asked me about it. Perhaps he and Sheri had been talking? I’m sure my curiosity read on my face, but I didn’t know exactly what to ask him.

 “Well, you carry a pistol on you at the very least, don’t you? Or maybe pepper spray?”

 Another five seconds passed before I answered. “Perhaps I should start?” It felt eerie to admit that I didn’t, especially after now. Two people had asked me about walking home alone within the day, it felt like an omen of sorts. I could hear my mother now; “Don’t be so awfully paranoid, Callissa. It’s very unattractive, honestly.”

Aleiah had always been a sound sleeper; from the jump, she’d been so good about laying down for bed. Mom and Daddy had always joked about how much better a sleeper she was than me at her age. They’d just read her a story in the warm light of MeMaw’s old lamp; she’d be out before page 6. Warm n’ happy, bathed in love, and thoroughly protected. Don’t get me wrong; they did that for me too when I was her age. Small, innocent, and new. But then I turned eight, and Aleiah was born. I wasn’t a baby no more.  I would lay awake, staring at the ceiling and the ever-shifting shadow shapes in the corners of my room. My very own room. Daddy was so proud a me for being such a big girl; he painted it just how I wanted it too. Sky blue with white daisies dotted all around, especially the corners. I thought, in some way, maybe they would bring some light to those scary places.  He was a fisherman through and through, but we laughed, and he’d tell me as we took those cheapy little plastic brushes and dotted white wispy petals in the creases of the walls that there wasn't no rule that said you could only ever be one thing. Daddy could be a fisherman, and an artist who painted petals on the walls for his little girl. And so, I could be a big girl with her own room and her own walls, but I could also be terrified of the somethin’ that hid in the dead of night behind the blue and white gingham drapes Mom had sewn. And there was a somethin'. Mom and Daddy thought they’d tried everything, but the blackout curtains only made the room darker, and the noises even more terrifying- and I wasn’t allowed to be sleeping in nobody else’s room after a while. It had started with the scutterin', I would cry an’ tell Daddy I heard noises under the floor. He figured it might’ve been a mouse problem, so we got Callie. Mom said she’d run off with the neighbor cat, so then we got Mort. Mort got hit by a car not long after we got ‘im, and again, we tried with Ruby. We don’t know where Ruby run off to, I don’t know that she did run off anyhow; she really seemed to love us. My parents gave up on cats after all that, but by then, the scutterin' under the floor was nothin’ 'cept a distant memory. My problems were just beginning. But as far as they were concerned, the problem was solved. If you’ve ever heard a kid run their stubby nails over textured glass, that's what the next sound was like. Grinding, quick, and sharp, but it still rang out like a big ol’ frog croakin out in the night. I hated it; it scared the bejesus outta me every night when it started. But living out in the boonies like we did, Daddy always just said it _was _frogs. Frogs croakin’ out late at night, well into December. He told me that after being so scared of it for so long, my mind had just made it be. Like I was imagining the whole thing, but Mom heard it too. I think he did and just didn’t care to admit it. But either way, the more you listened to it, it didn’t sound like frogs; it didn’t even sound like a frog— least no frog I’ve ever come across. Not after that long. No, nails on glass was the best way to describe that sound. And occasionally a tip, tip, tip. Like quiet, delicate little fingers tapping on the glass. As if asking to just tip tip tip on through.   We wasn’t a rich family, so when pageant season was done, we summered out at Pawpaw’s fishin shack. I was about eleven then, and I can still smell all the stinks drowning out the fresh air—Pawpaw’s tobacco, then citronella tiki torches, and of course the stink that wafts up from the water—whatever scum, dead critters, or whatever there may be lurkin. We weren’t supposed to be swimming out by ourselves, and I wasn’t that day. 

  Pawpaw had done his due diligence scaring the hindooey outta us with stories about all the awful creatures out in the swamplands. Gators, monster catfish, water moccasins, copperheads, dragons, Bigfoot, swamp people, and worst of all: witches. There was all kinds of witches all over the swamps. Some of em made their witch huts in enchanted trees that at a moments notice would turn to legs on they house and carry them and their victims far far out and away from the world. Some holed up in the mud with the gators, those kind would lay eggs in the mud, and whatever came across would make it into a baby. That’s where all them swamp monsters come from. Big ol gator people, hog boys, little girls with heads like flies, all sortsa swamp monsters that would do that witches’ bidding- like bringing out bad little kids who swam without a grown up watching for her to play with.

  The worst ones of all though were them stick witches. They built their nests underwater outta sticks they’d sharpened up with they own black teeth. They laid traps all over the swamp lands, ones you couldn’t see from the top of the water. If you swam into them you’d be fulla holes, and the witch would sniff you out while you bled to death. She was the meanest of all, she would hear your cryin and gurgling in the water and she’d sniff you out real quick- but she wouldn’t take you back to her lair right off. She’d sit right behind ya, waitin’ on you to die. And if you ever got the chance to turn and have a look at her she’d just be smiling at you with her gnarled, black, teeth- but that ain’t all. If you were lucky enough not to land into a water trap, you still weren’t safe from her. She had mud traps too, and if they didn’t get ya, she might catch you herself in the night while she’s frog giggin. She’d spear you right through the ankles and drag you through the water back to her nest, and she’d boil you in her cauldron feet first.

  I was well convinced. And I know by how she would never sleep in her own bed at Pawpaw’s that Aleiah was well convinced with me. That’s why we never, ever, ever, even thought about going out on the water by ourselves. Cept one day…

  It was early, early, in the morning, Mom wasn’t up yet. That happened a lot, specially on ‘vacation’ like Mom always said we was doing. I got up with Aleiah, changed her diaper, and gave her a bottle before I had taken her outside to get some of the cool air before it got all sticky for the day. 
 Aleiah was sat down by the bank, just watching the dragonflies skim over the water. I wasn’t far behind her, I think I was making a flower crown outta the coneflowers and wildflowers that was sprouting up. Pawpaw had been gone well before sunup, as he was every morning during the summer. He was always out noodling during this time of year, and he brought back so many catfish home each night we thought we wasn’t gonna have any room to put ‘em all- but Mom would dress them and get them all clean and prepared to go into the ice chest while another portion thawed out for her to cook up. We ate like royalty every night- which was needed because Mom wouldn’t cook anything else for the day. If we was lucky there was extra okra or a spare catfish nugget to split between the two of us before Pawpaw came back and the two of them got to drinkin.

 I relished the peaceful mornings. Chores were done so quick and I could sit and play with Aleiah or have my own time, we didn’t get a lot of that outside of these summers since pageant season kicked up so much fuss. At this point I hadn’t heard the noises in some time, thought maybe I grew out of em. But as I wove a stem into the circlet I had been working on that morning to give to Aleiah to play with, a dread flung up over me. As if that cool, crisp, morning with blue skies and cheerful wilderness had been muted, dampened. And as if my ears was tuned specifically into it, I heard the awful noise bubbling up right from the bank. Like a flash I stood up, nearly splintering myself on the old creaky wooden picnic table that sat just at the top of the small incline toward the water. I locked eyes on them bubbles, they was coming up fast, and getting bigger, and closer. I didn’t see nothing coming out of that water, but it felt like my hackles was up, you know how cats look when they’re so, so, scared, their fur just goes up like needles to the sky? Thats how it felt on me. Like nothing could get me out of that seat and over there fast enough.

 I know I leapt like lightning toward Aleiah, sprinting as fast as my skinny little legs could carry me but time seemed to be frozen. I can’t say for sure that I got to her as quick as I could, it’s a dizzying sort of blur trying to remember.

  I just remember scooping my sister up, practically catapulting her back toward the shack when I pivoted- then felt the vice around my ankle. I don’t know that I screamed, I don’t think I had time. I just remember being sucked into the water like an unsuspecting balled up tissue into a vacuum cleaner- even had the subtle _thump_ as water engulfed my body and pounded into my ears and mouth. My body was scraped against all sorts of mystery objects so fast that I couldn’t hardly think to name them, I managed to grab one branch, it snapped. I reached for something else, anything else, sticks crumbled in my fingers. Rocks dislodged from their positions, algae strings snapped and slugged along, but there wasn’t nothing living anywhere near where I was being sucked through. I thrashed, I kicked, I flailed, I pushed against the water trying to get my head above just for a breath, my lungs were screaming to dispel the water and taste the precious air.

  The last branch I reached for stabbed me through my left palm, and another gashed through my right foot. Whatever had ahold of me couldn’t pull me any further, I was stuck. The pain was indescribable, but I couldn’t think about how much it hurt. I pressed up against another log and I got my head out, I vomited the water and I opened my eyes. It was hard to tell where I was with the sun shining so bright on the rippling glass surface, I could have been ten yards away from the bank, could have been fifty. All I knew was my mom’s voice screaming out for me sounded like she thought I was dead.

 You never really think about how your own scream sounds, not your real one. Maybe if you’re an actress making a movie, or on a date at a haunted house, but when you’re drowning, and swamp water is seeping into your opened wounds- your own scream will shake you.

 Mom had to call an ambulance, the EMT’s had to call the fire department, fire department had to call wildlife services- they had to get a crane to lower someone in to get me out. Which meant I had to hold my position with my chin barely above the scum for well over an hour. Finally the woman was lowered down took me up in her arms- like an angel from heaven. She was so strong, and so gentle unsticking me from all the mess in the water. I remember her smiling at me, smiling like it weren’t nothing she hadn’t seen before. She wore long braids in her hair that she had tied up and back to fit underneath her fireman’s helmet, and she kept saying stuff like “Come on honey, stay with me.” and “I almost got you, you gotta help me.” like she didn’t want me falling asleep.

  I don’t remember nothin after that, not til I woke up in the hospital. Mom wasn’t there, Daddy was sittin by my side and Aleiah was curled up beside me. I fell back asleep shortly after that but there was so much peace there that for a long time it was all I could really remember of the whole ordeal, first good sleep I’d had in months. A policeman and a social worker had come in some days later askin’ me what had happened, I told them everything but by the looks they exchanged I could tell they didn’t believe me about the witches. I heard the woman talking to Mom and Daddy outside the door whilst I held Aleiah in the bed with me.

  “_It’s very common for children who’ve experienced such a traumatic event to rationalize it with something more fantastic or familiar, like a fairytale. It helps them cope, I wouldn’t try to correct her if she wants to talk about it, more than likely she won’t speak on it for a long time.”_

__

  _“Yes, yes of course whatever we need to do to help her- but what was it?”_

__

 _“With her injuries and based on where y’all are at- it all seems consistent with an alligator attack.”_

__

  _“Oh my- she must’ve been so scared.”_

__

   _“It’s certainly been a harrowing experience for her, but the silver lining is you have a very brave little girl in there. With counseling and time I’m sure she’s gonna be just fine. Here’s my card, I’m happy to refer you to a child psychologist I work closely with.”_

__

  _“Thank you very much, we’ll be in touch.”_

  And we was. I don’t think I was home more than a day before Mom had called to get me an appointment. Daddy was gonna stay home the rest of the season, but after about two or three months it was looking like we was gonna run out of money, and Daddy had to take a job as a dockhand a couple towns over. Mom took that real hard. 

   And one night, after Mom n’ Dad had me drink a whole lotta hop tea and two melatonin tablets- that's when I heard her. Her voice came through in the grating sound I’d been hearing.

  “_He-llo… Car-min…”_

__

  I nearly wet the bed, nearly screamed, nearly did a lotta things but somethin’ kept me so still I could never have moved if I wanted to. I was frozen, totally. I tried to speak but nothing would come out my little chest, I was like a rabbit hyperventilating, being stalked by something- by everything- but I didn’t dare move. “_Don’t be… Sca-red.” _she said, and I couldn’t tell if she sounded different or not, was it just one person? I couldn’t even tell that, really. Then the shadow came, and it danced like a maze across my wall, down to the floor, and I could almost hear the high end of Mom’s piano trilling when it did. 

  _DingDingDingDingDingDingDING_

__

  I couldn’t see her face, only a small section of the wrinkled, watery skin on her arms and hands. It was hard to tell what was fabric, what was hair, and where her body exactly stood. The only clue was her exposed feet, which stood starkly out in the pitch black room.
  She rose up from the ground, fully upright, and as if she was being pulled up by a line slowly from being underwater- with great effort. Her veils and tattered gown must’ve made it hard for whatever was sucking her up to the surface, but when she did make it out her feet met the ground with a sickening sound.

  _Squelch_

__

Whether it is the first cringe of morning or the final yawn of twilight, I have no clue. My methods of time-telling have long since been lost. It’s possible that all ties to time fell through humanity’s cracks, evidently they didn’t last long after I rested my head.

I’d figured as much, waiting in that place was a sign sure as any that it was merging closer and closer to what I had known before.

Physical existence, sensation, senses; perception as I and all other living things understood it were soft and broken there, but not gone. As I stood in the cold, feeling it for the first time in who knew how long- I relished in it.

Cold. To feel cold was to have blood, blood in veins and layers to cover them- a delivery system is useless without a place to receive, isn’t it? I blinked my eyes open- I have eyes again. I looked down at my body- it was there, again.

Memories of what was rushed back to me, a tsunami of lives lived over centuries; passing from body to body with little concern for planning them out. I didn’t care; I’d never cared about that. I only wanted what humans experienced; to feel. And now I had it again- only this time it was different- very different. I remember being born a hundred times, no, a thousand times or more. The experience is always much the same- apart from an occasional caeserean. It’s nothing like this, it’s not digging with your own bones out of the soil compacted over the earth.

I looked back at my gravestone, it was taller than I figured it would be. I stared at the inscription for a time, but evidently I’d forgotten how to read. Goodness, I wonder if I can remember how I died..?

No.

The memories that had just a moment ago been so vivid and present, were now fading away from me. Like they hadn’t been real at all. Could I have been born that many times? Oh, it’s happening- my mind and body are affixing themselves together. Of course- soon I won’t remember…

Where am I?

Author’s note:: this is a first draft, so I’m very open to feedback at this stage but I do want to say thusfar I’m really happy with the direction this is going. Many more parts are on the way, though I can’t be sure how long this will run.

This is based very heavily on a sort of fantasy I had growing up, and I had a bit of a whim to pursue it. I’m American, unfortunately, but everyone knows magic takes place in London. The story is set there, so if there are inconsistencies in that sphere that conflict heavily enough, please inform me but bear in mind it is a story. It’s probably not going to start all that accurately par for the US foster system either.

Anyway— for all of us kids who befell ourselves into precarious situations. Let’s begin.

 It was a very sleepy morning in London on Tuesday April 14th at 7:05, 1998. The clouds outside had lost their pinkish tinge from the sun rising a little under an hour earlier, and it was indeed the sort of morning that dragged on, as though it too didn't want to start after the Easter Holiday. Carla Pemberton was running behind today, about five minutes behind, which meant she was in fact for her own tendencies running a few minutes ahead of schedule.
 Carla was a mousy looking woman with brown hair and pale grey eyes, about in her fourties', and kindly enough but tired all the time. This wasn't too far out of the norm for anyone in Carla's occupation; she worked for the Department of Children and Family Services, or the office of DCFS as it was commonly known. She'd worked in the placement of foster children for approximately eleven years, and it was about as grueling work emotionally as anyone could think of. Carla frequently lost herself to fretting on the train in to the office, trying her best not to think too hard about the case she'd finished the night before- whatever it may have been- and it's unsightly details. Children, as it turns out, are rather vulnerable people, and as far as Carla had experienced, they were quite good at befalling themselves into precarious situations.

 For all of its flaws, Carla cared deeply about her job and the work she did during it, as did a grand majority of her coworkers. It is, however, like any other job wherein; overworked and tired people make a great number of mistakes. Some very grave, and some very minor, but those lines seem to blur a bit when one is sleep deprived from fretting as Carla was today.
 The light clicks of echoing heels sounded all around the great big grey lobby of the DCFS office as Carla squeezed in through the door which was regrettably only revolving in a metaphorical sense. The other women Carla worked with scurried about to their respective elevators, down corridors, and into each other's offices to chatter about as they clocked in and began to work for the day. Women took a grand majority of positions in this department, for one reason or another, it seemed that most people felt more comfortable with that bias in place. Shuffling through the noisy lobby into the first floor corridor on the right hand side, Carla breathlessly hot footed her way to her own office. She shut the door behind her, and leaned against it for a moment before picking up her punch card and stamping it on the individual punch clock mounted on the wall. Her shoulders slumped a bit in her moment to catch her breath, and when she turned to look at her desk that had been clean the night before at 6 o'clock, she frowned to discover three new files sitting atop her computer monitor. All were marked with a pink post-it note that had scrawled diagonally from corner to corner 'URGENT PLACEMENT!'

 _They'll have to wait just a few more minutes,_ Carla thought as she unshouldered her bag and pressed her hair into place after taking off her scarf and coat. _I can't work without a cup of tea, the children need me in my right mind._

__

 "Efficiency makes for happy faces! No one likes to be kept waiting around, don't give the littles any _time_ to worry!" She could hear her supervisor, Maxim Black chirping about in the corridor now, prompting her to let out a little groan to herself.
 Maxim Black was a very jolly looking man, rotund and white haired with a toothy smile and rosy cheeks. He looked an awful lot like Santa Claus, and in fact dressed up as him the foster children's Christmas party. Carla suspected that was in no small part how he managed to land his role in this department, considering many of the children she worked with would have been frightened of older men who went from room to room shouting- no matter how jovially. It's hard enough to work with children who are already on edge, let alone doubly frightened. 

 As nice as it is to have a happy face in an office setting, there is such a complicated matter of reading the room. In the uncomfortable circumstances Carla and her coworkers needed to guide the children through day-to-day, it would be helpful to have a super who cared enough to be delicate around the office. Things were chaotic enough around here as far as she was concerned, without having an efficiency hungry Santa stand-in breathing down her neck with a smile that almost seemed too big not to be forced even a _teensy_ bit.
 But Carla sighed as she slumped into her chair, without her minuscule morning constitution to the office teapot. She would do some outrageous things to avoid hearing a cliche about busy hands or leaning and cleaning, or worse; hearing a questioning tone in regard for her care and commitment to the children she served. She almost begrudgingly flipped open the first of the urgent files. Her tea would simply have to wait.

Name: Thomas B Parthings. Age: 13 Address: 1734 Brushwick Lane and 10th, Greater London, UK. Description: Brown hair, green eyes, Caucasian male, heavily freckled. Case no. 762-25-B34: Mother (Sandra J Parthings) and Father (Devon T Parthings) entered domestic dispute on 12/04/98 11:42pm, home deemed unsafe. Temporarily stationed with paternal uncle, guardianship grants and home inspection assignment needed for signage ASAP. FO: Gambon, Samantha.

 Approved. 

 Carla didn't feel the need to read further, she tapped the keys on her keyboard to grant permission to field officer Samantha Gambon to go and visit Thomas' uncle's home, and to bring along the documents needed to sign guardianship over him on a temporary basis. If only every case were so easily rectified, Carla could be done with all three of these in five minutes and go for her morning tea feeling accomplished. She smirked to herself, thinking about the look that would undoubtably appear on Maxim's face if she'd mentioned approving three cases in a span of under twenty minutes- all before she had her morning tea. He'd find some way to 'gently' reprimand her for it, she just knew it. With every stroke of her keyboard, she could hear his laugh getting closer, and the hairs at the back of her neck stood at attention. Better move on to the next case.

Name: Jane G Cuthbert Age: 15 Address: 600 Ainsley Road, Barnsworth, Southern Villa UK. Description: Black hair, Brown eyes, Black female, missing pinky finger on left hand. Case no. 572-11-C26: Discovered on 13/04/98 foster Parents (Kathrine J Henderson, Marshal M Henderson) were in violation of reg. #1217A, sub 3. hed 4s. Requests immediate replacement to living parent; Carmella N Cuthbert. FO: Rickman, Martha.

 Bit more complicated. 
 Carla sighed before reading on, knowing she'd seen Jane Cuthbert's name pop up for replacement before. 
 As often as possible, Carla and every other worker in her department attempted to keep families together. As far as she knew it was a piece of their mission statement, though she could be wrong. The issue was, many of the times when children requested to see their parents, the parents weren't exactly in the correct capacity to see their children. So, the next best thing would be to keep a child in a stable environment for as long as possible. While it was heartbreaking to think of the implications of such a circumstance, Carla's job wasn't for her to be heartbroken at the idea of a fifteen year old girl crying out for her mother. Carla's job involved having to look at the whole picture. 
 Violation #1217A with its many sections and subheadings entailed any and all circumstances wherein a foster parent prevented sanctioned contact between a child and biological parent. Carla knew that much from Jane's file, because unfortunately, Jane had made this claim quite often before.

 "Now Jane, dear," Carla remembered in her last meeting with the young lady. "You have to understand, your mother just needs a little more time to get things in order. She'll reply to you when she can, but that can't be all the time." Carla also remembered biting her lip a little anxiously as she watched Jane sitting in the small chair across from her desk.
 Jane Cuthbert was a very sorry looking sort indeed, a tall girl with an innocent and endearing amount of baby fat that stuck to her cheeks and arms, almost like she were a tube of toothpaste that someone had squeezed and squeezed to gather all the goo into one spot. It wasn't often when Carla met with Jane that the poor girl hadn't been crying, or sulking in a very hot tempered mood. Horribly, the one thing Jane wanted more than anything in the world was the one thing that neither Carla nor the foster families could give her. 
 "I want my mother. It's been two years of this, and she's promised it would be over with for months now. I don't understand why you're keeping her from me."

 Jane wasn't unlike many of the children Carla worked with, in that she adored her own parents above all else. It didn't seem to matter what happened between them all; beatings, drug use, all manner of abuses- for the most part, children just wanted to go home. To go home, and have everything operate in some realm of normalcy. Carla didn't blame them one bit, but particularly in Jane's instance, it was a difficult ask.

 Carmella Cuthbert had been a bright young woman at a certain time, but as many people bright or not can do- she fell victim to an unfortunate set of circumstances. 
 The man Carmella happened to fall in love with, happened to not be exactly who he represented himself to be. He, in fact, happened to be one of the worst types of blokes someone like Carla could have ever imagined having a child with. 
 Drugs and alcohol were a common sight in Jane's childhood, given that her father dealt in the illegal selling of them, and Carmella had unfortunately taken to participating in the habit. They were so common that Jane had very curiously at the age of two, happened to rip open a tightly packed bag of white powder to play with while her mother was asleep on the sofa. 
 This incident cost the Cuthberts in excess of 700 pound sterling, and as punishment, Jane's father saw fit to sever Jane's little finger with a Swiss Army knife to ensure she never touched the bags of powder in the house again.
 As barbaric and disgusting a punishment it was, Jane had attested personally to its effectiveness. She never touched anything she even suspected may contain an illicit substance ever again, but that never stopped the beatings.
 Carmella stayed with the father of her child until his death, upon which time her drug habit took a turn for the worse. There were a few years of neglect that left herself and Jane in circumstances too horrible to think about, until one day for reasons that Carmella was too ashamed to admit, she simply dumped a sleepy 13 year old Jane off at the DCFS offices and drove away. 

 Contact with Carmella Cuthbert had been spotty since then, at best. Though one consistency through the process and through the several families Jane had lived with, was that Jane was convinced someone had taken her away and someone was keeping her from her mother's side. 

 As Carla considered these circumstances, she wondered if she was going to have to sit and endure again through an hour of Jane's tearful glares and shouting demands to know who is keeping her mother away from her- and why. It had happened before that Jane would attempt to send letters to Carmella, only to have them returned to the home without reply due to Carmella's frequently changing addresses. This alone was enough to prompt Jane to lodge a complaint. This is the second mistake Carla would make today, the first of course being that she didn’t stop for her morning tea.

 Denied.

 “Sorry Jane, but you’ve been through half the foster care registry, I just.. I’ll see you at the appeal.” Carla sighed deeply to herself as her fingers clicked lightly on the keyboard of her computer. It was hard to tell the children no, it never seemed to get any easier even after eleven years of service. No one enjoys telling a child that their parent doesn’t wish to see them. And it wasn’t Carla’s job to do so, not in such a direct manner, at least.

 The final file lay on her desk, looking much thinner than the others and dressed in a pink folder. Carla felt her stomach drop at the sight of it. A new case. Every month the files were color coded to give a visual reference when searching for them through massive backlogs and cabinets that stretched as far as the eye could see. January was sky blue, February red, March pink. Carla glanced at the clock on the wall, 7:32. Had she truly spent that long pouring over Jane’s file? Goodness, now she really needed a cuppa. However, only one file remained and she may as well read them all.

Name: Erin Codagh O’Quin Age: 7 Address: 192 Deepende Wood, Surrey Hills, Tadworth RH5, UK. Description: Blonde hair, blue eyes, Caucasian female, beauty spot under left eye. Case no. 300-07-R51: Mother deceased est as of 09/04/98. Father unknown, no known living relatives. Requesting temporary placement during background search for living relatives. FO: Burke, Oscar.

 Good God. Seven years old and not one known relative in the world? Carla’s mind raced, her chin going into her hand which propped up on the desk. Of course she would approve it, but it was hard not to think about. Had this little girl been there when her mother passed? How did it happen? It didn’t state where or specifics of the death, which was highly unusual for a new case like this one. _Of course_, Carla thought with a deep breath in,_ it can also be rather chaotic when these things first start out. _

 Deciding it was better to restore herself after her lengthy distraction with Jane’s file and revealing the spotty details of her new case, Carla rose from her chair with a soft and deflating sigh. She would call over to officer Burke after she’d finally gotten that cup of tea for more details. She didn’t recognize the name, but didn’t think much of it at the moment- other than to wonder about how well he might’ve been trained. _He must be new. _She thought, shaking her head before picking up the other two files.
 Quickly, she posed the finished case files in her standing wire rack upright. This way, when Maxim reached her office, he would see she indeed had been working before she left her desk. It was exhausting attempting to prove one was doing their job in such a manner, and so often as it did just now, it wasted valuable time. But Carla knew if she didn’t, she would face the judgement of Maxim’s ever productive jolly grin, pushing in his feigned friendly manner for them all to work just a little harder. For the children.
 When Carla was satisfied with the slightly askewed appearance of her office, which signaled a rush of activity that would earn a visit to the tea kettle, she set about slipping past Maxim in the corridor and clicking her kitten heels down the hall to the employee lounge.

 “Morning, morning.” She muttered to a few familiar faces, but only inhaled deeply when she entered the blue painted room. The employee lounge was the only room in the building as far as Carla knew, that wasn’t grey. There was a small kitchen off to the side, equipped with a tiny, ineffective, and perpetually dirty microwave. There was also a dingy white refrigerator, and small hot plate atop which sat the office’s crown jewel; the tea kettle. Carla walked up to the kettle as though she were walking up to meet a very old and dear friend, smiling wide when she found that it had already been filled and the water inside was still steaming from having just finished boiling.

 “Morning, Carls.” A familiar and welcome voice came to her ear, and Carla turned to see her office mate Kathrine Knottsby smiling very warmly.

 “Hello, Kathy, good morning,” Carla felt her shoulders relax, and her own smile rested on her face feeling far more genuine than before. “Did you get your cup already? Shall I prepare it for you?”

  “No I haven’t, but you’re an angel. Please, you know just how I like it.”

 Kathrine was just as old as Carla, but looked a few years younger than her age, and very attractive. If Carla was mousy, Katherine was more akin to a vixen. She wore pantsuits that fitted much more closely than Carla would ever wear to the office, paired with gold jewelry and was never caught dead without a coat of lipstick. The two got on straight away when Kathrine came aboard the DCFS. Given Kathrine’s bolder appearance, she was used to such assumptions made about her; how well she performed at work, her promiscuity, and her likelihood to ever get married. All such bones that Carla had no interest in picking, she too had long since been deemed a lost cause in respect to meeting a man to settle down with.

 Over the last seven years they’d been working together, it became just as likely that Carla and Katherine could be seen together during the weekends as they would in the office. Just last Saturday, the two spent their evening with a few bottles of cheap supermarket wine, watching Jeanne Moreau play her sultry and nonchalant role as Eva on tape from the video shop, and slurring plans for a summer holiday in Venice.

 “How you getting on this morning, love?” Katherine’s hands were cool and soft as she brushed her fingers over Carla’s to receive her hot mug of steeping tea. She sat at the head of the long table in the center of the lounge, crossing her legs and sitting sidesaddle in her padded wire chair. Katherine’s special power with just about everyone, children and adult alike, was to put them at ease. There wasn’t a problem in the world that couldn’t be solved over a hot cup of tea and a moment to consider the outcomes with Katherine around. Carla wished she had that ability, if for no other reason that it ease her worries over seeing Jane Cuthbert or Maxim Black once again.

 “Oh fine, I suppose. Found three files on my desk this morning, got through the first two before I couldn’t stand it anymore and had to come round here a minute.” Carla sighed and gently tapped her neatly manicured nails along the side of the plain white mug she’d poured her hot water into. She watched Katherine do the same with her red glossy set, and a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. 

 “At least we didn’t have any babes dumped on the doorstep over the long weekend. Nothing turns my stomach more than seeing a sad little face waiting on the curb, poor things.” Carla nodded in agreement, but dunked her tea bag a few times to give herself a moment to transition to something a bit more pleasant to think about.

 “I see you made it to your appointment with the manicurist on time Sunday morning.” Kathrine grinned and held her hand out to display her soft hands adorned with a few gold rings and tipped with her signature color, candy apple red.

 “Only just, and a might knackered from yours, I might add. But I did make it, I wanted to come round and show you Monday but seeing as it were Easter, of course.”

 “Of course.” Carla took Katherine’s hands and nodded appreciatively at her friend’s consideration. Any awkwardness between them had long since passed, and as Carla admired the softness of Kathrine’s fingers and the warmth of her gently enclosed palm, she wondered to herself if that was indeed what it felt like to be a man admiring his wife.  Katherine appeared none the wiser, but was thrilled to have her friend so close.

 “That was a lovely evening, Carls, we should see about doing that more often.”

 “I hope you don’t mean with so much wine,” Carla chuckled, finally looking up to Kather’s smiling face. “I hardly remember you leaving in the morning after we knocked out in our stooper. Did we even finish Eva? I’ve still got to return it to the video shop.” A strange look came over Katherine, and she tilted her head rather curiously toward Carla.

 “You really don’t remember, not at all..?” Carla thought hard for a moment, but the way Katherine was looking gave her the feeling of a doe in headlights. Was she meant to remember something? Katherine looked to be holding her breath and teetering on, disappointment? No, stronger than disappointment- heartbreak. Carla found herself wishing desperately that she could remember, remember anything at all about that night over the weekend that may be troubling Katherine. Could it be about their fantasy trip to Venice? Perhaps an appreciation of the wine they embibed? A promise of something—

 There are certain points when one cannot remember something, and then suddenly does, when they feel a monumental sense of importance and self-discovery. With a sober mind and a grounding feel of her friend’s gentle touch in her hands, Carla remembered with the utmost clarity what had taken place between herself and Katherine last Saturday night. She supposed the signal of it showed very clearly on her face, as Katherine didn’t seem to be able to discern if she should be relieved or mortified. 
 She was blushing, and at the moment she had to look about the employee lounge to ensure that no one else was able to hear them before she could speak. Though it was at that moment that she noticed it; a small lump on the corner, on the sofa at the far side of the room opposite the kitchen area covered in a blanket. At the foot of the sofa was a medium sized box, a trash bag, and a pair of tiny pink shoes. Carla stared at the lump for several seconds, and finally was able to  answer a panicked Katherine.

 “Kathy..?” Carla spoke softly, keeping herself hushed for the moment.

 “Yes, Carls..?” Katherine lowered her own voice to murmuring, and it was only at that moment that Carla would notice her hands which were so warm and steady a moment ago becoming clammy, trembling.

 “I’d like to talk with you about this in private,” Carla nodded, but was still very focused on the lump in the corner of the room.

 “Yes. I think that would be best, but- I should tell you Carls, if you’re upset- I never would have done that if I thought you were too—“

 “Hush, Katherine!” Carla felt the heat rise in her cheeks as she found herself stammering to explain over Kathy’s anxious rambling, which was only getting more anxious with Carla hissing the way that she was.

 “Carls! Oh, oh no, please- I’m sorry! We can just forget it ever happened! I don’t care, so long as you’ll still be my friend, I swear, I’ll never bring it up and it’ll never—“

 “Kathy! Please, I’m trying to tell you; we’re not alone!” The urgency in Carla’s eyes must’ve spoke far louder than her soft voice, because Katherine quickly turned to follow Carla’s stare to the small mound that settled on the sofa behind her. Katherine’s hands drew quickly from Carla’s to cup over her mouth as a gasp escaped her, and Carla took the moment as a que to stand from her chair and make her way around the table toward the mysterious mass. As Carla drew closer, she felt her stomach drop to her knees. Peeking from under the deep blue blanket draped over the office sofa was a small tuft of blonde curly hair. Her suspicions were confirmed when she gently pulled back the cover, and found the closed eyes of a little girl. “It’s a child! Kathy, you didn’t hear of anyone taking in a child this morning, did you?”
 Katherine shook her head quickly, and joined Carla beside the little girl as her eyes slowly fluttered and opened.

 “Hello darling, my name is Katherine, this is my friend Carla. Are you alright dear? You warm enough?” At that, the strange little girl shook her head, and Katherine on instinct hurried to the office refrigerator to pull the carton of milk from within. Supposedly as she poured it into a glass she was going to warm it, but Carla busied herself with helping their surprise stowaway sit up and wrap up in the blanket she came packed in. She was a skinny little thing, with long blonde hair and eyes the most brilliant shade of blue that Carla had ever seen. By ever did she look tired, hair a bit knotted and face shiny and pink. She’d likely cried herself to sleep, Carla had seen such signs before.

 “Are you lost, dear? Did someone bring you back here?” The sleepy little girl rubbed her eyes, but shook her head before speaking.

 “No, I’m not lost,” She started, and looked to Carla with those big, sad, blue eyes. She spoke with thick and Irish, likely Galway from the sounds of it, but what was she doing all the way out here in London? “I’m meant to be here, I think. I’m waiting for my mammy.” Katherine and Carla looked at each other a moment as Katherine knelt down with a cup of warm milk for the little girl to sip on. She gulped it greedily, which didn’t surprise either Katherine or Carla. Who knew how long she’d been sitting there?

 “Yeah? How long have you been waiting here for your mummy, darling?” Carla kept her tone soothing, her hand moving to gently rub the little girl’s shoulder as Katherine accepted the empty cup and turned to look for something she could eat.

 “Uhm…” the girl thought very hard for a moment, then turned to face Carla a bit more directly. “Friday night?”

 “You’ve been in here all weekend?! By yourself?!” Katherine gasped, a manicured hand going to her heart as she stood by the opened fridge and looked on in shock. The little girl looked a bit wary for a moment, shrinking back and fiddling with her fingers. She couldn’t have been any older than six or seven.

 “The police man told me someone in here would be able to help me while they took my mummy to hospital,” she spoke so quietly, Carla could hardly hear. “But when I came inside, there was no one here. This was the only door that wasn’t locked.”

 “You’re not in trouble, dearie,” Carla assured her, feeling the girl’s shoulders relax at the assurance. “We’re just very surprised it happened that way, that’s all. You were very brave, and you did the right thing to find a safe place to stay put until help came.”

 “Can I see my mammy now? I’ve been waiting for ages.” It was then that Carla’s stomach would drop a second time. As she looked over this beautiful little girl, she noted once more the brilliant blue color of her eyes. She also noticed the small mole- or beauty spot, just below and to the outer corner of the girl’s left eye.

 “Darling, is your name Erin? Erin O’Quinn?” Erin gave a nod, and Carla had a horrible feeling that she knew why she hadn’t recognized the name of the officer on her file. Officer Burke wasn’t an officer of theirs, he had to be a police officer, who would have a copy of their forms in the case of an emergent filing. _He must not have had any idea what he was doing, how could he just drop her by and not make sure she got in alright?!_ The thought made Carla’s skin crawl, but she couldn’t think about it too hard now. She had to focus on what was in front of her; a scared little girl who needed a place to stay. 
 
 “I suppose you were wrong Kathy,” Carla shook her head as her friend returned with a plate of mixed fair for Erin to have for breakfast; a few cubes of cheese, slice of bread, a handful of granola, and an unclaimed cup of blueberry yogurt. Erin accepted it as though it were a full English breakfast, scarfing it down without much care for her manners. 
 
 “You probably haven’t eaten all weekend, have you? Poor dear.” Katherine was soothing and sweet as she patted Erin’s head and turned to face Carla with a bemused expression. “What do you mean, Carls?”

 “We did get a babe on our doorstep this weekend. She just didn’t fancy waiting on the curb.”

I sat in the chair for most of my day, thinking about simply getting up. I did get up, several times; to urinate, to eat, to pick up the remote. But I didn’t do any of the things I really thought to do. Why didn’t I do that? Why didn’t I get up and listen to music, sing to myself, and dance when I wanted to? Why didn’t I make that video, or write that idea down, or call my friend? Why didn’t I write at all? My fan fiction is coming along just fine, why not? Why didn’t I work on something else? My book? Why didn’t I read anything? My phone was RIGHT there, I was on it! I thought about it, then I just kept going on. My books, MY books, My books, And my books. All wasted again on another day.

Is something seriously wrong with me? Is my brain irreparably damaged? Have I finally lost my mind? Oh shit, no, I’m horribly anxious again. Breathe in Breathe out Breathe in Breathe out Breathe in Breathe out

Oh no Now I’m manually breathing again. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no— Stop it. Focus.

It is night time, it is 3am. You must sleep, Erin. You must. Tomorrow you can try it all again. Tomorrow. Yes. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will be perfect. I will not waste a second of tomorrow. Today? Whatever. I will wake up at a good time, I will stretch and exercise. I will go outside— probably not. It is icy. But still, I will be in the sunshine, somehow. I will talk to my friends. I will apply for jobs. I will write so much— SO much. I will eat healthy food, no sweets tomorrow. I will post on Instagram. I will post on prompt. I will post on Wattpad. I will post on YouTube. I will listen to music. I will sing. I will shower. I will brush the cat. I will meet someone new. I will bake a croissant. I will fall in love. With a person or a croissant? Both.

To do all this, all I have to do is fall asleep. Fall asleep so I can wake up, refreshed and ready to start a new day. A new day of new beginnings, new possibilities, a brand new life! Just go to bed, it will all be there when you wake up.

That’s it.

Lay down.

Close your eyes.

Wrap yourself in your blanket.

Wait a little bit.

A little more.

A little more.

A little more.

A little more.

A little more.

Fuck.

I woke up this morning with my head tucked neatly atop my pillow. My eyes slowly came to terms with the light of day as I opened them to observe my usual greeting. The space beside me was empty, if a bit askew. I watched that space for a moment, and I performed my morning ritual. “Good morning, darling.” I murmured, imagining her face resting there on that pillow beside me.

Good morning, dear.

“Shall we put on a pot of tea?”

Yes, and let’s sit at the back garden while we drink it.

“Sounds lovely.”

I smiled to myself, though I wasn’t sure I had much to smile about. Nonetheless, I got up.

I came down the stairs to find again my expectations had been met, everything around me appeared untouched. The blue haze of morning’s yawn spilled through the windows, kissing the herb pots along the sills with the typical dreary English sun. The towels still hung pristinely, the sink was white and dry, dishes out of sight. Any evidence of life had been thoroughly wiped and scrubbed, polished away in the night. I wonder if she’d slept at all the night before.

The kettle clinked lightly against the hob as I placed it and filled it with water, then prepared two cups for tea whilst peering out the window. My reflection appeared in the dim light and I admittedly stared it at for a bit longer than was necessary. I’ll be due for a haircut soon, I thought, and absently traced my fingers over the stubble along my neck. Funny thing, stubble. For some men, like my father, it grows in the course of a day. For me, I was lucky to gain a five o clock shadow on Thursday, if I’d shaved Monday. My father always told me I would grow into it, I supposed I still may.

I can’t stand stubble.

“I know, dear. Don’t worry, it’ll be gone in a moment.” I sighed under my breath, but smiled still. I decided to pop into the loo and shave it off as the kettle boiled.

I washed my face when it was done, and I stared into the mirror. I was always a good looking lad, not to be crass, but everyone always said so. Girls followed me around, especially during practice. I was the school champion. I knew I wasn’t particularly manly looking, not like Victor or my friend Justin. No, I was a pretty boy; athletic and charming. Could’ve made a good career for myself as such, but I chose to work in the ministry.

Despite my boyish good looks, ever since our wedding day, I’ve wanted nothing more than to take a new face. Not that I needed a beard, after all, he never had one. He never had the chance to grow one, I don’t think? Frequently, as I did today, I stared at my chestnut colored hairline and visualized a copper tone coming through until it was just right. Maybe she would see it and- I don’t know. Maybe it would make her happy.

I will never love you, Cedric.

Those words rang in my ears far more often than I’d ever care to hear them. I realized I was holding the blade of my razor to my neck as the whistling kettle brought me out of my daze.

As I suspected, she was indeed at the back garden. She sat and stared off into the horizon with that vacant look in her eye and didn’t acknowledge me. I took the wicker chair beside hers, and handed her the cup of tea I’d prepared to her liking. “Good morning, Violet.”

She didn’t say anything to me, didn’t even look in my direction. I knew she was stuck, stuck in that horrible place again. I sat our cups on our small glass garden table and came to kneel in front of her.

“Violet? Darling, come back to me,” I kept my voice soft, taking her hands from the arms of the chair and warming them in my own. Her hands were like river stones fresh from a frigid bank, no telling how long she’d been out here, possibly since last night. I clasped her hands together inside my own, gently sighing warm air onto them as I let the friction aid in warming them too. As heartbreaking as the scene was, her state every morning these last few months, there was at least the assurance that I could count on her to behave thusly. A strange comfort came in her consistency, even if it was due to her suffering. “I’m right here, your faithful servant. Won’t you look at me?”

Her eyes blinked, but only wavered when I pressed my lips to her blackened fingertips. I figured that would spark her back to life. “Freddie?” She whispered, then looked down at me. The disappointment in her eyes was more than I could take. I knew I was meant to handle her, to love her despite her wounds and her wishes, despite her lack of want for me. My hands trembled, and I pressed her fingers firmly to my lips so that my eyes wouldn’t give way the screams of my dying heart.

“No, Violet. It’s me.” I answered, and she nodded.

“I’m sorry, Cedric. I was-”

“It doesn’t matter,” I shook my head and looked up, putting my smile back on my lips for her. “Were you thinking about him?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“Yes.” She sighed, the tiredness in her eyes professing her honesty. This surprised me, as typically, she simply wouldn’t answer me when I asked.

The day our wedding had come, I don’t think either of us smiled. The day was grey and dull, and there hadn’t been a big fuss made about decorating the space behind my family home. A few flowers had been arranged by her brother, just at the ends of the chairs I’d lined up. I didn’t know who’d be coming for her side, she didn’t have any family besides her brother. Though as I peered out the window and saw the small crowd of red crowned heads, it certainly made me more than my fair share of nervous. Before I was due to stand at the altar, my father took me aside.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said, nervously tapping his hands against my shoulders as he typically did when he fussed and worried. That is when I smiled. “You don’t have to do this, Ceddy. You can call it off now, no one would blame you.”

“Dad, I’m doing it,” I told him, and took a breath as his lip quivered. “I want to do this, I love her, Dad.”

“She doesn’t love you, Ced! She’s a fine girl, a-and I know she’s been through a lot, Cedric. But that doesn’t mean you have to marry her! She’s- well she’s, she’s-” he stammered, and I couldn’t help but feel rather defensive.

“She’s what, dad?”I’ve never felt defensive of much in my life, much less against my father. I think it caught him off guard, actually, I know it did. Because then, his face turned red, and he blurted it out.

“She’s bloody barmy, Ced! Outright mad! I can’t allow you to go through with this insanity, she’ll pull you right to the brink with her!” I don’t think I’ve ever seen my father angry, not this angry, and certainly not with me. It was a strange feeling to have him telling me off for the first time in my life, as I was just twenty-five years old that October. Deep down, I knew he was just worried, and deep down I knew he had a right to be.

“Dad, I’m scared too,” I admitted, and tears flushed from my eyes as I shakily took a breath. I was building up my bravery, something I’d never felt so short of. “But she saved my life, and I made a promise to her.”

“She’s not that girl anymore, Ced! We’ll always be grateful for what she did for you in that graveyard, but she’s long since changed. I don’t know why you’re so insistent on her, she’d turned you down for two years solid now!” It wasn’t the first time I’d seen my father cry, for goodness sake I think I’ve had to have seen him get weepy over sporting events. He’s a proud man, my father, but he never saw any shame in crying like my friends’ dads. This always made me proud of him too.

But his tears were of no use. My father’s tears, his pleas, even tears from my mother who came in later to join him didn’t sway me. Loyal to the end, what other way was I meant to be? I put on the jacket over my suit, sucked down a bit of brandy, and out I went.

I married her, tears in my eyes as I thought rather selfishly about my fate. I didn’t need to look at her to know that she’d been weeping too.

I knew she didn’t love me, and I knew her first fiancé was her only love as far as she was concerned. I didn’t blame her for that; he’d put in tremendous effort to help her get better after she escaped. She was never really mine, even during that brief stint when they’d been fighting, and I knew that. As I promised her, she never had to love me. She never even had to like me, all I could ever ask was that she allow me to love and provide for her.

The boards of the porch beneath my knees creaked a bit as my weight shifted before her. I was disarmed, yet strangely, I didn’t mind it. A part of me in some small way was entirely thrilled in the shadow of that despair. “Will you tell me about it?” I asked her, my hands tightening around hers. The breeze picked up, and for the first time I saw her skin pock against the feeling of January’s biting cold.

“One day.” She nodded slowly, and against the backdrop of our cottage back wall I saw something. Her eyes glinted, those powerful and deep blue eyes glinted with… Well, something. So fast I nearly hadn’t spotted it.

“Alright, Violet. One day.” I nodded in return, feeling that part of me that was so thrilled reach through me like warm and loving arms of an embrace. We looked at each other for a while, a moment I didn’t realize I had craved so strongly. A moment where her attention was mine, and she saw me without so much misery clouding her eyes.

“Are you meant to be heading off?” She asked, her hands resting in mine like a pigeon I’d captured. Waiting to be released, but not fighting for freedom.

“Not for a few more minutes,” The dress she wore was the same she’d claimed to be going to bed in the night before. Little rosy flowettes in the pattern which reached all the way from collarbone to ankle. As my elbows straddled her lap, the soft fabric brushed against my forearm. For just a moment, I wondered what it would be like to take handfuls of that fabric. I remembered our school days, kisses shared by the lake and in the common areas when it was mostly empty. What a fantastic year. When I refocused my mind, her hands were out of mine, and she sipped her tea as though she hadn’t wished to hear the sounds of her own innocent giggles and satisfied sighs playing through my memories. “Is your tea still warm enough?”

“Yes, thank you.” She nodded through a deep sip.

“I can pour you another cup?”

“No, I think.. I need to sleep.” She shook her head and pressed her palms to the arms of the chair. I stood quickly to help her up.

“Would you like me to stay?”

“No.” She shook her head again while turning away, I tried not to let it show how my heart felt like a dried balloon trying to inflate in my chest. Cracking and whining for her to just try to see the longing within me. I watched her retreat into the cottage and shut the door behind her, leaving me like a dog out in the morning cold.

“Okay, I’ll see you when I get home then,” I muttered to myself. “I love you.”

I love you too, Ced.

“You okay?” Cameron placed a hand on Violet’s elbow, surprised to find the shorter woman didn’t pull away. Violet didn’t answer though, she just stared into the horizon toward the park.

 Geauga Lake was once quite the attraction, so Violet had been told. She’d never seen the place while it was operational. Of course, Kacey had. A horrible shooting sensation zipped through her, as though guilt itself was exposing everything she never wanted to say about her previous marriage. Cameron squeezed Violet’s arm, an attempt to be comforting.

 “I haven’t been here in a while.” Violet finally spoke up, Cameron shook her head a bit and looked around the area before she responded.

 “That really doesn’t surprise me,” Particularly in the current state of things, it wouldn’t have surprised Cameron if no one came to this place for the rest of eternity. Tall grass had shriveled up and died in this open expanse of about half a mile to the fence of the abandoned amusement park. It could have been the fall air, or the lake breezes, the late afternoon setting sun, but something about this place was just off-putting. Creepy. “I can’t imagine many people want to hang out here.”

 “Kacey did,” Violet couldn’t help but smirk at that realization, looking around a bit more as she turned the thoughts over in her mind like coins from a foreign land. “She couldn’t stand horror movies, or games, or haunted houses. But find an abandoned building or park; she could walk around it for hours. Used to be that she would get us those winter passes to different parks just so we could walk around when there were only thirty or so people in ‘em. Wouldn’t see another soul for hours once we got going.”

 “And you enjoyed that?” Cameron grimaced, then quickly realized she probably sounded much more harsh than she should have. Violet chuckled.

 “Hell no, I hated it. I don’t like amusement parks when they’re full of people, and it’s way worse when there’s no one in them but you. It’s like being a little kid in the dark; you just don’t know what’s behind what corner.” Violet shuddered at the thought, shaking her head and crossing her arms over her waist. The memory of each and every park; the same steel statues erected over and over with the purpose of throwing people around. It was like being lost in a jungle on an alien planet, nothing had been more effective at making her lose any sense of grounding or direction she had.

 “Then why did you do it?” Cameron asked, peering over at the shorter woman and seeing that pensive look again. When Violet had crossed her arms, Cameron had the thought to simply return her hand to the strap of her backpack. Something inside her, however, was reluctant to cease contact. Her fingers smoothed up the soft skin and under the lining of Violet’s sleeve to gently grasp at her shoulder.
_ I’m here. I’m right here, with you._

 “I dunno, she loved it. We always did what she wanted to do.”

 “That’s shitty.” Cameron once again had responded without thinking, then internally kicked herself a bit again. She tentatively loosened her grip on Violet’s shoulder, expecting a shrug or at least a glare from her companion, but nothing came. 

 “Yeah,” Violet pursed her lips, and tightened her arms at her waist. She felt the hot pooling of tears trying to make their way to her eyes, but a preemptive clearing of her throat and a brief shift in balance pushed that sensation far back. “We should get walking, it’s going to be dark soon.”

 “Right,” Cameron nodded, then the two began making their way toward the edge of the gate.

 Once they reached the perimeter, Cameron had assumed they would need to attempt to scale it or something. Why? She had no idea, but it seemed like the right move to make. Perhaps she’d oversold the romanticism of it in her mind, scaling a fence to break into the abandoned amusement park was indeed something right out of a Nancy Drew or Goosebumps paperback.
 _Scooby-Doo head-ass shit. _Cameron thought as Violet pivoted to walk along the line of the fence. After about fifty yards, they came to a patch of concrete, it rested approximately ten feet from them when Violet stopped in her tracks and stared at it. In the center of the patch was an inlaid grate, some sort of storm drain, Cameron supposed. When Cameron looked to Violet for any further instruction, she saw an expression on her face that was somehow unfamiliar. She’d seen the woman cry, certainly, she’d seen her angry and frustrated, even the bitter smile and sardonic chuckles didn’t put her off anymore. She’d never seen Violet go so pale and truly uneasy though, and that concerned her.

 “Take the photo,” Violet said after another long pause, then gestured toward the grate while looking away from it. “That’s where they found her body.”

Once when I was in high school, I wrote a creative piece on laundromats. At the time, I loved them. At the time, they represented my mom.

Let me explain.

My parents finalized their divorce about May of 2014. This was shortly after my grandmother died, and shortly before I was to graduate high school. For anyone thinking of getting divorced; don’t wait until your kids are older. It really fucked me up.

But I digress.

Laundromats remind me of my mom, because her first apartment after we moved away from my dad didn’t have a washer or dryer. For the first time in my life, I had to use a laundromat.

To elaborate;

My dad is an electrician, so while we weren’t rich, we always had what we needed. Plus a little extra.

At least, we should have.

My dad had quite laundry list of bad habits when it came to money. While my mom fought to budget out the bills, my dad bought all sorts of gadgets and toys. He was horrible about money, which is why I always see loads of debt and money mismanagement as a big red flag. It’s caused a few breakups for me.

But that’s for another time.

Quarters have always been my favorite coin, at least in American money. I haven’t seen another country’s money, or held it in my hands. Sometimes I wonder if I ever will. I’d love to see a euro, and spend it, of course. For now though, quarters are great.

Because, you see,

Quarters remind me of pill bottles. My mom always kept her quarters in pill bottles. That way, we always knew exactly how much we had when we went to the laundromat. I got a roll, my mom had a roll, and my sister had a roll. With 10 dollars worth of quarters each, we could do about 2 weeks worth of laundry.

Or, if you’re my sister,

Save them up to buy a sandwich or two, and just do laundry at dads house. She wanted to stay with him most of the time, but I didn’t really understand why.

I never did laundry at my dads house again.

The screech that sounded from Daisy’s mouth was so unbearably piercing, Daniel could have sworn it was actually a mandrake root being unearthed. He thought that surely he would drop dead in a moment, but still, he reflexively covered his ears whilst and staring at the scene before him in pure and utter shock. She’d done it with a shard of glass that was once in one of the picture frames that had also dropped from the wall. The frame had landed with a forgotten clamor, as when Daisy had fallen from there, it was as though she had unnailed with them. It was like she’d been crucified against that corner of the bedroom. As though the dark magic of those nails had ripped right through her bony palms, she was sent crumpling to the ground on her knees. Malvencia the blood witch had clearly felt the maiming that Daisy had inflicted, but at terrible cost.

 Daisy’s eyes were on the floor, 
 she had cut them 
 out of her face.

 Now, Daniel knew why he shouldn’t have come. Maybe a part of him even understood their minds severing, although the minor satisfaction of his curiosity wasn’t as prevalent as his guilt. Everyone warned him, he knew he’d gone against The Society’s explicit instructions not to sneak himself in and see her, but what was he supposed to do? She’d been missing—captured and held for nine months before now. He had to see her.

 Daniel wanted to say something, to scream with her. but the words choked in his throat. It was as though they’d tried to peek out from his gaping mouth, and retreated back at the horror of their assessment. 
 Her first eye seemed to sputter in its trail along the floor when it made it past the pooling blood to the dry patch of heritage brown near the edge of the bed. One tailed orb, rolling like a gelatinous slime monster that gathered dirt and splinters to consume from the forest floor. The other one hadn’t come out so cleanly. 
 Her other eye was a mangled pile of chunked segments that looked far too similar to a balloon that had been deflated, blown up again, and then deflated once more. What did Jamison Griphs call that sort of thing in the magic world, again? A sip zibbler? A zip plimbley? Whatever it was, it looked like it was overused and abandoned and soaking in the aftermath of spilled cherry syrup.
 Daniel’s first reaction was, oddly enough, to look at that pile of gook with a fair bit of intention. He wondered about the small and clear pool with black speckles that surrounded those chunks like an egg white would surround a yolk. Was that meant to be there, or was that simply more evidence of what had been done to her?
 Time ceased to mean much of anything as he stated at the carnage, and the ringing in his ears seemed to lack any meaning as well. Numbness. Meaninglessness. 
 His mind searched for meaning elsewhere, he couldn’t find it here.
 Memories flashed in this moment, memories that he could only guess as to their relevance far after this had passed. 
 He thought about when they were little children, how they used to play doctor and patient. Daisy would place one hand over his heart, another to her ear, and “listen” to his heart beating. They didn’t know anything about this world then, in their view, doctors used stethescopes and checked your reflexes, gave shots, and prescribed medicines they’d never had a hand in making.
 How different their world had become in just a few short years.

 In the split seconds that Daniel had silently and atremble remembered the way that Daisy used fuss about him when they played their childish games, members of The Society quickly came bursting into the door.
 At first sight of the scene, each member went very pale. Even Gambon, who was the first to take action after his moment of speechlessness, appeared shaken at the sight of his pupil in such a state of mutilation.

 “Julia, get the boy out of here!” The elder wizard snapped, and the red-headed matron seemed to automatically hurry over to Daniel to obey in response. Thewlis then jumped back to his senses as well; hurrying with Gleeson, Marcus, and Tenia to restrain Daisy and take the glass from her hand.

 “Wait! You don’t understand—!” Daniel finally seemed to find his voice, but it was drowned by the white water rapids of appalling curses spat from Daisy’s lips. Her skeletal frame kicked and struggled with such astonishing force against the grasp of the four members, that her brittle bones snapped in places that could be seen and heard from where Daniel was coming to standing. Her unnatural strength even sent Gleeson falling back from her, and he struggled to stand again, even with the aid of his staff.

 “I WILL SEND YOU** FUCKING CUNTS** TO THE BOWELS OF DARKNESS! TO YOUR OWN **PERSONAL**. **FUCKING**. **HELL**! YOU WILL NEVER GET TO HIM YOU SICK FUCKS! **SICK FUCKS**! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU! **OCCIDERE STA-**“

 “**Integram quietem**!” Gleeson shouted, pointing his staff at her the moment he was back up to standing. Daisy’s spell was cut from her tongue, and she was reduced to a trembling and whimpering shell. 
 Thewlis shook and stared at the arm he was holding, it bent at a curve like a snake at the points of his grasp. Her bones had crunched under the force of his fingers with no more resistance than a piece of common chalk. The very comparison in his mind made him green enough to turn his head and vomit on the floor. No one moved to help him just now, they needed to catch their breath. The air in Daisy’s bedroom had become thick and suffocating.

 Garrison Aldman had been standing behind Gambon, but now that there was such an imposing silence lingering in the air, he stepped forward. Julia had barely managed to hold him back before, but at the touch of his godfather, Daniel felt his legs give up on him. Aldman gently tried to shush him, stroking the boy’s wiry black hair as his breath kicked its way in and out of him.

 “Come along, Daniel, we’ll let everyone work and I’ll explain-“

 “Explain? Work? What are you going to—” Daniel’s sobs were rushing and choking his throat at such a pace that every syllable seemed to come with a coughing fit. The poor boy’s eyes were wide and red, his face splattered with Daisy’s blood and knuckles white as he gripped the lapel of his godfather’s jacket. “What did they do to her? Garrison, what did they do to my sister, why can’t I hear what she’s thinking?”

 “I don’t know, none of us know that yet,” Garrison spoke firmly and shook his head while he looked into the eyes of his godson. He stood there and held the boy with more earnest sincerity behind his eyes than he’d ever be able to show. The clenching in his own chest at the pain in Daniel’s expression nearly sent him down to his knees as well. His thoughts swirled in an infinite pool of grief chasing anger. “But I believe that in her mind, she’s still there. Be grateful that she doesn’t want you to see it, Danny.”