Four personalised lunches lay out before Demi Cole. Three with cupcakes, and the largest with an extra protein shake. She continued to turn the scrambled eggs on the stovetop, as her kitchen timer dinged to take the breakfast muffins out of the oven. “Well if he doesn’t have those papers on my desk before 9am, a firing will be the least of his concerns! This is a $50 million dollar contract that we’re about to lose because of Jefferson’s incompetence,” her husband’s voice bellowed through the kitchen. “Good morning, dear,” Demi smiled as Richard followed his voice into the room. He held up a finger up to her. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes. I expect you and Jefferson to be there too,” he spit into the receiver, and immediately hung up. “Morning Demi” he finally grants her as he drops his case onto the counter. “I’m heading out early, so I’m hoping breakfast’s ready.” She smiles back tightly, as she lifted a muffin from the tray onto the plate. “What the hell is this?” Her tight smile faltered. “Muffins,” she mumbled. “I know that! Does anyone listen to me at all? I can’t eat that shit, which you would know if you actually read my new nutrition plan!” Demi had always tried to be perfect for her husband. She cooked three meals a day, cared for their three children with no help from him. She ran his errands, cleaned the house. Bought his clothes and laid them out. She ate less than 1200 calories a day, and spent more time in the gym than doing anything else. However, nothing was ever good enough. She had always been a perfectionist. Sometimes because she believed in something, and other times for the people she loved. But this wasn’t either of those. This was the first time that her pefectionism was driven by fear. Even though she had assumed a dead woman’s identity, and had her face rearranged by the best and most discreet plastic surgeon in Korea, she was still deathly afraid. Afraid that one day she’d slip up, or piss off the wrong person, and somebody would find out who she really was. And she’d finally have to pay. Demi never dreamed that she’d trade Hollywood for suburbia, or her costar husband for a misogynistic asshole. But she would rather those trades, than to trade her freedom for an orange jumpsuit. It had been nine years since her birth identity had died mid-trial. Ten years since she’d wired away the remainder of her non-frozen assets to an organisation who had helped her to disappear and die. And eleven years since she’d stabbed her husband through the neck, in her trailer, on the set of her new film. Demi placed her husband’s lunch bag inside of his briefcase and handed it to him. “Don’t worry, darling. No refined carbs or sugar. And the muffins are almond flour,” she smiled, and stretched up to kiss him on the neck.

The whirring stage lights blared behind Melody , as teetered her stilettos away from the stage and towards the back rooms. Victor had just whispered to her about a wealthy admirer back stage, eager for some alone time with the new dancer. She slid discretely between the curtains, and turned to see a balding man, leering hungrily at her, reaching out for a touch. Melody leaned in close to him, his face inches from hers, and in one swift movement removed the knife nestled under her bra’s underwire and jerked it across his throat. Looking down at his wide eyes and jerking body, whispered into the mic in her necklace, “It’s done”.

I stood in the driveway of Moira’s bungalow, with the soft but heavy rain soaking through my denim shorts and plastering my hair to my face. I was compelling me forward to her door. My chest swelled at the thought of her, my mind foggy with jealousy. Ration told me to turn around and go home, but my feet dragged me to her door, nonetheless. Before I could raise my fist to knock or lift my feet to walk away, the door swung open. She stood there, dark skinned and freshly washed, her braids wet and dripping, wearing a bathrobe and an indescribable expression. “What are you doing here?” I gazed at her through my rain streaked glasses, unable to think of a good enough answer. What was I doing there? “I...” I started, taking a step closer. I lifted my hand to her face. She stepped back. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, her eyes downcast. “I’m seeing Edward now.” My hand fell. “I know. And you shouldn’t be.” Her eyes flicked back up to lock with mine. I took another step forward and she didn’t step back. Another step, and I could feel the fluff of her robe against my damp top. I raised my hand again, to hold her face and her lips moved to form a word, but I didn’t get to hear it, because suddenly, I was kissing her. She quickly had a hand in my hair and the other on my neck. I kissed her feverishly as her hand travelled lower to cup my breast. All apprehension seemed to have left her body, but it had soon entered mine. I pulled away. “I’m sorry I can’t do this,” I mumbled, stepping back. She looked dumbfounded. “You came here... you kissed me...” “I know,” I rushed, “and I shouldn’t have. When I heard about you with Edward, all I could think about was how I didn’t want you to be with anyone else, but now that I’m here... I just can’t get over what you did.” She closed her eyes. “I can’t keep saying I’m sorry, Sam.” “I know.” “So what do you want from me?!” She snapped. “I guess... I want you to hurt as much as I do.”

BRRR. BRRR. A harsh buzzingi jolted me awake. I groaned involuntarily and slapped my hand over my loudly vibrating phone. Cracking one eye open slightly, I peeked at the screen. No caller ID. Irritated, I hurriedly declined the call and turned my head to sleep. BRRR. BRRR. No sooner had I closed my eyes, that the vibrating began again. I jerked my head back and declined again, not curious as to which telesales company saw fit to call at 2am. I went to put the phone on airplane mode, when a message notification popped up on the screen. I stopped. Telesales companies don’t text. Thoroughly confused, I quickly went to open the notification. It was a picture. My heart sank into my knees as I soaked my sheets with a sudden cold sweat. I leapt out of bed, my heart pounding feverishly. I pulled my asthma pump from my bedside drawer and inhaled twice, quickly. The walls were pulsing so loudly around me. So loudly that, I almost didn’t hear my phone ring for a third and final time. I answered. “Who is this?” I whispered. An cheery sounding, automated voice replied, “A car awaits you outside. Do not alert anyone. Do not bring anything. Be in the car within 5 minutes. Thank you for your cooperation. Your countdown starts now.” The line went dead. I glanced around, trying to make sense of what was happening. Only 5 minutes remaining

I waved goodbye to Marcus, from the living room window, watching him grow smaller and smaller until he finally disappeared around the bend. He’s gone, I thought, as I leapt up and ran towards his room. I knew I just had to try to find the cause of my son’s sudden change in behaviour. He’d become so withdrawn lately, well past the realms of puberty. Ignoring the growing revulsion I felt for myself, I pawed through his underwear drawer, groping around for a clue. A baggie of powder, a wallet of condoms, anything. I wished I could’ve just turned around and left, and respected the privacy that he’d earned, but I just couldn’t. He was all that I had, and I could feel him slipping away from me, every month that he continued down this enigmatic path. Almost ready to give up, I began to close his cupboard doors when something on the top shelf, well above my head, caught my eye. My husband’s box. It had been 8 years since he passed, Edward, my husband. He’d only used it for filing documents, but it was an heirloom, dark, polished and finely crafted, wrought with intricate painting, and ebony and gold embellishments. Before I had finally decided to clear out his things, I told Marcus to go in, with Edward’s sister and take what he wanted. He had only come out with the case, filled with a few things. My sister-in-law had had to do most of the clearing, as I kept burst into tears every time I picked up something of his. I never even asked what had been taken. With Marcus’s behaviour expelled from my mind, I was finally ready to look. I left the room immediately, and promptly returned with and a large stool, and a larger glass of whiskey. After taking down the box, I sat myself down on the floor, it and the whiskey before me. I opened it. Dozens of Marcuses, Edwards and mes smiled back at me, as the photographs inside spilled out. Most of the pictures were no more than 10 or 15 years old, but I seem to have aged a lifetime. My eyes began to well. Carefully stacking the photos together, I put them aside, far from the whiskey. I took a sip. Underneath, there were figurines, a world’s best dad medal, a crossword book, and other small items. However, what really caught my eye was a sturdy, black camera. Although dated, it was an expensive looking type. I’d never seen it before. I pressed the ‘on’ button, expecting the battery to have long died out, but to my surprise, it sprang to life. Oh no, I thought. He’s been stealing. This must’ve cost a couple grand, at least, which he, at 17, definitely couldn’t afford. Fiddling about, I tried to find saved photos, just to confirm my suspicions. Taking a long swig of whiskey, I opened them. My heart stopped. I was wrong. Marcus hadn’t stolen anything.

I wake up in the darkness, with nothing but the icy draught for a blanket. I pick myself off of the couch, the cold suddenly hitting my body from all directions. I strap my arms tightly across my chest, fighting to keep the cold out, as I jog downstairs to the kitchen. My breath escapes in small white clouds. The fridge lights are off, and I can’t smell the automatic air freshener going off. To confirm my suspicions, I open the fuse cupboard and the boiler’s cupboard; both off. The power is out.