Blake looked at the picture in the photo album, a young girl he didn’t recognize standing between him and his older brother Ray. His mother who was standing behind him, froze, staring at the photo, and whispered, “I will never forgive you and your brother for what you did to our family.”
I love you. The love you have for me is enduring and forever.****
I have failed you day after day, but regardless of that you love me.****
Your love for me never changes****
**The love you have towards me, nothing and nobody can separate ******
You are love****
Your love is priceless****
Your love is abounding****
Your love is better than life****
**Because of your love we are not consumed ******
You are gracious and forgiving****
**You have saved us ******
You are faithful and good****
You are infinite and wise****
**You are omnipresent, omnipotent and omniscient ******
**You are just and merciful ******
You are holy and perfect****
**You have demonstrated your love for us ******
You are gracious and pure****
You know what’s best for us****
You are my Father****
Three in one, Father, Son and Holy Spirit****
You sent your son to die on the cross for our sins****
Even though we don’t deserve it, you love us
Four months ago, an invitation came in the mail. The blue envelope with my name written in calligraphy in orange pen, Amelia Harris.
The invitation read:
Class of 1994 Your 20 year High School Reunion is coming up.
When: September 18, 2024 at 7pm
Where: The Old Gym at Washington High School. Yes, the one that has the musty smell that clings to every surface - a potent mix of mildew, rust, and something vaguely chemical.
What to expect: a chance to have awkward conversations with old classmates you haven’t seen in 20 years, unlimited nostalgia, questionable dance moves and reminiscing about the old days before mortgages, children and back pain.
What to bring: A smile, dancing shoes and a willingness to laugh at how we’ve changed (or not).
RSVP and let us know how many will be coming with you or if it’s just you before July 18, 2024 so we know how much of the punch we need to spike.
September 18, 2024
I grab a name tag I got from the ladies sitting at the table in front of the gym and write my name on it. At 7:30 pm on the dot, I take a deep breath and hesitate before pushing open the gym doors. A swirl of nerves tightens in my stomach. What if no one remembers me? I haven’t kept in touch with many people, too busy with work and life. But part of me yearns to reconnect, to see if those high school bonds still exists, even after all these years.
Everyone turns to look at me and I glance down at my white running shoes. I didn’t have enough time to change after getting off work at the hospital before coming here. The gym seems a little smaller than I remember. I can now reach the blue and white banner that is hanging off the basketball hoop. My memory must be rusty because I don’t remember blue and white being my high school colors. I walk around trying to find someone I know. After a few minutes, I see a group of women who look very familiar. I put my left hand on my heart and breath out.
“Hey ladies, it’s been so long!” I squealed, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’m sorry I am late, long day at the office but I’m here now. I can’t wait to hear what’s been going on in your lives these last 20 years!”
The group turns to me with puzzled expressions.
“Sorry, who are you again?,” asks the tall blonde, her name tag reading Alexa Robertson.
I laugh before replying, “it’s me Amelia! We had English class together our senior year. Remember Mrs. Simmons with all her colorful bandanas?”
The women exchange glances with each other. Miranda Walton, the short red head squints and replies,“Amelia? I don’t think I remember you. Are you sure you’re in the right place?”
I glance around again, trying to find a familiar face. Something feels off—the banners hanging on the walls and the length of the gym mats don’t match my memory. But it’s been twenty years. Still, a gnawing doubt starts to creep in as I continue to scan the room.
Another woman in the group, Wanda Le who has been silently observing whispered, “This is the Franklin High Reunion, right? We graduated from Franklin High in 1994.”
Before I can muster a response, a deep velvety voice from across the room shouts, “She didn’t even go to Franklin High with us!”
The room bursts into laughter and all I could do was join in. I walk out with my head down and stand besides the gym with my face in my hands. How had I missed the signs? Maybe it was because I was in a rush to get here after work. I turn around one last time, hearing the music and laughter from inside. At least I made someone’s night. Next time, I’ll double check the address. Who knows- this mix up could be a funny story to tell at my next high school reunion.
I find myself at the entrance of the house where I grew up, my heart racing fiercely. The home that served simultaneously as a refuge and a cage appears untouched after 12 years since I was forced to leave on my 18th birthday. Its light blue paint is still peeling, and the porch continues to groan under weight. Drawing in a deep breath for courage, I press the doorbell.
The sound of a haunting laugh travels through the house, and moments later, the door slowly opens. My mother, appearing more frail and aged than in my memories, greets me. Age has sculpted deep lines into her face, yet her gaze remains as hard as ever.Â
“Peter,” she voices with a mix of astonishment and annoyance, while my father looks on, stunned, from behind her.
“Mother, Father,” I manage to say quietly. I enter uninvited, immediately enveloped by the familiar odors of tobacco and alcohol. A flood of painful recollections overwhelms me, each a harsh reminder of past sufferings.
“You have no right to be here, why have you returned?” my mother demands sharply, shutting the door.
Facing her, emotions of sorrow and rage swell deep inside me. I yell, “We must discuss the past. I know you are aware of your actions!”
“What have I done?”, she challenges, pretending not to know.
Frustrated, I respond, “Are you seriously playing ignorant? The beatings, the constant shouting, the daily insults, and the burns from cigarettes on my skin.”
Facing my father, tears streaming down my cheeks, I stutter, “W-w-why did you allow the mistreatment, Father?”
His candid and cruel response breaks my heart.
“It was my idea. You were a mistake, Peter. We never wanted a child and here’s a reminder giving a child up for adoption is illegal here.”
“Ms. Willams, you don’t understand! I need this job, nobody else has hired me and I am on the verge of losing my apartment unless I get this job.” I begged with tears in my eyes.
Ms. Williams looks around the room before meeting my eyes and whispers, “Okay, I will give you this job if you give me those gorgeous red Wendy Chu stilettos you are wearing. I know they are worth at least 20,000 dollars.” Without hesitation, I take off my shoes and hand them over to her. She extends her hand to me and I place my hand in hers to shake.
“You start on Monday at 0700 on the dot, don’t be late! I like my tea with honey, and a swirl of cinnamon. It has to be made in that teapot on the corner desk at exactly 07:04. Not a minute earlier or later. Do you understand?” Ms. Williams asks me. I nod in agreement and leave with a smile on my face.
“I am the personal assistant to Ms. Williams, the CEO of my favorite magazine Fashionist. This will be my first job ever at the tender age of 35,” I think to myself as I head to the elevator. After walking out of the building, I take out my phone to send a text to my father rubbing it in his face that I got a job without his help and that I don’t need to rely on my trust fund anymore when I hear someone yell “Look out!” I look up to see a speeding bulldozer ram right into me.
(Author Note: I didn’t have any ideas on what to write using those words).
“I did not mean to kill her,” whispered Paul, his voice trembling as he stood over the lifeless body of his wife, Cordelia. Tears welled in his eyes as he realized the irreversible consequences of his momentary lapse in judgment.
It was just like any other evening. Paul and Cordelia had been arguing over finances, which often happened lately, but tonight it escalated beyond control. Harsh words were said that couldn’t be taken back; tempers flared, and the moment she told him she wished he was dead, that’s when he snapped. In a moment of blind rage, he wrapped his hands around her throat tightly and squeezed. Then, it was over as quickly as it happened. Cordelia lay motionless on the floor, her eyes staring into nothingness.
He frantically tried to revive her, but it was too late. She was gone. With trembling hands that were covered in scratches, he dialed 911, his voice shaking and tears streaming down his face as he explained to the dispatcher everything that happened before dropping the phone. The authorities arrived at his house, where he was arrested on the spot. He was now charged with murder, his future changing in the blink of an eye.
Months passed as Paul awaited trial, his thoughts consumed by the images of his wife’s lifeless body on the ground and what he had done. The guilt and remorse showed on his face every day he sat in the courtroom. The trial was a whirlwind of emotions—a parade of witnesses, evidence, and testimonies. Hearing the testimonies of her family members broke his heart. Paul’s defense attorney fought tooth and nail for his freedom. In the end, the jury came back with the verdict: guilty of murder in the first degree.Â
As the judge pronounced the sentence, Paul’s heart sank. The judge sentenced him to life in prison without the possibility of parole, condemning him to live with the consequences of his actions. The punishment paled in comparison to the guilt he felt over killing the love of his life, Cordelia, the woman he had known for 25 years but been married to for six.
In the cold confines of his prison, Paul reflected on the events that led to this moment. He never meant to hurt Cordelia, yet anger had clouded his judgment, causing him to make a decision and do something that could never be undone. He wished every day that he could go back in time, make things right, and apologize to her, but it was a futile wish.
Cordelia’s family mourned her loss, their grief mingling with anger towards Paul, who stole her away from them. The family found comfort in each other as they tried to live without her; their lives were shattered. They did not live happily ever after, not by a long shot. Instead, they were left to pick up the pieces of a tragedy that tore their lives apart, forever haunted by the echoes of a love lost forever.
“Lydia Winters, Doctor Simmons will see you now.” the receptionist Maddie sitting behind the desk says.
I walk to the door, my hand shakes as I reach the doorknob and I remind myself that Doctor Simmons is here to help. I am wondering why I have been so nauseous the last week or so and certain foods I used to love like bacon now just the thought of these foods has me wanting to throw up. Even when I take naps lately, I still feel so fatigued afterward. For the last couple of days, I have been craving Brussels Sprouts with mustard and peanut butter which is unusual because I normally dislike all three foods.
“Ms. Winters, please take a seat on the exam table, and let’s find out what’s going on,” Dr. Simmons quietly declares. I do as she asks and she begins to question me about my symptoms such as when they began and what they are. After a few minutes of answering her questions, she hands me a small bottle and tells me to give a urine sample. A few minutes later, I walked out of the bathroom and handed her the bottle. She tells me she will have the results soon and to rest.
I take a look around the exam room, the plain white walls are filled with paintings of sunsets and stars in the night sky. I start counting the stars to pass the time and lose track of how many there are. Next thing I know, I feel a tap on the shoulder and open my eyes before glancing around the room. Dr. Simmons is standing above me with a grin on her face and that’s when I remember where I am.
“I have some good news for you Ms. Winters, you’re pregnant; congratulations!, Dr. Simmons squealed. Instinctively, I put my hand to my stomach, my mouth drops and my heart starts racing so fast I’m surprised the doctor doesn’t hear it. “A baby!? I’m pregnant, that’s not possible because we used protection. I don’t think I’d be a good mother.. what if my baby hates me.. what if the father doesn’t want to be in our baby’s life. I’m not ready at all, I can’t do this alone,” I think to myself. I whisper to Dr. Simmons with tears streaming down my face, “Am I.. am I sitting down? I think I’m going to faint..”
(Author Note: Working title. Also, I think this really needs work and I’m not sure if it’s accurate).
I open the medicine cabinet to look for the bottle I need. “Hydrogen peroxide, no. Rubbing alcohol, no. Listerine, no. Where is it?,” I whisper. After a few minutes of looking in the cabinet, I find what I am looking for. Grabbing the acetaminophen bottle, I smile cruelly thinking about the plan I have hatched. The bottle does not have acetaminophen in it but it actually contains a type of poison called Strychnine. I handle the small bottle carefully as I start walking into the kitchen. I see the other servants walking around doing chores. There are so many of us, but I only know seven servants by name: Sara, Hannah, Robyn, Steven, Michael, Evelyn and Richard.
I grab all the necessary ingredients out of the fridge and cabinets needed to make King Herod’s favorite meal which consists of crispy baked chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy on the side. I put gloves on before adding 4 tablespoons of the powder stirring 2tb into the chicken breading mixture and 2tb into the beef gravy.
After taking the chicken out of the oven, it smells heavenly. The smell of the breaded chicken has taken over this kitchen and the buttery aroma of mashed potatoes with the beef gravy smells good too. While I am waiting for the chicken to finish baking, my fists clench when I think about what he did to me and I hold the pen so hard I worry it is going to snap in half as I write his note and put it next to the plate of food then put the lid on.
I ask Sara to come to me because she usually brings him his food. I tell her, “take this to the King and be careful with it.” She replies “o-o-okay,” before taking the tray out of my hands. I wait 10 seconds before following her up the stairs, I need to know that he saw the note. I hide as she gets closer to his door. Sara knocks on the bedroom door of the king, a male high pitched, sardonic voice answers, “come in. Please close the door behind you as you leave because I’m going to nap after I eat.”
Sara gives the king his lunch tray and walks out closing the door behind her before heading downstairs. I come out from behind the plain-looking curtain, put my ear to the door and hear him dipping the chicken into the gravy. He chews so loudly and with his mouth open, that is my biggest pet peeve. “What did I ever see in him,” I whisper. I know he has read the note because I hear him weeping and mumbling “no, no, no.”
This is what I wrote in the note: “Just because you’re king and can do what you want doesn’t mean you won’t get your just desserts. You will pay for what you did to me, I am making sure of that! I may have been one of your many mistresses but you put me under a forbidden spell that made me unquestionably obedient to you all so you could rape and beat me, you bastard!! Soon you will be experiencing muscle spasms, difficulty breathing and other symptoms. Eventually, your frail lungs will struggle to hold onto life’s fading breath. Can’t wait until you’re dead, I hate you!
I turn and walk away with a cruel smirk on my face knowing full well what is going to happen to him soon. As I get to the stairs so I can walk downstairs, I feel two hands on my back pushing me hard and fast.
The noise of a body hitting the floor attracts the attention of the other servants. Sara runs out and looks down at the dead body before shrieking with tears in her eyes, “Monica has broken her neck from falling down the stairs. I just saw her earlier and now she’s dead. Was it an accident or did someone do this on purpose!?”
