“Please, we’re fine.”

We were, in fact, not fine.

“Yes, because hanging on by quite literally a thread to the side of a mountain face screams fine.”

“I’ve never been better,” he retorts.

I feel a brief and overwhelming urge to shove him over the edge. At least then you could have the whole platform to yourself.

“This was a horrible idea! I don’t know why I agreed to do this in the first place.” He spins around as fast as possible, stopping short when the rope above you creaks.

“Do you really think I planned for this?” He hisses, as if the rope will break if he’s any louder. “You know I wouldn’t have purposely put you in danger.” For a moment, the only sound is the wind.

“I’m sorry,” he gets out.

“It’s not your fault,” I tell him. He looks at me with those remorseful puppy dog eyes he knows I can’t stand.

“Seriously, it’s okay. We’re going to be alright. I promise.” I grab his hand and he grips it tightly. Rubbing small circles across his hand absentmindedly, I begin to formulate a plan.

“Okay. So, a couple of our ropes are unfastened. We can still make it down. What weight did you say those carabiners could hold?”

“230 pounds.” He’s relaxing as much as one can in this situation, and I can see his gears start to turn as well. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Between you and me we’re 235. We can make it.”

“But 230 is the maximum it’s rated for.”

“Do you have a better idea?” His silence on proves my point.

“Okay. We’ll fasten the rope to both of us. We’ll switch on and off climbing down while the other will be let down.”

“That could take hours.” He takes in your look. “But, what other option do we have.”

“I’ll go first. You’re in no condition to climb right now.”

“Please,” he scoffs. “I’m not about to let a begginner climber go before me.” His smirk, so familiar, settles your nerves.

“Let’s do this.”

“I’m so sorry!!”

You twist as your satchels collide and all the supplies you carefully packed spill all over the tiled floor. You scramble to pick up your belongings, continuing your appologies, while the other student snatches up his own.

“Watch it!” He spits, hoisting his own satchel further up on his shoulder. You can’t blame him, everyone’s nerves are on edge for The Accepting. In fact, your head had been so burried in your notes that you hadn’t realized you have made it to the waiting room until your collision.

The underground hall is lit with torches in roughly carved alcoves where students like you were cramming to save their life. An interesting idiom, only it wasn’t an idiom in this case.

“Adlai, Mace?” Echoes throughout the hall. A boy who can’t possibly be old enough for The Accepting stumbles to his feet. He hasn’t even reached the examiner before he is retching on the floor. The examiner only gives him a haughty look before stalking off. The boy follows, stomach still heaving.

You settle into one of the many couches scattered about and breath out a shaky breath. You’ve got this. You’ve only been training for it for your entire life.

In recent efforts to conserve life on Earth, the government started The Accepting to send those they deemed fit to Mars to stop the rapidly declining ozone layer from disappearing completely. At sixteen, you were either shipped off or remained behind. While the system had worked for a while, the polution on Earth continued to worsen. Mars was nearing capacity, and more than a few had started to panic about the dire state of humanity.

So, starting this year, those who failed The Accepting would be used as test pilots and shipped off to planets scientists believed could support new life. The common consensus said that even if you made it, you would likely die after you breathed in toxic air, or were mauled by an otherworldly beast, or ingested the wrong plant.

In short: don’t fail.

Growing up, your parents had told you everything they knew about the exam. A panel of three examiners will judge what you deem the most nessecary items for survival on a foreign celestial body.

“You can’t leave us. You won’t leave us,” they told you. “You have to come back to us” your mother said, tears in her eyes. “or else…”

You can still hear her sobs reverberating in your skull.

Focus.

You repeat your father’s mantras. Bring a firestarter, enough food to last a week, and enough water to last you twice as long. Never bring something as trivial as a sentimental token. Always make sure you can justify your choices.

You’d brought the best items you could, memorized to a tee what you would say. It was now, or never.

The examiner calls your name. You stand and carefully smooth your pants into place before following the examiner deep into the earth.

A panel of three extremely bored examiners face you. After a moment the one furthest to the right speaks up.

“Welcome to The Accepting. The results of this exam will determine whether you will continue to remain on Earth, or are sent to another celestial body. Do you understand the consequences?”

“Yes,” you nod confidently. She writes something on a tablet before glancing back up.

“Well? We don’t have all day.”

You reach your hand into your, searching to the familiar smooth hilt of your father’s largest hunting knife.

“To begin, I have-“

You pull out a wooden spork.

“You have?” The middle examiner prompts, a sinister smile spreading across his face as he takes in your shock.

“I’m sorry,” you appologize. “This isn’t what I meant to bring.”

“The satchels you were given are programmed to give you any item it wishes to,” says the furthest left examiner explains in a monotone voice. “Unlike other years, you will be judged on your resourcefulness rather than your common sense.”

“What should be common sense,” the judge on the right mumbles.

“Oh!” You fumble for words as they float into space. You can invision yourself following them, out into the unknown.

Snap out of it, you tell yourself.

“Well a spork is clearly an indispensible tool for survival.” Your cocky tone catches the examiners, and yourself, by surprise. You straighten your posture and try to embody confidence.

“A spork can obviously be used to eat. But it can also be used in a touniquet to stop blood loss. A spork,” you say, starting to pace as you think, “could be useful in harvesting possibly poisonous materials. The long hilt provides leverage, and can allow one to see how foreign material may respond to Earthen materials.”

The examiners all scribble furiously as you set down the spork on the table beside you and draw out your next item.

“A propeller hat, obviously, could point out wind direction, something instrumental in energy farming. Because of its brim, it would also protect one’s face from hazardous winds.”

“Impressive,” says the formerly arrogant examiner.

The rest of the exam flys by in a blur. A cake complete with candles, a miniature toy excavator, and a robot vacuum cleaner, you explain them all. Thanking the examiners on your way out, you can’t help but think that it went well. You have escaped being launched off to who knows where, and you finally breathe a sigh of relief.

That is, until three days later when you recieve a note.

Due to your exemplarly resourcefulness, you are one of few selected to save the future of humanity! You will be departing for planet C48-3B in seven days. Thank you for your service! __ __ And your stomach drops.__ __

“Hey!” He runs up to you, face flushed and slightly out of breath. “God, you walk fast. Didn’t you hear me calling for you to wait up?” “Oh no, I did.” You increase your pace slightly, but he lopes on easily next to you.” “So then what’s the matter?” “Nothing’s the matter. Nothing at all.” “Sure seems like something’s wrong.” “Well I said nothing’s wrong-” He cuts you off midsentence and midstride. “Stop. Seriously, what’s going on?” He mindlessly brushes a peice of hair from his eyes, which only serves to infuriate you further. How dare this cute, funny, nice, boy mess with you? As if you don’t have better things to do. I mean, you don’t but regardless. “I said nothing is wrong. Now will you please, please, leave me alone.” The once over glance he gives you appears to give him a subpar answer because he stays squarely in your way. “Are you sure? Because it feels like your mad at me.” You sigh. “I’m not mad at you.” “You’re not?” “No I’m not.” It becomes slightly more true when he gives you a small smile. “I just wanted to make sure we’re okay.” He leans forward and backwards on his toes, hands in his pockets. If you didn’t know better, you might think he was nervous. “Why?” You huff. “What do you mean why?” “I mean why? Why do you talk to me, hang out with me, check up on me? Is it all for a joke? Some kind of elaborate prank?” You begain to pace, unable to meet his steady gaze. “I just don’t understand why out of all people you could spend your time with, you choose to spend it with me.” “I choose to spend it with you because, I like you.” You slowly come to a stop in front of him as he searches for words. “And, I mean, I guess you’re right. I could be with most anyone I wanted. But I want to be with you. Alright?” You search for any deception in his eyes. He seems to sense this and doesn’t break for a long minute. “So are we really alright?” He finally murmurs. “I promise we are.” The air is charged with something greater than an electic hum. Fate in action. “Alright.” His fingers interlock with yours and he gently pulls you from your place. “Alright,” you reply, slowly falling into step. You walk side by side in a comfortable silence. Although you aren’t aware of it, this won’t be the last time you walk down this road together. This road will be the setting of happiness and heartbreak. Firsts and fights. Dreams and the making of them. Together, for as long as the other will let you.

It wasn’t until I was twelve that I realized some people wanted to leave a mark on this world after they’re gone. And it isn’t such a crazy idea, it just never occurred to me.

To me, being in the background was where I was happiest. A place where I could just exist. It wasn’t that I didn’t seek attention, it just never found me. I cherish the memories I’ve made and the people I’ve love.

So as I lie on my deathbed, looking back on my life, I don’t wish that I had left anything. I’m glad that I was here for a while, and now the day that I’ve been waiting for has finally arrived.

The day that I can be satisfied with what I’ve done and not wish for more.

The wisest thing anyone ever told me was that we only truly die when we stop really living.

And I have lived.

So I don’t worry about leaving a mark, because I know that the world has left its mark on me.

And isn’t that enough?

Whenever I feel forgotten, I remember that Amelia Earhart had a co-pilot. But of course, no one cares about him. Fred Nunan’s story will forever just be a footnote to someone else’s story.

In a way, that’s a pretty good description of high school. Anyone that doesn’t achieve something better than average is forgotten.

So standing at my high school graduation, as a nobody and nothing, I ask myself this question: What happens to the average people that are just a measurement for other’s success?

As I sit I see a girl. Just a girl now that she’s not in high school. I don’t see her as anyone popular, or nerdy, or athletic, or artsy, or anything in between. She’s no longer extraordinary. And I think she knows it.

Because amidst the roaring applause, and the flying caps, a silent tear fell, reflecting the untold story she could never tell.

The District 2 tribute chose to bring a bit of string in the form of a friendship bracelet. This was to no one’s shock. Even though the reaping was supposed to be random, when it came to District 2, the prettier you were the more likely you were to be chosen. Following the trend of tributes past, of course the petite blonde girl brought a sentimental token of a childhood best friend. “She’ll make a pretty corpse,” people whispered in the streets.

Her stylist dressed her in dresses made for picnics and bows bigger than her own head. Every time the spotlight was on her she seemed to shrink into herself. Her score of three was hardly even mentioned, just a confirmation of public opinion.

It wasn’t until she entered the game that everything changed.

The second she was off her platform she was sprinting into the snow covered forest, the screams of victory and defeat echoing behind her. Her mentors only words of advice was to strike first and strike hard.

Which is why she immediately climbed into the high branches of a pine tree, the needles disguising her from below.

The cameras didn’t catch her unraveling her bracelet, the fibers streching on much longer than seemed possible. Her fingers deftly wove in the string, its’s knots and loops making sense only to her.

The cameras didn’t catch her weaving the new contraption into the leaves surrounding her tree.

The night was the worst for many tributes, the chill killing more than a few tributes unwilling to light a fire and alert others to their surroundings.

However that was not a problem for the tribute from District 2. The heat from her fire on the ground rose up high, and she sat cozily, waiting.

It didn’t take long. Soon there was a boy, crashing through the woods.

“I know you’re up there!” He shouted. Why don’t you make this easy on me-“ He broke off suddenly. This time the camera caught his body.

Swinging from her friendship bracelet.

The girl from District 2 unattached his corpse from the rope.

The drone carried him off.

And she was left. Waiting in the trees.

The alarm clock goes off. The insecent beeping makes its way even through my pillow. With a loud groan, I roll over and slam my fist into the top of the clock. This does nothing but hurt my hand and send the alarm clock crashing to the floor. It seems to get louder, just to spite me. Mumbling curses under my breath, I get up out of bed and silence the alarm clock. “Take that,” I grumble to my empty bedroom. It remains silent in reproach. I stagger to the closet, pulling out a random t-shirt and jeans. My usual, everyday attire. Stumble downstair, make breakfast, feed my fish. Stumble upstairs again, brush teeth, apply makeup. The same routine that I’ve done since the history of ever. As I grab my purse and keys I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Looking back at me is a very put together person. Someone who knows where her life is going. It gives me confidence as I dash out the door, almost late for work again. The alarm clock goes off. The usual fight ensues before I get up. Get dressed, make breakfast, feed fish, brush teeth, apply makeup. The mirror reflects me, same as it does every day. Every day. I wake up to my alarm clock. I was just here. I must have fallen back asleep and dreamed I got ready. That happens to people, right? Dress, breakfast, fish, teeth, makeup. I’m almost out the door before I see myself in the mirror. A hair escaped my updo. I tuck it back in, shaking myself slightly to break my mirror-staring reverie. I hesitate before leaving. Something about the morning had shaken me up, knocked me off axis. But life waits for no one. With a deep breath I start the walk to work. The next morning the alarm clock goes off. The alarm clock goes off. The alarm clock goes off. The alarm clock goes off. Every day, the alarm clock goes off. I can’t remember what day of the week it is. I can’t remember who the person in the mirror is. Then. My alarm clock doesn’t go off. I wake up well past dawn. I can’t hear the usual city noises. It seems the city is also confused. Unsure, I walk across the room to my closet. I can hear every footstep on the creaky hardwood floors. I tug my clothes on, so distracted I forget to take my pj’s off before putting on my jeans. My toast gets burnt in the toaster, and my fish gulp unhappily at the lack of food. I trip on my way up the stairs. I fall without a sound. I wake up in a forest. Wary, I stay crouched on the ground. Something about the forest is familiar, though I can’t quite place my finger on it. Then I see it. The mirror. I slowly look around. The tree underneath me is my closet door, barely recognizable. It’s stained and most of the paint has chipped off. Next to me is a hollowed-out stone that once was my bathroom sink. A log that was once a bed post. And a mess of eroded metal that once was my alarm clock. The sun flashes, bright and sharp in my eyes. The mirror catches my attention again. Although slightly tiled in the dirt, it seems to be the only thing intact. It’s edges are still etched in gold. There isn’t an imperfection in the glass. I approach with caution, as one might approach a sleeping beast. I’m not exactly sure why my sense are going off, telling me to run, get out. But I’m transfixed and continue to make my way to the mirror. And my reflection stares back at me. A demon stares back at me. One of my demons. I should be scared. I should be terrified. But instead there is a deep sense of rightness in me. A deep sense that this is where I’m meant to be. The demon reaches through the mirror. I only hesitate before taking her hand in mine. She pulls me through. Because in seeing the forest I learned something. Something my old refection was hiding from me. My monotiny was hell. My demon was leading me out.

“Stop!” I wail. A plaintive, mourning, cry erupts from my throat. The sound digs deep into his skin. I can see it in his face. He doesn’t stop.

“Please,” I break into renewed sobs. He drives the knife deeper into my chest. The noise that I hear can’t possibly come from my body. Because my body is whole and fine. I once pledged my entire body and being to him. I guess he gets to do with it as he likes. The thought causes a delirious laugh to burst out of me, along with a dribble of blood.

“I’m sorry-“ he starts, almost sobbing as much as I am. “I am so sorry.” Suddenly, something warm splashes at my feet. It takes me long then it should to realize that it isn’t mine. It’s his.

A new figure stands at the door way, knife in hand.

“Are you okay?” A rhetorical question, obviously. My liberator rushes to untie me from the chair, careful to avoid the bloody wounds from when I tried to escape. He hoists me onto his shoulder.

“Wait,” the figure slumped on the floor croaks. “I’m not a traitor. I was never on your side.” Without a word, he is hoisted onto the other shoulder of my rescuer. Rescuer of not only me. Rescuer of both of us.

We used to be friends. At least, I thought we were.

The first time I remember seeing him was right after his momma died. Suddenly, there I was, and there he was, just playing with his blocks. He didn’t say anything for a while, and neither did I. We just sat in comfortable silence until he asked me if I wanted to help him build his city, Olliopolis. That started what I thought would be a forever friendship. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

But, for eight years, we were the best of friends, we played everything under the sun. We played pirates, soldiers, robbers, cowboys, superheroes. When pretend games got boring, we played Monopoly, Jenga, Yahtzee, Uno, Mastermind. Sometimes we didn’t play anything, but just talked long into the night. We talked about everything, but mainly he told me all about his school. His favorite teacher was always the one who let him stay inside for recess, and in their classroom for lunch. Ollie didn’t see his loner tendencies as problematic, but everyone else did. But Ollie had me, and I had Ollie.

I never talked about myself until one day.

“Ollie, what’s my name?” We were laying on the couch, exhausted from chasing each other around the house.

“I don’t know. Do you want a name?”

“Well, you have a name. Shouldn’t I?”

“I guess,” he shrugged. “What about Chris?” I felt a tingly sensation deep inside me, a sense of rightness deep within my non existent bones.

“I like that name,” I told him.

And everything was great. For days and days, and weeks and weeks, and months and months, and years and years.

Everything was fine.

And then his papa died.

I’m not sure how.

He never told me.

But I think I know.

I saw him that night. He was sobbing among the blocks we had played with for so many years.

When he saw me, he screamed.

“Where were you?! I needed you. He needed you! Where were you?! Momma-“ he broke off.

Suddenly I remembered a flash of something. A life I once had. I was Christina, but everyone called me Chris. I met a wonderful man, Henry, and had a kid named Ollie. And one day I was gone. But I was still with Ollie. I. Was. Still. With. Ollie.

And then I wasn’t.

He left me.

But he wasn’t alone. He had a new friend named Henry.

I don’t hate him. I never could.

But I do miss him.

Cliff was on the edge of doing something. He wasn’t sure yet, but gosh darn and golly gee he was going to do something.

Having been a self proclaimed pushover his entire life, Cliff’s entire life had been dictated by the people around him. When he was young, his parents decided what sports he was to do, what classes to take. Later his friends decided who he was to hang out out with, even which girls to date. His entire life hadn’t been his own.

So here he was. On the verge of making a decisions.

Cliff had heard of decision fatigue. That one could get tired from making too many decisions. Cliff found just one decision exhausting. But he was going to do it.

He was going to make a decision.

“I’ll get the burger, please,” he told the McDonalds worker.