The first kill is the hardest. You’re hesitant, unsure if you’re doing it correctly, worried you’ll make a mistake and get caught. After you get away with the first, the rest are easier. But more than that: thrilling. I found my passion for killing as a young child when I squeezed the life out of my cat and lied to everyone that she ran away. I buried the body in our backyard. We now have a sprawling garden in the backyard, a project I started when I was 11 years old. I planted a flower over every dead body I buried. I’ve planted 17 flowers so far. My 18th kill is one I’ve waited for for a long time. I wanted to make sure I was experienced before attempting this one. I creep along the back side of my sister’s house, gently pushing in the back door. She never locks it, stupid girl. I stretch high on my tip toes to walk silently across the wooden floor, the back of my ankle stretching pleasurably. As I walk up the stairs I examine the pictures along the wall. My sister and her husband. My sister and her kids. My sister and our mother. My sister and her father. Not one with my sister and me. I walk straight into my sister’s master bedroom noting the absence of a person beside her. No problem. That will make this easier, albeit less fun. I creep right up to her, hovering over her peaceful face, so deep in sleep, unaware that it would be her last. I cup my gloved hands around her neck and squeeze. Strangulation is the most intimate crime. For the others, except the cat, I stabbed them. Exactly fifteen stabs each time, the consistency making it dangerous for me but satisfying. For my sister, however, I wanted it to be special. Our relationship had always been special. I watch her eyes pop open, widen in surprise, and finally, go slack with death. I smile with satisfaction, cover her face with the comforter and leave the house. The next day, as I am planting my 18th flower, the doorbell rings. When I open the door, there is a singular letter on the “Welcome Home” mat outside.

Levi, I would like to meet you. Meet me at the Lakeside cemetery at 11 pm. Hades

I almost laugh. What is this? I glance around, positive I will see some teenage kid snickering from the back of a tree. I rip the letter up and throw it away, not noticing it going up in flames as it reaches the trash can. As I lounge in bed at 11 pm, my mind goes back to the letter. Hades. God of Death? My stomach slightly drops. Could it be the police? Someone else who’s figured out what I’ve done. What I have in my backyard? But, nothing has happened. No police officer knocked on my door, no one accused me. I’m okay. Just then a giant shadow overtakes the room, coating it in extreme darkness and splintering cold for a split second. As the darkness melts into light, a brooding figure appears at the foot of my bed. I scramble backwards, heart racing in fear, mind figuring out how to get to the door. “For someone who kills as much as you, who knew you’d be so scared,” a large, gruff voice says, coated with disapproval. “Who are you?” I croak. “Hades. I asked you to meet me but you ignore me. No one. Ignores. The God of death.” “I- you’re real?” “Of course I am. Now, we have business to discuss. It would have been easier in my home, rather than this trash dump of a home.” “Business?” I’m whispering now, not wanting to anger him. “Yes. I want you to work for me.” I stare at him. “As the God of Death, I have a quota. A certain number of souls that have to cross to the underworld to keep up the… let’s say the lifestyle I’m accustomed to. Now, I have Angels of Death that are responsible for filling this but they’re useless. Most of them go down to Earth, see pathetic humans suffering and can’t bear to kill anyone. Cowards. But I’ve been watching you. You have no regret, no remorse. I watched you kill your own sister with your bare hands. I want you to work for me, kill for me. In return you can live in my castle. It has anything you can ever need and if you need anything else, ask the souls.” I’m convinced I’m dreaming. How can any of this be real? Hades? Gods? Huh? “Do I have a choice?” Hades smirks, his cold eyes glinting. “Smart as well, I see. Yes, you do have a choice. Come with me.. or die.” “Die?” I croak. “You need me.” He scoffs. “You’re convenient. There are many serial killers in the world. It’s one of the things I love.” There is only one logical choice. Everyone I’ve ever known is dead. The last person was my sister. I’ve never loved anyone in my entire life, didn’t feel anything when they died. The choice is easy. I have nothing to live for. I get up and cross over to Hades, ready to meet my fate. The seasons pass, the leaves change color and the weather goes through its mood swings. Somewhere in Louisiana, in the backyard of a small duplex home, a 19th flower springs up from the ground.

I watch as I’m drained out of him Slowly, slowly as he quietly fades away on the hospital bed I watch death’s grabby fingers clutching at air Eager to get its hands on him It pulls and pulls, making every vestige of me disappear There’s no point in even trying to save him Death’s chains are more powerful It steals all the beautiful flowers and I’m left with the charred, black ones I can admit, I’m jealous Of death’s power, to grab and hold and twist and choke and suck the life out of I breathe into people and back away, having no say on what happens after Death has a last word, makes the last decision Sometimes I look into it’s black, deep, abyss of eyes and see my deepest desire I want to be you, death I want your power

I shrugged my backpack onto my shoulder, the weight feeling like a boulder on my back. I flinched as yet another glass shattered on the floor, followed by my mother’s high-pitched screaming. “I can’t believe this! You gambled all our money away again!” And like always my father replied with a soothing “It was a mistake,” that always got on my nerves. My mother’s too by the sound of it. I walked the trail to school, seeing a bundle of other kids joining together all bouncing toward school. Their multi-colored backpacks and perfectly organized pencil pouches. I picked at the loose threads on my backpack strand and feel inferior. It was becoming a common feeling these days. “I can’t believe you forgot the money!” I saw a woman yelling at another, presumably about the bus fare. I watched as the bus rolled up to the stop and the woman sighed sharply. Ignorant of their troubles, a cluster of other people flowed onto the bus. Oh, how easy it would be to just get on it and leave. To get off at the last stop and hope it was somewhere new. To just start over. Unconsciously, I walked closer to the bus. I heard the woman from before grumbling and the other woman rolling her eyes. I was right in front of the bus. “Oof!” I stumbled to the side as someone shoved me. I rubbed my arm and scooted to the right. In all the commotion, I was able to sneak onto the bus without even realizing I was doing it. Suddenly, the engine roared to life and we were off. I hesitantly sat in an empty seat, old gum stuck to the front and a crusty, cigarette smell filling it up. I didn’t mind. It smelled like freedom.

“Don’t lie to me” You said, the first day we met You looked so serious then To me, at least With your sticky fingers clutching mine And your earnest brown eyes boring into mine “I have too many people lying to me already” All I wanted was to play freeze tag But you held me in place Until I promised So I did, to appease you I didn’t understand why you were asking Of course I wouldn’t lie to you Why would I? It’s not until life kicked us where it hurt that I understood It’s not until we were torn apart By forces we didn’t try to control, that I understood Lying became second nature for us We lied so much, to each other, to our parents, our friends We didn’t know what the truth was anymore “Don’t lie to me” You said, the first day we met How was I supposed to know that the reason you said that Was because you were already lying?

A cold glass of water on a sticky, summer morning. A cup of hot chocolate and a warm blanket in front of the fireplace on a dark, winter night. The bright autumn leaves falling as you breathe in the crisp fall air. The bloom of flowers once again after freezing winter months. I trace my fingers across the words as they morph into something else. Suddenly I’m in the middle of the battlefield watching as a sword is plunged into the king’s stomach. I’m a fugitive, running away from the law, convicted of something I didn’t do. I’m the long-lost daughter of a hidden kingdom, needed to save the kingdom from despair and evil. I’m an assassin, trained to kill, but soon find out that I’m assigned to kill my twin brother. “Dinner’s ready!” I snap out of the trance, back into reality. I glance at my book, missing the rush of adrenaline already. I sigh as I close the book and descend the stairs, enveloped again in the tedious, monogamy of everyday life.

I sip my coffee and eavesdrop on the conversation next to me.

“The Author hasn’t sent a note in 2 years,” one girl says in hushed tones.

“Yeah… do you think…” the other girl replies, the question left waiting for someone to finish it.

“They died?” I whisper from right behind them.

They both shriek and turn around.

Once they see it is me, they relax.

“Raven! How are you?” the first girl, Cassiope, asks.

“I’m well,” I say, sipping my coffee.

The other girl, Arielle, looks at me oddly, like she is trying to place my face. I see as recognition sets in and her expression quickly turns to pity.

It’s an expression I’m used to.

“Well, I better get going. It was nice to see you.”

Even after 10 years, the stares, the whispers, the looks never go away.

I walk on a gravelly path and hear two people talking.

“You hear about The Author?”

“Have they sent a note?”

“No. The opposite. Some are wondering if they’re dead.”

“How about you?”

“I sure hope so. That cretin has done enough damage already.”

The Author is infamous. No one knows who they are. All anyone knows is that every couple months The Author sends a note to a poor, unsuspecting soul. The next day, they vanish.

At first, our village was freaked out, as expected. For years, local police tried to track The Author down, until they realized it was useless. The Author is as mysterious as they are smart.

The fact that they haven’t sent a note in 2 years means something. But no one knows what.

I stop by the market. Mama G spots me.

“Raven! You always have to come by right when I’m closing!” she says, warmly.

“You could throw me out. But I’m too charming to resist.”

I shoot her a grin.

She rolls her eyes fondly and starts putting together my weekly order.

The nice thing about this town is that people mind their own business. Nobody asks questions they don’t want the answers to.

At least not out loud.

Curiosity is hidden behind stares. People have hidden ways of figuring things out. Everyone in this town probably knows a lot more then they’re supposed to.

Keeping a secret in this town is hard.

Who knows how I’ve kept mine so long.

I slide Mama G twenty gold coins, pick up my bag and exit the store.

I head up a long stony sidewalk, passing numerous little cottages. It’s dinner time and the smell of home-cooked meals, wafting out through the cottage windows, make my mouth water.

When I finally get to the top, I quickly glance around to make sure nobody is watching, and head into the woods. I make my way around the overgrown vines, in a path I know all too well.

After five minutes and twenty more scratches, I finally get to my cottage.

I glance up at the sky and see two menacing clouds. A storm is coming. Perfect.

I push open my door and immediately light a few candles. The darkness creeps me out.

I place my groceries meticulously in the fridge. Milk in the dairy section, spinach in the greens section, and so on.

Once I’m finished, I head into the shower and scrub every part of my body until it’s red. I watch as the soapy water mixed with dirt slides into the drain.

Freshly showered and dried, I sit behind my desk and ponder.

It’s a daily ritual. It’s how I get inspiration. Or how I used to.

I haven’t been inspired in two years. Yet, I still try.

My mind wanders.

I remember late summer nights sitting around a campfire with our entire village. Singing along to whatever song and holding hands with… who?

I can’t remember. Why can’t I remember?

Snowman.

Popsicles.

Fenced yard.

Lavender.

Stars…

Something about stars..

Wait…

My eyes pop open. I grab a sheet of paper and a pen.

Putting my pen onto paper, I write something I haven’t written in two years.

‘The Author is looking for you.’

Love is strange Unexpected, but welcome Sought out, and disappears Sometimes it’s dark and twisted, Holding you in a tight grip Watching you struggle with glee A foolish game of cat and mouse Where pleasure is derived From seeing love suffer Other times it’s a warm embrace Sunshine on a sticky summer day Or eating popsicles on the front porch Laying in bed with a good book Or with your cat laying on its back Sometimes it reminds you Of cloaked figures and masked faces Nightmares and anxious nights Crying and praying for a better tomorrow Other times it’s bright colors The smell of freshly baked cookies And giggling with your friends during break Love is molded Love is shaped We control what love looks like To ourselves and the people around us If it’s lonely nights or hug-filled mornings Locked doors or open windows Hurting or healing

If your hand could reach inside my heart, what would you do with it?

Would you hold it in your palm, but keep quiet?

Would you hold it above your head, loud and proud?

Or would you crush it until it breaks?

Until it smashes to the ground, glass on glass

7 different pieces, each one molded to your touch

I trusted you, but you took advantage of my love

The spirals cascade, the betrayal sets in, suddenly it feels too hard to breathe

I thrash about, in an empty room, the silence enveloping me

I sit and think and ponder and wonder

I beat myself up over someone who isn’t worth it

But my heart can’t seem to get the message

I know now

If your hand could reach inside my heart, you’d keep it

Just to torture me

You’d keep it

Just to have my deepest secrets My deepest desires

You’d keep it

To hoard it over my head Again and again

That’s worse, I think, than just letting it smash to the ground

March 19th, 1999 Her first cry pierced the earth Marking her place in the world Her mother’s tears flowed freely

July 22nd, 1999 Her first laugh, unique and her own Sweet and tinkling like precious crystals The desperate need to freeze time And watch that moment over and over

May 9th, 2000 When she first babbled the word “mama” Her mother’s hugs and kisses and “I love you”s Flowing unconditionally Gathering and storing in her brain

September 19th, 2000 When she took her first steps Imprinting her footsteps on Earth’s dirt The camera clicking and rolling Memories preserved in a tiny box

December 20th, 2003 “The.. cat… in.. the.. hat?” Her mother smiles, encouragingly “Good job! What’s this?” “Green… eggs.. and.. ham?” “Yay! High five!”

September 23rd, 2004 Her mother brushes her ginger locks “Your first day of school! Are you excited?” She practically jumps out of her seat “Yeah!!!”

“Ok! Have fun! Love you!” Her mother kisses her head, tears in her eyes She jumps out of the car “Love you, too!” And her mother watches her Hello Kitty backpack disappear in the crowd

May 21st, 2017 “Emelia Hayes!” “University of Washington!” She climbs on stage, grinning wildly Her mother cries as she gets handed her diploma

Her first job Her first apartment Her first wedding Her first baby

And the cycle starts all over again

That fateful day On December Ninth I’ll never forget I left the house After our fight In a fit of rage And tears rolling Down my face If only I had stayed Maybe I could’ve Stopped it Maybe I wouldn’t Be sitting her now With the police Recounting how I left the house Over and over And over again If only I had been there Maybe you would still be here Laughing and smiling Hugging and cuddling me I regret it all The fight, leaving you I stare at a picture of us Captured in a moment Without our knowledge I was looking at you My heart in my eyes A lovesick smile On my stress-free face I miss all those times When I took your presence for granted I wish I could still do that I wish you were still sitting next to me I wish you walked through that door right now I wish, I wish, I wish I hadn’t left that day