The Queen stood slowly as the rest of them fell to their knees. The Queen never stood in front of them, she was always seated before they entered the cathedral. Something serious was about to unfold and the room was pulsating with a thousand racing heartbeats. The stark silence felt heavy and wet, like the weight of a cloud just before a rainfall. Her eyes peeled across the room looking for weakness, someone with their eyes averting her gaze. The Queens presence never felt thicker, never held more substance than in this singular moment.

“Rise.” said the Queen.

And so they did. As their feet struck the floor the crowd swayed uneasily. Looking at one another with fear beneath their brows, a soft murmur filled the cathedral. The Queen let a smirk run across her face, her eyes like flames watching the town stand before her. She knew something the rest of them didn’t. She was on her feet to make a statement, she was on her feet to make an exit.

That’s when the acid fell from the ceiling, like rainfall disintegrating the towns people. The Queen and her men all protected by the vault at the front of the room. Acid, burning like a cigarette butt to silk, their skin was melting. The towns folk began screaming in horror, they bolted for the doors to escape. Every man, woman, and child stood in panic beneath the reigns of her sadistic power. Singed by venom that fell from the heavens, people began collapsing and gasping for their final breath. The Queen’s smirk had not only lifted, but grown into a wicked smile.

“Good riddance” she whispered.

And there she was looking into the eyes of her reflection, reaching through the pane of glass and shaking hands with the demon inside her. The one aching to get out, the one begging for attention. And part of her felt guilty for keeping it locked up and tossed off. Part of her wondered why we were taught to. There was this need she had to release the beast, give into her guilt, and shed the skin she had been given by society. Because at the end of the day there isn’t much left of the human experience if we don’t allow and celebrate our pain. Allowing the demons stuck inside our meat suit to showcase their desires. And that’s what she saw when she looked in the mirror, it was something more than just a reflection, but a projection of her deteriorating existence and the shape of the monster that consumed her.

I thought I was reading some divine energy and welcoming it into my life. I thought I wasn’t alone in the palpable texture of our conversation. I thought there was a mutual understanding and a mutual over-arching attention. Though, the truth is that none of us ever know - not really anyway. Not until it’s spoken into existence and acknowledged between an exchange of words. And even then, are we to forget that people change their mind? That passion fades and people move on?

I delicately dipped my foot into the thick black water that wrapped itself around the dock. It was October and the air was crisp and sharp against my pale skin. Goosebumps billowed from my pores and the hair on my arms stood up straight, like a saluting soldier at a funeral. My toes touched the surface and a chill ran its way through my body like a lightening surge of ice filling my veins. I didn’t hesitate. See, somewhere along the way I have become so accustomed to the bitter cold. Whether that was from a childhood filled with winter boots stuffed of snow or simply the lack of hot water in our household. Ice baths feel more like home than anything. The cold, in my experience, is nostalgic. A nostalgia that shocks you and pierces your brain like ten thousand needles, I’m awake. Sharp and distinct, a collective of memories I don’t think I would have if it weren’t for the adrenaline that accompanied them. And now, as I wade into the brisk open water here at the lake where I grew up, I feel more at home than I have in the last seven years of my life. Overlooking the thick forest I let my body fall beneath the surface, my eyes in line with the top of the lake wandering across the landscape. I barely blink as my tears meet and break the surface of the dark horizon. My eyes stark red and bloodshot, I know I’m ready to let go. As the barrier between gaze sinks, so does the rest of me. All the memories of tortured circumstance where I was left to believe it was my fault. My fault for being born this way, my fault for standing outside of the box my fault for loving and living too strangely for the rest of the world. It’s ironic now how the frigid water consumes my lungs on purpose, after years of being dunked unwillingly beneath the surface. Ironic now that I’ve invited the bleak death into my existence after all the years of fighting it. Quite pitiful to think, isn’t it? That long after my disappearance from this life I have only but wandered back to succumb to everything I once left behind. The bubbling of water begins to fill my throat full, a mocking acidic sting, much like getting water up your nose as a child in the local swimming pool. Except this time, this is no happenstance. The purge of my demise is simply the winning of their demons becoming mine. And surely my incapability of shaking hands with them has meant a chokeholds thrust around my neck. Demons hands clasped at the bones of my esophagus, one last smothering breath escapes. It was October, and no one cared that I was home.

“The stars were aligning” as they say. Weird shit was happening, strange circumstances were matching up. A friend of mine had posted this bullshit horoscope up on my fridge beneath a Christmas magnet from my childhood. I never much paid any attention to it until today. It feels as though some alternate dimension is pulling me through and the words on this torn newspaper clipping are folding into some sawed off masterpiece. Paint dripping, were not finished here yet.

The park was barely moonlit, soft peaks of white haze laying down across the swing set. In the daylight you would see all the primary colours that remind you of children playing, pebbles stacked between four wooden planks, and a slight rust at all the bolt ends. But in the night, all they could see was darkness, with a damp glow catching the odd metal beam. The monkey bars disappeared into the night sky and the slide mimicked the long black tongue of the devil. A children’s park in the middle of the night is less playful, but increasingly comforting. As they swept their feet off the ground she looked at him. Again, barely moonlit, she could see the gentle movement of his long hair and the deep outline of his body against the delicate backdrop of the evening sky. She looked at him in wonder as she herself pushed back and forth on the old swing. It was the first time she knew she loved him and not only that, but that she was in love with him. Because you can love anything, your car or a song. You can love your cat or a new pair of running shoes. But being in love is different, and that’s where the inexplicable feelings take you. Being in love is more than good morning texts, having someone to make you laugh, or setting a cup of coffee out for you in the morning. Being in love is the no good reason, I just do because I feel it in the ache of my bones and the flame of my soul feeling. Being in love is about all the reasons you don’t have. It just simply is. And it just simply exists. We don’t choose to be in love, we just are. And on that night between the moon and the stars she fell in love with him. Falling harder than she ever knew existed, she smacked her face against the beating heart of his own.

The wind spun like thick yarn running through moms old sewing machine on the busiest day of the year. Tree branches began snapping at the trunk, leaving behind bare skin never seen before, for hundreds of years. Nature was fighting back against us, the rain slapping the pavement sounded like hyenas cackling and mocking us in the distance. Heavy droplets staining the concrete and pooling in the street, the drains couldn’t keep up. I don’t know what was worse, the busting of broken wind shields or the uncontrollable flooding that was filling our basement. Barbie dolls floating by filled the room with an eerie energy as the soiled water stained moms favourite vintage winged back chairs. Every inch of our since existence was being obliterated. As the hurricane tore through the neighbourhood, the billowing roof began to collect water and shingles began to peel off one by one. Water, the menacing painfully loud water, was winning.

We were digging for hours, the sand was thick and wet from the torrential downpour from the evening before. The trees were towering over us, looming and mocking our capabilities. Sand between our fingers, beneath the beds of our nails, I was tired but Sue swore it was here. The funny thing is, that sometimes our memory leads us down a laneway with a dead end. Sometimes we believe we’ve placed our keys on the hook by the front door, yet they are actually still in our purse. Sometimes we remember that our mother’s favourite flower is a daisy, yet we are surprised to find out it’s actually a sunflower. Sometimes the mind buries our memories in odd places, wrong places, and sometimes the memory itself becomes damaged. And for as long as we searched for that damn box in the sand at the playground where we grew up, just like a fickle memory, it was lost. Sue looked up at me with dirt smudged across her chin and diamond tears streaming down her face. I couldn’t admit to her that I thought she had been at fault. I couldn’t tell her that the last forty five minutes had been a complete waste. Instead, I too shed a tear. A tear for the memory lost and the box of our childhood dreams disappeared. And with a quick wipe of my face, I plunged my hands beneath a fresh mound of sand.

I lost myself to everyone else. The splitting of my breaking bones for the people pleasing, because of people pleading. I lost myself along the way of giving a shit what everyone else thought, down the path of caring too much, and dropped my spunk and spine somewhere on the sidewalk. It’s raining here now and the cats are snuggled up and it’s reminding me of what simplicity life is. Where I used to live, more at ease with the soft wind and the quiet nights. Now filled with saying yes to too many, and no to nothing. I lost my energy and my purpose, my passion and the urge to pursue anything of my own. I have given it away, with every bountiful gift to someone else. Making sure they’re happy, they’re seen, they’re fulfilled - so that I may come home .. wonder and wallow and wish that I had given myself half the chance.

Being honest is a fickle thing, because it can backfire. And sometimes that fire even though it is intended to bring warmth and light, can turn into a raging fire bringing all of life to a blaze.

That’s how June felt anyway, she saw a burning forest where I lit a candle. I still don’t know if she actually believes him, or she is just wanting to wish what he said was true. The only thing is that how many days am I going to sit here playing the home wrecker card? I’m not sorry for speaking up, I’m not sorry for lighting the candle where the darkness allowed him to cheat on her. But if in the darkness, a light can be so skewed. With nothing else to compare it to, it stands brighter than normal. And that’s where June lives, tunnel vision, down a dark alley where even the kindest intentions become burnt.