The pavement melted into the street like a giant piece of cheddar. Under the shed, the two men in their thirties slumped in dented plastic chairs by the no less dented table outside a small canteen. The washed-out A-board beside the entrance read: LUNCH AT MADDY’S — CHEAPER THAN CHEAP! A girl in a striped apron appeared and took their order for a single small beer. “Look at all these fools wasting their time and money for a worthless piece of paper” George said, nodding towards the crowd outside a post office across the street. “If I had money, I’d never do anything as stupid.“ Jack fidgeted in his chair. “Everyone got a lottery ticket at some point in their lives,” he replied cheerfully and took a drag. “Me – never,” George scoffed. “There are better things to waste my money on than to give it to those who rob labourers of their bread.” “What?” The cigarette fell from Jack’s open mouth. He looked back at George in disbelief. “You have never bought a ticket? Not a single one?” George shook his head. “Listen,” Jack picked up half of a cigarette and stubbed it gently to save for another time. “I know how it sounds, but you should try. Just one ticket; could be your first, could be your last.” George wanted to laugh, but when his eyes met Jack’s, nothing was left of that cheerfulness from just a moment ago. The question hung in the air. It was then that the girl in the striped apron brought the beer. When she retired, Jack glanced at his yellowed wristwatch and said: “Let’s make a deal. We go now, and you buy a ticket; the prize drawing starts in five minutes. If you win, you owe me a beer. If you lose, the beer is on me for the rest of the month. How’s that sound?” George hesitated. He didn’t fancy giving his last fiver to the government in this dubious venture, but the beer for the rest of the month (and it was only the tenth) sounded too good to refuse the deal. He took the sweaty glass from the table and swallowed it without looking at Jack in one go. “Prepare to buy twenty more,” George said to his friend. After paying the bill, they hurriedly crossed the road to a post office, where a couple of dozens of people with tickets were jostling impatiently in front of the black and white TV in the corner of the room. Jack and George made their way through the crowd to the counter, where a short man with a moustache was counting the money. At the sight of him gladly swiping the banknotes in his giant hairy palms, George felt nauseous. The man lifted his round head and said merrily: “In for a ticket, eh? You’re lucky: only one’s left. Today, the big prize’s a hundred grand!” Jack nudged George and whispered: “This is your big chance!” But George was preoccupied with looking at the people who surrounded him. Sweaty and nervous, they all had the same desperate look on their dull faces. George glanced at an elderly gentleman, squeezed between two workers, staring at the ticket, whispering something to himself. George shook his head. What if he buys this lottery shit and wins, say, only enough to get him going for another week? Will he be hooked like all these people, each Saturday here at the office, spending more and more until he is so finally broke he is desperate? “So you're buyin' or not?” The man at the counter interrupted. George turned to Jack and said: “I can’t do this. Let’s go.” But Jack didn’t move. “If you don’t want it, I’ll buy it then,” he said, smiling. George sighed. “I’ll wait in the back.” A loud jingle filled the stuffy room, and the voice of the television host announced the beginning of the drawing. George couldn’t see the screen from where he was standing, but he could hear the numbers being read out loud: 58…17…86…44…7. A couple of people swore silently and left the room. And then again: 62…37…11…23…12. And then it was over. Someone screamed, and George didn’t realise at first that the scream belonged to his friend. “I can’t believe it! I WON! A HUNDRED FUCKING GRAND!!!” Jack screamed almost in one breath. People burst into applause. Some laughed and patted Jack on the back, congratulating him. “Hey, your friend has won!” Someone told George, shaking his shoulder. The sound of George’s laughter echoed through the room, but his eyes remained cold and distant.

It was snowing heavily outside, but not inside. There, sunshine danced between thick oak crowns, creating soft pools of light where it hit the cool ground. A girl walked down the narrow path, her feet tangling in underskirts, her skin white as snow, her cheeks cranberry red. Inside her basket, penny buns and brittlegils were waiting to become a perfect casserole for her seven friends. She rehearsed this story dozens of times, but today was different. Today was the day the tale came to life, making her be heard, seen, and mourned – by everyone, except her mother. Her mother didn’t come to see her play, so the girl was left with her evil stepmother. Just like her mother, the evil stepmother was envious of her youth and beauty. The only difference was that she was present today. The girl reached the tiny cottage with tiny doors and tiny beds, crawled inside and put the basket down. It was so nice to have her own home where no one told her how useless she was, even for a couple of hours a day. It was so nice to have friends, even if they were dwarves. It was so nice to be given kisses and flowers, even if they were fake. She started chopping the mushrooms when a gentle knock on the wood interrupted her humming. Hesitant, she left the counter to open the door. A familiar woman stood outside, perhaps, too familiar. “Why won’t you try one, dear?” the pedlar smiled, offering the girl an apple, shiny and round and crimson as a bitten lip. But the girl wasn’t supposed to take the apple or anything from strangers, so she refused with humble courtesy. “Do you think it’s poison?” the pedlar laughed. The girl drew back. She knew that the fruit had a dark secret. But it was the pedlar’s gaze that was the poison, evil stepmother’s gaze, her mother’s gaze. It was what killed her day by day, performance after performance. It was what made the apple so irresistible and real. The girl’s breath became rapid and superficial. Everything else faded – only she and the fruit existed in concert hall’s darkness. It was silent. It couldn’t lie. She trembled as she reached for the apple, the faint chemical smell of rotten fruit tingling her nostrils, reminding her of the syringe left in the dressing room. And then she took a bite.

"Don't be like your grandma Georgina," Mom would hiss and slap me with a teen mag I forgot to bring for her inspection. She couldn't afford a new pair of shoes or repair our leaky fridge, yet the two of us had a deal: pocket money for me in return for some control over my interests. So I didn't mind her going through my mags and tearing away those ridiculous horoscopes (Aries are in love, Tauruses are heartbroken) – it all seemed nonsense anyway. I couldn't understand what was there for her, and she never explained. I also couldn't get why she always had to bring grandma Georgina up, whom I hadn't seen since I was four or five. And then my grandma died, and I only found out when my aunt Ana showed up on the porch with a giant cardboard box. As soon as Mom opened it, she started yelling at Ana, – I thought you were on my side, didn't I make this clear, how can you do this to me after everything we've been through. When they eventually migrated to the kitchen, screaming, crying and shattering glass, I sneaked into the living room and peeked inside the box. Back then, I imagined that when an older person died, they left behind a pile of useless memorabilia, like ceramic dog statuettes and rusty badges. But books and notes? I sat on the floor beside the box and started taking them one by one. At first, I laughed at titles like "Astrology for Dummies" and "Beginner's Guide to Stars". Then I pulled out "Romantic love in your natal chart". Okay, I thought, this couldn't be serious. I flipped through it, my gaze freezing on every pencil underline. I quickly learned that "quincunxes" were trouble and that the "Death" lived in the "Eight House". Two yellowed natal charts were inserted right in the middle of the book, and a photo – of Grandma Georgina and Granddad Jacob, who passed ten years earlier. I gulped and reached for the next book, "Healing the Soul: Pluto, Uranus and the Lunar Nodes". Then it was no longer for the healing of the soul but the body: "Medical Astrology", now filled with notes on cardiac ischemia and osteoporosis, with the whole section of cancer disease being highlighted in fluorescent yellow. Then followed the "Second House: Your Material Possessions", where I found my grandma's mortgage billing statements long past due, inserted as bookmarks right between the pages. The kitchen door burst open, and my mother stormed in, screaming, "Look what you have done!" at Ana and wresting the books out of my hands. When Ana finally left that day, Mom went into the backyard and made a big fire, throwing all grandma Georginas' books into it without looking. And I just sat there, crying.

Write a scene from the perspective of a half-eaten gingerbread cookie.

'So, who’s going to die today?' Write a story that starts with this line.

The floodlights were blinding. It was as if a hundred daggers hit McLaren's eyes simultaneously, but knowing he was being filmed, he couldn't even rub them to ease the pain. Instead, he glanced at his wristwatch while the host announced the q-and-a's. Ten minutes before it's time to take his usual pill. McLaren took a deep breath, put on his "camera" smile and turned towards a black void of a hall filled with hundreds of indistinguishable faces. "And here comes our first question, please," the host announced, pointing somewhere in the dark. "Mr. McLaren, how do you achieve such realistic depictions of fantasy creatures in your works?" "I just work very hard," McLaren answered, unbothered. "Next!" "Mr McLaren, what makes your works so otherworldly? Have you sold your soul to the devil?" The hall laughed. The star artist didn't. For him, there was nothing funny in this question. He believed the devil certainly existed, as did many other creatures he depicted from his early childhood memories. But they couldn't know the truth: it would surely ruin his career. "I think I was just blessed with my talent," he finally replied, forcing a smile. "Next!" There was a pause before the question. "Mr. McLaren, what is your best advice to novice fantasy illustrators?" "Just to paint more," McLaren smirked. "Remember that while you sleep, Koreans paint." The silence was almost palpable. "Alright, time's up. Thank you for the questions!" the host said, his cheeks glowing pinkish through the ton of grease paint. "And this was Denny McLaren, our star guest!" There was a round of applause as the artist got up and shook hands with the host. When he finally left the stage, it was five minutes to six. McLaren snapped his finger at the petite assistant girl, and she immediately fetched him an emerald Perrier bottle. He snatched it from her without saying anything, reaching for his jacket's inner pocket to take a pill box. A drop of cold sweat rushed down his spine. The pill box wasn't there. McLaren tried to inhale, but the lungs seemed already expanded to their full capacity. He started patting his pockets in search of a rounded case. Nothing. Shit! It must've slipped from the jacket when he took it off earlier in the dressing room. How much time was left there? The artist looked at his wristwatch: he had three minutes to reach it, and the room was in the other wing of the hall building. Still holding the chubby bottle in one hand, he turned on his heels and rushed to the stairs, almost knocking the assistant girl off balance. "Wait–!" she shouted, but Mclaren was already out of sight. *** The artist vaguely remembered that he needed to access the basement floor in order to get to the other wing. This part was easy, but as soon as he opened the yellow-grey chipped door and the musty, damp air swirled into his nostrils, he realised he didn't remember the way through the corridors packed with stage-prop storage rooms. The dim lighting, with some lamps being entirely out of service, didn't help either. McLaren took a deep breath and chose the wider, brighter passage, hoping someone would soon show up and help him get to the other wing. It was one minute to six now. McLaren quickened his pace. At the end of the corridor, the path split in two. There was no time to make decisions now, as well as turning back. Sweating profusely, he took left. But this corridor also ended with a fork, and with every turn the artist took, he was losing more and more hope to get it right or to meet someone, anyone. In the sickening stillness, he could now hear only one sound. Tick. Tok. Tick. Tok. Tick... Tok... Ti-... To–... After some time, the ticking faded completely. And then sharp hissing tore the silence apart. McLaren's heart skipped a beat and then started beating faster, like a broken rev counter. There couldn't be any snakes, could there? This meant only one thing. "Hello?!" McLaren cried and ran. The corridor got darker and started to wriggle. Then it got darker again. And then McLaren found himself at a dead end, surrounded by almost complete darkness. He tried the door, but it was shut. He then squatted to see if any light came from the narrow slit between the door and the floor, but it was as black as liquorice. The hissing was getting closer. The artist could feel something inhuman approaching him slowly, with its heavy steps echoing in his brain. They've come for him. It's time to pay for his talent. A strong trembling erupted through his body. He crouched against the wall and felt hot, salty trickles tickle his lips. He shut his eyes and started to moan. *** The pill box was half the size of Jessica's tiny hand. Silver, she thought, considering its gold etched lid with birds of paradise engraved on it. This was undoubtedly an antiquity – people could only make such mundane things a true work of art in the past. Must've cost a lot. Actually, enough to pay her rent for a couple of months before she finds another job, not as a no-name running errands for a total jerk. As Jessica played with the box, someone called for McLaren. She recognised the voice of a chief supervisor, Helen, but pretended she didn't hear anything until she came directly to Jessica: "Have you seen the artist?" "Which one?" She discreetly tucked the box in her pouch. "There's a whole lot of them. It's an illustrators' forum, after all." "Don't play dumb with me," Helen barked. "He was supposed to be on an autograph session a quarter of an hour ago." It was indeed out of McLaren's character to miss being in the limelight. Uh-oh, something must have happened, and if they pin it on Jessica, this could even result in firing with a mark on her profile. "He acted weird. Left for the buffet, and that was the last time I saw him." Jessica shrugged and added, "Must've been the lights; you know how sensitive the guys' eyes are." The supervisor gave her a suspecting glance but still hurried towards the cafeteria. Jessica took a pill box out of the pouch. It could have been her ticket to a better life – but it seems not today. She sighed and ran to the stairs. Halfway through to the other wing, she heard a glass falling to the floor from somewhere behind the wall. Jessica stopped and rolled her eyes: he must have gotten lost. "Mr. McLaren?" But no one answered. Taking deep breaths, she turned around and went for another path. Why are all the talented so unadapted to life? When she finds McLaren, she is definitely telling him she is done working for him. She might as well keep the box to herself, tell him she didn't see it. Then Jessica took a turn left, and her jaw dropped. Half-naked McLaren was lying on the floor beyond the scratched door, shaking intensely and staring at the other wall, unresponsive. Under his cheek, there was a pool of saliva which was dripping from his half-opened mouth. Jessica tried to gulp, but the lump in her throat made it difficult. She rushed to McLaren, trying to open the pill box, but it wouldn't budge at first. However, when it finally did, she discovered two types of pills inside. And to her own crawling fear, she realised that she never actually paid attention to the pills he was taking. Was it the blue one or the white one? Was there a way to know? She took her smartphone with trembling hands only to find it was out of service. She closed her eyes, took a deep, shaky breath and chose the blue one. As they would tell her later, describing his condition as an "acute schizophrenic episode", this was the only right thing that could have saved him at that moment.

Jake glanced at his wristwatch that glimmered slate silver in the moonlight. Just a minute to midnight. Just a minute – and everything will finally be over. He clenched the baseball bat tighter. It was studded with runes and scriptures of the unknown (and possibly never-existent) languages. The man was dressed in colourful rags and a tin foil hat, and small amulets hanging from his neck were jingling softly with his every careful move. He proceeded slowly, one step at a time, right in the heart of a vast garden that adjoined his newly bought mansion. At first, this seemed like a lovely deal. He had bought not a house but an entire estate on a deserted hill next to a mental hospital, with two hectares of greenery, a personal swimming pool and an annexe for what his agent considered well below the market price. Two weeks in the mansion passed like a hermit's dream – and then it began. Screams. Every night, at precisely twelve o'clock, a piercing, almost inhumane scream rang through the garden, waking Jake, a natural lark, up. The first time it happened, he thought someone was crying for help. The second time, he called the police. A few nights later, he gave up and invited a medium. Twenty seconds to midnight. Jake inhaled sharply. The bat started to slip from the sweat of his palms. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. What had he gotten himself into? As he delved into the thought, a faint rustling of leaves sounded somewhere next to him. He turned around but saw nothing and then realised the sound was coming from the other side of the henge. The man's heart raced so hard it nearly ached. He turned on his heels, trying to be as discreet as possible, and skirted the fence. It was when the clock finally struck midnight, and a piercing scream rang through the garden. Before Jake's eyes stood a petite woman in a blue johnny gown. When she saw Jake holding a bat over his head, ready for a blow, she pressed a hand to her mouth, smothering a completely different type of scream. Jake could read fear in her watery eyes, popping out like two marbles on a pale canvas of her face. The woman took a step back, but Jake pushed forward. "You spirit!" cried Jake. "Why do you keep haunting me? What is it that you want?" The woman blinked. "I'm sorry, I dinn't know," she finally mumbled with her trembling lips, fixating her gaze on Jake’s tin foil hat. "Please, please, just calm down–" "No can do," growled the man, slowly proceeding towards her. "You stole so many peaceful nights from me! Now," as he approached, the woman kept backing away until she stumbled over a twig and fell to the ground. "You will tell me everything, and you will leave me alone!" "Please, no!" cried the woman, her eyes filling with tears. Jake stopped. "I'll tell you everythin', and then leave, OK?" she uttered under her breath. "Please don't hurt me." The man slowly put the bat down, noticing to himself how his shoulders had started to ache. After a pause, the woman spoke. "First of all, I ain't no ghost." "So you start with the lies?" Jake was indignant. "That's the truth, you see," cried the woman. "Sometimes, when it gets too dark, I just wanna scream so loud, and they just won't let me, no. So I sneak out and go somewhere where they can't hear me, no." "Wait, wait, wait. Who are you talking about? Demons from other realms?" "They treat me alright, and they are so very, very nice." The woman raised her eyes as if she snapped out. "Nurses, I mean." "Nurses?" Jake repeated slowly. "Uh-huh," the woman nodded. "So I live in a looney bin just over there." She pointed somewhere north of the mansion and whispered: "They give me the meds, but shhhhh. They don't know I'm spittin' 'em." A rush of cold sweat gave Jake chills. So this was the patient from the asylum. But what should he do next? Should he call the police? The asylum? His head was getting funny as the woman continued: "I came to your garden 'cause it was so beautiful and quiet. But I thought no one lived in the house. Now," she got up on her feet, "It's time for me to go. I promise I won't be botherin' you anymore–" Jake cut her with a gesture. "Listen, lady. You gave me the real fright here, okay? I'm really sorry, but I should let the authorities know. Now, come join me for a cup of hot tea while I'm making the call." With those words, he slung the bat on his shoulder and pointed towards the mansion. "No one had offered me tea for so very long." The woman's eyes filled with tears once again. She watched Jake turn around and slowly faded into the air. "Hey," the man called, looking over his shoulder and realising the woman was gone. "I'm still making that call!" he shouted, but no one replied.

"Back in my day," said the Slender-Death, waving about a Coco Loco in a hairy shell, "they didn't have all those fancy treatments that they do now. It took only a spoonful of bacteria to kill half a continent, and now? Goddamned antibiotics save hundreds of thousands of people each day!" The Slender-Death, the Stocky-Death and the Petite-Death were reclining in blue and white striped loungers by the waveless morning sea. Beside the motley brolly, the Pug-Death was digging a hole in a soon-to-become-hot white sand. Other vacant chairs went on and on, and the lifeguard tower squatted low on piles like a forlorn beehive. The Stocky-Death snorted, turning its hood towards an old lady in a red swim cap, who briskly marched towards the ocean and dived into the water. "Not only that," the Stocky-Death agreed, leaning forward slightly in its chair, "The technology humans got also prevents them from dying unnatural deaths. Floods, fires and avalanches used to be my biggest crops each year. Now? A single text – and I'm left empty-handed!" "I know, right?" cried the Petite-Death. "There just isn't any fun left. Humans invented so much stuff for killing each other – and themselves – and now they just won't! Human sacrifices? Nope. Poison? Nada. Nuclear weapons? Not happening. So much potential, just ruined." It took a freshly dug-out bone from the Pug-Death and threw it aside. The Pug-Death gave a short enthusiastic bark and scurried after the bone. "Well," said the Slender-Death, "Some still make Darwin very proud." It looked at the ocean, where a single fin shimmered on the horizon for a moment and then disappeared. "Remember those two guys that ate a bat half a year ago? Those had me quite occupied lately. I barely had the opportunity to take this break!" "As long as humans keep inventing new ways to die, you're pretty much booked," said the Stocky-Death. "You sure know what they came up with recently? I couldn't believe it when I saw it. They breathe flavoured glycerine! As if smoking alone wasn't enough." "Wait until you hear this. Ever come across the joke about a grandma that lit her vase on fire because she was trying to smoke pot? Well, turns out it was no joke at all. An old lady died of fumes because she was trying to keep pace with the times." The three of them threw back their heads and laughed. Even the Pug-Death gave out a short series of woofs. "Speaking of," finally said the Slender-Death, turning its hood from side to side. "Can't seem to–" It was then that desperate shriek pierced the morning stillness. After a few seconds of splashes and screams, everything was over. "Oh," said the Petite-Death. "I guess that's my call," the Stocky-Death exclaimed cheerfully. The day promised to be hot.

He could barely sit still at the precinct all day, so when the wall clock finally struck five, the detective hastily killed his PC with an unfinished solitaire game on the screen, pulled on his rumpled old jacket, and grabbed the keys. Then, he saw James Gardner, his best friend and son of the chief of the homicide division, poking his head in the door. "Hey. Old man said he wanted to see you." Cameron rolled his eyes. "Listen, I'm in a real hurry. Can't you cover for me this one time? I'll be sure to pop in first thing in the morning." "I'm afraid not," said James, still hanging in the doorway. "He said he wanted to see you ASAP." The detective sighed. He could see where this was going. "OK, OK," he said with a wry face. "But please drop him a hint to be quick, don't wanna be late for my AA meeting. You know how they are these days." James smiled and disappeared. Cameron closed the door and hurried down the hall, where the inspector's cabinet was. He knocked twice and, without waiting for any response, went in. Gardner Senior was working behind the table covered with papers. When Cameron came in, he immediately turned to him and squinted his black eyes. "Finally. Take a seat. The talk won't be a breeze." "Thanks, but I'd better stand," Cameron replied. "See, I'm in a hurr–" Gardner's fist pounding on the table pierced the stale air. The dust rose up and swirled in the setting sun's rays. Cameron shuddered and blinked. "God knows I wanted to make it look neat, but you keep getting on my back. You want it to be quick? Fine." The words spat like daggers. "Either you make any progress on those killings in a week starting today, or you drop your badge and your gun right here on this table." Cameron tried to suppress a grimace, but it made its way to his face, turning Gardner Senior red with a towering rage. "Off you go, now!" he shouted. Cameron turned on his heels and left the room. "Freakin' alcoholic!" roared the door, but the detective wasn't quite there to get the insult. He might be late for the gathering, and that was all that mattered at the moment. He ran down the stairs. If he drove now, he may get stuck in a traffic jam. No, it wasn't worth the risk. Cameron tucked the car keys away in the back pocket of his trousers and hurried subway. When he popped up the surface again, he noticed a missed call on his cell. He slowed down. The call was from James. What was it that he wanted? It was essential to get to the gathering in time, but who was there for him when he showed up drunk on that assault mission and almost got shot in a gunfight? Who was there when Charlie, his golden retriever, died from cancer, and he was pissed for two weeks in a row and couldn't snap out of it on his own? Or when he dropped his badge down the toilet at the bar the other day? Cameron shook his head and pressed the green button. A couple of beeps later, the line cracked, and he heard James's voice. "Hey, man. I just wanted to let you know I'm sorry for my man. He isn't quite himself lately with those bloody murders going on, you know." "It's OK," Cameron replied, glancing at his watch. "I totally understand." "He is also sorry. We thought that maybe you'll join us for dinner later today? What do you say?" "Umm, yeah, sure," the detective answered, turning discreetly into a side street. "Great." Cameron could tell James beamed on the other side of the line. "See you at eight, then." "See you," the detective said almost automatically and hung up. He went round a dull nine-storey building and down to the basement, where the poorly lit iron door was. Cameron took a deep breath. It was four minutes to six. He cleared his throat and knocked a tune. The door opened almost immediately. The man standing in the doorway was half a metre taller than the detective and roughly two times wider. A white mask on his chubby face looked like he fell onto a saucer, and it stuck. Cameron smiled to himself and stepped inside. It was a small lobby with three more entrances. Once sumptuous, the place left much to be desired with its battered wooden furniture, worn-out velvet sofa and stained wallpaper, which had already started to peel off. The man handed the detective the same plastic mask he was wearing and showed him to the meeting room. "Welcome, dear," greeted two dozen voices as the door closed behind Cameron. The room had blank grey walls, a circle of stubby wooden chairs in the centre and nothing more in it. Men and women wore identical white masks, with only one exception: a lean figure in a suit which had a black one. The figure motioned Cameron to take a vacant chair and said in a genderless voice: "We've been waiting for you, son. Tonight, you've been chosen to perform the next task." The detective silently gulped and sat. It had been a year since he was last chosen. "As you all know," the figure continued, addressing all members, "nothing is more important for the family than The Purge. Like the vulture rids the planet of decay, we rid society of those who offend God Himself. "But sadly, not everyone shares our ways." The black mask made a pause. "Our next target is the man who poses a threat to The Purge." The figures gasped and muttered. Cameron felt the fire of disapproval starting in his own gut. "The man's name," the mask continued, "is Gregory Gardner." A sudden lack of breath made the detective cough profusely, clenching the shirt on his chest. The room became completely silent. The black mask stood up and approached Cameron. He felt a hand gently landing on his shoulder. The mask said: "Child. It is your time to shine and do the greater good. For humankind. For us. You need to understand: this is but a trial of spirit. And we are here to help." "We are here to help," echoed the room. "See," the mask continued. "Everyone here loves you and wishes you only the best. Because we are the family." The voice was hypnotising. Cameron could feel the sudden attack fading away and his head becoming clearer with every word the black mask spoke. He listened and listened, wishing for the mask never to stop. He was the dust; he was the spirit; he was the crowd; he was the sun. He was nothing; he was everything. He cried, and then the next thing he knew, he was standing outside Gardners' house in his rumpled old jacket, with his wristwatch showing ten minutes past eight. The door opened, and James waved at him, welcoming Cameron inside. "You're late, aren't you?" he winked. Still feeling dizzy, the detective went in. The table was already served for dinner, and the mouth-watering smell of roasted turkey filled the air. But Cameron could only feel a hint of it, however strong it was. Then he saw a bright red spot moving towards him. He backed away instinctively, but then he recognised Gardner Senior in a scarlet apron that Cameron gifted James for Christmas. Gregory clumsily hugged the confused man, shaking him, telling him something important, but he couldn't tell a word apart. Words swirled and merged into an unrecognisable mess until James laughed and said: "...because we're a family, right?" Cameron slowly turned his head. His cheeks felt hot and wet. Right, he nodded in recognition. But there could only be one family. The Family.

She might have seen all of it. Travis stood rooted to the spot inside his apartment. He looked through the exposed window, which had been left wide open to draw fresh air during the July heat. The window was facing another, a nine- storey building just across the road, -- 30 yards, 50 maybe -- where a lady in her seventies was staring back at Travis. Blood rushed to his brain. He needed to do something, anything. Trying to keep his head still, Travis glanced at the animated stream of cars below. With all the noise there was no point in shouting. He finally forced a wide twitching smile and waved at the lady. Not even waiting for the woman’s reaction, he grabbed the curtains and drew them tight. For a minute, he just stood there, breathing heavily, trembling, unable to move, with his back facing the room -- a small living space with the walls painted ghost white. It was minimalistic yet richly furnished: a grey leather sofa in the centre, a glass coffee table, a big TV screen on the wall and two wooden dressers with potted flowers. Trying to calm himself, Travis took a deep, trembling breath. He noticed a sickeningly sweet smell of blood. It was now only a matter of time until the lady from across the street came -- or the police. How much time exactly did he have? The man turned around and slowly slid along the curtains to the floor. From his point of view, he could only see the sanguine fluid slowly oozing from around the corner of the sofa. He wanted to but couldn’t take his eyes off it; it was stomach-churning, yet somehow hypnotising. But the stain wasn’t only increasing in size. It got blurrier and blurrier, distorting and overlapping all the other things in the room until finally, Travis was forced to shut his eyes. It was an accident, but still his fault. When he came home earlier today, he found Marianne almost packed up. Of course, this wasn’t the first time she had tried to leave him, but it had never come this far. She was just closing the suitcase when he entered the room. Travis didn’t really love Marianne but couldn’t stand being left the seventh time. At first, he tried to reason with her. Then, begged her to stay. When that failed, and she made it clear that they were done for good, Travis got angry. They started shouting at each other, and eventually, he slapped her. She reeled, the rug slipped under her feet, and she fell, hitting her head on the corner of the nearest wooden dresser. Travis ran his hand over his face. It was hot and wet. He felt his heartbeat going up rapidly. He needed to do something, and fast, but what? The lady from the window across the road made getting rid of the body pointless, so there were only two options. The first one was to run. Reach for the ID, papers, money, and credit cards. Get a taxi to the airport, buy a ticket and be gone. Be free and start fresh in a new place. Of course, getting caught was a risk, but it was a viable plan. There was only one big problem for Travis: he would have to leave everything behind. And he had a lot to leave -- a family who needed him, a decent position at a local newspaper, his own apartment. The second option was to turn himself in. Call 911, explain what happened, and wait for them to clean up this mess. This option was perfectly legal, but there was a considerable risk that he would be charged with manslaughter in the end - he did slap Marianne very hard. However, if he’s lucky enough, he won’t lose anything - the risk was great, but so was the prize. The time was running fast, but Travis couldn’t move. He felt warm streams pouring down his cheeks. Why did he have to make a choice? What did he do to deserve this? But deep inside, he knew the answer, and that made him even more miserable. A sudden knock at the door sounded. Travis’s heart skipped a beat. They must’ve come for him, and now he didn’t have a choice. The knocking repeated. Travis didn’t flinch, laying low like a wild mouse. If they have to blow the door in, so be it -- even at this time, Travis still couldn’t decide. But suddenly, the knocking stopped, and he heard the footsteps receding down the corridor. He was once again left with his thoughts. Travis slowly got up. Whatever he picked, he would have to do it fast. He walked to the dresser, where everything had happened. On it, there was a photo in the frame, where he and Marianne were at the theme park. She was sitting on his shoulders, hands spread widely like she was holding a giant Ferris wheel behind, resembling some sort of an Egyptian god. Marianne looked so happy, and she didn’t really need much. This was a fresh photo, but now, just a week later, she was lying in a pool of blood at the foot of his drawer. Travis’s heart ached. She didn’t deserve this; he should have let her go. And now he could run away, but could he ever run from this? He reached for his phone and dialled the emergency.