Writing Prompt

Laurel’s pale, thin fingers smooth a crisp page in her latest daily planner, the bold black ink words written inside months before make her mouth twist at the sight. Restock night, her written words read, scrawled in her neat handwriting. Restock night occurred every Saturday at exactly midnight when the streets were vacant enough for her to emerge and haunt them. Most of her neighbors were wise, tucking themselves into their beds for the night but the ones who weren't... her stomach growls. In the kitchen, her empty fridge is a reminder of how Restock Nights are the most important event in her planner.

Laurel knew the exact place she’d visit tonight to get her hearty meal. Tonight, she’ll venture out further than her neighboring streets to an area populated enough that noise isn’t a problem and isolated enough not to catch the gaze of straying eyes. She closes her daily planner, backing away from it and eyes the clock on her crimson wall. In every room, even the ones with black painted walls there’s a clock. Each clock has an alarm set for minutes after sundown, they remind her when freedom is within reach.

On usual nights, she tends to her roses, dances a music-less dance under the stars, and reads a hefty book hoping the night winds caress her face. But Restock Nights were different. There were no times for peace, only turmoil. Even with all her careful planning, her perfect crimes could descend into an everlasting disaster. It’s why she plans, learning her victims routines, scouting every exit route, because a moment of weakness could transform a weakling into a hero.

Laurel goes about her day, glancing into her color coded rooms of crimson and ebony to ensure the blackout curtains were closed. She didn’t remember the warm feeling of sunlight and even if she lit the fireplace in her home, warmth would never keep her company. Laurel spent her existence making enemies or perhaps the world made an enemy of her.

She laments on this sentiment, stopping by the charmed mirror. Her eyes study her reflection, and see a haggard sight. The white of her eyes were reddening, skin stretching out, hair falling out, and those fatal fangs of hers almost touch the bottom of her chin. With all her strength, she puts herself back together, protracting her fangs, tightening her skin, brushing her hair with her fingers to hide the loss but the white of her eyes remain red.

She’d scoured the dark world for this antique, a mirror that could show a vampire’s reflection but ever since she’s acquired it, she’s regretted her purchase. On her top dresser drawer, there’s a pile of photos of her before her transformation, of course. She’d stolen them decades ago after breaking into the nursing home her sister put her mom in. As a child, Laurel’s mother tried to diverge her dream of becoming a dancer by investing in the idea of Laurel being a musical genius. At first, Laurel tried to appease her mother but her skill set stayed on the grounds of mediocrity much to her mother’s dismay. Still, Laurel loved her mother and even after all those years apart found herself having to force herself to escape and not linger around.

Sometimes Laurel takes the photos she stole and holds them up against her reflection, looking for old parts of herself but in the end she never finds it. Laurel moves away from the mirror and walks off to find something to distract herself with. Before she knows it, every clock’s alarm in the house goes off. Sundown’s arrived and soon she’ll venture off for restock night.

She doesn’t want to leave her house. But there is no resisting this hunger. It crawls inside her, rattling her bones and will till she is under its command. Soon the midnight hour arrives, and Restock night begins. She heads over to the closet by the doorway and grabs her duffle bag specially prepared for Restock Night. In said bag, she keeps empty blood bags that she hopes to fill for the week. She walks to the door, takes a breath, and opens it with a bag in hand. Walking outside, the cool air hits her but she doesn’t let herself enjoy it. There is never any joy on Restock night.

The drive to the scouted out location is short. Her first victim for tonight should arrive about twenty minutes after her so for now she waits. As she waits, her eyes scan the scene and she spots a couple. The woman laughs, head tilted back at something the man says and she looks so in love while the man appears a bit peeved. It’s so funny how Laurel can spot the flaws in another’s love but when she became engaged by love’s powerful force she couldn’t see any cracks in her knight’s armor.

At seventeen, she fell in love with an older man who owned the club she’d sneak out and dance in. He told her he’d give her a stage, a lifetime of devotion, and everything a girl could dream of. Girl. She didn’t think of herself as one back then so convinced at seventeen in her naive mind she knew all the ins-and-outs of the world of adulthood. It wasn’t just her who thought that, her love uttered that in between gentle kisses on her hand that showcased his gentleman nature . He called her a lady…a lie because only a girl stood in front of him.

Laurel looks away from the couple, pushing thoughts of that monster out of her head. Was it really love she experienced or just a girl’s foolish fantasy? She sits with that thought as she searches the crowd for a gray jacket. She spots it and follows after her prey. Laurel’s swift and stealth as she follows them into a deserted corner, dropping her bag, she jolts forward and with one swipe of her hand they’re mesmerized, still and fragile as a glass statue.

She bites, her stomach wrenching in both disgust and pleasure. The beast inside of her feeds but it’s not satiated even after a couple of minutes of her meal. With all her power, she breaks herself away, hand on the person’s neck to suppress the bleeding.

She could use her tongue to coat the wound but she needed at least a bag of their blood. Still holding down, she reaches for her bag nearby and seconds later is drawing her victim’s blood into the bag. The hunger in her is impatient. It wants to drink the victim dry but if she’ll do that they’ll die.

Her mind drifts to the day of her death which happened 21 days after her 21st birthday. The stage her boyfriend now her husband promised her never came to fruition. His eyes wandered away from hers and over to girls who didn’t notice the traps he placed. One night, on a night that felt never-ending, he came into the bedroom filled with anger, spouting off non-sense. The fight that ensued between them burned everything around them, yet in the end the only one covered in ashes was her. The next morning, a staff of asylum workers from Archvale Asylum came into their house, pulled her away from the prison-like home and locked her away in her coffin.

In the present, she hears the sound of a heartbeat slowing down, she sees the bag full so she pulls away, licking her victim’s wounds. She packs up the blood bag into her duffle bag, puts it on her shoulder, and then swipes her hand in front of her victim’s face. As she backs away, she hears them mumble to themselves in confusion as soon as they touch their neck, she bolts out of the corner.

She continues her hunt all night, and by the time she’s home every blood bag is filled to the brim. The last victim put up a bit of a fight so she’s covered in their blood. Her fingernails carry the grime of dried blood and she feels ready to crumple. She packs up her blood bags into the freezer and makes her way to the bathroom. Taking her clothes off, she steps in the shower, the hunger inside her is silent but will reignite again tomorrow.

She could feel the blood stirring in her body but it won’t make her heart pump. She thinks of her victims, the sound of their steady heartbeats slowing down and it makes her mind drift backward as tears start to stream in sync with the shower. The night she died, the actual night, happened a month after her stay at the Archvale Asylum, an asylum known for its disappearing patients. No one cared what happened to them because once you became entrapped in that asylum you’d turn invisible. Well, invisible to everyone but the staff.

Laurel remembers that final night of life, entombed in herself as she watches it replay. Most of the inhabitants of the asylum were screaming, sobbing, or completely numb. Laurel became numb, her body transforming to marble anyone could chisel away and change as they please. This night, a nurse came in with a handful of meds that she placed in Laurel’s frail hands with a pity look one would give a bird with an injured wing.

“You poor thing,” the nurse remarks while touching Laurel’s face with her chisel hands.

Laurel didn’t react, frozen in time, but if she could she’d slap the hand away.

“I could help you…”the lady lifts Laurel’s chin, staring into her amber brown eyes. “I will help you, dear.”

She pushes Laurel’s head to the side, observing her profile. Again, Laurel gives no reaction drifting in and out of time but then she feels it. The sharp prick in her neck that brings out a hysteric scream that echoes throughout the hospital.

No one runs in to help her and she feels herself being chiseled away. Inside her body, her heart throbs, heavy, scared and desperate to survive. Her head is stuck, unable to move because the nurse’s own is blocking it. From the nurse, there’s slurping sounds that make bile rise in Laurel’s throat. Mustering strength from her heart’s will to survive, Laurel tries to push the nurse away.

The nurse holds steady, unmoved by Laurel’s actions.

Soon consciousness left Laurel and she emerged in an endless sea of black. She awakes, days later or perhaps months, she couldn’t remember, but she did remember the taste of decay that crawled in her throat. She remembers searching for the sound of her heartbeat, a companion she never realized she relied on. But it wasn’t there. And so the first sound she heard after her death was the sound of her wailing.

Laurel’s mind is foggy. She doesn’t remember the year, the age her mind is, or even where she’s at. Water, hot, streams onto her body and she recalls stepping into the shower. She focuses on the water, coming back to the true present. On her head, she feels her hands, holding it in a tight hold. She releases her hands, straightens her body tilted over from distress and grabs around her.

She finds what she’s looking for, a wash cloth. With the washcloth, she scrubs herself clean, hard, skin reddening with every move. The blood on her body lessens with every movement but her disgust doesn’t quell. When she is finished, she steps out of the shower but on both inside and the outside she’ll never be clean.

𝑺𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅... 𝑨𝒉𝒆𝒎(𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒐𝒇 𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒛𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍)

𝑺𝒐 𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒙𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒘 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒂𝒚 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒑𝒍𝒛

.𝟏 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 💙 𝐌𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬.𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐚 𝐬𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐨

𝟐.𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵 𝒀𝑶𝑼* 𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐆 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐞(𝗜 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗱𝗼 𝗔𝗡𝗬𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗜𝗦 𝗜𝗡𝗔𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗣𝗥𝗔𝗧𝗘 𝗼𝗿 𝗲𝘅𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝗴𝗼𝗿𝗲𝘆) 𝐬𝐨 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐆𝐎𝐃 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐊 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆. 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐬

𝟑.𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐩𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐤 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞

[𝐁𝐂𝐏] 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 [𝐍𝐓𝐏] 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭

𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐢 𝐚𝐦 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧

𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕥𝕤 𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕗𝕠𝕝𝕜𝕤 -

𝒮𝓉ℴ𝓇𝓂ℬℴ𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝒟𝓇ℯ𝒶𝓂𝓈

Once upon a time, in a quaint little town, there lived a man named Oliver. He was known for his meticulous organization and an obsession with cleanliness. Oliver had a condition known as Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD), which meant that everything in his life had to be perfectly in place.

From the moment he woke up in the morning, Oliver's day revolved around maintaining a spotless environment. His apartment was an immaculate sanctuary, each item neatly arranged and precisely aligned. He had a place for everything, and everything had to be in its place.

Oliver's obsession with cleanliness was most evident in his personal hygiene habits. He would wash his hands incessantly, meticulously scrubbing them with antibacterial soap, ensuring not a single speck of dirt or germ remained. The water temperature had to be just right, and he would carefully count to thirty seconds, as if performing a ritual of purification.

People around Oliver sometimes misunderstood his actions, perceiving them as excessive or strange. They failed to comprehend that for him, this meticulousness was a form of perfection. In his mind, the cleanliness he pursued was a safeguard against the chaos and uncertainty of the world. It provided him with a sense of control and tranquility.

One day, as Oliver went about his usual routine, he noticed a new neighbor moving in next door. Curiosity sparked within him, and he found himself peering through his window, observing the commotion. To his surprise, he witnessed a disheveled man with unkempt hair and mismatched socks carrying boxes haphazardly into the house.

Intrigued by the chaos unfolding before him, Oliver's instincts kicked in. He couldn't resist the opportunity to bring order to his neighbor's life. He cautiously approached the man, whose name was Jack, and offered his assistance. Jack, appreciative of the gesture, welcomed Oliver into his home.

As Oliver stepped inside, he was taken aback by the disorder and clutter that surrounded him. Without hesitation, he meticulously organized the living room, arranging books by height, straightening crooked picture frames, and aligning the furniture with precision. Jack watched in awe as Oliver transformed the chaotic space into an oasis of order.

And so, Oliver continued his quest for order, but now with a newfound appreciation for the beauty that lay beyond the boundaries of perfection.

“Iyin!” “What!?” “Clean your room before you leave please!” “Fine!” He proceeded to pick up a shirt off the floor then collapse on his bed saying he’s done. Veranda walks past this sorry scene with a sneer. Her room is a mess as well but at she can walk in it. “Is everyone ready?” “Yeah!” “Can someone get Kuro?” “I will, mom.” Vera knocked on Kuro’s door. She knew he would never care, but their mom insisted they show him the manners of a regular person. He wouldn’t answer her. She walked in to see him sitting on his bed. He was staring at the wall. His bag had been packed and was laying open next to him. He didn’t look at her or acknowledge she was even there. His room was spotless. There was hardly an ounce of livelihood in it. There were frames on the nightstand and clothes in the dresser but that was it. There wasn’t a speck of dust. The only thing that was his was the workout equipment that the corporation had sent with him. It was the only thing he did most of the time. Bit what else could he do? She sat down next to him but he still didn’t move. She peered at his face. She had thought she had seen cold eyes before, but his eyes were empty. There were no laugh lines on his face, no emotion. She gave him a hug. She had been freaked out by him at first. Scared because he had a look similar to the men who hurt her. But watching him for the past month she only felt pity. She closed up his bag of neatly folded clothes. “Come on Kuro, it’s time to go. Take my hand.” He reached out and grabbed her hand. She pulled him with her and they left the house.

Iyin took the front seat while they sat in the back. She didn’t mind. She scrolled through her phone and listened to music while they drove. They were headed to visit their mom’s park who live by the beach. She said it would be good for Iyin to leave the city. He hadn’t been out of the city before. Right bow he was sleeping. She could hear the loud rock coming from his headphones. Kuro stared at the seat in front of him. She pulled out one of her earbuds and put it in his ear. His face didn’t change. It would be a long car ride.

They stopped at fast food place for lunch. Kuro put on a mask to cover up his cheek which was missing. Iyin had to wear sunglasses to cover up his red eyes. They went in and got their food before heading back to car. Kuro ate in the car so people couldn’t see his face. Their mom had to order for him. He ate all the food without complaint. It was so strange to watch him eat. Most people will make gestures while they eat. If their food gets stuck or if something isn’t to their liking. He didn’t. She fell asleep halfway there. “We’re here!” She woke up. She felt comfy. A blanket had been placed over her. She immediately looked to Kuro who was still staring at the seat. She smiled. They got out of the car. Their grandparents came to them and gave them hugs. Iyin gave them a hug cause he didn’t want to have them nag him later. She gladly gave them a hug and let them pinch her cheek. Their grandma tried to give Kuro a hig but it was incredibly awkward since he didn’t acknowledge her. Their mom led Kuro to a chair and told him to sit down. Everyone else sat down as well. They talked and Kuro just sat their. She wondered if he was even listening.

I look around the room, appalled by the mess. But I was expecting something like that—maybenot to that extent—something horrible. People don’t call me unless they are really needed some professional help. Here, the problems is obvious to me. There is jo more floor. Everything they own is covering the flooor, and the furniture but the real problem right now is the ground. If you can’t step into a room without crushing something … I roll up my sleeves, metaphorically an physically and I turn toward the couple who looks at me with such hope in their eyes. “You realize I’m not here to “do” that. Right?” Their faces fell. “You’re not. Then who?” “You are. I’m just here to help, support, and sometimes whip some sense into you.” They look at me like they don’t know the language I’m using. I sigh. “Okay. You too have to get down to it. Here are two bins. One on the right for anything you don’t want to keep, one on the left for the stuff you will want to keep.” I held out my hands. “But there is a catch. Tor each thing, however small, you put in the keeping things bin, you have to throw out three things. Do you understand.” Now they look at me like I’m crazy. I know that look. I have seen it in so many faces before theirs. As a professional home organizer, and a damn good one, I’m now almost called by—or for—people who thinks they are lost causes. But I always get results. I always come out on top, and so do they. This is their win in the end. I get to come home to my tiny house with minimalistic possessions. They live in their result. They should be proud. Today is going to be a hard one. The way they look at me makes me think they have no clue about why they are doing this. But I’m going to help them. I always do. That’s why I’m the best at what I do.

“How many times do I have to tell her…”

Whenever my sister visits, I end up muttering to myself exasperated. The tiniest room in the house is the largest battleground. I don’t know why she insists on her antics but visiting the bathroom shouldn’t be as frustrating as she makes it.

The room is small. While sitting on the toilet, a person can reach across the room in any direction and press the palm of his hand flat against the wall.

Since there isn’t enough floorspace for a magazine rack, one used to be mounted to the wall. I kept bumping into it. Whenever publications were jostled, either they, or the subscription postcards contained within, fell into the toilet. It wouldn’t have been bad if it happened before I started using the facilities but that wasn’t the case; always right before I flushed.

The chore of retrieving poop stained magazines grew old fast. I decided it was better to be illiterate than continue as a magazine fisherman so the rack was removed.

These days, there isn’t much to do in the bathroom except use it for its intended purpose and stare at the wall. To give the room a fresh feel, I often replace the toilet paper dispenser. Currently, the roll is covered by a tall, rectangular building meant to represent an outhouse. It reminds me of the one I had to use while working at a local farm market. Since there wasn’t plumbing at the roadside stand, I hope the customers washed off the produce when they returned home.

My sister often reminds me that I’m fastidious. I like things a certain way without deviation. The word she uses is “anal” which doesn’t sound as complimentary. It’s like when she calls me a lovable dork. It feels like a hug wrapped in a slap.

When it comes to hanging the roll of toilet paper, things are no different. The end of the roll must be placed in the “over” position so it hangs off the exterior. My sister has argued that facing the flap towards the makes it more difficult for cats and children to unravel but I’m neither. Besides, if a visiting child isn’t smart enough to use a toilet paper dispenser the right way then maybe he should wear diapers.

Whenever my sister visits, she reverses the rolls of toilet paper at my house. I don’t know if she does it to see if I’ll notice or to drive me crazy. I do and it does.

At one point, I reminded her that the original patent for a roll of toilet paper specified the proper way for hanging it. She called me a dork for knowing that tidbit and ignored my protests. She’s continued to reverse the toilet paper.

Emerging from the bathroom, I yelled, “How many times do I have to ask you not to reverse the toilet paper roll? It bugs the crap outta me.”

“Literally?” she replied with a smile.

After taking a few steps, I realized there was something different about the room. It felt off. I looked around but couldn’t figure it out.

“What did you do?” I asked. “Something is wrong with this room.”

My sister said nothing as she grabbed her purse and headed for the door. It took me an hour before I realized what was amiss. The television remote control had been moved from the coffee table to the arm of the couch. At least it was facing the proper direction.

Everything in place that's how it's supposed to be. Everything neatly packed and organized. That's how it should be. Until was till you came along. You would always make a mess and do things without a plan. Always running around ruining my delicate plan. If it weren't for me you would have been cut in three, from all the dangers that you bring. "Why do you stay you" asked me one day. Why did I stay? I should have stayed far away. Oh right, I like it this way.

Just another ordinary day, or so I had told my self during my meditation this morning. But that’s why one meditates isn’t it, to prepare your mind for the absurdities of the day. The insanity began as soon as I walked in the office and saw my door cracked open. That might not seem odd to you, but I sat down the entire cleaning staff for a team meeting on the importance of my door being closed each night. In fact, they’ve been going nearly 6 months strong with out error. But on this particular day I saw light coming out of my office. Horrified, I took a deep breath, gripped my book bag tight, and pushed the door gently open with a wet wipe. The most gruesome evil had surely visited me. I was so shocked, angry, and confused I yelled out like an old nun exorcising a demon. Screaming, “Holy mother of Christ.” I feel my book bag cascade down my back as it hit the floor. My co-workers are behind me… chuckling…chuckling! Like this was funny, and as I looked even closer my labels had been moved around. My computer was not in the spot I traced for it, but 6 inches to the left. My post-it notes were in little zigs on one side of the room and then big zags on the other side, for goodness sake, why not just utilize the same pattern across both walls, freaking cavemen. The bottom half of my rolling chair was in the seat. Random photos of other families were scattered throughout, just sheer madness. And then another thought came over me, I guess I never let that breath out. And the room began to spin, everything turned dark and blurry, my legs turned to jelly, I hit the ground, and I was out. Now look, I know I’m a tad overwhelmingly meticulous, a little overbearing, and have just a smidge of OCD-like behaviors, but a violent man I could never be. That was until I awoke to find my office back to normal. Everything was back in its proper place, the computer, the chair, the pens, post-it’s, my labels, my file cabinet, all of my to-do list, all of my white boards, all of my calendars, all of it. I look behind me to find my co-workers huddled together crowded in my doorway staring at me and whispering to one another. Two or three of them rush to the floor by my side. I shot up to my feet and yelled, “What did you do, you monsters, you horrible monsters?” They all looked at each other puzzled, this infuriated me past a point I’ve never experienced before. My blood boiled beneath my skin, my nose flared up sky high, even my fists were balled up. Nobody said a thing. Just stares. I screamed “who did it!”, repeatedly, with every ‘who did it’ pushing me further towards this cliff inside of me. I’m not an idiot, I don’t know how I could let them break me down to this point. I’m not emotionally challenged, they’re the psychos after all. I scream, “Ahhh damn this,” and grab a staple gun off of the staples, glue, rubber bands, and paper clips bin on my shelf. And I slam one right into my forehead, and scream “who did it!”. The faces turned pale as my walls, but no answer, so I did it again and again. And was starting to get dizzy, and the blood was getting all in my mouth. I fell to my knees, hit the stapler one last time, and blacked out all over again. This time I woke up in a padded room with all white walls. The doctor said it was reported that I attacked my co-workers, we had a scuffle, and they heroically locked me in my office where I turned the stapler on myself. In agonizing physical pain and sheer disbelief, whilst giving myself a straight-jacket self-hug, I nodded my head at the doctor and simply replied, “Yup...”

Angela Barkley. That was her signature— round and legible, print not cursive, always black ink. It adorned every legal document of Stone House Lane’s extensive Home-Owners’ Association, which she as President ruled with an iron fist. No one disputed Angela’s authority— and those who did regretted it in court. With a swish of her ash blonde balayage and a catty flutter of her false eyelashes, the Pharaoh of Stone House Lane always got her way.

She’d known that man was trouble the moment she showed up at his door with a casserole. Moses Abrams— it didn’t sound like a normal name, he didn’t look like a normal man, and just like that Angela took a dislike to her new neighbor.

Mr. Abrams appealed to the HOA to mow his lawn himself instead of their designated service. Angela denied his request without reading the whole of it.

Mr. Abrams’ dog barked at an Amazon delivery in the middle of the night. Angela fined him for noise pollution and improper pet stewardship.

Mr. Abrams was absent for an HOA meeting while he attended his daughter’s graduation in Connecticut. Angela sent him a rude email for missing attendance.

The HOA Pharaoh took a savage delight in harassing Moses Abrams over every single detail she could enforce— and enforce she did, as the odd-man-out of Stone House Lane grew angrier… and angrier… and angrier.

—

“Moses.”

He turned around, expecting one of Angela Bartley’s HOA minions to appear— but no, this voice was far too deep and gravelly for that.

“Moses, thou hast been chosen.”

His eyes fell upon the dead boxwood bush in the center of his yard: the one he suspected had been poisoned, since it had died despite his most vigilant care. Angela had delighted in fining him for that. Its sunburned leaves sparkled in the July heat, looking ready to catch fire in all their dehydrated glory.

“Thy suffering beneath the foul rule of one Suburban Pharaoh shall cease. Hark! I order thee to approach her McMansion with thy walking-stick and windbreaker in hand, with the message of the wrath that shall befall her.”

“I don’t understand,” Moses panicked. “You’re a dead bush. Am I losing it?”

“Have faith in me, Moses,” the boxwood demanded, “And I shall deliver thy household from slavery. Ten plagues shall come upon this Home-Owners’-Association. Carry my message, Moses, and freedom shall be thine.”

1

The Plague of Red Ink

Moses and his stupid walking stick. Who did he think he was? Angela was signing another violation contract with her immaculate signature when she came to a heart-stopping realization.

The ink was not black.

She searched frantically through every drawer in her house, but every pen she found was blood-red. Angela let out an agonized shriek: she couldn’t use red ink!

Moses had to have something to do with this.

She couldn’t let him get his way.

2

The Plague of Slugs

Angela awoke to find her perfect landscaping in ruins.

Slugs— big ugly slugs! They were everywhere; they had infested every bush in the cul-de-sac… except for those in Moses’ yard. Angela seethed, staring at the single dead bush she’d poured Round-Up on weeks ago. How dare he?

She couldn’t let him get his way.

3

The Plague of Oriental Trading Trucks

They came all day. They came all night. Angela almost tore her blow-dried hair out as each truck unloaded their cardboard-boxed cargo right outside Moses’ house.

She couldn’t let him get his way.

4

The Plague of Lawn Flamingoes

There must have been thousands of them. Satan’s abominable salmon-colored army, the pink polyethylene spawn of some Lovecraftian horror and an Oriental Trading truck, arranged in a demonic reenactment of a Roman Phalanx around Moses Abrams’ dead bush. Angela was suddenly horrified by the lack of ordinances against plastic lawn flamingoes, so she wrote one up (in red ink).

She couldn’t let him get his way.

5

The Plague of Constipation of Toy Dogs

Angela’s Yorkshire Terrier had left some surprises on her expensive carpet.

Furiously, she texted all the neighborhood women to find their respective small dogs had experienced the same bout of misfortune.

[Remaining 5 plagues to come… stay tuned!]

This goes here and that goes there and the little things can’t be everywhere.

One and two, three and four, step by step into the drawer.

Bit by bit, piece by piece, fold and tuck the freshly cleaned sheets.

Clean and dust and sweep and mop, this goes bottom, this goes top.

Day by day, again and again, swiping away all the stains.

Routine by routine, it must be done, this are my mornings. It’s just begun.