Category: Prose

The house used to hum with him. The soft clicks of claws on tile, the sigh before sleep, the thump-thump of a tail against the floor. Morning light would spill across his white fur, and for a moment, everything golden belonged to us. Cooper—my deaf old dog somehow heard my heart. I’d whisper anyway, low voice, lips close to his ear, Good boy, I love you, and he’d lift his head like the words were a touch.  

Now the house holds its breath. The air feels too still, too sharp around the edges. Sometimes I think I hear him—the faint rhythm of paws, a phantom shift of weight—but it’s only memory rearranged itself into sound. Moose runs through the yard now, wild and loud, joy spilling from him like water, but even his bark carries an echo of what came before.  

Loss has a sound, I think. It’s the hush after laughter. The quiet spot in the air where something once lived and loved. When the wind moves through the trees, soft and sudden, I hear it—the ghost of a sigh, the memory of a tail. And for a breath, it’s all back again: the warmth, the rhythm, the heartbeat beneath my hand.

The suburban shopping mall. The gateway to shopping. The gathering area for hanging around. The setting for timeless romantic comedies. Skylights embellish the ceilings, working with the indoor trees to create a soothing harmony, only topped off with water fountains. At least one fountain can be found in an atrium that can hold a catapult. The immersion is almost immediate when you walk through the doors. 

But it’s not just about doing a grocery run with a pen and paper for a shopping list. It’s about meeting people. It’s about the ambience. It’s about stopping for a bite. I still remember stopping for cookies at Mrs. Field’s. Did you know that the chain still exists? 

That was yesterday. Today, major online corporations like Amazon have hijacked the mall’s customer base. First, it was big box stores. Chain stores have left their utopias to languish in the hands of the elements and vandals. The very rain from which these enclosed cities protected us seeps through leaks in the ceiling, setting the stage for mold and mildew growth. The 21^st century is a grim era for malls. 

I don’t remember her name. She told me a while ago, I’m sure. Maybe I wasn’t fully listening. Maybe the sound of her name fell out of my ears. Ping-ponging around the cartilage and zipping out. I want to ask her to say it, but then she’ll get the wrong idea about me. I should not be the guy that forgets a girl’s name. But I am. So I don’t ask. It might be too late for me to ask. 

The speaker pulses on beat next to us. Someone’s drink has been set on top of it, and the red solo cup is dancing its way toward the edge, a buzzing centimeter at a time. “Think you want to go upstairs?” She shouts over the music, looking up at me. Her face paint is luminescent in the UV darkness. It’s like a free-floating mask appearing to have no owner. A red imposter grin drawn across her lips, impishly exaggerated. Eyes looking out through two blue diamonds. The cherry circle for the nose.  

It all makes me wonder if there really is a girl underneath it all. 

“What?” I shout. Though I had heard her. 

“Want to go upstairs?” She is bumped by the tail of a dragon costume. “It’s getting crowded down here.” 

She’s right. The basement has become a shifting mass of bodies shuffling along the carpet. Bouncing to the baseline, sprawling out onto the couches, or even on top of each other. Heathens, mom would say. No respect for themselves. I nod. 

“Let’s go up then.” She grabs my hand and lets me follow her up the stairs, away from the noise. I get the impulse to ask for her name, but it seems pointless if she is not facing me. She opens the door at the top of the stairs, and my eyes stutter at the sudden white light. When they stop, I can’t tell if the kitchen before me has been painted yellow or white. As if my sight had suddenly become oversaturated in the purple of the UV. It happens briefly, as my corneas finally adjust, and the world’s colors are back to normal. Was it a warning? A fail safe to keep my wandering head in the basement. In the dark where I belong. I open my mouth, hoping to get her to come back down with me, but she continues up a second set of stairs just off the kitchen. My hand is still linked with hers. The ball of her wrist barely poking out of the tulle fastened to her sleeve. 

“Why a clown?” I ask. “What made you pick that?” 

“No other good costumes.” 

Upstairs, a long hallway greets us with its doors ajar. She picks the first bedroom to our right. My guess is that it’s the master bedroom. Besides the giant bed giving this away, the corner of the room houses a wooden wine rack. The shadows of the top bottles spill onto the bottom ones.  

“They must be alcoholics,” she remarks, sitting on the edge of the bed. “See anything good for us?” 

I skim the labels, all written in the type of script that no soul can decipher. I pull out one with gold lettering on red paper. No son of mine will ever drink that poison. The voice is so clear, yet watery. As if conjuring up from the air behind me so it is just heard by me. Not anyone else. And I ignore it. 

I pick up two glasses from the rack and bring them over to her. I hand her the bottle to pour, in case she thought I would want to put something in her drink. Not that I would. She uncorks the reusable stopper and out slides the ribbon of red. Poison. I quickly sit down next to her, resisting the urge to press my fingers over my hurrying heart. I feel as if something in the ground below us is preparing to grab a hold of my ankles and pull me straight through the earth. I still drink and she does too. 

“I can take the makeup off if you want,” she explains through the imposter grin. The white paint across her face looks duller than it had downstairs. Like the blood has been completely drawn from it. I nod, and she steps into the bathroom. The sink inside shushes to life. 

I place my hands flat over my knees. There is a mirror across from me, but I don’t let myself glance up at it. I am worried about what I might see reflected back at me. I imagine the silhouette of mom’s hand pressing down on my shoulder, waiting for me to notice. To explain what I am doing in this room. Convince it that this boy before the mirror is not the same one it knows. As if I could convince myself in the first place. 

She’s out of the bathroom now, holding a stained paper towel. She sits back down. The ghost of the paint is still faintly present, particularly the blue diamonds around her eyes. Faded and grayish like a watercolor portrait. She’s washed most of the red off, but the pink line of the fake smile has remained attached to her lips. Under her chin, she missed a spot of white paint. I want to touch my thumb to it, wipe it off for her. I feel like if I try that, I might cry.  

She’s just that beautiful. 

I look down. My hands are now tightly gripping my knees. She leans in close enough that I can feel the strings of breath on my neck. Her lips find the bone of my jawline. That’s all men are good for. They think with one thing only. The lips go away, but I am still stuck staring at my hands. I wonder if these are the hands that actually belong to me, because I can’t seem to move them at all. I hear the rustling of her costume, and I know for sure she is taking it off. 

I begin to see my hands working at the buttons of my own costume. But it’s not me doing it. In fact, I cannot feel my hands at all. Someone from somewhere else must have hijacked them. And I am observing them as if from inside the little window of a camera. Everything is distant and small. Numb. 

I’m now looking at her face, but I no longer see the traces of the paint on her skin. The world is blinking off. I think I must be above her. She whispers, but my ears are underwater. Down to the deep. She lifts her head, and places her lips on mine. Though I don’t feel it. You’re perverted. I can’t see her anymore. I am blinking in and out of space, with no discernible image or feeling. Just the sense that my mind and my body are untethered from one another. I am drifting toward the edge, a buzzing centimeter at a time. Perverted. 

She is back in my vision. Slowly from an indistinct blur of shape, back to clear again. The numb dissipates. I feel as if I had fallen through into a scene I don’t remember watching. That I have missed something crucial that I can never recover.  

She has her hand in my hair, stroking my scalp with warm fingers. “What happened? Did I lose you?” 

I am looking at her. She is unrecognizable.

The alarm blares, and you struggle to wake up. The light beaming through the window dances in front of your closed eyes. It’s too much for your dry, irritated pupils, but you try to find the courage to open them. 

When you do, you’re met with a pounding headache that reminds you of the night before. You jolt at the realization, causing the bottles on the bed to echo as they hit the floor.  You hear the bottle calling to you, my voice begging you to reopen it, but the sound sends spikes through your head. Your vision is blurred, you fight to catch a thought, but I have dried up your conscience. The only thought that remains still enough for you to catch it is your disappointment.  

It takes a while to gain the energy to pull yourself out of your childhood bed and venture into the kitchen. You need water to subside your dehydration, but that requires you to pass your living room. There, your father is asleep on the recliner, my warm, familiar scent filling the room. His phone vibrates, signifying that it’s 10 a.m. Far too late in the morning for your father to make it to work without consequence, and too late for you to make it to school. Again.  

You suddenly feel sick.  

You rush to the bathroom and begin splashing water on your face, erratically rubbing your hands on your face until it burns. You rub until your hands are covered in your dead skin. You rub until your skin is raw. You rub, trying to erase my existence, but you cannot erase who you see in the mirror.  

Your eyes are swollen. Your face, puffy and red. You look like him.  

Water drips from your hands to your elbows, the chill churning into nausea. Tears spring in your eyes and you rush to the toilet.  

Hunched over the porcelain, you’re reminded of your own childhood. In the early mornings before school, watching your father empty the contents of his stomach after a night out. Your hands are gripping the toilet just as he did. 

You vowed to never be like him, but you, too, have succumbed to the peace that accompanies a drink. Just like him, you irresponsibly toyed with me and now you’re hooked. You feel my claws gripping onto every part of you. My words, coursing through you.  

Guilt gnaws at your chest as you puke.   

You make the decision then to never become him.  

This is the last time, you promise.  

---

To not become him, you outrun him.  

You graduate with honors and secure a full ride to college, escaping the hometown he’s trapped in. You hope that once you leave town, my calls will disappear. The more miles away, you reasoned, the quieter I’d be.  

You were mistaken.  

The addiction runs in your veins. You feel it in your daily dose of caffeine and in how you only consume media in copious amounts, over-consuming television to seize your thoughts, and refusing to pause the music in your ear. You feel it in how your mind shuts off at the tiniest drip, and you feel me in the peace that comes afterwards.  

Nothing silences me, so you decide that you need a job. Yes, because as long as you’re busy, there won’t be time to think me over. But we both know that responsibility has never pushed me away for too long. You can’t hide from me, but you do try to run.  

And run you do.  

To escape the temptation of stillness, you get two jobs. Every second of the day is dedicated to an obligation. Class in the morning. Work. Class in the evening. Work again at night. Repeat.  If you work every weekend, you won’t be tempted to join your roommates’ celebrations. If you have enough money, maybe you can set yourself up for success, and you will never have to reach the lows of your father.  

You suppose that you cannot succumb to genetics if you have no time, but I always find a way to sneak in.  

Late at night, when you’re alone at the front desk working, the silence is filled with my invitations. Your body is exhausted and your legs ache from working such long hours. Just a sip wouldn’t hurt. It would dull your pain, I promise.  

You contemplate the offer, but visions of your father slouched on the recliner and my reeking scent ground you. No, you decide to stay away from me, but you do learn that addiction comes in different forms.  

You begin to chase romantic endeavors, hoping the constant attention will derail your descent into darkness. The kind words from potential partners ease the part of you that hates yourself. Without that constant hatred, there’s little room for me to sway you. Every waking moment of yours is dedicated to something—an assignment, a job, a romantic partner. You have no time to give in.    

You think you’ve won, but the relationships always come to an end, and once they crash, you hear me urging you to take away the shame. You fight my imploring voice by downloading another dating app. The cycle continues.  

You work yourself to the bone. Paper after paper. Shift after shift. You have to be successful. You cannot become him. And you think it’s working, because you’ve gone months without me. You must be doing something right, even if you struggle to hold your eyes open from exhaustion.  

---

“Would it be okay if a few friends came over tonight?” Maisie’s question pulls you out of focus.  

“Is that really necessary?”  

“It would be fun. Besides,” she smiled, “you deserve a break.” 

“I’d actually appreciate if I could be alone tonight.” you hear your voice laced with irritation, but you can’t help it.  

Maisie seemingly nods understandingly, but you hear the slam of her wardrobe as a true testament to her feelings.  

“Is there something wrong?” you ask.  

“Is there something wrong with you?” Maisie challenges. At your look of bewilderment, she continues. “Why are you so reluctant to let anyone in?”  

“I’m just busy.” The truth is you fear my imploration, but you’ll never tell her that.   

“You say no every single time. What’s wrong with you?” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” You argue back, feeling your anger rise.  

“Look around. You have no one.”  

Your anger fades into guilt and it eats at you, because you know she’s not wrong. It’s hard for you to keep friends, not because you despise connection, but because you fear coercion.  

You look down. “That’s the way I like it.” 

“You like doing this to yourself? You’re miserable to be around!” She cries, arms flailing in exasperation.  

You stare at her, face blank. You register her immediate regret, but before she could feed you her apology, you’re out the door.  

Thoughts of me dance in your head, temping indulgence to wash away your shame, but instead you run. You slide into your sneakers and slam the door behind you. You’re not sure where you’re running, but you go as fast as you can, away from the guilt, away from the pain of her words, and as far away as you can from my persuasion.  

You run until your calves burn and you can hear your heartbeat through your ears. You run until the only sound is your feet slamming into the ground beneath you, and you run until you collapse on the ground, exhausted.  

You quickly learn that you chase the high of a thrill because the adrenaline feeds the part of you that craves my affection. You keep running.  

The adrenaline provided momentary relief, but I always resurface.  

You feel the exhaustion set as you begin limping back to the dorm. You feel it deep in your bones and you’re sure that you’ll collapse right into bed.

Unfortunately, my voice still coos as you try to sleep.

---

You wake with the same heavy heart you went to bed with. Despite your sleep, you’re ridden with exhaustion from my presence.  

The creaky wooden floor of your dorm cries while you slide off your ridiculously high bed, and the floor continues to sing as you make your way to the mirror.  

You might not look like him, no. Your eyes aren’t a piercing shade of blue, and you didn’t get the gene for red hair. But he’s written all over you. In your laughter and sarcasm. In your introverted tendencies, and in our chemistry. Nothing you do erases him. 

Nothing can erase me, because when you look in the mirror, you hear me whispering. I’m begging you to abandon today’s responsibilities and join your father on the recliner. You silence me with a portable pencil sharpener, carefully removing the blade and sliding it across your wrists, hoping the release will subside what you truly want. As the blood drips, your mind quiets and turns to static. You do this to not become him. 

You feel relief for mere minutes before the shame sets in.  

Nothing seems to satisfy you. You suppose that’s what addiction is—a lack of satisfaction. So, you take and you take.  

You chase a sense of fulfilment in everything but me, but no matter the letter grade, direct deposit, or the number of women you’ve been with, you are still unsatisfied. You might not see his smile in your reflection, or his swollen face, but you feel like him. Unsatisfied.  

You run, but the feeling always returns.  

At your lover’s abandonment, you search to fill my hole.   

When you are ashamed of your actions, you chase a way to subdue my persuasion.  

Nothing you have done has blocked me out. You pursue satisfaction through other means, but what’s the point of fighting fate? Let me in.   

After months of rejecting my invitations, you decide to go home for the weekend. For the first time, you don’t show up to your scheduled shift, and you silence your ringing phone. You abandon the assignments due tonight.  

All you’re worried about is opening his stash. And you do. You always come back to me.  

When you enter the living room, you see your father on the recliner, surrounded by my aroma.  

When he sees you, he smiles. “You’re home, kiddo?”  

“Yeah, I am.” 

Looking next to him, you see a half-empty bottle. When he notices your eyes drifting to his ignominy, he quickly defends it.  

“Big game today, just getting ready.” He laughs, quietly ashamed. Smiling sadly, you shake your head in understanding. After giving him a hug, you make your way to the kitchen. 

You open the cabinet that holds his collection. You feel a pit form in your stomach, and instead of backing away, you finally grab me and throw your head back. 

I burn your throat as you swallow and the weight in your chest begins to dissipate. Whether it’s relief from our contact, or from surrendering the war, you instantly feel better. You don’t feel insufficient. Memories of your pummeled relationships and fight for control begin to dissolve, like a string losing its tension.  

The stress that you carefully balanced loses all pertinence.  Peace takes the place of fear.  

This is why he does it, and you finally understand. You’ve spent so much time trying not to become him that you didn’t realize that you already are him.  

Miserable. Tired. Alone.   

If this is who you are, what’s the point in fighting me?   

You finish off the bottle. Just today, you reason. Maybe you must give in entirely to get me out of your system.  

Next week you’ll stop, you promise.

I think I was half asleep when I heard three hard knocks at the door. It’s hard to remember sometimes. Like a dream that’s fuzzy in your head. It doesn’t really feel real, and I don’t think it ever will.  

I had off from school that Friday— some teachers’ convention.  My favorite kind of day off, because I know there’s no functions to go to or any commitments we already have, and no bad weather, either.  I spent the whole day rotting on the couch while everything else happened around me.  My brother, James, was off, too.  At some point during that day, I think everyone I know had been in our house, whether for a few minutes (Michael) or 5 hours (Logan, James’s best friend).  

Maybe I was sleeping.  Who knows.  But I heard some stupid laugh track off the TV every so often, and sometimes Logan and James would giggle to each other.  I heard our neighbor Joey’s voice there too, a witty comment on something someone on the TV said. But everything went silent after the knocks. No one ever knocks at our house. They just come in— the door is never locked.  

From the stove, my oldest brother Daniel turned right to the door, and it was the knocks that finally brought me to full consciousness.  Logan, James, and Joey all stared at each other, brows furrowed and eyes thinned.  I stood up, answering the door just behind Danny simply out of curiosity. 

Behind it was a policeman clad in blue, a black vest over top of his uniform.  My eyes were drawn quickly to the gun in the holster on his right side, then up to the badge on his chest.  L. Rutledge, it read.  

“Can I help you, officer?” asked Daniel, his voice professional and low, like it sounded when he was on phone calls with strangers.  The three other heads in the living room paused the TV and immediately looked over, now very interested in the officer in the doorway. 

The officer held his hat in his hands.  He was shifting as he stood, and he hadn’t looked Danny in the eyes until he asked him the question.  He didn’t smile, but he didn’t look angry, either.  His mouth was a straight line, and he had dark bags under his brown eyes.  He was older, but not ready for retirement just yet, even though he looked like he could use a good, long break. 

“Is this the Carter residence?” he asked, no emotion in his tone. 

“Yes, sir,” said Danny with a nod. “I’m Daniel. Is something wrong?” 

My first thought was Michael, arrested once again or maybe badly hurt, or a third thing that I didn’t really want to think about.  But this officer wasn’t angry, and the ones who ran into Michael Hunter usually were.  The suspense was getting to me.  

“I have some news, Mr. Carter,” he said.  “May I, uh, may I come in?” 

Danny blinked, pausing for a moment before saying, “Sure, officer.”   

Danny led him to the dining room table.  The officer politely walked inside, not looking around gawkily like some people did when they stepped into what I liked to call our hovel.  He wiped his feet at the door and followed Danny quietly.  I nodded to James to come along, leaving Joey and Logan conversing silently.   

The dining room was closed off from the rest of the house. It was the most open room, with the least clutter, because mom liked to keep at least one room free of what she liked to call our “boy junk.” She kept her favorite things in a wooden cabinet complete with glass windows, like plates passed down in her family and some art projects my brothers and I had made for her in elementary school.  It was interesting to look at— the duality of the things she treasured.  

“There’s three of you, correct?” said the officer, his voice low, still devoid of any defining tone. Why was he here?  What was such sensitive information? 

“Yes,” said Danny with a nod. “These two are my brothers.  I’m the oldest.” 

“And how old are you, son?” he asked. 

“I’m 20, officer. 21 in a few months.” 

“God,” he muttered. 

“Officer,” said James, finally cutting in, “what’s it you’re here for?” 

“I hate to be the one to break this to you, boys. They thought it’d be best if it were me.  I’m a father to three boys myself.” 

We didn’t say anything. We just listened.  

“I wanted it to be as comfortable as possible,” he said. “I didn’t want to just tell it to you blunt in the doorway.” 

“What, officer?” asked Danny, a tilt of his head.  

“Your parents have been in a car accident,” he said. The words came out so slowly, as if he were walking on ice when he said it.  “They were driving back toward the city, and it was dark. Eighteen-wheeler with malfunctioning headlights.” 

None of us said anything.  I wanted to scream, but none of us did anything.   

Officer Rutledge took a deep breath. “They died on the scene,” he said. “Before the ambulances even arrived. The truck driver’s been arrested.” 

I blinked.  Then I pretended I didn’t hear him.  That he didn’t actually mean what he said. That it was some sick elaborate joke by Joey or some of those rich kids that hate us or someone else.  That I was watching one of those soap operas I like to binge, and this wasn’t actually my life.  That my parents were safe, in their car, driving back to see us, because we were going to surprise them with dessert, and all headlights in the world were working and car accidents didn’t happen and my parents were okay and they would come back and give me and Danny and James big hugs and say that they’d never go on a trip without us again and that they were okay. I pretended, for so many moments, that my parents were okay.  And for those fleeting moments, they were. 

“I’m so sorry,” said the officer, no longer looking any of us in the eyes.  I didn’t look at either of my brothers, afraid I might see tears building in James’s eyes, or even Danny’s, because either of those things would make me cry, too.  But I couldn’t cry in front of the officer.  I couldn’t cry in front of my brothers. “Because you are legally an adult, Mr. Carter,” he addressed Danny, “you have formal custody of your brothers. But until you turn 21, any delinquent behavior, and they do risk being put in a home for boys,” he explained.   

Danny just nodded. 

“I’m so sorry, boys,” he repeated.  “If there’s anything more I can do, that any of us can do, don’t hesitate to give the department a call.” 

Bring my parents back, I thought. But he couldn’t do that. 

“Thank you, officer,” said Daniel. I’ve never heard his voice so quiet and shaky.  

Officer Rutledge didn’t say anything more. Instead, he let himself out of the house, and left me, Danny, and James, just standing there, in front of our mother’s treasures, listening to his words over and over again.  They died on the scene, was all I heard for the rest of that night, playing on a loop.  

Danny put his arms around me and James. He did not cry, but I could see now that tears were streaming down James’s face, and they had been for a minute, because his face was all red. It made me break down, too, because I realized that it was real.  That we said goodbye to them Wednesday night and wished them a good trip and those would be the last words we would ever say to them. And that we would never see them smile again.  They wouldn’t see James turn 17.  They wouldn’t see us graduate high school. Or go to college. Or meet girls.  Or get married. Or anything else for the rest of our lives. It really hit me, just then, as our knees buckled under us and we broke down to the floor together, that we would never see our mother and father again. 

Joey and Logan came in to check on us minutes later, all sitting on the floor, James and I bawling our eyes out.  James stood up and threw his arms around Logan.  He was a much more graceful crier than I was, sitting and sniffing quietly as tears ran down his face.  Logan didn’t say anything when James hugged him. 

I, on the other hand, was loud, and my face was all red and I couldn’t see anything through the tears. Danny just rubbed my back and let me lean into him.  When Joey came along, he knelt next to me and I felt his hand on my shoulder, cold from the bottle of soda he had been holding. 

I’m not sure if Logan and Joey heard any of the conversation, or maybe just made a lucky guess, but they seemed to know without us telling them.  Or maybe Danny or James did say something, and I just didn’t hear over the sound of my own sobs. I don’t know.  But as the night went on, everyone else seemed to find out, too, and by the time the sun had set, even Michael Hunter had joined us at our house.   

Everyone slept over that night, all of us on the living room floor.

“Sandy called me at home a couple days ago.” I clenched my teeth as Bob started. “She left a message on my machine that said, ‘this is Sandy. Yes, that Sandy. The evil Sandy. The one you haven’t talked to since 1990. And I don’t blame you.’ She asked me to have you call her. I didn’t call you because if she really wanted to speak with you, your number hasn’t changed.” 

“She did call me. The office. The apartment. She also called Eric, Mark, and everybody else we knew back then.” Our drinks arrived but neither of us picked them up. “I can’t do this again, Bob. She walked out on me twice.” Bob lifted an eyebrow with a look that said “twice?” 

The first time Sandy walked out on me was five years prior. She came back from the University of Chicago with a newly minted MBA, and the announcement that she met someone else. I never saw it coming. We had been dating for five years after meeting in a Chaucer, Shakespeare and Milton class, and I thought we were doing a good job keeping our long-distance romance alive. 

We agreed to meet at the Seaport for her homecoming. It was where we had our first date. I figured it would be the most romantic place to get down on one knee and present her with the little blue box I had picked up at Tiffany. But I never got that far. She introduced me to a guy named Roger that she met in Chicago, and swore she didn’t mean for it to happen. I walked all the way back from the Seaport to my apartment. 

Five years later, I was sitting on a park bench enjoying a beautiful Spring morning when I heard from behind me, “‘Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote,’” I didn’t need to look. I recognized the voice that I hadn’t heard for five years. 

I turned around with tears in my eyes and said, “‘The droghte of March hath perced to the roote.’” 

“I made a mistake.” Sandy was standing with her feet apart and her palms turned toward me. She looked like she had been crying for three days. 

I explained to Bob that Sandy and I went to a diner on Sixth and she told me through sobs that Roger was cheating on her. She suspected for a long time because all the signs were there: working late; lack of interest in sex; excessive drinking. She hired an investigator who confirmed it, and then confronted Roger. He had always cheated on her from the time they were dating, through engagement, and marriage. 

“Why was she telling you this? Why were you even listening?” 

I took a slug of my drink before responding to Bob. “There’s nothing else I could do. You know that.” 

She was living in a hotel because she couldn’t bear the shame of moving back in with her parents. I tried to stay away, but I couldn’t. Maybe I thought that I could just be supportive. But a couple days later, I was opening a taxi’s door for her and our hands touched. It was like the last five years had never happened. 

For six weeks we were college kids again. God, it was good. She helped me with the contractors installing the seats in the theater. We re-read Chaucer together. We both played hooky from work and caught a matinee of Love! Valour! Compassion! starring Nathan Lane. Of course, we did. He was an unknown in the first show we ever saw together ten years before. 

I broke it off with a talented singer named Gail. Gail deserved much better. I felt bad about it, but I knew it was the right thing. Sandy and I watched the Oklahoma City bombing aftermath in silence. But I never once mentioned the small Tiffany box that was still sitting in my junk drawer for the last five years. 

“God, I never imagined.” Then it dawned on him. “You still have the ring? For five years? For what?” 

“Tiffany doesn’t take returns on engagement rings, Bob.” He thought I was kidding, but I wasn’t. I checked. “We spent nearly every minute in April and May together. Then one day, after making sure we were in a public place, she announced that she and Roger had reconciled. A gut wound from a forty-five would have been less painful. Sandy said she was so sorry—just like she did in 1990. She said she didn’t plan it—just like before. And for the second time, the woman I gave my heart to, destroyed it. She reached into my chest, tore it out and stomped on it. Right in the middle of Union Square. I didn’t say anything. I just walked away.” 

“So, what do you think she wants now?” 

— | — 

On September 15, I found out what she wanted. Sandy was in the waiting room of my office when I came back from a meeting uptown. Seeing her, and with people around, I really didn’t have any choice but to show her in. I remained standing and didn’t offer her a seat. 

“You can tell, right?” she said while waving her hand over her belly. “I’m 18 weeks.” 

“You and Roger must be very happy. Why are you telling me this?” 

“Eighteen weeks is four and a half months. It’s September.” She raised her fingers as she began counting off the months. “August is one. July is two. June is three. May is four. April is – get it? Roger did the math himself. We’re not together. Again.” 

“I can’t. I just can’t. I can’t go through this a third time.” 

“I’m not asking you to do anything. I’m just informing you, and you can do what you want.” She took my long silence as her cue to leave. Then she walked out my office door and headed for the elevator. I followed behind to make sure she was indeed leaving, and almost said something as she stepped into the elevator. 

“I really do love you, you know.” 

“No. You don’t,” I mumbled after the elevator doors closed. 

— | — 

A dozen years later I was half-looking at the paper and having a sandwich alone at a self-service place in Chelsea. Across the room was a table with two moms and their sons. One mother/son couple were facing me, and the other had their backs to me. Somehow, one of the boys caught my eye. 

The kid facing me leaned across the table and whispered something to the other boy seated with his back to me and pointed. The kid he whispered to slowly turned around. His jaw dropped when he saw me. He had a shock of untamed dark hair, deep-set eyes, and in another fifteen years he’d have a perpetual five o’clock shadow just like the guy staring back at him. 

His mother turned around to see what was going on. We both stared at each other for about five seconds. She gave me a little wave, and winked.

Kenya lies in East Africa, straddling the equator. The Great Rift Valley cuts through the country from north to south, and the land sits at an average of about 1,500 meters above sea level. English is the official language, but most Kenyans speak Swahili. The word we heard most often was “Jambo,” which means “hello” in Swahili.

Kenya only has two seasons: a wet season and a dry season. Every year in late July and early August, as the rainy season arrives, the herbivores of Kenya’s plains migrate from Tanzania, Kenya’s neighbor to the south, into Kenya in order to survive. When the dry season returns, they begin the long journey back to Tanzania. This great cycle is known as the world-famous Great Migration of East Africa’s wildlife. In mid-August last year, I traveled all the way to Kenya to witness this grand spectacle for myself.

Our guide, Mr. Ali, had told us the day before that we needed to leave for the game reserve at first light. So, we woke up early and picked up the picnic lunches prepared by the hotel. Setting out before sunrise, we were eager for a day of adventure in the wild.

The early morning breeze was cool and gentle, and the sunlight softly radiant. Some were deep in the soil, while others were faint and almost hidden. They appeared and disappeared, as if the grasslands themselves held secret paths. The scent of the trees, sometimes strong and near, then light and distant, drifted in and filled our senses. I felt that the aroma was so rich and full, it seemed as if it was about to speak.

The morning landscape was utterly different from what we’d seen the afternoon before. Now there were animals as far as the eye could see. Everywhere we went, we encountered huge herds of wildebeest accompanied by zebras, all leisurely enjoying a feast on the lush green grasses of the Maasai Mara.

When we arrived in Kenya, the wildebeest migration had already come to a brief halt. The life of the wildebeest is an endless cycle: to survive, they follow the rains and chase the green pastures. From mid-July to early August each year, as the dry season advances northward, millions of wildebeest migrate from northern Tanzania to the Mara River at the Tanzania–Kenya border. In waves, they brave the swift currents of the river, crossing into Kenya’s Maasai Mara grasslands. That’s why this time of year is the very best time to visit Kenya.

By late November, the wildebeest gather again and move back south, returning to Tanzania, which by then is verdant and refreshed by the rains. Along the Mara River, two deadly creatures lie in wait for the crossing herds: one is the world’s largest and most ferocious Nile crocodile, and the other is the so-called “king of the river,” the hippopotamus. The Mara River is the final barrier the wildebeest must cross during their great migration. If they make it over, they reach a haven of plentiful water and grass; if they fail, most will die from the lack of food and water.

And so, the biannual Mara River crossings produce one heart-pounding scene after another. In the span of those crossings, the wildebeests’ wild drive to survive, the suspense of evading predators, and the tragic fate of those caught by hunters are all vividly on display. Yet to live, the wildebeest have no choice. They continue, year after year, to play the role of vulnerable protagonists in this epic migration.

Our Jeep drove across the vast grassland, moving in fits and starts. Great stretches of savanna, some areas yellow, others green, spread out before us. And great herds of animals, some dark, some light, grazed near and far, high and low. Zebras, which formed a vast population on the African plains, their black-and-white stripes visible in almost every direction, and wildebeest and antelopes were everywhere. Just then, our guide’s radio crackled: someone had spotted a large animal and was calling everyone over. Our driver stepped on the gas and headed straight toward a clump of bushes. In the distance, we saw seven or eight vehicles clustered together, their occupants quietly aiming long-lensed cameras into the brush. “There must be lions,” our experienced guide murmured.

Our jeep rolled to a gentle stop near the thicket. Suddenly, five or six adorable lion cubs bounded joyfully out of the bushes! We let out quiet exclamations of delight and hurried to raise our cameras. A moment later, three adult lionesses emerged behind the cubs. They cast us a cautious glance, then sprawled out comfortably to bask in the morning sun. After all, lions are the kings and queens of the savanna. This was their domain, and we were nothing more than powerless, uninvited guests, posing no threat to them. The cubs, less than ten meters from us, romped and tumbled to their hearts’ content, while the mothers gazed on indulgently. It was a beautiful scene of familial bliss.

As we continued our safari, we were unexpectedly privileged to witness the birth of new life and the profound love of a mother. While driving past another herd of zebras, my father, who had been busy taking photos, suddenly cried out in excitement. There, in the middle of the herd, a mother zebra was lying on the grass, giving birth to her baby! We all held our breath and watched this extraordinary moment with equal measures of worry and wonder. We felt the selflessness of a mother’s love, the warmth of family bonds, the sincerity of devotion, and the solidarity of companionship in the animal world of the East African savanna.

But nature is always so stark, real. Life and death can play out in the blink of an eye. We had barely finished basking in the joy of new life when, just a few minutes later, we saw a lioness in full sprint, chasing down one of the wildebeest from a herd. In no time, she lunged and brought the wildebeest crashing to the ground. Its helpless bleating was heart-rending. After a brief struggle, the wildebeest finally ceased resisting. The lioness then dragged her prey under a tree and leisurely began to enjoy her meal for the day. Such is nature: life and death come so suddenly, with no room for choice.

Our jeep moved onward, stopping and going, as time felt both frozen and fleeting. In all directions, as far as the eye could see, we were surrounded by a sea of wildebeest and zebras, numbering in the millions. Our jeep crept forward, driving against the tide of their migration. No language on earth could adequately describe such magnificence. Not even a television program could fully capture what was before our eyes. It was something that had to be experienced in person. And there I was, in that little corner forgotten by time, quietly savoring the endless peril and vitality of the animal kingdom.

Before the trip, I had done some homework and learned about the concept of the Big Five, the five great African beasts: lion, leopard, rhinoceros, elephant, and Cape buffalo. During our days in Kenya, we were lucky enough to spot all the legendary “Big Five.” The term comes from the old days of trophy hunting, when these creatures were deemed the most difficult and dangerous animals to hunt on foot.

Today, with wild populations becoming ever more endangered, the historical notion of the Big Five has taken on a new meaning. These animals have become priority targets for conservation. To see all five of them roaming free on the boundless savanna was a thrill beyond words, a highlight of our journey that left us ecstatic.

By the time we left the Maasai Mara, the sunset was already shimmering in a brilliant array of colors, like a handful of shattered jewels scattered across the vast grassland. In the short few days I spent in this animal paradise, I watched a mighty lion pride stride across the plains, felt my heart ache at the tragic great migration of the wildebeest, rejoiced at the birth of a zebra’s new life, and admired the leisurely, elegant stroll of giraffes. I had witnessed the magic of life, the selflessness of maternal love, the warmth of family bonds, and of course, the cruel reality of nature’s survival of the fittest.

This land is truly a paradise for the animals. It is their real home, while we humans are merely rushing visitors. I was deeply moved, even to the point of tears, by every life that blossomed on this soil. I feel fortunate that I was able to visit this different world, even if it was only as a short-term guest. Peering out of the car window, I took one last look at the endless grasslands, which looked like a faraway dreamland, warm and tranquil, free as you, free as me. The clear air and gentle breeze made my heart come to rest quietly, though tinged with a faint wistfulness.

In my heart, I silently whispered: Farewell, beautiful Maasai Mara. Farewell, beautiful Kenya!

Gravity is the enemy of us all. For me, it is specifically problematic. Let me explain. Relying on people to help transfer me onto chairs, my bed or asking people to open doors for me is exhausting. As I’ve grown older, I’ve started to realize that it may be exhausting for my caretakers as well. It makes a connection between us but sometimes can be a drag on our relationship. I must remain vigilant, having to anticipate the erratic actions of people going about their day who don’t see me in the wheelchair. Waiting for people to help me do basic things is frustrating when I just want to do a simple task, like getting a glass from the cabinet. Even though life can be tough at times, it is still manageable. This mentality is how I go about life day to day and is what made me a very resilient person who doesn’t let anything get in my way. If I didn’t have this mentality, then I would be unable to do things that are challenging. Being faced with challenges is what gives life value. In my experience, doing the best you can in everyday situations, and embracing the determination to succeed in the face of adversity is the turning point of childhood into adulthood. 

Most of these struggles are derived from my diagnosis, an incurable disease called muscular dystrophy that forces me to be in a wheelchair. I must deal with people running into me and not holding doors for me. Even though things happen, I still manage to get through the day without giving it second thoughts. In school, writing is sometimes a challenge by getting muscle cramps and stiffness. Doing things independently is a struggle too; from being unable to reach things to having to be transferred, I try not to let these things lower my confidence. At the end of the day, everyone is human. Not everyone is a wheelchair user, but I’ve come to realize that everyone still has daily struggles that can negatively affect them and cause undue stress. I am personally able to get through these circumstances, whether brought about by my diagnosis or just the normal stressors that any teenager goes through. When these situations come up, I repeatedly tell myself to never give up. Even though some days I get overwhelmed, what keeps me going is the reminder that my whole family is willing to help me and are very proud of all the milestones I have accomplished.  

Having independence in the water is the only time I can feel truly free. In a pool, I am able to walk on my own and do things I am not capable of on land. This feeling of individuality has made me realize that even though I can’t do this on land, I get a sense of captivating solace while in the pool. I realized this feeling does not have to be restricted to aquatics; that this freedom helps build a positive personal mindset more than any physical restriction can limit my self-esteem. I can achieve this by giving my full and best efforts every day, to prove to myself that there are aspects of my life that are under my control and utilize all the skills I do have to live my life to its fullest potential. 

Water means independence and freedom. When I am in a pool, weightless, I can walk with my own power, an impossible feat on land. This elated feeling is fundamental and offers captivating solace. I yearn to feel like that all the time, even if I can’t walk. The feeling lives in my limbs, my breath and my mind’s eye as I strive to relive it as I roll on doing my all-time best every day, to live independently. 

The Subject: Mr. Alfred Morris III

The Location: 351 Willow Ave bus stop, located in front of Sterling Meadow Towers

The Time: 6:47pm

Every evening, my upstairs-by-three-floors neighbor, Mr. Morris III, arrives at the bus stop at the exact same minute. The exact same minute, every time. The 268 bus, I believe.

“It has to be the only bus that never has a delay,” my mom once said. “Must be nice to take a gamble and win every time.”

Everyone thinks I’m weird. Sometimes I worry I’m not weird enough.

“It’s just a bus, Malik,” Aliyah huffed at dinner. She thought she was so clever, telling Mom that I had been hiding out in my corner again. My corner was the only way I could get a good angle of the bus stop and front door to the apartments from my bedroom window. I had to be able to see while staying unseen.

But when my mom caught me there for the first time, I knew what would happen if she caught 

me there the next time.

“Mom says spying is sneaky, and God doesn’t like sneaky,” Aliyah said matter-of-factly. She chugged her milk while she studied Mom’s face, swinging her short legs proudly, looking forward to being rewarded for acting as Mom’s unofficial scout.

Mom looked sternly at me, her mouth in a tight line. She closed her eyes and breathed in, and I for sure thought this would be the end of me as I knew it.

Instead, she breathed out and said, “Curiosity killed the cat, Malik. Being nosy leads to problems, so stop looking for them.”

Mom is wrong.

I don’t go looking for problems. Problems come looking for me. If it wasn’t for me, no one else would notice that after Mr. Morris III gets off the 6:47pm bus, he crosses the street to the phone booth, pops in two quarters, and talks on the phone for 25 minutes exactly (I know since I timed it on my stopwatch). 

Then, when he’s finished, he emerges from the booth, crosses the street, and heads toward the mailboxes. Even when there’s mail, he always seemed so…disappointed. Whatever letter or package he’s been waiting for hasn’t arrived yet. I’ve never seen an adult so on edge over some mail. To Mom and Aliyah, keeping tabs on this is pointless. But Alfred Morris III never misses a beat with his routine, and I want to know why.

---

The next day, I decide I need to take my observation a step further. It’s not enough that I see him on the street. What he does after he comes in is equally important.

Mom doesn’t let us go out of the apartment when she’s not home. Even going out into the hallway is a big no-no. The only access to the inside of the building I have is through the peephole in the front door. Normally, that wouldn’t give me much to work with. Mr. Morris III uses the elevator to get to his floor. 

Until this morning, when the elevator was declared closed for maintenance.

Luckily, the staircase is right in front of the door. I have a pretty good view of whoever is coming up or going down. But how will that tell me what I want to know?

Obviously, I’ll need to collect data. It’s not just about when he comes up or down the stairs. What is his mood? His gait? Is he holding anything? Mail, perhaps? Does he stop to talk to anyone in-between floors?

I decided the best way to get a clearer view is through a lens. I managed to connect my minicamera to my desktop some time ago, allowing me to have photos automatically upload into the cloud after the camera takes a photo or video. This would allow me to keep tabs on any motion or movement in real time with a much wider view.

I’ve decided to place the camera where the doorbell used to be before it stopped working and was removed. There, it would be inconspicuous; the lenses are too small to be seen.

I had to wait until Mom left for the day to tape the camera to the wall in the hallway. Of course, as luck would have it, Aliyah was home too, watching me from her scout’s perch on the sofa. 

“Mom’s not gonna be happy that you opened the door,” she said, swinging her feet. Aliyah’s always itching to get me into trouble.

I undid the lock and cracked the door. I tucked the camera and a roll of scotch tape in my pocket so Aliyah wouldn’t see what I was up to.

“I’m gonna tell her you let strangers in.”

“Then that would be lying, ‘cause that’s not what I’m doing.”

Stepping into the hallway, I was met with still silence. Most people probably left the building well before I or the sun was awake. The time on my watch read 8:12 am. At exactly 8:20 am, Mr. Morris III would catch the 268 bus on its morning route, meaning that he would head downstairs and be at the bus stop by 8:15. I had three minutes to set up my camera.

I pulled the tape out of my pocket, snapped off a piece, rolled it up into an open ‘o’ and slapped it on the door. Then, I took the camera and smushed it on top of the tape, holding it for a few seconds to make sure it stayed in place.

Three stories up, a door opens and slams shut. Mr. Morris III’s door. It’s 8:14.

I shuffled back into the apartment and quickly closed the door, careful not to slam it behind me just in case the tape felt like loosening its grip to the wall.

Just as I locked the door, heavy footsteps came marching down the stairs. Mr. Morris III made his way to our landing. I took a stool from the kitchen to stand on and peered at him through the peephole.

Instead of continuing downwards, he began looking around nervously. His wrinkled-up jacket crumpled under his hands fisting it, as if he was looking for something. 

After surveilling the floor, Mr. Morris III stopped directly in front of the peephole. He stared into it, as if perceiving my presence. I held my breath, making sure he couldn’t hear even the slightest sound. The camera’s automatic shuttering began uploading all the photos it had been taking since I taped it. 

Mr. Morris III glared into the peephole: watching, waiting. It is 8:18am. Mr. Morris III snapped out of his strange stupor and headed downstairs.

There’s no way he’s going to make that bus today, I thought, rushing over to my corner. My excitement quickly turned into disappointment when the 268 bus pulled up to the stop, and there Mr. Morris III was, hopping right on it. Aliyah giggles at my defeat. It was 8:20am, and not a minute later.

---

I sat in front of my computer for what felt like forever, scrolling through what had to have been thirty photos. 

I analyzed every shot the camera had captured of Mr. Morris III, but— between blurry screenshots of him mid-action, to simple confused stares in every direction— I couldn’t ascertain anything that could be used as evidence aside from his behavior.

Who or what could have made him look so nervous?

It is now 6:25pm. There is exactly 27 minutes before the 6:47pm drops Mr. Morris III off at the 351 Willow Ave bus stop across the street from Sterling Meadow Towers.

Aliyah skipped into my room, house phone in hand. “Mom said she’s coming home late.”

I leapt from my desk to my bedroom window, about to pick up my binoculars, before an idea popped into my head. I stuck my binoculars in my pants pocket, grabbed my sneakers, and headed towards the front door. 

“Ooooh, I’m telling Mom that you left,” Aliyah teased, trailing behind me. “She’s gonna get you this time, for sure.”

“Whatever, Aliyah,” I said, waving her off. I knew I’d get it for sure, but this opportunity was too good to waste. With Mom out of the way, I could sneak downstairs and observe Mr. Morris III before he went back to his apartment. The closer, the better. No more waiting from my observation deck; it was time to do some field work. I’ll finally know what his deal is once and for all.

I headed down to the lobby. Aside from the unattended toolbox and ladder next to the broken-down elevator, the space is empty. I decided to hide behind one of the wide pillars in the middle of the room. 

My breath goes heavy, and my hands remain on my binoculars at the ready.

6:30…6:35…6:40

The time felt like it ticked by for hours. The sun began to set until the sky turned purplish black and the street lights came on. 

6:46pm…

Just one more minute until the 6:47 bus arrived.

I reach into my pocket for my camera when it hits me. It’s still taped to the side of the door. 

I groan in exasperation; how could I possibly forget to bring the one thing that would capture my evidence? 

The 6:47pm bus pulls to the stop. Mr. Morris III emerges and makes a beeline to the phone booth. He pops in a quarter and begins speaking into the phone. This time, however, he smiles and laughs.

This is quite strange.

He talks on the phone longer than usual. Maybe he finally received the good news he’s been after for so long.

He hangs up, crosses the street, and heads toward the mailbox, reaching his hand in and pulling out a small package. 

Quite strange indeed. 

Mr. Morris III looked elated. He’d only been waiting a couple of weeks for this, but you’d think he waited a lifetime.

He pulled out a jackknife and opened the box. It’s a camera, not unlike the one I have. It’s no smaller than a microphone. 

Mr. Morris III made his way to the entrance while I shuffled behind the pillar. I held my breath as hard as I could, sweat pooling profusely on my brow. After all this time, I’d never gotten this close to Mr. Morris during my observations. For some reason, getting caught by him seems scarier than being caught by Mom.

Mr. Morris III stood in stillness, the camera in his hand. He slowly turned toward the pillar I hid behind, like he could sense there was a presence. 

“Now listen here, little boy,” he said sternly. I gulped. He knows. And now? I’m dead. 

“I’ve had it up to here with your spying about. It ends today, and it ends here. With this camera, I’ll have proof you’ve been in my business!”

Mr. Morris III makes a beeline for the pillar. For a man his age, he moves at the speed of light. I turn the corner and head for the stairs.

Spiraling upwards, my heart pounded louder than it ever had. The sounds of my feet hitting the concrete stairs blended in with my heartbeat. Behind me, Mr. Morris III was catching up, no decrease in his steps in sight. He was getting closer and my imminent doom was becoming more palpable by the minute.

I reached the third door: my floor. I didn’t have a key, so the only thing standing between me and death was Aliyah. 

“Aliyah, open up! It’s an emergency,” I screamed, furiously banging on the door. 

No answer. Typical little sister.

Mr. Morris III crept up the last couple of steps, glaring menacingly, camera in hand.

“Please, Aliyah, he’s gonna get me!”

“Right you are, little sneak,” Mr. Morris III said, inching closer. “Not so fun getting followed around, is it?”

I shut my eyes tightly, my eyes and throat burning with tears. My hand stayed clenched on the knob, praying for a miracle to appear.

In front of me, the door creaked open. A loud clicking sound ripped through the air, and I opened my eyes to find myself standing alone in the hallway, Mr. Morris III’s camera clattering to the ground. A few seconds ago, an angry old man stood behind me, ready to strike. But now, I stood alone, as if no one was ever there with me.

Panting, I turned to find Aliyah standing in the doorway, gleefully holding a small camera in her own hand.

“Told ya God doesn’t like sneaky. You’re gonna be in soooo much trouble when Mom gets home!”

Tchaikovsky played in Sabrina’s earphones as she walked through the snow-covered streets of Paris. It was getting dark and snow still fell, turning the buildings before her fluffy white. Fairy lights were draped over buildings, laughter echoed through the music playing in her ears, and she couldn’t believe where she was headed. She passed by multiple coffee shops, many still open and full of couples and friends embraced by scarves and heavy coats. Christmas garlands decorating apartment doors, children trying to catch snowflakes with their tongues. Sabrina kept walking, her boots making soft crunches on the fresh snow that covered the pavement.  

Tchaikovsky had been one of her favorite composers growing up, his music encapsulating the holidays like cookies and milk being left out for Santa on Christmas Eve, and now she was going to the Opera Bastille to take part in Tchaikovsky’s greatest work: The Nutcracker. Well, at least she was auditioning to be a part of it.  

A week prior to her audition, Madame Elise, the most influential woman in ballet to this day, and someone that Sabrina had the pleasure to encounter, had left a message on Sabrina’s voicemail.  

“…be here next week at seven, alright?” The machine beeped after the message ended for the twentieth time that evening she had received it, she couldn’t believe it. After everything, Elise still wanted her to try.  

Now, Sabrina made her way by foot to the Opera. She could’ve taken the metro, but she had wanted to feel the cold December night breeze against her pale face, making her nose feel stiff and her cheeks red. 

She was coming closer; she could already see its structure from halfway down Rue de Lyon. She could see the round building standing, unmovable, gray concrete before her. It was ugly, she thought. But she couldn’t forget how the inside held so much warmth, the antique chandeliers making light bounce against the art that hung on the walls. The modern had taken over the outside, but no one had the heart to dismantle the grandiosity the old Opera held inside.  

She made her way in, and walked alone down the golden corridors, towards the back. Sabrina walked in silence, scrunching her nose as it started to unfreeze. 

Following the red carpet, Sabrina reached the dressing rooms and the staff-only bathrooms. Outside of dressing room number one stood a small woman with short, straight black hair looking down at a clipboard, Claudia. Sabrina had not seen Elise’s assistant since the last ballet she was a part of, which took place a year and a half ago. Sabrina loved Claudia, but as soon as she saw her, memories of the last ballet came crawling to fog her mind. Sabrina’s high spirits were replaced by a dreadful nervousness.  

“Sabrina,” Claudia gave Sabrina her always warm smile, and asked Sabrina to follow her. “Please get changed here, and we will call you when it’s your turn. It is nice having you back.” 

“It’s nice being back, Claudia,” Sabrina tried to compose herself as she opened the door of the dressing room. There were four girls sliding on their tights and fixing their hair. They all snapped their heads back to look at Sabrina. 

“Sabrina!” They all said in unison, smiling fake smiles from ear to ear, “we didn’t know you’d be back after the disaster!” 

Giggles followed as Sabrina pried her feet from the door and made her way to one of the seats, putting her bag down. She knew they would be here; she had been preparing herself all week for this deathly encounter. 

“We don’t mean it in a mean way Sabrina,” Solene, one of the best ballerinas Sabrina had ever met, one of the most disgusting people Sabrina had ever had the displeasure to meet, sweetly shook her head as she went over to Sabrina and touched her arm. 

Sabrina shrunk against Solene’s pale, freezing cold fingers. She turned and smiled at the girls. Solene, Ines, Chloe, and Colette. Or the coupé, the cut, as Sabrina used to call them. It had been a year and a half since she last saw them. Part of her knew there was no escaping them if she wanted to go back to ballet. Sabrina knew the coupe would always follow her every step, turn, and jump, just as they had done before. As she climbed her way up into becoming Elise’s principal dancer, the four girls had crawled right behind her, snagging, and weighing her down, until she couldn’t move anymore.

“I know you would never be mean,” Sabrina’s stare cut through Solene’s big green eyes, and the two girls smiled at each other for what felt like ages. 

“So, Sabrina, what happened again? What have you been like, doing with your life?” Ines was short and frail like a small bird, and she moved like one on stage. She was Solene’s second in command, her ears. The other girls all leaned forward in expectation as Sabrina took her leotard out of her bag, but Sabrina said nothing. Nervousness was giving in to anger, pulsating hot under Sabrina’s fingers. 

“How Elise didn’t kick her out of her company, I’ll never know,” Sabrina heard Colette whisper loudly to Ines. They both scoff and roll their eyes. Idiotic bimbos, thought Sabrina. 

Looking through the mirror, she saw eight wide eyes staring at her, glistening gold with the warm lights that surrounded the mirrors. Sabrina realized they were surprised. They knew Elise had asked her to audition, but it seemed they didn’t think she would show. She looked down at her bag, trying to hide her smirk.  

“I heard you’ve been working at that shitty restaurant down at Pigalles,” Solene said, twirling her platinum blonde curls as she put it up in a bun. 

“I heard you and your boyfriend broke up and he kicked you out of his apartment?” Chloe said, as she picked on her perfectly pink manicured nails.

“How long did that sprain take to heal, huh?” Colette said, eyes wide, her mouth was agape as she stared at Sabrina. Not one single thought on her brainless blonde head. 

Sabrina froze. She turned to face the Coupé.  

Coupé: a move in ballet where one foot “cuts” the other, taking its place. 

For a year, Sabrina gave up ballet. For the first six months after she had failed her fouette, on the biggest role she had ever taken, which had made her fall on the stage with a tearing sound that apparently, she had only imagined, followed by screams from the audience, she had taken her time to heal. Yet, when Sabrina’s vision had blurred as she fell, she could’ve sworn her bone was poking out of her left leg, even as her mother told her the sprain didn’t tear her skin apart, that image haunted her every night she lay, invalid, on her boyfriend’s unkempt bed.

Six months after she could fully walk again, she didn’t have time to contemplate what had happened. She needed to find a new place to live, she needed a job. She was twenty-six and now without her lazy boyfriend, she refused to go back to her mother’s apartment in Reims, she couldn’t leave Paris. So, she became a server, ten hours a day, in a shitty restaurant down at Pigalles. Then another job in a well-known cafe closer to the Seine, and when Elise had called Sabrina, she had just gotten her third job working in a grocery shop two blocks from where she lived.  

She dropped them all after that phone call. She called her managers and told them she wasn’t coming in next week, or ever again, for that matter. Sabrina had tried to keep in contact with her colleagues, but Elise was the only one who hadn’t dropped her. Had kept her on the bench, as her mother liked to say. No one else wanted the girl who ruined The Swan Lake, such a lovely story, such sweet dances; how could she take such a wrong leap?  

She hadn’t. The fouette was challenging, but simple to Sabrina. As dangerous as the fast turns were considered, it was her favorite. She had never gotten it wrong before. Thinking about it, her pointe shoes seemed so stiff, so heavy, anchoring her down as she danced, not broken in as she had sworn was done before the performance. Sweat ran down her brow into her eyes, why was this so painful, why was her leg dragging behind her? Why couldn’t she move like she had done thousands and thousands and thousands of times before? 

She wanted Solene and her clique to die.

“None of that is true,” Sabrina said, composing herself. She could not let them know. They could not possibly know the truth of her failed life. They couldn’t possibly find out that if she failed now, this was her last chance to become someone. Without The Nutcracker she would be nobody. 

“I actually moved to… Greece,” she gulped down, and lies started filling her brain. Full stories of theaters she had worked at, how Elise had seen her in one, how her boyfriend had been jealous of her instead of seeing her as dead weight on his shoulders that he waited to dump until her leg was healed, so he wouldn’t have been an asshole. How she had also been asked to be a guest dancer and play the main role in… uhm… Gisele at Palais Garnier this winter.

“You? Playing Gisele?” Solene stepped forward and pointed straight at Sabrina’s chest, almost touching her with her pointy nail.

“Auditions for Gisele are not even out,” Solene continued, “you have always been such a farce, Sabrina.”

“I- I have proof,” Sabrina whipped out her phone— she was sweating, what was she doing? With sweaty hands she grasped her phone, shaking as she had on her last dance. Now she was dancing between the lies she was creating.

Solene grabbed Sabrina’s phone, and started clicking, here, there, then a gasp.

Solene looked up at Sabrina.

“How?” 

“What?”

“How- Why would they offer Gisele to you?”

Sabrina snatched her phone back, and there it was, on an email from a woman Sabrina had never heard of before. She had been kindly asked to take the honor of playing Gisele, in the ballet Gisele, that December at Palais Garnier. Sabrina had never even stepped on the stage of Palais Ganier before.

She started going through her entire phone. Eight pairs of eyes stood behind her, looking over her shoulder. Pictures of Greece, a video of Sabrina leaping on a foreign stage. She had never been to these places. There wasn’t a single sound coming from any of the girls, not one of them was moving. They were, in fact, ballerinas. They knew how to be still. They knew how to move at the speed of lightning. And Sabrina’s mind sped, and a brilliant light switched on. A grin took over her pink lips.

“I am also engaged,” Sabrina lifted her left hand, and a big diamond ring was on her left finger. How did we not see that when she came in? echoed amongst the coupé.

Before anyone could ask any more questions, Claudia opened the door. Sabrina imagined it was a funny image, she still had her left hand up, fingers spread to show the chunk of sparkle weighing her ring finger down, a smile so open it was starting to hurt the corner of her lips, and four ballerinas in baby pink leotards staring at her in disbelief.

Claudia composed herself as she spotted Colette and called the girl to come with her; she was the first to audition.

That left six big eyes gazing at Sabrina. The moment Claudia closed the door and Collette’s taunting gaze disappeared…

“Who?”

“When?”

“HOW?”

The coupé screamed in unison, as they always have. There was a time Sabrina had wanted to be a part of their group. Somehow, they always ended up in the best performances, with the biggest roles.

Sabrina still had her hand up, and she was attentively staring at it. She was not engaged. Or at least, not that she knew. She had no idea what had come over her. She had never seen such a big ring in her life, and she surely had never become involved with a man who could afford such a thing. But now she wanted to keep lying, if lying brought forth her fantasized truths. She hadn’t felt this good around the coupé ever since she got the role of Odette instead of Solene.

“We met in Greece, his family… uhm… owns a big part of the theaters there.”

Sabrina immediately regretted it. She saw the change in the faces of the girls, their sour expressions turning sickeningly sweet again.

“Ah, so that’s how you got those roles,” said Chloe, going back to picking at her nails.

“No… it’s not like that-”

“Oh, Sabrina, we are glad you found someone who is willing to put you back in the spotlight,” Solene smiled, and made her way lightly to the door, the two other girls followed, “we know you couldn’t have done it yourself.”

The door clicked and Sabrina was left in the dressing room by herself. She should’ve come up with a better lie. A better lie about her husband-to-be, whoever he was. She changed, put her hair up in a tight bun. She wanted it so tight her scalp peeled off. Bleeding, she could be left to blend in with the crimson carpet that covered the room.

She was about to leave and join the others to watch Colette perform; she could already hear Tchaikovsky playing lightly in the background. Louder when Solene opened the door and came looking for her pink hair net.

Sabrina smiled at herself in the mirror, and making her way tentatively towards Solene, she placed her face close to the girl’s own, “Ines broke both her legs six months ago, and even though she healed, she can never be the little bird flying around on the stage anymore,” and left the room.

Colette was done performing. Sabrina came close to Chloe and Ines on the right side of the stage, and she saw Madame Elise sitting in the audience by herself, surrounded by crimson seats and grand gilded arches.  

Claudia called her over to confirm the Tchaikovsky song she would be performing, but before the woman could finish her sentence, Sabrina said, “Chloe is not here, she ran away six months ago with an Italian man and now she lives in a shed in the middle of nowhere Italy, expecting twins!”  

Claudia’s eyes glossed over, and when Sabrina looked down at the woman’s clipboard, Chloe’s name was not written.  

Sabrina made her way across the dark wooden floor to an anxious Ines, Chloe not standing next to her anymore. 

“What happened to Chloe?” Sabrina batted her eyes pointedly at the birdy girl. 

Ines’s eyes widened, and when she went to make her remark, she choked, and then coldly turned away, mumbling to Sabrina that she did not speak with Chloe anymore. Chloe and Ines were best friends. 

Sabrina’s smile widened. She had no idea how this was happening, but she wasn’t asking for answers. She just wanted to get each of these girls what they truly deserved. Her mind was foggy, and she didn’t notice how hard her grip was when she grabbed Ines’s fragile shoulders and said, “I am sorry you will never be the pretty bird flying across the stage anymore, Ines. Such a pity.” 

Ines’s eyes glistened with tears as Claudia called her name. Sabrina’s never-ending smile shone as Ines opened the side curtains and made her way to the main stage. 

But Ines couldn’t finish her performance. Madame Elise told her to leave the stage after she fell for the third time, twisting her feeble ankle.  

“Solene, it’s your turn dear,” Claudia placed a hand on Solene’s back and urged her to go on stage, the unease was certain on Claudia’s usually warm, worn expression. Solene glanced at Sabrina with a look of terror. Sabrina had never seen Solene so unsure.  

Tchaikovsky’s sweet melody drowned at Sabrina, giving her a headache. Solene couldn’t take this from her. She saw as the girl moved on the stage, and she knew Solene would do her classic move, an Italian fouette followed by a high, open, almost impossible grand jete. Sabrina couldn’t, would not let that happen. Twenty years of her life came down to this moment, just as it had when she was twenty-four, when she was the Black Swan. Miserable for over a year, she couldn’t lose this again. Solene had tried to cast Sabrina off the grand stage when Sabrina was in the spotlight– she was so vulnerable, so delicate, front page for everyone to see: Sabrina Voclain, Elise’s new Principal Dancer, takes the stage! Followed the week after by the news of her accident, before her name was never mentioned again. It was her turn to give Solene the last taste of her own poison.  

Sabrina screeched as she saw Collette standing behind her. Turning, she dug her nails on Colette’s arms, making the girl shrink, hitting her back against the wall. 

“Sabrina, you’re hurting me,” Colette looked scared. Sabrina’s eyes were glossy, wild, she looked at Colette but didn’t truly see her. 

“Solene fell; she twisted her neck! She’s dead!” Sabrina’s eyes almost popped off their socket as she whispered in Collette’s face, “She tore her neck open, poor thing, poor thing!” 

There was a second of silence. 

Then there was a scream, a clipboard being thrown to the ground. Footsteps rushing, phone dialing. More screams, Solene’s name being chanted like a prayer. 

Collette ran to the stage. Sabrina followed slowly and looked on from backstage. Blood covered the antique wood flooring that lined the main stage. It seemed like poor Solene had not only twisted her neck, but yes, she fell so hard the wood tore and gashed it open, ripe flesh exposed under the yellow lights. So tender, the wood swallowed her blood.  

Sirens wailed as paramedics came rushing in. So fast, aren’t they? Sabrina thought, unblinkingly looking on as Solene’s deconstructed neck and her horror stricken, frozen face were covered by a thick white cloth.  

The body was removed. Ines begged to go with them, Colette rushed outside, Claudia was on the phone, I don’t know what happened, I don’t- I didn’t see, Elise was frozen, her hands covering her open mouth, tears running down her face. She had never seen such a fall.  

Sabrina walked on the stage. A police officer told her to stop, but all sound was muffled, except for the melody, and to that continuous melody she walked to the center of the stage. Her mind, hearing, and vision are as clear as they could ever be. She was a high, gracious, and ever alive tree. Her pointe shoes took in the color of Solene’s blood as she stepped on it and stopped, as she lifted her arms above her head, arching her bled in feet.  

Claudia, Elise, and the police officer stood frozen. 

“Is it my turn?” 

Tchaikovsky continued to play sugary sweet.