Author: lonestarvoice.org Page 2 of 25

Envy Becomes Her

Never did I think my life would end this way; it was never meant to end in tragic violence, at least. Up until now, I had led a reasonably simple life. I was just like any other young woman, looking for love in the city that never sleeps. Since I was a young girl, I’d had this idea in my head of how I’d meet my soulmate. Girl meets boy, boy falls in love with the girl, they get married, maybe start a family, and they’d live happily ever after, right? That’s the way it was supposed to be. Oh, but life had other plans.

Today, I look outside my window, through the iron bars that contain me, that hold me a prisoner. The cold front blankets the sky in dull gray. Outside, time moves along as it usually does, while within these four walls, time is just a concept. Even still, the days are shorter, and the nights are agonizingly longer. Once full of vitality and color, the trees are now lifeless, like me. But unlike me, the cycle of life will continue at the start of the equinox.

Presently, it’s smack dab in the middle of winter. January. In the reflection of the glass, somewhat veiled by frost, defeated eyes look back at me. I don’t recognize her anymore–whoever she is, she’s just a shell of a person. I can hear the muffled conversations from the day nurses as they make their rounds, checking in on the other patients down the hall. I await my turn, albeit not enthusiastically.

I turn to walk back towards the bed, searching between tangled sheets for my pen and notepad. Writing helps me stay sane in this place; call that a paradox. I flip the pages back, exposing a blank slate. Where do I even begin? I guess I should start with why I’m in this hell, the cause for my conviction. I bring the tip of the pen to my tongue and back down onto the paper. My truth flows from me:

                                                                   #

My mother-in-law, Celeste Anderson. She is the reason I’ve been thrown in a mental institution, hidden away upstate. Given a chance, I would have killed her that much is certain. But before you write me off as a monster, you need to know the truth, the absolute truth. So I’m writing this entry to set the story straight. Someone out there has to believe that I did not do what I have been accused of.

The papers say I killed my husband, William Anderson II, known to his close friends as Billy (by everyone, except his mother) for his money and that I attempted to make it look like a home invasion. But not before his poor, helpless mother, Celeste, came home and witnessed the horrific scene and was but a moment away from being collateral damage herself.

None of this is true. It’s a fallacy. I am a victim, and so was he.

My life was taken from me, and the love of my life, Billy, is dead. All because his mother couldn’t stand the thought of her darling boy sharing a life with someone who wasn’t her.

He had no idea the kind of monster his own mother was, no clue that she was the one who spurred his father into drinking himself–literally–to death. In her jealousy, she had gone as far as to push her husband down the stairs, killing him all those years ago. Billy, just a boy then, was led to believe what happened to his father was an unfortunate accident. However, he had expressed a nagging suspicion that Celeste was somehow responsible for her husband’s death after discovering journal entries written by his late father. In much of his writing, he’d expressed fear of the woman he’d married. He even wrote about his plans to leave Celeste and take his Billy boy. But, according to Billy, his father’s entries stopped after that last one.

“Your drunk, good-for-nothing father tripped, and that’s how he broke his neck.” She had told him, “Do not fret, William, my sweet boy. We’ll be better off. It’s just you and me now.” And she made sure of that.

I had never believed in love at first sight; it was for the birds. That was until I met him. It had never occurred to me as odd that my husband had few serious relationships before meeting me. It also seemed strange that he was not too concerned about introducing me to Celeste before deciding to propose only five months into our relationship.

“To hell with it!” he told me. “We’re in love, and if she loves me, she’d be crazy not to love you, too.” A bit of an understatement, in retrospect.

So, he proposed eloping in Vegas. The rest was history… Look, I just thought he was spontaneous, and I loved that about him. I had asked about my mother-in-law a lot in the beginning. I didn’t know it then, but my loving husband protected me from Celeste’s harsh words regarding our marriage. I believed, at first, she was only upset with how quickly we got together, not having a proper wedding. I was a bit of an optimist back then. Still, it was soon made very clear to me that I would “never be enough of a woman” to keep “her” William happy. That I am nothing but a “penniless whore,” whose only reason for being with her darling boy was for his money, of course! That was it for Billy; he cut all communication with his mother not long after that. And as you can imagine, she did not go willingly or quietly. He had our telephone number changed five times within a few months. It wasn’t until we moved into our first home together in the city, forgoing leaving a forwarding address, that we finally stopped receiving her letters.

It was peaceful, but only for a moment.

It was a rainy afternoon in October when I came home from the grocery store to find my husband sitting in our living room, pale in the face as if he had just seen a ghost. It wasn’t until I saw a figure before she stood, her back to me, that I realized who was in our home. How she found us, I had no idea. When she finally turned to me, I got to see the woman–who made no attempt at hiding her hatred for me– in person for the very first time. Celeste was lovely, in every way a woman could be, physically. She looked glamorous, like she stepped out of classic Hollywood. She was as beautiful as Hedy Lamarr, maybe even more so, angelic almost.

I took in her features, overwhelmed by her beauty. Her hair was black as a raven’s, in contrast to her ivory skin–smooth as glass, and her nose was what women showed their surgeons in hopes of having. Her plump lips–painted in ruby red–were set in an almost melancholic way. A wave came over me, a feeling like I needed to protect her. Protect her from what exactly, I had no idea; that was the power she held over others. Like a siren luring a sailor to his tragic end… that was the kind of hold Celeste had over anyone she held in her grasp.

For a moment, I was curious how she never remarried after her husband’s accident. Looking back on it, now I know why. The devil, too, was an angel once. She looked me over with a face of disdain, and I could only stand there frozen; it was as if her ice-cold stare could turn you to stone, like Medusa. What was she doing here? How did she find us? What did she want? These were the questions screaming at me in my head. I couldn’t move. When she made no effort to say anything, I tried, “Hello, Celeste! What a surprise you dropped in! I’m pleased to finally mee–” “As I’ve said, darling, I must be going now.”

Her back was to me again, ignoring me completely as if I’d said nothing at all. My husband did not move from his place; he seemed frozen, too. Instead, Celeste moved towards him, leaning down to press a kiss atop his head. She stayed there for a moment, breathing him in before whispering, “Oh, how I’ve missed you, my darling boy.”

He cringed before standing, finding his ground again. “I’ll walk you to the door, mother,” he spoke with finality.

The tension in our home was palpable; you could almost choke on it. Finally, finally, Celeste made her way to the door. But not before she paused, taking one last look at me but speaking to him, “You know, love, you should really think about getting serious regarding your future instead of playing house with that one.”

Billy’s face was as red as a ripe tomato in a matter of seconds. He wasted no time in berating his mother while practically slamming our front door in her smug face. Finally, Billy turned towards me, and I could only guess my face gave away my hurt feelings.

After a moment, “I am so sorry, Fiona. I really don’t understand why she’s like this.”

“What did she want?”

Billy was quiet then as if lost in his thoughts. I followed as he walked back towards the living room, pacing. Then, after an audibly long silence, “My mother, she’s ill. Uhh, cancer,” He sat and let his face fall into his hands, rubbing his eyes like he was sure this was a dream. “It’s terminal. She doesn’t have much time, she’s told.”

                                                                #

 A few weeks passed, and all was well until a letter arrived from Celeste. In her letter, she pleaded with her son to come to stay with her in her final days.

“If she thinks I would ever stay with her, after everything she’s done, she’s crazy! I’d say cancer has officially turned her brain to mush.”

“You should go, she’s still your mother, and she’s sick. It’s the right thing to do, despite her past behavior.

“Who knows, maybe she wants to make amends.”

“You have too much faith in her, Fi. I admire you for that, but I can’t go without you. I won’t.”

“You know that isn’t a good idea, Billy.”

“Listen, if she wants me to come up and stay with her, I’m bringing you, my wife, with me.”

#

We journeyed from the city to Celeste’s estate in the Adirondack mountains a few days later. Upon arriving, Celeste was nowhere to be found on the grounds, which we found concerning. After looking around the house, we found another odd observation when we could not reach an operator through the telephone, only to discover that the cord was cut. Why would Celeste do that? Everything in me was screaming at me to get out, get out now. However, I brushed those feelings aside. Maybe something had happened to Celeste on our way up here. Perhaps she was in danger. The reality of it was, that we were the ones in danger.

Curse 

Strange large oval, enormous blotter of dreams,

Persistent, insistent on being noticed

Peddling your wares, desirous of praise

The passersby turn their heads upon your golden scepter and marvel at the

heat dispensing orb. The alabaster clouds seek to diminish you, and yet you vaporize them all. The earth is scorched. You don’t care. 

You proud, haughty vagrant 

Wandering the earth, calling waves, spilling blistering heat, infernal arrogant and grand, you parade around the heavens as if you own them.

And yet all things praise thee, look upon you as the giver of life itself. So, carry on, sunshine, carry on.

Couple’s Restaurant

On a quiet street corner tucked behind some trees

Lies a restaurant full of memories of love and laughter  

Clinking dishes, muted voices

Warm fresh bread and 

Sweet hot coco 

Young lovers sit in a corner 

Fondly caressing each other’s hands

As they blissfully talk of their future plans

High pitched screams and clunking plates

Come from the middle

As couple with four children sit and eat

Between the children’s cries and screams

The couple find time to fondly caress each other’s hands  

Quiet laughter, tinkling silverware  

Resonate from the side 

As an old couple sit side by side

They gaze into each other’s eyes 

And remember the years long gone by

Grateful for time together the two elders 

Share a kiss and loving look 

As they fondly caress each other’s hands

And this is what life, love and happiness look like

Ekphrastic

Oasis after a day in the hot Texas sun.

The orange of the bag mimics the orange of the sphere that melted the colors of the day.

Colors are more alive at night in the desert.

Orb of night illuminate the feast set for the weary traveler. 

Calling fellow sojourners to picnic and make merry in the cool of the night.

Ice cold beer, the bubbles tickle. Frozen water jangles in the frosty drink.

The blossoms catch on the arid dusty breeze and for a moment the desert has faded away.

Oasis after a day in the hot Texas sun, a feast, the orange of the bag mimics the fiery sphere that melted the colors of the day.

The colors come alive in the setting sun.

Orb of night illuminates the feast set for the weary traveler calling fellow sojourners to picnic and make merry in the cool of the night. Foaming ice-cold beer, its bubbles tickle.

The blossom’s fragrance catches in the dusty breeze and for a moment the desert fades away.

A Writer’s Quarrel  

I never did like paper.

“Well. I never liked you, either.”

I always thought it was too flashy.

“Me flashy? You were the one with all the fancy styles. You changed so easily.”

It demanded me do all the work.

“Well, I had to hold my ground while you stomped all over me.”

My mouth got dry at times and still paper sat there waiting.

“I can’t help it if you worked yourself too hard.”

I danced and performed tricks and still that paper sat, and soaked it all up.

“I was only showcasing your foolishness.”

It claimed all my good work.

“Well, if you want it so bad then take it back. Erase it.”

But I will admit that when I bled, my paper was there.

“I mean… of course I was.”

It picked up all my tears and all my mistakes.

“I always have. I’ve been right here.”

My errors and my beauty were displayed.

“I thought you didn’t care. I thought I was just in the way for you.”

I can’t believe I haven’t said it before!

“Said what?!”

I’m just now realizing…

“Realizing what?”

that my paper has never left me.

Even when I wrecked their porcelain skin.

Even when I made a fool of myself.

Even when I changed my ways.

Even when my throat was parched.

And even still when I took it for granted,

never once did they complain.

“I… I…”

“Paper?”

“Yes, Pen?”

“I love you.”

“Pen?”

“Yes, Paper?”

“I love you, too.”

Carousel

“Immersion therapy” Dr. Thompson called it. Whoever decided the best medicine for confronting one’s fears head-on was humanity’s most proficient sadist, a stance I confided to my co-worker during our break spent behind the telling booths that earned me nothing but an awkward sneer in return. I understood his trepidation well. How was one supposed to react when you discussed with them your fear of the carnival? It simply wasn’t a fear a man was meant to have, but my pride was well-worn, far beyond letting beguiling looks wound me any further.

Despite Thompson’s best efforts at hypnotism, no amount of attempting to rouse sensory memories from the veritable bear trap that is my mind has borne any fruit. It’s been decades since that fateful day at the fair that I pushed out of my head as a child so fervently I haven’t been able to recover it in all this time, and I’ve spent many a self-reflective afternoon wishing my five-year-old self had the spine to soldier on, so that I could have a better shot at bunting without feeling a chill down my spine. Would that I found a way to go back in time, I would’ve joined my father in his attempt to throttle the fear out of me when I had an attack by the funnel cake stand. How dare I embarrass him in front of his “buddies from the plant” with my so-called “antics”? One could hardly blame him for throwing my confection straight in the trash.

Aldus, the co-worker I confided my situation to this evening past, decided he’d join me in my expedition. Where, you ask? None other than the site of this year’s Bartleby Fair, the same company that caused my meltdown as a boy. The haunting, jovial music, children’s laughter, familiar smells, all stimuli I’d been exposed to in miniscule doses through my sessions with Dr. Thompson. I thought I was prepared to experience them all in tandem, but as my companion could tell, I was still woefully unprepared. The way the sun beat down on my face more intensely than it seemed to his, or anyone else’s, just intensified the experience, and the heat was overwhelming. Aldus recognized this immediately. A creature so shrewd he could derive some amusement from my ordeal was always acutely aware of such subtleties.

“You aren’t looking so fresh, Claude. Where are those nausea mints you’re always eating? Don’t tell me you left them at the bank with your pride.”

I glared at the doll-like grays in his eyes with impatience, but found myself taken aback by something hidden in his words. The dizzying spells I was so prone to began when the fears did. Thompson predicted this. Only the genuine articles could trigger the recovery of what was lost, so the maze of mirth I now found myself at the heart of could only be navigated by sense, and not reason. “Spare me. I don’t need the damned things, and after today, I won’t take another ever again!”

Something in Aldus respected my foolishness. Not unlike the way a matador danced with his larger, more belligerent partner, which I supposed I was now. He acquiesced and returned to my flank, resigning himself to keeping watch on my vitals from a distance, giving me the room to work. I closed my eyes. Let the dehydrated taste of saliva in my mouth dominate my mind, and the world pour in from every orifice. From the congealed potion of sounds the fair had to offer, I tasted a familiar song. One that brought back the vision of horses marching in revolution, from which I had an internal, tactile perspective. That of a rider. I laughed, both at myself and the mound of earth I keeled over on during my state of perception. Was that it? The ceramic horses of a carousel were what I’d forgotten? The very root of my fears was a children’s diversion?

It was all so absurd, even I found it amusing, but Aldus was done jeering. His arms were wrapped beneath my ribcage and trying to pull me up off the ground, threatening to leave me if I didn’t gather my wits. I tried to speak and found the encroaching warmth of bile singing the back of my throat. Spewing black and passion, my antics, as my father would’ve called them, suddenly captured the attention of a pair of nearby constables. Aldus with his silver tongue tried to explain the situation to their scowling faces, strikingly unamused by the grown man getting sick in front of crowds of innocent families. They all wanted to take me away, but my work was far from over. Dr. Thompson would applaud this.

I wrestled myself out of all their grasps and stumbled, ran, sprinted for my life toward the source of that infernal song. They wouldn’t impede me from my breakthrough any more than I already had all these years. Finally, I’d be cured!

The sting of cold braced me. If I were to recreate that fateful day, I had to do so with painful accuracy. Children didn’t wear proper coats, blazers, or ties, and so it all came off and fluttered in the faces of the men chasing after me. Even now, I had to congratulate Aldus on his loyalty. I’d never called him a friend, but even now he was at my side, and what more meaningful bond could there be than the one that came from running from the authorities? I’d apologize for my behavior another time.

Horses stood in place; I recognized that the attraction was undergoing maintenance. Well, that just wouldn’t do. I yelled something unintelligible at my partner in crime, and by some miracle, he understood. Aldus took the place of the man at the controls performing its routine checkup and assaulted him, an act unlike anything he’d ever done in his mousy little life. Today, we were both making strides. The machine sprang to life as I climbed atop its platform, feeling the cold melt away from my muscles. Crowds gathered to watch the spectacle of the deranged man straddling a carousel horse as the policemen overwhelmed my partner. And they succeeded, but not before his final throe of resistance, triggering the malfunction being operated on. The horses stamped and circled with me in tow, faster and faster until the onlookers were naught but a blur of color. Wind burned at my eyes, my heart raced, and everything before me began to transform into wicked, unrecognizable shapes. And finally, I remembered.

My childhood delusions were dismissed as having an active imagination, but I saw it all again now. Fire, endless lakes of fire engulfing the souls gawking at me like an animal! This was Hell, oh, truly Hell! So long ago now, I narrowly escaped it, but the four horses had returned to their stable and brought me with them. The spinning stopped, and I saw it all as clear as day, and the lakes began to rise. The fair was gone, and I wished for it all to come back. Wished for the earth I’d gotten sick on, the safety of my tellers, for Dr. Thompson’s office, and found that they all appeared and melded into the scape before me!

They were all so at home here, then so must I be!

Montag

Father Richard Mayberry was a name I never liked catching wind of at the station. In fact, for the sake of keeping the peace between myself and my men, I was the only one with the self-appointed privilege to let it slip. One I made surgically liberal use of. Religion was always a touchy topic out here in the sticks, but by the time our favorite city-boy pastor started preaching out of Chick tracts instead of the Lord’s book, folks started getting angry. Truthfully, I couldn’t give a damn what Tolkien, Martin, or Lewis had to say in their books, because that’s all they were. My niece had ripped through at least half a dozen of those bricks before she ever drove for the first time, and not once did her folks or anyone catch her making deals with Satan over a story about little men with no shoes. She was a good kid. A better Christian. And I sure as Hell didn’t need a man of the cloth to tell me otherwise.

But some of the souls in my community felt they did. When Richard “opened their eyes” to the occult nature of the books sitting in their schools and libraries, the town just about tore itself a new one trying to cut out the cancer it didn’t know it had. Never mind how benign it was, or how innocent the wonder I saw in Annie’s eyes when she poured herself in between those pages. And yet, there were men I knew personally, men I worked with, who I was close as kin with, who wouldn’t have hesitated to rip those covers out of a girl’s helpless grip. What man of God could preach that?

Annie hasn’t given those books a second chance in years. But since the pastor first called for his flock to “bring forth their burdens, that the Lord may excise them,” something in me raged. Long story short? There’s a veritable Library of Alexandria buried under my porch. If it weren’t for the fact that I knew not everyone in town followed him, I would’ve said they were the only sacrilegious books left in all of Putnam County. Coming home after a long day of work, there was nothing more satisfying than climbing up the steps over my monument to reason. A secret I swore I’d take to the grave. Just in case a certain someone ever wanted to give them another read. But since the night of the first purge, I sensed Richard’s esteem for me had changed somehow. Like he knew.

Then again, it might’ve just been the fact that he had the gall to start a book burning in my town.

For obvious reasons, nobody invited the fire chief, so when Maddox came and kicked down my door in the middle of the night, I didn’t have a clue what he was screaming his head off about. Then I joined him. Richard couldn’t start a decent campfire, let alone a book burning he could control. By the time the boys and I were on the scene, fifteen acres of cornfield were up in flames, and counting. He was lucky not to burn down the whole county with that blaze, but even then, the pews filled out come Sunday morning. If I had any doubt about the books, I knew for sure God never said anything about setting a man’s livelihood on fire. A decade later, any trace of scarring on the farmland was gone, and so were the memories. Seemed to me that for the longest time, everyone’d forgotten the damage we saw that night. Everyone’d forgotten the flames.

But evidently, Richard hadn’t. Try as he might to let his sins slick off his ego at the behest of the hot air he constantly spews, you don’t burn down a farm without it eating at you. And the day he caught an inkling of a repeat of that day coming around, the steady, wordless understanding he and I had reached over time had finally come into fruition. Like a favor that needed repaying. When I got his phone call, I was in my office staring at the calendar. Today was circled. For the first time in a long time, his flock were gearing up for another burn. “The leash,” Richard said, “had slacked to an unacceptable degree.” This time, he’d taken some extra precautions. Cleared land around the church, gotten some of his followers to help him install safeguards, and even let me and the rest of the firehouse know beforehand, so we wouldn’t bother getting any sleep that night. The sun had gone down, and soon, that match would be struck. The phone ringing cut right through the film of silence, and I picked it up, expecting an apology, repentance, something to preface the inevitable. Or at least, what I thought was inevitable. But instead, I heard screams through the receiver. And the kind of rippling fire I hadn’t heard since Vietnam.

“Montag. It was Montag!”

While the station ran abuzz, I thought back to the evening I met the man who went by that name. Bit of an oddball, but who in Richard’s flock could be considered normal? And when a man appears in town from out of nowhere, and tells you to just call him “Montag,” you do it. Because either that’s his name, or he has something to hide. And around here, most folks have the tact to let a sleeping dog like that lie. It was a few weeks back at the fair, when the firehouse had volunteered a truck and some men to make something of an exhibition of themselves for the entertainment of some of the townsfolk. Pictures with the boys in their gear, a minute or two in the driver’s seat, that sort of thing. I was there, too, just off to the side and observing, when Richard’s voice grabbed my attention. He was with “Montag,” and they were talking about the “failures of the past.” That was when talks of bringing back the burnings started up again, and the drifter from out of town was at the heart of it, perched on the father’s shoulder. No one and every one should’ve seen what was coming next.

Annie stopped us on our way out, waving us down like she was at the end of a runway. She was clutching something in her hand for dear life, so tensely that her fingers had left a lasting impression in its integrity. At my insistence, we paused for the briefest second, and let her on the truck with me in the rear, and she started running her mouth off like she used to as a kid, trying to get me interested in her little stories. But that day, she had nothing but truth to tell. She had a book in her hands, with a name I’d heard once or twice when I first started fighting fires for a living, but I’d never personally picked it up. Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. Annie told me the bullet points. A story about a man living in a world where books were banned, and as a “fireman,” it was his job to do the burning. A man named Guy Montag. As phony as his name always seemed, even I thought Annie’s need to bring this up at such a time was a little out there.

But she’d seen what I hadn’t. Putnam County wasn’t set ablaze that night by any accident, but by a lunatic who lost himself in the hot night air.

When we found the site of the burn, we couldn’t even tell where it’d started. The air was thick and toxic, but Annie followed us towards the edge of the flames and began yelling over my orders to bring out the hoses. “The pack he’s got on is loaded with some kind of tar, you can’t put it out with water like gas!” That struck a chord with me. I saw first-hand what napalm could do to farmland during the war, and this was no different. There was a war being waged in the fields, and the opposition’s defenses must’ve been up ten feet high. Putting out the fire wouldn’t be enough. I needed to bring Montag down.

The police had shadowed us on the way there, and they were as stuck as we were. A path needed cutting through the flames, but I wasn’t about to ask any of my men to join me in the flames. Instead, I had them do their best to douse the flames from the outside while I took an extinguisher to try and make a trail for myself. Annie met me by the truck in Maddox’s gear, fitting too big and heavy to have convinced me she wasn’t my niece. I screamed my head off at her, but no matter what I said, she didn’t listen. This was a two-man job at least, and there was never a time when I could get that girl to do something she didn’t want to herself. Too bad we had more than one extinguisher. While we prepped, I found myself bringing along an axe for a burning field with no doors to get through, or trees with branches that could slow a controlled burn. Montag wasn’t going down without a fight, and I was ready to put an end to him if it meant putting an end to this.

Annie and I made our way to some of the more flamed out parts of the field, kept our heads down, and did controlled sweeps with our extinguishers where it seemed like the hose wouldn’t cut it. Dry agents always did the trick, either at home or in the jungle. By some miracle, we blazed a trail for ourselves through, and found the beating heart of the flames. Tatters of charcoal bags, empty gas cannisters, and the odd loose page were scattered on scorched earth. Annie spotted him before I did. Not Montag, but Richard. His very skin melting and fusing back to itself in layers, his vestments in ruins. I fought the urge to vomit. But through his ceaseless agony, he was still very much alive, supposedly “discarded” by Montag when he decided dousing a few books in lighter fluid wasn’t enough. Wasn’t much we could do for him. And even less he wanted. Told me to my face, as close as he could get to it, that he wanted me to put a stop to his “stray” before anything else.

He died there after we left.

Soon enough, we found Montag doing what he loved most. I recognized the weapon in his hands almost immediately. An M1A1 flamethrower, a workhorse that I’d never seen in action myself, but one whose efficacy preceded it. Hell with a trigger. I signaled for Annie to stay put for once in her life and drew the axe I’d brought along. I found myself hungering for the sensation of dull beard on flesh, like Montag must’ve felt when he brought out the heavy artillery. Like a bloodhound, I raced, pounding away at the ground as I waited for the moment to pounce. Montag turned and looked at me with that wild look in his eyes I never thought much of before that night and took aim. I saw a spark, felt the sun kiss my chest from the other side of the planet, and fell to the ground in a cloud of hissing fog.

Annie. She saved me from going the way of Richard, and even managed to get a lick in with the butt of her extinguisher. But now she was in his clutches, and I was still face down in ash, clutching the fire axe. I played dead for the longest second of my life before swinging wildly from my prone position, back and forth until I heard Montag take the Lord’s name in vain. Got him right in the ankle, hit bone and broke it. I clawed up at his pain-crippled body and found myself disarmed. So, I brought down my hands,my feet, every part of myself with otherworldly force to get him to stop breathing. It wasn’t until I regained myself that I realized I had my hands closed around his dead throat, and that he’d been good and strangled for a solid minute before Annie brought me back from the brink.

I woke up a second time in the clinic. The nasty burn on my chest wasn’t going away anytime soon, so I was laid up for the next few weeks. If not months. Annie kept me in the know of what was going on outside my manilla walls and told me how the county was making do in Richard’s absence. The church went up with the fields, and now, the congregation was forced to meet in the library. She was hopeful that maybe they’d forget some of his teachings, and after all the changes, realized she hadn’t seen some of her own “seditious materials” in a long time. She wanted to read them again.

I smiled, and told her to take an axe to my porch.

Nuestras Pesadillas

“Vamos Luis! Vamos!”

What is it that you fear?

“Adella!”

She heard faintly through the screams around her. The sound caused her to lose Luis’s hand, allowing him to be pulled away by the moving tide of people. She only had the time to witness his waving arms sticking through the crowd and his futile calls to her before the moving horde pushed him further away towards the exit of the shopping mall.

Adella had never seen him that scared before. She had never been this scared before. Not even when their father chose to chase his high over his children.

He tried reaching his hand out to his sister once again, only to realize the growing distance between them. Before he knew it, the only thing he could see was scared, unfamiliar faces.

What is your definition of a nightmare?

“Luis!” Adella cried out as she tried with all her strength to push past the horde of people, hoping to find that familiar mop of dark brown curls. Dark brown curls that matched her own… and twenty percent of the people in that mall. There were so many of the same hair colors that she began to panic, even more, when she couldn’t really differentiate between her brother and strangers. She honestly felt a little ashamed of herself; Adella practically raised him ever since they were both saved by the police from their drug-addicted father. She should’ve at least known the difference.

Though could you blame her? So many things were going on around her, distracting her. Such as the many people toppling over chairs and tables, where she and Luis once enjoyed all their free samples from the many restaurants of the food court. She even saw those who couldn’t get back up quick enough, get trampled. There were so many screams echoing throughout the building, but only one seemed to catch Adella’s attention. It felt as if the world slowed down for her as she turned her head to the side to witness a girl, who looked to be the same age as her younger brother, being tackled to the ground.

Her eyes widened as she saw what looked to be an older man tear through the girl’s neck with his bare, bloody, teeth. Adella began to hyperventilate as a woman joined the bloody man in ripping that poor girl apart.

Suddenly, everything sounded muffled. She felt as if she were drowning underwater without her ability to hear and breathe. Worst of all she couldn’t find a single trace of Luis anywhere, for all she knew he could be in the same position as that poor unfortunate girl. She squeezed her eyes shut as she tried to take a big gulp of air to calm herself down.

Who is that monster that lives in the dark?

“Move!” A man forcefully shouted at her and shoved Adella to the cold, marble ground. Whether they didn’t realize or did not care, the crowd of people started stepping on her. Crying out, she felt as if her bones cracked from the weight of each footstep while she could imagine seeing the many bruises begin to slowly bloom across her back, legs, and arms.

What is it that keeps you up at night?

Adella tried to get back up again only to have another person step on the middle of her back. Resulting in once again, forcing her to the ground.

That keeps bringing you down…

This time the young woman just stayed laying there, not moving a single inch. Only whimpering as despair filled her heart.

“It’s hopeless,” she thought, “there’s no escape.”

Her eyes began to water as she softly sobbed. She didn’t get a day off from the diner for this. All she wanted to do was surprise Luis as an early birthday present, since she could finally afford that guitar that he had always wanted. That same guitar that he decided not to save up for, just so that he could help her pay for rent.

Oh Luis, sweet, little Luis. He still had a heart of gold, ever since he was just a little kid. He was sixteen going on seventeen, but Adella could still see him as the same sweet, little boy she had raised since she was eight. Ever since their mother had died from childbirth.

Is this it?

The moment when your life flashes before your eyes when you’re on the brink of death. Tears dripped down her face like gentle raindrops as she closed her eyes.

That keeps making death whisper softly against your ear saying, “Just give up.”

“Adella!”

While her eyes shot open, Adella gasped as she felt strong arms hook under hers, bringing her to stand on her feet once again.

That makes you change once that light of yours burns out…

She turned to see Luis standing behind her with a bloody lip. Signs of how hard he fought the crowd to get back to the only family he had left. Adella put her hand on his cheek making sure for her sanity that he was real, and not a hallucination she heard so much about once you reached death’s doorstep. He then took hold of her hand, holding it with a tighter grip this time. “Addi! Vamos! Come on!” He shouted as loud as he could over the screams, pulling her to the exit. Soon they began to sprint to the now shattered glass doors, not once letting go.

What is it that kills you?

Finally making it outside, only to see a much greater chaos. Though they kept running across the parking lot, ignoring the screams and bloody body parts strewn across the concrete. Adella began looking around. “This is the WORST time to forget where you parked,” she thought to herself. That was until she saw the old, dark-red Toyota Camry. “There!” she pointed out and pulled Luis to where their car was parked, which was luckily near the entrance.

Adella pulled the keys out of her bag, only to drop it by her shaky hands. “Hijo de-!” she quickly picked them up again and fumbled with them until she finally unlocked the door. “Go. Go, go, go!” she yelled out, hurriedly pushing her brother into the passenger seat of the car. She then ran to the driver’s side. Suddenly, Adella began to hear rapid footsteps gaining up behind her. Her fight or flight response kicked in at that moment. Not wanting to risk getting herself killed to look behind her, she quickly opened the door with trembling hands and slammed it shut once she got in.

Right then a large figure banged against the window, growling. Adella screamed as the rotten-looking figure smeared blood all over the glass, trying to break it. She shoved the key so hard and turned it so fast that she was very concerned that she might have messed up their only chance of escape. The engine roared to life, making Adella sigh with relief.

She immediately changed the gear to reverse and then pulled out of the parking space with a sharp, high-pitched screech. With incredible speed she didn’t even know she had, she turned the direction of the steering wheel and swerved out of the parking lot. Dodging bodies, people, monsters, and other cars.

“Addi, watch out!”

Snapping her head to where Luis was pointing, she saw a large semi-truck speeding towards her on her left side. Adella released a huge gasp and stepped on the gas pedal. The truck barely skimmed her back bumper, but the siblings were not out of the woods just yet. Now the young Hispanic woman started swerving to dodge oncoming cars. There were horns honking left and right.

Luis looked at their surroundings trying to find a clear path for them to get through. Thankfully, he did end up finding one. A street that lead straight out of town, but there was one small problem. It was being blocked by a couple of abandoned cars. At this point, breaking through was the only option they had.

“Adella mira alli!”

The moment the young woman glanced where her brother was directing her, she did a double take.

“Estas loco?!” Adella screeched out in response.

“Addi! Please-!”

“No! absolutely not!”

“ADELLA! The town is gone! We can’t stay here anymore!”

The more she thought about it, she knew he was right. There was nothing left for them here. It was time to say goodbye to the only home they knew. With that, she took a deep breath and made a sharp turn. Pressing the accelerator as hard as she could, bracing herself with a tight grip on the steering wheel. “Brace yourself!”

Doing just that, Luis held onto the roof handle with one hand while the other braced above the glove compartment. She tried to stay centered with whatever gap there was between the cars as she barreled through. Cars shoved to the side making the opening wider. The sound of metals scraping against each other, mixed with the countless screams of perishing humans, was all they could hear. The front of their car was completely damaged, bumper crushed in, fender all scratched and dented, while the headlights were cracked and sticking out.

Suddenly, silence. Minus the distant sound of chaos behind them. The road in front of them now empty and undisturbed. Breathing heavily, she turned to Luis, reaching out to cradle his face. “Estas bien?” Adella questioned him with worry in her eyes. He looked at her with wide eyes, also trying to bring his breathing back to normal. As if just registering the question, he slowly nodded.

She gave a small nod in return as she faced the front again. It was then she felt how drenched her forehead was. She began to wipe the sweat off to the best of her abilities and move the strands of dark hair that stuck to the sides of her face. Her eyes now slightly burned from the act, but she ignored it and kept her focus on the road. Luis continued to stare at her with uncertainty written across his face, brows slightly furrowed in concern. “Y usted?”

Never taking her eyes off the road, Adella replied, “Gotta be.”

So…

What is it?

In this new world. That is the true question.

Dominoes

Janet is standing under the tall street lamp, her face illuminated and shadows cast over the right side of her cheek.  It is so early in the morning that not even the sun has woken up.  She fumbles with the wrapper of her orange juice bottle and uses her front teeth to peel off the plastic covering. She is excited for the day.  School is the only time Janet feels any bit of peace.  She is putting the orange juice bottle to her lips when suddenly an arm reaches out and pushes the bottle above her head.  With orange juice covering her face and dripping down her shirt, Janet shuts her eyes and cries out.  Once she has cleaned the juice from her glasses, she sees her brother, Thomas, standing before her.  He is two years older and wears a smug grin, eyes twinkling with mischief. 

“Why would you do that?” Janet exclaims, face becoming red and tight, with either anger or embarrassment.  

Thomas laughs and says, “You deserve it.  You know to wait for me to walk to the bus stop in the mornings.” 

When the bus arrives, Thomas shoves Janet to the ground, and races to climb onto the bus before her.  Knees now scraped and callused, she gets up and starts to walk up the bus steps.  When she sits down, covered in juice and blood and dirt, she hears Thomas and his friends snickering behind her. 

When Janet arrives home from school, she completes her homework until her mother calls her to help set the table for dinner.  She places the silverware neatly along the tablecloth and delicately sets her mother’s favorite candle in the center.  This is Janet’s favorite part of the day.  When she gets to help with the dinner process, she feels so helpful.  She is worthy and needed at this time.  She smiles quietly to herself when a spoon crashes into the wall, scraping her cheek along the way.  Before she even has time to process what has happened, she hears Thomas’s cackle from behind her.  When she turns around, he is sitting at the dinner table, smiling up at her.  

“Mom, did you see that?”  Janet bursts out.  

Her mother, turns around opening a can of tomatoes, absently says, “What, hon?” 

“He just threw that spoon at my head! It could have taken my eye out!”  

Thomas rolls his eyes and sighs.  “You’re such a liar, you know that? You’ll do anything to get me in trouble.  It’s pathetic, Janet.”

“Mom, you didn’t see?” Janet knows her mother does not pay attention to them, but she is somehow hopeful, anyway. 

Her mother finally turns around and says, “Don’t be so dramatic, hon.  Boys will be boys.  Now, get another spoon, will you?” 

Janet feels her eyes begin to water and her cheeks start to burn.  She opens her mouth and then immediately slams it closed.  She doesn’t know why she feels disappointed.  When has her mother ever believed her anyways?  She begins to cry and moves her bifocals to wipe her eyes.  She keeps her head down and silently moves across the kitchen, too embarrassed to continue setting the table.  

“Oh God, now she’s crying.  Jesus Christ.  Do you always have to be such an attention whore?” Thomas says behind her, exasperated.  

Janet knows that Thomas has never felt remorse.  He has never felt sorry for her.  Not when he has chased her home from school, shoved her against her locker, yelled in her face for accidentally running into him.  He has never even validated that she has feelings at all.  When she gets to her room, she closes the door quietly, not wanting to make more of a scene.  She pulls open the top drawer of her dresser and takes out a box of her dominoes.  She pulls them out and sets them on her bed and begins to play with no one in particular.  

When Janet enters the seventh grade and Thomas enters his first year of high school, she begins to see less and less of her brother.  He no longer takes the school bus; his older friends who are seniors drive him in their fast, loud cars.  When their mother tells Thomas to make sure Janet gets to school safely, he jumps in his friend’s car and they race away, while showing her vulgar gestures with their hands.  He is now rarely home and when he is, his friends are with him, and they are intoxicated.  Instead of directly harming her as he usually does, he has begun to do so quietly.  This was triggered by Janet’s frustration with her brother.  After shattering a bone in her hand after Thomas had angrily slammed her door on her, she decides that she’s had enough and runs into their school counselor’s office hysterically sobbing.  Snot and tears dripping down her face, she tells the counselor all about Thomas’s anger and erratic behavior until her crying takes over and she can no longer get a word out. This led to Thomas to be called into the office three times a week for mental health check-ups.  Despite the fact that the school staff kept her name anonymous, Thomas had a gut feeling that she was the cause of these check-ups.  Now, instead of public outbursts from Thomas, Janet’s life was full of whispered threats and drunken, quiet violence.  

When she starts seventh grade, she determines to make this year different.  Thomas was at a new school; he couldn’t hurt her here anymore.  She took up extracurriculars.  She became a member of the Environmental Club, even made her way up to vice president.  She receives good grades and even has a group of friends.  She spends weekends at friends’ houses and when she is home, her mother typically doesn’t notice her presence.  Her teachers think she is charming, and she excels at algebra and chemistry.  She displays a broad smile in the hallway, her teeth flashing and eyes crinkling.  When she gets home from school everyday, she plays dominoes, now with a small grin.  

She is walking down the hallway one day, making her way to the stairs, humming the tune of a catchy pop song that she heard on the bus, when a shadow looms over her.  She stops in her tracks and looks up at the figure.  Thomas gives a lopsided grin, his canine tooth stuck on his bottom lip.  He’s probably still drunk from after school, she thinks.  She tries to side-step him, but he moves faster to block her path.  Despite her newfound confidence, she feels a twinge of fear and begins to shrink back.  “How was school?” he sarcastically asks.  She takes a step backwards.  He follows.  “Fine. It was fine.” He barks out a cruel laugh and shakes his head. Janet, feeling exasperated, takes a step toward the stairs.  “Get away from me.  I’m really not in the mood for this.”  She makes it down the first step when she suddenly feels a sharp pain in the back of her arm.  She whips around to find Thomas has his fingernails embedded in her flesh, pinching her until her skin is purple and bruising.  “Don’t walk away from me,” he whispers harshly.  “Did you hear me?” 

“Yes!” Janet cries out. “Stop!” 

He releases her arm, and she races down the stairs and out of the front door. When she takes a moment to look back, he is stumbling away to his room, chuckling to himself.  She keeps running and begins to cry.

Adults don’t typically believe Janet.  The school forces Thomas to march into the office three times a week, but that is the extent of their actions.   On the bus at 6 A.M, Janet begins to wonder about her father, and whether he would believe her.  Would he discipline Thomas or acknowledge his behavior?  Perhaps if he was around, Thomas would not be like this at all, she thinks to herself.  Her mother won’t even mention her father’s name.  She only tells Janet that he does not care or worry about them.  Janet doesn’t believe her and hates her mother for this.  Deep down, she believes her father is a good man.  She imagines herself as a child and him lifting her high up on his shoulders, so she can try to touch the clouds.  She imagines him picking her up from school, helping her with her geometry homework, and laughing with her.  She thinks that he had to leave because of her mother.  When she imagines these false memories, she feels a deep longing, along with hatred for her mother that runs deep in her veins and pulses through her body.  She shuts her eyes, as if this will block the thoughts of her father out completely.  When her mind goes down this long road, she often thinks back on her childhood.  It was not a completely morbid childhood, but it was not exceptional, either.  She was a happy child, totally oblivious to the fact that she lacked a parent, an essential part of her being.  She was quiet and calm and played with her dolls and read many books.  Thomas was louder and more chaotic, but he didn’t seem to hate her as much back then.  He did not take his anger out on her, but instead just broke objects and threw tantrums. Janet is brought back to a specific moment in her childhood, one that will forever be ingrained in the back of her mind.  She was six, and she was sitting in the corner of her living room, on the floor behind the couch, reading a book.  She remembers how cold and dusty the floor was, a side effect of her mother’s poor housekeeping skills.  While reading, she idly swept her small fingers over the dust bunnies, watching them dance and twirl.  She heard sneaky footsteps moving quickly to the kitchen, clearly wanting to be as swift and silent as possible.  Curiously, Janet lifted her head above the couch and peered into the room.  It was Thomas, looking as suspicious as ever, making his way to the counter, continuously peering over his shoulder.  Janet kept watching and noticed an odd object in her brother’s hand.  She observed him make his way to their fish, the only pet they were ever allowed to have.  He twisted open the top of the container in his hand and sprinkled a sand-like grain into the bowl.  Why is he so secretive about feeding the fish?  Janet innocently pondered.  He placed the container under the counter and sprinted off back to his room.  Janet waited exactly 35 seconds to make sure he was truly gone and then made her own way to the fish bowl.  Nothing seemed to be visibly wrong, so she slowly opened the cabinet to discover what he had been holding.  She picked up the object and covered her mouth in terror.  A dreadful knot formed in the bottom of her stomach, and she felt as if she had just been punched in her gut.  With shaking hands, she lifted up the bottle to view its label.  On the label was a silhouette of a rat being sliced through by a bold and threatening red “X.”  She had cried for days after her fish died, her mother ignoring her accusations about Thomas.  Janet shakes herself out of her flashback and continues to stare out the bus window at the sunrise.  

Today is Wednesday, meaning it is time for Janet’s environmental activism club to meet at 5:00.  It is a crisp day in the dead of January, so Janet has packed with her eleven packets of hot cocoa mix for her group members.  Determined to restart her day, Janet attempts to focus on her anticipation for the meeting, rather than her harsh memories from her childhood.  She sits down in first period, English literature, and opens her backpack.  When she reaches her arm inside and pulls out a journal, she is surprised to see that this journal does not belong to her.  It is a black, moleskin journal that is ripped and tattered from use.  Its spine has been shattered and many pages ripped out.  Unable to contain her curiosity, she peers inside the journal.  She is immediately shocked to see the name that is written in such bold letters that the grey graphite from the pencil smears along the pages, leaving a foggy lead trail.  Thomas Williams.  She has the urge to slam the book shut or even hurl it across the room, but her interest takes over her fingers and before she even realizes it, she is opening to the next page. She doesn’t exactly know what she expected.  His feelings and inner thoughts, poured onto the pages like a confession?  Instead, she is staring at grotesque drawings of a mauled human body.  She keeps flipping and the disturbing images continue, met by drawings of knives and swords and guns and axes.  Did he mix up our backpacks?  Was this meant for me?  She doesn’t know if she is merely being sensitive, but this feels ominous, like a  threat.  When she begins to taste her breakfast on the tip of her tongue, she shuts her eyes and shoves the book at the bottom of the backpack.  Her mind cannot seem to figure out what to tell her body to do, so she does nothing.  Her teacher speaks and points, but she stares forwards at the light on top of the projector, unable to focus her vision.  

When the clock extends its arm to greet the 3, Janet rises from her chair in chemistry class, and makes her way down the stairs, and out the school’s front doors.  She walks with her head down, arms firmly hugging her chest.  She knows she has her club meeting, but she cannot muster up the motivation to go.  From the bus ride to school this morning, to the journal she found, she feels as though her brain is a puzzle, and its pieces have been swept off the table.  A storm cloud seems to loom over her, causing her day to have a sinister mood.  She passes her bus and continues treading along the sidewalk to her house, tears burning and threatening to pour out from her eyes. 

Inside her room, her domino set greets her.  A calm sense of peace washes over her as she plays alone, the sound of the Beatles playing on her phone faintly behind her.  Playing dominoes with herself, she forgets about the cloud hanging over her and the troubles of her day.  She forgets Thomas, her mother, her father, and her childhood fish.  She smiles and makes her way to her bed.  She lays down and picks up the book she is reading for English literature.  She opens the page and reads about Victor Frankestein sewing his arm back together.  She imagines sewing herself back together.  All the parts of her missing being brought back to its whole, original state again.  She is consumed by the pages of the book, when her phone starts to buzz and phone calls are rolling in.  It’s Olivia.  Probably upset with her for missing the meeting.  She ignores the calls until her phone has not stopped ringing in three minutes straight. She reluctantly answers and before she can say hello, she hears Olivia, speaking in a harsh whisper.

“Where are you?”  She whispers, clearly distressed. 

“Um…I’m at home. What’s going on? Is something wrong?” Janet replies.  

“We’re in the gym..We..We’re hiding.  The whole school is on lockdown.  I think someone might…” Olivia sniffles and cuts herself off.  “I think someone might be in here.”  

“What?”  says Janet.  “Someone like who?” Her memory brings her back to the journal.  She remembers coming home from school, her uninterrupted walk upstairs.  She realizes she has not seen her brother all day, actually.  She looks down at her arm and stares at her scar, where her flesh was pinched and torn.  She has a feeling in her gut and her heart drops.  She releases the phone from her grasp and frantically sprints to Thomas’s room.  Without any thought, she does something she has never done before.  She rips open his bedroom door and is met with a vacant bed.  Janet doesn’t know what pulls her legs forward.  She does not know what divine force has told her intuition that she needs to go, but she bolts down the stairs, screaming her mother’s name.  Her mom looks up, that absent look upon her face, and stares at her. 

“Mom, get up! Mom, it’s Thomas, get up!” 

Her mom blinks.  “Hon, calm down,” she responds. 

Janet begins to sob as she paces. “Please, mom, please believe me.  Just this time, mom.” She begs.  

She wonders what force led her mom to rise.  What force moved her to grab her car keys and pull out of the driveway, down the road.  During the drive, Janet stares out the window and back at her reflection.  Fear has settled in her stomach and made a home for itself.  Tears stream down her face and stain her red, blotched cheeks.  Her mother calmly pulls the car into the school driveway, and they are greeted by chaos. Police and law enforcement are tearing down the school doors that have been bolted shut.  Reporters speak to their cameras and morbidly curious spectators stop to listen.

“Lockdown…Intruder…,” 

Other cars drive up, filled with horrified parents trying to get to their children.  Janet recognizes Olivia’s mom racing out of her car and to a policeman, who attempts to calm her down.  Janet tears open her car door and her mother follows. As she gets out of the car, she hears a sound that she will never get out of her memory, no matter how hard she tries. She hears the booming, violent sound of a gun being fired.  Everyone in the crowd outside the school flinches and ducks; the air fills with gasps and shrieks.  Soon after, the police make their way out of the school, dragging a human behind them.  Janet lifts her hands to her mouth to stop a shout as she sees Thomas, face bloody and scratched, being dragged outside, with his hands behind his back.  Her mother grasps her hand and squeezes, looking tired and devastated.  Janet is too shocked to think twice about her mother’s sudden affection.  Thomas, seeming to sense his family’s presence, lifts up his head and looks directly into Janet’s eyes and all the way into her soul.  He gives a large, cruel grin, teeth stained with blood.  As they drag him into the police car and slam the door behind him, the red and blue flashing lights illuminate Janet’s face, screaming at her.  She cannot wipe the horror from her face as a single tear falls from her eye.  She hears a sniffle and turns her head to the right.  Her mother is silently crying and still holding her hand. 

 “I should have done something,”  Her mother whispers, her voice weak and wavering.  They watch the car race down the street, until the screaming lights can no longer be seen.  They remain in the parking lot, gripping each other’s hands tightly.

Everything is Fine

Everything is fine. It won’t hit us like it did Louisiana. Max, it’ll only be raining like when Ike hit. Just a sprinkle of rain. No need to evacuate. No need to leave everything behind.

Breathe.

               Breathe.

                               …. Yeah, everything is fine.

Those were the words I thought to myself as I watched the trees violently dance and the rain hit against the window. Pounding even, as if they were trying to break the glass itself. I could’ve sworn that I even heard it crack sometimes. Who would’ve known rain could be so powerful? Each droplet seemed so delicate when it started to only drizzle at first. They reminded me of crystal gems as they fell from the sky, even shattering when they hit the ground. Each drop felt like gentle kisses when I stuck my hand out from the door that one time. Maybe that was Mother Nature’s way of saying I’m sorry.

“Sophia!”

I turned to look at my mother, who wore a nervous expression as she sat on one of the couches. Specifically, the one facing directly in front of the TV. “Aléjate de la ventana por favor!” Her voice was quiet as if she was trying to not disturb the raging storm outside, though the desperation in her voice was hard to miss. I nodded my head at her, doing my absolute best to keep my facial expression neutral, as if I were indifferent towards the situation. I learned from a young age how easy it was for my mother to be alarmed in certain situations. So, I taught myself to not get overwhelmed and panic so that I could at least try to keep her calm. Although this time was different, because the moment I turned to face the window one more time, I saw the streets flooded. Furthermore, it only seemed to be rising faster.

No…Everything is NOT fine.

I choked on my gasp and quickly walked to sit next to my mother on the couch, resulting in her wrapping her arm around me while her other hand rested on mine. For the first time ever, I actually began to show my concern. Even my dogs stayed under some furniture’s as some kind of shelter (the smallest under the table, and the medium sized one under a chair). I remember hearing the rushed footsteps of my father coming down the stairs, and how nervous I got once I saw the serious look plastered on his face. “Any electrical equipment that you want saved, grab ‘em and move them upstairs. Vamos!” We scattered at that moment. I grabbed all my games and my PS4, while my parents grabbed the DVR and Blue Ray, not forgetting the speakers, too.

We rushed upstairs to place everything we grabbed in our rooms. My father then yelled out to get the message across the hallway and to me. “Empaque todas las cosas que necesita y llévatelos para abajo! ¡Prepárate para irte!” Believe it or not, at that moment I was more concerned about packing my sketchbooks and journals then I was my own clothes. The things I could not bring with me, I moved on top of the dresser and bed. Rushing down the stairs to pack things for the dogs, I looked out the window once more. The water had already risen to the back wheels of the car. I asked myself, “How will we get out? If we backed up the SUV like that the muffler could get damaged, then we would be stranded!”

Loud thumping broke me out of my thoughts and I turned to see my father hurriedly coming down the steps, his phone pinched between his ear and shoulder. “Papa! The water is too high! How are we going to get out?!” Honestly, I felt ashamed for panicking. Now my poor father had to stay calm for both of us. He rushed to stand next to me and saw how the water was now up to our front lawn. “Your Tio is coming to pick us up in his truck. Come pack up what we need for the dogs, and let’s go!” He then continued talking on the phone to, I assumed, my tio. It all was going by so quickly; next thing I knew I heard a honking outside.

My father opened the door, already sporting a raincoat, and grabbed luggage in each hand. Meeting him halfway to help was my Tio Miguel. The second my mother and I stepped out of the house it was as if we were about to be swept away into a whirlwind. No matter if we wore our raincoats, we still got wet. Each gem like droplets turned sharp as we felt it cutting our skin. Yes, who would’ve known that rain could be so powerful? Who knew that behind almost every beauty there’s danger, too? Marco (a close primo of mine) went ahead and helped with our bags, while my tio came up to us and yelled over the rain for us to get in the truck with the rest of my family.

I even remember when I got to the back seat of that large white truck, I saw my Tia Anita whheld an earnest expression, which was far from her usual happy-go-lucky smiles. Then I saw my abuelita next to her holding her blanket-covered birdcage so tightly. I remember thinking, “Are we really taking that thing with us?” Now thinking back on it, I was ashamed of that, too. Though could you really blame me? For a bird that’s supposed to be a symbol of peace and love, it sure acted the opposite. I then saw my father running towards us holding both our dogs, so I prepared to reach out to grab hold of them. He first handed me our chihuahua, Sugar, but I noticed he was losing his grip on our Jack Russell. It was then that I felt my heart in my throat, choking me. Out of his panic, my dog jumped out of my father’s arm and into the deep water.

“RICO!”

I get it; I sound like a broken record, but I remember that moment so clearly. I’ll never forget it. Especially the sheer panic I felt when those horrible scenarios flashed by in my head within those few seconds.

Did he drown?

Did he run away to try and find safer ground?

Is he going to have to spend the night shivering under the cold, harsh rain?

Scared and alone?

Oh God, I’m never going to see him again!

“I got him!” A relieved gasp slipped past my lips as I watched my father holding him with both arms this time. I reached out for him, feeling an ache in my heart at seeing Rico violently shivering. I held onto him so tightly, not caring if the poor thing was soaked, to see if I could ease the strong tremors rippling his body. I now realized how my abuelita felt. Holding onto my dog kept me grounded, made me feel calmer. Made me feel safe. I wanted to cry. From what, I still haven’t figured that out. Finally, we all boarded the vehicle and took off. It was so packed; the back seat was filled with my abuelita, my tia, my mother, my two dogs, and me. While those in the front were my tio, my primo, and then my father. It should’ve been suffocating, unpleasant, but it wasn’t. I felt a sense of security being pressed against my loved ones. We prayed to make it to our destination safely after seeing how the rain blinded us.

Is everything really going to be fine?

***

Days passed as we spent our nights at my Tia Claudia’s. We watched the devastation unfold in downtown Houston through the screen. We tried to make the most of the situation, thankful that we were well and alive. That we made it to somewhere warm and safe. We prayed for those unfortunate souls who lost everything to Harvey. I used to laugh at that name, you know? Now every time I hear it, it brings me back to those terrifying events. My younger cousins tried to play games with Marco and me to distract us from our worries. It worked in the end. For a little while, but it was enough for us. I never really got to thank them for that.

Many things happened in the following days. Once it was somewhat clear and safe, Tio Miguel went to accompany Marco and lead him back to university. We then decided to go check on our neighborhood, only to realize  the moment we got there, the entrance was still completely flooded. We had to cut through part of the bayou and enter through the back of my Tia Anita’s and Tio Miguel’s home. It was not until then we noticed that their house wasn’t affected. If theirs was OK, then why wouldn’t ours be? My tia opened the front door, and we saw the watermark, an inch from the door.

Oh boy…

As we began walking to the direction of our home, we saw how there were patches of area in the neighborhood that were still flooded. Thank God, for our rain boots. Even though they were kind of useless in the end, as the water had gotten deeper the further we traveled. During our difficult walk, I noticed these floating, wriggling, clumps. I squinted my eyes to see if I could figure out what it was. Although, I found my answer once I got close enough, and to say I was disgusted was understatement. “OH MY GOD! THEY’RE ANTS!”

After avoiding the many clusters of ants, we finally made it to our house. Only to see water still near the entrance, and no end to the water mark. Once inside, we saw that the water had made it in. Dead bugs and some blades of grass all over the tiles. Luckily though, only an inch of water had gotten in. Others had worse happen to them. Then again, I am not saying that it still wasn’t a sad situation for us. I recall walking to the wooden area of the dining table and seeing sections of the floor had swelled to a great extent. Making it look as if we had wooden hills within our home. My mother couldn’t help but cry as my tia tried to make her look at the bright side. I saw my father recording the damage on his phone as he walked through the house.

I soon followed my dad to the backyard and saw some patches of water still there. Still, what really caught my attention and filled my heart with dread, was how yellow and dead the grass looked. We then heard an alarm blaring out in the distance and an announcement that said how we needed to evacuate once again. We rushed back in to share the news with everyone. Right when we walked out of the house, military Jeeps rolled into the cul-de-sac. They began telling those who were still there in their homes that they wouldn’t move until everyone has evacuated.

We reluctantly made our journey back to my tia’s, until I noticed someone familiar in the distance. I would have recognized that blonde hair anywhere. “Riley!” Said person snapped her head to my general direction. She looked at me, confused, until she realized who I was and waved while walking towards us, “Hey!” She and I were childhood friends, and even though we didn’t see each other that often, with her working and me preparing for the start of my senior year, we remained close.

“How are you? Did your house get affected?”

“Yeah, what about yours? Y’all OK?”

“Mmhm! We’re alright. The water didn’t even touch us, but damn, y’alls house got hit?”

I sighed, “Yeah.”

She frowned and gave me a sympathetic look, “Aw man, I’m so sorry. How much water got in?”

“Just about an inch.”

“Oh, OK. So it’s not that bad.”

“No it’s not, but it’s still kinda sad, ya know? After seeing everything all so dirty and damaged.

Man, even our Christmas lights are damaged cause there’s still water in the garage.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

The both of us continued to talk for a little bit, as the rest of my family continued walking (since my Tia and Riley’s house were a block away from each other). We shared stories of our adventures over  the past couple of days. Both funny and tragic ones, though just her presence was enough to distract me from the situation. She was the one who even told me the reason for the clusters of “angry” ants, as she called them. Turns out, after the loss of their home, they began to make a boat out of their dead colony members to try and stay afloat. It’s strange, isn’t it? How we all as living beings had made sacrifices, just to have a chance to survive.

It was then time for me to say goodbye and catch up with my family. After we realized that the evacuation was a false alarm, we came to the decision that we would stay with my Tia Anita and Tio Miguel from now on. This gave us a chance to check on our house once in a while. So, with that, a few more days passed by, and we were finally able to return to our home. Little by little, we cleaned up the house as much as we could, although the more we cleaned, the more our spirits began draining away. We were losing all motivation. That was until Riley and her father (who I named Uncle Drew) came to our house and asked my father, “Alright, what’s the plan? How can I help?”

Together, along with my tios (who came soon after my father called them) we began clearing out the garage. Of course, my mother cried again, seeing old memories packed in boxes, ruined beyond repair. My aunt did console her, say things such as, “You will make new memories, better memories. Do not be discouraged.” During our moving of wet, damaged, boxes out of the garage, I saw a woman handing out a small packages to the people of our cul-de-sac. I never knew her personally, but I always saw her walking around the neighborhood. She finally came up to us and explained why she was there. I remember her light, Southern accent as she said with a heartfelt smile, “Here! I made lunch for those who were cleaning and helping out. And if y’all need anything, you let me know. I’ll be in that white SUV over there, handing out food and water.” She then handed us hot dogs wrapped in foil. I won’t lie; it was really hard not to tear up from her kindness. I gave her a watery smile in return and replied with a “Thank you so much, we really appreciate it.” Riley and I began handing everyone their hotdog, and as we ate, I looked at my surroundings, at our neighbors helping each other as much as they could. I then turned to see my tios, Uncle Drew, and my father sitting in front of the garage with beers in their hands, laughing and smiling, as they each shared their respective stories. I softly smiled.

Yes, everything is going to be fine.