14. our eyes wander for help; prayers that need no answer now

Note: A small bit from my WIP ghost fic. It's another scene set in the past, written in second person. (Still not sure I like that.) Not edited by anyone other than me. Cheers!

Past (2)

You hate days when you have to dress in anything more formal than casual. It isn't that you don't like to look nice—that part, you love. No, it's the insane footwear society has forced upon you. You hate, hate, hate heeled shoes and the way they make your calves ache. You know it's your own damn fault, though, because you're too vain to wear flats that, while more comfortable, make you look completely ass-less in your long skirts and tailored pants.

You've learned a few tricks over the years, though. You wear slip on shoes as you make the short-but-just-long-enough-to-hurt-your-feet trek from your (okay, Matt's, since his is the only name on the lease) apartment to the Metro. You keep the comfortable shoes on for the first leg of your trip because there's really no rush to change when you're going to have to wait for your connecting train at one of the hub stops, anyway.

Unfortunately, when you're seated between an older black woman with a colorful suit and some tourists who look more confused than anything else, you know the inevitable can no longer be avoided. Opening your briefcase, which you carry mostly to look professional as it only holds your shoes and purse, you remove the dreaded pumps. They're really cute and fit like a dream but you know that will not save you.

Bending over to make the exchange, you get a different perspective of the people riding the Metro that morning. There's a caramel skinned man in a suit who looks about your father's age and a scowling teenager whose arms are crossed sullenly as he listens to some sort of MP3 playing device seated across from you. On the other side of the man is a couple sharing a seat. You pause with only one heeled shoe on to watch them for a moment.

The man, who can't be any older than you if that, is leaning into the corner of the car with his arms wrapped around the woman on his lap. Their heads are bent as if they're sharing secrets and you feel a pang in your heart. It's been a long time since there was anybody to whisper into your ear… longer still since you sat on someone's lap (unless you count Santa, which you don't). You offer them a lopsided smile when the man notices your less-than-veiled attention.

His eyes widen, as if surprised, and he opens his mouth. The brakes on the train slam suddenly and you have to concentrate fully on not being thrown into the older woman who, while sturdy looking, probably wouldn't appreciate being bombarded by a twenty-something with only one shoe on. You slip your other shoe on and close up your briefcase before you glance back over to the couple. They're gone, though, and there's only a stack of newspaper in the seat they previously occupied.

You furrow your brows for a moment wondering what that was all about, and then shrug it off. You have only two more stops before you get off and suddenly a wave of nerves hits you. You've never met your Representative before, and, even though you're only going to speaking with one of her aides regarding her stance on education policy, it's still kind of a big deal to you. Suddenly, you're almost glad you have your shoes to be annoyed about—it helped you forget to be terrified for a while.

You decide to send a thank you letter to Steve Madden when you get a chance as you stand up and prepare to exit. You even indulge in a smile before terror (and maybe a bit of excitement) overtakes you again.

13. don't lose any sleep tonight, I'm sure everything will end up alright

Notes: I'm less experienced than a novice when it comes to chess but I had inspiration for a story involving it all the same. (Note the vagueness to which I describe the game. ;)) I was sort of trying something by starting in the middle and filling in the background as the plot progressed from there, though I'm not sure how successful I was in making the characters well-rounded and compelling. Also, mostly only I've edited this piece, so all mistakes belong to me and me alone.

Gambit

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gambit (noun) (1) a chess opening in which a player seeks to obtain some advantage by sacrificing a pawn or piece; (2) any maneuver by which one seeks to gain an advantage; (3) a remark made to open or redirect a conversation

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Tears raced down her face as she tore her arm from her grasp. "Stop it! Just stop it!" She sniffed and wiped her eyes. "It's not funny! I won't be your joke anymore! Just stop and leave me be!"

Dumbstruck, he gaped at her for a moment. "What are you on about?" he asked, brows furrowed.

"I don't understand," she continued, ignoring his question. "I thought you were my friend but—" She pulled herself up and faced him head on. "Do you laugh when I'm not around? Amusement for you and your real mates. How could you?" Now her tear filled eyes bored holes into him.

He ran a hand through his hair, obviously bewildered. "Lily, I have no idea what you're talking about. Just—"

She waved him off, thrusting a piece of parchment toward him. "I can't believe you knew. It would be one thing if you just-just didn't feel the same but that you would string me along for so long for your own sick pleasure—how could you be so cruel?" She shook her head. "God, Aiden, I don't even know you."

His mouth opened to try and piece together some semblance of sense but she just shook her head as she slid into her car. She was gone in a screech, leaving a flurry or leaves unsettled behind her.

Blinking, he glanced down at the paper she'd thrust into his hands. There were water drops—tears, he realized belatedly—but the print was still readable.

Hugh—

I can't believe school's only been out for a week! It feels like an age. My mum's already on me about my A-Levels, though, can you believe it? You'd think we were already halfway through next year or something!

Anyway, I've not got long. I just wanted to check—are you still planning to visit Town next week? I was hoping we could get tea...without our parents. They are horrible bores, after all.

One last thing before I go; I never could work up the nerve to say anything during the year. Please don't be mad—I just didn't want to upset you. I know how much you care for Lily, even if she is a terrible nag at times.

See, my older sister mentioned she overheard Aiden Milton laughing about her—about how she's always following him like a puppy dog and obviously infatuated with him. I know they're meant to be friends but apparently he and his mates are always mocking what she says and other things behind her back.

I'm so sorry, Hugh. I honestly didn't know how to tell you. I can't imagine what I'd do if it were my sister and… well, I just hope you can forgive me for taking so long. We can chat more next week or over IM.

Aurelia Santoro xoxo

Face set in a deep scowl, Aiden raced into his parent's posh flat. Unlike Lily, he still wasn't quite old enough to get his license. Instead, he was stuck using cabs and the generosity of others. It wasn't long before he was on his father's computer, using Skype to call the Santoro household. (They summered in Italy and he highly doubted his parents would appreciate a long distance phone charge.)

A maid with dark skin and darker eyes answered the call. She appeared to have been cleaning the office. "Signore Aiden, sir," she said in a heavily accented voice. "You wish to be speaking with Signorina Giulia?"

"Yes," he barked, forgoing the usual pleasantries in his agitated state.

The woman gave a serene nod, apparently not bothered by his tone, and moved out of the webcam's range.

It wasn't long before Giulia's tanned face popped into view. "Aiden?" she questioned curiously. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this impromptu call?"

He did not spare her any pleasantries. "Lily has just been here, Giulia. She was in an absolute state because of something your sister wrote to her brother. Something you apparently shared with Aurelia about me." His expression darkened. "I just have one question: why?"

Giulia had the audacity to look innocent. "Am I not allowed to share things with my sister now? How was I to know she was friends with Hugh Dixon?" She crossed her arms. "I'm not the one who told all those stories about the 'stupid flower' and that 'pansy cow'."

Instantly his face fell. "That—you thought..." Aiden growled with irritation. "I called her that pansy cow because the stories were about Pansy King and my father!" He grit his teeth. "You insufferable busybody. Instead of coming to me or having all the facts, you just—ugh!" Throwing his hands up, he waved off her hasty apologies. "Never mind. I've got a mess to clean up."

After closing Skype, Aiden began pacing. He couldn't very well cab over to the Dixon household or wherever Lily had chosen to hide out. If her mum and dad didn't do him in, her brother and cousins would surely finish the job. No, despite his inclination to try to fix this that moment, it would probably be best to wait. Forcing himself to sit, Aiden began to formulate a plan.

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It was late morning when Aiden called a cab take him to Lily's small suburban neighborhood. It was a short ride during which he alternated between looking anxiously at his cell phone (no missed calls from Lily) and pretending to listen to the Pakistani man ramble about traffic and weather. Soon enough, he was standing on a corner and left to his own devices.

Wandering down the lane, it wasn't hard for him to find a small park. A cursory look confirmed that it was the park. The park that Lily always chatted about. It really wasn't much to look at—just a few benches, a nice lawn with some flowers around the edges and a handful chess tables in the centre. But for the child of Robert Dixon, rabid chess enthusiast, it was enough.

He spotted her almost instantly. Her red hair shone like a beacon—a splash of color in an utterly gray world.

For a moment, he paused. An anxious hand ran through his blond hair and he considered running away. But, no. He'd made it this far, he wasn't going to call another cab (or worse, one of his parents) to return home with his tail between his legs. Not without at least speaking with her first.

Steeling himself, Aiden marched forward. As he closed in on her, he could see Lily was waiting for another opponent. He gave the evil eye to anyone that even glanced her way and swooped into the seat across from her.

Lily's gaze snapped up, and she froze. "Aiden?" Her mouth formed a thin line as she started to stand.

Covering her hand with his, his gray eyes pleaded with her. "Please, Lil. Hear me out."

Maybe it was his sincerity. Maybe it was the dark circles under his eyes from a night of restless sleep. Maybe it was nothing more than some kind of morbid curiosity. Whatever the reason, though, she gave a small nod and sat again. "Fine," she said stiffly. "But, if you want to sit there, you're playing."

"Fine," he agreed. Because he was the challenger, he let her make the first move.

They played in silence for at least ten minutes before Lily's irritation outweighed any lingering mortification. "You were going to say something?" she prompted, bringing her bishop out to take one of his pawns.

"So I was," Aiden confirmed with a nod, eying the board for a moment. Scowling at what he saw, he moved his castle. Then he looked up to meet her gaze evenly. "Thing is, I don't know where to start."

Her lips were pursed as she toyed with her pawn, finally moving it. "The beginning is usually a good place," was her dry response.

Aiden shrugged. "Fine. I don't like to disrespect the girls I know but boys are boys. So, one day, after a good deal of ribbing—" here, he moved his queen, taking her knight, "—I finally acquiesced. I told them a story; a story about Pansy King and my father."

Busying herself with making her move, Lily didn't comment at first. "But Aurelia—"

"Santoro heard a bunch of nonsense from her sister who didn't know what the bloody hell she was talking about." Aiden frowned and moved one of his pawns. "It's not my fault you lot are named after sodding flowers, is it?" he added under his breath.

Lily heard him. Crossing her arms, she huffed a little. "Well, I—"

"Nuh-uh," he cut in, wagging his finger. "You don't get to argue right now, Lil. Way I see it, there can be only one of two reasons you believed this load of nonsense. Either you really do have that little faith in me as a friend or there was more going on here than I've been aware of." He cocked a brow at her as he moved his bishop into place. "So which is it? And check."

Scowling, Lily looked down at the board and made a quick move. "I don't have to answer that."

Aiden nodded. "True, I suppose," he agreed, pushing his knight forward. "Check."

"But I suppose if I don't, you'll be inclined to think I have little-to-no faith in the strength of our friendship," she said in a long-suffering tone, moving her king out of danger.

He smirked a little. "Well, there is that," he drawled in typical rich boy fashion as he prepared his bishop for attack. "I am more interested, though, in what I think was going on in that head of yours."

Lily chose not to comment, instead concentrating on the game. After a minute of contemplation, she pulled out the big gun—her queen.

"Aren't you interested in my theory?" Aiden pressed, putting his pawn up for sacrifice.

"Not especially," she muttered, taking said pawn.

Now he smiled a little, tapping her wrist so she'd look at him. "Not even if I think the same thing?" he asked, slipping his queen behind her defenses. "Checkmate."

Lily wasn't looking at the board, though. She was standing, expression fierce. "Aiden, I swear on all that is holy, if you are screwing with me—"

That was as far as he'd let her go. "I'm not," he interrupted, making his way to her. "And, unless I've completely misread everything, I'm going to kiss you now." He smirked again as he leaned forward. "Feel free to shove me away if this is an unwanted attack."

She laughed a little at that, though it had a distinctly higher pitch than her usual.

It didn't matter. The next moment, his lips met hers and even though it was awkward and fumbling and he completely forgot where to put his hands, it was still warm and sweet and he wanted more. Much more.

They pulled apart, noses just centimeters away from each other. Wide blue eyes met wide brown and neither quite knew what to say.

Lily recovered first, clearing her throat. "Well."

"Okay," Aiden agreed without actually agreeing to anything.

She nodded. "So?"

He matched the movement. "Yeah."

They both still looked like deer caught in headlights for another moment, then Aiden reached forward and grabbed her hips the same time Lily wrapped her arms around his neck. The next instant, she was plastered against him and they were full on snogging.

Half an hour later, they were discovered by a myriad of her cousins and other, more homicidal, family members. Aiden wasn't certain he'd live through the day but with Lily's hand clasped in his he found he couldn't mind too much.

12. with downcast eyes; there's more to living than being alive

Notes: I wrote this a few years ago and recently happened upon it again. Cleaned it up some and... I dunno, I kind of like it. Sort of high school drama-y but with deeper undertones. Hasn't been edited (at least not recently) by anyone but me. Cheers!

Perfect

It was supposed to be everything she'd ever dreamed of. It was supposed to be perfect. She'd spent so much time dreaming of it—of him. Of their moment together. And then to get it—get him—and for real… It should have been prefect. Didn't she deserve it? After all her pining and wasted time, all the hurt and crushed spirits; why couldn't the real thing live up to her ideal? Just this once? The pedestal in her mind wasn't that high, really.

But it wasn't perfect, not even close. It was better than anything she'd found before, though. Not perfect but still… good. Nice. Worthwhile. Sometimes she'd forget he was hers, just for a moment. Then it'd hit her, just like it had when he asked her to prom, and she'd wonder how she'd gotten so lucky. Even if it wasn't perfect, somehow he was still hers. And it felt like she'd hit the jackpot and won the lottery—at the same time. It was amazing. Wonderful. Almost perfect.

She should've known it was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped. Even when he was hers he was never really hers. He never really belonged to anyone, not for too long. He always had his eyes open, just in case. Like he didn't want to miss something better. Someone better. She should've known it would only be a matter of time before someone new caught his attention. It was his nature. But, true to her own way, she'd been drawn in like a moth to a flame. Too blinded by the flame to feel the fire.

It'd been no surprise (to anyone other than herself) when she'd ended up just like the moth: burned. It should've been perfect. She wasn't stupid. She'd always known wouldn't last forever. But if it couldn't last, why couldn't it live up to her perfect dreams? If she was going to have her heart broken by him yet again, didn't she deserve at least that? This had been her chance to live her dream. And, if she had, maybe she'd have had the memory to comfort her on the lonely nights that followed his leaving.

She didn't, though. There was no comfort. But, before too long, those nights began to be fewer and farther between. She still had her friends and, as luck would have it, a new (super cute) transfer student with a really adorable accent who dug her hairstyle. So maybe it still hurt to see him walking down the hall, arm slung around Girlfriend #53's neck; she could handle it. And, slowly but surely, that empty feeling she'd been sure she'd never be able to fill again faded.

Until one day it was gone, just like that. As if it'd never really been there in the first place. She'd moved on and without even really noticing it. Suddenly, her smile seemed just a little bit brighter. Her steps a little bit bouncier. And her memory of being with him? It was just that: a memory. Imperfect as always. He'd done her a great service, she decided, by being his imperfect self. (Not that he could be any other way but still. She could finally appreciate it.)

Because those imperfections—all those little things that made their time together not quite as special as she'd wished and hoped and dreamed—without them, she might've never been able to get over him. She might've spent her whole life broken and depressed over the boy she couldn't make love her enough to be her perfect boyfriend forever instead of finding a way to move on. Move forward. Worse, she might've missed out on other great guys (like Serge) because of it.

It hadn't been perfect, not even close. And she wouldn't have had it any other way.

11. was this over before... before it ever began?

Note: Just a little something I had an idea for a few years back. I'm not 100% sure I like the ending (despite the fact that I've reworked it several times) but that's all right. Not edited by anyone but me. Um, yeah. Cheers!

Bittersweet

They were friends for a long time—years and years. They were both five when they met for the first time, battling it out on the handball court. She was never any good. He was one of the best on the playground. A few lucky hits one day and she managed to unseat him. It was then that he grudgingly admitted she was all right (for a girl). Back then, it was more their parent's friendship that kept them together.

At some point, though, they realized they actually got along (when they weren't insulting each other). Friendship was easy for them. They fell into a pattern of comfort. He'd steal her fries at lunch and she'd copy his German homework. Sometimes it seemed like they shared everything—friends and schoolwork, family and vacations, even secrets. But that was okay, they were comfortable together. Good friends (and even better partners in crime). It worked for them. It was natural. Those days, it felt like nothing could tear them apart.

Until something did. His name was Chris and he was her first boyfriend. Like more first loves, it eclipsed everything, even her friendships. Not long after Chris popped onto the scene, Denise became his first girlfriend. Denise was followed by Vanessa, then Lilly, Natalia and Jesse. At some point along the way, Chris was replaced by John. They drifted apart but always ended up back together again. It was never a question between them. It just kind of… was.

Then one day, when they were sprawled in his backyard, he asked her something he'd never asked before. He looked her in the eye and said, "Why not me?"

She didn't understand at first. Their friends had always teased them. But it was just a joke. They'd never even talked about it. She tried to answer, but she couldn't. She wasn't even sure where to start. So she offered the only thing she could think of: "You never asked." So he asked and their routine became something new.

They weren't the kind of couple that inspired love songs or an excess of gossip or interest. They were friends first and a couple second. But that worked for them too. It was comfortable and they were happy. It probably would've lasted forever if she let it. She could've been content if she stayed. He was a nice boy turned into a good man. One of her best friends. She loved him with all her heart. In her soul, she knew she always had.

But she wanted more. She dreamed of more. She deserved more. So she made herself a plan. She made decisions. She chose a life that she wanted for herself. It was time to be independent. To stand on her own two feet and see where they took her. She couldn't do that with him beside her, no matter how much she loved him. Because she did love him and it wasn't enough. And nothing he could do could change that.

She knew it was cowardly to just leave. She knew he deserved better. But she was weak, and she knew that a few well-chosen words from him would be enough to stop her from ever leaving. It still felt wrong writing him a Dear John letter (if it could be called that, being half lyric quotes and sentence fragments scratched on the back of a postcard) to say good-bye. She wished it could've been different. That she could've had one last kiss. (Not that she deserved it.)

It was strange, leaving everything she knew behind. Venturing out on her own, trying to find what it was she'd been missing. It was so hard. But when she got there—when she reached that place on her own—it felt good. It felt so good.

It was like she finally got it. All those sappy chick flicks like The Butterfly Effect, The Break-Up, and even Bedazzled finally made sense to her. Loving someone meant putting them first, even at your own expense. That was the one thing she hadn't been able to give.

But that was okay. She built herself a life that she loved living from the deepest part of her soul. She didn't need anyone else to do that for her. It was her and her alone, becoming the person she wanted to be. It felt right.

Sometimes she still thought of him and sighed. She wondered if he thought of her, too. It was selfish but she hoped he did. She hoped the thought left him with a smile. Because the memory of him—of them, as they'd been together—always brought a bittersweet one to her lips.

09. fallen angels at my feet; whispered voices at my ear

Notes: This story is a work-in-progress chapter thing. I was somewhat inspired by the style of a book called Catfish and Mandala where the story is told in three ways--the present narrative, memories from the past and stories about the protagonist's family he wasn't present for. With that in mind, this Untitled Ghost Story Thing is going to be told similarly. There will be present narrative, memories from the past and stories about how the ghosts the protagonist sees lived/died. This here is the first bit I wrote and pretty unedited. Also, I'm not sure I like that it's in second person present tense as the other two chapter types are in third person past tense (for now, anyway).


Past (1)

It's late and even though you told yourself you'd be asleep by eleven, that time's long since passed. You know you could punish yourself but having to be at work by eight in the morning will be punishment enough and you know it. You'll be lucky if you don't drag all day and, since you work with elementary school aged children, that means you're almost guaranteed to be wrecked by three.

None of that matters now, though. You're in the zone. And, even though it's just a hobby to you now, you know that someday this art thing could be a career. (Well, really, you dream that it will be, hope that it could be and think it probably won't be. But that's neither here nor there.) You've even sold a couple paintings in your time but that was back when you lived in the suburbs. Here in the city, things aren't quite the same.

The real problem with working late is how tired you get. There are dark circles under your eyes, which will still be present tomorrow, you're certain. You've been fighting yawns for the past half hour, but you love the subject of your latest work so much that stopping is simply inconceivable to you. You don't so much want to finish as need to. His passing hit you hard and this is the only way you know how to cope. (Though you'd give up every iota of your talent if you could have him back.)

Those are the thoughts that make your heart break all over again. There's still a part of you that doesn't believe it's true—that he's really gone. He wasn't just a grandfather to you, is the thing. He was the man who showed you what caring really looked like. Sure, he was flawed—who isn't?—but he was also good. Good in the way that you (and your aunt and grandmother) aren't. Good like your mom and younger brother.

He did things like volunteer with Planned Parenthood and work for pro-choice legislation. When you asked about it once, he was surprised. "Why wouldn't I?" he'd asked you. "I have a sister, a wife, two daughters and a granddaughter. Almost everyone I love the most is a woman. I want them to have the same rights and education as men." Those words touched you like you'd never been touched before. They comfort you when you think about your dream man, wherever he may be.

"Do they really?" You swear that you can hear him asking the question in your minds eye. "Angel, you never told me that…"

It's only when he says his nickname for you—Angel—that you realize it's not in your head. The grip on your paint brush and mug of cocoa tightens and, slowly, you turn in your swivel chair. You've braced yourself for whatever you may see but, still, the sight of your grandfather standing before you with a pensive expression is shocking enough to make you drop both the brush and mug. The ceramic shatters when it hits the floor but you barely notice. "Pop-pop?" you whisper, voice uncharacteristically timid as you reach toward the image in front of you.

"Jelly!" the loud voice from the master bedroom shocks you out of your reverie and you promptly fall off your chair. "It's after midnight, could you please keep it down! Some of us care if we do good work at our jobs."

From the heap of limbs that is your new position, you scowl but don't respond with the witty retort just begging to be hollered back. You might hate your roommate (with a violent burning passion) but he is the best friend of the sweetest ex-boyfriend you ever had. Moreover, he did let you stay your first few months rent free.

Suddenly, remembering your grandfather, your eyes snap back to where he stood. But he's not there any longer. You wonder if that anchovy and artichoke pizza was a mistake because surely you didn't actually see your deceased grandfather standing in the middle of the room. You decide you must still be reeling from the funeral and all the hectic family time you suffered the week before.

Sighing, you clean up the mess that is your ex-favorite mug and begin packing up your supplies. If nothing else, you know that it really is time you head to bed. Hallucinations and angry roommates aside, you don't want to break anymore of your favorite things. And you know how clumsy you get when you're tired. Still, there's a pang in your chest when you close your eyes because you can still see him standing there, smiling just a little as he looks down at you with love in his eyes.

When you finally fall asleep, you're crying and it isn't the first time that week. Deep down, you know it won't be the last, either.

05. my heart can't possibly break when it wasn't even whole to start with

Notes: Just a bit of introspection. Because I can. :) No title as of yet but it's not really much of anything, so perhaps it doesn't need one.


The ring wasn't supposed to mean anything. It wasn't.

It was just sitting there innocently, shining inside that little blue box as it stared at her. It was so beautiful. Three stones—man made diamonds but still lovely—set in silver, the middle bigger than the other two. It was too nice. It was too small for her to wear. Somehow, though, getting it resized didn't feel right. It went on a chain instead—another gift from the same source. It fell with the necklace just fine.

Sometimes she'd finger the ring and wonder what it meant. It wasn't supposed to mean anything but it felt like it did. Did she own the ring or did it own her? Sometimes she wanted to rip the ring off and throw it against a wall. Sometimes it made her want to scream. Sometimes she wanted to actually wear it like a ring.

Sometimes she wanted to drop the ring in the toilet and flush it away. It was too much for her. And whatever it meant, she knew she didn't like it.

Because it made her sad. She didn't know why but it did.

Did it break her heart because she wanted it to be from a lover? Or at least from someone who really loved her instead of from someone who made her wonder if love was a pretend thing. Someone who'd try to save her from her loneliness. Someone who wanted to be with her for all the right reasons instead of the wrong ones. Because the person who gave it to her… he said he loved her—he said it all the time. But saying didn't mean anything when the actions didn't match the words.

He reminded her every time he hurt her. When he'd hurt her without ever seeming to care. She wanted him to care—wanted it to matter enough for things to change—but she knew better. She didn't want to, but she did. Too damn smart for her own good. And tired. She was so damn tired. She felt like she didn't know which way was up—didn't know which direction to go.

Other than away from here. That much was certain. It'd been decided when the hurt became too much to bear. When desperation had given way to anger and the truth had finally stared her so obviously in the face that she couldn't ignore it any longer. What hadn't been decided was what to do with the ring. Throw it away or keep it? Resize it to wear or hide it away? It felt like a heavier decision than it should.

What did it mean?

It wasn't supposed to mean anything, she knew. And maybe one day it wouldn't. Today wasn't that day, though. (Tomorrow wouldn't be, either.)

02. and its your final last call (why'd you have to let it go)

Notes: Very unedited by anyone that isn't me. Completed short story. Characters portrayed are all my own; inspiration comes from a POSTSECRET card I once saw about someone not telling his (or her) family that he (or she) was still alive. Oh, and ::this:: means the person was speaking in another language, though it should be obvious. Also, the title is work-in-progress.

Serenity

Every day started the same. She woke up on a straw mat that didn’t do much to add to the comfort of her little room but it gave the illusion of keeping her off the packed dirt floor. There was a small bowl of dirty water (and a few pieces of hay) sitting on the lone piece of furniture in the room—a wooden bench. The scarf she wore in her hair became a makeshift washcloth used to wipe off her arms, legs and face. It didn’t do much to clean but it was all she had unless she made the long trip to the river.

Once that was done, she wrung the scarf and used the damp cloth to pull back her stringy blonde bangs. Then she changed her clothes (though they weren’t really her clothes). Today she wore a dark dress-like set made of thin cloth that was designed to keep the wearer from suffering in the heat. (She thought if that was truly the intent, the cloth would’ve been a paler color.) As was her daily wont, she wished for a change of unmentionables but settled for what she had.

After that, she’d shake out her mat before rolling it up and storing it beneath the bench. It was a cleaning habit she couldn’t help, even now. It wasn’t like it made a difference—there wasn’t anyone who cared or such a lack of space to necessitate it. Honestly, she wasn’t even sure she cared most days. But just like the washing, the cleaning added some semblance of normalcy to this life she lived. (If it could even be called that.)

It was around that point she usually made her first choice of the day. She could spend some time making marks on her bench—words and sentences if she was lucky (she only had her nails to use as tools, after all). If that wasn't appealing, she could close her eyes and travel inside herself to visit her "special place". Or, if she had the energy, she could take venture out of her room and into the real world. Usually she did some combination of the three, depending on how tired she was.

Today started slowly. She spent a couple of hours scratching at the bench, managing to make a whole sentence: Give me strength. With that in mind, she decided it was time for her outside adventure. She slipped on the pair of leather sandals by the door, though they little to assuage the blistering heat and often made rocky ground slipperier. Then she dabbed a bit of the dirty water on the back of her neck in a vain attempt to keep cool for at least a short amount of time.

Pushing open the poorly constructed wooden door, she stepped the main room. It was larger than her room with a worn wooden table that had bench seats not unlike the one in her room on both sides. There was a bowl of something on the table and she assumed it was for her. The room also passed for the kitchen with an old Dutch oven in the corner. There was an old woman at the stove who only gave her a peripheral glance before returning to her task of stirring the pot.

It was silent as she ate her food. She took the time to eat slowly, savoring every watery bit and undercooked vegetable there was to be had. It wasn’t every day she had something warm—it wasn’t every day they had wood for the fire. Hell, on the bad days, she often wouldn’t eat at all. (Thankfully, those days were mostly few and far between.) It wasn’t like she could complain, anyway—she wasn’t contributing much of anything to the home.

Useless, that’s what she was. How she felt.

::Thank you,:: she whispered, the strange language still tasting wrong in her mouth. Her accent was rubbish, too, she was certain. But she did what she could. It was all she had to offer.

She spread her dark scarf to cover her hair and stepped out into the blinding sunlight. The winds were blowing strong today but she hardly noticed the thin fabric of her sort of dress brushing against her legs. She’d grown used to the desert by then. She shielded her eyes and glanced around. There were a few people out and about, several more working and still more she knew remaining inside. That was the safest place to be, after all.

A boy a few years her junior came to her when she stepped into the light. ::Why do you stay here, outsider?:: he asked, tone accusing. ::You are not welcome.::

::No home to go,:: she replied slowly, aware her words were broken. ::You want me go; why?::

He sniffed, expression disdainful. ::Outsiders do not belong here. You should have never come.::

Suppressing a sigh, she looked away. “Believe me, I wish the same thing. But I’m here now and there isn’t anything that can be done about it.”

The boy shook his head, muttering choice words in Arabic as he moved away from her. She ignored him in favor of a brief trip into her happy place.

“Darling, it’s so good to see you again,” her mother cooed, reaching forward to gently tuck a stray blonde hair behind her ear.

Her father grunted his agreement, turning the page of his paper.

Her brother poked her in the side. “It’s always so boring without you, kiddo,” he complained with a teasing grin.

Squirming out of the way, she glared. “You’re just sore that you can’t pester Mom and Dad.”

“Well, duh,” was his intelligent response.

She gave them a sad smile. “I have to cut it short. I’ll be back soon, promise.” One last fond look, then she closed her eyes…

Blinking her eyes open, she saw a young girl looking at her with a curious expression. ::What are you doing?:: she asked, eyes wide with curiosity.

::No thing,:: she replied, trying to force a smile. ::I think.:: She pointed to her head to emphasize.

The little girl grinned. ::Boring!:: she announced. ::Come play with me, pale skin.::

Now her smile came easier, though she hated to disappoint the girl. ::I no can, child. I want to sleep and your father no like.::

Pouting, the child gave a nod and raced off.

She wondered how it would feel to be young and innocent again. How it would be if she could see her family in the flesh instead of in waking dreams.

An older woman carrying a heavy burden passed. She moved forward and took the basket from her, waving off her objections with a kind smile. ::Help?:: she offered in a placating tone. It would be so nice to feel useful, if only for a minute.

The woman smiled, nodding her consent. She followed the woman to a hut in the outskirts of their village, placing the burden on her small wooden table inside. ::Thank you,:: the woman told her sincerely.

It was the sincerity that touched her the most. ::You are welcome,:: she said quietly, uncertain why her eyes were suddenly tearing.

She was about to leave when the old woman grabbed her wrist suddenly. ::Why did you come here? Does your family not miss you?::

Again, the sincerity moved her. ::I no have family. Family think…:: here, she mimed that she was dead by a shot to the head.

The horrified expression on the woman's face was all the confirmation she needed that the message had been received. ::And you do not tell them the truth?:: the woman asked curiously.

That was the million dollar question, wasn’t it? She didn’t want to burden the lady but it seemed wrong to lie to her. She was just so tiny and kind. Reminded her of her grandmother, if not a bit younger. ::I am to be soon. Want hurt them less.::

Now the woman appeared concerned. ::You are dying?::

She looked sadly at her hands. “Sometimes I think I'm already dead,” she whispered as she nodded.

The old woman placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. ::I am sorry to hear that,:: she said kindly. ::Is that why you came here?::

She froze momentarily, memories racing through her mind. ::No, I come…:: She shook her head. ::Tall story.:: She emphasized its length with exaggerated gestures.

There was an understanding in the old woman’s eyes that more than crossed cultural lines. ::You will tell me some other time, then,:: she replied easily. ::Thank you, child, for all your help.::

Forcing a smile, she nodded. ::Happy to be helping. Very.:: She was surprised to find she actually meant it, too. The woman had shown her something she’d sorely been missing—kindness. With a wave, she headed out into the hot desert again.

The hike back to her hut wasn’t too long but it gave her time to think. About how she’d been in Mumbai when terrorists attacked. About how she’d landed in the hospital only to find out she was dying. Inoperable brain tumor with no hope. “You could go to America,” the doctor’s interpreter had offered kindly, “but they will tell you the same.” It was then that she’d decided it’d be easier to let her family off the hook than go home only to let them see her die again.

And then she’d come here. Come to this backwards place where she was as much a prisoner as a guest. No money, no language skills, losing more to the tumor each day… there were times she’d questioned her sanity for coming. She never would’ve come herself—never. But at the hospital, she’d had a roommate. A girl her age who went by Gia and they’d bonded over their similar circumstances. Gia was worse off, though (suffering from end stage throat cancer), and soon she was hardly able to speak.

One of her last days in the hospital, Gia had grabbed her urgently. “Find her,” she’d begged. “My father’s mother—tell her of my fate. Please.”

She hadn’t thought much of it when she promised to do just that. She’d wanted to comfort her friend. And she was glad she had, too, because just three days later Gia was gone. The next day, a letter came to her. It was from Gia explaining where to find her aging grandmother and how to get there. How to get to Afghanistan. It even had the Arabic words she was to say spelled out phonically for her. That was the moment she realized how much the promise had really meant.

“Well, shit,” were the first words she spoke as reality sunk in.

Soon she was discharged with explicit instructions to come back for pointless chemotherapy and radiation treatments. She spent what little money she had remaining—because a dead person can’t access ATMs—to travel to the small town in Afghanistan, no questions asked. There were risks, sure, but it wasn’t like she had anything to lose. Her days were already marked. More than that, she’d made a promise to Gia. It was only right that she keep it.

The traveling was rough, getting to the grandmother’s village. There weren’t always roads to travel on or vehicles to travel inside. Food was scarce, water scarcer. And it was so hot but she had to stay covered. Always covered from head to toe. It was the law. (If sweat marks were the new fashion statement, though, she was going to be riding that wave in.) Eventually, she’d arrived. Dehydrated and dirty, exhausted and broken but she made it.

A few words of broken Arabic were all she knew then but, somehow, she found Gia’s grandmother. Then the moment of truth—she read the lines. She read them slowly and carefully, certain the grandmother wouldn’t be able to read them herself. The old woman’s crumpled form was all the confirmation she needed that her message had been received. All that work and for what? Destroying an old woman’s last hopes? Part of her wished she’d never come.

She’d intended to leave then—to leave and never return. She didn’t know where she’d go or to what end (she had no money and she was dying, after all) but there was no reason to stay. Three steps away from the hut, she collapsed. Days later, she woke up on the mat she now called her own in the room that was once Gia’s. Understanding she was ill, the grandmother took her in. No words were ever exchanged, nothing discussed. It just was.

Now the room was hers. She was fed, given water regularly. She tried to contribute—tried to do her part. It was easy at first. She cleaned and lifted things, got water daily and even worked in a field. And she would listen, trying to pick up the language. As the days wore on, though, she grew weaker. She wanted to be strong. Wanted to help because that was what she was sure she was meant to do. But more and more she was a burden. The tumor was winning. And she—she had little fight left in her.

It was strange, she mused as she ducked into the hut that was her home now. Strange to by dying at only twenty-five years old. Strange to be living with strangers in a foreign land. Strange to spend every day trying to speak a language so different from her own. Mostly, though, it was strange to know that she would live out her last days alone. Not physically alone, not really. But she wouldn’t be with her family, the people she loved. And she always thought she’d have more time…

The hut was empty inside, so she headed for her room. Sometimes she wondered where the clothes came from. Were they Gia’s? They couldn’t be the grandmother’s—they were far too big to fit her. And the food—how did she pay for it? Especially now that she had an extra mouth to feed. She’d never seen the old woman work, not once. And there were rarely visitors to their hut, though she attributed that more to her presence than anything else. (People fear what they don’t understand, after all.)

Weeks bled into months and still she didn’t understand. Didn’t know how the society worked. Didn’t know why they were so anxious about her or if they’d ever trust her. Mostly, she wondered where all the fabulous U.S. aid and military assistance was. They were in the deserts of Afghanistan. Wasn’t there a war here? If there was, she couldn’t see it. Sometimes she wondered if anything had even changed for this village when the Taliban were kicked out.

Occasionally she’d have dreams about her cousin the marine suddenly appearing. He’d be handsome in his regimentals, she was certain. Probably all business with shorn hair and a burned nose. (He was fair skinned like her, after all.) She wondered what he’d say when he saw her. If he’d recognize her. If he’d believe it was her. And what would she do? Would she hide from him or embrace him? Would it even make a difference, either way?

He never came, though. No one did. No one searched for her, no one visited. No one except the woman she’d helped. Her name was Karimah and she was a mother of two men around her age who’d run off to join the fight years before. She didn’t know if they were alive or dead, but Karimah was optimistic. That was her way. Full of hope and kind words. Always had something to say to bring up the spirits of those around her.

Even as she lay growing sicker, Karimah would visit. The grandmother, too, began bringing food into the room. It was hard to sit up. She was in pain, so much pain. There were no drugs, no help. ::I feel to die,:: she told them softly one day. ::Sorry to hurt me but more sorry if to hurt you.:: She knew full well what it was like to feel helpless. That was what it had been like in Mumbai. What it felt like as her body began failing her. She wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

Then one day a new person came to visit her—a man. He was dressed oddly, she thought, though her pain made it difficult to open her eyes for long periods of time. The man spoke in a language she didn’t know—maybe French, she thought. He gave the grandmother something and left. Later, Karimah and the grandmother argued. She wanted to stop them but her voice wouldn’t come. Her throat barely opened wide enough to breathe.

She coughed and they stopped. Karimah brought her a bowl of broth and helped her eat. Her expression was sadder than she ever remembered seeing it before. Even the grandmother had a forlorn look on her face. She cracked a smile to ease the tension—her first in days, maybe even weeks. The pain made it hard. But the pain wasn’t so bad anymore. In fact, she felt tired. Karimah laid her head down gently and both women bowed before exiting.

That night she slept a dreamless sleep. The morning came and she didn’t wake up. She never woke up. The grandmother had her buried properly. There was only a stone to mark it—no one knew enough in the village to read her name off the items still on her person. They were stolen and sold quickly, anyway, their value being great on the black market. Soon only the rock and the bench she’d carved remained to show that she’d ever been there.

Not long after her death, soldiers came into the town. Routine check, they called it. The villagers had more colorful words. They visited several of the huts, including the grandmother’s. The bench in one of the small rooms caught one’s eye and he gave it a closer look. “Huh,” he muttered, heading to the main room. He tried speaking to the grandmother in English but she only scolded him in Arabic, clearly not understanding a word he said.

That night, one of his buddies asked him what was bothering him.

“Oh, nothing,” he replied, eating his rations and dreaming of a filet minion. “There was just this bench in an old woman’s hut and it had English words carved on it. It was weird, y’know?”

The men agreed it was weird. One wanted to know what it said.

He closed his eyes for a moment, envisioning the words. “There were lots of random words and sentences ‘bout strength and shit but there was one part...” He could see it in his mind now: God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference. “It was the Serenity Prayer. I realized I hadn’t thought ‘bout it since I last saw my cousin Dana.”

“Yeah? Been a long time since you saw her?” another soldier asked.

He glanced back down at his rations. “Yeah an’ it’ll be longer still ‘til I see her again.” The questioning looks were all it took for him to elaborate—“She died in the Mumbai attacks.” His friends muttered apologies and condolences, then they went back to eating. He lost his appetite. Cleaning up, he wondered if his cousin ever found her serenity, in this life or the next. He hoped she did. Later, before bed, he prayed for that very thing.

That night was the first sound sleep he had since coming to the desert. In the morning, he thought Dana might be smiling down on him from somewhere up above. And that made him walk just a little bit taller.

Some end thoughts:I purposely didn't name the character until after her death for two reasons--style choice and to separate her from her surroundings. She's nameless to all that know here kind of thing. Also, the ending feels a bit weak to me but I had to stop it somewhere. Maybe earlier? Also, the title feels a bit weak but I really like the serenity prayer (and that's coming from a non-Christian).