Survival

        “You’ve shut yourself away from everyone.”
        “And what would your point be?”
        “It’s not healthy.”
        “It’s not your business.”
        “I don’t see why you’re like this.”
        “I don’t see why you should care.”
        “I’m a friend.”
        “You’re an acquaintance.”
        “That’s cold.”
        “Adapt.”
        “Adapt?”
        “Yes.”
        “Along the lines of, ‘Get used to it’?”
        “Yes.”
        “I don’t want to adapt.”
        “Then you won’t survive.”
        “How can you say I won’t survive?”
        “Only the strong survive.”
        “Is that why you’re so cold?”
        “That is why I will survive.”
        “And as long as I know how to live—”
        “Don’t start that rubbish with me.”
        ”I’m trying to make you laugh.”
        “You do so in vain.”
        “You didn’t used to be like this.”
        “People change.”
        “They adapt?”
        “Yes.”
        ”I think I’d rather die than become like         you.”
        “That would your prerogative, then.”
        “You want me to die?”
        “No.”
        “But you just said that it’s my choice.”
        “I don’t want you to die. But if you want to die, there’s nothing much I can do about it.”
        “You can stop me.”
        “If you want to die, you’ll find different ways to kill yourself.”
        “Like slit my wrists?”
        “Or hang yourself.”
        “Overdose.”
        “Starvation.”
        “Step in front of a train.”
        “Shut yourself away from the world.”
        “What did you just say?”
        “Nothing of any relevance to the conversation.”
        “Do you want to die?”
        “Sometimes.”
        “Right now?”
        “Yes.”

LESSON :: Beatings

        One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
        Stop.
        Breathe.
        Close your eyes.
        One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
        Stop. Breathe.
        Close your eyes, tighter.
        One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
        Stop.
        Breathe.
        Grit your teeth.
        Clamp down on your jaw until you feel your molars about to shatter.
        One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Sev—
        “STOP!”
        Eight…
        “Please…”
        Nine…
        “Please stop…”
        Ten.
        Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot.
        Door creaks open.
        Right foot. Left foot. Right foot.
        Door creaks shut.
        Click
        Bolt-locked.
        The room is dark. A slice of sunlight cuts across the stuccoed-ceiling. A small sliver of exposed window, facing the East. It must be early or mid morning, then. It’s bright sunlight. So it’s got to be early morning. There isn’t that dullness to the glow. No yellow, really. More like stark white.
        Why did she say anything? She didn’t have to say it. She shouldn’t have said it. But the words just spilled out from her lips. They moved on dark wings, circling his head four times, before slipping into his ears.
        All she said was three words. That’s all. “Criminal” and “a” and “you’re.”
        But not in that order.
        She just stepped out of the shower. Shivering and wrapping the towel around her body as tightly as possible. He was sitting on the bed, timing her. He laughed at her.
Before she could stop herself, before she even knew what she was about to do, her lips parted, her vocal chords exploded, and she screamed at him: “You’re a criminal!”
        He sat on the bed, staring at her for a minute. He looked confused, for a moment. She watched the three words on their little hellish wings circle his head, taunting and teasing her. And then, when they disappeared into his ears, his confusion was lost to rage.
        The towel was torn from her body. It took him a total of ten seconds to wrap the thing around her throat. He pulled her back against his front, pulling the ends of the towel harder, tightening the fabric around her throat.
        She coughed and struggled. He laughed and tightened the towel. She was starting to get dizzy. She remembered something.
        As he tightened the towel even more, she forced her body to go limp. He wasn’t expecting that. They both fell forward. She felt something in the back of her head. It was his chin. She smiled at that, swallowing as much air as she possibly could—while she had the chance.
        He didn’t say anything. She turned around—still naked—deciding suddenly to kick his ass into next week.
        He was faster, though. And stronger. And better prepared.
        He pulled a small club—really, it was a bit of hockey stick he’d cut off—and started hitting her with it.
        He attacked her legs, chest, arms, ribs, stomach, feet. Everything.
        He hit her ten times. Caught his breath. And started again.
        She tried to catch the club, to pull it from him. He stopped that with a quick and harsh collision between the thick and strong club, and her bare knuckles.

        Now, lying on the floor in their bedroom, she stares up at the shard of light slicing its way across the ceiling, slowly becoming shorter and shorter.
        There is reason to move from her spot. There’s also no way to do that. She can feel parts of her body pulsing painfully. She can feel other parts of her body swelling. And, still others, she can’t feel at all.
        He steps into the room again, and lies down beside her. He wraps his arm over her stomach, caressing left hip gently. And, as he nuzzles her neck with the stubble on his chin, he whispers, “I’m sorry. I love you. Please…I’m sorry I lost my temper.”
        She doesn’t reply to him. She can’t. She lies there, her mind falling into the darkness of unconsciousness. Again.
        He was always teaching her new things—at least one new lesson every day. Today, it was to never speak, never fight, and never listen.

WAITING FOR A HERO :: Beatings

        She's sitting on the curb, in the parking lot, running through her options. She's been sitting on the curb for forty-five minutes. She's been sitting alone for twenty. Everyone went home.
        If she goes back home... But she can't go back home. Not after what she said to her family.
        If she goes home... But she can't go home. Not after what she said to him.
        If she goes... Where else can she go? Her bank account is empty. She won't get paid for another eight days. She could go to a shelter. But there aren't any homeless shelters here.
        There's another type of shelter, though. But she can't go there.
        Maybe sneak back onto the site and just sleep in one of the buildings. No one would know. The security guard doesn't know all the sites secrets.
        Then again, neither does she.
        It's getting dark out. The warmth of the day is beginning to drift away. A cool wind whips her hair around her face. She pulls her forehead from her knees and stares out into the barren parking lot, her chin resting on her knees, now.
        She can't even leave the parking lot. She's got eighty three cents in her pocket. Two quarters, a dime, two nickels, and thirteen pennies.
        Her stomach rumbles and twists. Her ribs are aching from the lack of food. She hasn't eaten in days.
        That's not entirely true. She's eaten. She just hasn't been able to keep anything down. And every time she's sick, her ribs voice their rage against the rest of her body.
        The sky is growing dark, rather quickly. It won't be long before it starts to rain.
        She presses her forehead to her knees again, and holds her legs against her chest. Her ribs are sore, sitting like this, but it relieves the pressure on her back and neck.
        Two options. Both unacceptable. Both impossible. No options, then.
        She smells the rain before she feels it. The thick scent of wet pine invades her senses. And then she feels the cold droplets slowly begin to tap at her skin. Before long, she feels the onslaught of the summer tears.
        He'll be furious when she calls him. When he has to drive all the way out here to get her. She won't hear the end of. She won't remember it either, though. A blessing in disguise.
        But what if she didn't call him? Would he really care that she wasn't home? Would he get worried? Would he come looking for her?
        Her family thinks she's with him. They don't care though. She went back to him. After they told her it was them or him. She chose him. And they haven't looked at her since.
        The rain falling over her hair slips along the edges of her face, pulling the makeup from her face. Clear water becomes thick with coverup and stage powder.
        The sound of splashing draws her head from her knees. She looks into the parking lot, wiping the falling rain from her eyes, feeling small drops slipping from the tip of her nose.
        Two lights bounce off the wet pavement. She tilts her head to the side a little. Someone for the restaurant, maybe. Though they're closed tonight, maybe someone forgot a purse or a bag.
        The car splashes through the puddles, the windshield wipers moving back and forth at the fastest setting. The vehicle pulls up beside her. The passenger window slides down, the falling rain soaking the woman inside.
        She smiles softly and sadly at her friend, standing in the rain and shivering. "Get in, hun."
        She shakes her head in the rain, sending drops of water to the left and right. "I'm fine. Just waiting for a ride."
        The woman in the driver's seat leans over and looks out the passenger window, "Get in the fucking car! I'm taking you back to my place. Now get the fuck in!!"
        Again, standing in the downpour, she shakes her head no.
        The passenger steps into the rain, slips to the rear door, and opens it. She pulls a blanket out and wraps her soaked friend in it. "Please," she says softly, guiding but still pushing the young woman into the backseat.
        The passenger slips into the seat behind the driver. The latter immediately locks the doors once both women are safely seated inside. The heat flares. The windows are rolled up.
        They drive off into the pumelling rain, in complete silence.

WAIT :: Beatings

        "You can't hide from me."
        A door opens. The hinges creaked -the sound high and fast. The door closes with nothing more than a silent click.

        "That's what happened?"
        "Yes."
        "All right."
        "That is what happened!"
        Scratching wafts against eardrums. A pen scribbling on paper. A fountain pen on the pages of a notepad.

        "She just up and left?"
        "Yes."
        "Really."
        A disgruntled and angered gleam in two green eyes. Thoughts that can never safely be uttered.

        "You just left?"
        "Yeah."
        "Really?"
        "Yeah."

        An ammonia-scented hallway. Fluorescent lights lining the ceiling. White. A few paintings lining the walls, an attempt at comfort and life. Tiled floors -scuffed and covered with a fine layer of dust and dirt from outside, brought about from dozens of shoes.
        A small beeping sound, coming from beyond that wide wooden door. The one with no numbers. The one with the sign on the front. A sheet of paper stuck there with a strip of clear tape. A black pen -maybe a marker- having scribbled out No visitors! Direct family ONLY!
        The word 'direct' underlined quickly. The word 'ONLY' in capital letters, underlined five times, with a loud exclamation mark.

        "Said she left without any incident."
        "He said the same thing."
        "That's not leaving without incident."
        "No. That's not leaving at all."

        "I told you there's no hiding."
        A slight increase in beeping.
        "You won't ever try that again."

        A waist-length, black leather jacket, strolling down the ammonia-scented hallway. Two large, black, scuffed, metal-toed boots knocking along the tiled floor. A powerful smirk. An acknowledging nod of the head to a police officer.

        A predator running free. And a silenced prey lying in wait.

Beatings :: BECAUSE

    "Leeda told me what happened."-
    She turns to and looks back at her friend, though she doesn't say anything.
    Kate's eyes are soft and warm, they always are these days. "Sorry to hear it, hun."
    She shrugs, "Better him than me."
    "Guess so," answers Kate, stepping forward and shading the sun from her eyes. "You okay?"
    "Yeah," she answers with a bit of a smile. "I'm fine."
    "If you need to talk, just let me know. Okay?"
    She nods and smiles before saying goodbye. The rest of the staff is leaving the building. She reaches her car and unlocks it, before slipping into the driver's seat.
    Her fingers run along the steering wheel softly for a minute or two. It's stifling in the closed vehicle. She can feel beads of sweat forming over her skin -her forehead, her nose, the base of her neck.
    She starts the engine. The radio comes on and she listens to the music a little, trying to identify the song and the artist. She can't think of who it is. He could have though. He could name every song you played. He would laugh that she couldn't name any. She would laugh, too.
    Her knuckles are white as she clenches the steering wheel; the car running quietly, spewing exhaust into the sweltering summer evening.
    Before she consciously realizes anything, she finds herself halfway home. But not the home she's destined for. She's halfway to their apartment; halfway along the route that runs through the back roads. The route that took the longest to get home. The one she used when she knew what was going to happen when she got home. When she knew that she'd forgotten something in the morning, and only realized it after he'd called her cell phone and reminded her of what she'd forgotten.
    This was her avoidance. The only way she could assure a little safety.
    She stops the car and stares at the roadway. There is no going back to that apartment. There's never going to be a going back. All that their home contains is spotlessness, yellow tape, and a coroner.
    He was found dead by his brother. Suicide. Complete with notes for his family and for her. An overdose. They found alcohol, ecstasy, cocaine and acid in his system. Not enough to kill him, but combined to do substantial damage.
    It was heroine that killed him. A ridiculous amount, pumped into his forearm with a surgical syringe.
    Initially they told her it was the heroine. That's what she answered with when asked. A heroine overdose. Simple and accidental. But he knew how to use it. He knew how much he could take at one time; how much she could take at one time, too.
    Later she was told it was air pockets. Something like that anyway. She really didn't pay that much attention to what they told her.
    "If you leave me, I will kill myself." He'd threatened her many times with those words. She had believed them every time. He had never tried to call her bluff because she had never threatened to leave. And then, the first and only time she left him, he killed himself.
    Staring at the roadway, she watches the years play back in her thoughts. Every moment of silence. Every moment of anger. The hours of bliss. The minutes of hatred and pain. The weeks of tears and fear. All brought to an end because she had left him.
    How could she not be blamed for what happened? He had warned her. She ignored him and left. For anyone else, that would have been cause for deep concern. If a student uttered such a thing, the teacher would consult the parents. If an adult whispered such a thing to a colleague, that colleague would consult outside help for the other.
    He had told her that if she left, he would have to kill himself to save himself from the pain of losing her. She had always listened to him. He had never tried to hurt himself. And then, the one time she did leave, he pumped his body full of heroin and air pockets.
    She killed the man she loved. She did so willingly. She left to be safe forever. And now, she would forever remember that the direct result of her decision was the death of another person.
    How could you not look at the facts and call her a murderer?
    Because. The only word that matters anymore. Just because.

The Coup :: THE SHADOW

        The darkness of the den was perfect. You can’t see a thing inside. The lights are dead—the breaker in the basement having been torn from the wall. Nothing works in the house.
        They had made sure to secure the scramblers to battery operated back-up systems. When the breaker died, the scramblers came on. A small feat of ingenuity, to say the least. Though not one she herself claimed.
        White armour reflects the moonlight cascading through the open windows of the hallways. The staff is secure in their rooms. Though not one sleeps. They knew this would happen. They were told no more than three hours ago. They discovered just how much she does care for all of them. They will never be able to repay her.
        The flashlights, strapped to white-armoured forearms, blink and die. Any and all electric-operated devices have no use in this place now. The scramblers are more advanced than anyone truly knows.
        They step into the den. Three of them. Their footsteps are heavy as they cross here and there, searching the darkness. They are not used to the dark. They fear it, in fact. The Enemy Unidentified thrives in the darkness.
        Their voices whisper to each other. Hurried and short words. They want to get out. But they can’t until their target is acquired. That’s the term they use.
        Off in the corner of the room, she stands and listens. They pass by her within nothing more than two feet. She smiles as they tread about the room quickly. She knows they’re scared. She can hear it in their voices. And that fact alone makes her smile even more as she watches them in the dark.
        The three leave the room. She waits a moment before following their stumbling strides. She can hear them knocking into furniture and toppling various objects. This is her domain, after all.
        As she expected, they move upstairs. Eight of them. The full crew. They move into the bedrooms, waking the already woken staff. They pull their captives to the windows, inspecting them for their targets.
        Finally the head of staff is found. She directs them to the main bedroom. They step inside, all eight of them. The head of staff is ordered back to her bedroom. She goes willingly.
        From the hallway, the following shadow is silent. She waits, crouched against the wall. She waits for that one step. For that one moment. Her breathing is calm and casual. You would think she waits for the bus on the street corner, and not what she—
        The hallway explodes in a blast of white light. Closely followed by a thick cloud of smoke, and then orange red light flickering over everything.
        The one step happened. And the room met its ill fate.
        The staff goes screaming from their respective rooms. All rush downstairs. One white-armoured figure stumbles from the room—completely engulfed in flames.
        The head of staff watches the figure fall to the floor. She says nothing, joining her Mistress and moving downstairs in a perfect calm.
        Other figures in white come crashing into the house. They rush about collecting the panicked staff, while other white figures rush upstairs to the master suite.
        “Thank you,” says the Shadow to her head of staff.
        “Be safe,” replies the other woman.
        The Shadow smiles softly before slipping into the gardens, disappearing from all existence. She turns, briefly, to watch the flames explode from her bedroom. The price of sacrifice, she thinks with a smile.