What is Peace?

Last night I found myself wondering

What peace really is. 

I found myself pondering 

If it is some permanent state of being 

We as humans search for our entire lives.

Is it something that once found

Will cause happiness 

Worldwide?

Does peace just sit there

Like a fed up parent 

Waiting for her chaotic,

Mislead

Toddler to tire himself out

Before she can pick up the pieces 

Left by his destructive ways?

Lost in these dizzying daydreams

I came across a revelation.

This revelation made clear that

The relationship between peace and war 

Is not that of a fed up parent and her reckless toddler,

But it is that of two lovers, 

He, who dances dangerously dealing death

To all. 

But also her, who, while dancing with her lover, 

Lands love luxuriously upon the lives of onlookers. 

There is no death to be dealt without the luxury and love

Of peace.

Along side this revelation came a thought so profound,

"Peace is beautiful, but fragile, like butterfly wings.

Touch them once and the may just crumble away

Into the dust."

Peace comes and goes, 

Showing her skill on the dance floor for only a minute

Before her lover's turn comes around

And shatters our serenity she selflessly gave us.

Finally, 

I realized what peace is. 

Peace is more 

Than something our governments strive for, 

More

Than a cause our soldiers die for. 

Peace is more

Than some end to justify these means, 

More 

Than our filthy American dreams. 

Peace is maturity, 

On a level entirely new to us.

There's a Lesson in This

Clay never loved his brother. He always had to share everything with him: a birthday, a name, a mother. Clay never wanted a twin, never thought that his life needed to be split in two, and never thought his mother loved them the same. She had always favored Robert, who had always favored himself, Clay wasn’t anywhere in this equation. When Clay heard the news that Robert had been killed in battle, his exact words were: “Shit… Bastard should have kept his head down.” No tears were shed, no funerals were attended, and no remorse was felt. Would he have been the same as Robert, if he were loved, or would he have done it differently? He liked to think he would have welcomed the unloved Robert with open arms and they could have a wonderful life together, but Clay knew otherwise. It wasn’t just that he was loved more, it was this sense that Robert was his better half and Clay couldn’t stand it.

Three years later, Clay received a draft notice. He didn’t want to follow in Robert’s footsteps. Not the dying; Clay wasn’t scared of death, but the façade of a hero fighting a hopeless cause. Robert celebrated when he was scheduled to ship out. Robert volunteered, and Clay hated him for that too. Eventually Clay got tired of running and joined the forces in Vietnam. Clay remembers liking helicopter rides. Clay remembers loving the feeling of brothers in the field. Clay remembers loving the excitement everyone felt when the mail came, though he never got anything himself. Clay remembers his first Christmas in Vietnam and the letter he received. Clay’s happiness was tangible, until he saw it was not from his mommy dearest. The return address was labeled: “Saint Peter’s Mortuary of Passing.” Clay remembers the dropping sensation he felt all the way from his throat past and piercing his heart and sinking in his stomach. The words ricocheted in his mind: “Self-inflicted gunshot wound, Left temple.” There was no more mommy dearest, no more family, no more people to come home to. Just Clay. Just Clay and his brothers in the field.

He finished his first tour, receiving medals for valor, honor, and more unimportant things. He completed his second tour, Like the blink of an eye, Clay thought. Clay was about to finish his third tour, five months in to a six month ride. There was no more excitement for mail, no more laughing in helicopters, no more love between Clay and his brothers in the field. It was just him. Just Clay and his mind. And although Clay hated tattoos, all that was left of mommy dearest was inked on Clay’s left bicep that consisted of a heart and a banner that read:

“Mom

1924 to 1967”

“This is idiocy!” Clay had yelled at his platoon, all lounging in their foxholes smoking their cigarettes and their dope, “You are all worthless! Sam, you are supposed to be on guard, and I prefer you sober when you are guarding us. Men, There’s a lesson in this, just as there is in everything. Today’s lesson: don’t be a damn dumbass and you won’t die!”

“Sir, what if its not your fault when you get shot?”

Clay was already walking away, head up high in the middle of an uneventful scouting party. “It’s alway your fault soldier, and soon you will realize that.” Silently, Clay sat in his foxhole and touched his left arm, as though it brought him closer to his mother, and he thought, still silently even in his own mind, of how he hated that he would never see his mother again. Not in heaven and not in hell, That religious bullshit is just meant to keep the masses calm, Clay thought, his mind feeling empty and hollow, Keeps the streets clean it does, clean as dirt. With that, Clay drifted into a dreamless sleep.

“Sir we believe we have spotted a Charlie village up north a few klicks, should we leave now or gather more information?” 

With a start, Clay came to his senses, stood, and began shouting orders, yet still quite enough to keep to themselves. Clay firmly believed that the skill was gained through his many tours in Vietnam. The others thought it was just Clay.

“I’ll take the flank and Sam, you lead us there, you’re the one that spotted it after all!”

“Yes, sir!” the platoon chorused.

After rapidly gathering their things, the group set out, a few were smoking cigarettes, but all of them were alert and focused. “Sir,” Sam yelled back, a couple minutes in, “looks like they have a bit of fortifications! Do we still want to-” a shot rang out in the field and Sam went down hard, a bullet right into his chest, shredding whatever gear was in the way.

“Sniper!” one of the men yelled. The platoon dropped, hiding in the grass and whatever else they could find, but Clay kept his eyes on Sam, crawling closer to the boy. He was like a brother to Clay, not the brother in arms, but a brother as if Clay had actually loved Robert.

“Sam…”

“S-Sir,” Sam was pale, spitting blood in every shallow breath, “Cl-Clay…” he fumbled a small, folded piece of paper out of his breast pocket, “Please t-t-take this t-to my girl i-i-in New Y-Y-York, sh-she’s h-havin’ my d-daughter...” Sam went limp in Clay’s arms.

“No… no!” Clay screamed at the sky, on the off chance he would be heard. “He had so much to go back to!” Clay watched as his platoon was torn to pieces, wasted away in foreign turf.

With a start, Clay came to his senses, looking around at his men.

“Sir? Do we have marching orders?”

Clay looked around. Clay looked at Sam, standing tall and proud, not a scrape on him. On the inside Clay smiled and thanked God. A miracle, this, He thought, “Yes, Sam, you take the flank, I’ll lead us in.”

Lost in Your Hands

i'M lost in mind,
i Just can't
Feel you this time...


iF i Said
You had my mind,
And said
You change it all the time,
Would you believe
My insignificant words?
Would you still leave
And make this all worse?
Or could you stay here
With me?
Or would you leave here
Without me?
i'M just so lost this time,
Just can't return from it.
All this aching in my mind,
And still i Can't leave this shit.


Packing my bags,
Thinking of that serenade,
That hand-me-down hag
That neither of us made.
iF i Said

You had my mind,

And said

You change it all the time,

Would you believe

My fighting words?

Would you please leave 

And stop making this worse?

i Can't see anymore!

Not through all your tears.

i Can't breathe anymore!

Not after all these years.

Darling, you are making me grieve,

You are making me hurt.

Would you please leave,

And stop making this worse.

Another Untitled

Oh, this binding chain,

This nutritious cage.

We see every day our 

Ponderous restrictions

Refuse to fade.

Vanish,

Disappear before our 

Eyes.

From time to time 

We find ourselves in a place,

A place that simply conducts

Happiness.

This is the only place

Where we can close our

Eyes.

Free of any worry.

However these binding chains, 

This nutritious cage,

They don’t want us here.

They want to see our blue

Eyes.

The color of these glass orbs,

The only thing given to us,

Reflects this life through 

Blue lenses.

Not enough in these pockets

For the rose colored glasses.

So This iS Madness

Confusion sets in, madness it is called.

But how our mind starts to act on its own,

Something like a drum sounding in the cold.

We wait for something just to us be shown.

The downfall of our life cannot be now.

We might try to say that we are to young,

‘Cause of our experience is not how.

iF gone, our life by a thread would be hung.

Responsibilities of ours are great.

All too great in fact to leave such a place

We cannot leave a place without this hate

Our exit must be later and with grace.

We have not been given une chance comme ca.

Mais nous pouvons voir que nous aurons la. 

The Story Beneath Cinderella Speaks

       She said she was leaving here, going away and leaving me wanting more. I’ve never truly been the best, or been the one to answer life’s questions correctly, but I never thought that was reason for her to leave. She said maybe, maybe one day she will return, find me and complete me once more. She just needed time away from me to think of what I'd done.

When we met, nearly a year ago, I believed I was blessed, having someone so good in my life that always seemed so wrong. Madly in love, we were married in a month, despite her father’s persistent word of warning. It was mid-July and pleasantly warm, even though it was pouring rain outside the church. Every time we kissed that night, it felt as though time had slowed, and sometimes stopped altogether. I told her I needed her, for I loved her so much. I was so happy, yet so scared. What would happen, if she were to leave? What would that mean for me?

January.

“What does your father mean?” I begged her for an answer after a long and uncomfortable dinner with her rich father. Her father and I had never gotten along, as was expected between a wealthy man and a working man. “Why would you need a new start, aren’t you happy here?”

“Sweetheart, look at me,” I didn’t, I couldn't bear the thought of her father ripping the two of us apart. “Darling, please,” I looked, “Please calm down,” she tried to settle my reeling mind with small words and pleas. When that didn’t work, she said, “Darling I’m not going.” That got me to settle down, at least most of the way.

“But your father. Won’t he be mad?” I asked her, not needing the answer. “He is quite convinced you are joining him.”

“My father needs to accept you,” She pulled me close, so close that I could feel her warm, sweet breath on my cheek, bringing back memories of our beautiful night following our wedding ceremony. I could feel her almond eyes on mine, peering into my soul and capturing my mind. I could feel her breathing, her bosom rising and falling to the rhythm of her breath. Her beauty mesmerized me, baffled me. “I am yours, forever, and I don’t care whether or not my father has a problem with that.” Do you mean that, I meant to ask her - but then I thought, Of course she means it, she loves me.

“Thank you,” I smiled at her, completely relaxed.

April.

My splendid marriage began to go south in my lovely little home in Southampton the day I heard a knock on my door, and my mistake was answering it. As I got up off of my wooden chair, the knock came again, rapping violently on the front of the house. Persistent bastard, I thought, as the knock came again. It happened twice more in my walk from the dining room to the front door two rooms away, making me think this man must be a deliverer of bad news, had she been in an accident? I ran to the door, fearing this man and what he came for more than I feared death. 

As I grabbed the doorknob, the ball of metal seemed to drop temperature to that of ice in my palm, a bad omen. I pulled the door quickly open to reveal this deliverer. “Hello son,” Her wealthy, hating, spiteful father said, shooting more ice than the metal in my palm, “May I come in, or have I lost that privilege to you as well as my daughter?”

“She’s not here,” I spat in return, avoiding his question on purpose, “But I would be ... happy ... to let her know that you stopped by, completely unannounced, may I add.”

“Yes, you may add that,” said he as he walked in my door, as though he took my lack of an answer as a conformation, “And as wonderful as that would be, I came here to speak with you, not your lovely wife.” A smile started to spread across his face, not a happy expression, or even neutral; the man was taunting me with his smug smile on his rich face. I had to put my hands in my pockets to keep from smacking that grin right off of him.

“Whatever you have to say,” I said, repaying him with a grueling sneer, “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Ah yes, I expected that.” I wanted to bury him. He hadn’t done anything overly offensive since he’d gotten here, but his mere presence made me foaming mad. “However, for this I believe you will make an exception. What I came to tell you is very important.”

“What is it then? Really, what is so important you had to come here unannounced?”

“She is coming with me and you cannot stop her.”

“No, she told me she is staying with me here,” he’s lying, I told myself, he has to be. “I’m sorry you came all the way down here to be so disappointed.”

“I am afraid you are mistaken. I am her father, and my word is law,” He grinned again, but this time showing perfectly white teeth.

“Well I am her husband and she doesn’t lie to me!” I screamed, spitting on his blazer.

“But doesn’t she? I’m terribly sorry to tell you this but your marriage was a sham.” The words came out like he was saying the sky was blue, as-a-matter-of-fact. “She never loved you.”

I heard a crack and saw him fall, spitting blood. I saw hands grab him by the lapels and heard three more consecutive cracks. I felt a pain rise in my knuckles and a scream rise in my ears. Was it mine? Was it his? No, it was hers. I looked up and saw her staring, screaming and sobbing. “No!” She cried, “Please stop!”

I realized the hands on his lapels were mine, and the blood on my hands and on the floor was his. I dropped him. He just fell. I heard one last, deafening sound. It was his head hitting the wood floor. 

She said she was leaving here, going away and leaving me wanting more. I’ve never truly been the best, or been the one to answer life’s questions correctly, but I never thought that was reason for her to leave. I walked her to her ship, a giant boat, and looked into her eyes. She said maybe, maybe one day she will return, find me and complete me once more. I said no, she won’t return. I could feel it, sense it in my heart. I kissed her and held her tight. I felt as though days passed, years maybe. "Don't go," said I, "I can't do this on my own."
     "I'm sorry," she replied, "I feel like if we try to get closer we will only lose touch." She left me with those words ringing in my ears. I wanted to scream out to her, to yell that I love her, but I just watched her walk away, boarding with her bandaged father. Maybe someday, even if she doesn’t return, she could come to terms with my actions. I noted the date and time, I didn't know why I did it, it just seemed right.

I wrote down: ‘April 10th, 1912. Noon.’ I then watched as the Titanic drifted away.

Cinderella Speaks

Do not take this from me.
You do not want me that mad.
All you want is to set me free.
You cannot do that when i'm sad.
The best way to set me free
is to let me go.
You have to let me be.
You have to know.
iT's all part of the same fight.
iT's all pieces of the same shine.
All pieces have their own might. 
Just let me go, i'll be fine.


A new wind is blowing.
A change we all knew was to come.
i Can tell you who now is showing,
i Would but they look so glum.
iT's the way i am
To differ from the rest.
i Am the water on the wrong side of the dam.
i Know how, but i have'nt passed the test.
Oh, how i wish you were here.
Your empty space is saddening.
i Scream for you from beyond the pier.
Your lack of an answer is maddening.


You have made my mind,
You change it all the time.
Your words, always so kind.
With my lack of speech, i can only mime.
i'M sorry i cannot be my best,
But for tham i have little respect.
i'M sorry i cannot pass the test,
But for that there is no retrospect.
Making sense is beyond me,
Like my screams which are past the pier.
iT's the nonsense that makes us free,
But you've made it, you've made it here.

Why, This is Just Nonsense

Johnson Macmillan was having a very odd day. Not so odd that he found himself doubting reality, but just enough so he couldn't take his mind off of it. His day started out with the radio playing a song at exactly five thirty in the morning, just like every day. Afterwards, like every day, he came downstairs to make a warm cup of breakfast tea and read the newspaper. However on this particular morning his tea tasted off and he found he couldn’t quite focus on the news because of it. Setting it down for later, he took a brief shower and left his small one bedroom flat one half hour early. As he walked out his door he grabbed his driving cap and placed it comfortably on his head, and as he left the building he bid a good morning to a bellman that he’d never met before.

Johnson climbed into his 1948 Series 75 Fleetwood Cadillac and started the engine. The drive took much longer than he remembered, but Johnson made sure he did not take any wrong turn or get lost in thought like he may have wanted to. The length must have just been my imagination, he told himself. Over and over he kept thinking of the tea, he had made it just as he normally does, two sugars and a dash of cream after steeping for three minutes, but it tasted just wrong. More like ashes than tea, he thought. 

Johnson parked in his usual parking space, but as he got out of the car and locked it, he found himself staring at a sign that read, DR. JOHNSON MACMILLAN, and in smaller letters under it, PHYSICIAN, which he had never seen or even heard of before. Johnson made a brief excuse that may have sounded like, I just must not have gotten the notice, or rather if you were next to him, all you would have heard was mumbling, as the statement was more for Johnson than anyone else. 

Dr. Macmillan, as he always thought of himself in the hospital, walked into the lobby, where a voice from behind him said, Dr. Johnson, I am afraid you are an hour early. Which made no sense to Johnson, as he thought he would be arriving on time due to how long the drive took him added to the full half hour early that he left his flat.

Yes, Johnson said as he turned to see the person speaking to him, I awoke before my alarm. The person, or rather woman, who announced his arrival seemed quite familiar, but she was sitting behind a desk that was very unfamiliar. Typically, when he would walk into the hospital, Johnson would look left to a sitting area for patients and right to a polished wooden desk with a receptionist waiting behind it to clock Johnson in. The receptionist was a man named Gerald. However, this woman was sitting behind a stone and tile desk and her name was most definitely not Gerald. Johnson was beginning to become very upset, not even over the woman or the desk, but over the fact that the desk was behind him and to his left and there was no sitting area at all, also he had been in the building until eleven o'clock last night and there had been no time for such drastic renovations.

What time was I supposed to start? Johnson asked, just for fun.

Well, that’s an odd question.

I’m having an odd day.

Why, 7:30 as usual.

Aha! Johnson exclaimed, I knew something was amiss! 

Taken aback, the woman, Samantha, looked frightened. By what do you mean, Johnson? But Johnson was no longer listening, he was thinking about the bellman, and more specifically, about his name-tag. It had read, Gerald. His previous bellman had been named Samuel. He was beginning to doubt coincidence. He was beginning to doubt his sanity. He was not, however, beginning to doubt reality, for Johnson knew he could tell a dream from the real thing.

I apologize for startling you, Johnson said, trying to sound as sane as possible, which made him only seem a little more insane, as I said, I am having an odd day.

I completely understand Dr. Macmillan, Samantha said, her voice slightly wavering. Would you like me to put you in as sick so you can relax at home?

That was an interesting question, Johnson had never used a sick day for anything other than being sick. Yes please, he said, that sounds wonderful.

Okay, you have a great rest of the day.

Johnson had a strange feeling in his stomach, like he was somewhere he wasn’t meant to be. He retained that feeling all the way to his building, where he opened the door and was greeted by Gerald, the bellman. He mumbled something that may have sounded like, Hello again... sick day... Have a nice day... thank you, I hope I feel better too. It may also have sounded like nonsense, but Johnson did not care.

Johnson Macmillan sat on his firm yet comfortable couch and did nothing all day. Only once or twice did he stand up, and only to make a bit of food or use the lavatory. At almost nine thirty in the evening, Johnson went to bed, thinking about his day of the ashy tea, wondering, had he not drank the tea, could he have focused on his news, and gone to work to find a normal hospital, just the way he left it? That night Johnson slept a deep dreamless sleep, and awoke to a song playing over the radio at exactly five thirty in the morning. He recognized the previous day as just a strange dream and made himself a cup of breakfast tea. A cup of tea that tasted all too much like ash.

Johnson Macmillan finished his tea, read his paper and left at the time he always used to leave. As he walked out his door he grabbed his driving cap and placed it comfortably on his head, and as he left the building he bid a good morning to Gerald, the bellman he had met many times before.

Where i'M From

The truth is in the words,
The words are in the paper.
'Does that make the paper the truth?'
        You ask yourself.
No.
No, the paper is just the vessel.
The words are the message.
The truth lies in you.
Therefore,
Your body is the paper, 
The vessel.
The truth lies in you.
You are the messenger.
You are the message.
You feel something stir deep inside you.
The truth maybe?
iT's longing to be free
From your body the shell.
The cage.
Or maybe it's the emotion, 
The longing inside you.
Nevertheless,
You love that feeling 
iT's the feeling that makes you,
That drives you.
That emotion,
iT's screaming at you.
"Run!" it yells.
"Run faster away from here!"
You begin to listen,
One foot before the next. 
Then you recall your roots,
That truth form which you came.
iT may not be the force that drives you,
That makes you.
But you stop.
You lower your head in prayer.
Please, you pray,
Please, return me home.

Fade

Music.
In one ear, 
Out the other.
Footprints.
Musical notes as footprints in my mind.
Fade.
i Listen to the music,
And the world just fades
Away.
Like the beginning
Of a long and winding road.
Shine.
A song comes on,
Shining in the dark of night,
Like headlights on dark roads.
Flow.
i Pick up the paper,
The words just flow like bones
Sinking like stones.
Et cetera
Et cetera.
Thoughts.
iT's the thought that i feed
That flow on the paper.
iN the dark.
Flying.
Music.
iT makes us feel like we're falling.
But,
There's a fine line between falling
And flying.
Break.
Music. 
Poetry.
Writing gives us a break
From the people that think that
They've made up our minds for us.
Fade.
We listen to the music,
And we just fade 


Away...

Untitled and There to Stay

A blank page.
A picture of a broken man.
The words.
The heart.
The life.
Though they may be short and choppy,
They flow
Like bones sinking like stones.
Teachers.
Fill our heads
With words that don't exist.
Numbers that were never created.
Fragments.
i Glance at the clock:
7:25
Late.
Almost night.
Midnight.
A time for whispers.
Secrets.
Prayers.
A time for the other you to shine.
Shining.
Piercing the dark.
Letting anybody 
Be anyone.
2:58
Long time passed.
Noon.
Been there,
Lived that.
Lived through it.
No one didn't.
Like we're all the same.
Are we?
We are not?
What are these strange things we say?
Questions.
Words.
Anybody

Anyone

At midnight 
We are all the same.
At midnight
We are all different
Choose one.
Don't think in two verses at once.
11:48
Getting there.
12 minuets.
720 seconds.
Calculated,
With a calculator.
Getting there.
Getting there.
You must leave
Once we're there.
The me
You will see 
iS not me
iNdeed.
Leave once i leave.
The me
You will see 
iS not me
iNdeed.

12:00

The Oncoming (Introduction)

     Enter Claira. Claira is six years old. Two weeks after first infection, the disease has spread into Claira's calm and mild home, which then spilled into the chaotic streets. At only six years old, Claira doesn't know to find shelter or protection, so she stands on the sidewalk looking at the bloodied faces of the infected people running around her. Dazed and confused, Claira searches for her brother, sister, father and mother. Claira wouldn't know what to do without her mother.
     "Mommy!" Claira screams, beckoning her mother closer, "Mommy? Where are you Mommy?!" Claira catches a glimpse of her brother's "Harvard" sweatshirt. "Jimmy! Jimmy I'm frightened!"
     Enter Jimmy. Jimmy is eighteen years old, and although he is very popular among the Harvard class and his rowing crew, he still lives at home with his mother and father and two sisters, Claira and Ashlynne. Jimmy takes Harvard classes in physics and creative writing, mixing them together to create science fiction. Jimmy has three published works, one short science fiction story, an informational essay that caused him to skip two grades and be accepted into Harvard, and a science fiction novel based upon humanity taking refuge in space due to an increasing amount of deaths on Earth due to a massive pandemic. Jimmy no longer lives in science fiction now that it has become science fact. Jimmy hears his little sister's voice: "Mommy? Where are you Mommy?!" Jimmy immediately remembers his neighbor bite his mother on the arm so hard he ripped off the entire bicep. Jimmy also remembers what happens to the people that are bitten by the infected. Last Monday when Jimmy went to rowing practice, his captain came late with a wound on his thigh and a fever of 106. Practice ended early when the captain took a chunk out of his girlfriend. "Jimmy! Jimmy, I'm frightened!" Jimmy hears his sister call.
     "Baby, wait right there I'm coming!" Jimmy screams back. Pushing out his shoulder, Jimmy runs through the packed mob of screaming people, looking like a football player. He considers joining the football team, but only briefly before returning to reality. Once Jimmy finally finds his little sister, he picks her up in his arms and tucks her head down into his neck where it meets his shoulder like a firefighter. Again Jimmy's mind wanders to a new career choice. Making his way to the nearest opening in blood and people, Jimmy feels his sister raise her head to look behind him.
     "Mommy! There you are!" Jimmy's heart stops when he hears this, he forces himself not to turn around and see his undead mother. "Jimmy? Why is Mommy covered in blood? Is she going to be okay?"
     Jimmy turns around just in time to see his mother, covered in someone else's blood, start running toward them.

Chromed

        Eyes open, mind awake. The opposite of sleepwalking. Unconscious yet completely aware. There was a fly in the room, on my arm none the less. I tried to lift my hand to swat it away. I forgot, body asleep, mind awake. My arms won’t move. the insect’s wings fluttered, barely moving yet causing quite a cacophony. A single ray of sunlight shot through the titanium microfiber safety-glass window. Another shot through a window on the other side of the room, like a military sniper’s laser sight. Each one was followed by a complimentary ray in a different window, just like every morning.

        I kicked my legs over the side of the king sized bed, feet conveniently landing in my soft white slippers. Just like every morning. Elizabithia Co. makes a specialized robot that is designed to find and retrieve slippers from anywhere in the house and put it under the bed. Just one of the many things to make one’s life easier. The Elizabithia Company set out thirty years ago to make every life simpler, giving Artificially Intelligent servants to every household to do simple meaningless tasks. When I was a child my brother and I would play pranks on our RTS7 and RSS6, or robotic toast servant and robotic slipper servant, just so that our father would wake up with toast on his feet and blackberry jam fruit substitute on his blackened slippers. Patrik always was a fantastic programmer, before he was kidnapped and killed just days after I went to university. I shook my head, forgetting about my brother once again. I shoved his memory to the back of my mind, that being my only coping method.

        After sitting on the edge of my bed for almost 5 minutes, I got up and grabbed a towel to take a shower. Sick of the dead white and gray of the world, I turned on my stereo. Typically an AI servant would do it for me, but I destroyed it in a fit of rage three years ago. As the stereo turned on I walked into my bathroom and cranked the water as hot as it could get, too hot. Just as the scalding water hit my back, my pirated metal-core music deafened me, just as I like it. The inaudible screaming was at maximum volume, throwing shapes and colors throughout my entire vision. I suffer from a mental condition called synesthesia which allows me to be able to see what I hear in colors and shapes dancing about my vision. I love it. The louder the sound, the more vivid the color. A fly's wings moving cause a slight discoloration at the edge of my vision. However, this morning's fly caused everything to be so blue. No shapes, just like I was wearing blue colored glasses.

        I stepped outside, closed the door, and then tested it to see if the lock would catch. Just before I stepped out of my white entry room, I caught myself. I stopped. I prayed. He will fix this, whatever this is. He Loves us, whoever we are. He is everywhere, wherever we are. I opened my eyes at the white sky, then down to the white walls of the white buildings, then down again to the white lines on the gray asphalt. The only colors in this world were the ones that only I could see. All of the people had pale white skin. Everyone had dark black hair, almost as if we were all replicas of the same original person. But then who is the original? Could it be me? I felt strangely disbelieving. How could a world be so pure, so white? And why now do I question my God and His world?

        I walked to work…

        I dazed through it…

        I walked home.

        I felt like my ears needed to pop, like something wasn't right. I felt like I was dying without any damage to my physical body. Dying in mind? Then what happens to the body that makes me? The body that our God created for me? Sitting there on my top step, I thought. What if the world I know isn't true? What if the world that I believe my God made for us isn't what he made, but a prelude? A prequel? A prologue? In the distance I heard my stereo sing… "Sing to me, of the end of the world! There's some hope left in it yet!" My pulse quickened. My RCNA3 chirped and protracted itself from its home in the wall. "Mr. Mathias Mathews, your pulse has raised 40 BPMs in the past 62.34 seconds. Are you in danger or engaged in any sort of sexual activity?"

        "Blow me," I kicked the robotic med student meaning to destroy it, but I merely knocked it back into the wall. I checked my pulse. I looked at my watch. Counted to 6. Thirteen cardiac muscle contractions in six seconds. An unhealthy hundred and thirty beats per minute. I was less surprised at the fact my pulse was so high than at the fact my resting heart rate was ninety. I felt lazy, a ten mile run would do me well.

        My doorbell rang, a customized electric wailing of a guitar. Was I expecting anyone? I couldn't remember much of the last few days. I opened my door before my servant could, I found joy in keeping these tasks from the servants… as cynical and sadistic as it sounds. It was a girl. No, not a girl, a woman, although I knew her as the girl. She was pale like all of us, and she had black hair and gray eyes like all of us, but she had a birthmark right above her right iliac crest that I had always thought was the most attractive thing I'd ever seen. She was beautiful. Her name was Natascha. Looking back I see more cynicism in the world than in me at that point, bringing her and I together.

        "Matt!" She yelled and jumped into my tattooed arms, "It's so good to see you!"

        "Natty…" I was confused, as I always find myself when a woman is touching me. I had never been quite good with the women, always stopping up and stuttering, however with Natascha I had always been more comfortable, not comfortable per se but more so than with others. Natascha and I had been friends since birth, our parents had pushed us together, making us more than friends for most of high school. We broke it off days before we both left to university. My heart ached. I did not want to be broken again, nor did I want to be alone with her and let myself get carried away. I hugged her, savoring the scent, the sensation of her body against mine. She hugged me back, only making it harder for me to resist getting carried away. "This is unexpected. Would you like some dinner? I was just about to start on some chicken cordon bleu." I prayed for her to like chicken cordon bleu, it had been my mother’s favorite, making it Patrik and my favorite as well.

        "Oh, wow, I would love some. It smells great in here."

        "I haven’t started cooking yet Nat," I smiled at her, she smiled back, a look that looked strangely childish on her adult face. "How do you like your chicken? Burned, crispy, or raw?" I had just turned away from her to lead her to my kitchen.

        "Oh you know me, I just love it when its still moving." She laughed, time slowed. I wanted to be here with her forever, with her smile, her laugh. I remembered when we were kids she was always laughing. Her mother would always say if she kept laughing so much, one day she would die of exhaustion. Instead, her lungs got stronger and she became our schools track star. She always looked so beautiful when she ran, her long legs pushing her wonderful body as if it were flying. At one meet she had, one of the competitors tripped and fell into Natascha’s lane, her running spikes landed directly on the tripped person’s arm, breaking it and damaging Natascha’s tarsal bones. She got right up and went to see if the other person was ok. They had to call an ambulance for both of the girls, the doctor said that Natascha had badly sprained her ankle landing on the girl’s arm, but getting right up to help her had been the final straw, shattering her cuboids. She never ran again. "Come on Matt," she had said to me the day she heard the news that she wouldn’t run again, "I had a good run. It was fun when it lasted, maybe I’ll just take up the tuba or something." She did, and was amazing at that as well, always looking on the bright side. It was that in fact that gave her her scholarship to the National University of Architecture.

        After we cooked the chicken in silence, we sat down at my stained glass coffee table, since I did not actually own a full sized dinner table. I never saw the need in having more than one table. The coffee table made Nat think, "Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have an espresso machine, would you?" I didn’t so I apologized and offered her normal coffee, "No thank you, thats a morning drink."

        "Ok, well I thought I would offer…" we sat in silence again before she spoke up again.

        "You’re going to think I’m totally stupid for asking this, but what did you study again? In university I mean." There was a question, I had taken my first semester off for Patrik’s funeral. I sat up and told her she wasn’t stupid.

        "Hell, I can barely remember sometimes," I said, trying to be funny. I failed at that so often. Even so, she laughed again very loudly. I chuckled, "I, um, I studied graphic design and music business."

        "Ouch, double major," she had been scared of so much work ever since her cousin had to take a year off of college after taking a triple major. "I would never be able to do that."

        I smiled surreally, I was so happy to have someone other than myself and my robots in the house. "So what are you doing here, are you working on a giant project in architecture  or something?" She went on to explain her lucky break of getting chosen to build the first airway for cars from here to New York. It would be a highway in the sky, something that would take people anywhere by how the bird flies, avoiding towns and speed limits. "I heard about that actually, it seems promising. But… isn’t it about three hundred miles north of here?"

        "Well yeah, but I thought I’d come by to see you and Patrik, I haven't seen you guys in four years, ever since we left to university." She left two days before Patrik died. No one told her. "What's wrong?" She had seen my face go paler. "Oh God what is it?"

        I stood up and hugged her tightly, again she hugged me back, but this time it was almost frightful. I did not want whatsoever to be the one to tell her, I did not want to ruin her fantastic mood. "It's Patrik," I released her to look her in the eyes, "He was killed two days after you left."

        "Oh God," I felt her heart skip a beat. My RCNA3 chirped again before returning from the wall.

        "Ms. Nata-" Natascha ripped the robot out of the wall and smashed it to pieces screaming profanities that my faith would not want me to say, despite the amount that I do. Nat picked up the larger pieces of the RCNA3 and threw it down into the basement. 

        "No…" She was crying, "Please God, tell me you're joking," Not crying, sobbing, "Tell me this is a terrible joke."

        "I'm so sorry," I was, "I should have called you," I did, several times, she never answered.

        "Matt…" Natascha looked sick, not green, never green, but she was swaying. I caught her when she fell. I brought her to my bed. I tucked her in, went downstairs and slept on the couch. I awoke several times to hear her weeping. I went upstairs to replace the tissue box and to give her a new change of clothes. "Matt… I miss you," I could barely hear her whisper as I left the room. "I miss you both so much." I turned around, she was asleep, crying. Not crying. Sobbing. Silently.

        I woke up at nine in the morning. Too late for work. I didn't want to go, so I fixed Natascha and me a good breakfast, eggs, toast, and oatmeal. I cooked one egg over-easy, Nat's favorite. The other I attempted to make a spit-in-the-eye, my favorite. I burned it. Didn't pay attention to the heat. I tossed it, feeling numb. 

        The world isn't real. Le monde n'est pas rèel. So What? Say it's not, what then? Wait for the Rapture to take us to the next chapter? Wait? Why wait if I can see my God now? Suicide seemed a little farfetched, so I dismissed the thought outright. Find God, I thought, Find God and he will save you. Christianity had become a rarity; I was the only devout Christian I knew of at my work. I go to church every Sunday, I drive for four hours to teach kids about our God. Last time we met, we talked about the Rapture, the second coming of Jesus Christ, "the Rapture takes us home," I had said, "it takes us to our Godly Father."

        "But Mr. Mathias," said one of the children, Jim O'Connor, "what if we die before the Rapture takes us home?" Jimmy was dying, he had a brain stem glioma, the doctors gave him another month, although they were skeptical if he would make it through the full thirty days. The doctors had given up on treatment. 

        "Jimmy, if you die before the Rapture comes, you will be waiting to welcome us home when it does." I had loved Jimmy, like a little brother. He died the next day, just like that, went to sleep and never woke up. A peaceful death.

Rapture.

        I finished the oatmeal and grabbed the toast from the RTS18. Halfway up the stairs I checked my tray. One egg for Natascha, cooked just the way she likes it, two slices of toast with blackberry and strawberry jam fruit substitute for each of us; butter on mine, not on hers. Last were the two bowls of oatmeal, one for me, loaded with brown sugar and whipping cream, and one for her, also loaded with the sugar, but without the cream. Natascha was lactose intolerant. I forgot the coffee, Nat's favorite drink. I remember when we would meet at a local overpriced coffee shop in the mornings we didn't have school. She took her coffee black and bitter. I remember questioning her choice of coffee shops. "This is the only place I know of that grinds their beans freshly roasted and immediately brews them for maximum taste potential." I called her a coffee connoisseur.  I called her snobby. Hopefully my coffee was worth going back for. Quickly I ran down the stairs and grabbed the two steaming mugs of the black liquid. Again I checked my tray at the halfway point on the stairs. I had everything I needed for a great breakfast, other than my spit-in-the-eye. I prayed, away from Natascha, for she was Atheist and strongly so. Thank you Lord for this food, for my and Natascha's life. Thank you Lord for this world and everything in it. I apologize for ever doubting you.

        Amen.

        I opened the door, making a minor creaking sound, outlining everything in a bright red, thanks to my synesthesia. "Natascha?" I asked the redness. Odd… the sound was gone but the color remained. Nearly a minute later I realized my mistake, the red was not in my hallucinations, but it was Natascha's beautiful bright red blood spilling over my white sheets, off my white bed, and onto my white carpet. I heard white noise coming from the stereo, it made everything a darkened grayscale. Everything but the red blood staining my carpet and soaking into my socks. I heard a clatter. No shape or color appeared. I dropped the tray. Her wrists were cut, horrendously ripped open by a chunk of chromed steel off of my stereo, causing a faulty wire and a bad connection. I could only barely hear through the noise, "I walked into your house this morning, I brought the gun from our end table. your blood was strewn across the walls now, I find you on the bathroom floor…" I found a slip of paper in her hand, gripped tightly, or would have been had the tendons not been severed. It was soaking in her blood. I could only make out a few phrases.

        Patrik and I… Affair… Cheated… you… so sorry… Can't go on… so much guilt…

        Goodbye.

        I sank to the floor, eggs and toast mixed with the coffee and blood. I had suspected Patrik and her, she and he were always closer than her and I, but she had seemed so happy. Patrik had always been my best friend, but he always became physical with women very quickly, not sharing my Christian values as closely as I. I did not want to believe it, but I did, or I could at the very least.

        I was so scared, terrified, beyond everything. Not scared for my life, that was in God’s hands and was therefore at His expense. No, I was scared for Natascha, for her eternal life, for her worldly life was gone and among the ashes, among the eggs and toast at my feet. Her eternal life however was still there in the room with me. Watching me as I wept over her memory. I prayed, not to God, but to her, Natascha, I am so sorry, I should have told you when it happened, I should have watched after you better than I did. I am so terribly sorry. Blame me, as it is my fault. Natascha’s soul would not be in Limbo for long, she had committed a mortal sin by killing herself. Dear Lord, that has a horrendous thought, my love was going to hell. 

        Suicide had begun to seem less and less out of the question as I sat on my blood-soaked bedroom floor, the wanting to die tugging at the edges of my conscience, steadily convincing me. I slapped myself, "I do not want to go to hell!" I said to myself as scripted as I’d ever been, "Do I?.." I needed to do something to stop the inevitable, I needed to at least try. I had given myself a mission. I needed to save Natascha, she was too perfect to go to hell. I remembered a conference that Patrik and I had gone to when we were young, it was a great time, they played music, they acted out skits, and then they spoke to us. In all seriousness, that is when I really came to be. After seeing one of my favorite bands perform, the band members acted out a skit. The skit was about a man who went to hell just because he didn’t believe. Somehow he had managed to send out a message to one of his friends, a girl who was very devout in her beliefs of God. The message was just a video, no special camera effects or anything, just a grainy VHS tape of him in hell, him being tortured, ripped apart over and over then put back together just to be torn again. The entire time he was screaming her name, screaming the same question, "Why?!" he had screamed, "Why did you not save me?! Why did you not try harder?!"

        I found myself thinking that this man was me, trapped in hell. I righted myself, I was not the man, I was his friend, I was the reason Nat was gone, I could have saved her. I needed to save her now, I owed it to her. I got up and undressed from the bloodstained pajamas and washed it off in the shower, blood mixing with water, diluting Natascha’s life force. I got out of the shower, grabbed a white towel, and attempted to dry my hair. The towel came back red. No matter how many times I washed my hair I couldn’t seem to get the blood out. I was starting to think it was my mind playing tricks on me. 

        Post Traumatic Stress Disorder typically found itself in soldiers returning from war, but ever since Elizabithia Co. extinguished the thought of war, just as they "fixed" the sky, soldiers were no longer needed. Mild cases of PTSD would then surface in children of divorced parents or even people who witnessed a minor car accident. It was almost as if the disorder tried to cling to humanity in a desperate attempt to make more people suffer. Elizabithia believed they had solved the world’s problems by making houses easier to live in comfortably, but when that didn’t work they eliminated wars. No one really knows how they did it, but they did. Even then, there were rising amounts of murders, kidnappings, and suicides. In retaliation, the Company attempted to rid the world of shadows, making the sun obsolete by creating our own sun that illuminated the world horizon to horizon. That happened thirteen years ago when I was eight years old. Murder and kidnappings went down, not all the way, but down far enough. but suicides went up in flames, skyrocketing like a space-shuttle set for the moon. A thought came to me in the blackness of my numbness, something I had read in school from a classic short stories author, "Can we kill time?… Why must we live in such a strict world?" 

        I redressed myself in the nicest suit I had, an antique. It was made by some company called Volcom. It used to be a very popular company. The suit was a slim fit, always bringing out an attractive musculature that I didn’t have, it was as dapper as one could get in these days. I lay down beside Natascha and straightened out her body, so that her shoulders were squared to the ceiling and her hands were folded just above her belly button, her shirt was risen just high enough to see her beautiful birthmark, flawed terribly by her blood obscuring the shape. I wept. I kissed her bloodstained cheeks and lips. Cold. I grabbed the chromed make-shift knife from her left hand. I stopped. I then remembered that I had set the tray that was now on the ground sodden in blood for a person who would be right hand dominant. Knife on the right, fork on the left. Natascha was left hand dominant. My mistake just made my weep harder.

        The sensation of blade against skin seemed comfortable compared to the wretched misshapen piece of steel. The true sensation was odd in the very least. I felt multiple edges against my wrist. in the background I heard a song I enjoyed at the conference Patrik and I had attended years ago. "Hallelujah, hallelujah!" Flyleaf. "Beautiful Bride". One of my favorites. I took a deep breath and pulled the steel across my left wrist, hearing my skin and veins ripping. It hurt. It hurt but I kept pulling, tendons ripping and steel scraping deeply against my carpals. I bled, but not quite enough to reach my desired destination. I tried to grab the steel with the other hand. I couldn’t. This made the cutting of the other wrist very difficult, but I managed to sever everything I needed to, using the same hand I was trying to sever. I needed to be with her, so I lay next to Natascha in the same position as her, with one hand flat against my stomach, and another, my left, grasping Natascha’s right. 

        I waited, not for the Rapture, but for my Rapture. 

        I felt my spirit fading away, falling to the blackness. Natascha, I am coming for you. I love you so much and I cannot let you go to hell. Such a place is not meant for a woman like you. I was just barely clinging to my life.

        "Rapture," I said, throwing a bright white star right there in the center of my vision, as if my synesthesia was approving of my actions. I smiled.

        "Rapture," I whispered a second time. I was gone at this point, gone and out of this world, still smiling at the thought of my own heroics.