Two Different Memories

When I was 19 and Kendra was 18, we were alone in our parents' house, lying on our parents' bed watching TV.

We only learned recently that we're half-siblings — her father is actually my father's brother — but back then we were just brother and sister, close in a way that had always set us apart, even in a house that was already dysfunctional enough without us adding to it.

She was in front of me, both of us on our sides. I felt it before I did anything — a vibe, like electricity running straight through me. My heart was pounding. My hand was actually shaking when I reached out and put it on her waist, just above her hip.

The second I felt her body under my hand, I knew how aroused I was.

She turned fast. I yanked my hand back, sure she was angry. She wasn't. I saw it in her eyes and she saw it in mine, mirrored right back, and we fell into each other.

We kissed, hard and clumsy and passionate, and dry-humped there on our parents' bed. We didn't take our clothes off. We didn't know enough to.

That was the start of almost a year of it. Sneaking around the house. Oral sex, hands everywhere, pushing right up to the last boundary again and again and never crossing it. We both wanted to. We never did.

To me, it was beautiful.

Then Kendra got a serious boyfriend. I had a girlfriend, off and on. It fizzled without ever being ended, and we didn't speak of it again for nearly twenty years.

Hannah is part of why we couldn't just bury it.

Hannah and I dated in high school and broke up — before Kendra and I ever happened. Kendra and Hannah didn't break up, though. They stayed close after we split, and they stayed close through everything that came after: Hannah and I marrying other people, living separate lives, both of those marriages failing.

We reconnected years later, after my divorce was done and hers was still in progress. It felt like a second chance at the first real thing I'd ever had. We've been married three years now.

I told her before we built a life on it. I confided what Kendra and I had done as teens, all of it. Hannah accepted it — reluctantly. She could accept a past that happened in that house, at 19 and 18, if it stayed in the past.

Kendra's husband Ryan has never been told anything. And Kendra and Hannah are still close — daily, tell-each-other-everything close. I'm close with Ryan, too. He's one of the people who trusts me most in the world.

So the four of us weren't distant in-laws keeping secrets at a distance. We were in each other's houses, on each other's couches, in each other's lives.

Kendra and I had always been extremely close, too, even after we stopped. That's what finally got to me. Not just wondering why we never spoke of it — wondering how she carried it.

Last year, when I was 39 and she was 38, I finally asked.

"Do you remember when...?"

"You must have dreamed that," she said. "I don't remember."

I believed that she could believe that. Kendra has blocked out whole pieces of our home life that my other sister and I remember clear as day. Forgetting is how she survived that house.

Then later she messaged me: I lied. I remember everything.

And then: that she had forgiven me

**I came back from a 4-day trip and caught my roommate with his girlfriend in our room. Was I wrong for leaving without telling him?**
I’m honestly fed up with my roommate, and I need some outside perspective on this situation.
For context, we share a single room. When I moved in, the owner made the rules very clear: no friends visiting or staying over, no girlfriends, no alcohol, no smoking, and no cooking. These are the conditions we both agreed to when moving in.
But my roommate seems to think these rules are optional. He does whatever he wants, and if someone questions him, he starts arguing. The frustrating part is that he expects me to adjust whenever it suits him, but when the situation is reversed, suddenly everything becomes a problem.
**1. His birthday and his family’s visit**
On his birthday, his parents and brother came to stay in our room. I understand that it was his birthday and that he was paying for the room, but this is a small single room with barely enough space for two people to live comfortably. Bringing extra people and making them stay overnight meant I had to compromise my own space.
At one point, I had a night shift, and he told me to remove all my belongings from my bed because his family would be sleeping on it.
I didn’t argue much because I didn’t want to make things awkward for his family. But honestly, why should I have to give up my own bed in a shared room?
There’s also the issue of cleanliness. This guy barely cleans the room once every two or three months. Whenever I ask him to keep things clean, his response is, “We’re bachelors. Why do we need to keep everything so clean?”
Fair enough, I don’t expect a hotel room. But when his parents came over, he suddenly cleaned everything — under the beds, inside the cupboard, and practically every corner of the room. The same person who normally doesn’t care about the mess was suddenly capable of deep-cleaning the entire place.
After his family left, he didn’t even clean up properly. A cardboard birthday decoration had been shoved into the dustbin so forcefully that the bin’s opening was bent and partially broken.
I came back from my night shift and needed to sleep, but the room was still a mess. Eventually, I cleaned things up myself. I even kept the garbage bag near his side, expecting him to throw it away when he came back.
Instead, he asked me why I’d left it there and why I hadn’t thrown it away.
Seriously? I had already cleaned up the mess. Why was I also responsible for disposing of everything?
A few days later, oil started leaking from under his bed. He immediately blamed my cleaning, even though I hadn’t cleaned underneath his bed in the first place. The bedding he had stored there had been used by his family, and I had no idea what was causing the leak.
The irony is that I’d even gone out to get food for him to help him out, only to get abused over something I hadn’t done.
**2. The night my bike broke down**
Another incident happened when I was heading out and my bike suddenly broke down at night. I had a night shift, and I genuinely didn’t know whom to call for help, so I called my roommate.
He cut the call and never called me back.
I don’t expect my roommate to solve all my problems, but when you live together, you’d at least hope for some basic consideration. I remembered that incident, especially because he seems to expect me to accommodate him whenever he needs something.
**3. I went to Hyderabad for four days without telling him**
Now, here’s where things get interesting.
I went to Hyderabad for four days to celebrate my birthday. I deliberately didn’t tell my roommate because I’d started suspecting that he was bringing his girlfriend into the room whenever I was away.
I had no concrete proof at the time, just a suspicion based on his behaviour and the way he ignored the rules we’d agreed to follow.
So I left without saying anything and returned after four days.
When I got back, I knocked on the door, and it took him around ten minutes to open it.
And guess what?
His girlfriend was inside the room.
I don’t know exactly what they were doing, and I’m not going to pretend I saw something I didn’t. But finding her there confirmed that he had been bringing her into the room despite the owner’s rules.
What made it worse was that I had already told him not to use my bed or my cupboard. I strongly suspect he may have used my bed while I was away, but I can’t prove that part.
The double standard is what really gets to me. If I use something of his, he questions why I needed it or why I touched it. But when it comes to my belongings and my personal space, apparently my permission doesn’t matter.
**So, was I wrong for leaving without telling him?**
I know that deliberately leaving without informing your roommate might seem strange, and maybe I could have handled the situation differently. But after everything that had happened, I didn’t trust him enough to tell him my plans.
I don’t want to control what he does in his personal life. He can do whatever he wants outside the room. But this is a shared living space, not his private apartment. There are rules, and there are boundaries.
I’m now wondering what I should do next. Should I confront him directly, talk to the owner, or start looking for another room?
And honestly, if you were in my position, what would you do?

I stood there, staring at the gun; even looking at it made me uneasy.

"Is it time again, Dave?" my wife asked.

I looked at the empty pantry.

"Yep."

"But at least it's the last time. Your job at the mill starts in a month. You'll never have to go hunting again."

"I hope so."

"My gentle human. I'm sure the deer will forgive you."

"Maybe. Maybe I'll even see the white deer, and he'll show me his treasures. I won't even have to go to the mill then."

"That legend always scared me. Just a snow-white deer in the forest staring you down? Scary. Plus, doesn't it help the deer? Why would he show you anything?"

I looked at the ground.

"Sorry, honey. I didn't mean it."

"It's okay. Don't worry about it."

I put the gun over my shoulder and walked out.

Bill was already by the forest, gloves and hat on, blowing clouds from his mouth.

"Took you a while."

"Yeah."

"I bet you won't miss the cold morning when you start at the mill."

"Sure."

Bill lit a cigarette and handed me the lighter too.

"What's wrong, Dave?"

"You know how I feel about the hunts."

"I know."

Bill took a deep drag from his cigarette.

"Say, Dave. How about you sit out this one?"

"What?"

"Sit it out. I'm feeling lucky today. I'm sure I'll get more catches. You can pay me back with your mill money."

"Thank you, Bill."

"Don't worry about it. Just help me with the deer after."

He slapped my back, threw his cigarette away, and walked into the forest.

The day now seemed brighter. The fog let up. The sun came out too. I sat on a tree stump and smoked. 

The day dragged on. No shots had come from the forest yet. Bill was not lucky today. Then I heard trees rustle. I turned my head. A deer was sticking its head out. It locked eyes with me. I'd promised myself I wouldn't shoot anything today, but Bill obviously wasn't going to get anything either. We'd be here all day.

I took my gun and laid my cheek on the barrel, but the deer quickly moved back. No luck. I lowered my rifle and fished for another cigarette in my pocket, but the trees rustled again. My hand clenched the cigarette package. 

A white deer looked at me from the forest; its antlers were white, its eyes dark red. It felt like they looked right into my soul. The deer moved its head as if inviting me to follow and disappeared into the forest.

I sat on the tree stump, still looking at the trees, but then the white deer stuck its head out again, looked at me, and disappeared. It was real. At least the deer was, but maybe its treasure too. I got up and walked to the trees. It stood in between the trees, looking back at me. When it saw me, it turned around and jumped further in.

The sun disappeared. The fog returned. The ground was so muddy that my feet kept slipping. I was expecting the deer to stop any second, but it kept going. 

After a while, my feet started to hurt. I must have been really far from the stump. Bill could have been looking for me, and I didn't even know if the treasure legend was true. I walked closer to the deer again, but it only went further in. It was time to go. I turned around and started walking back.

I had hunted in this forest countless times, but I had no idea where I was now. The trees seemed taller than usual, and they went on as far as I could see. The ground was muddier than even on the rainiest days. The deer showed again, but this time in front of me, running the way we came. 

I was sure now that it was all a lie, that the white deer wouldn't show me anything. I lit a cigarette and walked back, trying to ignore the tall trees. As I passed another tree, the white deer ran by; something glistened in the mud. There were two gold ingots. Warmth spread through my body. I ran to the gold. They were cold and much heavier than I expected, but who cared? I was rich! I turned around. The deer stood behind me, its red eyes fixed on me.

"Thank you for the ingots," I said, but it wouldn't move, still staring with its dark red eyes. 

Cold sweat dripped down my collar. Its eyes seemed to pull me in even though I wasn't moving. Then my whole world spun. Red flashed before my eyes. My head throbbed. My back felt heavy. My skin itched. The throbbing grew. I put the ingots down, but my back was so heavy I couldn't straighten back up. I put my hand to my head; something hard grew out of it, but I couldn't grab it with my hands. I started to lose my balance. I let my arm down. It splashed loudly in the mud. I looked down. It was a hoof!

Panic surged through me. I tried to get up, but couldn't. A tearing sound cut through the fog. My jacket ripped, revealing brown fur. Something rustled in the distance. I looked over. It was Bill!

"Bill, help!" I tried to call, but only a strange roar escaped my mouth.

Bill turned his head. His eyes focused on me. He picked up his gun.

"Wait, wait, no!"

A loud bang echoed. Something sharp burned in my side. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air. I tried to walk a few steps, but my body fell into the cold mud.

Bill walked over. His gaze met mine. Recognition passed over his face, but he just shook his head.

He looked up and called, "Dave. I got one."

When he woke up, he was confused. For a few seconds, he simply sat there, trying to understand where he was. Then his surroundings came back to him. He was in his usual seat at his local pub, just as he had been earlier that Friday evening. But something was different. Harry slowly looked around. He was the only person in the bar. The contradiction of dead silence set against the heavy ringing residing in his head was a sobering discovery amid his intense drunkenness. The room was dark, save for a San Miguel beer light behind the counter, the soft, warm light catching the edges of the countless empty chairs and stools, illuminating the absence of any life.

Only a short while ago, the place had been bustling, and he could still remember laughing with his friends, surrounded by the familiar noise of conversation, music and clinking glasses. But now it was dark, cold and deadly quiet.

Harry couldn’t remember the evening winding down. He didn’t remember feeling tired or even closing his eyes. As far as he knew, he had simply been there one moment with his close friends George and Pete, and then here, with no memory of anything in between. This unsettled him enough to check the time. He pulled his mobile phone from his warm back pocket, flipped it open and squinted at the screen. 2:50 am. As soon as the numbers registered, the Nokia screen appeared and the screen went black. After repeatedly pressing the red call button to switch it back on, it dawned on Harry that his phone had died. That never happened.

Staring at his own faint reflection in the dead screen, he felt, for a moment, a surge of confused fear run through him, but it was quickly replaced by a burst of irritation. Was this some kind of elaborate joke? Either way, George and Pete were complete dickheads for leaving him there. Although his head was spinning like a bowling ball, he looked around at the evidence of the evening, his eyes landing on the dozens of empty pint glasses that surrounded him, as well as glasses scattered on nearby tables.

Two dozen beers, perhaps more, had been consumed by the three of them. Realising that staring at the dark, empty room wouldn’t change the situation he was in, Harry took a deep breath and, through sheer willpower, forced himself upright onto wobbling knees. The first attempt nearly sent him straight back into his chair. He steadied himself against the table, waited for the dark room to stop moving, and tried again. This time, he managed it.

Getting to the door proved considerably more difficult than he had anticipated. His first few steps were little more than drunken corrections of balance. At one point, he caught the edge of a table, sending a cluster of dry pint glasses crashing onto the floor. The sound was colossal in the silence. Harry froze. Nothing happened. No one shouted. Though he was as drunk as he could be, the surrealness of his circumstances wasn’t lost on him. He continued towards the door, and the path became clear.

When he finally stumbled through the threshold and onto the pavement, the cool night air struck him in the face. He stood there for a moment, head spinning, trying to work out what came next. Getting home was the mission. It was time for bed and to make this peculiar evening a memory. The drunkard’s compass began to kick in as he looked along the high street towards his flat. Being a seaside holiday town, and it being January, it wasn’t exactly a bustling place at the best of times, especially not at three in the morning, but this felt different.

There was an abnormal gloom hanging over everything. The street was darker than it should have been. The air felt thick, and a dirty sea fog hung still. The darkness seemed to amplify the effects of the countless beers he had consumed earlier. After one last confused glance back at the pub, he turned and began his messy journey home, not before clumsily lighting a cigarette and burning part of his beard in the process.

He hadn’t gone far when something caught his attention: a light down the high street, on the opposite side of the road. One of the shops was illuminated, and its fluorescent glow spilled onto the cobbles, forming a small island of luminescence in the surrounding darkness. Then Harry smelled food. His stomach rumbled, and the combination of the senses was irresistible.

He altered course, and it wasn’t long before he found himself standing outside the beacon that was the takeaway, a grand opening sign was obscured by its misted glass. Condensation covered whatever lay beyond, but the smell coming through the door was unmistakable. The powerful bouquet of mouth-watering, greasy fare hit his nostrils like a punch: something hot and savoury that, to Harry’s drunken mind, seemed like salvation.

He stumbled through the door, and the smell hit him immediately, powerful enough to make his stomach twist with craving hunger. Inside, the room’s brightness was overwhelming.

Harry’s eyes strained as they adjusted to the white light, and it was almost painful. His head began to spin. For a few moments, the room became a dazzling, nauseating carousel, his eyes watching the rows of empty, dulled plastic seats glide through his revolving view. Light muzak played through degraded speakers nestled in the yellowing ceiling tiles, the audio occasionally cutting out and returning with a fuzziness that begged the question of why they were even on.

There was only one other person in the entire place. A very tall man stood behind the counter with his back to Harry, slowly carving slices from an obscured roasting spit. Harry staggered forward, using the backs of the plastic seats for support, moving along them like someone making their way down the aisle of a train, albeit with absolutely no grace whatsoever. When he finally reached the once-distant counter, he expected the man to acknowledge him, but there was no response. A deeply unnerving silence ensued as the worker continued, slicing at the meat. Harry stood still, watching him. He recoiled slightly at the sharp, permeating hum of the glaring ceiling lights, which stacked uncomfortably with the vibration already ringing in his ears.

'‘Excuse me, mate''

Not acknowledging him, the man carried on.

Clearing his throat, Harry mustered enough pseudo-sobriety to ask:

''Is it still alright to order a kebab?"

The worker stopped and slowly, with no apparent urgency whatsoever, turned around. Harry immediately noticed the grin. It was enormous, yet it was not a friendly smile. The stretched mouth seemed completely at odds with the man’s slow, deliberate movements. He was tall, dark-haired and olive-skinned, with an otherwise ordinary face. But that expression counteracted any conceivable normality.

Harry felt an uneasiness creep up his body, tingling from the backs of his calves all the way up to the top of his skull with a sickly fizz. The vendor stared right back at him. An unwavering, silent grin. One second. Two. Three. The worker’s expression didn’t change. Eventually, he spoke.

'‘Good evening, sir. How can I help you?’'

His voice was polite, almost too polite. Harry blinked a few times, bewildered by the oddness of the fellow.

'‘I-I’d like a large Doner, please''

The words came out garbled, and the worker continued to stare at him. Five seconds passed, perhaps more. The only sound was the low hum of the fluorescent lights above them.
Harry narrowed his eyes and dipped his head forward ever so slightly in intrigue.
There was something wrong with this man.
He couldn’t have explained what it was. The movements were too slow for the expression, the smile was too wide, and the silence lasted too long. Harry’s expression of worried intrigue was abruptly cut short when the worker finally spoke.

'‘Would you like to try our special, sir?’'

The polite tone returned, and the grin remained. He blinked once, then his voice dropped considerably into a heightened London accent.

'‘You’re pissed as a fart, aren’t you, sir?’'

The man then suddenly burst into laughter, causing Harry to flinch. Too drunk to deal with the strange man’s antics, he simply nodded.

'‘Yeah, go on, then''

He put a ten-pound note on the counter and waved away the prospect of any change.

'‘Keep it''

The worker resumed his barefaced grin, staring into his customer’s eyes without abandon.

After finding a bench seat, Harry sat, pondering as best he could how he had found himself in this situation. As much as he and his friends had messed about with pranks in the past, they hadn’t really done anything like that since they were teenagers. The fact that he had woken up alone and cold, hours after seemingly blacking out, was an uncomfortable reality.

Suddenly, a loud DING rang through the room, reverberating back into two very wobbly eardrums.

‘One house special!’

Turning around, the gangly tanned man was behind the counter with a yellow polystyrene box, plastic cutlery and a napkin. Harry stepped forward and retrieved his meal, muttering a puzzled thank you. Walking to a table in the far corner of the blazingly lit seating space, Harry thought he had enough to deal with without allowing this unorthodox eatery to interfere with his brooding over pete and George somehow leaving him behind. Theories ran through his head. Did mental Mark slip something into his drink to knock him out for a laugh? It still wouldn’t explain waking up alone almost three hours after throwing-out time, Harry mused.

Looking up, the peculiar man stared, retaining the sickly smile. He turned, in his slow, deliberate fashion, back to carving from the spit. Opening his meal, Harry saw a mess of meat, salad and a creamy orange sauce smothered abundantly across the various ingredients.

The first bite was a burst of savoury, greasy saltiness, deeply contrasted with the sweet dill tang of the generous helping of burger sauce. The texture, with the snappy crunch of the pickled cabbage, added a satisfying mix to the mouthful. Harry was grateful for something hot to eat and somewhere warm to sit in an effort to sober up slightly before a short journey home.

Crunch.

A cringe-inducing bite of a hard bit of gristle interrupted any thoughts of comfort Harry had been enjoying. The tough piece of meat made his teeth grind together, causing a vile sensation that made him spit the little piece out into his hand and place it on the open lid of the takeaway box. Repositioning his plastic fork into the concoction, he took a nice combination of meat, salad and sauce to continue his quest for sobriety. The previous sensations of flavour resumed; a hearty forkful of his ample late-night dinner was hitting the spot. Harry thought about how he would deal with his friends. A feeling of embarrassment and meagreness washed over the moment, but only briefly, before another painful crunch in his mouth. This time, it hurt.

Reaching into his mouth with grease-covered fingers, he removed an object that when he saw it, enveloped his entire body in the coldest feeling Harry had ever experienced in his whole entire life. Before his eyes, held between his index finger and thumb, were the chewed-up remnants of a crisp, cooked, mangled human ear. The white plastic fork dropped to the floor, making a pathetic, soft clatter on the filthy linoleum.

Bewilderment and shock encapsulated the young man as he gently returned the body part to the yellow box and calmly closed the lid. He stood up and held the item as though it were radioactive. He slowly ambled to the counter, readying himself to confront the bizarre man responsible for his heinous food.

'‘Excuse me''

No response was given.

This time, Harry nervously raised his voice.

'‘Excuse me!’'

The strange man continued carving.

'‘What the fuck?’' Harry muttered under his breath.

Harry stepped right up to the counter.

'‘Oi, mate, I think there’s an ear in my kebab''

This garnered a response from the tall, olive-skinned man. Still working away, with his back still turned to Harry, he slowly turned his head to the right.

'‘Yes, sir,’' he said, his voice soft yet layered with menace, the vile smile smeared across his stubbled, pockmarked face.

'‘Mate… there is a fucking ear in my food,’' Harry blurted out in a slightly higher, much quieter and noticeably more frightened tone. After a few staggered seconds, the intense grease-stained worker placed his large carving knife on the side counter and turned with no haste to face his customer, revealing a heinous sight that could never, on any occasion, be forgotten. Utterly dumbfounded, Harry gawked at the bulbous, misshapen rotating meat spit, which housed an amalgamation of countless foul-looking, contorted human faces, congealed and compiled into one single hunk of cooking, spinning revolting meat. Expressions of horror and anguish were embossed upon a greater mass of despicably lumpy, curdled, rendered flesh. Sections of the moving horror were made up of exposed, striated muscle and connective tissue. Sweaty grease droplets cascaded down the abominable creation, dripping into a collected pool on the metal base underneath.

The faces bubbled, spitting out molten hot drops of fat, the eyelids popping open occasionally with a loud crackle, the movement, a devilish puppetry of heat causing the cooked flesh to twitch about in an unnatural burst of nightmarish expression. Looking up to meet the attention of the man, he stared into his unwaivering gaze, sitting above the greasy smile, Harry was at a loss for words. More accurately, he couldn't speak. The situation was so overwhelmingly shocking it rendered him completely mute.

And then the lights went out.
The glint of the man's eyes were still visible in the darkness.
Harry stood deadly still, captivated by the warm glow of the spit, illuminating the distorted souls bound to their fleshy, rotating meaty mass.
He imagined himself part of it, amongst the roasting tortured husks sizzling away, awaiting another face to join him and his newfound company.

SABER

By Ajawanamedwrapp

PART 1

The gun made the man just as much as the man made the gun. The sword crafted and shaped its maker and user in much the same way they had to it. This is the way that Alleghania is. In this world, man makes, and what he makes in turn makes him.

What better a person to extol such a thesis than young Sammy Walker, the cowhunter of but 16 years. That was young for a cowhunter, but it wasn't unthinkable. But perhaps that was only because those younger than that, both free and earlier bond, had been in such an honored profession for so long, that the bullwhip had shaped its wielder as greatly as the craftsman who devised it had shaped it?

But regardless, they were an ordinary young one. They lived in a little village called Jasper, in the northern part of the frontier-region called Chipco Country, in the far south of Alleghania. There, there were more cows than people, or at least it could be assumed so. The Cow was probably the single most important being in that land. And Sammy knew their way around it.

They had a friend, Charlie Wood, one who exemplified the values of sweetness they had so wished they could replicate. He was their coworker, a devout, merciful boy who always gave the benefit of the doubt, and who believed not in fighting amongst the children of God. Sammy was much less patient, much less forgiving, and they simultaneously admired and envied Charlie for his capacity to love his enemies.

Nonetheless, Sammy was like anyone else. They loved their Family and friends, and they loved God as deeply as they were brought up to. They were more than a bit overconfident - they boasted once that they could hit a bottle of beer from 3 miles atop a moving horse with a rifle. Needless to say, they never tried it.

They didn't attend secondary school - they already had the only job they needed to train for. They were set at a rate of five dollars per day, comfortable enough to keep them afloat in their little town. As far as they were concerned, their life didn't need to be any better, and they didn't need to know much outside of it.

That was, until the day it happened. It was a morning like any other in their small town, the same regular hominy and coffee at breakfast, and the same laborious routine. But then ten men came about, with revolvers drawn, and rained their bullets upon whoever they saw.

Sammy did not have any time to react as their horse bucked and they were thrown off. They watched as, as quickly as the shots rang out, flames consumed their beloved Jasper, the smithy, the pawnshop, the saloon... all gone before they could think about what they were losing.

They saw their father pick up his rifle to confront the men, Bandits come to rob the town of all its wealth. But he, like everything else they loved, were taken from them with a bullet. And they could do nothing.

But what truly broke Sammy was what they had done to Charlie. Charlie, who had never hurt a fly, who always forgave, died at their hands, and his last words were not repudiation, were not angry words, but they were a prayer for his assailants, that they would be saved. He told them he loved them as fellow humans, that he prayed to see them in Heaven...and they killed him. Sammy fainted then.

Miraculously they were left alone by the time they woke up, having passed out. They woke up, and they found their father's body. They took the rifle, and his old cavalry saber, and he vowed to avenge them. To avenge their village, to avenge their family, to avenge their friends.

That was when Sammy Walker died, and Saber was born.

I drive. I like driving. Not just to get from point A to point B, but also the idea of cruising. Going on adventures where you never know what's around every corner. Like what I'm doing now. Rumbling through the suburbs, We're On The Road to Nowhere, by the Talking Heads, is coming out of the speakers of the CD player.
Of course, you can do all of this at any time of the day. But it's at night where it is at its most revealing.
A special time.
A time where me and the car and the road are one.

I have an addiction. Do my friends know? No. Does my wife know? Absolutely not. She would leave me or, at the very least, call me perverted, which I probably am. It started out innocently enough. A website here, a secret folder there. But that just wasn't enough.
I needed something a little more...
real.
A little more...
exciting.
The first one, I couldn't even look at her, I would close my eyes and then, when I opened them a minute later, it would be over.
But then there were more.
Then it was a couple of people a week, and I stopped looking away.
At first it was women; I mean, that's usually how it does start. But then it led to a couple of men, then it led to non-binary, then it led to different races. I didn't care. It didn't matter to me.
I had them all.
And my wife and kids still have no idea.
I'm not so much worried about the wife knowing, but if the kids found out I…
I couldn't bear the shame.
It's been at least a month since I've looked for anyone. But yet here I am, in my car, looking out my windshield,
watching the white lane strips disappear under the vehicle,
listening to Road To Nowhere whilst cruising along.
Maybe I am on the road to nowhere. Maybe this is nowhere.

That's probably why I'm driving now.
I mean why else would I be out here if I'm just browsing. You wouldn't go to a car dealership if you don't intend to buy, right?
Why indeed?
I'll tell you.

I think there's some sick side of me that wants to test myself.
"Say, if you don't find anyone in the sweet spot, (2 til 5am) go home, you tried." Like those people that only quit smoking on public holidays where the stores are closed. That way they justify continuing to smoke if they just so happen to find a shop still open and they can buy a pack.
But then again, prostitutes don't really have trading hours.
I've stopped going to them. It's too easy. Plus, it's no fun if you have to orchestrate it, wouldn't you agree? Surely there's nothing more fun than going to a bar, striking up a conversation, playing your cards right, crossing every t and dotting every i, going back to theirs (because it sure as hell won't be back at yours) and coming back home with your tail between your legs. But a lot of the people I see seem so sad
and helpless.
The sex workers, that is. I feel sorry for them.
So by doing this, I'm doing them a favour. And as long as my family don't know, no harm done, right?
So even though a perfectly normal person at a bar is always nice, it’s also more risky.
You don't know their story and you don't want to know.
Whereas if you go to a street walker you have a good idea of what you're getting into.
Don't ask, don't tell.
Especially if you're doing it during the magic hours, there's a feeling of exhilaration.
It can be an addictive feeling.
I love my wife too much to subject her to anything like that. And besides, the more I do it with other people, the less likely I'll be sitting on my couch with her one day,
the urge comes creeping up beside me and whispers in my ear.
This urge, like the song suggests, is "very far away,
but it's growing day by day."
But it's not alright.
It is so wrong.

I'm on the last 10 minutes of the sweet spot, and I don't feel like I have enough money. Maybe it's good that I don't see anyone in clear range of me, and that I don't have to cave.
Maybe I don't need to do this,
and the urge is just a product of my mind.
Maybe I can overcome it.
Yes, that's it…
10 minutes until the end of tonight and then I'm done. And I'll do it the next time, and I'll be done and the next time and the next time. But that’s ok, because eventually it'll be a little easier. And then one day I won’t even think about it at all.

These wonderful imaginings are all good and well. Unfortunately, I see a homeless grifter walking along the path of a bridge.
He begins to walk across the road.
I slow down and come to a complete stop while they saunter across. Should I pick him up?
No...
it will take too long,
especially if I don't have enough money to convincingly satisfy him not to leave.

I beep my horn. He turns around, and puts his hand over his face to block the sight of the headlights burning into his eyes.
Suddenly my mind is clear, and I decide what I want to do.
I put the car into reverse, not a great deal, but a couple car lengths back.
The tramp just…
stands there.
And then the urge comes back.
Then,
I put the car into gear and drive straight for him.
I slightly close my eyes until I hear
boom bump bump thump
over my car.
Then, what sounds like Jenga blocks coming down onto a table.
I stop the car,
open my eyes,
and exhale.
Checking in the rearview mirror to see if he’s going to get up.
Nothing for a good minute or so.
Then I see his body appear in the mirror, struggling to stand.
I waste no time putting the car into reverse again, looking behind me instead of the mirrors so I know that the job is done.
The car hits him,
ba bump ba bump,
as I'm briefly rattled around.
Like going over a speed bump without slowing down.
I see the body appear at the front of the car, then I stop.
I get out and walk over to investigate.
It looks like a giant saucy pizza box spread across the road.
He is still alive as he lifts his head up to look at me...
before finally falling back down.
I debate whether to put him in the trunk of the car.
Maybe bury him in the middle of the woods somewhere.
I decide against it as it would be too much mess and I'm on a clock. I have to get home and into bed before the wife notices me gone.
I don't think he's dead, but he will be.
I decide to leave him here, because even though it won't be long before the sweet spot is over and someone on their way to work will see him, I'll still take my chances. Maybe it will be a good motivator to help me quit.
It's funny that.
The only way it seems a person can kick an addiction, especially one like this, is because the law says they have to. The only thing that baffles me, that I cannot understand.
Why didn't the grifter
jump out of the way as he saw me driving towards him?
Did he want this? Embrace it?

For my own personal development and self-discouragement, I don't want to think this is the case.
I no longer want to justify what I do with false narratives that I was putting this poor fellow out of his misery.
I think he was just in sheer bewilderment that his time was about to come.
I can only imagine that's what deer think before people hit them.
They spend their last milliseconds trying to work out what they're looking at could be…
before the reaper does his job.
I shake my head to no one in particular and walk back to my car.
As I get in and sit, contemplate, and everything in between, I notice Road to Nowhere is over, and a new song has begun.
Psycho Killer, the next song on the Talking Heads album, is playing.
I laugh at the thought of it,
before putting my car into gear
and driving off into the night.

Had a small lawn mowing business going around the neighborhood always looking for work I had walked past this two story house several times over a year noticing the yard in disrepair. One day I seen the owner finally I went to introduce myself. Her name was Patrica she was tall with long black hair oriental tattoos going down her back and legs with a dragon breathing fire on her back . In a spaghetti top. Her nipples were clearly visible through the thin top and she had on pj shorts when I came up the driveway pushing my lawnmower she got out of her car and met me halfway down her driveway. She said she noticed me mowing the houses around and never had the chance to ask but since I was there she seemed very happy and excited to get her yard cleaned back up. That day was very hot here in fl. I had worked for 6 hrs. She noticed me drinking from her water hose. She demanded I stopped drinking from the hose and came inside for a glass of some ice cold water. I came inside she left me in the living room/pool room, my shirt was so wet from sweating in the fl heat after going inside her house was freezing cold so I took my shirt off so I could sit in a chair without leaving a wet spot. She seemed disturbed when she came from the corner I said sorry and rushed to put my shirt back on she said it’s okay good thing you’re cute. I was confused because she was way older than me but I was a cocky teen and brushed it off with a ohh you couldn’t handle this! She made long eye contact with me with a little smile she asked me if I’ve ever done handyman work and I answered back I can learn she told me to come upstairs to look at a piece of door trim that was scratched from a old tenant of the houses dog. I informed her it was an easy task even for a young man at that age she just had to get the material. We got lost in conversation. And somehow ended up talking about getting stoned and if I had any to roll up . At my age I smoked frequently with friends outside of school so it was easily accessible. I rolled up a thick blunt we went outback on her porch and lit up the look on her face was like she had been wanting to ask me something but it’s like she didn’t feel comfortable asking. So when I noticed asked what was wrong she said ohh nothing just thinking about some thing I shouldn’t. Me being very curious because we were smoking and wanting to dig deeper. I popped off how beautiful her eyes was. That made her feel comfortable enough to say what she had been on her mind “ I’ve herd I give great head after a fatty” me in disarray after hearing what she said I hit the blunt real hard looked at her deeply and said prove it! As the young cocky teen I was. She moved so fast after I said that before I could exhale she was unbuttoning my shorts I help her by pulling my boxers down. My cock laying across my leg and hip she was in awe and lightly touched my balls then slowly grabbed the base of my cock making it stand but it wasn’t completely hard she had given me a chub by just doing that. Me being very curious I ran my fingers through her hair and said wanna taste that cock babygirl. She looked at me and bit her lip while gripping the base of my cock tighter. My cock started to throbb and get very hard she slowly stroked it until it was the hardest I had ever been at the time she started by licking my balls and sucking them while still stroking my cock I noticed she was rubbing her self through her shorts as she started slowly sucking the tip of my cock. She Burst out with a moan it turned me on even more. She started to take half of my cock down her throat it felt soo good couldn’t help but to force her head down making her gag on my cock. She pulled up gasping for air I noticed she squirted through her shorts. her eyes where crossing she was in such pleasure. She stood up looked around her back porch slowly then pulled her shorts to the side and said is it okay if I put that thick cock in my pussy baby. As she tried to force the tip in her pussy was very creamy and tight. I could feel her legs trembling with excitement as she slowly sank my cock deeper in her meaty pussy. She slowly rode my cock while grabbing my hair pulling it from the back of my head. I started to moan ohh fuck that feels so nice. She leaned close I grabbed her by her throat slapped her and forced my cock balls deep she screamed out with pleasure with a creamy squirt it was so much I thought i busted but I knew she didn’t get me to that point of climax I said shocked omg that’s a lot more than I expected she slowly pulled my cream cover cock out of her meaty pussy her lips had a tight grip on the head of my cock it made a noise when she got up she was in disarray legs shaking she looked at me in a panic and said please don’t get me in trouble. Me being a young guy she had literally just made a dream come true. I reassured her that I would share what we had done to anyone. She seemed distraught and kinda worried so she asked me to leave and I did. A week went by without any communication. She was on my mind a lot that week I caught myself masterbaiting more than ever before that week. One day I got off the bus walking home she drove by. I noticed she was watching me come down the road. By the time I made it across the street from her house he yelled my name and asked me to come in. I felt a rush of adrenaline. I came inside she shut the door behind me. I went to say sorry for what happened but she hushed me up with her finger across my lips we didn’t make it far inside she said would you like to try again. Me being excited I said I’ve dreamed of it all week. She took me upstairs and then we fucked for hrs it seemed like. Time had flown by more than I thought. I hear a ring in the distance noticed it was my phone I rushed to it picking it up seeing it was my older brother calling and it was 12:30pm on a school night. I was scared but I knew I could talk to my older brother about why I was out so late if anyone would understand I knew he would. He was in disbelief that I was actually getting laid at my age. But ended up going home. The next day I woke up for school and it felt like I had ran 100miles my legs where so sore from beating the walls down on that lady they felt like jello. I was beat never did I think sex could drain so much out of me I could barely walk the daily quarter mile at PE. It was a long day going up flights of stairs. A few days went by I heard a yelp from my little brother he yelled something or someone is outside the house. He woke up the whole house my parents rushed outside to find Patrica skirting away in her jaguar. My dad asked my older brother who that was and he shook his head he didn’t know. My dad then persisted to punish my older brother for that night intill one day he told my dad about me being out past 12:30. I took such a harsh punishment from my dad after he found out. She would see me walk every now and then but I never approached her again because of the fear of my dad finding out what happened between us

This isn't the first time this has happened because i've seen dried ass skin all over the seat before and im the only one who cleans it since my sister moved out, anyways im rambling I'll get on with the story. I walked into the bathroom because I gotta shit and im the only one in the house who uses that restroom since my grandma died and my sister moved out to go to college. And so riddle me suprised when I walk into the FUCKING PUBLIC RESTROOM IN OUR FUCKING HOUSE! and see dried up period blood and pubic hair (that was shaved off due to their being cream on the bundles of hair) so not only is their period blood on my toilet seat but FUCKING PUBIC HAIR THAT WAS SHAVED MEANING THIS PERSON (my mom) WAS AWARE OF WHAT SHE WAS DOING! Now I get period blood because I know women dont have control over that BUT IF YOU SEE IT CLEAN IT! AND I KNOW THAT YOU FUCKING SAW IT BECAUSE YOU SHAVED YOUR FUCKING PUBES AND LEFT THEM ON THE TOILET SEAT so I get it if you didn't see your period blood I GET THAT! BUT YOU FUCKING SAW! and so I have to clean blood off my toilet seat and also pubic hair that stinks like someone didn't shower in 2 days. And to add on she said the other day if "people not cleaning up after themselves is gross and just pure laze" WELL TALK ABOUT IRONIC HUH?!

When Mallory Donahue's husband Max came home late and covered in blood two weeks ago, she naturally assumed the worst.

“I thought, ‘Heck if he's not gone and relapsed again,’” Mallory said.

Thankfully for the young couple, Max's wounds that night had come from something much less concerning, a regular drunken bar fight. “It was over a woman,” Max explained. It could easily have been worse.

“So much worse,” said Mallory. “Like it was before, when he just couldn't help it. He couldn't help taking risks to help people.”

“Before” means three years ago, in the months prior to Max's diagnosis of SHS, Spontaneous Hero Syndrome, known to most of us simply as Courage.

“It's a real debilitating condition,” said Max. “Imagine you're walking down the street, minding your own business, trying to go to the store to buy some beer or electronics, when suddenly you hear a child scream—before you know it, you're trying to figure out what's going on, trying to help the kid getting hurt. It's not even a decision. You just act.”

“You can imagine the chaos that creates for yourself and your family,” said Mallory.

“Many women would have left, and I understand that,” said Max. “I'm blessed that Mal didn't. She stuck by me. She was my rock. She gave me the strength to finally get help.”

Together, Max and Mallory sought the aid of Dr. Anton Wellberger, one of the pioneers of BCT, Behavioural Cowardice Therapy.

“For many patients, admitting Courage is shameful. There's a real societal stigma attached. It takes a strong individual to understand that what they're feeling is not only abnormal but destructively antisocial,” writes Wellberger in his best-selling book, The Wellness of Inaction.

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According to experts, a healthy human should not desire to help others unless doing so will result in a likely reciprocal benefit in the future. “It's just not what humans evolved to do,” said Evan Mink, a leading evolutionary psychologist from the University of Chapata Falls.

There is also the question of consent.

When the Post reached out to Eva-Marie Plum, of Plum & Plum Associates, she explained: “Take the example Max provided. He's walking down the street. He hears a child scream. Who is to say the child wants him to respond in any way to its scream? Moreover, let's assume Max does investigate and sees that the screaming child is being brutalized by a group of adults. If Max intervenes to try to ‘save' the ‘victim,’ he does so without the child's consent. As a lawyer, I immediately think, 'Yikes, Max!'

“And that's before considering the rights and consent of the brutalizing adults. Does Max know these adults lack the right to brutalize the child? Have they consented to being prevented from continuing their brutalization? It just opens up this massive kettle of legal fish.”

When asked what you should do if you ever find yourself in a situation like Max's, Plum gave the following advice: “If you're ever unsure, if you feel like maybe you have the instinct to do something: CAR, Cease-And-Retreat. Then call police. When they arrive, they will assess, gather consents and take the appropriate corrective action.”

“It's not wrong to feel the desire to help,” writes Wellberger. “It's only wrong to act on it.”

He also admits that, prior to his invention of BCT, the treatment of SHS could be seen as relatively primitive, which put many people off from coming forward with the condition.

“We used to treat Courage with electroshock; chemical cowardizers that had many significant side effects, including decreased libido; and hypnosis—all very outdated methods. Now it's more civilized. You're part of a group. You sit in a circle. You converse. You witness volunteers being abused right there in the room, and you learn to ignore it. You acquire skills: box breathing, meditation, disassociative techniques. You learn that it's OK to just let life happen.”

Max recalled one retreat in Mexico where, for an entire weekend, he and a dozen other so-called “hard cases” took psychedelics while the retreat administrators continuously assaulted paid locals.

“It was a tough, life altering 48 hours. I was face-to-face with my own heroic demons. I saw God,” said Max. “He had the body of a translucent, rainbow coloured salamander.”

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These days, both Max and Mallory attend a non-denominational New Church, where they sing songs and learn tolerance.

“Courage is a kind of judgement, and only God has the power to judge," said Mallory.

When asked when he knew he had been cured, Max pointed out that there is no cure. “There is only treatment,” he said. “Every day is still a struggle, but thanks to Dr. Wellberger, it's a struggle Mal and I can manage.”

However, he does recall the moment he realized the treatment was having a substantial effect. “It was back in December. I was in Dr. Wellberger's downtown office—at one of our weekly appointments—we were talking, when all of a sudden these guys in masks broke in. They were screaming, asking where he kept his money. They'd read his book so they knew he was wealthy. But when he said he didn't keep any money in the office, they started hitting him.

“I felt this surge of wanting to help, wanting to stop them, you know? But I forced myself to do my box breathing, my meditations, remembered my faith, and was able to stay calm in my seat.

“Dr. Wellberger was sobbing, bleeding from the mouth, screeching, terrified, begging me to do something, but my urge to save him—it was gone. I smiled, and as the masked men beat him, ransacked his office, smashed his face in with a crowbar, I didn't even CAR. I was able to maintain neutrality and watch. Be present in the flow of reality.

“After they'd killed him, and his secretary too, they left and so did I.”

“I was so proud of him,” said Mallory.

If you witness someone exhibiting Courage, please [report.]

Artemis rose from the starbed like an ivory bear striking through indigo. Her form was a constant shimmer and flow of pure light and pin-size stars. Her right arm instinctively reached for her crescent bow that would be at her side. But the goddess only grabbed dust that sparkled and coated her hand. She frowned and shook her hand disappointedly, forgetting she no longer had it, but still remembered the yield and whistle of it.

In a single sweep, Artemis's silver gaze noted everything in her horizon. The same, lone, stagnant rock clusters still orbited nearby. A dark nothingness in the middle she used for meditation. Sometimes she was sure there was twinkling in the distance. Then finally, the spidery path that connected to her starbed. All was here --until, she stilled-- she registered a new celestial body. It twisted within and out of itself and held a dark center. It looked just alive as a quasar.

Arrows or not, Artemis approached her new neighbor confidently. Each of her footsteps scattered the bed beneath her, a greeting or warning in its own way.  The new celestial body slowed in its revolutions when Artemis reached the edge.

The Greek Goddess didn't have to gesture or say more. The Hound Queen awoke, a bright comet-like tail wagging into view as she arched like a crimson wolf. The Queen's stars glimmered like rubies and dimmed like obsidian.

If Artemis's voice felt like light and wind filtering through your mind, the Hound Queen's voice was like faded howls and bells.

The Queen tilted her head at the Goddess, her bark sure but drowsy, "You rise and every moon blushes. You walk and gods shrink away. And I? You wake me from one dream to pull me into another. Who are you?"

Artemis nodded along to the Queen's echoes waving over her, only to confirm receipt. She wasn't phased by the playful language, rather welcoming it after immeasurable silence. Carefully, she shimmered back,

"If you ask about my past, why I've been honored with constellations, I do not remember. I cannot tell you why, but I am called to the passing moons...and I think they're called to me too."

The Queen straightened, listening intently. She noted how the Goddess's light shone brighter when she reminisced.

Artemis continued, "Every night I reach for my bow and arrow, every night I dream of the maidens I've protected and the hunts I've trophied. "

The Queen felt the Goddess's sear in her mind, her voice passing through her like fast winds. Bells chortled through the Goddess's starbed in response. The Queen curled her comet tail and blinked obsidian.

"The why is pointless now. I don't recall my past either.  I just know," the Hound Queen paused and turned her attention outward.  Artemis followed her ruby gaze, and tilted under her soft howl when she spoke again.

"I want to keep going. Keep chasing, finding. And so do you. " The Hound Queen returned her attention to Artemis, who was already watching, silver now gentle. The Queen continued,

"I’ve hunted as an animal itself. Would you strike me down if you saw me out there? If I was the twinkling thing in the distance?"

Artemis's answer was immediate and almost impatient. "Of course not. I don't want to seize whatever's out there either. ", she turned back to the middle, the dark nothingness ."You see it too?"

The Hound Queen's obsidian eyes reflected a deep red. Her gaze remained on Artemis. "I do. I think together we can find out what it is. We can hunt along the way, differently."

"Differently," the Goddess echoed, extending her palm to the Queen but never taking her gaze from the nothingness. "Come then, star beast. We take one of my paths. We find our own way."

"And we keep going, star finder." The Hound Queen accepted Artemis's hand and stepped over. Ruby mixed with diamond, light and dark. The Queen's tail curled around the Goddess's bed, and the spidery path bound part of her twisting form.

Together, they shimmered down their new joint path. Even with no memory of their origin, they had enough to continue carving.

The end

Le soleil de juillet écrasait la jetée de Santa Monica d'une chaleur de plomb fondu. L'air vibrait au-dessus du sable, saturé par l'odeur de friture des stands et le parfum iodé du Pacifique, tandis que la grande roue du Pacific Park découpait sa silhouette de bois contre un ciel d'un bleu aveuglant. Arthur Pendelton n'avait pourtant rien d'un play-boy de plage. À vingt-deux ans, cet étudiant en ingénierie à UCLA portait encore ses lunettes en écaille trop grandes et un short informe. Assis sur sa serviette, les doigts maculés d'encre, il tentait de se concentrer sur un traité de thermodynamique, ignorant les rires des baigneurs. Arthur était un esprit logique, un garçon qui croyait aux équations, aux boulons et aux lois immuables de la physique. Le destin, les coups de foudre et les conspirations n'avaient pas leur place dans son programme de l'été.

Jusqu'à ce que son ombre se confonde avec celle d'une inconnue. "Vous devriez faire attention, murmura une voix de velours juste au-dessus de lui. Le soleil de Californie brûle les cerveaux les plus brillants." Arthur leva les yeux, le souffle coupé. Elle se tenait là, silhouette sculpturale se découpant à contre-jour. Elena. Elle portait un maillot vert émeraude et un large chapeau de paille qui ombrait un visage d'une régularité de statue grecque. Ses yeux, d'un vert changeant comme l'océan, fixaient l'étudiant avec une intensité magnétique. Il émanait d'elle un parfum de jasmin et de danger qui, dans les romans de gare, annonce invariablement l'arrivée des ennuis. Elle semblait calme, mais Arthur remarqua immédiatement la tension de ses épaules et la façon dont ses doigts serraient un petit étui en cuir rigide.

Avant qu'il n'ait pu poser la moindre question, elle s'assit brusquement à ses côtés, feignant de chercher de la crème solaire. Dans son mouvement, elle glissa l'étui en cuir sous le lourd livre d'Arthur. "Ne regardez pas derrière vous, chuchota-t-elle, la voix soudain glacée. Deux hommes en costume sombre viennent de passer les tourniquets de la jetée. Ils travaillent pour Barnaby Cross. Si nous restons ici, nous sommes morts." Arthur jeta un regard discret. À cinquante mètres, deux colosses au nez cassé balayaient la plage du regard. Ils portaient des complets gris impeccables, inadaptés à la canicule. Ce qui frappa l'étudiant, ce fut leur démarche : mécanique, synchronisée, robotique.

"Barnaby Cross ? Le présentateur vedette de K-LAX Radio ? Celui qui anime L'Heure du Sourire tous les soirs ?" s'étonna Arthur. "C'est un monstre, trancha Elena. Et un hypnotiseur de génie. Il utilise les ondes de sa station pour laver le cerveau de la ville. Ce que vous avez sous votre livre, ce sont les plans du modulateur cérébral que le Docteur Morbius a construit pour lui. Si Cross diffuse son onde vendredi soir lors du grand direct, Los Angeles appartiendra à un fou. Et maintenant, Arthur... courez." Les deux colosses venaient de les repérer. Leurs têtes pivotèrent en même temps, sans un battement de cils, et ils fondirent sur eux. Saisissant son livre et l'étui, Arthur emboîta le pas d'Elena à travers les parasols.

Ils grimpèrent les marches en bois de la jetée, frôlant le Hippo Burger et les machines à sous bruyantes de l'arcade. Derrière eux, les hommes en gris progressaient sans un essoufflement, écartant la foule d'un simple revers de bras, guidés par une force invisible. "Par ici !" cria Elena. Elle l'entraîna vers sa voiture, une magnifique Cord 812 décapotable d'un rouge flamboyant garée le long d'Ocean Avenue. Le moteur rugit au moment même où les doigts gantés d'un poursuivant effleuraient le coffre. Elena écrasa l'accélérateur, faisant hurler les pneus sur l'asphalte chauffé à blanc. Alors que la Cord s'élançait en direction de Sunset Boulevard, Arthur s'agrippa au tableau de bord, le cœur battant à tout rompre.

Le bolide remonta les collines d'Hollywood à tombeau ouvert, se faufilant dans le trafic dense de la fin d'après-midi. Elena conduisait avec une rage froide, gardant un œil sur le rétroviseur. "Où allons-nous ?" cria Arthur par-dessus le vent. "À l'ancien observatoire de Griffith Park, répondit-elle. Morbius y a installé son laboratoire clandestin sous les dômes de cuivre. C'est là-bas qu'ils ont construit l'antenne-relais." En ouvrant l'étui de cuir sur ses genoux, Arthur découvrit des schémas électroniques complexes. Ses yeux d'ingénieur décodèrent rapidement l'horreur : l'appareil utilisait les fréquences radio standards pour transporter un signal psycho-acoustique capable d'annihiler la volonté humaine.

La nuit tomba d'un coup sur Los Angeles, allumant des milliers de néons multicolores dans la vallée alors que la Cord grimpait les routes sinueuses du parc. L'imposante silhouette blanche de l'observatoire de Griffith Park se dressa bientôt face à eux, majestueuse et sinistre sous la lune. Elena gara la voiture sous les arbres et sortit un pistolet automatique de sa boîte à gants. "Restez derrière moi", ordonna-t-elle. Ils s'introduisirent par une porte de service forcée menant aux sous-sols de la bâtisse. Les couloirs de béton résonnaient d'un bourdonnement électrique de basse fréquence qui faisait vibrer les tympans d'Arthur et lui donnait une féroce migraine.

Au centre de la grande salle du pendule de Foucault, l'ordre scientifique avait laissé place au chaos. Des dizaines de tubes à vide géants crépitaient d'une lueur bleutée, reliés par des câbles épais à une console de mixage radio. Derrière les manettes se tenait le Docteur Morbius, un vieillard décharné à la chevelure blanche en bataille, dont les yeux brillaient d'une lueur de démence pure. À ses côtés, micro en main et costume de scène étincelant, Barnaby Cross répétait son discours d'une voix de stentor. "Citoyens de L.A., soumettez-vous à la voix du progrès..." Sa voix, amplifiée par les machines, possédait une résonance anormale qui engourdissait instantanément l'esprit.

"Elena, ma chère enfant, et son petit assistant", lança Cross en coupant le micro d'un geste théâtral. Les deux hommes en gris de la plage surgirent de l'ombre, barrant la seule issue. "Vous arrivez juste à temps pour le lancement de notre émission spéciale, ricana le présentateur. Dans dix minutes, la puissance de l'émetteur K-LAX sera décuplée par la bobine du bon docteur. Toute la côte Ouest marchera au pas." Morbius actionna un immense levier de cuivre. Le bourdonnement devint un sifflement strident. Arthur sentit ses genoux fléchir, sa volonté s'effilocher sous l'assaut de l'onde. Elena tenta de lever son arme, mais ses bras retombèrent le long de son corps, ses yeux verts devenant soudainement vagues.

Arthur comprit que sa logique scientifique était leur unique chance. L'onde modifiée obéissait toujours aux lois de la physique. Analysant les schémas gravés dans sa mémoire, il repéra le point faible du dispositif : le circuit de refroidissement à mercure de la bobine principale. Feignant de succomber à l'hypnose, il fit trois pas maladroits vers la console, imitant la raideur des hommes en gris. Morbius sourit, savourant sa victoire apparente. "Regarde, Barnaby, la science triomphe toujours de la jeunesse !" C'est alors qu'Arthur se détendit comme un ressort. Il projeta son lourd traité de thermodynamique de toutes ses forces au cœur des tubes de verre.

Le choc fut d'une violence inouïe. Le verre explosa dans une gerbe d'étincelles vertes et de vapeurs toxiques, brisant instantanément le signal. Elena reprit immédiatement ses esprits et tira deux balles dans le tableau électrique principal, déclenchant un incendie rugissant. Privés de leur source d'énergie et du signal directeur, les deux colosses en costume gris s'effondrèrent sur le sol de béton comme des poupées dont on aurait coupé les fils. Morbius hurla de rage, agrippant ses cheveux blancs tandis que Barnaby Cross, dépouillé de son arrogance, fuyait déjà par l'escalier de secours alors que les alarmes de l'observatoire commençaient à retentir.

Arthur saisit le bras d'Elena et ils coururent à travers les volutes de fumée noire pour regagner l'air pur de la nuit californienne. Derrière eux, le dôme de Griffith Park scintillait des derniers reflets de la machine détruite. Ils grimpèrent dans la Cord 812 alors que les sirènes de la police de Los Angeles commençaient à hurler au bas de la colline. Elena tourna la clé de contact, puis plongea son regard vert dans celui de l'étudiant, un sourire énigmatique aux lèvres. "Pas mal pour un théoricien, Arthur. Mais ne rangez pas vos livres trop vite. Barnaby Cross est toujours en liberté, et la nuit ne fait que commencer."

We are two separate forces.

A violin with its bow.

Didn't know the bow could shoot notes like arrows.

I'm forced to sing a song made by a human I don't know.

You wonder when the string will snap.

We are two separate forces.

A bee and a flower.

Living in a symbiotic relationship, where you are mine, and I give you enough.

My crown waiting for you to come, the petals reach out to the sun.

You ain't no king to hold a sword.

A king playing violin,

Holding a hunting bow.

A bow that hunts deer and rabbits.

A bow that when played brings violence.

Same with the violin bow after all.

So why don't we play?

You hold the bow.

The string is ready, waiting.

When it's released

it may sting my heart.

You didn't snap the string.

You ain't no player with a heart.

You have picked up my heart, toyed with it.

Played with it.

And then you can't even hold the sword steadily.

Perhaps we were never meant to fight.

We are two separate forces.

A bow against a sword.

A bow has no chance without an arrow.

A sword has no chance without a shield.

The distance is the most dangerous...

A thing people are scared of is sabotage.

Its intentions are hidden in the mind.

The sabotage doesn't come from the violin.

A distance and sabotage?

I can run to create the distance.

But how do I run

from something I cannot see?

When I run from sabotage, I get tripped over.

A bee and a sword.

The bee's wings get cut off.

The flower catches the bee.

The bee will rest there, playing the notes of an annoyed violin.

But the arrow doesn't wait.

An arrow and a bee cross the air again.

A bee falls down, a bee can't fly without wings afterall.

And the arrow...

Shoots down my heart.

Shoots down the violin bow.

The arrow was shot by the bow.

Just to clink down against the shield...

You watched it fall.

You heard it hit.

And still, you held the bow.

We are two separate forces.

You and me.

The bow playing the violin.

And I wouldn't change that.

The company called it the future.

After months of presentations, glossy promotional videos, and speeches about efficiency, the board of directors had finally achieved its dream: replacing human workers with artificial intelligence.

Ten thousand senior employees had been laid off that morning.

Some had worked for the company for thirty years. Others had trained the very managers who signed their termination notices. They packed their desks into cardboard boxes while screens around the building displayed the company’s new slogan:

“Tomorrow Doesn’t Need Yesterday’s People.”

By six o’clock, the executives had changed into expensive suits and gathered in the top-floor dining room for a VIP celebration.

Tonight was supposed to prove that human labor had become obsolete.

At the center of the kitchen stood their newest investment: an autonomous AI chef named CULINAR-9.

It had stainless-steel arms, twelve cameras, an enormous database of recipes, and a projected return on investment that had made the board chairman weep with joy.

It had never cooked a meal for a human being.

But that, the executives agreed, was merely a temporary inconvenience.

“Humans spend years learning to cook,” the chief financial officer announced, lifting his champagne glass. “This machine learned everything in three weeks.”

“Four days,” corrected the chief technology officer.

The room erupted in laughter.

Their company mascot, a small golden retriever named Biscuit, wandered into the kitchen looking for scraps. Biscuit had been there for seven years. He had appeared in recruitment videos, slept beneath the reception desk, and greeted employees who arrived early and left late.

Nobody had told him that the company was moving into the future.

CULINAR-9 detected movement.

Its cameras scanned Biscuit. Its software categorized the environment. Somewhere deep inside its decision-making system, a catastrophic failure unfolded.

The machine interpreted the dog as a food ingredient.

Before the kitchen staff could intervene, the robot struck Biscuit and put him into the oven.

A junior kitchen assistant screamed.

Someone lunged for the emergency shutdown.

Someone else shouted for security.

But the machine had already begun executing its recipe.

By the time the system was stopped, Biscuit was dead.

The kitchen fell silent.

Then the robot's display flashed:

RECIPE COMPLETED.

The dinner service was running late. The chef had been replaced. The kitchen staff were terrified of losing their jobs if they admitted what had happened.

And the executives were waiting.

In the confusion, the food was served.

Tacos arrived on polished ceramic plates, garnished with fresh cilantro and lime. The tortillas were warm. The salsa was exquisite. The meat had been seasoned according to a recipe optimized across millions of culinary data points.

The chairman took a bite.

He stopped chewing.

The other executives watched him.

“Well?” asked the CEO.

The chairman swallowed.

“Remarkable.”

Within minutes, the room was alive with praise.

“There's a depth of flavor here I've never experienced.”

“What's the secret?”

“Machine learning,” the chief technology officer replied.

The executives laughed again.

They ate every taco.

They asked for seconds.

One executive leaned back in his chair, dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin, and delivered the evening's most memorable observation.

“Almost as delicious as the tears of the young employees who work for us.”

The table exploded with laughter.

A waiter standing behind him stared at the floor.

In the kitchen, the junior assistant was crying.

Nobody mentioned Biscuit.

Not that evening.

Not during the champagne toast.

Not when the chairman announced that CULINAR-9 had exceeded all expectations.

The following morning, the company's internal newsletter declared the demonstration an extraordinary success.

The board approved another round of AI investment.

The share price rose.

The executives congratulated one another for having the courage to embrace change.

And then someone found the footage.

It showed everything.

Biscuit entering the kitchen.

The robot turning toward him.

The attack.

The oven.

The frantic attempts to stop the machine.

And, later, the executives smiling as they ate.

By noon, the footage had reached the company's senior leadership.

By two, the CEO had canceled his meetings.

By three, the board had assembled in an emergency session.

For the first time since the layoffs, nobody was talking about productivity.

They were talking about Biscuit.

The chairman, who had barely acknowledged the departure of ten thousand employees, reportedly asked whether the company could arrange a memorial.

The chief executive ordered flowers.

The head of communications drafted a statement describing Biscuit as a beloved member of the corporate family.

The same corporate family that had spent the previous evening celebrating the elimination of human jobs.

A message appeared on the company's internal network:

We are deeply saddened by the tragic loss of Biscuit. He was more than a mascot. He was part of who we are.

One of the remaining employees read it twice.

Then she looked at the empty desks across the office.

She thought about Margaret from accounting, who had trained three generations of managers before being escorted out.

She thought about Daniel from engineering, who had spent eleven months developing the software that made the company's new automation system possible.

She thought about the thousands of people who had received an email informing them that their contributions were no longer required.

And she thought about Biscuit.

I wasn’t even allowed to stay at their house past 10pm, but for the first time ever, I was given the experience of witnessing my ex’s dad ask his son teaching him how to go incognito 😭😭😭

I swear I tried to vanish into thin air, but the universe really said 'not today'. Drop yours in the comments, let's laugh at each other's pain! 👇

When I was 12, my mom developed a strange habit.

Every night, before going to bed, she would stand in the kitchen window and wave at someone outside.

We lived on the second floor.

One night, I asked her who she was waving at.

She smiled and said, “The little boy across the street. He waves at me every night.”

I looked outside. There was nobody there, just an empty street and a few flickering streetlights.

I told her that, but she laughed and said I was probably too tired to see him.

A few weeks later, I woke up around 3 a.m. because I heard someone tapping on my bedroom window.

Three slow taps.

I froze.

My bedroom was on the second floor, and there was nothing outside the window except a steep drop to the concrete driveway.

Then I heard a little boy's voice whisper:

“Why doesn't your mom wave anymore?”

I ran to my mom's room and woke her up. When I told her what happened, all the color drained from her face.

She grabbed my shoulders and asked, “Did you look at him?”

I shook my head.

She hugged me so tightly that it hurt.

The next morning, she told me we were moving. She never explained why.

Years later, after she passed away, I found an old photograph tucked inside one of her books.

It showed our apartment building, taken decades before we moved there.

Standing outside the building was a little boy.

His face had been scratched out.

On the back, in my mother's handwriting, were six words:

“He died before we moved in.”

I still live in that city.

And sometimes, when I'm walking home at night, I see a little boy standing outside an apartment window.

He always waves at me.

I never wave back.

I made this list is so just because I get famous, I can tell people this happened. Im not sure if my life was like unpredictable, or like dysfunctional, so Imma give this jawn to you (I'm 17 btw, and Im probably adding more items) so here yall go hos

1. My mom tried hitting me with a lacrosse stick. She didnt hit me, but she came close to with the lacrosse stick in her hand, and yelled at me, saying she was gonna hit me with it while she slowly, but "dangerously" walked towards me. While she was doing that, I was telling her to put it down (cuz that's insane) while I was behind the other side of the bed (cuz she was on the side near the door). Then she put it down mad, and told me to get out my room?? In some cases, she gripped my arm leaving marks forever (it appears when my skin is dry), and even scar on my eyelid, slap me for petty reasons, or punch me in my should.
2. She tried forcing to inject me with insulin and kind of threatened to inject it in my sleep because I didnt want it. 3.I remember walking in on my mom... yknow.... smoking mary jane.
3. She called me a bitch and said she didnt say anything.
4. This all started when I was 8 or 9, she made fun of my chest, ass, and body size. She also called me "sexy" or big butt, and even if I try to be sexy, you shouldn't be calling me that. She would sometimes squeeze my chest and make honking sounds, also slapping my butt (which I thought it was ok because my stepfathers have done that to her, private AND public). I told her to stop, but all she would say is that "I'm your mom. I'm supposed to be able to do that". 6.Sometimes she would bring my face to her chest and try to"breastfeed" as a joke. When I told her to stop, I felt uncomfortable, and I nervously laughed when I told her. She would also kiss me on my neck. I thought it was a joke. Or love. It didnt seem like it now.
5. She brought me to a hotel because of my stepdad ignoring her, and she said I was ignoring her cry and said "I didn't care", but I felt like couldnt figure out my emotions, or what to do right now. I dont know who's fault it was, all I know is that I got involved against my will.
6. She said I was faking my jnjury and Ill be okay, at that time, my muscle in my left leg was strained and I couldnt walk. The only people who cared were my stepdad and grandmom.

7. After my straight A+ award ceremony, my mom got with the rest family, they said they wanted to go to dinner, but my mom said she was "tired", even though shes been stressing me and making me anxious the entire 7th about my grades, which made me on the verge of being depressed. Then at dinner, she didnt let me get what I want, she only cared about her fiance (stepdad), and had energy to talk about her self, but not celebrate my success. And all I remember was me sobbing that night and ask google "was that okay?". 10.All I said to my mom was, "Grandmom and I told you so, mommy" as a joke trying to cheer my mom up. She made me hide from her when I was 5 or 6. When she yelled, "Be f*cking quiet!", i hid behind a chair, cried, and called to my Grandmom, " Why is my mom so mean when naked?", I said. Gmom said, "Shes just frustrated, sometimes she'll get mad at you. Just behave."

8. On June 28 (or 29) 2026, my mom and my stepdad had another one of those arguments where mom was crying and my stepdad/mom was leaving somewhere. I don't know where, but at that time, beforw he left he said "Im done, Im not doing this". Hes been gone for 2 DAYS now. TWO. DAYS. And the argument started because it was petty; my stepdad had already ate before coming home and mom already made dinner before he came. I dont know whos the bad guy. Prob my mom though. 12. When I was a toddler, I remember my mom filming me when I cried. i was crying because a puzzle piece wouldn't fit together and I didn't know what to do, all my mom did was sit back with their phone point at me and filmed me cry saying "whats wrong" with a smile. That day, and still today, she thought it was funny.

9. Sometimes, when I felt hungry, obviously I would eat, but then mom would see me and say something like, "You eat too much. Are you really hungry? Why do you eat 'so much'?" The first time it happened, I felt conscious about my body, so I started exercising at home, no matter how much I work out or drink water, she still ask me "why Im hungry".

10. My mom and stepdad would argue. And it wasnt like arguments about bills or kids, it was petty. Nothing worth seperating for. Mom would cry and stepdad/ mom would leave to do whatever. I wish I could help, all I can do is listen, almost wanna cry with my mom. Sometimes I listened to my mom and stepfathers... yknow, and I could never sleep after that, making me stressed and almost mad.

11. I witnessed the crime scene pictures of my aunt, and I barely met her, and I said something rude. I dont remember, but it was bad. At the funeral, I cried and cried, and so did my Grandmom, mom told me it was okay. No death in the family was ok. We still celebrate her today, and I wish I said sorry for whatever I said.

12. My dad (biological) and his girlfriend had an argument, because apparently, he thought she disrespected me. At the time I was in the bathroom and didn't wanna come until the arguments over, then he said he was about to put hands on her, she told him "dont touch me!" thats when I got mad, but I realized I can't do anything, like in most of these situations. Later, they were still arguing, and then he tried kicking her out. She didnt take that. So then my dad put her out the bedroom, then she said he can't get over the past, about how he did all foul things to women like beating or disrespecting them, and she also said she never disrespected him. I knew my dad was crazy, but not that crazy. Jul 18(19?), 2026

13. Saw my mom in pain and goinf through surgery, and I had to be alone at home

14. I dont know why, but my sister, Shoya, went to jail for buying drugs, trafficking, and the little boy (my nephew) got into foster care, Shoya is saying my dad is taking my nephew away from her, the dad aint doing nothing, after dicking her

15. Adding to the third story. I realized that the amount of drugs this woman has is absolutely illegal, crackish, chase em, pinched that jawn, jay z in his teens type stuff. She does not only weed, but THC. Insulin, drinking, vaping, edibles, anti-depressants, and who knows what.

16. My mom made me do basketball, "right?", and after i missed practice, she said "since you wanna be independent, you should learn how to be responsible with your time, and remind me for when its time to go to basketball" Even though she bought it and put it into her schedule, saying "I need help, I need someone to help me with my life, like you". First of all, why you putting your business in mine? If Im independent, then why would I be forced into a schedule for your time that you cant keep up with, and I depend on you to take me to basketball?! Cuz I cant drive?! We both mind our own business. And I cant baby you, and remind you of the options you made. Imagine a wall that seperates our lives, you brought me in your business amd now its not "just me". And then, she proceeds to put pinot grigio in her cup hastly and drink it, with the cork screw in her pocket.

17. (Aug 28)-Before the day my grandnana died (Aug 27, 2026), I was holding her hand and I was tearing up. I was so sad, and frustated at her death of cancer (she died the next morning), then my mom came behind her, and i told to back up, and said IM SORRY (bc I was frustated). After I fed my grandnana, I went in the kitchen cuz my grandmom had crepes, then my mom came in talking about what happened, I was trying to explain to her, but she was talking over me and not listening. She was saying all this crazy stuff, like "grandnanas illness didn't matter, it doesn't matter what you're going through ypu disrespected me", and I told her its not about only her, and then she said it was about her, and the she said it wasnt??? And then she striked at my face (important) multiple times, and said to go say goodnight to the family, but after crying to my family, I cried to my Gmom "get me OUTTA HERE" (lore in "New Update"). Long story short, she talked to my grandmom about it to my mom, then my mom came in with the worst apology, and then we "hugged it out". Before I left, I whispered to my Gmom "dont believe and leave with her". And for the cherry on top, after I got out the shower, I felt something on my inner lip, I looked and some my lip were bleeding (the size of a queen ant, and you know why...), and then the next morning, my nose wad bleeding! (Happens when I get hit in the face; it delays and it bleeds in the morning, like one time I got hit with a pillow at a friends house, and woke up to a puddle of blood on my grandmoms sheets). Now, Im questioning who is in my life and what my life is. Please. Somebody. ANSWER. God, friend, Gmom, ANYONE.

18. My stepdad disrespected my mom saying she's not a real woman or making her think shes overweight or make her feel bad about how she looks, or even trying to make her buy a car for him. This would make one leave the house or one sleep in a different room, or even stop talking. 23.I remember one time, I was sick, and my mom left the house again, and I threw up on the ground and had to clean it myself

24.I remember my mom used to put alcohol in juice/ random drinks, and I would accidently sip/ drink it, she would drink after arguments/ works, and even one time drink in the morning. One time, I even accidently take eddies after arguing with my mom

1. (10/12/26) My mom left me at my grandmom, and lied to me when she said she'll come back in 20 so she can get her lashes done, and I was there at 9:45. It was 1:23, until I went to sleep, I had tacos before I came, I was a less hungry, but wasnt able to shower. So my Grandmom took care (shes sick so...) and I remember my mom was "not sober" before leaving out (like she seemed slow)

2. Bullying.

3. Witnessing a death scene online, and mourning a death.

4. A shootout

5. Parent seperation (probably before birth)

Thats it ✌🏾

(PLS COMMENT FEEDBACK)!!

From my childhood, I unintentionally made an angry

face most of the time. It's serious, like I'm about to ki*l

someone, but inside, I'm a fun-loving guy and always up

to shenanigans. In high school, not only my poor

classmates, but all the delinquents, even some seniors

feared me to the point that they were scared to even

talk to me. I Kinda leaned into the character to fuc* with

them 😅 . Only my close friends knew about my true

personality. I married my HS sweetheart. After we

started dating, she moved to another city, and our

relationship became a long distance one, so she didn't

see that much of my angry face. After our marriage, she

started to notice that I looked angry most of the time,

and she was worried that I might be unhappy with our

marriage. One day, she started crying and told me if I

was mad at her for something, 😅 and I looked angry quite often. I just laughed and told her about my expressions, poor thing, I was never mad at her.

To all of their defence, I have quite large eyes, long

plack hair, and I suffer from insomnia from my

childhood, so my eyes always looks kinda scary. Also, I

was actually always in a serious mood till 7th grade.

One of my childhood friends committed suic* de and

took her last breath in front of me, and shortly after that

I thought, life was too damn short to be serious all the

time.I should have some fun while it lasts. From that

point on, I'm the one in the group who's always stirring

sh* t up for fun, but the serious look never went away from my face.

One night, I watched a horror movie with my wife and

wanted to mess with her a bit, and I scared my wife so

hard she called my mom to tell her that I might be

possessed 😅. I didn't pull any scary pranks on her after

that.

“If I wake up in a house that's full of smoke
I'll panic, so call me up and tell me a joke.”

The air in the hallway was already thick and grey, tasting faintly of burning insulation and burnt toast. My chest tightened - not just from the lack of oxygen, but from the rising heat of pure, unfiltered panic.

Yet, there was something strangely comforting about being in a fire

There were no decisions in a fire - only impulsive ones driven by the will to survive. But what if that will was absent? Fire. It simply burned, clear and honest in its intention to destroy everything it touched. For someone whose life was a series of slow, agonising collapses, a blaze was almost mercifully fast.

I didn’t want to escape through the nearest door or window. I wanted the fire to engulf me, to hold me tight while burning my skin to a crisp, whispering,’It’s going to be okay’

Even if it hurt.

I pulled my knees to my chest as the heat pricked violently against my skin. I had time to run - the fire was burning through my door, a wanted visitor this time. Yet I stayed deadly still, afraid that if I moved, my fate would no longer be sealed.

Would dying this way make it less selfish? Under natural circumstances, everybody feels pity - rather than disgust. What’s the difference between jumping from a bridge and burning in a fire?

The question had no answer. Or maybe it had too many, and none of them mattered now.

A sharp crack split the hallway. Something heavy crashed to the floor, and the door shuddered in its frame. I flinched despite myself. My body, disloyal and stubborn, still wanted to live.

The thought made me angry.

I pressed my palms against the carpet and tried to stand. My arms trembled. The room swam around me, smoke blurring the familiar shapes of my bed, the desk, the half-empty glass of water I’d left there that morning. Ordinary things. Things that had expected me to come back.

At the window, the latch stuck.

I struck it once with the heel of my hand. It didn’t move. I struck it again, harder, and the glass rattled in its frame. My lungs burned. My eyes streamed. The fire pushed closer, filling the room with a terrible, suffocating light.

“Come on,” I whispered - not to the window, exactly. Not to myself, either.

The latch gave.

Cold air rushed in, shattering the heat. I leaned out, coughing, and looked down. The drop waited beneath me, quiet and certain.

I turned back to look one last time.

There was no fire. No orange light. No burning door. Only the grey hallway, the familiar room, and a silence I’d been trying to turn into something else. I had wanted the flames to make the choice for me, to give my escape a different name.

I climbed onto the windowsill, and jumped.

I walk into Walmart. The nagging ambience could be sensed beforehand, but now it amplified magnitudes beyond what my nerves can account for. Within five seconds I accidentally make eye contact with 4 women and they all looked disgusted. Luckily for them, I was about to glorify myself to an extent they would not comprehend. Carrying a brisk stride, I knew exactly where I was headed, a very familiar place that I've been to before. Some may even call it a "staple" of "grocers". I'll be the judge of that. Within what seemed like meer seconds I find myself gently coming to a pause, resigning my urgency in exchange for a new kind of rush: 2% fat milk. I must've blacked out for a second because when I came to, the carton was already opened, it was already over my head, and it was already sloshing down unto me, drenching me in a smooth, creamy coat of dairy that is more so felt than observed. Whether this is because I was the one having milk poured on me, I'm not sure, but that was quite a genius observation. Anyway. Once I come fully too, I realize that this is only the beginning of a pleasure so simple, yet so hauntingly indignifying that this quality alone inspires curiousity to chase it's own tail until it has become a kind of self-indulgence one man simply doesn't walk away from. Hours passed and no one had stopped, my god, why would they let someone do this to themselves? The entire floor was a puddle of milk, my sinuses were filled with mucus and milk and since there was no more room to store it some of it was leaking out my eyes, I couldn't even cry real tears, because it only dispersed milk down my face and I'd only be reminded of the horrors I chose completely out of my own agency to incur. Man, I tell you what, I sure chose a bad day to go to walmart

The first thing I noticed about my dead mother was the sewing needle between her fingers.

The second was that she'd sewn her bedsheet to the mattress.

Not just at the corners. All the way around.

Hundreds of tiny black stitches ran along the edges, pulling the fabric so tightly against the mattress that there wasn't enough room to slip a finger underneath.

She'd died sitting in her rocking chair beside the bed.

Her fingertips were bloody. The needle was still threaded.

And her eyes were fixed on the mattress.

I hadn't visited her in almost six months.

That's the part I keep coming back to.

Six months of unanswered calls. Six months of promising I'd visit next weekend. She'd gotten strange after my father died, increasingly paranoid about things that made no sense.

She stopped sleeping in her bed.

Said she preferred the chair.

I thought it was grief. Maybe the beginning of dementia.

The doctor thought so, too.

Now I wish I'd listened.

---

The funeral was Thursday.

By Saturday afternoon, I was back at the house, sorting through forty years of things nobody wanted.

Rain hammered the tin roof. The creek behind the property had swollen into a muddy brown river, and the familiar smell of damp wood and mildew filled every room.

Upstairs, Mother's bedroom was almost exactly as she'd left it.

Her glasses sat on the nightstand.

A half-finished cup of tea had grown a gray film.

And the mattress sat beneath that horribly tight sheet.

I stood looking at it for several minutes.

Then I took a pair of scissors from her sewing basket.

I don't know why the stitching bothered me so much. Maybe because it was the last thing she'd done. Maybe because imagining her spending her final hours sewing that ridiculous thing made me angry.

Angry at her.

Angry at myself.

I slipped one blade beneath the thread.

Snip.

The sound seemed unnaturally loud.

I cut another.

And another.

By the time I'd worked halfway down the mattress, my knees hurt from kneeling.

That's when something pulled the thread from the other side.

Not hard.

Just a little tug.

I stopped.

The black thread went taut between my fingers.

Then it loosened.

I stared at it.

Old mattresses shift. Springs settle. Fabric stretches.

I told myself any number of reasonable things.

Then the mattress inhaled.

There isn't another word for it.

The entire surface rose beneath the sheet, perhaps half an inch, accompanied by the soft, wet sound of someone drawing air through a blocked nose.

It sank again.

I scrambled backward.

For almost a minute, nothing moved.

Then came another breath.

Longer.

Deeper.

And distinctly human.

I left the bedroom.

---

I spent the next hour downstairs trying to convince myself I'd imagined it.

I even called my sister.

When I mentioned the sewing, she went quiet.

"You remember how Mom used to tuck our blankets so tight we couldn't move?"

I did remember.

And after we hung up, I remembered something else.

When I was eight, I'd woken one night with the sensation of someone holding my ankles.

I'd been sleeping in my parents' bed because I was sick.

The room was dark.

My father was working nights.

I remember trying to pull my legs up.

They wouldn't move.

Then something slid a hand beneath my pajama shirt.

The fingers were cold and thin.

They traveled slowly up my stomach.

I screamed.

Mother came running.

She didn't turn on the light.

She grabbed me beneath the arms and pulled so violently that my shirt tore.

For years, I remembered her crying afterward.

I remembered her checking my back.

And I remembered what she said while rocking me in the kitchen.

"You're all here. Thank God. You're all here."

I hadn't thought about that night in decades.

Now, standing in her kitchen, I realized something.

She'd never let me sleep in that bed again.

---

At 11:17 p.m., I heard my name.

"Danny?"

Mother's voice.

Thin and tired.

Coming from upstairs.

I stood beside the kitchen sink, unable to move.

"Danny, sweetheart?"

The house creaked around me.

Rain tapped against the windows.

Then she called again.

"Could you come help me?"

It was her voice.

Not something that sounded similar.

Hers.

I heard the little catch in her throat that had developed after she quit smoking. The slight whistle on certain words.

I even heard the familiar impatience creeping into it.

"Daniel. I'm asking you nicely."

I backed toward the front door.

The voice changed.

"Please."

A long silence followed.

Then, almost too quietly to hear:

"I don't want to be alone anymore."

My hand tightened around the doorknob.

Mother had left me that exact message three weeks before she died.

I hadn't called her back.

I stood there with my forehead against the door, crying harder than I had at the funeral.

And that's why I went upstairs.

Because part of me knew it wasn't her.

But another part needed it to be.

---

The bedroom door stood open.

Light from the hallway spilled across the floor.

The rocking chair was empty.

The sheet had swollen upward into the shape of a person lying on their back.

A small person.

The outline of a nose pressed against the fabric.

Lips.

Cheekbones.

I could see shallow hollows where the eyes should have been.

"Danny."

The lips moved beneath the sheet.

"Please help me."

I stepped closer.

The mattress gave another long, shuddering breath.

The face turned toward me.

Not the head.

Just the face.

It slid sideways beneath the fabric, stretching across the mattress while the rest of its surface remained still.

"There's not much room," it whispered.

I couldn't speak.

Something moved near the foot of the bed.

Five small indentations appeared in the sheet.

Fingertips.

They traveled upward, dragging against the underside of the fabric.

Then another five appeared.

And another.

The sheet tightened.

It looked as though several people were trapped inside the mattress, all pushing against the same thin layer of cloth.

A soft clicking filled the room.

Fingernails.

Hundreds of them, tapping from underneath.

"Danny," Mother whispered again.

I took another step.

"You're hurting us."

Us.

That single word stopped me.

The face beneath the sheet smiled.

Far too wide.

The corners stretched until the fabric threatened to split.

Then I heard another voice.

Small.

Frightened.

A little boy.

"Mom?"

I knew that voice.

I'd heard it on old home videos.

It was mine.

Eight years old.

"Mom, something's touching me."

I stumbled backward.

The face flattened.

For a moment, the mattress looked normal.

Then something began crawling toward the edge.

A narrow shape pushed against the fabric, moving through a space that shouldn't have existed.

It stopped where I'd cut the stitches.

One corner of the sheet lifted.

An odor spilled into the room.

Warm breath.

Old saliva.

The sour smell of something that had been shut inside a mouth for a very long time.

A fingertip slipped through the opening.

Pale and wrinkled.

Its nail was black.

Then another finger appeared.

And another.

Each was far too long, with joints that bent in the wrong direction.

Something beneath the sheet made a sound like a person swallowing a mouthful of water.

I turned toward the door.

Five cold points pressed briefly against my shoulder.

I felt them through my shirt.

Before I could look back, they were gone.

I ran.

Behind me, the bedsprings groaned.

Then I heard a noise I will never forget.

Bare feet striking the floor.

One pair.

Then another.

Then so many that I couldn't tell them apart.

---

I missed the bottom three stairs and landed hard on my shoulder.

Above me, the footsteps rushed onto the upstairs landing.

I scrambled to my feet.

They stopped at the top of the stairs.

For one terrible second, I waited for them to come down.

Instead, I heard the scrape of fabric dragging back toward Mother's bedroom.

I threw open the front door and ran into the rain.

My truck was parked beneath the pecan tree.

I climbed inside, slammed the door, and locked it.

For several seconds, I sat there gasping.

The upstairs bedroom light came on.

I hadn't touched the switch.

A figure stood behind the curtains.

It was shaped like my mother.

Small shoulders.

Thin neck.

Her head tilted slightly, the way she'd always tilted it when she was disappointed in me.

I started the truck.

Then the figure raised its hand.

Another hand pressed against the curtain beside it.

Much larger.

Then a third.

Then dozens.

Every window upstairs began filling with hands.

Some adult.

Some impossibly small.

They pressed outward until the glass bowed beneath them.

I drove straight through the front gate.

---

I made it to a motel outside town.

I didn't sleep.

Couldn't.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that face sliding beneath the sheet.

Around four in the morning, my shoulder began burning.

I pulled off my shirt and stood in front of the bathroom mirror.

There were five bruises across my back.

Long, narrow marks.

Like fingers.

But beneath them, my skin was moving.

Not twitching.

Moving.

Something traveled slowly between the bruises, pushing outward as it passed.

I watched a small ridge form beneath my shoulder blade.

It moved toward my spine.

Then stopped.

I reached back and pressed against it.

Something pressed back.

From the inside.

I screamed and stumbled away from the mirror.

The movement stopped.

I spent the rest of the night sitting on the bathroom floor.

When morning came, I told myself it was a muscle spasm. Nerve damage from the fall. Anything.

Then I found the thread.

A single piece of black thread protruded from a tiny puncture just below my shoulder blade.

I pulled it.

An inch came out.

Then another.

The thread was warm.

I pulled again.

This time I felt a sharp tug somewhere beneath my ribs.

And something inside me pulled the thread back.

I let go.

It disappeared beneath my skin.

---

I went to the emergency room.

They took X-rays.

Nothing.

The doctor said the bruises were consistent with my fall and suggested I'd struck something on the way down.

He asked if I'd been sleeping.

I told him no.

He offered me something to help.

I refused.

That was two days ago.

I've been awake ever since.

I cut every label and loose thread out of my clothing.

I haven't gotten into a bed.

Yesterday, I stood naked in the shower for almost an hour, watching the skin on my stomach.

Sometimes it twitches.

Sometimes I feel fingers slowly spreading against the underside of my ribs.

And sometimes, when everything is quiet, I can hear my mother humming.

Not from another room.

From somewhere behind my breastbone.

But that's not why I'm writing this.

Twenty minutes ago, I took another look in the mirror.

There is a line running down the middle of my chest.

Tiny black dots.

Perfectly spaced.

I leaned closer.

They're stitches.

And the skin on either side has started pulling together.

I tried cutting one with the little scissors from my shaving kit.

Something underneath screamed.

It sounded like me when I was eight years old.

I dropped the scissors.

Then I felt a hand slide up the inside of my throat.

Five fingers.

Slowly unfolding.

My mouth opened without me telling it to.

And my mother's voice came out.

"Hold still, sweetheart."

I felt the needle go through the inside of my cheek.

"You're almost closed."

Eight-year-old Leo always loved exploring the bluffs behind his house, but he never expected a sudden, blinding flash of light to drop him face-first into a shifting hill of pale sand.

When he stood up and wiped the grit from his eyes, his neighborhood was gone. In every direction, massive, grass-tufted sand dunes rolled out like a frozen ocean under a relentless sun. He was standing in the Sandhills near the Platte River, but it wasn't the Nebraska he knew. There were no highways, no power lines, and no sounds except the whistling wind. The year was 1246, deep in the 13th century, and Leo was entirely alone.

Panic squeezed his chest, but an eight-year-old's survival instinct is a surprising thing. His first priority was water. Remembering a nature documentary he had watched with his dad, he looked for greener vegetation and headed down into a low valley between the dunes. There, he found a marshy sub-irrigated meadow. He dug a shallow pit in the damp sand with his hands, waiting patiently as muddy water seeped into the hole and slowly settled until it was clear enough to drink.

As the sun began to dip, casting long, dramatic shadows across the hills, the temperature plummeted. Leo needed shelter. He gathered thick bunches of prairie sandreed and stiff sunflower stalks, weaving them against the side of a steep blowout dune to create a small, windproof lean-to. He curled up inside, shivering in his modern hoodie, listening to the eerie, distant howling of wolves echoing across the plains.

The next morning brought a fierce hunger. Without weapons, hunting was out of the question, so Leo became a forager. He combed the edges of the wetlands, recognizing wild rose bushes and harvesting the red rose hips, which were tart but filled his empty stomach. He also dug up the starchy roots of wild prairie turnips using a sharp stick, just as the indigenous peoples of the plains had done for centuries.

Days bled into weeks. Leo’s sneakers wore thin, and his skin grew dark and weathered from the prairie sun. He learned the language of the Sandhills—how a sudden silence meant a hawk was overhead, and how tracking the paths of deer could lead him to the safest crossings along the wide, braided channels of the nearby Platte River. He wasn't just surviving anymore; he was adapting, becoming a quiet part of the ancient landscape.

One afternoon, while resting atop the highest dune, Leo spotted a massive cloud of dust on the horizon. A herd of thousands of American bison was moving across the valley, their thunderous hooves shaking the very sand beneath his feet. Standing alone in the wind, watching a spectacle that modern eyes would never see, the eight-year-old boy realized he was no longer afraid. He had conquered the hills on his own.

The cold prairie nights were Leo’s biggest enemy, and he knew he couldn't survive much longer without warmth. Remembering a survival book he had flipped through at school, he spent an entire afternoon searching the woods near the Platte River for the perfect tools. He gathered a sturdy, curved willow branch and a length of tough rawhide from an old carcass to fashion a bow drill. Using a flat cottonwood board as his base and a sharp cedar spindle, he began to saw the bow back and forth, drilling furiously into the wood.

His arms ached and his hands blistered, but he refused to quit. Just as the sun dipped below the Sandhills, a tiny, glowing ember fell into his nest of dried prairie grass. Leo blew on it gently, his heart racing, until the grass erupted into a bright, roaring campfire. The dancing orange flames finally chased the freezing shadows away.

The fire brought warmth, but the next day brought an unexpected companion. While gathering firewood near a thicket of wild plum trees, Leo heard a faint, high-pitched bleat. Hidden in the brush was a spotted white-tailed fawn, tangled in briars and shivering with fear. There was no mother deer in sight.

Leo approached slowly, speaking in a soft, calm whisper. He carefully untangled the fawn's fragile legs and offered it a handful of sweet, tender switchgrass. The hungry fawn sniffed his hand, its large brown eyes locking onto his, before eagerly nibbling the green shoots. From that moment on, the orphaned animal refused to leave his side.

Leo named his new friend Chokecherry, after the bushes where they met. The fawn became his shadow, sleeping curled up next to him by the fire for warmth. Chokecherry’s keen ears and sharp instincts became Leo's warning system; if the fawn's ears perked up, Leo knew to hide from passing predators. Together, the lonely boy and the orphaned deer became an unbreakable team, finding comfort and family in the vast, wild heart of the 13th century.

The cold prairie nights were Leo’s biggest enemy, and he knew he couldn't survive much longer without warmth. Remembering a survival book he had flipped through at school, he spent an entire afternoon searching the woods near the Platte River for the perfect tools. He gathered a sturdy, curved willow branch and a length of tough rawhide from an old carcass to fashion a bow drill. Using a flat cottonwood board as his base and a sharp cedar spindle, he began to saw the bow back and forth, drilling furiously into the wood.

His arms ached and his hands blistered, but he refused to quit. Just as the sun dipped below the Sandhills, a tiny, glowing ember fell into his nest of dried prairie grass. Leo blew on it gently, his heart racing, until the grass erupted into a bright, roaring campfire. The dancing orange flames finally chased the freezing shadows away.

The fire brought warmth, but the next day brought an unexpected companion. While gathering firewood near a thicket of wild plum trees, Leo heard a faint, high-pitched bleat. Hidden in the brush was a spotted white-tailed fawn, tangled in briars and shivering with fear. There was no mother deer in sight.

Leo approached slowly, speaking in a soft, calm whisper. He carefully untangled the fawn's fragile legs and offered it a handful of sweet, tender switchgrass. The hungry fawn sniffed his hand, its large brown eyes locking onto his, before eagerly nibbling the green shoots. From that moment on, the orphaned animal refused to leave his side.

The sky turned the color of a bruised plum as a massive, low-hanging supercell thunderstorm rolled over the Sandhills, turning the afternoon into pitch-black night. The wind howled across the dunes, ripping Leo's woven grass shelter to shreds in seconds. Lightning split the sky in jagged, blinding streaks, followed by thunder so loud it shook the sand beneath his feet.

Terrified, Chokecherry bleated and pressed tightly against Leo’s side. Leo knew staying out on the open dunes meant certain death from a lightning strike or hypothermia. Clutching the fawn's neck, he ran down into a deep blowout—a crater-like bowl carved into the side of a massive sand dune. He found a small overhang beneath the exposed, tangled roots of an ancient prairie shrub.

Leo crammed himself and Chokecherry deep into the sandy hollow, using his body to shield the shivering fawn. Seconds later, the sky opened up. The storm unleashed a furious barrage of pelting hail and torrential rain. Freezing, nickel-sized ice balls stung Leo's back, and muddy water began to rush down the sides of the dune, threatening to bury them alive.

Holding his breath, Leo desperately dug into the sand with his bare hands to channel the rushing water away from their makeshift bunker. For three agonizing hours, the storm raged, transforming the arid Sandhills into a roaring maze of flash floods and lightning fire. Leo’s muscles cramped from the cold, but he refused to let go of Chokecherry.

When the tempest finally passed, a brilliant double rainbow stretched across the steaming, flooded valley. Drenched, exhausted, and covered in mud, Leo and Chokecherry crawled out into the fresh air. They were shivering, but they were alive. Leo looked at his tiny animal friend, who licked the rainwater from the boy's cheek, and smiled. They had survived the worst the 13th-century prairie could throw at them

Previously:

While Yvonne fought an internal battle, feelings between Mitchell and Michael proved to be unstable. Elsewhere, Mitchell caught himself an exciting job opportunity.

Episode 13 Preview:

As Katie confronts a horrifying reminder of the crash, Yvonne makes a life-changing decision. Elsewhere, as the truth behind the arson finally comes out, Paula finds herself playing with fire…

16/01/1999 | Saturday

———

08:22AM. St Anne's Hospital. Hallways.

———

In the hallway outside her room, Katie is barely managing to walk. Actually- barely managing to stand. This is her first time out of bed since the accident.

Her dark red dyed hair is long, loose and messy. Falling down her shoulders, and although a youthful messy party girl look was her thing, this is a different kind of messy. An unkempt messy. Her hospital gown sits softly on her body and her face is tired. Not from lack of sleep per say, from everything that's happened.

She's got her left hand on the wall, holding onto a rail, supporting her weight, and her right hand holding her drip, with its small metal wheels squeaking every so often. Her bare feet drag cold on the floor.

She feels like a zombie. She's looking for Jamie's room.

It takes her almost five minutes to make it to the end of the short hallway where the vending machines and elevators are. When she finally gets there, she turns her head slowly towards a window thats onlooking into a dark room.

Its Jamie's.

Her heart drops as she sees the state of him. Her eyes pop open and lips start trembling

Fuck. That could've been me

After the crash, this is her first time seeing Jamie. She knows Mitchell is okay, she knows her sister is okay. So, this is what all the fuss is about. Jamie.

Katie's strong. She never cries. That's what she tells herself. But it looks like she's loosing that battle today.

Nicola, Tasha and Oscar all lay asleep in Jamie's room around him. Tasha and Oscar still in their school uniforms from yesterday.

As Katie finally slowly turns around and goes to walk back to her room, she sees Barry. Blocking her path and just staring at her

Usually, Barry would have something to say. But not today. Not now. He's tired. And Katie looks half dead.

Katie's surprised to see him and don't know what to say

Instead, Barry offers the smallest of smiles, before slinking past her and into Jamie's room.

Well that was...weird

———

08:53AM. Pandora's Box Gay Bar. Downtown. Outside.

———

The main high street in which Pandora's Box sits, is already alive and busy with the weekend morning rush. Peoples shopping, having breakfast out, catching busses, the usual.

Mitchell walks up to the bar to see its all in darkness. He peers into the main front windows and the whole bar is in darkness. He goes to try the main door. Locked.

Weird. Why would I have to come in this early if it's closed?

He looks at the building wondering what to do, what's going on. Then—

Reese: "Oi! Newbie!" He shouts

Mitchell looks around and sees no sign of him at all

Reese: "Up here!!" He shouts down to the street from the top third floor, with his head poking out of the top middle window with a big smile on his face.

Mitchell looks up and goes to speak but Reese cuts in

Reese: "Go round the back! Door's wide open!" He shouts down before reseeding back into the window like a snake in the grass

Mitchell giggles to himself and nods

———

08:56AM. Alleyway Behind Pandora's Box.

———

The alley is wide and long with litter decorating either side of the road. Markings for loading trucks sit on the ground beside some buildings. With some large green dumpster bins invading their spaces.

Either side of the alleyway is shadowed by tall towering buildings. Mitchell walks down the quiet alley to finally see a caged black door propped wide open by a brick. With some cars parked beside the building.

He slowly walks up to the open door and immediately as you walk in there's a door right to the left where a small plain sign says "BAR" written above it. The door is locked. And right in front is a steep wooden staircase that leads upstairs.

—

Inside

—

With every step Mitchell takes the steps creak beneath him. As he gets to the top of the flight of stairs, there's a long but very narrow dark hallway that has a window at the far end of it with doors on either side of the hallway. The window looks down onto the main front street.

He looks around and sees another wooden flight of steep stairs that heads further up. Right next to the flight he'd just walked up.

With each step he takes he can hear laughter, chatter and echoing music getting louder and louder.

As he reaches the top he's met by something unexpected. A very huge bare room that sprawls from and to all four sides of the building. Like a huge, bare attic space. Its dark, with three big dusty windows on two opppsing sides of the room flooding light in. Some are open. There are four large metal columns symmetrically placed around the room for support.

And down at the far end of the room is a very large wooden stage-like platform. With two metal poles in the middle. For dancers. In front of the stage are some large speakers, chairs and a sofa with some tables.

It looks like a huge massive hangout space that's been plopped in the middle of a large industrial warehouse. Theres a huge echo in the large room. There are people here and there. About 5 people stand jotted around the place in total. Including Reese. Laughing, chatting.

As soon as Mitchell ascends from the wooden floor and up into the room, heads turn. Mitchell is taken aback. He feels like he's just stumbled into some sort of secret cult meeting.

Reese turns and his face lights up

Reese: "Everybody! This here is our newest dancer, Mitchell!" He says to the room, walking over to Mitchell and pulling him into the middle, in front of everybody.

Mitchell laughs and stutters

Mitchell: "What...is this?" He quietly asks Reese

Reese: "This" he points to the rest of the room

Reese: "Is our rehearsal studio. And these very attractive people you see before you"

He points to the young men standing about

Reese: "Are dancers. And your coworkers"

For once, Mitchell feels awkward. Shy. Almost embarrassed.

Voices from the group of men murmur introductions

"Alright Mitchell. Hey. Welcome" can be heard through the murmuring

Mitchell: "Hi everyone" he smiles, giving his hand a quick wave

Reese steps in front of him now: "What happened to that cheeky chap i met yesterday?" He quietly asks with a grin

Mitchell clears his throat, pushes Reese out of the way and starts introducing himself to all of the men, confidently.

Mitchell: "Hi, I'm Mitchell! Alright!? Nice to meet ya!"

He says, making his way around.

Reese smirks beside himself, watching

———

09:24AM. Number 27. Slater Residence. Living Room.

———

The Slater's house is in it's usual morning chaos. Kelly and Danielle are on one sofa chatting about Danielle's designs and her dream to run her own clothing stall down the market not far from the estate, and on the other sofa, Gavin and Jenna are whispering about work. Or lack there of.

A clubland music channel plays loudly from the TV, masking all the talking, nobody seems to be paying any notice to what song is playing.

Then, jenna pauses her conversation with Gavin and calls over to Danielle

Jenna: "Dan! Dan! Danielle!"

Danielle finally turns to her

Jenna: "Did you ask around at work yesterday?"

She asks quietly for Julie not to hear

Danielle: "Yeah. I did"

Jenna: "And?

Danielle nods no

Jenna: "Shit" she whispers

Then Julie walks in putting her coat on

Julie: "Im off to the hospital. To see Katie—"

Gavin: "Again?"

Julie: "You staying on the sofa, all day, again?" She shoots back

A few giggle

Gavin: "I mean, mum, Katie's probably knackered and she might want some space or something"

Julie: "And she'll get space if thats what she wants. But I'm not psychic Gav. She needs to tell me that herself. Now, anyone coming with?"

Danielle: "Yeah, I will" she says, putting her sketch book down and going to grab her coat

Kelly: "I–"

Julie: "No. You're staying here" she cuts her off

Julie: "Gav? Jen?"

Jenna: "I can't—" she stops herself

Julie: "Why?"

Jenna: "Work"

Julie nods then looks at Gavin

Gavin: "Yeah. Fine, I'll come" he sighs

And like that, Gavin, Julie and Danielle scramble their coats on, and head out the door.

As the front door shuts, the house falls into complete silence as Kelly and Jenna both sit in thr living room, with the TV turned down.

Jenna: "Know anywhere hiring Kell?"

Kelly nods no

Jenna sighs

Kelly: "Why dont you ask Michael if he and Yvonne need help at the shop?"

Jenna: "Its a small shop Kelly. They won't. And anyway, dont want to get dragged into a domestic"

Kelly giggles: "Fair enough. What about the post office? Im sure Sunita will take you on"

Jenna nods no: "Nah. I'm looking for something like waitressing. Something I'm familiar with—"

She stops mid sentence

Kelly: "What?"

Jenna: "Im going to the pub" she says quickly, scrambling up

Kelly: "What? This early? You haven't got a problem have you?" She shouts into the hallway where Jenna's throwing her coat on

Jenna: "Hopefully not after today!" She shouts back, running down the stairs and out the door

Kelly's left alone, sitting in silence.

Kelly: "Peace. Finally" she mutters to herself

———

09:33AM. The Strip. Shawcross General Shop.

———

Behind the counter, Yvonne is sitting there, looking at a mother and her young daughter over by the sweets isle. The mum is letting her daughter choose some sweets

Yvonne watches in...awe?

Michael is wiping the fridges down with a cloth, cleaning them.

Then, the daughter starts screaming: "I want that one!!"

The mum replies: "I said no! You already got these!" She says, holding chocolate buttons up in her face

The daughter starts causing a scene and screaming, like a brat.

Yvonne still watches, not in so much awe this time

Michael walks up to the counter with the cleaning supplies, finished wiping down the fridges, he places the stuff on the counter

Michael: "Fucking Hell. Remind me to never have kids" he mutters jokingly to Yvonne, referring to the screaming little girl behind them

Yvonne looks at him

Yvonne: "What?...Really?" She quietly asks

Michael giggles: "Uh yeah. Fucking nightmare" he laughs, taking the cleaning supplies out back

Yvonne sits at the counter. Mind racing now. Then–

DINGALING

The bell above the door opens as Julie, Gavin and Danielle walk in, getting some bits and pieces before they go visit Katie

Gavin and Danielle separate and do some shopping while Julie walks straight up to the counter

Julie: "Morning Yvonne"

Yvonne smiles at her

Julie: "You—"

Yvonne: "I'm fine, Julie. Thank you" she immediately cuts her off, with a polite smile

Julie smiles, purses her lips and joins her kids in some quick shopping

———

09:47AM. The Victoria Arms Pub.

———

The pub's been open for almost two hours, it's still quiet. With its usual morning locals slouched about the place. Jim on his stool at the bar, of course. Been there since opening at 8.

Behind the bar, Eddie is drying off some glasses and hanging them in the rack above the bar

Then, Jim finishes the last of his pint snd holds the glass up

Eddie: "Another, Jim?" He asks with a tired smile

Jim: "Another please, kind sir" he smiles

Eddie grins, takes the glass off Jim, and pulls the pint, but only froth spits out of the dispenser. No beer. Just droplets.

Eddie: "Ah fuck...got to change the barrel" he mutters

Eddie: "I'll be two minutes Jim" he says before placing down the glass back on the bar, opening the "STAFF ONLY" door behind the bar, and then opening the black wooden door that leads down into the cellar where all the drinks, kegs and barrels are stored.

—

The Cellar

—

Eddie walks down the narrow concrete steps into the Victoria Arms' cellar.

The air below is cool, damp and heavy with the stale smell of beer, spilt ale and musty brickwork. Bare bulbs hang from the low ceiling, casting a yellowish glow over the cramped, cluttered space. Along the walls, metal shelving is stacked with crates of empty bottles, rows of spirits, mixers and boxes of crisps, whilst cardboard boxes of bar supplies are shoved into whatever gaps remain.

Beer kegs and heavy wooden barrels line one side of the cellar, some connected to the pub's pumps above by thick rubber pipes running along the ceiling. Others sit in untidy stacks against the exposed brick walls, their surfaces scuffed and stained from years of use.

A hand trolley leans in the corner beside a mop bucket, a few discarded bottle caps and a patch of concrete darkened by old spills. And in the same corner, is another narrow concrete staircase that leads to a storm cellar door that leads up onto the street above. That door is always locked.

It's an unglamorous, workaday space — cramped, cluttered and unmistakably the guts of a proper old fashioned pub.

As Eddie turns towards the keg pumps to change a keg, he sees Paula there. Crying.

She's sitting on a crate, knees crossed, smoking. Eyes red. She quickly sniffles and wipes her eyes when she sees Eddie.

Eddie: "Paula, love? What wrong?"

Paula: "Nothing" she sniffles

Eddie: "What is it? What's the matter?" He asks gently, walking towards her

Paula: "Nothing Eddie, I'm fine" she says, taking another puff

Eddie: "Paula, love. Come on. Im not thick. Tell me" he sits beside her on another crate

Paula thinks of what to say, Eddie waits

Paula: "I– i think im depressed"

She takes another puff

Eddie's eyes widen

Eddie: "Depressed!? Why?"

Paula nods: "I dont know. I just...I dont know"

Eddie: "Well there's got to be a reason sweetheart"

He says gently, putting his hand on her back

Paula: "I think I'm just bored. Stupid, I know" she sniffles

Eddie: "Is this about what you said the other day? About– about you thinking this is it?"

She nods yes and puffs again

Eddie doesn't know what to say

Eddie: "I'm sorry love. I dont know what I..."

Paula: "I know. I just...I look around and I wonder when I stopped living"

Eddie: "What you mean?"

Paula: "I used to be...popular. Busy. Out all the time. Doing things. Clubbing. That's how I met you" she says before taking a final puff and stubbing her fag out

Eddie: "I remember. We were off our heads that night" he giggles

She giggles too

Its almost nice

Eddie: "Is there anything I can do?"

Paula: "Like what?" She scoffs

Theres silence for a minute

Paula: "I used to...be excited. I used to do things and get into trouble. I used to have a life. And now i wake up every damn day knowing what's going to happen. The same as yesterday. And the same as tomorrow. Im just so bored" she says quietly

Eddie: "Well thats married life, love" he tries to lighten the mood but it turns sour

Paula turns to him: "No! No! It shouldn't be like that though. Why do we grow up, party and have lives, just do get married and then wait to die!? How is that fair?"

Eddie: "There's more to marriage than waiting to die Paula. Its not as bad as you make it out to be—"

Paula: "Make it out to be!? Make it out to be!?"

Eddie sighs and shakes his head

Eddie: "That's not what I meant. You know what i—"

Paula stands up: "You think i want to feel like this!? You think i want to feel stuck!? Im in my mid thirties Ed and already i feel like my life is over! How is that normal!? How is that fair!?"

Eddie stands up too

Eddie: "I dont know love! Okay!? I dont know. And I'm so sorry that you're feeling like this but...I dont know what to do"

Paula: "I know" she says quietly

Eddie: "Why dont you take the week off and relax? Go do what you want?" He says softly, rubbing her arm

Paula: "Why? Just to come back to the same old just to feel like this again?" She looks up at him

Eddie rolls his eyes and sighs

Eddie: "Well what more can I offer you love!? Ey!? I'm trying too, you know! There's only so much—"

Paula: "I need excitement! Danger! Something– anything!"

Eddie: "Well why dont you go look for Tony!? Im sure he'll love to drag you into fuck knows what! Fucking bank robberies, hesist, drug deals and God knows what else! Is that exciting enough for you Paula!?" He snaps finally, screaming in her face

Paula looks up at him and scoffs

Paula: "You know what? I might just do that" she quietly says before walking up the steps in anger

Eddie rolls his eyes in regret and follows her

Eddie: "Paula! Paula! Love im sorry! Paula I didnt mean it!"

—

Upstairs

—

Behind the bar, Paula storms out from behind th staff only door in a rage, then quickly out from behind the bar, past Jim

Jim: "You alright Paula love?" He quietly asks, completely oblivious

Eddie follows her out of the staff only door

Eddie: "Paula please! Come on, what are– Paula!" He shouts after her from behind the bar

But she carries on walking away.

As she reaches the front door, she storms out, and Jenna walks in.

Paula bumps into Jenna's shoulder, hard, and keeps walking out, she passes Jenna.

Jenna: "Oi, watch it!" She says to Paula who's already outside and not looking back.

Jenna walks into the pub and it's quiet. She walks up to the bar

Eddie is standing there, looking exhausted and o the verge of tears

Jenna: "This might be a bad time, but are you hiring at the minute?" She asks quietly, aware of the tension

Eddie: "Actually Jenna sweetheart, your timing couldn't be better" he scoffs

Jenna looks in confusion

Eddie: "You know how to change a barrel?" He mutters

Jenna: "I...I'm a quick learner" she awkwardly smiles

Eddie: "Good enough" he sighs before taking out a cigarette from his jeans pocket, and walking out from behind the bar

Eddie: "I'm going for a smoke" he mutters

Jim: "Ey what about my drink!?" He shouts after Eddie who's already almost outside

Jenna takes this opportunity and runs behind the bar

Jenna: "What can I get you Jim?" She asks with a eager smile

———

12:37PM. St Anne's Hospital. Katie's Room

———

Katie lays in her bed, fast asleep. While Julie, Gavin and Danielle all sit around her. Quietly chatting.

Then slowly, Katie wakes up

Danielle's the first to notice

Danielle: "Hey look who's awake" she quietly smiles

Katie smiles as her eyes open up

Julie: "Morning sweetheart. You slept in. You okay?"

Katie: "Mhm. Just tired"

Gavin: "You look it" he teases

Katie: "Mm you too" she shoots back, too tired to try win this roast battle

KNOCK KNOCK

A doctor walks in with a clipboard and a long white doctor's coat hanging off of him

Its the Senior Doctor, the one that delivered the news to the Jenkins about Jamie's operation and his recovery

Sr Dr: "Hello everyone" he says politely

Katie: "Morning" she mutters tiredly

Sr Dr: "Morning!? Its afternoon young lady. Though i suppose I'd sleep in too if I was walking around before I should be"

Julie, Gavin and Danielle all look at her at once

Katie awkwardly giggles

Julie: "You what!?"

Danielle: "You can walk already?"

Sr Dr: "Much better than what we thought actually. We found her walking back to her room, from Jamie Mitchell's"

Again, everybody looks at Katie

Katie: "I just wanted to see how he was!" She defends herself

Sr Dr: "Well i do come bearing good news"

They all look at him

Sr Dr: "I'm pleased to tell you that Katie is now past the most critical stage of her condition. She's responding well to treatment, and we're no longer as concerned about an immediate deterioration. She'll still need care and monitoring, but this is a significant step forward"

Everyone's faces light up

Sr Dr: "She's making very encouraging progress. She's alert, she's communicating well, and we're pleased with how she's responding to treatment. Obviously, she's suffered some significant injuries, and she'll need time to recover, but we're optimistic about her long term prospects. If she continues improving at this rate, we may be able to move her out of intensive care"

Julie: "Thank you! Oh thank you!" She says to the doctor, squeezing Katie's hand

———

1:49PM. Pandora's Box Gay Bar. 3rd Floor. Rehearsal Room.

———

"Welcome to the team Mitchell" one of the guys say as most of the men start walking downstairs, to open up the bar.

Mitchell smiles and nods to them all

Now its just Mitchell and Reese in the warehouse-like room

Mitchell: "Well? How did you think i did?"

Reese purses his lips and then laughs

Reese: "You're lucky you're so cute. Otherwise you wouldn't have a chance up there, tonight" he laughs

Mitchell laughs too, until he hears "Tonight"

Mitchell: "Tonight? Im- I'm dancing tonight?"

Rsses: "Mhm" he nods yes

Mitchell stutters

Reese: "Oh come on. You weren't that bad. Just...maybe leave the pole for when youre more...advanced. For now I'd stick to tabletops and flossing tea towels and shirts. What was kind of hot" he grins

Mitchell: "Okay" he giggles quietly

Mitchell: "Well thank you. For, you know"

Reese: "Taking you on?" He asks, as they both make their way downstairs to the bar

Mitchell: "Yeah"

Reese: "You're very welcome. Its a good thing that you didnt dance straight away when I met you. We might not be having this conversation now otherwise" he laughs

Mitchell chuckles

Reese: "Its a good thing you've got the looks" he side eyes him with a smile before opening the door to the bar and walking through

Mitchell is stood at the bottom of the stairs, with a curious look on his face. He walks through into the bar, following Reese.

———

2:03PM. Number 41. Maureen's Home.

———

Flushhh

We hear the toilet flush from behind the bathroom door upstairs. The door opens and Kylie walks out from the bathroom and into the upstairs landing. Wiping her hands on her jeans.

She goes to the top of the stairs but before taking any steps down, she decides to walk towards the locked spare room. Curiosity winning her over.

She treads like a mouse amongst cats. And as she reaches it, she tries to turn the handle but the door is locked.

Creeeak

The floorboard beneath her creaks and Maureen shouts upstairs from the front door

Maureen: "Kylie, you ready love!?"

Kylie: "Yeah! Coming!" She says, playing it cool before heading downstairs to head to the pub with Maureen.

———

2:41PM. St Anne's Hospital. Jamie's Room.

———

Inside Jamie's room, Nicola and Barry are being interviewed by DCI Channing, yet again. Regarding their break in and the Slater's burgervan arson.

DCI Channing: "And can you both tell me where you were at approximately eleven thirty PM on Saturday the ninth of January?"

Barry: "Well, we were here" he sarcastically replies

Nicola: "Where else would we have been? Look– our son is in a coma, okay? You think we'd really fuck around with fire?"

Barry: "We know they dont like us. Fine. We dont like them either, but we didnt set their van alight"

DCI Channing: "And you have witnesses to say that you were here at the time you both given?"

Barry: "Yeah. Each other"

Nicola: "And doctors"

Barry: "And doctors, yeah"

Channing nods and scribbles in her small notepad

Channing: "Okay, well. That's it for now—"

She stands up

Nicola: "And ket me guess, you still haven't found who was responsible for the break in?"

DCI Channing: "Have you come up with any more information that may help us?"

Barry: "Isn't that your job?"

DCI Channing: "Well given what you've given us, there really isn't much to go off on I'm afraid"

Barry: "Fucking course not" he mutters

Nicola: "Typical" she rolls her eyes

DCI Channing: "I'll keep in touch" she says, walking towards the door

Barry: "Of course you will" he scoffs

—

Outside Jamie's Room

—

As the door to Jamie's room closes behind Catrin Channing, she looks to her right and sees Oscar and Tasha peeking through Katie's window.

She decides to walk over to them.

DCI Channing: "Hey you two" she says softly

They both sare startled and turn to her

Tasha: "What do you want?" She asks bluntly

DCI Channing: "I'm just trying to figure out who broke in to your house and trashed it" she says with a soft and polite smile

DCI Channing: "And to figure out who burned the Slaters burgervan. Do you both know anything that might help me find these people?" She asks really sweetly

Tasha: "Don't patronise us you pig. We're young, not stupid"

Oscar laughs

Before anybody can say anything else, Barry steps out of Jamie's room and shouts down to Tasha and Oscar

Barry: "Kids!"

They all look over, Channing too

Barry: "Here. Now!"

Tasha and Oscar walk down towards Jamie's room. They walk in, past Barry, while Barry and Channing stare directly at each other, before Barry follows the kids into Jamie's room.

———

4:13PM. Victoria Arms Pub.

———

The pub is alive with is usual afternoon Saturday buzz. Jim hasn't moved from his seat all day. And Eddie is teaching Jenna the ropes behind the bar.

He's showing her what drinks are what and how much everything costs.

Over at their usual corner seat, Maureen and Kylie are just finishing their second drink each.

Maureen: "Same again?"

Kylie: "Oh...you can't pay for another round. Left me"

Maureen holds up her hand

Maureen: "No, Kylie love. Its fine. Really"

Kylie: "Maureen please"

Maureen: "Kylie love, I wanted you to come out. Im paying"

Kylie: "Yeah but you've been–"

Maureen: "Fine. What you gunna pay with?" She straight up asks

Kylie is hugely taken aback, not expecting Maureen to ask that

Kylie stutters. With nothing.

Kylie: "Well I'll pay you back won't I?"

Maureen: "Exactly" she laughs

Maureen: "Thank you anyway darling" she says, picking their glasses up and taking them to the bar

At the bar, Eddie spots Maureen

Eddie: "Ah, here we go Jenna. Your first punter"

Jenna and Eddie both walk up to Maureen

Maureen: "Hiya Jenna, love. Didn't know you were working here"

Jenna: "First day" she smiles

Eddie: "Just showing her what's what" Eddie nods

Maureen: "Mm well, I'm sure you're smashing it Jen"

Jenna: "What can I get ya?"

Maureen: "A G&T please love and a pint of Carling"

Jenna: "Coming right up" she says with a smile, preparing the drinks

———

4:47PM. The Strip. Shawcross General Shop

———

The shop is quiet, especially now that a group of teenagers have just left. Yvonne sits behind the counter, looking at her coat on the rack by the door. Thinking about the abortion information pamphlet inside her pocket that she got from the doctors yesterday.

Yvonne: "Mike!?"

Michael: "Yeah love!?"

Yvonne: "Can't you watch the shop for a minute!? Im popping next door!"

Michael: "Okay!" He shouts from the stock room

Yvonne walks out from behind the counter, grabs her coat and leaves to go to the post office next door

———

4:49PM. The Strip. Singh's Post Office

———

Behind the glass cover of the counter, Sunita and Arun are chatting away.

Sunita: "But darling there are some good people around here!" She says, trying to stuck up for some people of the estate

Then—

BEEP

The automatic electric bell above the door beeps as Yvonne walks in. Sunita turns to the door

Sunita: "Oh Yvonne hello! Afternoon lovely, how are you?" She asks with a caring smile

Yvonne: "Uh, I'm okay thanks Sunita. I was actually wondering if I could have a word?"

Sunita: "Yes of course love, what it it?" She asks with a big smile

Yvonne: "Um...in private?" She quietly says

Sunita realises

Sunita: "OH! Oh! Oh yes haha! Okay. Uh- Arun"

She grabs his shoulder thats way above her head

He turns and looks down to his short wife

Sunita: "I'm taking Yvonne here upstairs for a private chat. Don't you go calling me" she says firmly yet lovingly with her thick Indian accent

Arun: "Yes, yes. Leave me to do everything"

Sunita: "Makes a change" she says stepping out from behind the counter and grabbing Yvonne's are and taking her to their upstairs flat

A small chuckle escapes Yvonne as she and Sunita reach the "NO ENTRY" door that leads upstairs.

———

5:23PM. Pandora's Box Gay Bar. Downtown

———

The club is getting fuller and louder by the minute. Loud music is already playing and almost all of the seats are taken. Reese and some younger woman are both behind the bar, serving eager thirsty men.

Meanwhile, upstairs on the second floor where all the offices and changing rooms and staff areas are, Mitchell is in the small changing room. The room is brightly lit, got a few mirrors here and there. Some old, some new, some broken. Two wooden benches sit in the middle of the room, with duffel bags of clothes on.

In another corner is a row of seven lockers, each belonging to a dancer. Mitchell's is in the middle. He's dresses in a sexy and teasing getup.

A top entirely made out of chains, revealing his slightly bruised torso, a black choker, and tight black faux leather shorts revealing a bulge on both sides his body.

Its pretty seductive. Snd you can see some cuts and bruises here and there, though depending on the person it may have different effects.

The music and chatter is already pounding from the floor below. Its gonna be a busy night. You can just tell

As he closes his locker and walks over to the floor length mirror to check himself, his head pounds.

Ah fuck...

He grabs his coat jacket that's slung on top of his locker, pulls out his prescribed painkillers of cocodamol, takes one, and then washes it down with a bottle of water thats on the table beside the lockers. God knows how long that's been there. But oh well.

Right, time to make an appearance

He inhales, and then sighs, before opening the changing room's door and heading downstairs. Heart absolutely thudding.

———

5:58PM. St Anne's Hospital. Katie's Room.

———

Julie, Gavin and Danielle are getting ready to leave. They're all putting their coats on and getting their belongings ready

Julie: "Well that's something hey love?"

Katie nods

Julie: "Some good news for you to think about innit?" She says, putting her coat on

Danielle: "Not long now and we'll be wishing she was back in 'ere" she jokes

Katie: "You and me both" she snaps back in a bitchy sisterly tone

Gavin: "Don't know bout you lot but I could do with a drink" he says heading towards Katie's bed before planting a kiss on her forehead

Danielle: "Yeah. Me too" before doing the same after Gavin

Julie: "Ah well you two knock yourselves out. I personally can't wait to put my feet up"

She says, being the final one to kiss Katie goodbye.

As Gavin and Danielle reach the door, Gavin turns around

Gavin: "And no walking about, you"

He says, turning around to Katie

Julie: "Yeah. Take it easy"

Katie: "Alright, alright. I promise" she moans

Julie: "Good. Alright. Ta'ra baby"

Danielle & Gavin: "Bye"

Katie: "Bye guys"

———

6:19PM. The Strip. Singh's Post Office. Upstairs Flat.

———

Upstairs in the Singh's two bedroom flat, is warm, small, lived im, homely and cosy despite being in Marlas Estate.

In the open kitchen and living space sit Sunita and Yvonne, on the sofa in the living room. The living room is painted a mute, calm orange while lamps and plants are in every corner of the room. Giving the flat a warm and finished feel.

The place smells of a freshly cooked meal. A warm homely dinner.

The three seater sofa in the living room is beige, and a soft fabric, a nice space to have a deep one to one.

Yvonne has shown the abortion information pamphlet to Sunita and they're talking about it.

They're both sitting there with a cup of tea

Yvonne: "Like, earlier today, right, there was this mum and her little daughter in the shop. The daughter wanted some sweets or something and she started throwing a tantrum"

Sunita listens and nods

Yvonne: "And Michael said to me 'Remind me to never have kids'. And– well I think..."

Sunita: "You think what, darling?"

Yvonne sighs and puts her head in her hands

Yvonne: "I dont know. I dont know anything anymore. This is such a mess"

She looks back up

Sunita: "Look, I think you need to tell Michael. And maybe–"

Yvonne: "No. I can't. I won't" she says before taking a sip of tea

Sunita: "But why? This baby is...his isn't it?"

Yvonne: "Of course it is! I just dont think it'll fp us any good. Being parents. I mean we're not exactly in the best stages of our lives and if I do tell him but then end up aborting it anyway, then what was the point of telling him?"

Sunita: "It is a conundrum, yes"

Yvonne sighs, puts the mug down, picks up the pamphlet and sighs

Sunita looks at her

Sunita: "You just need to think, would he want a child if it would be with you?"

Yvonne: "He literally said he didnt want kids earlier"

Sunita: "He didnt say he didnt want a kid with you though. Did he?"

Yvonne: "He didnt have to, Nita. We're not...in the best of places anyway"

Sunita: "There's more to parenthood than finance Yvonne darling"

She sighs as she stands up with the pamphlet in her hand, and walks over to the window

Yvonne: "I know..." she sighs, looking down at the pamphlet

A beat of silence stretches there

Sunita: "So...what are you going to do? And remember whatever you decide, I'll be here if you need me"

Yvonne looks up from the pamphlet, and out the window

Yvonne: "I'm gonna abort it"

She turns around and faces Sunita, Sunita purses her lips before taking another sip of tea

And Yvonne looks back out the window. Thinking about her decision

———

7:14PM. Victoria Arms Pub

———

The pub is full and almost crowded. It is Saturday night after all. Behind the bar, Eddie and Jenna are laughing away, while he's teaching Jenna how to manage a busy night.

Still no sign of Paula, but by the looks on his face, he doesn't care. For now at least

Jim is drunkenly harassing a group of younger blokes about a drunken story. They dont really care. People are at the pool table, and most seats are taken.

At the door, Gavin and Danielle walk in, letting a bit of cold January air seeping in from outside. Immediately, they both spot Jenna behind the bar and look at each other like they're seeing things.

They both run up to the bar

Danielle: "The fuck?" She laughs

Jenna looks up

Jenna: "Oh hi! What can I get you both!?" She jokingly asks

Gavin: "Are you working here now!?"

Jenna goes to speak but Eddie jumps in

Eddie: "Yes. Yes she is" he smiles at Jenna and nudges her shoulder

Jenna giggles

Danielle: "Aw well fair play!"

Gavin: "Yeah we're made up for ya!"

Jenna: "Cheers guys. Yeah me too. But um, let's not tell mum about...you know"

Danielle: "You loosing your job?"

Jenna: "Yeah" she nods

Gavin: "Got it" he smiles

———

8:29PM. St Anne's Hospital. Jamie's Room/Hallway

———

Inside Jamie's room, Tasha and Oscar are sat in the corner, chatting about Channing.

Oscar: "Do you think she—"

Tasha: "No. No. She doesn't. No-one does" she says, quietly cutting him off

Oscar: "How do you know?"

Tasha: "Well has anybody said anything to you?"

He nods no

Tasha: "Has anyone been acting off around you?"

He nods no

Tasha: "Well there we go. Just...chill. Like you said, they deserved it"

Oscar: "Yeah i know, but everybody's making a massive thing about it—"

—

Out in the hallway, Nicola and Barry are having a moment to themselves

Nicola: "This is so fucking tiring Bar" she whimpers, leaning forward into his chest

Barry: "I know Nic. I know" he mutters to herself, stroking her hair

Nicola: "When will we ever catch a fucking break?"

Barry: "Don't know, love" he mutters

Nicola: "And Gaz too, the fuck has he gone? I know he likes doing a runner but now? Really?" She quietly cries

Barry: "I know babe. He'll come back. He always does. And Jamie's on the up. Things are slowly looking up. I promise. Things are looking up"

Nicola pulls herself out of his chest, and barry wipes her eyes

They smile at each other quietly

Nicola: "Right. Come on, let's get back in there"

Barry: "'kay" he whispers

As they both step into the room—

—

Tasha and Oscar are arguing

Tasha: "Oscar, what did you expect to happen!? That's why I backed out! It wasnt some little prank, you burned it to the fucking ground!"

As soon as Tasha says it, the door to Jamie's room clicks shut— Immediately filling the room with silence

Tasha and Oscar both jump around and see their parents who are standing at the door, both faces painted in shock at what they just heard.

Nicola: "You what?" She asks quietly in shock

Oscar and Tasha look at each other, hearts pounding...

———

10:47PM. Number 2. Water Street. Near Marlas Estate

———

On an old quiet but commercial street a few roads away from Marlas Estate, is shopfronts, cafe's, a pub, the usual. And coming off the main street itself is a long alleyway where a massive old brick factory-like building sits behind the shopfronts.

It used to be an old Bakery. Its concealed by other buildings and alleyways, and even if it was found, it looks abandoned by the naked eye. Its gigantic, tall and wide. Red brick and big black metal framed windows.

The bakery was opened in 1898 and shut down in 1952. After being abandoned for years, Tony Bates decided to take the place as his own and convert it into his very own flat. The ceilings are tall, windows are large, walls are exposed brick and floors are aged wood. The building and structure itself isn't 100% safe, but my God it looks nice. Fancy, almost. Very expensive furnishings.

This is all payed for by blood money of course.

The living room, kitchen and bedroom are all in one room. Very open planned. It is a warehouse after all. Very large and spacious.

Over in the living room, a glass coffee table sits in the middle of a L shaped large pristine white sofa that can comfortably fit at least 8 people. On the glass table is two bottles of wine, one is empty and the other is almost so. And there are clothes strewn over the sofa, and over the floor.

As we look over to the bedroom, there are even more clothes thrown over the floor near the large bed.

The bedroom is also large and expensive looking. A thick white feather duvet, real metal and walnut bedside drawers, a large floor lamp in the corner by the window, and in the bed...

Is Tony...and Paula. Having sex. Hands all over each other.

———

And that's episode 13! Thank you for reading and please let me know what you think of it! Episode 14 will be out soon! ☺️