With Regards to a Lingering Cold

 It’s cold. The sun stands defiantly in the center of the sky, toasting the back of my neck. 

It’s cold. Sweat begins its journey from my forehead toward my chin, stopping along the way to form tears in the corner of my eyes and fill my mouth with the taste of salt. 

It’s cold. Each breath runs its nails across my throat as it escapes, expelling itself in a dry cough easily mistaken for that of a career smoker. 

It’s cold. An erratic clinking draws my attention, causing me to reach for it. My hands find purchase - one at my wrist, the other at my neck. The chain betrays my fear, unable to quell its voice no matter how still I stay; no matter how hard I try not to shake. It is cold. I shiver.

I look up for the first time since realizing what had happened. I’m met by the faces of four others, each one donned in an outfit matching my own. We stand together, alone in a field of Nothing. Looking out brings nothing but a sense of dread - a fear of the void. I look back at the others for… for anything more than nothing. I’ve turned back quicker than all but one, seeing the look I wore moments ago on the faces of the remaining three. In this moment, a realization dawns upon me: these three are young. Far younger than me. The fourth is much older, and it shows. A look of compassion has come across their face. Whether this is their natural state or the facade that comes with being the Oldest I could not tell. How long ago had they turned back from Nothing to look upon us? Perhaps it doesn’t matter. It puts me at ease, and I do my best to try it on myself. These three would have more compassion to take in, even if I was only half as good at wearing the mantle. I would be Second, and the oldest would be First.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

First must have turned their gaze from Nothing long ago. The confidence with which they spoke paired with the compassion they shared for me as I struggled to keep my gaze from being consumed by Nothing assured me of that. That they were able to take some of the void away by creating sound brought me joy.  They were able to move through the field without any fear of misstep or falling into it. Each step created a path, allowing me to follow behind. The Nothing became less empty, being replaced by Something. First told me that this Something had a name, though I found myself unable to recall the word after hearing it.

While waiting for Third  to turn their gaze away from Nothing, First taught me about the nature of the Something surrounding us. It was a place that served as a safeguard against Nothing. It would ensure that the void couldn’t pull me back. It was a place of love and rest that First created in preparation for us. The more they detailed Something, the more tangible it became. What began as bits of random material suspended in the void expanded, intertwining with itself to become solid. Walls formed around and above us, blocking out the void and keeping us safe within.

This structure had been here long before I found myself able to see it. It marked signs of my growth according to First, and it meant that Third would soon turn their gaze away. I asked how they could possibly have knowledge of such things, but they simply stated it was the way of this world. They continued to teach as the time grew near. I gained a voice. It was an imitation of First’s, but they assured me that it would become entirely my own with time. The thought excited me. None of the new sounds that entered into my ears would ever compare to the first… no, the second. The sounds of my steps on the floor, the gentle rapping of the void on the outside of the walls, the clanging of pots and pans as First prepared food for us. These were wonderful sounds, but they paled in comparison to First’s voice. Nothing else brought me such peace. To think I could achieve even a fraction of that for Third felt like a dream, though I wanted it more than anything. A voice could soothe, and the words it spoke could create a world from Nothing.

Though they were simple, my conversations with First sparked something new within me. Whenever they ended I found myself dissatisfied. They were not responsible for this dissatisfaction, as everything they had to say found a perfect spot to fit into the space between my ears. No, the problem stemmed from desire for… something I couldn’t find the word for. Though First spoke of Something, gave me a voice, and told me of the ways I would need to prepare for Third, I felt as though there was more. I wanted to know about the fields of Nothing, about how First found their voice if they had to teach me mine, and about why I felt such a lingering cold around my wrists and neck no matter how warm Something was - and it was always warm. 

I opened my mouth to speak with what felt like my own voice for the first time, but First put up a finger to their lips and pointed toward Third. 

“It’s time.”

I shifted to First’s side and turned toward Third, unable to keep from fidgeting. First placed a hand on my shoulder, bringing with it a familiar calm. I put on my best First face and waited both a lifetime and a moment. Third turned toward us, eyes filled with fear and solitude as they reached for their neck and wrist. They shivered. I motioned toward them, beginning to embrace them as First gripped my shoulder tightly, not allowing me to move. Confused, I looked back toward them.

There they stood, four legs, four arms, and two heads, neither of which possessed the visage of First. I lurched away from the creature toward Third, picking them up in one arm, much to both our surprise. Looking down out at them gave me a moment’s respite from the newly formed fear and confusion. My own voice poured out of me almost accidentally, but filled with as much compassion as I could muster.

“Hello, little one. Do not fear, for I will keep you safe”

An unfamiliar hand found its perch on my shoulder, though I knew what it must belong to. I swallowed hard, looking as brave as possible for Third. 

Perhaps it was a trick of the void. A mistake. A result of me being nervous waiting for Third, I ran through lies hoping one of them would be more convincing than I thought they sounded in my head. I turned toward them, knowing the truth. There the creature remained. No. There First remained. One of their new arms sat on my shoulder, though neither head paid me any mind. They looked down at  Third with what looked like malice,  though their voice remained as soothing as ever.

“Welcome _________, LIttle One. We’ve been waiting for you.”

In looking down at Third, my stomach dropped,  as a truth I knew but desired to disregard become solidified. They looked so at peace. The fear fled from their eyes, replaced only by warmth. The creature who sounded like First was First. They always had been. In the same way that Nothing became Something, so too did First become Something. The truth that solidified was that this had always been first, much in the same way that Nothing always had Something there. It just took time for me to notice it. First turned away and began walking through Something in a pattern I recognized: the same pattern that created the pathway for me to follow. I set Third down and followed behind, as I didn’t wish to take away from them what I was given. As I followed, two new things came into view:

1. There was a crack in one of the walls of Something.

2. One of First’s new hand held itself in a closed fist at all times, as though gripping something tightly.

Both Third and I shivered. It was cold.

With Regards to Why I've Written This

     I write because there’s something I’ve forgotten; something that I’ve been missing; something that eats away at me from within. It possesses an insatiable hunger, and I am but a midnight  snack that simply whets its appetite. Whether it belongs to me, is of my own creation,  or is simply a visitor making themselves at home during the harsh reality of a 2 year winter is hard to say - though there’s not much of me left to decide which it is. It matters little whether or not such a distinction is meaningful or an excuse. The end result is the same: a hole residing where something used to be. What lives there cannot be felt, heard, or seen. It is the kind of thing that I must believe has found purchase in the hearts of many, though it is skilled at making its emptiness feel uniquely personal. For something to make you feel as though you’re  a layer of flesh resting upon another residing within is a cruel joke of the mind.

    I write because there’s someone I’ve forgotten; someone dear to me; someone who it would not be hyperbolic to say I could not do without. They are someone I’ve known my entire life, and have gone through extraordinary change. Years passed where they were unrecognizable, and oftentimes it felt as though we did not see each other at all. In growing older and “wiser”, I believed we had come to terms with each other. We became one, and the void within had been filled by me. Happily Ever After had arrived for me and myself. Unfortunately, there are no Happily Ever Afters to be found outside the realm of fiction. People change, and the worst is when the one that’s changed is you. To know that the war fought against myself to figure out how to be at peace was lost to the simple passage of time is disheartening. Whether the void changed shapes or I did is impossible to say. Again, perhaps it doesn’t matter. Or perhaps they are one in the same.

    I write because I’ve not written. Not really. I’ve conjured up stories, people, worlds, drama, love, loss, mystery, fantasy, and everything in between. But I have not written. Writing is quite unlike riding a bicycle. It is not the kind of thing one can simply do after not having done for years. Yet it is at the same time as simple as putting pen to paper or fingertip to keyboard. It’s the kind of thing that becomes uncomfortable to do after having left it alone for so long. One forgets simple rules of grammar; forgets the process of stringing together ideas and words into sentences that entices others; forgets that a piece of writing is meant to be read and should have a coherent thread to follow; forgets how to actually use semicolons. As with all things I’ve forgotten, this love of mine feels as though it has been forgotten too. Through neglect I’ve lost a skill, and it’s a muscle of mine that I think would be prudent to exercise. After all, this certainly has not been a good story. It’s hardly been a story at all.

    I write because writing is a difficult thing to do. And maybe - no matter how unlikely it may seem - if I can do this difficult thing, there are other difficult things I can do too. There is a certain comfort in that kind of thought. One that is pleasant to hold onto. I admit freely that this is a jumbled mess with little focus. This piece of writing dangles from a thin line overlooking a bottomless pit of an incoherent stream of consciousness. In this way, however, it is honest. I cannot draw. I cannot make music. I cannot dance. I cannot find an outlet for emotion that is not within the realm of words and stories. This is problematic as it often feels to be a fairly uncommon outlet for others to receive emotion. If nothing else, I hope that amidst the jumbled mess of words that emotion is conveyed. Perhaps it’s easier to find meaning in the jumbled mess of colors in a chaotic painting, but this is the only way I know how to do it. I just need to relearn how to be a bit more subtle.

I write because it brings me comfort. And right now? Comfort is what I need.

With Regards to Old Friends

A shock; a sudden jolt; a chill. I look down and see it there, sticking out of my chest – the dagger’s obsidian handle. My eyes dart upward towards those surrounding me, walking by. No one stops; no one looks towards me; no one sees the smokey black substance beginning to pour out from my wound. The smoke continues to ooze out but does not fall towards the floor. It instead forms two snakes, coiling and intertwining around my body to wrap me in a cold, familiar embrace. The snake on my left shoulder hisses into my ear.

“Hey there, kid! Tcht. You’ve been taking care of yourself. You look well. Looks like we’ve been asleep for a bit longer than I thought.” Her voice sprinted through my mind, mapping out the terrain. “Well, it’ll take a bit to get things back to normal, but I can’t tell you how great it feels to be home.”

Panic sets in immediately as I feel her scraping away at the back of my eyes.  My heart rate spikes as my breaths shorten and the world begins to spin. I drop to my knees, clutching my head, shouting out for help. Those passing by carry on, oblivious to my anguish. No one stops; no one acknowledges my voice; no one glances in my direction. The snake on my right shoulder displays his forked tongue, touches the back of my neck, and sends his chill down my spine, numbing the panic. He, too, hisses.

“Hello my love. It has been far too long. I’d almost forgotten the way your skin feels.” His voice dripped with lust. “You’re uncomfortably warm right now, you know. It doesn’t suit you. Let me slip you into something a bit more comfortable.”

A sinister aura begins to pervade my body. In desperation, I grip the handle with both hands, pulling it out only to have my heart sink deeper. There is no blade. The hole in my chest in not that of a stab wound. Instead, it is a perfect circular abyss. Nothing but shadow continued to pour out. I cry out once more for anyone, anything.

“Relax now, my love. I’ll take your pain away.”

My cry is cut short by the pang of horror that fills me as he reclaims the throne within my heart. For a moment there is a sharp, piercing pain before a familiar numbness dulls…

Everything.             

There is no longer a need for the fear. There is no longer a need for the anguish. There is no longer a need to cry out. He has made sure of that. He ensures that there is no longer a need for needing anything. She supports him, guaranteeing that any attempts to break free are met with an onslaught of panic attacks and nausea. She twists and manipulates the world around me, causing every move I make to result in my own suffering. He then opens his arms too me, promising to numb the pain she causes. They are vicious; they are cruel; they are the ever-spinning cycle.

We return to our feet and look around. We are enveloped by shadow and an abyss remains but have no need to mind either. After all, this has always been a more natural state for us. We step forward, matching pace with the crowd and blending in. A slight smile forms on our lips.

"What a wonderful feeling it is to be whole again."

With Regards to Funerals and Forgetting

“The funeral was yesterday. It was a beautiful day; the kind of day that would’ve motivated you to pull me outside so that we could set up an impromptu picnic and experience it in its entirety.  It felt wrong, Kate. You know how in the movies, whenever there’s a funeral, it’s always pouring rain? Obviously that’s not how it happens. People die every day. The world can’t stop what it’s doing to mourn every person. The sun wouldn’t find any time to shine. Still, I wish it had stopped for you. Just for an hour or two, you know? Ha… You’d probably hate it if that had happened.

“The service was – I don’t know; standard I guess? This was the first one I’ve attended. It felt… lacking. Probably because you weren’t there. Everything feels sort of lacking.

“Your mother and father spoke.  Sammy spoke. I spoke. We just talked for as long as we could feasibly manage. I think we were afraid to stop. Despite the sorrow, each story gave us a chance to keep you here a few minutes more. With each word that passed through our lips, you stood next to us, the left side of your mouth curled into that mischievous smirk. When the words began to fade, you went along with them. We were not ready for that. I was not ready for that. I’m still not ready for it. I don’t think I ever will be.

“I’m scared, Kate. I’m scared that your features are going to fade in my mind. I imagine them being an old Polaroid beaten and weathered to hell over a decade, only barely recognizable by the photographer. I don’t want to forget your face; to forget the taste of your lips; to forget the feeling of your head resting on my chest when we lay together; the sound of your voice. Oh god. I’m never going to hear it again. The sweetness created with each word you spoke into the world will never be tasted by my ears again. They say that a person’s voice is the first thing that you forget about a person. I’m terrified that they’re right.

“The list of things I’m afraid to forget is too long to remember. What do I do? I panic. That’s what I do. The anxiety and pain eats away at me. I can feel it clawing into my chest. The fear opens me up and lets the darkness in. How do I fight that, Kate? I’m defenseless. I’m a little boy again, afraid of the dark. I’m losing my grip on the hand that pulls me through it; that shows me the path through the pain: your hand. What do I do?

“I think I have to write. I have to write like I’m my time is running out. I have to write like the darkness is about to tear a hole right through my chest and engulf me. I need to tell a story, your story. I need to grip tight on what’s left of you and move forward. I need to remember you. I need to write the story of the woman who changed my life; the woman who saved me; the woman who has done more good for and cared more about this world than anyone else I’ve known. You deserve better than to be forgotten. You deserve so much more than that…

“I’m sorry, Kate. I’m sure you’d tell me I’m talking too much. That I’m thinking too much. That I just need to shut the hell up and listen.”

And so I do. I look up from her tombstone and look around. Off in the distance a young couple kneels in front of a set of graves and rests a single rose in front of each one.

An older woman a few yards away stands next to her husband’s grave. She seems to be mid-conversation. I’m unable to make out any of the words.

Behind me a few paces back, a young man sits cross-legged, explaining in detail to his mother’s tombstone the bullshit that he has to deal with at work. He laughs aloud. “Yeah, that’s Tim. As thick as always.” After a few minutes, he stands up to leave. “Love you, Mom… Yeah, of course! I’ll give him a hug from you. I’ll see you next week.”

Rain begins to fall. It starts slowly, only a few drops here and there at first. But within a minute or two it begins to pour. I turn back to her once more and hold my hands up towards the sky.

“Ha… I guess I’ll take it. It might be a day late, but it’s something. I think you’re right Kate. I think things will be okay so long as I just stop and listen. I won’t lose my way if I just listen. I will not forget your voice if I just stop and listen. Thank you, Kate. I’ll stop by tomorrow. Be good while I’m gone. I love you.”

I head back to my car, letting the rain soak into the thin layer of clothes I have on. I pass by a man in a coat and hat bending down, placing a single flower in front of a grave. Just over the sound of the rain I make out his last words to his wife. “Happy four years, darling. I love you.” He straightens back up, pulls his hat down and coat up, and walks back toward the parking lot.

I walk a few paces behind him, admiring the man's commitment. A slight smile spreads across my face, as a feel a small fire lit in my chest, keeping the darkness at bay. I will not forget. If nothing else, I will not forget.

Silver Coins and Dragon Eggs

The peddler rolled a silver coin between his knuckles, counting the number of times he could get across and back. “Five…” The day was long and customers were a rarity. As such, he had little else to do. Besides, he’d been practicing. “Six…” He had yet to break his current record of nine laps, and a determination to surpass himself had taken over his mind. With a focus and care far greater than any silver coin warranted, he followed the movement with bewitched eyes. “Seven…”  With each lap he leaned closer in, as though he were the spectator to some captivating event his hand was competing in. Due to all this, you can understand why he failed to hear the small group of 4 approach his modest selection of wares.

The tall one tapped his foot with annoyance. As his annoyance grew, so did the rate at which he tapped. This, in combination with the peddler’s slow, stilted counting (“Eight…”) threw his rhythm off, causing him to step on his other foot. This, of course, only made him all the more furious. The short one giggled gleefully at his companion’s error, resulting in a red-faced glare being shot in his specific direction. “Nine…” Turning back to the peddler, he sucked in a deep breath. The shy one turned away and covered his ears.

“OI. WHAT’S IT TAKE TO GET SOME HELP AROUND HERE?” he shouted, giving the table leg a swift kick, causing the peddler to lose control of his hand. In that moment between the coin leaving his hand and hitting the table, the peddler’s world crumbled into minuscule pieces. This was it. There was no point to life any longer. His dreams, hopes, and ambitions just a sham. Why was he a peddler? He hated traveling, got terrible anxiety when having to talk to people, and could barely manage to sell a glass of water to a woman dying of thirst in the desert. By all accounts he was a failure. He blamed his mother, to be quite frank. She babied him during his childhood, never letting him get a scratch or have play-dates with his friends. Heaven forbid her little boy get his knees dirty or catch a cold. Maybe if he had been allowed to be a normal kid he’d have toughened up and done something with his life. He could have been a world-renowned actor, an athlete, an astronaut! Perhaps even a wizard had he stayed in school. Yes, if only he caught cold growing up. Everything would have been different.

After all that had occurred, the silver coin hit the table. With that first smack against the wood, the peddler realized that he was, in fact, lamenting about his life due to an inability to reach lap ten of silver coin knuckle-rolling. What a moron.  He pressed his forefinger and thumb against the bridge of his nose and let out a sigh. He needed to get his priorities in order. “My apologies”, he began. “Good afternoon. How can I…” He had finally looked up at the group in front of him. Upon seeing them, the corners of his mouth curled into a frown and he furrowed his brow. “Oh. Dwarves. Great.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?” The tall one who also was keen to shout more often than not began to get red in the face. The shy one refused to look up and kicked his foot back-and-forth at nothing in particular on the ground. The chipper one with strikingly good looks was distracted, looking at his reflection in the one of the pots hanging next to peddler. The short one who others noted was also daft stared at the silver coin, wondering why it had stopped rolling on the peddler’s knuckles.

“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.” It was a half-hearted response for a reason. And a good reason at that, he told himself.

Before the one who was irritable often could respond, the gleeful, handsome one had broken from his own reflection and stepped in front of his tall friend. He flashed a quick grin before speaking. “Hello, good sir. My friends and I –“

“’Oi. ’Friends’ is a bit strong”, cut in the tall, irritable one from behind and slightly above the handsome one.

“My friends and I”, repeated the chipper, handsome one “were wondering if you’d be interested in purchasing something from us”.

Now, this seems like the type of thing that would be odd to here as a peddler. After all it is the job of the peddler to sell to customers, not the other way around. And you’d be right in assuming that this was an odd question. In fact, had this been a group of humans or elves, the peddler might have been so intrigued that he would have been tempted to inquire further about the item that was up for sale. However, these were dwarves. As a peddler, one must always be wary of dwarves.

                The reasons for this are numerous. Dwarves are collectors by all accounts. What they collect varies from region to region. This ranges from lumber dwarves, stamp dwarves, coin dwarves, seashell dwarves, etc. The most popular of the dwarves, as one might guess, were the ore dwarves. Though the reason for the popularity of the ore dwarves is technically unknown by any non-dwarf, human scholars have theorized that it’s due to the harsh working conditions that the mining dwarves must endure. This ability to live such a strenuous lifestyle exhibited the tenacity of the Dwarf race, and was a respectable trait that all others should aspire to. This was entirely untrue, but far be it from the dwarves to not use such a silly idea to their advantage.

Another much smaller school of thought, held by those who were considered inferior by scholars, maintained that the reason for the popularity was a result of a small group of miner dwarves striking more gold than any individual could possibly imagine. With this gold, the dwarves did what anyone would do: they built a kingdom. Rumors of the origin of the kingdom spread throughout the land, and all that anyone could guess was that the miners were responsible for it. This was much closer to the truth, but still, no dwarf in their right mind would admit to anything of the sorts.

A third thought was held by only one person, but he couldn’t quite remember what it was. He was preoccupied with a silver coin on a table.

What is important, however, is not that the dwarves are collectors. Far more crucial to why the peddler possessed such a blatant disdain for the dwarves was due to their incessant need to try and sell anything they collected that they considered “extraordinary”. These things include (but by no means are limited to. Some believe the list to be infinite in length. They are wrong, but not by much.) rocks that are perfectly oblong aside from the occasional jagged edge or bump, black string, leaves that have started to turn orange in preparation for the fall, moss that “absolutely grew on the south side of a tree”, 5-legged spider corpses, and so on. The peddler could not care less about purchasing any of these things. He was tired. The day had been spent on knuckle-rolling coins. An exhausting feat to say the least.

“Listen, I’m not interested. I haven’t been interested ever. I don’t want string. I don’t want dead spiders. I don’t want half-eaten moldy bread. It’s getting late. I just want to go home.” The peddler stared at the group, hoping that at least one of them would be understanding. Not the tall one, obviously, but one of the other three perhaps. Surely, someone had to understand.

The shy one who was always blushing looked up as though he were about to speak. His gaze met the peddler’s and he returned to his previous task of staring intently at his own feet.

“You’re going to love what we’ve got for you today”, started the vain one. The peddler’s pleas didn’t even begin to penetrate past his constant grin. “Believe me. With this in your possession, the entire world will be at your fingertips.”

“No, listen. I don’t –“

“It is exceedingly rare. Quite literally one of kind. You will become the sole owner –“

“Please. Stop. I just –“

“Oi. Shut it,” piped the one wearing an angry frown. “Let cheek bones over there do his spiel.”

“Like I said,” cheek bones continued with a smile, “You will become the sole owner of the very last dragon!” He thrust one arm up in the air, striking something of a victory pose. He looked and his peers, waiting for them to applaud him. When they did not, he cheered himself and held the pose.

The peddler was slightly confused, but mostly just exhausted. “You all are having a laugh, aren’t you? Very funny. Mess with the guy who hasn’t sold anything all day and just wants to go home. Dragons aren’t real; not these days at least. They’ve been extinct for almost three centuries. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be leaving now.”

“Wait! I can prove it, right now.” The good looking one reached into his coat pocket. The peddler snorted. A dragon in a coat pocket? That was quite possibly the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. Oh well. At least he had gotten a decent laugh out of today, if nothing else. He turned and started heading in the general direction of his home. He took four steps before hearing a loud bang behind him. He turned to see whatever joke the dwarves were clearly trying to play on him.

On the table was a white egg, roughly the size of an ostrich egg. There was also a silver coin and the nose of the short, silly dwarf who was staring intently at said coin, but that’s not terribly important. The egg didn’t look special, outside of being slightly larger than an egg one might expect to find in a dwarf’s coat pocket.

“That’s an egg,” the peddler said.

“Of course it’s an egg, you idiot. What, you thought he had an adult dragon in his pocket?” the short-tempered one spouted. “You might be dumber than he is,” he pointed towards the dwarf you would expect him to be pointing at.

“Errm. Why exactly, is there an egg on my table?”

“It’s a dragon egg!” exclaimed the one who couldn’t help but smile constantly. “The last dragon egg in the world!”

Now, all the peddler wanted to do was to go home. His day had been ruined a number of times, and he certainly wasn’t in the mood for any more nonsense. The dwarves clearly weren’t going to let him be until they had gotten rid of the “dragon” egg. This left him with only feasible option.

“How much for the ‘dragon’ egg?”

“Aha! I knew you were interested,” responded the one with perfect skin – for a dwarf that is. “It’ll only cost you –“

“Silver coin.”

The words were followed by the turning of two dwarf heads towards the table. They stopped once they got to the simple one, who was now pointing at the silver coin. The nervous one continued to stare at the ground in order to avoid catching any rogue glances that might end up in his direction. Once was already too much for today.

“WHAT?” shouted the one who always woke up on the wrong side of the bed, “WHADD’YA THINK YER DOING?”

“Hey, relax buddy. You know you start to slur when you get angry. Everything is going to be fine,” the chipper one said, trying to keep everyone as cheery as possible. He turned to the one who had attempted to sell a priceless item for next to nothing. “Listen. We can get more than one silver coin. We can get more silver coins than you’d ever be able to use all on your own. You could have a whole room of silver coins!” He threw his fist back into the air to emphasize the obvious awesomeness that he had just explained.

This excited the short, daft one. With a room full of silver coins, he expected them all to move and play with each other. Maybe the silver coin here wasn’t moving anymore because it was shy. If the coin had some friends to play with, it would be willing to move again. It was a brilliant plan, he thought.

The three of them turned back to the peddler to renegotiate the terms of the transaction. What they saw, however, was a missing egg and the lack of a peddler.

The peddler slept well that night. The dwarves were no longer in sight, and the thought of having an egg that large for breakfast the following morning put him right to sleep.

With Regards to Love at First Touch

To My Love,

You know, next friday marks our 15^th anniversary. It's a bit surreal when you think about it. I honestly can't believe that we've lasted this long, given how much things have changed over the years.

I often think back to the first time we met. It's one of the most vivid memories of my youth. And to think, I met you on the bus home from school of all places. It does seem a bit silly, doesn't it? The bus was packed with fed up, restless students whose stenches embodied the essence of the start of summer break. They were shouting at each other, reaching over the seats to chat with and grab their friends, unable to contain their excitement. They were prepared for hot sun that would beat down on the necks of all of us, our hair and faces dripping with sweat as we savored every moment outside of the stress of class and the discomfort of being strapped to a desk. I was ready to join in with their excitement up until the moment my eyes fell upon you sitting in the aisle, staring back at me. You beckoned to me, standing up to offer me your seat. I hesitated a moment before taking it. I didn't want you to think that I expected you do it, but I also didn't want to come off rude. I got settled in for the ride, when you brushed up against my shoulder. In that moment, everything changed.

Time stopped, kind of. The kids around us kept moving; kept shouting; kept bouncing up and down, waiting for the bus to take them home. But us... we stopped. The shouting couldn't reach my ears. If I was being grabbed, my body didn't respond. The stench of youth couldn't penetrate that moment. For that length of time, however long it may have actually been, it was just me and you. And from then on, things were different. I didn't want to be like the rest of them. I didn't want to go outside and hang out with classmates, or friends. I wanted you. I wanted you to engulf me in your presence. You were the only one I needed; the only one I wanted. When I had you, the rest of the world didn't feel as important. I didn't need to be the best student, or the best athlete, or the best anything, because no matter how things got, I could always depend on you. That moment was a kind of 'love at first touch' situation, if you'll pardon the cliché. And you've been with me ever since.

You were there on the first day of middle school, when I was going to a place where I didn't know a single person from before. You stood by me when I couldn't make friends. You looked out for me when people tried to use me for their own gain. You didn't want to see me get hurt by the outside world. You held me in a tight embrace when I needed to cry. You stayed with me throughout high school, pulling my hand to keep me moving through. You taught me how to make my mask. I've kept it, you know. My mask. I've updated it now and again to change to the situation I need it for, but it's the same one you helped with years ago. You showed me the intricacies of deception; of making it through the day without people glancing at me constantly, wondering what was wrong with me. You taught me never to take off the mask, save for when I'm with you of course. You even came with me to college, making sure that I never wavered in the face of a new world. You kept my mask from breaking when times got rough. You wouldn't let me sacrifice who I am for the sake of making a bunch of random people like me better.

Even now, you're still with me, although I have slipped away to come and write you this letter. And in your absence I can't help but read over these words and gain a foul taste in my mouth. This is not the truth. This is not my truth. This is you. This is your work. You have used me as your source of life since that day on the bus.

There was no 'love at first touch'. It was fear. Time stopped because the moment you brushed my shoulder, I was engulfed in terror. I couldn't move. My body froze. My eyes fixated upon your dark gaze as you came closer to me, peering deep into the core of my being, grabbing hold of whatever independence and potential I had, making it your own. My excitement left me because you sucked it straight from its source, replacing it instead with an inability to cope. It's not that I didn't want to play with my classmates. I physically couldn't. Every time I tried to leave you pulled me closer, whispering lies and sweet nothings into my ear to keep me from getting away.

You never cared for me; never wanted to keep me safe. You knew that you could drag me down further away from others, widening the gap between me and the outside world. You kept me from befriending others. You created a sense of paranoia in the deepest parts of me. I gained a fear that they were all out to get me. Within me you planted your seeds of doubt, and the have continued to blossom ever since. The mask. The deception. The lies. The fear. The terror. The trembling. The shaking. The panic. The nervousness. These are the tools of your trade. With these tools you have created me. You have been the role model that has guided my lack of growth and inability to gain independence. You are the one who has held me captive for so long that I truly believe that I have fallen in love with you. You have made love and terror inseparable in my essence, and I know that when you find me, you will have your way with me. And I won't be able to help but enjoy it. Ah, that sounds like you at the door, I suppose you'll read this. I wonder what you'll think. Alas, with these parting words, I bid you adieu:

Anxiety, thou art a cruel mistress. One that I cannot escape.

Yours Truly,

Yours, Truly

With Regards to Belts

I stared intently at the clock, watching as the hands crawled around and around, as though they hoped reaching the new hour would allow them to rest. The clock struck four. The hands kept crawling.

My arm extends out to the right, still reaching for someone that it refuses to accept no longer sleeps next to me. It can't feel the curve of her body in the mattress. The pillow is still fluffed, having not experienced the weight of a heavy mind and deep thoughts in weeks. I haven't washed the sheets since she left. They still hold her scent. It's the only thing I have left that belonged to her. It was the only thing that she couldn't throw into a box and throw into the back of her car. If I wash them, I will lose the only thing I have left. I'm just not ready for that. I will be soon, I swear, but not today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe.

As I sat up and dragged myself to the edge of the bed, I caught of glimpse of my reflection in the window. My eyes were bloodshot to all hell; the skin beneath them blacker than death and hanging on by a thread. I looked like a meth addict feels after coming off a bad high. I'm still wearing what I wore to work today. I must have forgotten to change when I got home. I honestly don't remember. The whole day has been a blur. Most days have been a blur. I think its... Tuesday? Thursday maybe? It doesn't really matter. Everything has been on repeat since she left.

The first step was the worst. Being struck by the hammer of a vengeful god couldn't have made my head feel any worse. My legs gave out from under me, as they recognized that my belt had cut have the circulation to my lower half when I was lying around. I fell backwards, first bracing myself against the bed with my arms, but ultimately letting myself fall back into the bittersweet embrace of the bed. The white bareness of the ceiling bore into my eyes, as the constant ticking of the clock impregnated my ears with a rhythmic .

I thought about my belt cutting off the circulation to my legs. It choked my waist from day-to-day, all in the name of keeping my pants where they were supposed to be. Even the cutting off of the circulation was a testament to the talent of the belt. It was performing its intended duty. Anything less would have shown the belt to be flawed. That was its design.

It was meant for choking.

I stood back up and undid my belt, holding it up at arm's length, staring at it as though it would speak to me...

Do it.

I should have been scared. I should have been terrified. I wasn't. The voice soothed me. It was the voice of someone convincing; the voice of someone who knew that my problem could be solved. I trusted the voice. I walked over to the door and sat down in front of it. The door handle was still a decent distance away, which would make things easier. I attached one of the belt to the handle and began to wrap the other end around my neck. I heard a light tap on the door.

“Daddy?”

I froze in place. Her tiny voice could barely be heard through the door. She sounded lost. She probably had another nightmare. I didn't respond. The door handle started to turn as she tried to push in. I held the door shut.

“Daddy? Daddy, what's happening? I can't open the door,” she squeaked, the panic emerging in her voice as she felt that something was wrong.

“Hey sweetie. Everything's okay. Daddy's just a little busy right now, okay?” I tried to sound okay. I quickly learned that it's hard to sound okay with a belt wrapped around your neck.

“Daddy! Daddy! Let me in please! I'm scared! I need you Daddy.” I could hear the lump in her throat forming. The first tear drop hit the ground and with it my stomach dropped.

“Sweetie. Sweetie. Listen to me sweetheart. Everything is going to be okay, okay? Did you have another nightmare?” She nodded her head with a ferocity that I could hear her hair whipping through the air. It made me smile, just a little.

“Sweetheart. We've talked about this. The monsters are only in your head. I promise. I've been alive since the dinosaurs were around, and I've never seen a monster!” The joke fell flat. The silence made me cringe.

“I didn't dream about monsters, Daddy. I – I h-had a dream about M-Mommy,” she sobbed, barely able to form the words through the snot and tears. In that moment, I wish that I'd been hit by a ton of bricks. It would have hurt less. I didn't have any breath left to say anything.

“D-Daddy? DADDY! W-where are y-you? T-Talk t-to m-me.”

“Ah... I'm... I'm here sweetheart. What... What did you dream about?”

“W-well f-first all three of us were together,” she seemed to be getting a hold on the sobbing, “and we were so happy... You and Mommy took me to the park, and took turns pushing me on the swing. And then, Mommy was pushing me and you were standing in front of me and watching me swing. But – but then...” The tears started to flow again, “then Mommy wasn't pushing me anymore. And you were crying Daddy. You were crying so much. I – I got off the swing and turned around to see where M-Mommy went. Sh-She was running away from us. A-and then I-I s-started chasing her, and I s-started s-screaming for her. B-but she wouldn't s-stop, Daddy. She kept running.” The sobbing wouldn't stop. She started to hyperventilate, gasping for breath in between each cry for her mother.

“D-Daddy. W-Why did Mommy r-run aw-away? W-What d-did I do wrong?” Her innocent little voice broke my heart.

“Sweetheart... Sweetie no... You didn't do anything wrong. Mommy loved you very much. She just needed to go for a while. I'm sure she'll come and see you soon. You are the best little girl a Mommy and Daddy could ever ask for. This isn't your fault.” I couldn't keep back the tears any longer. My voice broke and the tears rolled down my face.

Do it.

It spoke again, attempting to take away the pain; attempting to take away the thoughts of the little girl with the broken heart on the other side of door.

Do it.

And I wanted to do it so bad. It felt as though the belt was tightening itself around my neck, slowly taking the life away from my body. I didn't realize that I was sinking down to the floor. I felt light-headed. I liked it.

Do it.

“Daddy? Are you going to run away like Mommy?”

Do it.

“Daddy?” She pushed against the door.

Do it.

“DADDY?!?!” She screamed, putting her entire being into opening that door.

Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it.

My little sweetheart opened the door, and there I stood, my shirt and cheeks stained with tears. I gave her the largest smile I could muster.

“Hello there, pretty lady. Don't worry, I'm not going to run away. I couldn't leave my little sweetheart all on her own, now could I?” She giggled through the tears and ran towards me, jumping up into my chest. I caught her and fell backwards onto the bed, holding her close to my chest.

“Daddy?”

“Yes sweetheart?”

“I'm glad that you're my Daddy. I love you.”

“I'm glad that you're my sweetheart. I love you too.”