#there's a form to get the autopsy report. had to pick a funeral home. had to call the coroner's office to tell them which funeral home.

[crowleystolemyshoes]

why is there so much paperwork when someone dies

[petersasteria]

The Forces of Nature || Ch. 1

Pairing: Peter Parker x Superhero!Reader

Summary: “There’s this kid out there that can control the wind or something. I think she’s a great addition to the team. Let’s recruit her.”

Anything can happen in a blink of an eye. A few seconds can pass and that can be considered as the past already. That's the concept of time. Because of this, everyone does stupid things. It can be anything. After all, stupid things that a person has done might not be stupid enough to another person. It's totally different, but everyone can agree that drunk driving is stupid.

Anything can happen in a blink of an eye. One second Y/N and her parents were going on a drive then the next second, they were hit by another car. They were in the middle of nowhere in an intersection and everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Their car got hit by another car, similar to their own car, and it was a strong impact. Unfortunately, due to that almost everyone died. Almost everyone. Y/N was the only one who survived. She only had scratches.

She didn't know why she was left alive. She didn't know why she was spared, but she figured the man upstairs had plans for her. She didn't know what the plans were, but she was willing to figure it out.

She quickly got out of the car and she was glad she did because after she got out of the car, it blew up. It was hard for a 15 year old to see that. The driver of the other car died too. She later found out that the driver was drunk when the ambulance came.

She was brought to the hospital for her wounds to be cleaned. Then her grandmother was called to inform her what happened. Y/N's grandmother picked her up from the hospital and drove her home.

It was odd that Y/N lived in the middle of nowhere, but she loved it. She was around nature all the time and it gave her comfort. Her parents knew she was special when they saw her manipulating the fire's flames. All three of them kept it a secret. Her powers came from an unknown source, but her parents thought of it as a gift from the gods.

"You'll be able to do great things, Y/N. I know you will."  Her mom used to say. Now that her mom's gone, she'll always keep that in mind. Since then, she wanted to use her powers for good. Y/N was a really good kid.

The funeral broke Y/N's heart because it made everything real and she didn't want it to be real. She wanted it to be a bad dream instead. If she could change everything, she would. Alas, she didn't have the powers for that.

Her grandmother kept her company for a year until her grandmother passed away. This made Y/N really sad. She loved her grandmother and her grandmother took care of her and looked out for her and loved her unconditionally. So to lose another important figure in her life really made her sad and heartbroken. She felt like all the life from her was sucked out of her and now she's numb.

She found out she could show memories thirty minutes after she found out her grandmother died; her finding out was an accident. She ran to her room and sat on the floor and cried. Her tears fell on the floor and when she put both of her hands on the floor to help herself up, her tears suddenly formed into the last moment she had with her grandmother. She heard her grandmother's voice echoing in her room.

"Good night, Y/N. I love you, sweetheart. Always remember that you're my best girl."

Y/N watched the whole thing. She took her hands off the floor and it disappeared. She gasped and it took a while for her to take it all in. She went back to her grandmother's room where her grandmother's lifeless body was. She gave her grandmother a tight hug before she pulled away and kissed her grandmother's forehead.

After her grandmother's funeral, Y/N's aunt decided to take her in. Y/N's aunt lived in the city. Y/N was excited because she's never been to the city before. So she packed her things, she didn't have much, and left. That house she left behind held so many memories, but it was time to move on. Her parents and grandmother would want her to move on. That house in the middle of nowhere was hers and she knew no one would do anything to it. She left with her aunt to live in the city and never looked back. That place and the memories there would always be with her heart and mind.

Her aunt was really cruel. Her aunt treated her like a servant and made her dress like one too. Her aunt was really rich. The only nice thing her aunt did to her was send her to school. A public school, but it was still school regardless.

Y/N loved school because she was away from the monster also known as her aunt. Her aunt was wicked. Her aunt hated her because her aunt blamed her for her sister's death, Y/N's mom. It wasn't Y/N's fault.

Y/N discovered that she could pause the whole world when her aunt was yelling at her. She closed her eyes tight and the yelling stopped. She slowly opened her eyes only to see her aunt not moving, but her whole stance was still the same. It was as if her aunt was paused. She looked around and saw that the hands on the clock wasn't moving. She went to the kitchen to see her aunt's chef also paused. Everyone in the house was paused. She didn't know what to do; she didn't know how to un-pause it. She went back to where her aunt was and went back to her previous place. She tried to close her eyes tight, but it didn't work. After several tries, she felt an itch on her throat and she cleared her throat to get rid of it. Then she heard yelling again. Turns out, when she clears her throat, everything un-pauses. It was kind of weird, but that was the only way to un-pause.

Despite all the bad things her aunt does to her, she still stayed kind. But everyone has their limits.

Y/N had enough of the maltreatment she's been getting. The now 17 year old packed up her things and left one summer night. She walked around until she reached Queens. It was a long walk and it was definitely far from her aunt's home. Knowing her aunt, she wouldn't care that her niece just took off.

Y/N had some little money but she didn't want to spend it. She passed by a police investigation that was happening. As soon as she saw this, she took the opportunity to use her secret powers for good. She approached a dark skinned police woman and asked if she could talk to her.

"This better be quick, honey. We're trying to solve this." The police woman said.

"That's why I'm here! I want to help you solve it." Y/N smiled innocently. The police woman raised an eyebrow at her and crossed her arms, "You're just a teen. You don't know things like this."

"I promise you I can be of help. Please." Y/N pleaded. "My mom told me to do good things and helping you is good. I want to do this. Just give me a chance, please."

The police woman sighed, "Fine."

Y/N smiled at her and squeezed her eyes shut. She opened her eyes only to see everything paused except for her and the police woman.

"What the fuck is going on??" The police woman asked in a panicked voice as she looked around.

"Hmm. I'm not sure how you're un-paused, but maybe it's because you're here with me and a few feet away from the others. Anyway, I can show you how it happened then you can report it to your boss or whatever and then you'll probably get a promotion for it. You're welcome in advance." Y/N giggled.

"...Okay. I'm really tired and I want to go home. Let's do it." The police woman gave in. Y/N smiled and she summoned the wind along with the stray leaves that were on the ground. She knelt down and put both her hands on the ground. With the help of the wind, the leaves were able to form the scene seconds before the person on the street died.

It showed two men slowing down from a jog. One of the men offered a drink to the other man. The other man gladly took it and drank it. As soon as the man finished drinking, he dropped the bottle and clutched his stomach. Then he fell unconsciously on the ground. The man who offered the drink ran away before anyone could see.

The police woman watched the whole thing and whispered, "He was poisoned. The other man poisoned him, but why?"

"I can't help you with that, but I hope this information is useful." Y/N said as she looked at the police woman.

"Y-Yeah, thanks."

Y/N removed her hands from the ground and the wind was gone and the leaves fell.

"Thank you for your help...."

"Y/N."

"Thank you for your help, Y/N." The police woman smiled at her. "My name is Eunice. What can I do for you in return? I can drive you home."

"I ran away from home, actually. My aunt was treating me badly and I couldn't take it anymore. I live with her because my parents died when I was 15 and my grandmother died a year later. I've been living with my aunt ever since." Y/N said sadly.

"Oh. How old are you now?" Eunice asked, genuinely worried and concerned.

"I'm 17 years old now. I figured it's okay to run away at this time because it's summer. I would really love to continue schooling because it's my escape." Y/N sighed.

"You can live with me, then." Eunice smiled. "And I can help you find a school."

Y/N smiled, "Thank you. Also, can you keep this between us? You know, my powers?"

"Of course. You have my word." Eunice promised.

"Thank you so much." Y/N said before clearing her throat. The whole world was un-paused again and it went on like nothing happened. Eunice was impressed.

Sticking to her word, Eunice didn't say anything to anyone. She told her boss that she 'guessed' that the man was poisoned. Eunice's boss told her that she can go home now and that they'll continue the work tomorrow. Y/N went home with Eunice that night and Eunice was happy to share her apartment with Y/N because she was living alone and it was kind of sad.

The next day, they received the autopsy report and the man really was poisoned. Eunice was amazed and she knew she had to celebrate with Y/N. Later that night, they celebrated with a box of pizza.

Eunice became Y/N's guardian. Although, she was more of a best friend than a guardian. Eunice told her about school options and they arranged to go to each one. In the end, Y/N chose Midtown.

-

"So do we have any news on the new and pretentious bad guy?" Tony asked as he ate a cookie made by Wanda.

"He gave himself the name 'The Violent Swine'." Steve said as he leaned back on his seat.

"He sounds like a swine flu or something." Sam chuckled to himself. Bucky heard this and he couldn't help but laugh.

"Or like an uncultured swine. Like, seriously. Who names themselves that?" Scott giggled.

Tony rolled his eyes and shook his head, "Now's not the time to make fun of this swine flu guy. What else have we found out about him?"

"Apparently, his real name is Herod Brennan. His 6 year old daughter was killed two years ago." Rhodey said with a straight face. "I think he wants revenge or something. I don't know what this guy wants or what his agenda is. All I know is that he's angry. Really angry."

"Angry enough to kill innocent people, apparently." Steve sighed.

"So, you think we need help?" Tony asked.

Rhodey shrugged. Tony looked at the rest of the team and they all just looked at each other.

"We can take him down on our own." Natasha said. "But maybe a little help won't be so bad."

"If you're thinking of the young spider boy, that would be wonderful! I have missed him dearly!" Thor exclaimed with a smile.

"Spider boy is on his way here as we speak. I was thinking of someone different." Tony said with a sly smile.

Steve furrowed his eyebrows, "Who?"

"Well, I legitimately don't know her but I think she's going to be a great addition to the team." Tony said.

"You don't even know this person!" Rhodey shrieked.

"Who?" A voice asked. They all turned to see Peter entering the room. "I'm so sorry I'm late, Mr. Stark. It's just that we had a lot of things to do and I kinda got held up at school because my teacher wanted help and-"

"Kid, just stop talking and sit down. We get it." Sam said. Peter's face blushed in embarrassment. The 18 year old boy made his way to the last vacant chair and sat down.

"Okay, what were you saying, Tony?" Wanda asked.

"So the other day Happy was driving me back here from an old friend's house and we drove by the park. The traffic light turned red and of course we stopped and I got a good look of the park. Children were playing and stuff like that. Then there's this little boy whose balloon just flew away from his tiny hand." Tony told them.

"Where are you going with this story?" Natasha questioned with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah. It seems out of place or something." Scott huffed. "I feel kind of sad for the little boy, though. He must really love his balloon."

"Trust me, it gets better." Tony chuckled. "The girl I was talking about earlier saw the whole thing and guess what."

Everyone looked at him but chose to stay silent. Tony refused to talk unless someone asked. "Um... what?" Bucky asked with furrowed eyebrows.

"She moved her hands like Wanda and I shit you not- the wind FOLLOWED her. It's like she summoned them. Of course, I thought I was tripping so I opened the window and it was REAL. She SUMMONED the wind and she manipulated the movements of the wind and made sure the balloon reached the little boy. Of course, it did. She did it without fail; she did it effortlessly and smoothly. She must've thought that no one saw because she went back to reading her book under the tree." Tony finished. "I think she's been doing that for years. Based from what I saw, of course."

"I'm sorry. I'm kind of lost and confused." Peter spoke up.

"Of course you are. You just got here." Bucky said.

"To sum it up," Tony started. "There's this kid out there that can control the wind or something. I think she's a great addition to the team. Let's recruit her."

"How old is she?" Steve asked.

"Younger than you, grandpa." Tony joked causing everyone to be in a fit of giggles. Steve rolled his eyes.

"It's funny because Steve is old enough to be a grandpa." Thor chuckled.

"Hey, you're old too!" Steve argued. Thor just shrugged, "I'm an exception because I'm a god. You're a human."

"Tony, knowing you, you already researched about her or something." Rhodey snorted. "You probably already have a plan."

"You know me so well." Tony smirked. "I know that she's 17 and she has powers. I also know that I want Peter to recruit her."

"W-What?? Why me?!" Peter asked in shock and confusion. He didn't want to do it. He was jealous of the girl even though he didn't know her yet. He could see that everyone was already amazed by her and he selfishly didn't want that. He didn't want to be an outcast around the team because he was already an outcast at school.

"Because you guys are the same age and I think it'd be creepy of me to do that. With you, it was fine. Your aunt was there and stuff, but this is different. And because both of you go to the same school. Her name's Y/N Y/L/N. Do you know her?" Tony asked with a raised eyebrow.

Peter shook his head, "I don't know her."

Lies. Of course he knew her. She was friends with MJ, his ex girlfriend. Peter kind of despised her because she was just as smart as he was and he kind of felt threatened. His only escape was being with the Avengers and now he had to share it with her? Fuck that.

'Fuck my life.' Peter thought.

"Huh, well start getting to know her and then recruit her. I don't care how you do it, but just recruit her. The sooner, the better. Good luck." Tony smiled. "Okay. Meeting adjourned."

Everyone left the room leaving Peter by himself. He truly didn't know what to do now especially when he didn't like the girl already. But it's an order from Mr. Stark and he's got no choice but to comply. He's only wondering how he'll do it without acting like an asshole.

* * * *

first ever peter parker series <3

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[bountyofbeads]

She fled North Korea for a better life. She died with her young son in an apartment in Seoul

https://www.cnn.com/2019/09/21/asia/north-korean-defector-funeral-intl-hnk/index.html

A mother who fled poverty in North Korea with her son for a better life, only to die of suspected starvation in her small apartment in South Korea.

By Jake Kwon | Published Sep 21, 2019 | CNN | Posted September 21, 2019 |

Seoul, South Korea (CNN) - Hundreds of mourners took to the streets of Seoul Saturday to remember a mother who fled poverty in North Korea, only to die of suspected starvation in her small apartment in South Korea. Mourners, mostly defectors themselves, marched with two symbolic empty caskets to the Blue House, South Korea's presidential office, eventually clashing with the police.

"Bring back our Sung-ok!" they chanted and demanded an apology from President Moon Jae-in, himself, for what they see as neglect of defectors' welfare.

North Korean defector Han Sung-ok, 42, and her six-year-old son Kim Dong-jin were found dead at the end of July. They were discovered after a water meter inspector went to check on them after Han failed to pay her bills for months, and noticed a foul smell coming from the apartment, according to South Korean police.

The water inspector called the police, who found two heavily decomposed bodies and an empty fridge, leading the police officer to note starvation as the suspected cause of death, according to a statement from Gwanak district police. An autopsy was inconclusive as the bodies had decomposed.

The case has become a lightning rod in South Korea, where some are arguing that the government is doing little for the thousands who have fled the repressive regime in North Korea. They want to see a thorough investigation into Han and her son's death and policy changes to prevent future tragedies.

Although there are no official statistics showing exactly how many North Koreans have fled their country, South Korea says it has welcomed more than 32,000 defectors since 1998, including 1,137 defectors last year alone. North Korea is home to about 25 million people.

Earlier this month, South Korea's Unification Ministry publicly apologized and proposed comprehensive measures to "minimize blind spots in welfare," including a survey of all defectors in South Korea to find those who are at risk and increased information sharing between government agencies.

But North Korean defector activist groups want more changes.

"It's our position that this tragedy must never be repeated," Heo Kwang-il, the chairman of North Korean Defectors Emergency Response Committee, a committee formed by defector interest groups following Han's death, wrote in a statement released earlier this month.

A hard life and a tragic death

Han did not live an easy life.

She left North Korea in 2007, according to the defectors' emergency committee. Han was then sold to her Korean-Chinese husband who lived in China, according to Kim Yong-hwa, a defector activist who has known Han for a decade and who helped bring her to South Korea.

According to a report by the London-based non-profit organization Korea Future Initiative, thousands of North Korean girls and women are abducted or trafficked to work in China's multimillion-dollar sex trade.

Kim met Han at a safe house in Shenyang, a city in China's northeast Liaoning province, which borders North Korea. Four years later, the pair met again in Seoul where Han was picking up second-hand clothes from Kim's office for her and her husband to wear at their new jobs at a shipyard.

After South Korea's shipbuilding industry crashed in 2015, Han's husband lost his job, and Han was unable to work as she had a newborn to look after, Kim said. The family moved back to China looking for better opportunities.

In December of last year, Han called Kim to tell him that she had divorced her husband and moved to Seoul with her son. Kim helped them find a public apartment. Because her son had epilepsy and needed round-the-clock care, she was unable to work and asked for Kim's help accessing monthly welfare support.

But Han's welfare application was denied as she didn't have divorce papers and medical examination papers, Kim said. A government official from the Welfare Office told CNN that it had no record of receiving a phone call about Han's claim, although it did have a record of her visiting the office last year.

Six months later, Han and her son were dead in the apartment Kim had helped find for them.

"I couldn't do anything for her," said Kim. "Why did I bring her here from her farm? Even in rural China, one doesn't die of starvation."

A WIDER PROBLEM

Although South Korea does provide support to North Korean defectors, some believe they could do a lot more.

When defectors reach South Korea, they are given 8 million won ($6,704) cash. Two-person households also get unconditional welfare support of 870,000 won ($729) per month for six months, less than the country's average median income for a two-person household, which is 2.9 million won ($2,430).

Still, many defectors -- like Han -- struggle to find employment. A survey last year by South Korea's Unification Ministry of more than 25,000 defectors found their rate of unemployment is 2.9% higher than South Koreans. Almost 60% of those surveyed said that childcare obstructed their ability to gain employment.

This was true for Kim Jeong-ah, another defector who never met Han, although the two women attended a compulsory re-education center near Seoul at the same time.

Like Han, 43-year-old Kim was sold as a bride in China. Kim Jeong-ah came to Seoul alone 13 years ago. She later had a child -- and when she left her child at daycare so she could look for work, a welfare officer told her that her support would be cut off the same day she used daycare.

"I cannot go to job interviews with my child on my back," she said.

A government official from the Welfare Office in Gunpo City, where Kim lives, said a person needed to spend all day watching their child to be eligible for child welfare support.

Kim Jeong-ah has only found part-time work giving occasional lectures and TV appearances on North Korea. She lives in a tiny, subsidized apartment in Seoul with her husband and son.

On top of the welfare issues, Kim Jeong-ah says South Koreans often aren't aware of the psychological trauma many defectors are dealing with. Because of that, she wants to see more funds given to defector interest groups that are led by defectors themselves.

"That pain is only communicable with other escapees who carry the same," she said. "We can never forget."

[redditnosleep]

We Thought My Brother Overdosed. He Didn't.

by Andrunes

"It'd be easier on everyone if you just fucking died Jimmy!" was the last thing I ever said to my brother as I slammed the door to his apartment behind me.

The words echoing in my head on a constant loop, drowning out our friends and family offering their condolences to my parents and I as we sit beside his open casket.

I can't stand to look at him. Half out of guilt, the remainder his appearance. Drugs took his life but it robbed him of his looks long before that. Death has not redeemed him of this quality, it's amplified it.

"Alan, please" he said with an outstretched hand beckoning me to sit beside him on his dingy couch. "Don't leave." The lump in his throat as audible as the welling of his eyes were visible.

Despite his pleading, I just left him there. I should have done something. I could have done something. Instead, I told my own brother he should die and either he, or God, or both agreed with me because later that night he did.

We didn't know exactly what substance it was that he was abusing that did it. We were still waiting on the toxicology report for that.

People will tell you that it's not my fault. People will insist that I loved my brother. People will say that I'm a good man. People are wrong.

This is my fault. I own it. I abandoned my own flesh and blood in frustration when he needed me most. Hours passed before my conscience finally got the better of me that night and by the time I made it back to his home to make amends, it was too late.

I stood at his entrance practicing my apology. Testing the best sentences I could use to tell him how sorry I was but in the same breath, truly get through to him that his demons were tearing our parents apart.

My rehearsal was interrupted by a squishing sound from beneath my feet as I paced. The industrial carpet lining the corridors of the run down complex were wet. The dirty beige colour now a dark brown in an uneven half circle where it's been saturated most at the foot of my brothers' door.

I apprehensively used my spare key to gain entrance. Cool droplets of water dripped down from the ceiling. Puddles pooled deep in sections on the uneven floors. My guilt morphed into anger instantly as I wondered how much my parents would have to pay the landlord for the damages my little brother has caused to his property.

It builds into blind rage as I jerk in surprise as one of the drops from the ceiling falls onto my face.

The emotion fades faster than it came when I turned my body towards Jimmy's living room preparing to give him hell.

My voice catches in my throat when my gaze finds its destination.

There he sat, lifeless on the sofa where I left him. His mouth agape, eyes wide and nearly completely white. His soaking wet t-shirt molded to his skinny body revealing the contour of his ribcage. His hand outstretched at his side resting on the unoccupied cushion as if even in death he requested my companionship.

"Jimmy!" I shout as I scramble towards him splashing in the puddles as I ran. I held him in my arms screaming his name and tapping his cold face with my hand. "Please, wake up!" My voice cracking in terror.

I recoil in surprise as a drop lands on my hand breaking my daydream as I sit slumped in the funeral homes' chair. I instinctively look to the ceiling as if I were still at Jimmy's apartment. Realizing too late that I was the source. I've been silently crying this whole time.

The rest of the viewing was as hard as you would expect for a family bidding a 26 year old member farewell. The burial was even worse. There's something about the finality of the closing coffin that leaves you so empty you'd swear a piece of you was in there with your loved one, never to see the light of day again. I wish I could tell you that it became easier on us in the weeks that followed but I won't lie to you. I can't find it in me to care enough for that.

It's been especially hard on my mother in the six weeks that have passed. She had spent most of it watching old home videos of my brother as a child. Birthday parties, piano recitals, graduations and the like. Her nights however are filled with quiet weeping from her upstairs bedroom, clutching a photo of him in a frame she keeps by her bedside. My father being the war veteran that he is, copes with trauma as he always has with quiet strength, a cigarette, a stiff upper lip, and if need be a stiffer drink. I've never seen so much as a tear form in my father's eye my entire life, not even as we carried my brother's casket to be buried. You could sense his sadness as it hung heavy in the air around him, its weight could be felt by every single person in attendance. But to him, crying was weakness in a man and not an option while he had a wife and surviving son depending on him.

It's the reason I was so shocked to see him sitting on the floor next to his cellphone, sobbing like a child when I let myself into their home.

"Dad?" I say as I make my way toward him, leaving the front door open behind me. I knelt as fast as I could to rest my hand on his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

He wipes his face ashamedly "Hey Alan," he says trying his best to conceal the agony in his voice and shifts his body abruptly to stand.

I keep him down, he doesn't resist.

"Dad, it's ok." I soothe, "What happened?"

Fresh tears well in his eyes as he stares into mine. It's my turn to be strong for him as I fight back tears of my own.

"The doctor called," he whispers. "All of Jimmy's results came back negative."

"What?" I blurt, failing to conceal my surprise.

"There were no drugs in his system. Hair, blood, saliva... nothing." he whimpers, "what... what killed my boy?"

I feel dizzy at this revelation and use my father's shoulder to steady myself as I sit with my back to the wall beside him.

Both of us staring off into nothing.

Both of us now weeping.

We had all been so sure that Jimmy overdosed that we had refused an autopsy. Confident that sending off Jimmy's various bodily fluids would reveal the culprit. The police found no evidence of foul play and they attributed the water and damage to the apartment as a drug fueled hallucination. "He probably thought the place was on fire!" were the exact words used by the officer. Yet here we are in a reality where Jimmy not only did not overdose, but had no trace of narcotics in his system whatsoever.

More time had passed since I found my father on the floor and its passage has done nothing to heal my wounds. I became obsessed with my brother's death, and vowed to find out what it is that killed him not only for my sake but for the sake of my parents who have deteriorated into shells of their former selves without this closure. I found my answer among his possessions which lay in storage boxes in my parents garage.

Jimmy was an avid reader, and owned more books than an underfunded public library. So it was easy for everyone involved who didn't know him to overlook the leather bound journal that was tucked away between Wilde and Poe. Even if it had garnered any amount of attention, it would be short lived. Its pages were seemingly empty.

When we were children we nicknamed my father the Colonel because he took all of his military style bootcamp training and transitioned it over to his parenting. When one of us broke something in the house, or just generally disobeyed him we would be sent to our rooms which he called "the hole" for a pre-set amount of time.

"Come here boys!" He would bellow, his deep voice reverberating throughout the house and my brother and I would drop anything we were doing and scurry to get to him as fast as our little legs could carry us. We would stand up straight before him with our hands at our sides like mini soldiers.

"Which one of you broke your mothers vase?" He'd say to us sternly, my mother cooking in the background trying hard not to smile. My father never hit us so the "little soldier routine" as she called it made her smile through her mock grimace everytime.

"I did sir!" Jimmy would shout.

"Takes a man to own up to his mistakes." my father would say, "but he's got to face the consequences too, don't you think?"

"Yes sir!" He'd say standing up straighter.

"Good. One hour in the hole!" The Colonel replied with my mother behind him smiling blatantly now hoping to at least surpress the giggles.

It wasn't uncommon for Jimmy to take the fall. It's just who he was and would always be. I had broken the vase that evening but Jimmy couldn't bare the thought of someone else being punished if he had the power to prevent it. He gave anything and everything he had to those he loved and as he aged that quality only grew stronger.

Jimmy was a better man than me.

It was during those hours in the hole that we devised a way to communicate with eachother, undetected from the Colonels' watchful eyes. We would pass notes under the door written in lemon juice or milk. Once dry the paper would be clear, the ink unseen. The only way to reveal the message was to apply heat either with a candle, or the burning hot incandescent lightbulb of our bedside lamps, turning the transparent ink brown like magic. As soon as the message was read, the paper was destroyed and if it were ever intercepted before the heating process as they sometimes were our parents would simply command us to pick up after ourselves seeing only a blank page. It was our very own invisible ink. We briefly tried with urine once but neither one of us was willing to touch the paper afterward which defeated the purpose.

Holding Jimmy's leather journal in my hand and leafing through its pages, I smiled at the memory. I took it with me to my father's workbench in the corner of the garage. Reaching to take the propane torch from the top shelf. I twist the nozzle releasing a hiss of propellant, and pull the trigger igniting a blue flame.

He couldn't have. Could he?

I travel the flame carefully over the first page as to not combust it and stare in bewilderment as words do indeed begin to surface.

LET ME GO ALAN.

BURN THE BOOK.

-Love, Jimmy.

With my heart beating out of my chest I don't know whether to laugh or cry as I read Jimmy's message from beyond the grave so I do a bit of both as a swallow hard, composing myself before turning the page.

I PRAY THAT NO ONE IS READING. I HAVE DONE MY BEST TO CONTAIN WHAT I HAVE FOUND SO WHEN I DIE, IT DIES WITH ME.

"What the hell is going on, Jimmy?" I whisper aloud. For the very first time, the thought that the toxicology report might be mistaken emerges in my mind. Who else but a man intoxicated could ever write such things?

The sense of smell is so closely linked to memory that the aroma created by the flame eminating from the paper triggers happy flashbacks of when we used to do this as children.

A stunning contrast to the morbidness of my discovery. How did we end up here?

Another page, another message.

PLEASE, IF ANYONE IS READING THIS ESPECIALLY YOU ALAN WHO IS THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS ABOUT THE INVISIBLE WRITING, JUST BURN THE BOOK! PLEASE DO NOT BRING THE POEM BACK INTO THE WORLD.

"Poem?" I think to myself as chills run up my spine.

I LOVE YOU ALAN, TO THE MOON AND BACK. IF YOU ARE READING THIS, HUG MOM AND THE COLONEL. THEY'LL NEED YOU. IM SORRY I COULDN'T TELL YOU. I COULDN'T RISK IT. I DISCOVERED A CURSE. A CURSE THAT ONCE READ BINDS YOU TO IT. IT WONT LET ME DIE ALAN, UNLESS I WRITE IT.

I flip the pages as fast as I can to continue my brother's message.

IT CAN'T BE STOPPED. I'VE TRIED. I'VE DESTROYED EVERYTHING RELATED TO THIS CURSE THAT I'VE FOUND SO THAT IT CAN'T BE SOUGHT OUT. THE INVISIBLE WRITING IS MY LOOPHOLE. A WAY TO END MY SUFFERING BUT PROTECT THE NEXT VICTIMS.

The next fifteen pages consisted of only three words repeated over and over.

DO NOT READ.

My heart breaks at my brother's mental state. If I had known his mind was so fragmented I could have gotten him the help he clearly needed.

The words on the sixteenth page burned darker than the rest. No longer the golden brown of its predecessors but a deep black. No longer bold capital letters but a fine script.

*Each flash of lightning will reveal its form.

*It preys on the cursed in the eye of the storm.

Every page that followed was empty.

I clutched the journal to my chest. "I'm so sorry Jimmy." I mutter "I love you too."

I couldn't bring myself to tell my parents about my discovery, it would do them no good. Upon exiting the garage, I tuck the book into my jacket sleeve and lay it on the couch where I take a seat next to my mother watching her daily dose of home videos.

"Hello sweetheart." she smiles, leaning in to kiss my cheek.

"How you doing mom?" I respond.

"I'm alright I guess I'm just trying to remember happier times." She smiled, "These videos just remind me that I did tell you boys I loved you a million times a day." and points to the screen.

I chuckle because she speaks the truth. At this moment, in the video labeled "Jimmy's 8th birthday" she can be heard from behind the camera asking her two sons her favourite question. "Boys! Boys! How much does mommy love you?"

Jimmy and I sat on the backyard picnic bench surrounded by presents and other children, red as tomatoes and rolling our eyes.

"Mom, not in front of our friends!" We hushed in embarrassment.

"How much my little monkeys?" She squealed with glee.

"To the moon and back" We muttered in defeat.

To add to our horror, the other children surrounding us were ooing and awing in unison.

"See?" my mother says drawing my attention away from the television and back to her.

Both of us share a laugh. It was so nice to see my mother smile again that it helped me to forget Jimmy's journal. So when she asked if I would like to see another video, I agreed without hesitation.

"Do you have my clown birthday party?" I inquire.

"Oh I sure do!" she says jumping up from the couch to retrieve it. "That's my favourite!"

I remember that damn party like it happened yesterday. "The party from hell" Jimmy would dub it later on. My mother thought it would be a tremendous idea to have a clown perform at my 9th birthday, completely unaware that clowns terrified both my brother and I. It was a particularly hot July day. We had already been delirious from too much sun and sugar when Twirly the clown made his entrance holding my candle topped cake. Dancing instead of walking toward us with grand exaggerated kicks of his legs. There's a particularly funny scene in this video where my mother pans the camera from Twirly's theatrics and laughing family members in the background, to where my brother and I sat holding eachother, eyes shut tightly with our faces turned towards the sky crying in fear.

But that's not what played on the tv. The setting hadn't changed. The people in attendance were the same. My younger father before his hair began to grey, stood at the barbeque flipping burgers just as I remembered only he was dripping wet in the rain.

"It wasn't raining." I think to myself confused.

"Look how handsome your father is." I hear my mother say at my side. I can't find my voice to reply so I just nod never taking my eyes off what I'm watching. "Here's the best part!" she claps with joy.

"Bring on the clown!" My father says, but it's difficult to make out over the ever increasing ferocity of the storm. The screen goes white with a flash of lightning as if it struck within meters of where we were standing.

My pulse quickens as I perceive everything in near slow motion. The camera moves from my father to Twirly the clown, his large red shoes splashing in the mud as he danced. The white make up on his face running down onto his orange coloured jumpsuit. The large red painted on smile associated with clowns, sagged into a grimace. His eyes completely blacked out as his drawn on eyebrows did the same.

The happy family members in the background clapping and cheering as the water pooled around their ankles. Heavy winds tossing the womens hair every which way as they applauded, seemingly unaware of the hurricane that raged around them.

Lightning illuminates the scene that has made my family laugh for the better part of two decades. I stare in horror, paralyzed with fear. The camera finally finds its way to young Jimmy and I as we sit holding eachother. However this time only one of us was crying with our eyes shut. Jimmy was staring directly into the camera wide eyed, head vigorously shaking from side to side.

His lips move but I can't make out what he's saying over the ripping thunder. Another flash of lightning and I gasp as a figure materializes behind us out of nothing. Its skin is stretched tight around its tall, skinny body almost translucent in appearance. Its oversized hands resting on both of our shoulders. Its long fingers traveling almost almost the entire length of our torsos.

I can't make out its face through no fault of my own because it doesn't have one to speak of. Only a mouth that makes up the whole bottom portion of its oval head.

Jimmy jerks his shoulder away from its clutches running up to the camera and grabbing it with both hands to bring it up close to his face.

"You let it out!" He shrieks. " Alan, you let it out! He repeats himself until his voice is hoarse. The hands of the figure coming into frame behind him where they rest on his shoulders.

I taste the salt of my tears at the corner of my mouth and recoil violently as I feel a hand on my shoulder.

"It's alright, Alan" my mother says with both her hands held out in front of her trying to be as soothing as possible.

"I'm sorry mom." I respond and start wiping my face with my sleeve until I turn back toward the video. The sun is shining and the clown is dry. His makeup impeccable as the young me reluctantly blows out the candles.

"I miss him too." she says rubbing my back.

"I gotta go." was all I could muster in my dazed condition as I kissed her cheek, picked up my jacket and headed for my car.

I sat in silence on my drive home. Silent enough that the soft swishing of my windshield wipers in the rain were infuriatingly loud. I kept going over what just happened in my head. Overwhelmed, I switched on the radio to the most mindless dance music station I can think of to drown out my thoughts. The vapid radio disk jockey addressing his audience in the typical fashion.

"Yo, yo, yo party people" he begins, "This is MC Mookie Mayes, the flyest DJ on the east coast coming at you live on this beautiful Saturday evening."

He has the desired effect of distracting me at the very least because I roll my eyes and mutter "douchebag" under my breath.

"There's not a cloud in the sky today." he continues, "so I want to see all you beautiful people dancing to my lit beats under the stars tonight!"

I laugh aloud at this. "Hey dj dimwit!" still chuckling, "it's rainin-" my voice trails off as I pull off to the side of the road. I reach to the passengers side seat to retrieve my phone. I open my weather app, warm and clear skies with a zero percent chance of precipitation.

My blood runs cold as thunder rolls in the distance. I look up from my phone to see the silhouette of a figure far in the distance and all I can do is stare as each flash of lightning transports him closer to me.

I floor the gas pedal and speed down the road my tires spinning on the slick surface. My wipers struggling to keep up with the ever falling rain making it difficult to see. "I gotta get out of here." I speak to myself to try and calm my nerves constantly checking my rearview mirror in hopes to catch a glimpse of the figure behind me. But I was mistaken when another flash of light brought the figure directly in front of my car. I swerved to avoid it losing control of my vehicle, spinning out as I try to compensate the steering. When it finally grinds to a halt, I sit gasping for air and listening to my wipers squeaking as they pass over the dry glass. I exit my vehicle and notice the stars in the sky and not a cloud in sight.

When I got to my apartment, I headed straight for my bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. What greets me in the mirror causes me to stare. I've begun to age just as Jimmy had. My cheeks are sullen and the dark rings under my eyes are the worst I'd ever seen.

At first I questioned my sanity. After all, the apparitions left no evidence of their visits. When the storm passed, I was able to carry on with my days. Even my appearance could be reasoned away with illness or the depression caused by the loss of my brother. That luxury would be short lived. As its bond with me grew stronger, its effects became more apparent. Each passing storm would leave its mark. The wet clothes on my body or the welts in the shape of handprints underneath them.

It's been weeks since my first exposure and I can't carry on like this anymore. I hope you can understand, I don't want to die. The figure comes with a higher frequency than ever before. I awaken in the middle of the night to thunder and my apartment is now rife with mold from water damage. I've lost 30 pounds and two teeth since then. It's here with me now both hands resting on my shoulders as I write this. I tried to hold off for as long as I could, but I'm going to give in to what it wants. The largest audience it's ever had in the who knows how many centuries it's roamed the earth. I think in passing it to you I can save myself. I can't be sure but it's worth a try.

Jimmy was selfless. He wrote the curse in a way that no one could ever read it. He gave his life to protect the world.

Please forgive me, I've already told you.

Jimmy was a better man than me.

[quantumrpg]

NAME: Jake Ryleigh AGE: 33 SPECIES: Werewolf OCCUPATION: Tattoo Artist YEAR OF DEPARTURE: late 2011 RESIDENT FOR… six years FACECLAIM: Bob Morley

t i m e  i s  a n  i l l u s i o n,  b u t  n o t  o u r  s t o r i e s…

TW: Drug Abuse, Alcoholism, Death, Domestic Abuse, Assault, Racism

When people hear Ely, Minnesota not much comes to mind. Born and raised in small town, USA, population less than 4,000, Jake grew up surrounded by what he fondly refers to as the lower working class. For every family resting comfortably in the working class, there were those that barely managed to scrape by. Small towns aren’t exactly booming with opportunity. Especially, for two high school graduates.

Jake was born to two teenage parents. His mother belonged to a religious, white, middle class family. His father was an immigrant working alongside his brother for a contractor in town with nothing to his name save for work ethic. Needless to say, his grandparents were not pleased with the elopement so Jake has few memories of them from before the age of seven. They were there for no birthdays and holidays; they weren’t even at the hospital when his little sister was born. It wasn’t until his father passed away, victim of a heart attack caused by an undiagnosed health condition, that they surfaced. Jake was seven at the time and from there things quickly swan dived.

His mother struggled to find work without job experience and the small family drowned under the funeral expenses. Although she had to bite her pride, Jake’s mother agreed to live with his grandparents. This arrangement was supposed to last until she got the family on their feet, but his mother took the first out she could find. It came in the form of a toxic relationship, which scars went beyond her to Jake. His sister was too young to remember everything, and that was the only good part of that time period.

By the time Jake was nine years old, his mother managed to get enough footing that they moved into a modest neighborhood. He wound up making his first real friend after the move with a boy that lived close by. His name was Lee Randazzo and the two became an inseparable pair. So much so that they decided to start a band at the age of fourteen. Things were fine enough. He was no stranger to childhood bullying. Kids didn’t understand why his clothes didn’t fit right and why he never had much until they were older, but by then it hadn’t mattered because his mother remarried. Two incomes instead of one made things easier, and Jake already learned that the best way to get by was to laugh first. Even if it was at himself, and having Lee around made it better.

At the age of fourteen, Lee and Jake decided to start a band on a whim. Lee, as discovered by their choir teacher, could actually sing. Jake liked the bass that Lee’s dad kept in the basement. They met Ken, their first drummer, after school. He was a jazz band kid, but he wanted more, and they needed a drummer. Keith came a few months later; then, Jeremy a year later. Lee found them and that was how they built the band. Over the next three years, each of them got a little better at being a band. They started playing locally after school despite their parent’s complaints, and they practiced in Lee’s basement whenever they had the time.

By the time senior year rolled around, Lee, Jake, Jeremy, and Keith were ready to commit to the band 100 percent. Ken was not. Ken wanted college, so he left, and they came to a fork in a road. Luckily for them, Aaron found them and unlike Ken he wanted the band just as much as they did. With Aaron on board, they were able to find the right and venues and Oliver Fink, agent for Hollywood Records, found them.

At nineteen, Jake and the rest of the band moved from Detroit to sunny LA. They all fit it with ease. They were on top of the world, and it stayed that way for five years. Five years and four records was a lot. If they weren’t in the studio they were on stage. Jake loved it. He loved traveling and meeting new people, one of his first serious relationships happened during this time with a girl named Kat. He was living a life he never expected, chasing after a dream and living comfortably alongside his friends.

Lee started to crumble and his drinking and self medicating hit its peak during their second tour. Jake and Aaron begged for Lee to go to rehab. They insisted that putting the band on hold would be worth it if he could get clean. The band wouldn’t keep afloat if they kept cancelling shows and missing rehearsals. Lee insisted he was fine, and for a few months thing seemed that way.

In 2009, their fourth album was in production when Lee went out for the night. Jake planned on going with him to a mutual friends house, but when he got stuck in traffic Lee told him to meet him there. He was only a hour and a half late when he got to their friends house and saw the ambulances surrounding it. Dead on scene, is what the paramedics said. Accidental overdose was the official report on the autopsy. According to their friend, Lee was already at their house when Jake called. There was nothing he could have done, but Jake wasn’t so sure.

In the months after Lee’s death, Jake and the rest of the band tried to get back on their feet. They looked for a new main vocalist, but nothing ever worked. By the time their fourth album released, they knew it would be the last. The band went their separate ways within a month of the album’s release, and Jake? Jake was beginning to crumble under the same demons that took his best friend, and he could see the dead end from a mile away. He made the decision to move from LA to New York on a whim. It was a last ditch attempt to save himself before he was completely lost.

Within his first few months of living in New York, Jake ran into Kat again and the two started dating after a few months of hooking up. Things were going well. As someone that was always more artistically inclined and a fan of tattoos, Jake decided to leave the music scene in lieu of becoming a tattoo artist. His first year as an apprentice was a challenge, but rewarding. He and Kat were supportive of one another’s goals and happy, but things started to go south during the fall of 2011. They started to fight more, and Jake struggled to find the reason why. It wasn’t until he came home one night and saw Kat using in their bathroom that he put two and two together.

If things were different, if there was no Lee, and if Jake hadn’t found himself in a similar place, he would have stayed in the apartment that night and talked things out. Unfortunately, things weren’t like that for Jake and he walked out. He intended to to go to his best friend’s house and return in the morning. Jake was halfway to Silas’s house when his friend convinced him to turn around and go home. Jake made a call to Kat that night to apologize and to say he was coming home. That never happened, though. Instead, he slipped into the liminal space.

What he found was another family in his apartment and no sign of anyone he knew. He had nothing except for what was on his person. While he could look at his friends and family online, it was a one way mirror and no one could see or hear him. Jake began to crumble on his own. This time, there was nowhere and no one to run to in order to save himself. He quickly crumbled to his demons and was fully prepared to let them eat away what was left of himself.

Despite his best intentions, Jake wound up meeting people during his first year in the liminal space. One of them was a girl named Ophelia. Ophelia was fun at first. A nice distraction from the loneliness and anger he felt at not being able to return home. Ophelia was not content with being nothing more than a fling, and she disliked watching Jake spiral so she took matters into her own hands. She bit him. She gave him no choice but to live.

Alone and afraid, Jake spent the first few weeks after being bitten avoiding her at every corner. He met a dormant werewolf and her boyfriend during this time and the two managed to keep him together long enough for the first full moon after Ophelia’s attack. It wasn’t until days before the first shift that Jake realized that he didn’t have much of a choice: he was going to have to live a sober life. It was either that or waste all of his money trying to fight against a body that needed more of everything to feel high.

It’s been six years since he slipped and at times Jake feels the same as he did during the first week. He feels alone and aimless in a place that is real, but not by the standards he used to understand. On other days, he feels almost human. He has a job, and a place to sleep. He’s more in control of himself and his werewolfism with every year, and he has even found himself coping with music and work. There a few people he would consider friends, too. It’s not the same, but it’s fine. Yet, that’s the problem. It’s fine. Every now and then, he revisits his friends and family online. It’s a bittersweet comfort to see that they have moved on, and on some days he’s better at moving on, too.

t e l l  m e, a r e  w e  a  p r o d u c t  o f  w h o  w e  u s e d  t o  b e?

Jake’s a complicated mishmash of a person. On one hand he appears to be a very laidback person in the sense that people can rarely make him mad. Annoyed? Sure. But Jake’s the type to be annoying right back and he does it with the biggest grin. Most people find this infuriating. Jake doesn’t really care. He’s the type of person that goes over like a fart in church for some people. He’s too loud, too talkative, and for some people, too unfocused, for them to take seriously. Despite this being a core of Jake’s personality, it has always functioned as a barrier of sorts. As a kid, it was all armor against anyone trying to pick on him. As an adult, it’s a ruse that makes people feel close to him without actually being close to him. It’s hard to notice that a person is actually distant when they always seem at ease and happy with company. Underneath the ruse, Jake swirls with turbulent emotions and regrets. He’s been hollowed out with loneliness and self hatred. He has always put blame on himself for the things that have happened in his life, and slipping into the liminal space was no different. In order to keep himself afloat underneath the weight of his self loathing he tends to run away. Whether it be by changing his own setting or through humor, Jake’s usual response to his own negative emotions is to distance himself. He’ll go from being lighthearted to numb and blank when he’s alone in his room if he’s reminded of the past. In spite of this, Jake is stubborn and intensely loyal when it comes to other people. It is both a blessing and a curse as he tends to make lasting friends with those he becomes close to, but fails to let go easily, even if it is at his own expense.

[bluegreenamber]

The Mirror (3/4)

((AN: Heyyy here's the next chapter. Now if only I could find my motivation again... So yeah, sorry for the wait. It's been crazy busy lately, and updating just completely slipped my mind. Anyways! Hope the content will somewhat make up for it. Enjoy!)) I first met her at the library. It had taken an embarrassingly long time to realize that maybe there was a record of what had happened to the four boys that had previously lived in our house that might explain why some of them were still around… in a way. And that I might just find the record in the library and research those things. When I saw her among the shelves, I felt my whole body react. My face flushed with blood, my limbs froze in place, my eyes widened, and my breath halted in my throat. She was beautiful, perfection in its simplest form. I barely had time to compose myself before she looked straight at me, smiled brightly, and strode over. She introduced herself as Aisling and had to write it down for the spelling because it sounded like “ash-ling.” I smiled as I watched her write it, trying to keep my face from completely revealing every thought and feeling that crossed my mind. I hope it worked; otherwise, she would practically see me thinking, “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” She asked me why I was here today, and I told her. Apparently, she was volunteering here and would be happy to assist me find my records. Just my luck. As we weaved through aisles of bookshelves, she decided to strike up conversation and started talking about the origins of her name. It was Irish, meant “dream” or “vision,” and was actually a genre of poetry. She personally was named after a character in a movie I had never heard of. She promised to show me one day, and I decided our friendship was off to a good start. No thanks to me or my awkward stammering I'm sure. She knew the library really well, so we found the record in… well, record time. We sat at one of the wooden tables with the files, and I started reading over them intently while she helped where she could. There was some… rather interesting stuff. Our house had last belonged to four boys: Edd, Tom, Matt, and Tord. They had formed their bond from a mutual love of art, comedy, and adventures. They went on many such adventures and often documented them through doodles and comics, many examples of which were within the records. But it was those adventures that led to their untimely demise. All four of them died young on the same day. Their bodies were found at home together, and almost all of the autopsy reports were unreadably marked over. So that was a dead end. Most of what I found was pretty useless. Since their deaths had been rather recent, the file was fairly empty. The only other thing that I saw that could possibly have been of any value was the obituaries cut out of a newspaper. They listed the usual things: age, occupation, date and location of death, birth date, accomplishments, family, etc. But what really caught my attention was the things that weren't mentioned. Many vital parts such as cause of death and what happened with the funeral just weren't there. That basically matched up the information marked out from the autopsy reports. I found that very intriguing. When I deemed the files thoroughly searched, Aisling and I returned everything to their proper places. There was yet another awkward moment as neither of us seemed to know what to say or do next. Finally, something came to mind. “So when do you get off?” I asked. Her face lit up in happy surprise. “At three. Which is in…” She checked her phone. “About half an hour.” I grinned. “Do you maybe wanna grab a bite to eat then?” She returned the smile. “Thought you'd never ask.” If I wasn't blushing before, I definitely was now. “Great! I'll just be hanging around in here. Meet me here?” She nodded. We stood there, looking into each other's eyes, for a beat too long, then broke apart. The grin still danced across my face and continued to do so for the next half hour as I browsed the shelves. I couldn't stop checking my phone every ten seconds. Finally, it was three. I had been loitering in our meeting spot for a good five minutes already. And just on time, she appeared, strolling from around a shelf. Another smile dimpled her cheeks as she spotted me. “So where are we going?” she asked as we walked out of the library together. I had been planning my response for a while now. “It's a surprise,” I replied vaguely. Her grin widened. “Excellent.” I was practically floating when I got home that night. Aisling and I had had a wonderful time at this cute little cafe I had taken her to, most of the evening consisting of us talking about everything and bursting into laughter. I had walked her to her house nearby and then nearly skipped the rest of the way home. I'm sure my family would have caught on to my mood immediately and been all over me about it… had they not been occupied by a news story on the TV. There had been a murder of one of the local students. Ben Jameson. He had been a year younger than me, and I could barely remember seeing him briefly in the hallway of my school. He had been on the tall side with dirty blond hair and blue-green eye; everyone considered him very attractive. He had been on the school Junior Varsity basketball team and in the BETA club. The epitome of one of the well-rounded, scholarship-to-a-local-college-just-waiting-to-happen popular kids. Not my crowd. And apparently, he had been stabbed with sharp pieces of glass. Part of the broken mirror in his room to be exact. There had been obvious signs of a struggle but no fingerprints or any other traces left by the murderer. Just a bunch of smashed mirrors. That rung a bell in my head, and I retreated to my room. I searched through the pictures on my phone, and sure enough, there were confirmations to my suspicions. One of the titles that had been written on my brother’s wall that one night was “The Mirror.” So this was almost certainly connected to the four boys. Matt and Tord were left. But I still didn't have enough information on them to figure out who it was or what was happening. Or, more importantly, what they wanted. Maybe it was time to do some more research… The next few days consisted much of the same thing. I went down to the library to research and usually ended up going out with Aisling afterwards. When I got home, there was a new murder story on the news. It was strange. The victims weren't really related or similar. It varied immensely, from old to young, from rich to poor, from ugly to stunningly attractive, from living in one area to living in a place across the county. Any gender, any age, any place, any time, any one. The words “serial killer” were being thrown around a lot lately. This same thing went on for days. After six of them, I thought it was going to continue. But the killer had the misfortune to pick our house as their next target. I was making myself a midnight snack in the kitchen, the microwave the only sound in the sleeping house. Until I heard a hissing next to me. I turned and nearly jumped two feet in the air. Towering over me was what could only be described as some kind of vampiric monster. The guy was easily seven feet tall with flaming red hair under an army cap. He wore black robes over his whitewashed skin. His eyes glowed red as his hair, and one of his arms consisted only of bones as bleached white as his skin. He snarled at me, baring his glistening fangs. I backed up against the counter, snack already forgotten. “Who are you?” I could barely hide the tremor in my voice. “Matt,” he hissed. Okay, that was good. It was willing to talk to me. Maybe I could work something out. “Alright, Matt. What do you want?” I was sure my skin was almost as blanched as his. “To kill you.” Okay, that was not so good. I trembled slightly. “Why?” He leaned in closer, and I had nowhere to retreat. “You're not my type,” he sneered. I doubted humor or reason would work, but it was worth a shot. “How do you know that? We’ve barely even met.” From his expression, I was right in my guess that my words would have no effect. “I can take just one look at you and tell.” I was definitely not comfortable with the proximity. “That's kind of shallow, isn't it?” I tried to keep a joking tone, but I think my fear overrode it. He hissed in disagreement with my words. I was certain he was going to attack when my saving grace came in the form of the microwave going off. He turned slightly, and that temporary distraction was all it took. I sprinted down the hallway and into my room, slamming and locking the door behind me. I could hear him moving, snarling and even breaking mirrors out there. I held my breath in anticipation as I listened for the end, my heart racing in terror. I thought for sure that I'd hear a bang or a rip as Matt attacked my door and removed my last barrier any second now, but it never came. Instead, the door beside mine opened, and my older brother sleepily wandered out. I could hear his half-awake voice through the thin wood. “What is that noise? What's going on?” My breath caught in my throat as I heard another hiss. My brother gasped, and I made the split-second decision to grab the nearest weapon and open my door. I immediately spotted Matt hovering over my terrified brother, who was surrounded by mirror shards on the floor. “Get away from him!” I shouted and threw the shoe in my hand. It bounced off Matt, and the creature didn't even seem to notice. His gaze was fixed on my cowering brother, and it had stopped hissing. Something felt off. I stood there, ready to jump into action but waiting. Matt leaned down over him, but it didn't seem as threatening somehow. I could barely hear the words that came out from between Matt’s fangs from my spot down the hallway. “You're perfect,” he said, almost longingly. Then, to our surprise, he closed the distance between the two of them and planted a soft, short kiss on my brother’s lips. We were stunned into silence. Neither of us moved as he retreated towards my brother’s room. Almost in a trance, we finally wandered over to the open door and watched as Matt walked towards the mirror in the room. He gave us one last toothy grin and stepped into the mirror, disappearing into it as if he had never been here in the first place. I had a feeling he wouldn't be coming back. My brother and I didn't say anything to each other as I went back to my room. In fact, we never talked about the incident. It was the second time he had saved my life from a monster, and we pretended it never happened. As usual, the picture of the four boys greeted me from my bedside table. I stared at it for a good while, still dazed, until I finally fell asleep. Matt was grinning up at me, his smile bright and charming and a mirror gripped in the hand that was sassily resting on his hip.

[theliterateape]

Running from Grief

By Don Hall

I’m not entirely certain that this is my story to tell. I can’t refrain from writing it as the experiences are searing scars in my flesh and they are there to see. If I’m stepping over some sort of line, I offer my apologies in advance.

Synopsis: Meet Don Hall, a casino manager from Las Vegas during the 2020 pandemic shutdown, and his wife Dana. When Hall gets a late night phone call from his niece about the death of his nephew, the stage is set for this story of grief, crematory logistics, and a spastic pug hellbent on crippling Hall’s mother on Mother’s Day.

Police investigating body found in west Wichita

Wichita Police are investigating after a body was discovered in the 200 block of S West St.

Police said a body was found in a vehicle in a restaurant parking lot just before 6 p.m. Tuesday. Wichita Police Officer Wheeler said, at this point, no foul play is believed to be involved, and investigators are trying to find out what caused the death.

The person who died is believed to be a man, but Ofc. Wheeler said the body was "too far decomposed" to tell any other details before an autopsy.

If you’re the sort who combs the news for these sorts of blurbs, this was right there to see. No foul play so it doesn’t get any viral videos online. The description that the body was in the full force of decomposition to the point that the sex was almost indecipherable is grisly but couched in language that tamps down the horror.

This person, found in his car dead for days, was my nineteen-year-old nephew.

His mother, my only sister, knew he was missing six days prior. We all knew. A missing persons report was filed. His older brother, older sister, and I jumped onto his media accounts and tried to see if any one of his friends had a bead on him. No one did.

We constructed hopeful fictions. He was high (he smoked a lot of weed and dabbled in other drugs) and was sleeping it off. He decided that his life in Pandemic Wichita was too much, hopped in his car and was en route to Vegas to hang with his uncle. He lost his phone and his car was stolen. He’d been arrested and was too embarrassed to call anyone.

The thing about hopeful fictions is that they turn out to be just that—fiction. 

The truth was harsh. My nephew had called off work and hung out with friends. On the way from one place to another whatever drugs he’d taken made him sleepy enough that he pulled into a parking lot of a restaurant closed by COVID, fell asleep, and never woke up.

My niece called Tuesday night. I was at work, staffing the empty casino as management, and her wavering, tearful voice (“We need you here. He’s dead.”) was all I needed to move my ass. Dana and I were on the first flight out of Vegas, COVID be damned.

When we arrived, we headed over to my sister’s home. I felt like tits on a bull. I didn’t know what to say to her that wouldn’t feel like an intellectualizing of death or trite self-help pablum. Losing a child has to be on the far end of tragic and I have no experience in parenthood and little when it comes to death. Grief is an alien presence. I’m like my mother—in lieu of dealing with our emotions, we want something to do.

So I waited.

Eventually, once done adjusting to the strange pattern of what felt like normal conversation doing normal things broken up by one of us stepping on a landmine of grief, bursting into hot, angry tears for a spell, then returning to the faux normal again, the doors began to open. I could see tasks in front of me. I could be of use.

HOW TO CREMATE YOUR NEPHEW

There’s an odd disconnect between dealing with legitimate grief and typing “budget cremation wichita” into the search bar. 

Turns out that the average price for a basic cremation (transport of the deceased, alternative fiberboard receptacle, simple cleaning of ashes of things like shirt buttons and buckles, basic plastic box for completed service, and copies of both the death certificate and coroner’s report and release) runs about $3,000.00.

After a few hours I found a reputable service that would do it for $1,100.00. I called, explained the situation (“Oh. That was your nephew? I read about that.”) and booked the service. For a bit of time I filled out the online form for the death certificate. Some basics and then the out-of-left-field birthplace of the father question and his Social Security Number that I had to then call my niece to fill in the blank fields.

All in all, this was an essential and very clinical start to my avoidance of the feelings. 

As I got on the phone for the forty-five-minute call with the crematorium, Dana and my mom decided to go for a walk to my sister’s place. My sister was still in a deep sleep so Dana grabbed her six-month-old spastic pug to give him some pooping time.

Twenty minutes later, my phone indicated Dana was trying call me. I couldn’t  answer as I was in the middle of cremation speak. She called again. Then she ran into the house. “Your mom broke her leg!” And she grabbed keys and bolted.

The dog got under my mother’s legs and she dropped like a wet bag of cement, fracturing both her right leg and left wrist. 911. An ambulance. The hospital that, due to COVID, allowed no visitors.

When it rains, it pours.

My sister was still in a place of disbelief. Her son was gone but she hadn’t seen his body. She spoke about him in the present tense. She wanted some visual confirmation but the only photographs of him were taken after five days of decomposition by the police. She wasn’t going to see him. Even if she desperately needed to.

“It’s like the people who died on 9/11.”

She wears his clothes. She sleeps. She picks out and orders an urn for him that she thinks he’d like (“I just want him home.”). My niece and older nephew drove down to stay with her. When she sleeps, her face is full of tension and her mouth is fixed into a hard frown. The nephew has to go back to work but my niece is staying for a bit longer.

HOW TO DISPOSE OF A VEHICLE CONTAMINATED BY DECOMPOSITION

There was some discussion about his car. My sister thought she could give it to her eldest son or sell it but it was locked up in an evidence impound and was a serious biohazard. I called AfterMath, the nationwide company law enforcement frequents to clean up crime scenes. 

Four thousand bucks to remove all the parts of the automobile contaminated plus whatever it would cost to replace those parts. Keeping the vehicle was not an option. Despite this, it was in my sister’s name and we were responsible for getting it out of impound before she was saddled with liability.

The National Auto Charities deal with this sort of thing. I arranged for a tow a few days later, transferring a salvage title for a tax credit and removal of the car. We guessed the title was in the glove compartment because no one could find it but I used a bill of sale to verify ownership. The charity will file for a duplicate title.

Having to explain, over and over, how he died and the circumstances of the vehicle have a numbing effect. I am successfully avoiding grappling with the grief that sits under it all, like a viper waiting to strike but biding its time. Grief is biding its time until I’m done doing things to distract. It wants all of my attention. It wants to cripple me.

The plan was to hold a memorial in the park for family on Saturday but with my mom in the hospital and effectively hobbled, my sister decides to hold off until his grandmother can be there. She asks if I can make a memorial video for the future service and AirDrops hundreds of photos for the task.

HOW TO MAKE A MEMORIAL VIDEO OF YOUR LOVED ONE WITHOUT CASCADING INTO A NON-STOP FIGHT WITH CRUSHING SADNESS

You can’t. Or at least, I couldn’t.

The dispassionate focus on the timing of the pictures in sync with the three songs chosen held me for a bit. Expanding or contracting transitions, using the Ken Burns Effect on faces via iMovie, using quotes Dana found to transition things. Very technical. Very distancing.

But, in order to complete things in the pieces necessary, the filmmaker (using that title loosely and with some irony implied) has to go back and preview things. And the first look at the first ten years of his life took my legs out from under me. My face clenched like a fist and I tried to bar fight the tears and lost.

Of everything I found myself doing to run from the well of despair and horror, this ten-minute video was the most difficult. I’d argue in this moment it was one of the most difficult tasks I’ve had to do in fifty-four years. I’ve heard the phrase “gut wrenching” but never understood it until now.

One of the unrealistic things my mother tried to instill into my evolving psyche was what she called the Three Days Rule. The idea is that no matter what befalls you—death, the loss of a job, a divorce, whatever—you have exactly three days to grieve, mourn, piss and moan. On day four, get up offa your ass and get back to Life.

As unrealistic as it sounds (especially in the Age of Victimhood and Social Media Therapy) the lesson tends to stick. It also creates a strange barrier within me that prevents the grieving from commencing until long after the tragic circumstance.

What occurs to me is that my experience, my sister’s loss, the labyrinth of strange tasks associated with the death of a loved one, are all incredibly common. According to the internet, 150,000 people die globally every single day; 150,000 mothers deal with loss, 150,000 uncles grapple with cremation or funeral arrangements. While each death is highly specific to the people most affected, living through death makes no one unique or special.

See what I meant when I mentioned the intellectualizing of death...?

I frame my nephew’s passing as death by misadventure. The drug thing is so laden with blame and rage but, at its heart, drugs were his way of recreation. Really no different than alcohol, gambling, sex, playing football, working out, or rock climbing. If he had been rock climbing and accidentally fallen to his demise, no one would seek revenge or accountability. Death by misadventure. No judgment.

Dana found a box in mom’s basement marked “Don.” It was filled with crap from my senior year in high school and freshman year in college. She wanted to go through it and I had no interest. Eventually, I did go through it with her and I realized why it seemed so odious to even consider. These were photos and effluvia from when I was my nephew’s age. These were old college IDs, prom pictures, a self-made time capsule of me before I really started to experience life.

He would end just as I was beginning. I took some time looking at myself at eighteen and nineteen years old and pondered all the life I would have missed had I inadvertently died in my car six months before my twentieth birthday. While life is short, as they say, it can be full. My life has been incredibly full and the gratitude I feel for the opportunities to make mistakes, love, lose, work, create, and bathe in my small corner of humanity is astounding.

Unlike the mourning of someone who has had that fullness, the mourning for someone so incredibly young has a different flavor. It doesn’t taste of the tried and true, but of the life unlived. The memories of him are brief and each has a more pungent quality for that brevity. 

I am reminded of a scene from the film Minority Report. A child has died early, his father and mother unable to move past the grief. A character with pre-cognitive abilities takes a moment to describe the boy as he grows up and becomes a man, lives his life, giving the parents a moment to see in some way the possibilities.

I see my nephew’s future in a similar way. Accomplishments never realized, love he will never feel, birthdays, holidays, and experiences he will never have. My sister tells me there is a hole in her, a vital piece of her that is gone. When she tells me this I understand that most of the tears I have angrily shed are for her.

As for my grief (because I can’t write about the mourning of my sister, his siblings, my wife, my mom and dad with any expertise), I suspect that while the landmines will thin out some, I’ll still find myself stepping on one from time to time and being overcome.

The thing about running from grief is that it is patient and will always catch up.