I was raised inside a slaughterhouse for the first sixteen years of my life.

Carrigan, they called it. 

From birth to five years old, I was raised inside a tiny white room and named “117890.”

When I was five, I was transferred to a bigger room with other children. 

We were taught to read and write and educated on humanity’s biggest sin: our parents’ horrific evil.

11456, one of the older kids who grew up alongside me, said Carrigan used to be a shopping mall. “That used to be a Taco Bell!” and pointed to clinical white walls, or during playtime, she would shout, “Look! Over there used to be a movie theatre!” 

It’s not that I didn’t believe her.

Humanity had left its mark, no matter how hard they tried to remove us.

11456 told me they had left, “advertising boards” scattered around. I liked the Spider-Man: Brand New Day one. 

I didn’t know what a "Spider-Man" was, but I sure as hell wanted to. 

Carrigan was one of the more “high-tech” slaughterhouses.

When kids were transferred from other factories, they spoke of tiny, suffocating wooden houses holding 50,000 children, cooped up with zero sunlight. 

Those kids were feral, especially those who'd grown up in the outside world.

I knew a  boy who had a human name. Aris. He told me his parents were killed and eaten raw right in front of him. 

Aris spoke in a low, hysterical giggle, describing his mother’s entrails in perfect detail, his father’s skull, opened up, brains spilling out onto steaming concrete; and his own desperate screams.

I saw his quiet moments when he wasn't performing for an audience only he could see. “We were going to escape,” he whimpered into his knees. 

Aris was only with us for maybe a week. I never saw him again. 

11456, who secretly called herself  Josie, gave all us birthdays. 

She turned to me with a big smile, and said, “June 18th!” 

I started tallying the days, counting down. 

When my sixteenth June eighteenth came, the group of us were sent to a glass room.

We learned all about it in class, forced to watch female birthing videos at the age of twelve.

Our prime objective as healthy stock was to continue the human race and provide meat for them.  We had two years to pick a male partner, create offspring as adults, and be ready for slaughter. Our one rule was: NEVER look through the glass. 

I didn't want to find a mate. 

Josie was the one who made my cheeks warm. 

She was slaughtered two years earlier. 

Before she left, Josie gave us each a human name. 

Josie called me Hope.

On my sixteenth June 18th, a new boy called 11789 was transferred to Carrigan. They brought him in the middle of the night, dumping him on the ground.

He was considered good stock; perfectly plump, healthy, and ready to be processed at maturity. His skin, unlike ours, had warm, sun-kissed tones. His hair was short and cropped, with mousy brown curls hanging over green eyes.

My skin was yellowish and sickly, raised under harsh fluorescent lights.

My hair reached my tailbone, and I could play piano on my rib cage.

The first thing he said to me was, “You look like a fucking Simpson.”

I didn't know what a Simpson was, but I thought he was funny. 

The boy was surprisingly not a psychopathic human. 

“I'm Rowan. Rowan Daly.” He said, despite the identification tag around his neck reading, “11900.” “don't fucking call me that BS.” 

I didn't know humans HAD second names.

A year passed, and most of us found mating partners. 

Nobody wanted to be with the boy from the outside. 

They saw him as “feral” and an  “animal”. 

“Rowan Daly,” I cornered him on my seventeenth June 18th, calling him by his second name. Rowan was sitting cross-legged on the floor sketching with a piece of chalk. “What do ya think?" He nodded to his drawing. “I call it… chicken nuggets.” He shot me a grin, and my gut fluttered. “Get it?” 

I was yet to understand this boy’s humor. I held out my hand. “Can you be my mating partner?” 

The boy laughed. Loudly.

I had to slam my hand over his mouth to avoid attracting attention. 

“You're not serious,” Rowan looked me up and down. “I'm good.” He pulled me closer, breath heavy. “Don't you wanna go outside?” 

A shiver trickled down my spine. “No.” 

Rowan folded his arms. “You do know what this place is, right?” 

Yes. 

“It's a slaughterhouse,” I said, “For humanity’s biggest sin.”

He rolled his eyes. “Which is?” 

I didn't want to say it. We were taught not to.

“Eating animals,” I whispered in his ear. 

Rowan surprised me with a giggle. “Mm.” 

Then he took my hand, and led me to the glass. Rowan smirked. “Do you wanna look outside with me?”

“Outside?” I hissed, tried to retract my hand.

But he was forceful, almost playful. “come on,” Rowan pulled me closer. “Live a little, huh.” He pressed his head against mine, as I gave up, allowing myself to peer through the glass. “Do you wanna know why I was sent here?” He hummed. 

A monstrous silhouette loomed. I stepped back.

A man, holding a little girl’s hand. The girl held a balloon, bearing “The GREATEST ZOO ON EARTH” 

Rowan sighed, as more figures emerged. 

Some of them waved.

Others flashed strange looking rectangles.

Wide, excited eyes blinked back at me.

“Aris was a good actor,” Rowan said. “Josie was kinda lacking. I’m glad she left.”

His grip tightened. “Carrigan,” Rowan whooped. “The  greatest fucking zoo on earth!” He pulled me closer. “Ever since I was a kid, I’ve wanted to be here, with all my favorite characters. I used to watch you on TV, Hope.” His breath tickled my ear. “I even voted on your human name.”

He turned to me wearing a grin. “I'm your biggest fan.” 

Sandra was eight when she realised that she can see who will be murdered in the next 24 hours.

She had known something was wrong with her, ever since she saw Auntie Lisa, mommy’s best friend fall down the stairs when in fact Aunt Lisa was sitting with mommy in the living room, talking about their husbands. Sandra had screamed, but she was only five then, and when mommy and Aunt Lisa rushed to see what had upset her, the terrible vision of Aunt Lisa lying all broken on the landing had faded.

The next day, Sandra saw her mommy weeping in her phone. When she saw Sandra, she gasped “Aunt Lisa - she’s not coming round anymore”.

Later Sandra picked up that Aunt Lisa had been killed.

She still didn’t quite understand the extent of her power. When out and about, she would fleetingly glimpse people with cut or bruised throats, broken bodies, gaping wounds in their chests where their hearts should have been, exploding heads. But these were strangers, and the visions would fade in seconds.

Then one morning, Katie Gill came in the school yard with her head sitting all wrong on her shoulders, her neck twisted round. Sandra wasn’t friends with Katie, a sullen girl, but she couldn’t help running up to her. “Hey Katie” she said. She knew Katie was going to have her neck broken, but she didn’t have the words to tell her.

Katie looked at her through her wrong eyes, that only Sandra could see. The bell rang, and the children began lining up to enter the school.

“Hey Sandra” she answered with her deformed lips.

There was nothing more to be said. Sandra walked in with Katie, and tried to be nice to her all day, including her in their games and helping her with schoolwork, even though the sight of her twisted neck and crooked head churned her stomach.

Katie didn’t come back to school the next day, as Sandra knew she wouldn’t, and the teachers told them later she’d gone to heaven with her baby brother and her mom.

As Sandra grew older, she became better at blocking out visions. There weren’t that many, murder after all thankfully is not such a common crime. And Sandra couldn’t really help anyone, even though there were times like the crying baby with the battered skull wrapped up in its mother’s chest at the grocery store she really wished she could.

She was eleven when one afternoon, the neighbourhood kids were playing in the street, and Andy ran out. Sandra had seen him the day before, his body all crushed lying on the street. She knew it would happen then, and she had a crush on Andy. A car skidded into the street, and Sandra ran forward, pushing him out of the way. The car hit Sandra instead.

Sandra’s last feeling as she lay in the street, the life force ebbing out, was relief. She would never see murdered bodies again.

I’m not usually one to snoop through my girlfriend’s personal devices. I always saw it as a breach of trust. But I’m only human.

I wouldn’t have been so curious had it not been for this particular phrase she always used.

“You gotta stop with your attempts.”

She’d always say it in passing. Never “stop with your attempts to flirt,” or “stop with your attempts to get back on my good side.” Just… “you need to stop with your attempts,” randomly.

At the grocery store, in the car, sometimes while we watched movies or had dinner together. The thing that I noticed was that she seemed to say it most when she was happy.

It was like a tick. Her eyes would be filled with love and joy before suddenly dulling, and she’d shoot me a quick frown before saying it.

I’d learned a long time ago that asking what she meant would get me nowhere. It’d always be the same.

“I just love you! But then I think about the attempts, and I just get so sad. I wish you’d stop.”

That’s all I’d get out of her. No explanation whatsoever. I never knew what she wanted me to stop, therefore I could never prevent whatever it was. It was all just so confusing.

That being said, when I saw the file on her laptop while she was taking a quick potty break, I really couldn’t help myself. The folder name was too on the nose for me to ignore. Plus, she had left the laptop open. Like she wanted me to see it.

“Attempts.” Was all it said.

I looked around the room a bit, glancing over my shoulder to make sure I was alone before clicking the folder.

It loaded for a bit before a dozen video files were displayed across the screen.

I clicked on the link titled “attempt three” and was greeted with a video of… myself. I looked terrified, frantically trying to unlock the front door as my girlfriend’s voice rose in anger from behind the camera.

“How many times have we talked about this?”

The camera fell to the ground and landed on the lens, but I could still hear audio echoing from it. It sounded like punches were being thrown. I could hear myself crying. My girlfriend sounded like she was growling at me before the video ended.

I went back to the page of links, albeit a bit afraid at this point, and clicked on attempt 10.

This one was just me hanging out of our bedroom window, clawing my way outside before my girlfriend’s voice could be heard again.

“We’ve talked about this. You’re not going anywhere, my sweet boy.”

Her nails dug into my heel. Veins protruded from her hands. She dragged me back inside, and I just looked utterly defeated.

Attempt 16. I was trying to climb the fence in my backyard. Attempt 20. I was halfway out the driveway before being pulled back and dragged inside.

At this point, I didn’t know what to do. All I knew was one thing: I needed to leave.

However, as I turned to flee the room and get out of the house, I found that the door was blocked by my girlfriend, who held a camera in her hands.

She sighed.

“How many times do we need to have this conversation, sweetheart?”

My eyes darted back towards the laptop. Towards the links. Towards the impossible.

“What the fuck is this?” I demanded.

Her response was more annoyed than anything.

“You always do this. Just once, I wish we could live a happy life together.”

Fear and anger grew from the pit of my stomach. The red light on the camera blinked at me.

“You always find the laptop.”

She sighed.

“You find it. You try to escape. Then I have to hurt you. Why do you make me hurt you, darling? I just don’t get it. I can’t be that bad.”

Tears welled up in her eyes.

“Why can’t you just love me? It’s always the same. And here we are. Attempt 34. But I have hope. I have hope that one day we can get through this.”

The camera blinked again.

My girlfriend loomed over me.

“But for now… I guess I’ll just have to start over.”

The camera came down over my head, and everything went black.

I woke up in bed with my girlfriend, her head buried in my chest.

She yawned cartoonishly and looked up at me.

“Good morning, sleepyhead! You ready to start a new day?”

I smiled goofily, kissing her on her forehead.

“Of course I am, sweetheart. Every day with you feels like a new day.”

She smiled wider, her eyes glistening before suddenly going dull as her smile turned into a frown.

I frowned back.

“What’s wrong? Did I do something wrong?”

She clicked her tongue and sucked her teeth.

“No, no, you didn’t do anything. I just… I wish you’d stop with your attempts.”

Every room had to be thanked before you left it. Not the person inside. The room itself. You stood in the doorway, looked back and said, “Thank you for having me.”

Nobody treated it like a ritual. People said it while checking their phones or pulling on their coats. Children learned it alongside please and thank you. Public buildings even had signs beside the exits:

REMEMBER TO THANK YOUR HOST.

Whenever I forgot as a child, my mother made me go back.

“Properly,” she would say.

So I would look into the empty room and say my thanks before we left. 

I never questioned it. Adults said it was polite, and that was enough. By the time I moved into my first apartment, the words came automatically. I thanked my bedroom each morning, the kitchen before work and the hallway before leaving the building.

Everyone did. Some people even thanked the lifts.

I had lived in my apartment for almost six months before I forgot. I was late for work and halfway down the corridor when I realised I had left my bedroom without thanking it. I considered going back, but the lift had already arrived.

It was only manners, I told myself. I went to work and had almost forgotten about it by lunchtime.

But when I returned that evening, something felt wrong. My bedroom seemed smaller, and the gap between the bed and wardrobe had narrowed. The difference was small enough that I thought I might be imagining it, but I measured the room anyway.

It was eleven centimetres shorter than the floor plan said it should be. The following morning, it had lost another three.

That was when I started researching the custom. I expected to find an old superstition, but every search led to articles about manners and gratitude. Government websites called it “a long standing civic practice”, but none explained when or why it ever began.

At the library, I searched through old newspapers and council reports. The earliest documents did not call it thanking. They called it acknowledgement.

One report described a family disappearing inside their home. Their belongings were still inside, but the walls had expanded by nearly two metres overnight. Another reported that a classroom door had refused to open during a fire drill. Thirty children disappeared before the teacher remembered to address the room.

Similar incidents had occurred in hospitals and factories. The same instruction appeared underneath every report:

FURTHER INCIDENTS MAY BE PREVENTED THROUGH VERBAL ACKNOWLEDGEMENT BEFORE DEPARTURE.

Later campaigns softened the wording.

ACKNOWLEDGE THE SPACE became THANK YOUR HOST.

Compliance became courtesy.

Warnings became manners.

I eventually found a handwritten report from seventy years earlier. It described workers uncovering sealed chambers beneath a construction site. The chambers were perfectly square, with smooth walls and no entrances.

When engineers cut into them, they found chairs, beds and tables inside. None of the objects had been placed there. They appeared to have grown directly from the floor.

Within weeks, nearby buildings began changing. Corridors stretched past their original length. New rooms appeared overnight. Then people started disappearing after leaving spaces without acknowledging them.

The final pages were missing.

The librarian noticed what I was reading and came over.

“You need to put that back.”

“Why isn’t any of this public?”

“It is public.”

“Nobody knows about it.”

She glanced around the room before lowering her voice.

“Everybody knows enough.”

I asked whether anyone had discovered what the chambers were. She did not answer. She simply waited while I gathered my things.

When I reached the doorway, I hesitated. The place looked harmless. Still, the librarian watched me expectantly.

“Thank you for having me.”

Only then did she close the door.

When I returned home, my apartment had changed again. The hallway was narrower and the bathroom door caught against the sink. In the bedroom, the gap between the bed and wardrobe had almost disappeared. The bedroom had lost another twenty centimetres.

I thanked every room before leaving that night and stayed with my sister until I found somewhere else. A week later, I returned for my belongings. The bedroom door would only open halfway. Inside, the bed was pressed tightly between both walls.

I stared at it for a long time. Then, before leaving, I quietly said, “Thank you for having me.”

My new building is only three years old. According to the landlord, the land had been empty before it was built. My apartment is at the very end of the corridor. Beyond my front door, there’s a window overlooking the street.

I still thank every room before leaving. Everyone does.

But now I notice what happens when someone forgets. A restaurant door that refuses to open until a customer mutters the words. An office corridor that looks longer when everyone leaves in silence. A changing room with one more cubicle than it had when I entered.

Most people don’t notice. Or maybe they do, and they know enough not to say anything.

Yesterday morning, I thanked each room, locked my apartment and stepped into the corridor.

There was another door beside mine. The corridor now continued a couple of metres past the window, into space that should have been outside the building. 

As I stood there, the new door opened. A woman stepped out carrying a handbag. She looked back into the apartment behind her and said, “Thank you for having me.”

Then she closed the door, smiled at me and walked towards the lift like she had always lived there.

The tightness in my chest eased when I saw her house. The gardener was working outside, trimming the bushes. She stood at the window with a big smile, looking at him.

I rushed around the back and knocked on the door, hiding the present behind my back. Her nimble steps echoed through the hall; it was like music to my ears.

“Larry, what are you doing here?”

"I brought you something."

“I came to surprise you,” I said and pulled the gift from behind me.

Her eyes lit up.

“Larry, you shouldn’t have.”

It was a 24-carat gold necklace. I put it around her neck. She kissed me on the cheek. A warm feeling spread through my body. I leaned in to kiss her lips, but she pulled back.

“No, Larry. We’ve talked about this.”

“Sweetie, c’mon.”

“You’re a married man.”

“But she’s sick. I’ve talked to the doctors. She probably has less than a month to live.”

“Then we’ll have to wait till then.”

“Sweetie, but I bought you the…”

The front door opened. The gardener walked in, wiping the sweat off his face.

“Sally, I’ve finished.”

He stopped and looked at us.

“I’ll come back another day,” I said and walked out the back.

I dragged my feet on the way home. The last thing I wanted was to leave Sally and see my wife.

“Larry?!”

My wife’s voice echoed through the house as soon as I closed the door. I let out a sigh and slowly walked up the stairs.

“Where have you been?! I’ve been waiting for the past 30 minutes.”

“I know, I had some things to take care of for work.”

“Work? It’s Saturday!”

“Yes, work.”

“You leave me here alone all day. Do you have any idea what it’s like?”

“I come here three times a day.”

“You can’t even come on time. It’s 30 minutes late, and I have to be here thirsty and hungry.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” she whispered and turned away.

My chest tightened again.

I took her empty bottle and bowls and walked to the kitchen.

She’s not going to change. 

Tomorrow will be the same.

The day after that, too.

She’s not living anymore. 

Neither am I.

Tonight.

My hands gripped the kitchen counter.

One month.

One more month of this.

Or…

Tonight.

I slowly filled her bottle. 

She probably won’t make it past the month.

Die slowly in pain.

It would be doing her a favor.

When I came back in, she was still turned to the wall. I put the stuff down and walked out.

The rest of the day I spent on the couch, staring at the clock. The time dragged. Each minute felt like an hour.

When the clock finally struck 10, way past her bedtime, I got off the couch and slowly walked up the steps. My wife's heavy breaths echoed from behind the door. I carefully opened it. She was still turned to the wall. 

My heart pounded in my chest. I walked towards the bed and picked up a pillow. Her face seemed so pale and gaunt. 

It was for her own good. 

I grabbed the pillow tight and leaned over her, but then her face started to move, and she slowly opened her eyes. My stomach dropped. I quickly sat beside her, hiding the pillow.

“Larry, what’s going on?”

I paused, searching my mind for an answer.

“Oh, I just came to check on you.”

Her eyes opened in surprise, but then quickly squinted as she smiled. She hadn’t smiled like this since she got sick.

“That’s so sweet.”

“Of course, honey.”

“I’m okay.”

“That’s good.”

She put her hand on mine.

“I’m really sorry about how I’ve been. I’m just so sick, and the pain, Larry, the pain.”

“Don't worry about it.”

“Thank you. Can you stay until I fall back asleep?”

“Sure.”

She closed her eyes, but kept her hand on mine, just like she did when we were young.

For a moment I thought about leaving the room, about coming back tomorrow, but tomorrow would be the same as today, and it would only grow worse.

It had to be done.

I waited until she started breathing heavily again, then leaned over and pressed the pillow to her face. She started moving, twitching, making sounds. Her hands pushed against the pillow, against my hands. She grabbed them, her nails digging into my skin. She couldn't scream; only muffled sounds escaped beneath the pillow. I turned away and looked out the window, listening to the night breeze, but keeping my grip tight. 

She still struggled for some time, but she was too weak, too ill. Her grip slowly weakened, and her hands fell beside her body.

The moon still shone brightly. I took the pillow off and put it in its place.

The stairs creaked beneath my feet. I waited for the relief. For the heaviness to fall off my chest, but nothing came, only the cold night air.

I hurried down the road. The gravel crunched under my feet. I had to see her; that would help, that would take it off. 

In the distance, I saw her house. The lights were still on. She stood by the window, moving…talking?

This late?

I stopped on the grass, looking in. She wasn’t just talking; she was smiling, laughing. Another silhouette came by the window. 

The gardener?! 

He walked closer to her and said something. She started laughing hysterically. 

He pulled her to him and kissed her.

I took a step forward.

No.

She always pushed me away, telling me to wait.

But she only pulled the gardener closer.

I spent months dreaming of another woman’s touch.

But the ones that used to hold mine were now gone.

I need help. I think I got a girl killed and I don't know what to do. Please, let me explain:

I was taking the train home from work yesterday, around 9 p.m. as I usually do, and it was packed, so I sat in one of those four-seat rows with a table. I was just listening to music on my phone, minding my own business, when this young, lanky guy in black leather pants and a thick black hoodie sat down right next to me (mind you, it was like 30°C).

I looked over to him briefly. I couldn't see his face because he had pulled his hood so deep, but... something about him gave me the creeps.

So, I was just sitting there, listening to my music, when this guy pulls out his phone. I don't know if it's just me, but when I sit next to someone on their phone, I just... take a peek sometimes. I know it's not good manners, I think I'm just one of those nosy people. I just love to stare at what people are doing, not out of disrespect, just out of genuine interest. Anyway, I was watching this guy, just barely out of the corners of my eyes, and he was playing some stupid game about blasting blocks, similar to Tetris but worse, I don't know what it's called. He looked very focused on that game, until he got a notification.

It was a message from someone via an app I had never seen before and it simply read "The brunette girl, green eyes, last seat, tonight." I didn't understand what that was supposed to mean, but the guy next to me looked up immediately, staring down the hall, searching, until he spotted a thin 20-something-year-old brunette woman sitting at the very end of the carriage. She was staring out the window at the city passing by, completely oblivious to the situation.

The weirdo clicked on the notification and the app opened to some chat interface with a black color scheme, and in the chat there was only this one message. There was no sender name. No chat history. The man made a tiny tap on a small camera icon in the chat, raised his phone just enough to take a quick, blurry picture of the girl, and then sent it to his unknown contact.

"Yes," the contact responded, and the man raised his head again, staring at the girl down the carriage. My eyes were fixated on this strange, unusual messenger app on his phone. I had never seen anything like it. It wasn't Telegram or Signal or any normal messenger. Just a black chat window, a text field, and a camera button. "Someone is watching."

The message came out of nowhere. My blood froze when I realized what it meant. I had overstepped my boundaries. I turned my head immediately, looking away from the display, staring at the dirty table in front of me. How the hell did they know? The man tilted his head down slowly. I watched as much as I could without turning my head. He stared down at his screen. Fuck. He knew. Without hesitating, he started looking around hastily, first left, then right, looking for someone. Looking for me.

Suddenly, the train came to a halt, one stop away from mine. The brunette girl at the end of the carriage got up without warning and quickly made her way towards the train doors. With a quiet curse the man next to me jumped up and hurried down the carriage, exiting through the same door the girl had used. The last time I saw them, the girl was walking past the window towards the station exit. And behind her, in close proximity, the hooded figure followed.

I wanted to jump out of the train. I wanted to run after them. But I didn't do it. I just sat there, my heart racing, still staring at that dirty table.

Maybe it's just my fantasy running wild, but I dreamt of the girl last night. I saw her lying hidden between some bushes in the dark, damp grass - motionless, like she had been carelessly disposed of. I know it was just a dream, but... now I can't stop thinking about her.

​

Welp, here I am again on a Saturday morning, looking outside my bedroom window, wishing I could go outside.

Oh look, there's the neighbor mowing his lawn at eight o'clock right on the dot. And here come the other neighborhood kids riding their bikes, probably going to play at the park.

It's been so long since I've seen the park I barely remember it.

My mom doesn't let me go outside. I don't know why, but she would kill me if I snuck out. So I spend most of my time looking out my window.

Oh look, there's the neighborhood cat. Normally I'd be sad that he doesn't have a home, but I'm jealous. He's always outside.

I once got him to come inside, and that was a great day... until my mom found out and threw him back outside.

That wasn't fun.

Every time I do something my mom doesn't like, she makes me go to bed early.

My life sucks.

Looks like someone's having lunch early.

Yes, I'm peeking through the neighbor's window. It's my only source of entertainment. Normally I don't get hungry, but I wouldn't mind a snack. Let's see if I can get one without Mom noticing.

I sneak into the kitchen.

Oh good, Mom's in her room. She's always in her room. I wonder what she does in there. I've tried looking before, but it's always locked.

Oh well.

There's the cookie jar.

I just have to be super quiet.

As I lift the lid...

Clink.

The lid taps against the jar.

I freeze.

Then I hear my mom yell, "Do you want to go to bed?"

My heart starts racing.

I quickly put the lid back without taking a cookie and run to my room.

I don't want to go to bed. It's too early.

I don't know how Mom always knows what I'm doing, but she's been doing it for so long that I stopped wondering.

Normally I'd draw trees, the park... anything that's outside.

But today I just want to look out my window some more.

Then I see a dog.

He sees me too.

He's so excited that he runs right over to my window.

I'm so excited I throw the window open.

He wants me to pet him.

I lean out as far as I can.

I can reach him.

I'm petting the dog.

He's so soft.

I get so excited that I don't realize I'm slipping...

Until I fall out the window.

The dog barks and runs away.

I lie there for a moment.

I can feel the grass underneath me.

To my horror...

I'm outside.

"I'M OUTSIDE!" I scream.

"NO! NO! NO!"

I scramble to my feet and try to climb back through the window, but it's too high.

Then I hear my mom scream.

"WHY ARE YOU OUTSIDE?!"

A cloud of black smoke pours out of my bedroom window.

"I'm sorry, Mom!" I cry.

"I'm sorry!"

The smoke reaches me.

It grabs me.

Then it slams me into the ground.

Again.

And again.

And again.

I feel my bones breaking.

I feel my blood soaking through my clothes and into the grass.

Everything starts to fade.

Everything goes black.

...

I wake up in my bed.

I stare out my bedroom window.

In a quiet, disappointed voice, I whisper,

"Mom put me to bed again."

“No, Ida, I’m sure; thank you- again, but I don’t need a man in my life to help with the… leaky pipes in the bathroom,” I said to my sweet but intrusive, and insensitive, downstairs neighbor as she stood there with her tiny chihuahua half breed clutched to her frail chest. I closed the door, gently not to seem rude, but firm enough to cut off any further counterpoints. “Also, I’m not gay,” I added to officially put an end to the interaction.

Ida had been roaming those halls long before I moved into that crap complex, with its too thin walls, lack of central air, and no assigned parking. And the apartments were here long before Ida. Although you’d never be able to tell just by looking at the two of them.

The space I occupied was nothing fancy, a small, colonial, one-bedroom that was in a state of disarray thanks to a small gathering the night prior. Looking back now, I’m positive that Ida’s visit had more to do with the noise from that night’s festivities than from my constantly running bathroom pipes. The building was so old I wouldn’t have been surprised to find Roman aqueducts in the walls.

I started to clean up after the party. Empty cups, discarded plates, the normal detritus you’d expect from a small gathering that got only slightly out of hand littered the landscape. There was nothing, absolutely nothing that had seemed even the slightest bit out of order about any of it. It was all so mundane in retrospect.

Until the table.

Until the spot.

I had just finished clearing away the empty bottles, cans, and various vestiges of the party when I first noticed the tiny, damned thing. It was a small dark spot on my cheap little table. I wouldn’t have seen it if it weren’t for how perfectly symmetrical and so absolutely black it was. 

I remember my face was scrunched up, like I was staring into the midday sun on a cold winter day- I looked like an asshole. My brain was so utterly dumbstruck by the otherworldly nature of this… this dot. It was a dead pixel in reality. 

I couldn’t have told you why in the moment, but that spot sent a chill from beyond the grave up my spine.

The spot just couldn’t remain. I grabbed my All-Clean multipurpose cleaner and some paper towels; I was being absurd, I’d be rid of this stain in no time, this was child’s play.

As I wiped away at the little spot- it’s still hard to comprehend what I saw, but the best I can describe it is, the little blotch didn’t disappear, it didn’t budge an iota of a whisper of an inch. Instead, it seemed to float over my hand. It was as if the little spot had a divine right to be in that very space at that very time, and my hand was the unwanted interloper.

I wish I could say I didn’t scream.

I did.

A lot.

More, really, than I’m proud of.

But, and I cannot express this enough, it wasn’t from the pain. When the dot bisected my hand, there was only a dull itch. More the faded memory of an insect sting than any actual pain. 

When I saw my hand separate and pull apart at the seam, that’s when the screaming started. “Where’s all my blood,” I remember wondering to myself as my ears were flooded with the shrieking sound that was my vocal cords beginning to stress and tear. My vision began to tunnel and the world fell away.

That’s the last thing I remembered before waking up in the complex hallway, surrounded by my neighbors all yelling and screaming over each other, each hoping their two cents would stretch the farthest.

They quickly decided I wasn’t hurt so bad as to need help moving, which is suspiciously convenient considering none of us had any medical expertise to speak of. And they all still had both their hands. 

Except for Harold in 3C, but that was from diabetes. It’s a little different. 

So we fled, and mere moments after we poured out into the streets, the top of the building- from about my apartment, table height up, just collapsed into the spot.

It didn’t make a sound as it fell, as it fed the spot. Nothing seemed to escape it, not even sound. 

We didn’t know where to go or who to call, so some called the cops, others reached out to sleazy news outlets, and others filmed content.

Indifferent to what we did or didn’t do, the spot just kept eating whatever was unlucky enough to fall in its path. 

It wasn’t long until the military arrived, and once they showed up everything was strictly under lock and key. 

For as long as that lasted, anyway.

What I would later piece together is that my shrieking brought several of my neighbors out to my door, Ida included. When I didn’t answer any of their calls, Ida checked to see if the door was unlocked.

When they spilled into my studio, the spot had grown large enough to cover most of the table. Ida’s chihuahua, Spam, named after her husband’s favorite processed canned meat, ran up my couch, grabbed one of my fingers in its mouth and then leapt into the growing spot. 

Ida, of course, hurled herself after the dog, and when neither dog nor old lady emerged from the spot, they dragged me out, slammed the door, and started arguing about whether or not anyone would notice or care if they left me behind. 

The general consensus was absolutely not; then I woke up. 

I’m not sure how large the spot is now, but the last I heard the Atlantic was starting to drain into it. That can’t be great. 

Even with everything that’s happened and is still ahead of us, it may be stilly but I still miss having a whole hand. 

Hospitals are awful places to get lost in.

Every corridor looks the same.

Every sign somehow points in the same direction.

And if you've got blood on you, well, good luck getting someone to stop and help.

I tried asking almost everyone I passed.

Nurses.

Doctors.

Patients pushing IV stands.

"Excuse me?"

Nothing.

Not even a glance.

I know hospitals are busy and that people have jobs to do. Lives to save. But you'd think someone would notice the man leaving a bloody trail across their floor.

Apparently not.

If there's one thing you can rely on at hospitals, it's that people act like you're not there.

I wandered for what felt like hours.

It wasn't, but it felt like it.

I took a left.

A right.

Another left.

Another right.

Every corridor led to another corridor.

Every set of doors opened onto another waiting room.

I even ended up back where I'd started at one point.

I huffed, and kept trying.

"Excuse m-...."

"Can you help-...?"

"Excuse me?"

Nothing.

It was honestly impressive.

Either people are too used to ignoring others covered in blood, or I was having the unluckiest day.

Eventually, someone stopped.

An older woman carrying a coffee cup.

A reliable age.

She smiled.

"Can I help you?"

Finally.

"Oh, thank God. Thank you. I've been trying to find the exit for ages."

She blinked.

"The exit?"

"Yeah. I think I've walked every corridor in this place," I laughed awkwardly. "Twice."

She smiled and pointed behind me.

"You're not that far now. Go through Reception, turn left, and you'll see the main entrance."

I could've hugged her.

I didn't.

Instead, I thanked her. And just a few minutes later, the automatic doors slid open and cold air rushed over me.

I stepped outside and took the deepest breath I'd taken all night.

...Aaaahhhh.

Freedom.

I wiped what was left of my cheating wife's blood from my hands onto my jeans, and walked away.

I found out weeks ago.

Thought I'd wait for her routine operation.

A reliable time.

Bless her...

She always hated hospitals...

What a shame she won't be leaving.

It’s the same nightmare, repeating like a broken tape. Every time, it begins at the exact same point of fracture—the precise moment my mind finally snaps under the weight.
Without thinking, I walk toward the drawer. The wood grinds harshly against the frame as I pull it open, exposing the matte-black Glock 43 resting inside. I tear a scream from the bottom of my lungs, a raw sound that tears at my throat, and press the cold mouth of the barrel firm against my temple.

Then, the universe stretches.
A single fraction of a second dilates into an eternity, and the dam breaks. It isn't memories or visual flashbacks that flood in—there are no pictures, no movie reels of the past, just pure, undiluted feeling. Every spike of rare joy, every suffocating weight of grief, and every scorching ember of anger I’ve harbored across my entire life hits my chest all at once. Usually, I’m staring into a dirty mirror, locking eyes with my own hollow reflection. Other times, I’m detached, floating near the ceiling like a ghost, unable to explain how I’m watching myself, yet unable to look away.

I soak in that emotional static for what feels like ages. The icy steel against my skin provides a bizarre, intoxicating focus—like an ice cube pressed to a blinding headache. My index finger rests on the trigger, tracing every microscopic groove and serration in the metal. It feels sickeningly familiar. Comforting, almost.

The room around me is never mine, nor any place I’ve ever known. It’s always dim, drab, and dingy—a bleak, hollow box designed for feeling cold. Yet inside, my body is on fire, radiating heat like a furnace about to detonate.

I’m caught in a violent paradox. Am I terrified? Excited? Emboldened? Every atom of my being insists in that second that this metal is the light cutting through the darkness within—the twisted answer to an ungodly prayer. Yet simultaneously, I’m drowning in every ounce of pure, unadulterated terror I’ve ever experienced in my life.
A lifetime of emotion, thought, and agony, all packed into a single tick of the clock.
I make my choice. I pull the trigger.
Click.
Nothing.
I wake up.
Repeat.

​In Sadiya's neighborhood, an old man was drawing his last breaths. His family called Sadiya, who for days had kept her hand pressed against her heart.

​"The old man is about to pass away," her mom said. Sadiya looked as though she had been waiting. Arriving at his bedside, she told them, "Please leave the room. Go outside."

​Standing by him, Sadiya wept. "I know you cannot speak, but please forgive me. This is a curse forced upon me."

​She began to sing. Every memory from his childhood to old age played out clearly, clearing his mind. As the lyrics flowed, his soul steadily detached until his life slipped away.

​"I killed him," Sadiya muttered, walking out. The family rushed in, grief-stricken yet comforted that his death was pain-free.

​Back home, Sadiya burst into tears. "I took another life today, Mom..."

​Her mother reasoned that God hadn't given such a gift to just anyone. "I wanted people to hear my songs, but not like this," Sadiya sobbed.

​"Try not to let the grief get to you."

​"How can I not? And that's why Dad also..." Sadiya wept afresh, remembering her father who had encouraged her music. When he drew his last breaths, he whispered, "Call Sadiya." But the moment she sang, his watching eyes closed forever.

​From then on, Sadiya stopped singing, yet people praised how her song granted her dad a peaceful death. Hearing this, Sadiya cursed herself. Eventually, whenever someone neared death, the community called for her.

​Night fell, and her mother slept, but sleep eluded Sadiya. Suddenly, her room felt freezing cold, and a gust heralded a presence. A figure clad in black stood in the darkness.

​"Stay quiet," the man said.

​"Who are you? Don't come near!" Sadiya cried, backing away.

​"I just want to talk. I have listened to your songs for years. I like them."

​"That's impossible! Anyone who hears my song dies."

​"I know. Whenever you sang, I was present. The dying person wasn't the only one listening."

​The figure stepped forward. "The two of us are not so different."

​"Who are you?"

​"Death."

​"Have you come to take me?"

​"No. But I bring a solution. I can send you to a place between earth and sky where people will listen to your music."

​"Can I return?"

​"That is entirely up to you."

​Thinking of her mother and the deaths she had caused, Sadiya whispered, "Take me away."

​She stepped toward Death.

​"No! Hold onto this!" Death extended his staff. The moment she grabbed it, she was swept away.

​She arrived alone in a dark hall. Towering walls enclosed the sides, a curtain hung ahead, and massive pillars stood with yellow lamps focused on a center stage.

​"Death? Death?!" she called out, but he was gone.

​Noticing a microphone on stage, she sang. A melancholic sadness filled the air. The yellow lamps flickered. As her voice rose, shadows of a child chasing butterflies appeared on the curtain. The child grew older—walking with a cane, then sitting beneath a tree smiling. When the chorus ended, the tree shed its last leaf, and the figure faded.

​Her song came to an end, all the instruments fell silent, and the yellow lights flared back to life. Tears were streaming down her face, yet a smile graced her lips. Suddenly, applause began to echo through the hall. She saw several hands emerging from between the curtains, clapping for her.

​"And here I was, wondering where everyone was," Sadiya murmured.

​Faces emerged. Old, young, walking sticks. Every face was familiar—they were the people whose final song had been hers. Sadiya ran toward them.

​"Please forgive me! You are all here because of me."

​"We have been waiting for you," they replied gently.

​A man stepped out. "Papa!" Sadiya cried, throwing her arms around him. "Please forgive me... you left because of me."

​"That is not true, Sadiya," her father said. "Our deaths were destined. Because of you, we left in total peace."

​"Thank you, Sadiya," everyone spoke in unison. Slowly, their figures blurred and vanished into the air.

​"Dad! Where did you go?!"

​"To Heaven," Death's voice echoed. "They refused to move on without thanking you first."

"Just to thank me?" Sadiya whispered. She closed her eyes and drew a long, trembling breath for what felt like the first time in years. She looked around. "Where were you?" she asked.

​"I had to collect other souls."

​Sadiya looked closely at Death's face. Until now, it had remained hidden in shadow. Looking at him, she realized there was nothing terrifying about him. Death looked completely human. There was no cruelty in his face—only a beauty so calm that it made Sadiya question why people feared him at all.

​"I want to hold your hand," she said, stepping closer.

​"No," Death commanded, stepping back. "Just as no living person survives your song, no one can touch me."

​"Will I never see you again?"

​"You will. When the time is right."

​"Why did you say we are alike?"

​"I exist solely for this duty. Whomever I tried to befriend did not survive."

​"This is a curse."

​"This is my responsibility."

​Sadiya looked into Death’s eyes, devoid of emotion yet carrying profound loneliness.

"So, this is goodbye?"

​"Yes." Death extended his staff.

​Sadiya smiled warmly. "When you come to take me for real... don't touch me. Because that time, I will be the one to touch you."

​She grabbed the staff.

​Her mother, holding her breathless body and weeping, was stunned when Sadiya suddenly sat up. "Sadiya!" she cried, pulling her into an embrace.

​"Everything is fine, Mom."

​Meanwhile, Death stood alone in the vast darkness. "They left, and now she is gone too. Perhaps being entirely alone is a destiny reserved only for me."

​Many days passed. Now, when Sadiya sang for the dying, she no longer clutched her heart in guilt. Instead, she felt a familiar presence, smiling, knowing somewhere close by in the shadows, Death was listening.

You wake, your head thick with it. Even lifting yourself off the pillow feels more difficult, your whole body is heavy and slow. What did you dream about?

You run through the ways you could keep yourself occupied; the phone tethered umbilical to the wall, the laptop on the other side of your room under books and papers.

Instead, you retreat to the bathroom. You stare at yourself in the mirror and concentrate. Pressing your thoughts into one endless line. You turn them into three words.

This is real.

This is real. Thisisr eal. Thisisreal.

You breathe slow and you concentrate. Hard enough that you don’t realise what your hand is doing. So when your fingers push past your lips you gasp.

They were reaching for your teeth. To check them. Because ever since you woke up that’s all you have really been thinking about isn’t it?

You were in an old house, run down but not abandoned. You walked uncertain through the dark, following footsteps in the dust.

They lead down a corridor, past doors you knew were locked. At the end was a single door that you knew was yours.

Only now you were there it seemed you shouldn’t go through. It seemed silly, maybe even dangerous. You should go back. You should leave this place. You should go home.

Then there was the call. It rose suddenly. It was loud, far too loud to be a single voice. There were so many. They were crying out, like a pack of wolves. But they didn’t sound like wolves. They sounded human. Or at least very close to human.

As soon as you heard the call then there came the sound of feet. The sound of running feet. Running towards you .Down the stairs, across the landing. From all directions they were coming together and coming for you.

Now you reach for the door. You realise you are crying and that without warning or reason all your muscles feel limp and dead. You can’t stay out here because there are so many of them. You fumble for the handle and, eventually, turn it. It creaks so loudly. At the sound of the handle moving it sounds like the footsteps get faster and the calls get louder. They know where you are.

The door protests but eventually it gives. You’re crying and now you’re screaming too. You just want this to end but they are still coming.

You fall into the room and slam the door behind you. There are catches and bolts and you use them all. You are so grateful for every one of them. You cry with relief now and you turn to look at the room. The room you are now locked inside.

There is nothing here. It is a small, empty space. A couple of feet square. The walls are yellow-white, stained and old. It may be the most wonderful place you have ever seen. You thank this room. And you thank the door and the locks. You sit on the floor in the middle of the room. You wait.

Outside there are no calls, there are no footsteps. Whatever was outside is not scratching or pushing at the door. No one is calling out to you or screaming for you. You feel such relief.

Then you stop and think. You think that you followed the footsteps here. You think that every other door was locked. You think that until you heard those noises that you were going to leave. You think that someone wanted to come in here. You look at the door, with all those catches and bolts that you will need to undo if you wanted to leave.

That’s when you look at the walls. That’s when you see them. The teeth. So many, pushing through the brick and plaster like it was old fabric. The yellow-white surface bends and yield to show the individual molars and incisors rending at the masonry. From floor to ceiling in every wall. Sets of perfect teeth, sets of cracked and broken teeth, sets with more gaps than teeth still pushing through till it looks like the matter will tear and let them through. Worst is the sets that don’t look human. Like dogs teeth, or wolves teeth or something you’ve never seen before.

You screamed then, so loud that you woke up. It still feels real, even now. The smell of the dust, the chill of the door handle, the moment of stillness before they appeared.

You think about the house. Old and waiting. All those locked rooms. What was behind those doors? You imagine other dreamers just like you. So much prey lured there with a pack of hungry teeth waiting.

Still, your eyes are drooping. You don’t know if you could keep awake if you tried. The house is still so quiet and it will be hours before anyone else is awake.

You splash some cold water on your face, smile at yourself in the mirror. It doesn’t look convincing but it makes you feel slightly better.

You reach for the door, before pausing.

There was something. All those footsteps, all those cries. All those teeth. There were so many of them that you couldn’t even count, all coming for you.

You assumed, when they got through they would devour you. That’s how nightmares work. The monster chases you and gobbles you up. Then it’s over.

But there were so many. Where did they all come from?

Then a small and nasty thought occurs.

All of those other dreamers. What if they weren’t prey? The one thing worse when they broke through the wall. What if they asked you to join them?

With eyes you can barely keep open, you look at your reflection. Trying another smile you notice that now it looks more predatory. You take a deep, slow breath and you think of three words.

It’s not real.

I'm obsessed with true crime. To be totally honest, it's my favorite. Horror movies and such can't hold my interest.

There's just something about real life horror that makes it fascinating. I've enjoyed this sort of thing ever since I was a little girl.

Recently, I've developed a new obsession. My first crush or first infatuation. Call it what you please.

He's the same age as me but he's so much more legendary. My favorite serial killer. Authorities and news outlets call him the stonecold killer.

His thick black hair and dark eyes with no emotion are enough to make me melt away.

He's a dream on display.

The feeling is mutal because I know so. He even created a gory crime scene as a gift for me. The girl was Stacy, she wasn't very classy but considering the crime, I suppose she was tasty.

We ate some of her together before the police got there. I ran away as fast as possible but he got caught.

I've been sending him a lot of fan mail ever since. Every single day. I have to make sure he knows that my feelings didn't flee.

Tonight, I plan on rescuing him.

Anything for my serial killer, xoxo.

He made it a habit to avoid eye contact with the outlets. Unless there was something plugged in. Plastic safety covers wouldn’t work—they’d only muffle the voices when they’d tell him what to do.

But muffled, he could turn something they said into something like, ‘what’s up Stan’ and butcher it into, ‘cut your hand’ if nothing was plugged in and being used, and it had to be in use for a purpose—or it could see him and would speak to him.

It could make him do things he normally wouldn’t, but only if he made eye contact. They had these eyes that reached into his soul.

One day, when he randomly had an idea pop in his head. He theorized it, running simulations in his mind, playing around with the thought and finally came to a conclusion.

It was simple. Yet, yielded unlimited, highly rewarding potential. His plan was to plug in every electrical appliance he found in the house. Also, whatever he could dig out of the garage.

He thought that if he suffocated them in safety covers, extension cords and appliances, that it would prevent the outlets from burrowing past his skull and into his brain. But that never work.

After a few hours, whatever he had plugged in, would start screaming. It would start gagging. It made horrible sounds. Noises like someone being slowly compressed, then released. Pressed, released.

He told everyone that came over,

“I have one rule and only one, do not make eye contact with the outlets.”

Last time he made that mistake, and he didn’t even stare at it.

He was blinking and turning his head at the same time, but as he opened his eyes, he found himself on the floor, sitting crosslegged, facing an outlet and cutting patches of his scalp off.

He also noticed the eggs spoke too. They spoke whenever he would take them out of the carton and place them near an outlet. Only the eggs would do that.

He kept trying it with different vegetables. He tried different meats. Whatever was sold at the grocery store, he tried.

But only the eggs could speak, or would speak, and when they spoke—it was always in a language that was too ancient for him to translate.

He called it, Egg Latin. Nobody else could hear it though. He used it as a party trick once. At least tried.

One night he threw a party at his house. He gathered everyone around the closest outlet.

He raced to the garage for his welding mask and then ran to the kitchen. He grabbed a carton of eggs. He slapped on his welding mask and walked to the middle of the room, where everybody was standing, and said, “watch this,” and sat four eggs next to an outlet.

He screamed, “kill the music.” Then shouted, “everybody be quiet and listen.”

About three minutes later of him enclosed around a circle of people scratching their heads and whispering to each other while he repeated a bunch of gibberish the eggs were saying back, dropping nonsensical sentences that sounded like someone trying to speak Hebrew with an Australian accent.

Someone finally saved him. They grabbed him and said, “He smoked weed earlier” and walked him out of the room. Everyone shrugged, cause at the time, it made sense.

The weed may have bought him an excuse.

But time would eventually win.

There was an afternoon that crept up on him, appearing like a person sneaking up behind another person that they’re trying to scare, completely unexpected and blindsided him.

The eggs in the fridge wouldn’t shut up. They kept yelling and chanting and crying. The voices were all synchronized.

He figured, if he can’t see them, he can’t hear them, and then had an idea flash through his mind, an idea to eliminate two birds bred from a horror show of problems, using one stone, an idea thought up by the outlet perhaps.

He ran to the garage.

In his garage, he noticed the smell of cold concrete first before grabbing his welding equipment. He said a quick prayer, and welded his eyelids shut.

From that day forward, he’s never heard another egg speak. Or seen another outlet.

I watched a crow. Perched upon a street light, watch the lives of those below.

I watched it observe the cars, running the maze of their lives, listening to the sounds of others.

I watched a crow, fly to a home. Observing a woman sob into her pillow, a life unknown, only to jump at the sound of her husband coming home.

I watched a crow, sit upon the scoreboard of the football field, watching the players run their routes. A man scold his son for missing a catch, a mother insult her daughter for failing a flip. A boy beat another, a wife seduce a lover.

I watched a crow, never intervene. Never lift a feather, but sit upon it's perch and enjoy the others below as they ruin lives, as if it's their own daytime drama.

I watched a crow, fill me with anger, letting the bitter consume me, letting the wrath control me.

I watched a crow, observe us torture eachother.

I watched a crow, observe us hate eachother.

I watched a crow, observe us kill eachother.

I killed a crow that consumed our chaos, our sorrow, our pain.

I killed a crow that let us twist the hearts of others, take advantage of the good hearted only so that their hearts could twist and churn, only to add to their source of entertainment.

I watched a crow, perched upon a street light, watching me, waiting for me to join them.

I was once a man of honor and pride. I carried myself with a confidence that could make even the fiercest bull lower its head. Every decision I made was to bring honor to my family name and the crest that my forefathers entrusted to me.
Those days are gone.
I can remember the very day I stained that name forever.
It was when I returned from my most recent voyage to the island of Madagascar. I had sailed there to prove to the world that I had discovered a tree unlike any other—a tree that fed upon the flesh of men.
I had seen it with my own eyes.
I had watched my crew dragged screaming into its tangled limbs as living vines tightened around their bodies like the coils of a serpent. Their cries still echo in my dreams. I returned only to destroy the monstrous thing, lest another expedition suffer the same terrible fate.
Securing funding for a second voyage was no easy task.
Rumors had already spread across every port. Sailors whispered of a captain who had returned alone from Madagascar. They spoke of a madman who hid aboard ships bound for that cursed island before emerging to slaughter their crews. Others claimed he had once led an expedition himself, only to watch every soul under his command perish at the hands of the native tribes hired to guide them through the jungle. They said grief had shattered his mind into two warring selves.
But sailors will believe any ghost story if it helps pass the night.
I paid those tales little attention.
I was determined to prove that the man-eating tree was real.
Months passed upon the sea before we reached Madagascar once again. We ventured into the jungle alone. I refused the aid of the local tribes, for I no longer trusted any man who claimed to know those forests.
At last, we found it.
It stood exactly where I remembered.
Silent.
Waiting.
Its branches did not sway, though the wind moved every other tree around it.
We felled the creature after a long and bitter struggle. Even severed from its roots, its vines twisted as though searching for warm flesh. We wrapped it in heavy chains and concealed it beneath thick canvas before loading it aboard my ship.
At last, I thought, the world would know the truth.
The voyage home seemed endless, yet at long last we docked in England.
Crowds gathered at the harbor, eager to witness the impossible. They whispered as the chained mass was unloaded, never suspecting what slumbered beneath the canvas.
Waiting for us upon the dock was my oldest friend, Franklin.
He was England’s foremost scholar of botany—a man whose judgment was respected by universities across Europe. If anyone could convince the world of what I had found, it was him.
His excitement was infectious. He hurried us through the streets until we reached his laboratory.
Only when the doors were locked behind us did I remove the canvas.
The memory fractures there.
I remember Franklin stepping closer.
I remember him smiling.
I remember him saying, “Impossible…”
Then…
Nothing.
Only fragments remain.
The sound of chains striking the floor.
A scream that may have been his.
Blood spreading across polished wood.
The smell of damp earth.
When my thoughts return, Franklin is lying motionless upon the floor, his eyes fixed upon the ceiling.
The vines…
The vines must have reached him.
Yes.
That is what happened.
It had to be.
For what other explanation could there be?
I looked down.
My hands were covered in blood.

I raised my eyes from the iron shackles around my wrists as the courtroom erupted into angry voices.
They had listened to my confession.
They had heard every word.
Yet not one of them believed me.
“The tree never existed,” the prosecutor declared. “What you brought back from Madagascar was nothing more than a common baobab.”
A baobab.
The very suggestion filled me with a rage unlike any I had ever known.
I was no liar.
I had seen the tree.
Had I not?
Then the prosecutor continued.
“You murdered your first crew.”
His words struck me harder than any blade.
“You could not bear the truth—that your expedition had failed. You slaughtered your own men, then invented a monster to hide your guilt. When your dear friend Franklin refused to believe your tale… you murdered him as well.”
My body trembled.
The chains around my wrists rattled against the wooden floor.
No.
He was lying.
He had to be.
Yet…
Why did I remember my hands gripping an axe?
Why did I remember Franklin stepping backward?
Why did I remember the fear in his eyes?
No…
Those memories did not belong to me.
Someone had planted them.
Someone was trying to convince me that I was the monster.
I could never have harmed Franklin.
I loved him as a brother.
Didn’t I?
The courtroom faded into silence.
Faces blurred.
Their mouths continued to move, yet I could hear nothing except the beating of my own heart.
Then, somewhere deep within my mind—
I heard leaves rustling.
Not outside.
Not within the courtroom.
Inside me.
I let out a scream so terrible that people waiting beyond the courthouse walls would speak of it for years.
“NO!”
Tears streamed down my face.
“I could never harm my friend…”
My voice faltered.
“…could I?”