May

The young woman’s hand twitched once, twice, three times before she was finally startled awake by a sharp squeak. From the floor, her eyes locked with those of an older woman who was holding a straw broom. 

“Dorrie, darling, you cannot lay outside of my shop forever,” she hit the now-dead rat away from the girl’s hand. 

“I have told you to not address me as that,” Dorcas sat up and dusted off her lap, noticing the fresh wound where the rat had been nibbling, “damned bastard bited me. Alas, though, my name is Dorcas Hilliard and I am nothing to you but Miss Hilliard.” 

The woman smiled, shook her head, then reached her hand out for Dorcas to take. “You are near my daughter, Dorcas, that does not feel right.” 

Dorcas refused the help and stood up on her own. Her ripped skirt hung just above her ankles and her leather boots had holes. Her shins were covered in dirt and scabs. “D’you got anything to eat in that shop of yours, Lucy? I have money,” she reached into the breast of her corset and pulled out a handful of coins. 

Lucy’s eyebrows furrowed. 

“You ought to stop doing that, Lucy. You have far too many lines on your face already.” “I know. But you weren’t of that wealth yesterday, dear. Where did you happen to get that?” She walked Dorcas into her bakery and sat her at a table. 

“You do not wish to know.” 

Lucy brought over a bowl of stew and sat it in front of Dorcas. She then sat down in front of the young woman.

“But I do. I have my concerns for you.” She watched as Dorcas shoveled spoonfuls into her mouth. 

Without finishing, she responded, muffled. “A man came up to me yesterday and made me an offer. We drank for hours together and the rest followed,” she swallowed. “I had to leave quickly, though, for his wife was coming home.” 

Lucy gasped. “You slept with a married man!? That is adultery, dear!” 

“I was not aware that he was married, therefore it is not my fault,” she took another bite of stew. “If I had known, I likely would not have- but you should have seen his house Lucy!” Dorcas threw herself back in her chair and sighed, smiling. 

When Dorcas was led into the man’s home, she couldn’t bring herself to move for seconds. There wasn’t a thing she couldn’t see her reflection in and each piece of porcelain was blue china-- worth more than she herself was. She swore even the bed frame was made out of copper and gold. 

“I would do anything for that type of money, Lucy.” 

While Dorcas was in her daydream, Lucy had gotten a damp piece of cloth. She touched it to Dorcas’s face and wiped off her dirt freckles. 

“You are gorgeous, though, dear,” the woman now put the cloth down and held Dorcas’s face in her hand, “you do not need to do such things for love.” 

“For love!?” Dorcas pulled her head back. “I am not acting in such ways for love. I have felt nothing during the moments apart from joy when I receive my payment. I am not a woman fit for love,” she blinked rapidly trying to push the tears back.

When Dorcas was six, her mother, Margaret, had died. Lucy had tried to explain to her it was from all of the filth Margaret had been sleeping with, but Dorcas refused to accept that. She was bedridden for months and Dorcas would always try to aid her. She would sneak out at night and weasel into shops that left their doors unlocked, hoping to find food for her mother to keep 

her strong. One of those nights, she wandered into Lucy’s shop. 

The woman was sitting at a table in the dark, tears streaming down her face. Dorcas gasped and ducked behind a chair. 

“If whoever is there has come to take my earnings, please take my life as well,” Lucy sniffled and wiped the back of her hand across her cheek. She couldn’t bear a life without her now-dead husband and daughter. 

Dorcas’s curiosity got the better of her. She stood up, her face barely peeking above the chair, and tilted her head. 

“Missus, why are you crying?” 

Lucy lifted her head. “A child?” she said to herself. Too old to be my Eloise, she thought. “Dear, come to me, it’s alright.” 

Dorcas walked from behind her hiding spot and sat at the table with Lucy. She tilted her head, her sand-colored grease-covered hair bouncing to the side with her. “Why do you want to die? My mama is dying.” Dorcas put her hands in her lap. “You are far too-” 

“I am not too young. My mama tells me I am too young. But that is not true. I am not too young to understand and help my mama and even you, Missus.” 

Lucy wiped her eyes again. “I am sorry about your mother, dear. My baby and my love-” “Do you have any bread for my mama? She is hungry and weak and I need to help her.”

Lucy stifled a small, awkward chuckle. She realized she was talking to a child whose thoughts were still focused on one thing- helping her dying mother. The kid wouldn’t understand the death of Lucy’s only two loves of her life. 

“Yes, dear, I do.” Lucy stood up and beckoned Dorcas to follow. She took her into the back of the shop where she stored stale loaves of bread that she’d try to sell early in the morning. “Where is your father? Should he not be watching over you?” 

Dorcas grabbed two loaves bigger than her head and tucked them under her skinny arms. “My mama always promises to bring me a daddy. She always has new gentlemen coming into the house and they all seem polite. I want a daddy.” 

Lucy’s eyes shot open and darted around the room, soon focusing in on the blood that was still splattered against the storage room’s wooden walls behind Dorcas. “It is best not to get involved with those ones, dear,” her voice shook, still focused on the oxidizing red. 

Dorcas, always plagued by curiosity, turned around and pointed at the spot. “What is that, Missus? My mama sometimes has that colour wiped across her undercloth. How did it get there?” 

Lucy picked up a loaf of bread, stuffed it under her arm, grabbed Dorcas’s hand, and dragged her out of the room. “Just a design, dear. My husband created it for me.” Lucy continued to talk with the young girl and Dorcas continued to interrupt with her thoughts. In the following nights, Dorcas kept showing up, constantly asking about the gorgeous halo splatter of red “paint” in the shop, saying how she wanted that design in her house one day. Lucy always changed the subject.

Eventually, Dorcas’s mother passed away, but she didn’t cry. She had spent the last month under the care of Lucy who treated her more like a mother than Margaret ever was. For years, Dorcas lived with Lucy, helping her around the bakery as the dough-kneader and food runner. That was until Dorcas turned thirteen. 

A floorboard in her pale, pollutant-stained pink bedroom had been lifting up. Dorcas, still plagued by curiosity, pried it up and grabbed the lump of wood-- a doll-- and the piece of paper under it. Both were dressed in brown fingerprints. The doll had dust-covered yarn hair, tied in a loose braid. The yellowing dress reeked of spoiled milk. The paper had thin edges, permanent wrinkles, and unfaded ink writing. Dorcas, learning her literacy from Lucy, scanned the letter. 

Dearest Lucy, 

I cannot live with myself any longer and do not wish to curse you with Eloise. I have sent you out tonight for a reason. I did not need to have my pants tailored by Mrs. Cralle down the street. I just did not wish for you to hear the click of my revolver. You do not know I own one, but it is documented under my name. You will not have blame placed upon your shoulders. 

I am doing this for nothing but our own good, dearest Lucy. I cannot live with the guilt which is sleeping with Lady Hilliard down the street. This will be the first and the only time you have heard this. I hope you can find another gentleman to treat you kindly. 

Goodbye my dearest Lucy, may the rest of your time stay in your favor. 

Much love, Charles Hughes.

Dorcas shook and dropped the letter, clenching the doll in one hand and letting her nails dig into the palm of her other. She charged out of the room and down the stairs to confront the mother she never had. 

“Why is my mother’s name on your letter!? And who is Eloise?” she pushed the doll towards Lucy, still shaking. , 

Tears immediately struck Lucy’s eyes and she reached out to take the doll. “Where did you find this, Dorrie?” she ignored the first part of her question. 

“Under the floorboards. In my room. This is not mine. I have never once seen this toy.” “El-” she choked on the mucus dripping into her throat, “Eloise was my baby. Daughter of the Charles you must have seen.” 

“Why have I not been told you had a daughter?” Dorcas frowned. 

“You were too young, Dorrie. It did not even matter.” 

“Then- then why is my mother-?” she stumbled back. 

“Margaret is not mentioned--” 

“But Lady Hilliard is,” Dorcas could now feel tears dropping onto her apple cheeks. “You are a Hilliard?” Lucy said, trying to hold back the hiss in her voice. “Your husband killed my mother-” Dorcas snapped at the woman. 

“Your mother killed my husband,” Lucy laughed slightly as she said it. 

The argument between the two lasted into the evening, ending as Drocas left the house. She wandered the streets until a man approached her and offered to pay her for her body. Dorcas accepted without hesitation, acting in what she couldn’t decide was spite or distress. When she returned to Lucy’s shop late that night, she found the woman crying once again. The next morning, Lucy attempted to resolve the bickering, but the tension was present from that moment forward. 

As the years went on, Dorcas became less present in the shop and more present laying on the gravel outside of it. 

“I have shown you nothing but love! Do not say you are unfit, Dorcas!” Lucy hated to argue ever since the night Dorcas had discovered the past she kept hidden, but she couldn’t help but raise her voice at the girl she helped raise who stood in front of her. 

Dorcas clenched her teeth, hesitating for a moment. “Your love is only left over from your daughter, Lucy. And I am not her.” 

Lucy slumped back in her seat, her eyes darting around the room, picturing the blood-stained doll Dorcas had brought to her attention six years ago. “Why do you insist I should not care for you? I have been since you were a petite thing.” 

“I was caught last night, Lucy! You had to know this time was to come!” Dorcas cracked, spitting as she screamed at the woman. “You did not care when I snuck out that night. You did not care when that man first paid me. You do not care now. If you had, I would have been stopped.” 

“I-” 

“You made me this way, Lucy. Not my mother. Not your husband. But you. You have ruined me.” 

As she finished her sentence, the bakery door was pushed open. Men in blue coats swarmed in and took Dorcas by the arms. Lucy couldn’t speak as she watched her second daughter get taken away from her.

“And you do not even fight for me, Missus,” Dorcas said through clenched teeth as she was pulled back. “If you see me again, I will assure you you will only call me Miss Hilliard. I will ruin your life like my mother had.” 

Lucy watched in silence as the girl was thrown into a carriage and driven down the road. She returned to the back of her shop where the brown halo haunted her, bent down and lifted the other floor board, picked out the loaded revolver she had stored underneath, and pressed it to her temple.

“Oh sweetheart, I’m sure you’ll make tons of friends.  Everyone will love you. You’re a kind, smart, pretty, and caring girl and if people are mean to you, tell me, ok?  I’m your mom, and I will always, without a doubt, be there  for you.” Mom reassured me, and I smiled, “Yes Mom. I  love you!” I exclaimed, walked to the door,  opened it, looked back at Mom, smiled, and  said, “Bye Mom.” And she smiled and replied, “Love you, sweetie, have a great day, alright? See you when you get  home and remember what I told you.” And I nodded, turned around, and walked out the door, closing it behind me. I then walked off to school. I was feeling many different emotions as I walked to school. Fear, eagerness,  happiness, and many other thoughts clouded my mind along with those emotions. What if it all goes wrong?  What if what Mom said was…all wrong? What if people… make fun of me, bully me, make me…miserable like at my old school, and those thoughts…took over, and I sagged. 

I held on tightly to my backpack straps and walked on and as I neared closer and closer to the school, I became a nervous wreck. My brain went crazy, clouding up with more questions and “what ifs” like, what if no one liked me? What if they ignored me? What if I ended up being a loser? What if, what if, what if. Maybe I should just turn  back and beg Mom to homeschool me but no, I was too  close now to quit and, so as I neared so close to the  school that I could see it, I stopped, took a deep  breath, and composed myself, “You are smart, kind,  beautiful.” I told myself and then continued, a bit more confident. 

When I got to the school doors, I took another deep breath and opened them,  stepping into my brand-new school. I stopped to take in the newness but when I realized what I was doing, I  cringed, for everyone was staring at me like I was some… alien from a whole other planet. I then continued walking down the halls. The lockers were shiny and clean and everyone seemed so…well dressed. I guess the rumors about Northview were true, for this was a school for the rich and snobby, though I hadn’t seen many…snobs yet, but I soon would. I continued walking,  making eye contact with a few of my new classmates, but  they all responded with a weird look, so I just kept  walking, my confidence fading at each step, as I neared one of the classrooms, I suddenly bumped into  someone or something and without even knowing who or  what they were, I blurted, “I’m so sorry!” 

But when I  looked up, I saw three girls, and their looks told me that I  had done something very wrong, I soon figured out why, for when I looked at one of the girls’ shirts, I saw a big, huge stain, a stain which I recognized, for I used to work at a coffee shop. It was the stain…of coffee. My  eyes immediately widened, and I panicked, “You… little…freak!” Said the girl with the stain, and I looked up  at her but before I could speak, she stepped toward me,  grabbed my shirt, and began to rub her shirt with my shirt,  “H-hey!” I exclaimed, and she dropped my shirt and  jumped back, “Ew, I have a freak on me now!” She  exclaimed, her face generally disgusted as I just stared down at my shoes, her friends rushed to help her, but  she growled and shooed them off, 

“Get away! Oh my  gosh!” She said and as her friends backed away, she turned to me and gave me the most threatening look,  “You will get me a new shirt as well as a new coffee. Got  it…freak?” Said the girl, and I immediately nodded then ran off, totally forgetting about my locker and just focusing on getting away from that girl. I hadn’t meant to run into her. Why’d she have to be so harsh? I thought as my pace slowed to a walk. 

I walked down the hall until I  reached a classroom with “Mrs Hendricks homeroom” on it. I then took a deep breath and walked inside the class  where the teacher, whom I guessed was Mrs Hendricks,  was starting the lesson, “Today we’ll be—” She began but  then she stopped and turned to me, “Late slip!” She exclaimed and I just stood there, frozen in my spot, feet glued to the floor. I had no late slip, “I…s-sorry.” I said  and then I was about to walk off to the principal, but I  realized that she had no idea that I was new, so I  turned around and said, “I-I’m new.” And she turned back towards me and scowled, “You could’ve said that! Sit in  the back next to Rory Richards!” She shouted and I  nodded quickly and ran inside and to the back of the class people stared and snickered, some whispering.  

When I reached the back, I sat down next to a girl, whom  I guessed was Rory, and then began digging in my bag for my notebook, “I’m Rory. Mrs Hendricks can be a bit of a…Karen, some might say, but I just call her an evil witch,  it fits her. Anyways, why are you—” The girl said and I listened as I continued digging but then the teacher’s  stern voice made my gaze dart up to her, “Rory, anything  you’d like to…share with us?” Said Mrs Hendricks, and the girl looked at her and shrugged. At my old school,  there were rebels, but none like this, “Meh.” She said, and the teacher exploded on her, “Principal's office right now!  Right now, young lady! Right now! And new kid, move over there by…Sophia Anderson.” Said the teacher,  putting her attention on the girl and then on me the girl just grabbed her stuff and walked down the row of desks towards the door but as she passed a boy, she suddenly jerked to a stop, and her sleeve was rolled up.

“Mrs  Hendricks, I don’t think Rory needs the principal, but I think she needs a therapist. See everyone! This is what  our classmate here has been hiding under her  oversized sweatshirts.” Said the boy, a smirk on his face,  and the girl just stood frozen in her spot, her face drained  of color as the class gasped in unison, “Oh my!”  Exclaimed Mrs Hendricks, “Go get help, freak!” Shouted one of my new classmates and then everyone began shouting horrible things at her. Did this ever happen at  Riverside? No, it didn’t, and I…didn’t know what to do, but  I was sure that standing up for the girl would land me in trouble, so I stayed quiet. After several minutes, the girl broke free and ran out, tears streaming down her pale face, her sleeve still rolling up and showing her scars. How much did this happen to her? 

I felt…so bad. I had to do something, so I got up and ran after her, causing the class to go silent for a bit, but only for a bit, for they soon started up again, and the boy who’d rolled up her sleeve called, “Wouldn’t hang out with her, new kid, for you might end up as a crazy person, or she might eat you.  Who knows, just be careful. Ahahaha!” But I ignored him and ran out the door, down the hall, and to the bathroom where I heard the girl’s painful wails. How could I have thought, just for a second, that standing up for her would not have been a good idea? I didn’t care about reputation…or did I? I was a horrible person, though I had no idea. 

I ran into the bathroom and to the stall I heard her sobs the loudest, pushed it open, and revealed the girl,  who was sitting on the toilet crying her heart out, but she dried her tears when she saw me, and she looked frightened. I nodded understandingly, and she kept crying, “I know how you feel. I was bullied at my old  school.” I told her, and she looked up at me and she said,  “I bet it wasn’t as bad as how it is here.” As she choked  back tears, “I can be your friend, we can get through this  together, now cry it all out.” I told her and she did as told and began to wail even louder and by the time she finished, her eyes were red and snot was coming from her nose. She looked up at me and smiled, but only a bit, and  I smiled back. The following weeks after the…incident was, how do I put it, hard, really hard, for that boy, Jack,  and his friends, would make me, and the girl miserable,  but we would get through it together, and we became super close, the best of friends, inseparable, the end. 

He, a ruler amongst men—once a son; someone’s

gift from the heavens, hailed as a miracle child.

She, a beaut among women—once a daughter; left

behind by her society of truth and order, long

awaiting a journey that had passed some time ago.

Up on the mountain of power comes forth new rule, a

story of power untold, yet written with haste so strange.

A faceless-nomad guides the sides of two to the land.

On the edge appears a distant memory, someone’s

match found with guidance against a common foe.

In the ancient city is a strange hand, an

anonymous symbol of light and hope that’s left unmarked.

When they meet is a blessing, grave

heart is the vibe made for the moment on the fields.

Of all things is this place is treacherous, of

all things this place is cleared of the bad that covered the green.

To which they finally meet, resting

on the edge of the world in a moment of peace; quiet

and concise, clear minds of everything just.

And all this to think that they were just eighteen.

From above the storms comes the winds,

which blow fiercely with all their strength, of

every power in the air with limited freedom.

The rising epidemic of depression and anxiety among young people is caused by addiction to social media, along with isolation. During the covid pandemic, people had to adjust and compromise their lifestyles in order to be quarantined, isolated from society. It was challenging at first, but soon it became a normal occurrence. However now, after the virus is gone, people find it harder to return to their old lives.

Especially for teens, after adjusting to online classes, physically going to school has been tougher, to go through the trouble of getting ready, looking presentable and socializing. This explains the increase of absences in schools with percentages doubled compared to pre-covid pandemic. As Katie Rosanbalm, a psychologist, says, “Our relationship with school became optional” (Mervosh, 2024). There is a significant relationship between absences in schools and increase of depression and anxiety. Students might believe taking a day or two might help when you are feeling stressed. While some cases might be true, now that makeup classes are easily accessible through online, it encourages students to take more than a day off, even a week or two because they think ‘Instead of going to class, I can do the work at home and rest’ There also has been an increase of online homeschooling after the covid pandemic, since teens now feel more comfortable staying home instead of going to schools. A huge problem with this is not attending schools, means no socializing. Especially teens, relationships with peers are critical because friends encourage and empathize with each other. However, by distancing yourself, making relationships becomes more difficult. 

Teenagers like to be caught up on trends, not wanting to be left out. Topics and videos from social media are their conversation starter. After experiencing public high schools, I have made all of my friends through conversations related to popular songs, recent drama or the newest fashion. This encourages teenagers to never leave social media, afraid of what they might miss. With popular content these days almost always holding negative messages, staying on it all day can’t be good for them. “The clean girl aesthetic” , viral on TikTok for example, encourages young girls to wake at 4 a.m. and complete intense workouts, and eat less, promoting unrealistic beauty standards. Going even farther, platforms with no filters such as Twitter, you can find accounts about the ideology of being ridiculously thin and discourage eating with the hashtag “thinspo” These accounts actively promote eating disorders and anorexia leads young youth girls into believing their extreme claims about beauty standards are correct. 

Not only girls but everyone is affected by the toxic influence of social media regarding comparison and validation from others. Another example is serious issues such as suicide or suicidal thoughts being taken lightly in current generation, due to media. When faced with hardships, many teenagers casually say they do not want to live anymore. Along with an increase of hospital admissions of 31% between the ages of 12 and 17, 44% of young people have experienced higher levels of depression (National Institute of Mental Health, 2023). Without a doubt, social media has played a major part there.

By being isolated and constantly comparing yourself through social media, many teenagers in the present have developed mental disorders. How do we fix these issues? The first step to the solution is cutting off social media. While this may seem simple, cutting off an old habitat almost everyone participates in is difficult, therefore, taking little steps are crucial. Like many therapists suggest, when feeling sad or hopeless instead of going on your phone doing activities like walking or talking with someone will eventually affect you more positively. 

However, in order to get farther away from the media, teenagers need to be self motivated to do so. If they want to participate in the media simulation, no amount of encouragement from outsiders will make them step away from it. For teens to feel the need to decrease their use of social media, it is important to see why it affects them in an unhealthy way. Therefore, parents and youths that already realize social media is the cause of this young generation’s depression and anxiety, need to spread awareness, starting with people around them. 

References

Mervosh, Sarah. 2024 (March 19). A Crisis of School Absences. New York Times. 

https://www.nytimes.com/2024/03/29/briefing/school-absences.html?login=email&auth=login-email

National Institute of Mental Health. 2023 (July 19). Youth Emergency Departments Visits for Mental Health Increased During Pandemic. 

https://www.nimh.nih.gov/news/science-news/2023/youth-emergency-department-visits-for-mental-health-increased-during-pandemic 

Mental illnesses will not have the capabilities

Of discretely destroying the lives of sufferers

When humans can immediately sense

The shameful demons which chronically ruminate within

Desperately leaving subtle hints to those around

Which illnesses permit are allowed

A safer way of combating incessant voices

Yet, go overlooked everyday

Through humans natural tendencies of self-absorption

In a world where mental illnesses are immediately sensed

Inadvertent pleas will be immediately read

When sufferers lips are stitched together with shame

Recipients will be able to sense their anguished screams within

I sit here in solitude 

I can’t seem to create

A free-verse that sounds

As good as the others write

I cannot help but to believe 

That the flowers below are mocking me

And so is that raven flying by,

He’s eyeing me with disdain

I’m stuck here, with nowhere to go

Until I finish a poem I must stay

But Alas

I sit here in solitude

And thinking doesn’t help

I just can’t think of a free-verse

That sounds as good as the others write

                                                      i often mourn my writing. 

i feel this longing to express myself in a way i used to. to have the perfect words like i used to. after a while i lost my words. everything felt 

misplaced, everything felt like i was fumbling to describe a feeling but i could never articulate it in a way thet would make sense or sound 

pretty. i dont know why i stopped really. nothing was good anymore and it felt forced and it was always so horrible and cringey and I felt like I 

was in third grade again, begging my teachers to read my short story I'd printed out at the library. I wanted so badly for them to be proud of 

me. but it was a shit story typed in red. they could only ever smile. i think i ran out of things to write about, which shouldn't ever happen. i 

always make a fool of myself. i can't speak to people, so why would i be able to write anything that invokes anything but pity? i think I've realized that i will never write 

anything actually good. in the moment, I'll feel proud for writing something. then 

looking back at it I'll realize this is the kind of stuff people laugh at, it's so bad. my only talent i ever had in writing was to draw shit out, make it look 

bigger than it really is. as you can see here. it made me pity myself almost, so i stopped. one time not too long ago, i was at an author panel with my 

mom. after the authors were finished speaking and were signing books at the back, i stood with my mom in line. when it was our turn, my mom told the 

author that i was a writer. i was humiliated and angry and filled with self hatred. the only thing i have ever been, i am not anymore. i wanted to throw up. i wanted to cry. i haven't written anything in two years, i said. i have piles of empty journals, i said. please believe me!! im done feeling, no you have to believe me my thoughts will be in my head until i die until i choose to remove everything i have ever been from this world, i said. please god 

mom shut up you've reminded me i am nothing. 

How do you react when bacteria builds up slowly within you

Lurking quietly, wrapping ropes around your bloodstream

Tying them tighter to cut of your circulation

Yet whispering sweet, delirious words into your ears

And a sense of purpose is found within the strangling

As if you simply could not live without

The soft, delicate breathing of an infection

Hugging you as if there was no other vital option to survive

It feels good to be needed- to be wanted 

To be loved.

So desperately.

Michael sat on the side of the train, his hands shifting erratically. The omnipresent humming of the train speeding through the vast underground irritated him; his hands moved toward the gun in his pocket. Countless voices whispered in his head: “Do it Michael, do it. You’ve done it before, why not do it again?” His face tensed, but with whatever sanity, empathy, and memory he had left, he stopped.

Let me tell you a tale of a man on a mission that one may have yet to hear of, but one that many will never forget. It was a bright summer morning, the boundless blue skies and the urban clamor of early 2000’s London were truly a sight to behold. If one were to know anything of London, it would be of its miserable weather. On many occasions, the skies were filled with dark, heavy, rolling clouds stretching for miles. The gloom usually brought on rain soon after, making it difficult to see anything just a few feet away. The heavy rain would hit like stones on one’s body, and a lamp post would seem like a distant light that was so close but never reachable. 

On this rare beautiful day, Michael was sitting in his room, writing down clues to the case he was tackling. 

Michael was a young lad of around twenty-five years of age who also happened to be a detective. His young bright face was filled with zeal and passion that was present in anyone of his age. He always wore an innocent smile with his head full of wonderful, futuristic ideas. He was a messy but lovable guy and everyone in town found him exceptionally nice. This was a different person to the Michael everyone in the city knew now. His face was still young, but not with the energy he once had. His mind was fractured, stripping him of any sanity he once had. His gaze was cold and piercing, making anyone around him anxious.

The police had sent Michael their newest case, one about the notorious Dmitri Yates, who had been sent to a mental asylum after almost attempting suicide. Little did the police know, his sadism grew by the moment in the asylum. By some mysterious coincidence, he escaped the asylum without any detection. After taking six people with him, Yates fled from the city to a remote area. Believing that he would never be found, Dmitri Yates mailed a picture of himself in the pitch black to taunt the police, telling them that he’d kill the hostages if the department couldn’t find him in a week.

Michael had easily extrapolated every last detail from the picture and secured a location in which Yates was hiding in the first three days. Then he spent the rest of the two days remaining to prepare a plan, leaving an extra two days for the police to carry it out. He was in his last moments in the office. In half an hour or so, he’d go with the police to the abandoned Lansing Metro, and fate would be the director for the play to commence. 

~A Few Hours Later, In Lansing Underground Metro~

The area was dusty and dark, but everything was still somehow intact. Despite the lack of maintenance, the station was still fighting back against the test of time, showing its strength by not completely collapsing upon the cops' arrival. Michael crouched down, signaling to the police where to go, orchestrating a symphony that would entangle Yates into a net that he would not be able to extricate himself from for the second time—time seemed to slow down as Michael watched the men navigate their way through the underground station. But suddenly, maniacal laughter came from the depths of the underground. A ghastly white figure emerged from the darkness, it was Yates. 

“Why, isn’t it the vigilant and wonderfully smart Michael Korshak?” Yates mused, looking directly at Michael as if he were looking at an ant. “My, my, have you forgotten that cameras still exist, Michael? Or is it because you thought I didn’t have any? I’ve been watching you closely from the moment you’ve entered.” 

“What have you done to them?” Michael growled, raising his gun and pointing directly at Yates.

“I turned them into a little present made just for you.” Yates took out a box from behind him and dropped it on the floor. The thump echoed through the metro slowly, making an irritating racket. Yates raised his hands, “Open it, look for yourself, detective. If I make a move, I’ll be dead anyway. What have you to fear?” Yates stepped away from the box as Michael inched closer to it, still watching Yates fiercely. Michael kneeled and opened a crack in the box. Through the small opening, he saw something horrifying. The inside of the box was dripping with blood, and the body parts of the hostages were lying in there. 

“Why!?” Michael screamed. “Why?! What have they done?!”

Yates laughed, “Why? Why? You ask? There is no reason for anything I do! You failed detective, you faile-” His words were cut off as Michael shot a bullet straight through Yates’ heart. Yates touched the wound and forced out a smile. “You… you did it, Korshak, you did it. You shot me, you killed me. You are just like us now, Michael. There is no difference between you and me! We are all condemned by our actions!” He toppled over, and there was silence.

~A Few Days Later~

Such an incident could not be leaked to the public. It would cause too much panic. As a cover-up, police simply stated that Yates had died off by starvation, and in an act of sadism, he killed all that were with him. During this time, Michael sulked in his room, slowly drowning his mind into sheer insanity. The deputy sheriff often visited him, reassuring Michael that the incident was not his fault. Throughout these days, Michael always told himself that he was not the reason for this tragedy. Slowly, he convinced himself that it was entirely Yates' fault and that he had done his best. It seemed that Michael had escaped his past.

~Present Day~

As Michael was sitting in the train cabin, his eye twitched, and the scene before him shifted. The floor was a pile of organs, and on the train was no one but him and all those who had been killed at Yates’ hands. Michael’s eyes widened in panic and guilt and with fear of the past that would inevitably catch up to him. He broke into a sprint, and as he ran along the train, the victims turned their heads, staring directly at him. 

Michael reached for the cabin door and swung it open. He was greeted with the same sight. He kept on running through cabin and cabin until suddenly, the hostages were no longer silent. They spoke in one voice, “Why couldn’t you save us, Michael? Why couldn’t you save us, Michael?” They fell to the floor and still repeating those words, they slowly dragged themselves and crawled toward Michael. Michael backed away, pulling a gun out of his pocket. His back hit the cold metal door. There was no escape. 

“You… you forced me!” Michael pulled the trigger on the gun and shot one of the victims. Reloading his gun in quick succession, he hit another one, until all of them were motionless. Michael suddenly regained his senses, his mind still shattered, but at least in the conscious world. His PTSD had struck again. Before him, all the passengers on the train were shot dead, and Michael’s gun was smoking from all the shots he had fired. The cabin was filled with bullet holes, making the site an absolute mess. Michael looked at his gun, amused, and turned to look at the one remaining survivor who hid under a seat. There was another gunshot, and then silence.

Michael stepped out of the metro covered in blood. Rain and police sirens greeted him. Michael staggered a few steps and then fell to his knees, raising his hands. A group of police circled him as a few other officers cuffed him. Looking at the starry night sky, Michael remarked,  “This is what I deserve… I am finally ready to meet my past.” 

The police station later issued a series of reports of Michael’s mental health to quell panic. Here are the reports:

[REDACTED]

No improvement in mental health

The patient refuses to speak

Shows murderous tendencies.

[REDACTED]

Improvement in mental health

The patient speaks slightly

Shows less murderous tendencies

The rest of the reports showed the same results, Michael may never recover to his prime state.

“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it” - George Santayana

Isaiah sat at his desk, his old writing laptop in front of him beckoning like a ghost from the past. His fingers, calloused from years of neglecting the keys, hesitated before finally brushing over them. The laptop was a relic, its once sleek surface now marred by dust. Isaiah's eyes, a deep, contemplative brown, reflected the dim light of the room as he stared at the screen. His hair, still a vibrant black, a testament to his resilience throughout the years. Despite the years of no writing that had passed., his hands still possessed a certain grace as they hovered over the keyboard, hesitant to reopen the story he almost finally had closure on.

He remembered the day he first met Symone, her smile like sunshine on a cloudy day. They had been so young then, full of dreams and aspirations. He was leaving his writing seminar when he bumped into her in front of the English Department building at their undergraduate university. When he turned to apologize and make sure she was okay, he found himself staring at her. It was as if the world had paused. The English Department building loomed behind them, its architecture a mix of modern and classical elements. The students bustling past in the central hub of academic life disappeared at the sight of her. He couldn’t help but notice her beauty. Symone had rich, dark skin that glistened in the sun, a smooth and radiant complexion that seemed to glow. Her eyes were like polished onyx, deep and mesmerizing, and they sparkled with a warmth and intelligence that drew him in. As she made eye contact with him, a small, knowing smile played on her lips. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He finally got the words out of his mouth and said, “My bad.” She turned and said, “It's fine,” weirded out by his staring, and walked away. His friend, Aaron, saw the entire interaction and, with secondhand embarrassment, said, “Isaiah, what the hell was that?” Isaiah, embarrassed, said, “I don’t know. She just caught me off guard. Who is she?” Aaron said, “I don’t know, but I’ve seen her around. I think she runs track.

Neither of them could have ever imagined that the two of them, Isaiah and Symone, would build a life filled with love and laughter. Despite their initial awkward encounter, they quickly discovered a shared love for literature, music, and long walks in the park. Their conversations were endless and meaningful, ranging from the mundane to the profound, each one strengthening the bond between them. After graduating from university, they moved in together into a small but cozy apartment, filling it with books, art, and mementos of their adventures together. Isaiah pursued a career as a writer, while Symone followed her passion for social justice and running, working for a non-profit organization that helped underprivileged high school track stars. They traveled the world together, exploring new cultures and cuisines, always seeking out new experiences and adventures. They laughed, they cried, and they grew together, supporting each other through the highs and lows of life. Their love was a beacon of light, guiding them through the darkest of times.

As Isaiah continued to write, remembering their little awkward meet-cute, he couldn’t help but remember the worst day of his life. He had been up in the attic, just like he was now, writing a story about her. He didn’t know she was writing it. It was supposed to be a surprise for their anniversary in six months. His goal was to write a section each day. He had finished his section for the day and went down to see what Symone wanted to do for dinner. He called out for her and didn’t hear a response. She loved to sleep, so he figured she was just sleeping in their room. He walked in, and just like he guessed, she was lying down. He called her name again and she didn’t wake up. He chuckled at how quickly she got into a deep sleep. He went over and laid down next to her and hugged her. Surprised by the fact that she didn’t wake up like she usually does, he said her name and gently gave her a push to wake up. She slumped over. He leaned over and realized she wasn’t breathing. Freaking out, he called 911. When the paramedics arrived, they pronounced her dead. The autopsy report said an aneurysm in her sleep. Isaiah felt like he died with her that day. Not only did he never continue the story about her, he never wrote again.

But today something changed. As he continued to type, remembering his sweet, loving Symone, tears streamed down his face, blurring the words on the page. The day she died, he lost everything and it felt like a knife in his chest. But he also remembered the love they shared, the memories they had created together. But it didn’t start right away; he remembers when he saw her again after their awkward meet-cute.

A week after he bumped into Symone, Isaiah started a new Creative Writing class. To his surprise, Symone walked in. He had to figure out how to find out who she was. He didn’t even know her name, but he was going to make it his goal to get to know her before the semester ended. The class only had 15 students and involved constant class discussions so it shouldn’t be too hard to get to know her. She ended up right across from him during class. He wondered if he recognized her. The whole class he hyped himself up to talk to her at the end of class. When class ended and he finally had the chance, he chickened out and didn’t say anything to her. He promised he would try again the next day.

He went to the cafe down the hall, and while he was waiting in line, he felt a tap on his back. When he turned around, he nearly choked on air because Symone tapped him.

“You’re the guy that ran into me and then just stared at me,” she said.

If Isaiah could turn red at the embarrassment he felt, he would. He chuckled and said, “Yeah, that was me. Sorry about that.”

“It's okay. Don’t worry about it. I was listening to what you were saying in class about stories and fiction, and I am getting the sense you’re not as bat-shit crazy as I thought you are.”

“Lol, nooo not bat-shit crazy. Just a little awkward.” Symone chuckled. The little voice in Isaiah’s head encouraged him to keep talking to her.

“Is there anything I said specifically that stood out to you?”

Symone said, “Well, I enjoyed when you spoke about the underlying truth in a lot of fiction stories. We say it's not real and it's made up, but why does it always lead us to the truth?”

“Omg, great minds think alike. I always think that a well-crafted story is a journey of discovery, leading us to truths we never knew we sought.” 

“It looks like we have a lot in common. I literally think that you’re right, 100%.”

“Lol, since we have so much in common," Isaiah said, “why don’t we work on the presentation together? He said we could use partners.”

“I’d like that,” Symone said. She gave Isaiah her number and told him to text her when they could meet to work.

Isaiah beamed at his writing as he remembered and wrote about that conversation. To this day, he still cringes at the way he acted around her. Writing about Symone makes him happy, but it also makes him sad. He remembers how quickly life shifted in the weeks following her death.

He couldn’t live in that house because it brought up too many memories, and it was the place where Symone died. He moved in with his friend from school, Aaron, who, other than Symone, was one of the only constants in his life. He sold the house he and Symone bought together and tried to start a life without her. He was a writer, but he lost all of his motivation for writing. The story for Symone could not be finished, and he felt that he owed it to her to not just move on to another story. So he stopped writing. That career path and that part of his life were officially over. Isaiah became an English teacher, and that became his new life. Five years later, the pain never stopped, but he maneuvered through a life without Symone. On the fifth anniversary of her death, he was cleaning through old boxes of stuff and he found his old writing laptop. He opened it and charged it and noticed that the story about Symone was still open. He began reading and it led him to continue the story in honor of her death on the fifth anniversary. Painfully, he changed "is" to "was," making this story a tribute to Symone, telling their story and telling the world about the beauty and the human she was when she was alive.