Six Stories

Pete — Wed, 27 May 2009 14:27:34 +0000

Just some stories I wrote.
SOMETIMES

Sometimes, I can look into your eyes, and see our future together. I’ve always done it, and I always will — it’s part of the reason why I’ve never been the most faithful person.

I see our lives together, our happiness. I see that look you get after our first kiss, and feel the blushing burn on my cheeks. I feel the first time your shoulder fits under my arm, as you snuggle next to me. I get nervous, as I ring your doorbell, waiting for you to come to dinner with me. You hold my hand, and I feel like a thirteen year old again.

Afterwards, we make love for the first time, and I hope that I’m everything you’d hoped it was going to be and more. We sigh contentedly as we realize that it’s way too late for you to leave, but, you never really wanted to in the first place. You tease me about the way I snore, as I tease you about your silly morning hair. Occasionally, I see you from an angle about at your waist, your hand in mine, as I slide a token of my affection on your finger. You have to help me because I never know what hand it’s supposed to go on. Your father welcomes me to the family. Your mother cries. You’re beautiful as we walk down the aisle after being pronounced Mister and Misses.

Mistakes happen, but, we don’t care. I never leave your side, and the only person that matters is me. Your crazy aunt gives us his and hers mittens in June. We say thank you, and realize fifteen years later when we actually try them on, there were hundreds of dollars stuffed inside each. Our daughter looks like you.

Our son does, too.

That first house we buy on the middle of the block is home, and cozy. You want a bigger dog, to help you feel safe when I’m not there. Sometimes, our life is perfect. That is until I leave you after our grandkids graduate high school. I’m sorry — I don’t mean to. It’s just my time to pass on.

You’re not far behind me, because our lives are just too entwined.

Somewhere, I’m reborn, waiting for you to find me again, waiting to find you again.

Sometimes, within the blink of an eye, everything above happens. Sometimes, it’s a casual glance over the shoulder, expecting to meet a friendly eye, only to be confronted with the rest of my life. Sometimes, it doesn’t go as smoothly. Maybe it’s a quick jaunt into infidelity. Maybe I just didn’t care to start with. I wish I could change it, but, I can’t. I’m satisfied that it doesn’t happen this way.

Lives happen within glances, in places I just can’t live up to. In the span of a heart beat, we live and die together, thousands of times, over and over. With the mind’s eye, I’ve blinked a thousand times, and will blink a thousand more, even though I’ve not blinked where I am now. I don’t want to blink everytime, but, eventually, I do. I’m sad to do it, but, it has to be done, and I’m sorry I have to do it to you.

MELISSA DUFFY

I was six the first time I fell in love. Her name was Melissa Duffy, and the two of us sat at the back of Mrs. Simmerly’s kindergarten class, our first names being next to each other by mere chance and fate. With a Nancy, a Ned, a Molly or a Paul, I’d likely never fallen in love with that girl with the short, bob hair, and a smile that melted me whenever I would say hello.

She carried no cooties, which was strange to my six year old mind; girls, by their very nature had cooties. It was written somewhere in cosmic law, ingrained in the X chromosome, that must have carried the cootie gene along with it. And yet this girl who smelled like sweet summer peaches, was not a carrier of girl cooties.

I stole glances at her, repeatedly through the days of letter people and numbers. We were married in a small ceremony at the back of the classroom, just after I turned six. Chris Kay, my best man, told me that I was a lucky man, and I think I was. I got my first kiss that day, a simple peck on the cheek, and I fluttered home, barely walking as my heart carried me the four streets to my house.

While I was successful in love, I was equally successful in art class, one of my favorite parts of the day. Every kid loves paste, and I certainly was no exception, devouring quite a few popsicle sticks full in my day, no doubt gluing my insides together, over time. The sweet, nearly minty taste of the Elmer’s paste was devine, and almost desert like in both texture and taste.

The day’s project was to make toilet paper tube binoculars so that we could see all the way across Pretend Land. I cut my strings for the ties around my head perfectly, so that I could stand without holding them. They stayed perfectly over my eyes, so that I could walk around, being the envy of all my friends, seeing across pretend land with hands free, instead of clutching my imaginary technology.

They also fit around my head the other way, and soon, I was hippity-hoppitying myself, all through the classroom as Peter Rabbit, the suave, curious rabbit of Beatrix Potter fame. The kids loved it, as the teacher had been pulled out seconds prior, to help another student with an “accident”. I was the center of attention, and I loved it.

I pulled them back over my eyes, and ran around to the delight and cheers of my friends. They giggled as I spun around, saying some inane phrase that came into my head. They laughed as I tripped over my feet, nearly impaling myself on the homemade binoculars, pressing them into my orbital bones, and leaving a circular bruise for the next three weeks. I went to the nurse, and was scolded by the principal, Mrs. Simmerly, the nurse, my mom and my dad. None of that compared to the next day at school, however.

Melissa had been mortified. My dear, sweet wife, Melissa, looked at me with disdain for being a goofy little child, instead of the grown-up I was destined to be. My heart for the first time was broken, thanks to her. “Peter Speer! I cannot have a husband like you! I don’t love you anymore!”

Her words hit me like a ton of bricks. Time stopped as I stared for an eternity, and somewhere in some alternate dimension, a thirty-one year old version of Peter Speer is surely staring still. My heart ached, as I apologized, but, it was too late. She’d made her decree, and stamped her foot, pointing me away from her.

I slinked away from her, as well as a three-foot-eight-inch, fifty-three pound kid can slink. I turned back once more, hoping to see her smiling, and she’d turned away, talking to her friends, each o them shaking their heads at me. I’d blown it.

The year wore on, and she, true to her word, never spoke to me again. I, despite holding a torch for her, hoping she’d love me again, knew it was over. Kindergarten marriages barely worked, and I was lucky to have my three glorious weeks with her, when I did.

I never saw her again, after the year ended. I speculate that she’s happily married, with a little boy named Peter. I think that sometimes, maybe she thinks about me, and remembers her first innocent, pure, unadulterated love.

THE ABRIDGED THOMAS L. KIMBALL LIFE STORY

The bullet sounded through the air, followed by a second. The first echoed with a tell-tale ping, bouncing off some unsuspecting wall, and into oblivion. The second pierced his flesh, just above the kneecap. Detective Tommy Kimball winced and hit the ground, holding his leg. He grunted softly in the face of the pain — he’d wanted to scream to the heavens, but, the tough guy inside him smashed the little boy years ago. His head stayed level, as he drew his .38 again, looking for Elwick.

The crime had long been solved. Elwick von der Waal, the young and princely heir to the Daily Rag fortune had long dabbled in criminal enterprise, this time kidnapping the beautiful Faith Flanagan, a lounge singer and waitress. She’d been missing two weeks, the world taking an interest in her, the story featured prominenty with information in the Daily Rag, things even the police didn’t know being told in each story, all written by the Prince of Monrovia.

Elwick wasn’t an intelligent man, though he was savy with his words, and casual with his money. He’d bought himself out of every courtroom he’d been in, and carried most judges on his personal payroll. Cops loved the guy, too. High stakes busts featured prominent photos of the police officer who made the arrest on the front page of the Daily Rag, Monrovia’s largest (and only) daily newspaper. Elwick personally thanked each of them, posed with a picture, and thanked them for keeping the city clean. He’d shake their hand, usually with a few bills wrapped and hidden in his hand.

Tommy Kimball, however, was no friend of Elwick’s. A former cop himself, and a sureshot for Captain, he ended up shooting an eight year-old girl during a chase, killing her. Kimball thought it was an accident, and swore his innocence. The rest of the world saw a cop shoot an eight year-old, and turned on him.

Gone was the smiling friend of the masses. For months, people would spit on Tommy as he walked the streets after his release from prison. Old women beat him with purses heavier than anvils, and twice the size. Men who wanted to prove their manhood would beat up the drunken Tommy Kimball, as he took each shot as his justice, his penance to a city he’d somehow wronged.

The laugh of Elwick van der Waal rang through the empty street, the ever present steam and smoke billowing through street level vents. The streetlights cast a bluish-white light on everything, casting large shadows. Bleary eyed from the flask of whiskey he’d taken down moments before, Kimball aimed into the smoke, and shot three times, the laugh growing louder. Three more shots, and the laugh stopped after the second.

Kimball blinked, incredulously. Had he shot him? No, he couldn’t have. He tried to stand, but, his leg betrayed him, sending him to the ground, and into the street gutter.

The laugh started again, louder — closer.

“I wasn’t going to kill her, Kimball!” the slightly accented voice of van der Waal said, in his sing-song manner. His voice was golden, crisp and alluring, and his annunciation was perfect, aside from his slight Dutch accent. “I was simply giving the world something to believe in. Just like I did with you.”

Elwick emerged from the smoke, a silver snubnosed .38 extended. His suit was polished and remarkable, the tie straight with the gig line of his body, bisecting him perfectly. His silver glasses glinted off the street lights, as he laughed again, Kimball looking at him, rage building.

“Oh, sure. I helped the world believe that you’d killed that girl. And you deserved it, too! Of all the cops, you’re the only one I couldn’t buy. I had to eliminate you, and I did. You’re tougher than I’d thought though, Kimball. I didn’t expect you to last a week, and eight years later, here you are. You’re drunk, and a fool, but, you’re still alive. Though, I intend to change that in moments.

“I want you to know that Faith called for you, every moment. She missed you — She’s the only one who stuck by you through all of this. Did you really think she was a random target?” Tommy Kimball raised his gun, and aimed at center mass, tears streaming from his eyes. The hammer cocked and clicked three times, each firing an empty chamber. “You wasted your shots, Kimball! Now, it’s my turn! Time to meet your maker! And tell Faith hello when you get there!”

The steam moved toward the two, Elwick standing in the center of the deserted street, Kimball firing his gun still, hoping that there was a seventh bullet in there, somewhere.

The garbage truck that sped down the street, slamming into Elwick milliseconds before he tried to pull the trigger was unexpected and welcomed. It swerved into a building, crushing the Prince of Monrovia under the weight of it’s load. Kimball blinked as Faith emerged from behind the wheel. His heart filled with joy and love and satisifaction and completion as she ran to him, embracing him. He kissed her, full on the lips, before looking up, and shaking his head.

“Told ya, toots. That’s why dames shouldn’t drive.”

He’d never return to the force, but, he didn’t care. The world rejected him, and hated him for a crime he didn’t commit. In spite of that, in this crazy mixed up world, he had Faith. And faith.

THE TEXAS CONFLICT (PT 1.)

Dear Governor Bishop,

My name is Sally MacAuliffe, and I am twenty-nine years old. I live in Katy and I am the first recipient of an organ from an inmate in the Inmate Reclaimation Project. I was born with a liver disorder, hemochromatosis, where my body would store too much iron, and hurt the rest of my organs. I spent lots of my life in hospitals, sick. I have no education, because I was simply too sick to work, too tired to stay awake, and too heavily medicated.

My daddy, Tom, told me that I could die at any time, and that I had to make peace with God. Governor, I’ve always wanted a husband, and so, I prayed everyday that God would make me better, or send an angel to make me better. I am convinced that you are that angel.

I recieved my liver and heart transplants a year ago, and since then, I’ve met a man who is my everything. For the first time, I could go outside, and breathe fresh air without wondering if something else was going to shut down. I’m still frail, but, I love my life.

I’ve wondered about my organs, and what they went through to get to me. I’d heard that Miguel Gonzales de la Cruz was a terrible man, though I cannot express the joy I feel for him. He’d kidnapped a family of religious missionaries, and raped each one, repeatedly. But, there must have been love left in his heart. It beats in my chest, and I feel nothing but love with each beat that goes by.

I know there are people out there who are against this program, Governor. DO not let them influence you. Let me speak to them. I’ll set them straight, sir.

Your humble servant,

Sally MacAuliffe

ii.

Eighty-two bodies lay on guernies, attached to eighty-two machines, eighty-two pulses matched in perfect sync at fifteen beats per minute. Eighty-two chests rose and fell with the same staccatto.

“Isn’t it perfect?” asked Doctor Harold Onizuka. “A perfectly synchronized event. Eighty-two independent creatures dependent on one person — me — to both keep them alive, and keep them asleep. I’m a God, I must be. I control their lives.”

An inmate reached up and pulled the machines from his body. He was still weak and wary, but, he’d had enough. His body rejected the drug, and his mind finally cleared enough to rise up and fight back. He tried to stand on knees that had not stood in eight months, and fell. He would not be denied his escape, even as the riot squad burst through the door, mobilized the moment the alarm sounded. The captain calmly waited, his AR-15 drawn and pointed.

Emmanuel Garza, inmate 1025402, incarcerated in July of 2002 for the quadruple murder of a police officer and his family, stood. The bullet flew, and struck Garza right between his eyes, his body dead before the bullet exited the departed’s skull. He fell with a small trickle of blood, his eyes open.

“Eighty-one men, Nurse. They all look to me to be their shepherd.”

iii.

“Yes, Senator, there are no-known side effects of Comadox. In fact, studies have shown that patients who recieve this drug vs. any other drug ‘cocktail’ so to speak, live in a much ‘healthier’ state than any others. The inmate’s bodies age at one tenth the speed ours do, while using Comadox as perscribed. That means, we could keep a man alive for ten years before he even felt like he’d had a birthday. I don’t know about you, but, I’d trade ten years for one hundred.”

Percifal James McNair was a smooth talker, and a fantastic lobbyist for the TruCare group, a group of pharmecutical companies with the same governmental interests — far less restriction on drugs they attempt to market to the world, and more money to be made from their successful marketing campaigns. PJ as his friends called him was brash and talkative, and represented the conglomerate of William James and Tonidandel, though he was far more the public face for TruCare.

Comadox had been an accident, in it’s truest form. Scientists, looking for a way to slow the progression of cancers through a body, found that Comadox simply worked in reverse — the body’s metabolism slowed to a crawl, and organs shut down and preserved themselves in an almost perfect stasis. Doctors could then spend weeks in surgery, cleaning out entire organs of microscopic tumors without any sort of risk to the patient. It was the cure for cancer, or, similiar.

The religious were the first to object, saying that cancer was God’s way of telling you it was time to come home. When the first public trials went for the drug, eight doctors were murdered by religious zealots, screaming that bullets were God’s way of telling the doctors they were wrong. They were Agents of Christ, not acting on their volition, simply killing in God’s name. The chief scientist, Robert Scobee, was killed two days after the drug was synthesized, and perfected. His lab was raided and set on fire, but, by then, it was too late.

Atheists acted next, killing entire congregations of churches who objected to Comadox, simply for standing in the way of progess. They pointed to no faceless God, and took immediate responsibility for their actions by killing themselves. Women’s groups were next in line, saying that this could be the ultimate date rape drug, if it fell into the wrong hands. They spoke of graphic gangrape scenarios, talking to other weaker minded women about just how many times a penis could invade them, before they ever knew what had happened.

Athletes followed, each trying to lobby a company to allow them to take it in a slighter dose, to work as sort of a fountain of youth. It would slow wear and tear on their bodies, so that injuries wouldn’t take as much of a toll, if they suffered one at all.

The first black eye that Comadox recieved happened during the Super Bowl. Running back Clayton Jarvis, a Comadox supporter, took a handoff, and rushed up the middle for a six yard gain, tackled by Tywon Smith. Smith’s helmet glanced off Jarvis’ arm, causing a gash almost eighteen inches long. Three hundred and seventy five people saw Jarvis bleed to death on television, because his body simply could not and would not react in time to save him.

The senate congressional hearings that happened for months afterward revealed the Texas inmate program, and brought Sally MacAuliffe to the forefront of the American mind. A pretty, frail girl, she was paraded as a beneficiary of what Comadox could do for someone. Nevermind the inmate, what of the child who could die of a disease we could prevent? She could be put in stasis, and given hope that one day, she could live the life of a little girl, not a patient.

PJ was brilliant on Capitol Hill, extolling the virtues of a society where we could control when the Lord took us home, as well as decide when a loved one had enough suffering in his life. We could take back our lives from God.

The sniper took his life, seconds later.

iv.

I killed that son of a bitch, and I’m thankful for it. God asked me to do so, and I did. I will not repent for a sin I did not commit. I will not repent for a man who disrespected the will of God. I will not. I cannot.

And while my cause was just in God’s eyes, in man’s eyes my current plight is anything but. He was a powerful man here on earth, a man who even beyond the grave could get what he wanted. I lay in a hospital bed with eighty-one other men. Our chests rise and fall at the same time, almost five minutes apart. I feel my heart beat. I think clearly.

I am inmate 1102324 in the Texas Penal System, and soon, Amanda Resnik will have my heart beating in her chest. I will be with my Lord, Jesus Christ, and I will be reunited with Him in heaven above.

Praise be to God.

THE KIPLING BROTHERS PICKLES COMPANY

“Step right up! Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! See the greatest show on earth, as two hundred of my closest friends, cousins and even my own mother risk their very lives at the greatest show on earth! Step right up! See the amazing Samuel terrify you with delights and sights not seen anywhere outside of this very big top! Don’t let your friends tell you about it, see it first hand for yourselves! Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!”

The words rang through the the peaks and valleys of existance, but, once they reached the ears of their human targets, they simply sounded like a dull, ignorable buzzing sound. Such it is when you’re a barker for a flea circus.

The Kipling Brothers Pickles Flea Circus took it’s name from a discarded label of sweet, tangy Kipling Brothers Dill Sweet Pickles. They’d toured through some of the finer dogs in Cleveland, including Rex, Rover, and their most successful run, where they gained most of their notoriety and membership, on the back of a dog named Dioge.

There two troupes of performing fleas — lead by Huffle Briffle — met, and came together to join the Kipling Brothers Pickles company. Insects from across the street would rave about the performances for as long as they lived. Flies were often said to be born a Kipling Maggot, and buzzed about the performances for all forty-eight hours of their lives.

Had the Amazing Samuel been a cow, he’d have proven the nursery rhyme correct, and jumped over the moon. His tallest leap, an astronomical four hundred fleas high (around ten feet) set a world flea record for the greatest leap in circus history. And that was with sixteen twists, fifteen turns, four wobbles, and ten variations of the pike position.

Samuel was married to the Triumphant Trudy, the Bee tamer. She could take an angry hornet’s nest, and turn it into a social sewing circle in seconds. She was happy with Samuel, and their fourteen hundred kids, and provided a good living.

Life as a flea circus wasn’t a picnic, however — even if you were, in fact, playing a picnic. Many a flea had been lost over the past months, and the Soccer Halftime Tragedy had been fresh in everyone’s mind for the last few days. Still, there was a fresh supply of dogs, and life was great. Most of the colony had even found a dog — Ocho — to go inside of a home, where it was nice and warm.

Ocho’s owner, a single man named Ray was quiet and somewhat charming. He had terriffic manners, and spent a good portion of his day painting models and miniatures for sale. In fact, those who were in posession of a Ray Carlin original Space Shipman for Waraxed Four Hundred Six were said to be some of the luckiest gamers in deed. Ray spent a great deal of time in front of his powerful magnifying glass in the dark, thanks to a stimulus disorder. Ray could hear noises that most men could not — in fact, his ears were so well tuned, it was a surprise when he heard the colony on the back of Ocho, though none were more surprised than the colony.

Huffle Briffle jumped onto the countertop and waved, Ray looking through his lens at him with an incredulous smile. “Hello, human! Can you hear me?”

“You… speak? You speak… english?”

“Yes! And Flea! We listen to the people like yourselves! Would you like to see a show!”

“I’m dreaming, so of course I would! Let me see!”

For the next hour, Ray was entertained heartily. The flea clowns were extra funny, smearing each other with larval secretion pie, which sounds grosser than it actually is. The flea band tuned up, playing the bristles of their mouthparts, each flea sounding different. A large flea named Ox jumped through hoops, and bowed.

His favorite part, however, was Samuel. He watched him effortlessly bound up, waiting longer and longer each time as he appeared in front of him.

“Wait! Let me tape you!” Ray shouted, as the fleas were more than happy to put another show on, even better than the first. Samuel jumped extra high, Ox jumped through hoops, extra fast, and the clown fleas smeared larvae on each other even faster.

In hours the video was a cult hit on YouTube. People from around the world watched the fleas video, thinking it was an elaborately created CGI film, and ate it up. In days, it spun off into fan sites, some loving the action, others decrying the cruelty to the fleas.

Nine generations performed with the Kipling Brothers Pickle Circus, before they overwhelmed the house, and had to take their individual shows on the road. Samuel and Trudy’s kids started the Ray Ocho Circus, and the Briffle clan kept the Kipling Brothers Pickle Circus name. Ray kept painting, sharing his skill with the world, and his miniatures became even more valuable. Ocho, unfortunately passed away just a year into the first circus, and was replaced with Nueve, Diez, Once and Timmy.

And they all lived happily ever after.

CONSTANCE AND THE GHOSTS — GRAPHIC MATERIAL CONTAINED IN THIS STORY. BE WARNED.

Constance stood mesmerized, her brain seemingly elsewhere. Jeff Walters, her boyfriend stood next to the sixteen year old girl, and wondered where she was. “Connie?” he asked, quietly. She seemed to not notice, instead looking out over the vast field, staring at something in the distance.

“Constance.” he said, snapping a finger in front of her face. Nothing. “Whatever. Fuckin weird bitch. I’m outta here. Fuck you.”

The words registered in her head as she screamed a tortured scream, though only to herself. She cried on the inside, and felt a great deal of sadness. But, she could not stop staring at what she saw. What was simply Cochrane’s North Forty, a place where boys and girls came to make out in silence and with privacy, was something completely different now. Like a movie effect, the plain, rolling wheat grass caught fire through Connie’s eyes. In the distance, a small building burned, too, children screaming as they attempted to exit, fruitlessly.

The doors had wedged shut and there was nothing that could be done, aside from listening to the pained screams of eighteen children, screaming and burning to death.

Two hours later, Constance fell, found by two classmates who’d come to neck a bit — Her best friend Allison Thomas and her boyfriend Steven Thomas (no relation, just odd coincidence). They drove her to the hospital, and called her father, Wilson.

A week went by, and Constance lay in a catatonic state nearly the entire time, aside from one haunted scream, three days into her stay, and standing up, ripping off her gown and standing in her room in the nude. The nurses tried to lift her, but, her body stayed in place, as if magnetized to stay in the single spot. When she came out of the trance, she was embarrassed, and cried for two days.

“What happened, Constance?” her father asked, holding her hand. Her mother had died a year ago, and Constance started to decline acedemically, as well as mentally. The happy, sweet girl grew angrier and angrier with the hand life dealt her, and she found even the slightest tasks overwhelming.

“I saw ghosts,” she answered, hesitantly. “They were burning. I couldn’t stop it.”

“Sweetie,” Wilson said, cautiously. “Ghosts don’t exist.”

“Fuck you!” she spat at her father, her hand raising and slapping him. “I saw them, asshole! I saw them die! I SAW THEM DIE! OH GOD I SAW THEM DIE!”

It took a few minutes for the drug to calm her, before Wilson sighed, and signed the papers, admitting her until she was well again.

ii.

A month passed before Constance was in the mood to speak to anyone, let alone lucid enough to deal with it. She wanted to be Constance again, not the girl who went crazy. Her body didn’t allow it, and the psychiatrists didn’t either. She was kept just lucid enough to remember who she was, and just crazy enough so that she wasn’t sure if it really was an other hand inside of her panties, roughly invading her body with fingers that would have been unwelcome in any and all other circumstances. She protested in her head, though she wasn’t even sure if it was happening. She couldn’t look to confirm anything.

Her first conversation was with the orderly, a young black boy named Raheeb. He smiled at her daily, mostly because her small, white ass stuck out of her gown as she lay curled on her bed, away from the door. “I saw ghosts,” she said to him, wanting him to believe her words as if they were gospel truth.

“Yo, I seen a lot of fucked up shit, girl. Sometimes, it be best to keep that shit to yo’ self, ya heard?”

She nodded, inspite of hearing nothing, tears streaming from her eyes. “Yes. Yes. Please, yes. Take me away from here. I need to be well.”

Raheeb looked outside the door, and saw the coast was clear. No one came over this time of day, and besides, they’d all taken turns with the hot white girl anyways. “You wanna be well, baby girl? I got the medicene for you.”

iii.

“There are no ghosts, Constance. What you had was called a hallucination.”

“I heard them too, doctor,” she said, her hands on her belly. She expected it to get bigger, but, it never did. Raheeb said he’d marry her, and take her away. She loved him, and wanted to be with him, forever. He said she was sane, that she was normal. That she was beautiful.

“That was a hallicinatory sound, Constance. You–”

“Don’t say my name after every sentence. I hate that, you asshole.”

“I spent fifteen years in school, Constance. If you’re going to insult me, please call me Doctor Asshole,” he said with a smile, trying to get her to laugh.

“Fuck you, Doctor Post.”

“That would be illegal, Constance.”

“Stop saying my name. It’s creepy. You’re creepy, and you’re in denial.” She swore she felt something move inside of her belly. Can you feel a baby at two weeks? She wasn’t sure, but, there was something there. Raheeb hadn’t been back in a few weeks, but, he said that was normal. He’d come back, soon.

“Okay. When you admit that you didn’t see the ghosts, I will stop saying your name, Constance.”

She flew into a rage, her fists thrusting at Dr. Post. “I SAW GHOSTS! I SAW GHOSTS! I SAW GHOSTS! I SAW GHOSTS” she insisted, her fist hitting him at each syllable. Her fourth punch hit his face, breaking his glasses, and driving a peice of glass into his eye. He stood and screamed himself, pushing her backwards into her chair, and onto the floor.

He kicked her in the back of the head as she tumbled, and whispered at her “Fuck you, you fucking whore! You’re never getting out of here now!”

Her eyes rolled into the back of her head as the pain shot through her body. Dr. Post ran screaming out of the room, and into a wheelchair, pushed by two attendants. Two orderlies made their way into the room, grabbing Constance and “escorting” her back to her room.

The girl’s head swelled, as she lay on the floor, her body in pain. Her mind became a fog, never to lift again.

iii.

“No, doctor,” Constance said, her face showing little to no emotion. “I never saw a ghost. I was sick. I’m okay now.”

The investigation into the unfortunate accident was short, and over quickly. Officially, Constance had attempted to hurt herself, and Doctor Post saved her life. Her arms flailed as she was restrained, the glasses breaking into his eye. As a result, Constance would have a form of a post traumatic stress disorder the rest of her life, and would require mostly around-the clock care, like a Gulf War vet, thanks to her neglected injuries.

Constance, lost the will to live, and soon after her ordeal, she died of what was determined to be natural causes at the age of seventeen. She was buried in a quiet cemetary, next to her mother, and would be joined by her father in months.

Doctor Post returned home, and entered his home office shortly after the burial. The meticulously kept office was in disarray, books thrown on the floor, with words carved into his sixteenth century credenza he used for a desk. The words as he read them were read aloud by another familiar voice.

“Still don’t believe?” it said as Constance read aloud the words to the petrified Doctor Bruce Post.

Writing What I Know -- Nothing.

Give Up – June – Part I

Six Stories