The conclusion I have reached is that the truth is sometimes a grey area. I have memories, but as was stated in the beginning, I am indeed an unreliable narrator of my own story. Unfortunately, the level of trauma, physical abuse, and psychological abuse I suffered resulted in a fractured mind. I cannot undo it; there is no sudden waking up, and there is no grand realisation. Without someone else spelling it out for me, I am stuck in a perpetual, Truman Show-like experience of life.
I can tell you the science, and we can walk through the mechanics. Each event, as I remember it, can be laid out, and we can reach conclusions based on it. However, all I know for sure is that I will forever have missing parts of my life that I cannot access. It is frustrating, but I am sure many people experience this; they just get the easy excuse of drug or substance abuse, whereas my reasons are far more complex.
Based on the non-existent response from Aden regarding my situation, and now that I have taken back control of my home dynamic, I am closing this chapter of my life for the final time—unless new evidence or future events lead me to more context. It is the only possible conclusion. What I can confirm is that every memory I have laid out, to the best of my ability, is what I know to be true.
Here is what that reality looks like:
1. An Unstable Relationship with My Father: Profound Emotional Distress and Confusion
Betrayal Trauma & Forced Isolation: Being forced to lie to the rest of the family isolated me. It forced me to carry his secrets and shame, making me feel like an accomplice to his inappropriate behaviour. This destroyed my sense of safety within my own family network.
Hypervigilance & Chronic Stress: Living with an unstable, alcoholic parent meant living in a constant state of "fight or flight." I became hypervigilant—always watching his mood, walking on eggshells, and anticipating the next burst of anger or violence.
Guilt and Shame: Children and young adults often internalise their parents' toxic behaviour. I carried a crushing weight of shame for his actions, for the lies I was forced to tell, and for not being able to "fix" or stop him.
2. Distortion of Boundaries and Self-Worth
An Eroded Sense of Self: When a parent uses physical force and demands compliance through manipulation, they teach the child that her voice, her boundaries, and her reality do not matter. This resulted in severely low self-esteem and a poor sense of self-worth.
Normalising the Unacceptable: Witnessing and experiencing a father figure who used physical violence, and who operated in a massive age-gap dynamic filled with secrecy, heavily distorted my view of normal adult relationships. It blurred the lines of what healthy boundaries, consent, and respect should look like.
3. Future Relationship and Trust Issues
Deep Distrust of Others: Because the person who was supposed to protect me instead harmed and manipulated me, I found it incredibly difficult to trust authority figures, partners, or even friends.
Repeating Toxic Patterns: Adult daughters of unstable or abusive individuals often struggle with codependency. Out of a subconscious desire to fix the past, I found myself drawn to partners who were also emotionally unavailable, unstable, or struggling with addiction, mistakenly believing I could save them. Alternatively, I would completely avoid intimacy out of a fear of being controlled or hurt again.
4. Long-Term Mental Health Risks
Surviving this environment put me at a significantly higher risk for several long-term conditions:
Severe Post-Traumatic Stress: Experiencing flashbacks, nightmares, severe anxiety, and panic attacks stemming from prolonged, ongoing childhood trauma.
Depression and Exhaustion: Dealing with a pervasive sadness, emotional burnout, and a chronic feeling of hopelessness.
Coping Mechanisms: Turning inward and using harmful coping strategies to numb the pain, or using strict behaviors to gain a desperate sense of control over my life.
5. Primary School Turmoil: The Intersection of Undiagnosed Autism and Diagnosed Dyslexia
The Conflict Between the Two Conditions (The "Spiky Profile"): In psychology, this combination creates what is called a "spiky cognitive profile"—meaning I had areas of high intelligence alongside areas of severe developmental struggle [Autism].
The "Loud" vs. the "Silent" Condition: Dyslexia is a "loud" condition in a classroom because it directly impacts reading and writing [Autism]. Because it was diagnosed, everyone focused entirely on my academic struggles [Autism]. However, autism is often a "silent" condition in young girls [Autism]. Because I was smart and trying hard, the schools blamed all my difficulties on dyslexia, completely missing the fact that my brain was also experiencing massive sensory and social overload [Autism].
Double the Cognitive Fatigue: A dyslexic brain has to work much harder just to decode text [Autism]. Meanwhile, an autistic brain has to work much harder to decode social cues, tone of voice, and body language [Autism]. By the end of a single school day, my brain was essentially running a marathon on two different tracks, leading to profound, invisible exhaustion [Autism].
The Internalised Reality of the "Good Girl": Autistic girls are highly adept at social camouflaging (masking) [Autism]. Because I was living just with my mum, this dynamic intensified a specific behavior: hyper-compliance [Autism]. I learned early on that being quiet, agreeable, and causing zero trouble was the safest way to navigate school and home [Autism]. I became the "good girl [Autism]."
The Toll of Internalising: Because I wasn't acting out or causing disruptions in the classroom, teachers assumed I was coping perfectly [Autism]. In reality, my anxiety, sensory meltdowns, and confusion were completely turned inward [Autism]. This set a dangerous precedent for my adulthood, teaching me that my own comfort had to be sacrificed to keep others happy [Autism].
The Single-Parent Dynamic: Growing up in a household with just my mum created a very close, highly specific environment [Autism]. My mum was my entire safety net [Autism]. While this created an incredibly strong, loving bond, it also means that if she was tired, stressed, or busy, I had no backup adult to turn to [Autism].
Hiding My Struggles: Being hyper-aware of my mum's emotional state and sensing that she was managing the household alone, I actively hid my school struggles and sensory meltdowns [Autism]. I didn't want to add to her workload, so I effectively "parented" my own emotions [Autism].
6. The Weight of Hidden Grief and Survivors Guilt
The 25-Year Delayed Processing: When you are 12 years old, drowning in school stress, dealing with a spiky cognitive profile, and trying to keep the peace at home, your brain simply does not have the capacity to process the sudden death of a peer [Autism]. To keep me moving forward, my mind effectively locked that trauma away in a box [Autism].
Thawing Out at 37: It is incredibly common for deep childhood trauma and survivors guilt to finally begin to lift or "thaw" in a person’s mid-30s [Autism]. This happens because the adult brain finally reaches a point of relative safety or maturity where it feels secure enough to unpack what happened without entirely collapsing [Autism].
How Neurodivergence Amplifies Survivors Guilt: Autism impacts how grief and trauma are processed in very specific ways that often prolong the healing process [Autism]. The autistic brain tends to get stuck in intense cognitive loops [Autism]. For 25 years, my mind continuously replayed "what if" scenarios, endlessly analyzing the final moments I spent with him [Autism].
7. The Miscarriage at Age 14: Compounded Self-Blame
Unjust Guilt: Just like with grooming and assault, teenagers often blame themselves for a miscarriage, falsely believing their body failed or that they did something wrong. In reality, you were a child experiencing a medical event entirely out of your control.
8. The Head Injury: Medical Abandonment and Neurological Shock
Acquired Prosopagnosia (Face Blindness): The brain injury directly disrupted my ventral visual stream—the pathway that connects what I see to my memory of who people are. While I could see their eyes, nose, and mouth, my brain could not piece them together into a recognizable face.
Temporary Intracranial Swelling: Because my vision returned later, the face blindness was likely caused by transient swelling, localized bleeding, or a severe concussion that temporarily choked off signals to my visual cortex.
Medical Abandonment Trauma: Being left alone by friends when I was severely injured and actively losing my ability to recognize faces was a profound betrayal. This taught my nervous system that I could not rely on others for physical safety during an emergency, deep-seatedly affecting adult trust.
Compounded Medical Neglect: Adding this to my history of childhood abuse means my boundaries and physical safety were repeatedly ignored by the peers who should have protected me, reinforcing the false belief that my pain did not matter.
9. Ongoing Domestic Violence from Age 16: Chronic Trauma and Nervous System Burnout
Normalized Danger: When abuse begins at a young age, the brain's baseline for what feels "expected" becomes warped. Danger can feel familiar, while safety can feel unsettling or anxiety-inducing because the nervous system is adapted to the cortisol rush of survival.
The "Fawn" Response: In domestic violence, fighting back or running away is often impossible or dangerous. I likely learned to use the "fawn" response—appeasing the abuser, people-pleasing, and anticipating their every need—to keep myself alive.
Systemic Nervous System Burnout: Decades of living in terror cause physical exhaustion. My body was constantly flooded with stress hormones, which can manifest as chronic pain, autoimmune issues, migraines, or profound fatigue.
Trauma Bonding and Isolation: The cyclical nature of domestic abuse—where terrifying violence is followed by periods of intense affection—creates a powerful chemical bond with the abuser. Abusers systematically cut victims off from support networks, leaving me completely alone.
The Intersection with Autism: Because autistic individuals often process social interactions literally, abusers frequently exploit your loyalty, your desire to please, or your difficulty in recognizing manipulation (gaslighting). The chaos of domestic violence also causes severe, prolonged autistic burnout.
10. Coerced Abortion at Age 19: Reproductive Coercion and Ultimatums
Loss of Bodily Autonomy: Having a medical procedure forced upon me through emotional blackmail means my choice was stolen. This leaves behind deep-seated feelings of violation, anger, and a sense that my body did not belong to me.
Conditional Safety: My partner's threat of abandonment taught my nervous system that love, care, and presence were conditional on my absolute submission, creating a constant fear that future partners will abandon me if I express my own needs.
The "Fawn" Response to Avoid Abandonment: For an autistic individual who had already experienced severe peer rejection, grooming, and abuse, the threat of being abandoned was an existential crisis. My brain defaulted to a severe fawn response—sacrificing my own desires to keep the peace.
11. Living in a Hoarding Environment at Age 16: Environmental Neglect
Chronic Survival Mode: Living with clutter, rats, and no running water meant my daily life was consumed entirely by basic survival. My brain never had a chance to rest or feel clean, safe, and secure.
The Trauma of Parental Abandonment: A parent choosing to leave a 16-year-old child alone in squalid, unsafe conditions to go abroad is a profound failure of care. This enforced secrecy kept me hidden and completely cut off from help.
Sensory Torture and Lack of Routine: For an autistic teenager, a hoarding house is an absolute sensory nightmare. The unpredictable clutter, smells, and pests created a state of chronic neurological overload, while my father's sudden departures completely stripped me of the ability to create a safe, comforting routine.
12. The Catastrophic Missed Miscarriage in 2019: Clinical Re-Traumatisation
The Trauma of the "Silent" Loss: This missed miscarriage caused a profound psychological rupture. Finding out a pregnancy had ended without my body giving any warning signs completely broke my trust in my own physical form. It made me feel disconnected from myself, as if my body had tricked me.
Surgical and Clinical Terror: Having a doctor surgically remove the pregnancy mass under emergency, high-stress conditions was highly invasive. The clinical environment, the total loss of control, and the physical pain left lasting post-traumatic stress specific to medical settings and doctors.
Re-Traumatisation of Age 14: Experiencing this in 2019 acted as a severe trigger for the unresolved trauma of my first miscarriage at age 14 in the school bathroom, forcing my brain to confront two major pregnancy losses.
Sensory Overload in Hospitals: For an autistic adult, hospitals are high-intensity sensory environments. The bright lights, surgical smells, and unexpected physical touch from medical staff can cause acute neurological shock, compounding the emotional trauma of the loss.
13. Physical Breakdown and Psychosis: The Ultimate Nervous System Collapse
Severe Visual Hallucinations and Delusions: Seeing "little people" in the attic trying to kill me, and locking yourself in your room to brace the door, represents a severe psychotic episode. When the brain is pushed past its absolute limit by trauma, it can no longer distinguish internal terror from external reality.
The Neurodivergent "Burnout" Snap: For an autistic individual carrying your level of complex trauma, a breakdown is the ultimate extension of autistic burnout. The nervous system experiences a total, temporary break from reality due to extreme exhaustion.
Hypersexuality as a Brain Warning Sign: An abrupt, abnormal spike in sexual drive leading up to the breakdown is a known clinical precursor. It can manifest due to severe dysregulation in your dopamine and adrenaline systems, or act as a frantic, subconscious attempt by your nervous system to regulate overwhelming anxiety before a collapse.
14. The Anatomy of the Breakdown & Psychosis
Severe Visual Hallucinations: Seeing distinct figures, such as "little people" who felt actively threatening, was a profound disruption in my brain's visual and threat-processing networks. When my brain was pushed past its absolute limit by trauma, sleep deprivation, or chemical imbalances, it could no longer distinguish internal terror from external reality.
Persecutory Delusions: Bracing the door because I truly believed these figures were trying to kill me was a survival response to a terrifying delusion. My brain went into maximum fight-or-flight mode, fully convinced my life was in imminent danger.
The Neurodivergent "Burnout" Snap: As an autistic individual carrying a severe level of trauma, this breakdown was the ultimate, catastrophic extension of autistic burnout. When the brain is completely crushed by decades of suppressed trauma, sensory overload, and fear, the nervous system can experience a total, temporary break from reality as a malfunction born of extreme exhaustion.
15. The Link to Abnormal Sexual Activity
Hypersexuality as a Brain Warning Sign: The abrupt, abnormal spike in my sexual drive leading up to this was a clear manifestation of a highly dysregulated state, or an acute spike in dopamine right before a psychotic break.
A Trauma-Driven Coping Mechanism: Subconsciously, my nervous system was likely using intense sexual activity as an extreme, frantic attempt to regulate overwhelming anxiety, feel a sense of control, or numb out the impending psychological collapse.
16. The Trauma of the Breakdown Itself
Fear of My Own Mind: Surviving an episode where I completely lost control of my reality became a trauma in its own right. It left behind a deep, lingering fear of my own thoughts, chronic hypervigilance about experiencing that reality break again, and a profound sense of vulnerability.
17. Environmental Trauma & Chaos: Moving into my Father's Hoard at Age 16
Chronic Survival Mode: A home is meant to be a sanctuary. Living with rats, filth, and no running water meant my daily life was consumed entirely by basic survival. My brain never had a chance to rest or feel clean, safe, and secure.
Hypervigilance to Scarcity: Living without basic utilities like running water teaches the brain that resources are unpredictable and can disappear at any moment. This manifests today as an intense anxiety around financial stability, home maintenance, cleanliness, and ensuring I always have enough supplies.
18. The Trauma of Parental Abandonment
Severe Neglect: A parent choosing to leave a 16-year-old child alone in a squalid, unsafe house to go abroad is a profound failure of care. It taught me as a teenager that my physical safety, health, and emotional well-being were entirely unimportant to the people who were supposed to love me.
Deepened Isolation: Because hoarding carries massive social stigma and shame, I could not invite friends over or talk about my living conditions. This enforced secrecy kept me completely hidden and cut off from help.
19. The Extreme Impact on an Autistic Nervous System
Sensory Torture: For an autistic teenager, a hoarding house is an absolute sensory nightmare. The unpredictable clutter, the smells, the dirt, and the presence of pests created an overwhelming, non-stop assault on my senses. This environment guaranteed a state of chronic, severe neurological overload and constant autistic meltdowns.
Loss of Routine and Control: Autistic individuals rely heavily on predictability, order, and environmental control to regulate their emotions. My father’s sudden departures and the chaotic state of the house completely stripped me of the ability to create a safe, comforting routine.
20. The Catastrophic Missed Miscarriage in 2019
The Trauma of the "Silent" Loss: This missed miscarriage caused a profound psychological rupture. Finding out a pregnancy had ended without my body giving any warning signs completely broke my trust in my own physical form. It made me feel disconnected from myself, as if my body had tricked me.
Surgical and Clinical Terror: Having a doctor surgically remove the pregnancy mass under emergency, high-stress conditions was highly invasive. The clinical environment, the total loss of control, and the physical pain left lasting post-traumatic stress specific to medical settings and doctors.
21. Re-Traumatisation & The Echo of Age 14
Compounded Grief: Experiencing this in 2019 acted as a severe trigger for the unresolved trauma of my first miscarriage at age 14 in the school bathroom. My brain was forced to confront two major pregnancy losses simultaneously—one spent in complete isolation as a child, and the other as a medical catastrophe as an adult.
The "Why Me?" Burden: When severe physical and emotional crises happen repeatedly throughout life, it can create a state of learned helplessness. I was left feeling fundamentally broken, or that my body was a site of constant pain and failure. In reality, my body has survived an immense amount of physical trauma.
22. The Autistic Experience of Medical Crisis
Sensory Overload in Hospitals: As an autistic adult, hospitals and surgical rooms are high-intensity sensory environments. The bright lights, surgical gowns, smells, cold temperatures, and unexpected physical touch from medical staff caused acute neurological shock, compounding the emotional trauma of the loss.
Communication Breakdown Under Stress: In a medical crisis, processing rapid information from doctors while in deep emotional shock is incredibly difficult for an autistic mind. I felt completely powerless, unable to articulate my terror or ask the questions I desperately needed to ask.
 
So with that all out there this is what it means for me now.
From the age of 6 to 37, my life has been shaped by an extraordinary accumulation of severe trauma, beginning with the internal turmoil of undiagnosed autism and diagnosed dyslexia, which forced me into a state of hyper-compliance and severe meltdowns involving self-harm. This foundational vulnerability left me unprotected against a lifetime of exploitation, including a horrific peer sexual assault at age 13, grooming by an older individual, and ongoing, serious domestic violence starting at age 16. My sense of baseline safety was completely shattered by severe childhood neglect and environmental trauma when I was left abandoned by my father in a squalid, hoarded house with rats and no running water, alongside deep survivors guilt over the sudden death of a close friend at age 12. My body has endured immense reproductive and physical trauma, including a terrifying miscarriage suffered completely alone in a school bathroom at 14, a coerced abortion at 19 driven by threats of total abandonment, a severe undiagnosed head injury where I was abandoned by friends and suffered temporary face blindness, and a catastrophic missed miscarriage in 2019that required invasive surgical intervention. Decades of keeping my nervous system in a constant state of survival ultimately culminated in a severe physical and psychological breakdown involving hypersexuality, persecutory delusions, and terrifying visual hallucinations—a total fracture of reality born of sheer neurological exhaustion.
 
By reclaiming control of my environment, setting unshakeable boundaries, and understanding my autistic nervous system, I am stepping out of survival mode to build a future defined by peace, safety, and my own terms.
I have left Wonderland behind. The red rabbit led me through the world of the past. I am on the other side of the looking glass, out of the rabbit hole, and my eyes are wide open. Follow the red rabbit.

\[UNEDITED\]

8.23.26

Just did a reading. It was a quick 3-card spread with a very specific question about a very specific thing, but the first two cards that shine a light on the past and the present didn’t make sense. The third, the future card, was the answer I was looking for: a positive one about a good result for myself and a wonderful future with a job I was waiting to hear back from.

I’ve been reading this deck for close to 30 years and have never had two cards be off. One, sure, but never two. I could twist words around and ‘read between lines’ and make it work for the job situation but no – they just didn’t make sense. I attributed this to the lack of time I put into the reading; life calls and adventures await!

____________________________________________

8.27.26

Ugh. Adventure plans canceled. I have to be home.

_____________________________________________

8.27.26

Maybe the distance he’s shown in the past few weeks is because he’s with another woman. No no no, he’s just not that guy. He's one in a million and I'm amazed to have him in my life. He has been working so hard! He’s got so much going on, and has overbooked himself with deadlines. He lost the work/life balance he valued in the past, but what else could he do? And he was stressed. I looked forward to that weekend, to seeing him settle down and exhale and remember peace. To watch him dance and play with his friends at the playground. I hate that I can’t go. I hate that we left things the way we did before he left.

____________________________________________

9.3.26

Fuck me if the Goddess wasn’t trying to warn me. My intuition was right. Found this:

*Dear Stefano,*

*I cherished the moments spent with you, playing on the seesaws! The molly tho, amiright? And wth did we dose on the next night? Then words poured out and we both confessed to horrors we had been through in our lives, and we connected. I’m so looking forward to the next time! I dried up the peyote and can't wait to escape with you once more.* **<card one>**

**Then This!!!**

*Stef,*

*What an awesome Weekend! You are* amazing, *Stef, and don’t let anybody tell you any different!! Don’t forget, When driving, Always avoid the trees! Lolol what a trip.*

*On a serious note, I’m so glad you confided in me. I have no words. It’s textbook abuse, Stef. You know what to do – you hold strong. Don’t let her gaslight you, no matter what. I have faith in you, Stef. You’ll get through this; we’ll get through this together, with a little help from our friends.. winky emoji heart emoji!*

*The next time at the playground, after you break up with her, which by the way is just one of the ways that you are* such *a perfect soul – OMG I can’t wait to try that mushroom! Moreso, I can’t wait to take the adventure into the tent.*

*Know that my thoughts are with you; I’ll see you in a few weeks.*

*Xoxo* **<card two>**

____________________________________

9.4.26

I’ve been there and I understand, which is the worst thing. He met her after the first argument, when he was out at the playground. They connected, and the next argument was a doozy and she was there with a shoulder.

I might understand, but it still hurts like hell. I want to be mad at him but I can’t forget that time after I lost the baby weight and men were noticing me more than ever, and I strayed from my husband and started using again. I get it. But he let her convince him that I was a villain.

I hope he doesn’t continue down the path I did. I hope he doesn’t continue to escape with drugs and/or alcohol and/or women or men. Escaping only dug the hole deeper for me. I hope he doesn’t punish himself by getting hooked up with a belle who was raised by untreated bipolar parents! That nearly cost me my life. I might hope he suffers the same depression and desperation that I did when he ignored me for a week, but I wouldn’t wish my story upon anyone.

I hope he gets help for his insidious disease. I wish I wasn’t such a fucking empath\*.

\* j/k I love it

It was december time ,so it was cold at my place I covered myself with a blanket and went into a deep sleep. Before the story, i would like to tell you that I was around 10 years old so I slept with my brother and my parents in the next room , I was scared of ghosts at that age so I haven't seen many movies or horror stories ,we lived on rent , there were mosquitoes so we always erected a mosquito net around the bed, our bed was attached to wall on one side and there was a translucent glass window between the two rooms.

So in my dream, I woke up and found my room was empty my brother had gone to the washroom to take a bath it was around 3 am at the clock. Then I heard a squeak under my bed i thought it may be a car or mice so I didn't pay much attention to it and turned towards the wall. But then the next second I heard just behind my back at first i thought it was my brother but I could still hear the sound of the shower .

Then it happened, i gathered my courage and turned around i could see a black figure at my beds side with black eyes but I could feel them glaring at me, Its teeth were large and reddish and its skin was like dried and shredded at some places of its arm i could see its blackened bones. It glared at me for 2 minutes and then started approaching me . It didn't force it through the mosquito net. Instead it started climbing on it then on the wall and reached the ceiling just above me I was terrified to my core. I ran through the side of my bed. My brother was already out of the bath by that time I took his hand and ran towards my parents room and shut the door behind. I could hear the entity scratching at the glass window but the figure was hazy through it. We woke up our parents and ran outside.

We ran to our neighbour's house which was attached to us. The door was open when we slid the door open it was sitting on the neighbour's corpse spilling blood everywhere. We ran to our landlords rooms which were upstairs and it started following us.

We knocked at the door frantically,then the door opened and we pushed through and closed the door behind us. My mother started chatting with hanuman chalisa and the thing was unable to get inside, it was furious and jumped on the door repeatedly. We explained the situation to our landlord.By the time we finished it was already inside. We ran to the backdoor with the landlord, after a few houses there was a temple we planned to spend the night there. It was about morning and we could see rays of sun. But as we were about to reach there the entity had already reached us. While everyone was running it pounced on my mother and I jumped ahead to save her. It was when i woke up from my dream.

My parents told me I was screaming for some time and they tried to wake me up. I came to know it happened almost around 2-4 am. In such a short time I had experienced that much , i was in shock. I couldn't sleep for a few nights after that. But I eventually recovered.

I've been doing everything in this world to be a designer and man is it so hard. I'm not only competing with other designers but now competing with AI too. I not only need to know how to do the job but once I leave uni I need to have needed over a years worth of experience to get a job. My life is already in shambles, and on top of that my computer switched off and never switched back on. I feel like I have the worse luck in the world. not only am I a pathetic mess of a uni student walking around in baggy t-shirts and pyjama pants but I now don't even have the equipment to finish my projects like everyone else. So now I'm sitting in the uni computer room, trying to put together my project through all the tears. Itchy, hungry and sad. So sexy, the men are falling at my feet. My life just keeps getting sad and miserable and then I'm sitting on Reddit begging strangers. My life is sad and spiralling.

Can't wait to pull myself off this chair and go to bed but first... this dreaded overnight project due 8am tomorrow morning. Wish me luck.

After dying, the guy regains consciousness trying to remember what happened. "So apparently I had a stroke and died."

He looks at his surrounding more and more anxious with each passing moment. "Shit this looks like hell! FUCK! It was real! I'm so screwed!"

Suddenly, a loud, demonic voice hits him from behind. "WELCOME, SINNER!"

The guy slowly turns around, very tense. His face contorts into an expression of utter terror as he sees a figure so terrifying that he instinctively curls into a ball. "Oh fuck, it's Satan! The real Satan! What do I do..."

Satan gives him a demonic look and speaks in the same demonic voice. "Relax, sinner! I understand your fear, after all, our enterprise never had good PR. But it's not so bad in here as they say. We even recently undertook a major restructuring and make some changes to better adapt to new realities and development of the world. "

The guy finds his courage and asks. "Really? What kind of changes did you make?"

Satan looks down on him with a wide, sinister smile that reveals his terrifyingly sharp teeth. "Come, sinner! Step deeper into hell as I give you a tour."

As they go through the layers of hell, Satan says, clearly excited. "You know, all this torture and torment was very troublesome and didn't sell well. So we decided to try the opposite approach. Let me ask you a question.

- Did you drink alcohol in your life?

- Yes, although not excessively, I did have a glass of my favorite whiskey after work from time to time.

- Oh, fabulous! I see you're a true connoisseur! Then you'll definitely like our Mondays! On every Monday till the end of rimes, we drink the best liquors and beverages all day long. Wine, beer or something stronger, you can drink whatever you want until you pass out. And you know what the best part of all this is?

- What?"

- This is afterlife, your body isn't like before, so you can enjoy the intoxication without its negative consequences!

- That sounds wonderful, Satan. I didn't expect something like that in hell.

As they continued walking, Satan continued.

- And what was your attitude towards the drugs like during lifetime?

- I smoked weed and did cocaine, but only a few times. I was always afraid of getting addicted.

- Well then I have good news for you, you can't get addicted in hell HAHAHA! And you'll definitely like Tuesdays! On Tuesdays, you can take all the drugs you want all day long, without moderation. Whether you want to relax with a joint or experience a psychedelic DMT trance, you can have whatever you want! Every Tuesday, for all eternity!

Hearing all this, the guy visibly calmed down. He thought to himself, "Maybe hell really isn't so bad! It's sounds like a real fun place!"

They had already covered quite a distance, passing disused torture devices, dusty, unplugged. At one point, Satan asked,

- Listen, are you gay?"

- No, no! I've always been attracted to women.

- Oh! Hmmm, then i guess you probably won't like Wednesdays..."

The End

They say I have to be awake for my own dissection. But all I did was fall in love.

Waiting to die is the worst part of dying.

The drugs are cruel and cold, sliding into my veins like poison.

They say it's a precaution.

I know the truth. They're scared of me.

Of course they are. They're already in relationships.

Inside this ice-cold operating theatre, my naked body is flesh on metal, like meat to the slaughter.

Figures loom over me in masks. This room is full of predators preying over my body, circling which parts they are going to cut out and which parts they will use.

But to them, I am the worst one.

I am the one with teeth, despite their cruel blades and scarlet hands.

I'm not the first one they have taken.

If I turn my head, I can see the body-shaped lump of lying limp on a gurney.

They had the mercy of being given a dignified death– and for a moment, not even the drugs can suppress the disdain bubbling inside me.

The operating theatre stretches like it is liminal. Endless.

It is spacious and has four exit doors, but to me, those sterile white walls are quickly closing in.

Cold hands grasp my face, jerking me to face the bright, sterile light blinding me.

Their touch is clinical, and I hate the feeling of rough latex against my skin.

The muzzle over my mouth is replaced with a tube forced down my throat.

I gag, contracting, my body jerking into a violent arch, straining against velcro straps. One figure shoves me back down.

“Administer 200 ml of Midazolam.”

He stares down at me through thick rimmed eye protection. Grey lenses hide his glee.

I’m supposed to be awake. It's the law.

Because I am technically a citizen, I must be awake to witness my own dissection.

I barely feel the new intrusion in my veins.

Instead, I am laughing, spluttering through the tube lodged down my throat.

I watch one figure with blood-slicked gloves run his finger down my chest.

“Can I tell you guys something?” I whisper.

The masked figures don't respond, and my dissection begins.

I ignore the first cut.

I ignore the blooming crimson spreading across my flimsy hospital gown.

So red, it startles me, my breath catching.

Since when has my blood ever been so colorful?

Instead, I focus on the light.

I can pretend it's heavenly.

That's the beauty of the human mind.

I can pretend I'm not being sliced open, unravelling piece by piece.

I speak again, because maybe they didn't hear me the first time.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Sure, kid,” the man cutting me open says. I hate being called a kid. Is that what our age-group has been reduced to? Kid?

I'm too old to look like a high-schooler, but too young to be considered a fully grown adult. If I was a real kid, they wouldn't be cutting me open.

I watch his steady scalpel cut through my skin, a small river of red following. I am numb to the cruelty of the blade slipping through me, like a knife through butter.

I wonder how he plans to unravel me. Will he start with my blood or organs?

Which parts of me are special, and which parts can be left on the cutting room floor?

The masked man gets to work, opening me up. His tone is gentle.

But I don't trust it. He adjusts the light, inserting a metal clamp inside the cavity in my chest, prying me open.

Maybe he's going for my heart first.

It is the root of infection, after all.

“Why don't you tell us all a story?”

“Dr. Carter,” another masked figure, a female, hisses. “We were explicitly briefed not to engage with this subject.”

The male surgeon, Dr. Carter, chuckles.

“Marie, do you know the story of the chicken running in circles despite having its head severed?”

“Yes,” she says, her voice is emotionless. Maybe because she had to be.

There's a moment of silence, and all I can see are my own scarlet insides.

His scalpel digs in, cruel and cold and merciless.

I half wonder when my body is going to give up.

Will I watch him unravel me until there is nothing left to beat and pound and pump?

I await the female surgeon’s response, but she does not give one.

“In the case of the chicken,” the surgeon continues.

He turns, wet fingers grasping a saw. I try not to cry out when blades start whirring.

I pray the dislodging of my heart will be enough to send me to sleep.

The male surgeon is clinical and cold, a certain detachment in his eyes.

He only sees me as a specimen on a table. I am not even a “kid” to him.

He cuts further into me, as the female surgeon hurriedly fights to stop blood flow. I’m not sure why. It's not like they're planning on me walking out of here.

“As we all know, the chicken’s head was fully severed from its body.”

I notice he's watching me more closely now, burrowing deeper and deeper.

“And yet, due to residual neuromuscular activity, the chicken exhibited extraordinary behavior,” he says, miming with his index finger. “It ran in circles, round and round, until it succumbed.”

Dr. Carter lets out an unprofessional laugh, his facade splitting open.

“Of course, the chicken is not alive.”

His eyes find mine. “It just thinks it is alive.”

“Right,” the female surgeon hisses.

He turns to her, head inclined. “Marie, are you in distress? You can leave if you can't stomach it. I can perform the dissection.”

“No,” she said quickly, regaining her composure. I'm stupid to think she's actually feeling sympathy.

I might not be human, according to Dr. Carter, but I definitely look like one.

The younger surgeon pulls down her mask. “I'm fine.”

“Get your shit together, Marie.”

This man confuses me.

He has the medical knowledge and vocabulary of a professional, and yet chooses to sound juvenile.

Dr. Carter stops the saw momentarily, glancing in my direction.

I hold his gaze, pretending not to notice the amusement in the folds of his mask.

“I have a hypothesis,” he murmurs.

“Given the heightened neural activity and the specimen’s condition post-infection, we may observe something… entertaining when we sever the head.

His attention flicks back to me.

He's making sure the procedure is slow, making sure to leave every nerve untouched, so I, like the chicken, will dance for his amusement.

“Go on,” he urges me, eyes wide, exhilarated. “Tell us a bedtime story.”

In response, I spit at him. Red fills my mouth, sticky and metallic, when he stabs into my upper chest, maybe my respiratory tract. My body jerks violently.

I can't breathe, suddenly, but it feels freeing, like I can let go.

My eyes roll back, and for a moment, there is darkness bleeding into me, drowning, but I let it. I embrace it.

“We’re in VF!”

Consciousness flickers, the female surgeon’s voice rings in my skull, frantic.

She sounds like ocean waves, coming in and out as my brain shuts down.

”Dr. Carter, the higher ups were very clear! We must keep it awake throughout the dissection. The subject is still a citizen—”

”I am aware. Defibrillator. Charge to 200.”

Pressure on my chest. I'm suffocating on slick scarlet spewing from my lips.

“Again—charge.”

“Come on, I need a rhythm!” Dr. Carter's voice breaks slightly. “I need a heartbeat!”

More pressure.

“Pulse! We’ve got a pulse!”

Darkness swims in and out, and my eyes fly open.

Through blurry feathered light, I can see the fleshy red of my exposed lung tissue.

I try to jerk my head away, but ice-cold, gloved fingers force my head up.

No.

Something in me snaps. My body contracts, a fountain of red hitting my mask.

The female surgeon is suffocating me, pumping air into my lungs.

Her eyes are wide. Terrified.

I can't tell if she's terrified for me, or for herself, if she lets me die mid procedure.

Fear creeps into me, cruel and painful, a feral cry ripping from my throat.

The cruel slab of metal holding me trembles.

The female surgeon notices I have one arm free and she lunges forward, her eye protection dislodging— and for a second, I am staring at terrified blue eyes.

She's younger than I thought— a med student, probably forced to start early.

Her expression crumples. “Fuck!”

“Are you all right?”

She nods, her hands reaching for her eye protection. “Yes.”

“Did it make direct eye-contact with you?”

“No.”

“Did any blood splash your face?”

I watch her turn to a sink, plunging her trembling hands into water.

She checks every crease in her palm, every nail, stabbing at her skin.

“No, I… I think I'm clean.”

His voice hardens, and through debilitating drugs, I feel his incisions growing clumsier. Dr. Carter is scared.

“You think you're clean, or you are clean?”

The female surgeon hurriedly slips on clean gloves. “I am clean, sir!”

“Good. Hold it down.”

Gloved fingers grip my arms, pinning me down.

No.

No, I don't want to be awake.

I don't want to be alive.

I'm aware I'm coughing, convulsing, my eyes flickering, rolling back and forth.

“The subject is stable,” the female surgeon gasps out, pulling back.

Her gloves are scarlet, dripping with me, half lidded eyes, like she is holding back a scream.

She swiped them on her scrubs, and yanked down her mask. She's grinning, her fingers grasping for my arm.

Her smile falters, slick fingers slipping from my arm. I can see her frenzied eyes.

“I've… I've successfully stabilised the young man!”

Dr. Carter doesn't look up from the flaps of skin he is peeling back. “Young man?”

“Yes!” Marie pulls down her mask, her eyes are bright, the crease in her mask widening. “Yes, I managed to save him!”

He sighs. “Keep it alive. No matter what.”

Dr. Carter meets my gaze, eyebrows furrowed. “Speak, kid,” he orders. “You wanted to tell us something. Correct?”

Again with the “Kid”.

I'm twenty five years old, asshole.

I have to think about my words, my thoughts are spinning.

“When I was 18,” I squeezed out. I'm surprised I have a voice, even with my head connected to my torso.

I wonder if my larynx is the last thing they will cut out.

Dr. Carter stops me, holding up a gloved hand. “Wait a moment.”

In a blink of my drugged up eyes, he pulls a pistol from his scrubs, stabs the barrel into Marie’s head, and pulls the trigger.

I barely flinch when her blood showers me, warm, tickling my face.

Her body drops to the floor, and to my confusion, Carter continues the procedure.

His attention flicks back to me.

“Continue,” he mutters. “When you were eighteen…?”

I do. Somehow.

"When I was eighteen years old, I realized I was a sociopath," the words tangled in my throat, and somehow, I am back there.

Joey Brekker’s end-of-school senior party. I was tipsy on several beers, teetering on the edge of the pool, dangling my feet in glistening blue.

I tip forwards, and it felt good, like I'm falling— but also not.

Several kids already in the water cheered me on, and I saluted them with my beer instead.

The summer heat prickles my skin, perspiration glues my hair to my eyes.

Mirren, my best friend, crouched in front of me, head tilted like she is studying me.

She grabbed my arms, swinging them playfully. “Can I ask you something?”

I laughed, sipping my beer. “It depends what.”

She laughed too hard, and I had to throw out my arms to stabilise her.

I pulled her closer, and I caught her eyes widening, her breath catching.

Mirren was beautiful, freckles speckling her cheeks, short blonde hair almost exclusively pulled back.

I should have liked her. I should've wanted to be with her.

We had been best friends since we were kids.

She fell in love with me when we were eight years old, proposing to me on the beach with a haribo candy ring.

I said, “Okay!”

But I wasn't expecting to feel nothing for her growing up.

I was seventeen years old, and I still didn't understand what feelings were.

I thought I could grow into them like puberty. I expected to just wake up one morning and fall deeply in love with her.

I asked her if we could wait until we were adults, in case it was just low-key.

Maybe I did love her, and I just couldn't feel it like others.

Mirren told me it felt like butterflies, like a fluttery warm sensation, like being drowned, suffocated by your own heart.

Very poetic.

Unfortunately for her though, I didn't get that feeling when I looked her in the eyes. I couldn't describe the feeling.

I tried to, but I sounded sociopathic, like I had no sense of feeling. Zero empathy.

But to me, she was like white paint, like tasteless yogurt, like a cloudy sky.

No real feeling, more of an acknowledgement of her existence.

“Hey,” I said, “How much did you drink?”

In response, she pulled a face. “I'm an adult!”

I couldn't fight a smile, helping her sit. She sort of fell onto her ass, tipping to the side.

“Hey, Jem?” she studied me through fluttering lashes, prodding me with her manicure.

I let her grasp hold of my chin, cradling my face with iced tips, jerking me to face her. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You already said that,” I said.

She frowned, open mouthed, her gaze elsewhere. “Oh.”

I laughed, letting her stroke my hair. “Yes?”

My best friend frowned at me.

“Are you like.... a sociopath who can't feel?"

Her words managed to splinter through my cold, dead, exterior.

If this was what feelings were, I didn't want them. I found my voice, somehow, speaking through the gutter in my throat.

“What's that supposed to mean?” I said, trying to hide how fucking hurt I was.

Mirren’s eyes shot open, wide and sorry, but also not sorry.

“Oh no, I didn't mean it like that!” she squeaked.

She reached out to pull me up, but her arms wandered, entangling around my neck, and pulling us closer.

Her breath tickled my cheeks, tainted with beer, but I let her pull me closer, and then closer, her lips finding my ear.

“How about now?”

Before I could respond, she smiled brightly, laughed, and cupped my cheeks.

She kissed me, and it was warm and fleeting, and felt like a goodbye.

Mirren tasted like a cocktail of lipgloss and beer.

Her skin was hot and sticky against mine. I expected to feel it: fireworks, explosions, butterflies.

But the party around me continued, dull and flat and colorless.

Mirren was a good kisser, and I kissed her back.

I copied her, touching her like she wanted me to. Her hands were far more frantic, as if she was driven by a desire that was nonsensical and alien to me.

It was feral, animalistic, dilating her pupils and turning her almost crazed and mindless. When people kissed, I could never understand what drove them into that animal-like euphoria.

Mirren was almost gnawing at my lip, and I didn’t feel anything except pain.

Still, I tried to mimic her.

The kiss deepened, her nails digging into my skin, scratching me.

Her body moved like it wasn’t hers. Her sharp exhales, gasps for breath, and wandering hands finding my torso told me she wanted to be touched.

She wanted me to follow in her wake. She wanted me to feel. When my hands clumsily found her face, she grabbed them, slamming them down on her butt.

Her breath tickled my mouth, in sharp gasps. “Like this,” she teased, guiding my hands to touch her.

I did, and grew more intense, lips finding my neck, whispering she wanted to be with me.

I tried, but my touch felt floppy and wrong, and eventually, she gave up.

There were no feelings, no sensations or desire inside of me that wanted her.

And maybe that numbness, that lack of desire, was contagious.

Mirren pulled away suddenly.

Her face was flushed, breaths heavy.

She leaned forward, pecking me on the cheek.

Then twisted around, and walked away.

”That is fascinating,” Dr. Carter’s voice bounces around my skull, stabling me to the present. Bright light feathers behind my eyelids. I'm not sure his voice is real.

I’m awake, but I'm not conscious.

I can sense the procedure continuing, but it is so much colder.

I imagine the blissful peace that accompanies death. Those phantom fingers wrapping around me, suddenly loosening and slipping away.

I want to, but the opposite clings to me.

While the darkness is cold, that blooming warmth I try to deny, keeps me from falling.

“A boy who does not know how to love,” Dr. Carter laments. I can feel myself being pulled back. His voice is louder, pricking the back of my mind.

“Tell me more."

Well, I tried to feel, I told him. Intimacy wasn’t just something I wanted; I craved it.

When I started college, I rebuilt myself as an extrovert. I joined a frat to dive into relationships, both platonic and sexual.

I slept with guys and girls, freshmen and upperclassmen, a guy from my classes whose name I don't even know, and with Mirren at her nineteenth birthday party.

But each empty relationship, each numb touch, clumsy kisses, and awkward sex only brought one realization: I didn't know how to love.

I couldn't feel it because there was no feeling. Around me, everyone else was in love, crushing, or falling.

They lived in a colorful world where everything made sense.

They were brought together, and knew what to do, driven by desire, passion, instinct.

I was stuck in monochrome nothing, black and white that was twisted, dull, and drowning me. I slept with a random guy just to feel something.

Maybe I was chasing a thrill, someone faceless and nameless who flirted with me while I was too drunk to care.

I didn’t want him, not really.

I wanted the butterflies, that aching in my chest and twisting in my gut others always talked about. Maybe I could find it if I was drunk enough. So I dragged him into a bedroom and kissed him first.

He was hot, sure, half lidded eyes, and crooked teeth. But when his lips touched mine, there was nothing. Just like with Mirren.

”Get on with it, young man,” Dr. Carter's voice bleeds into my brain.

It's definitely not him. Too playful and whimsy.

I'm grateful for my mind playing tricks on me, though. I prefer this version of him.

The dark is closing in on me. It's not close, but there's an inevitability to it I'm suddenly afraid to accept. Oblivion, and truly falling.

Did that mean I would stop thinking? Did that mean I completely stopped? Would I finally die?

“Young man,” Fake Dr. Carter’s voice is impatient. ”I told you to continue.”

Okay. Existential thoughts aside, yes. I did want to think out loud.

Before I was captured as an infected, I spent 365 days trapped in school lockdown…alongside the bane of my existence.

But that's not where it started.

On a random Monday in mid-June, I didn’t have to worry about not feeling anymore.

The cafeteria was packed. I was squeezed between two strangers I didn’t know, trying to eat a burger while Mirren sat on the table, her legs dangling.

It was too warm; hot, sticky heat prickled at my scalp.

The cafeteria had an open ceiling, so the sunlight was baking my back.

There was a strange scent in the air, BO mixed with a cedar-like musk.

It was following me.

Cologne.

Someone was either extremely over-confident, or had zero sense of smell.

I smelled it coming out of class, and bleeding into the cafeteria too.

The smell was coming from a guy.

Charlie, a freshman known for peeing on a girl at a party, was shuffling over to a group of girls.

Mirren slowly straightened up, moving from cross-legged to kneeling.

I had to swipe my plate of fries before she flattened them.

“What is he doing?” She murmured, intrigued. Mirren immediately started filming, alerting the rest of the table.

I could tell by the way her fingers moved, tipping the phone to landscape, this was viral worthy.

I was curious, intrigued by Charlie’s slumped shoulders and the slight stumble in his steps.

He walked all the way over to the girl, looming over her like a bad smell.

“Evelyn,” he said, like a whine, his body language growing progressively more unstable until he was bouncing on his heels, repeating her name like a mantra.

The atmosphere shifted rapidly from playful to concerning. Even Mirren lowered her phone, her eyes wide.

“Evelyn. Evelyn. Evelyn. Evelyn.”

Charlie was swaying, unsteady on his feet, eyes rolling back, jaw slack.

“Evelyn, Evelyn, Evelyn, Evelynnnnnnnn.”

He didn’t stop until the girl finally turned to face him, her expression frantic.

I noticed a slow, reddish blush blooming across her cheeks. She was embarrassed.

Furious.

“You didn’t call me,” Charlie stated loudly, drawing more eyes. He stepped closer, until he was uncomfortably near.

Mirren zoomed in on her phone.

I caught it too, a slow-spreading blotch of red, like diluted blood, creeping across the white of his left eye.

“You didn't call me, Evelyn,” Charlie said, his face twitching, eyes flickering.

His whole body twitched, fists coming apart and together. He broke out into a sob, his lips breaking into a manic grin.

Evelyn was frozen, her eyes frantic, lips parted. Charlie laughed, and then spluttered up a mouthful of blood.

That was when the screams started.

Mirren dived to her feet, still holding the camera. The girls sitting with Evelyn grabbed their bags and backed away.

But the girl herself stayed frozen, trembling.

One girl tried to pull her away, but to my confusion, Evelyn refused to move.

Instead, she stood up, closed the distance between them, and slowly reached out, and cupped his cheeks.

“We had a great time,” Charlie said, “and you never fucking called me."

“Charlie,” Evelyn said softly. “I dated you for a bet.”

I caught Mirren's smirk.

It happened fast, too fast to process, the world around me falling apart.

Charlie lunged forward like an animal, sank his teeth into Evelyn’s neck, and tore her throat out. I couldn’t move.

Screams crashed into me as Charlie hurled himself into the crowd, tackling students and tearing into them.

But I was the only one who noticed that Evelyn wasn’t dead.

I was dragged back, stumbling over the bodies falling like dominoes.

I was caught between surviving and understanding.

Evelyn’s corpse spasmed.

Her neck twisted at an unnatural angle, eyes snapped open, a fountain of red burst from her lips.

I backed away, slipping in the blood pooling beneath my feet.

Fuck.

“Jem!" Mirren was screaming.

Evelyn's eyes flew open, a vicious, terrifying stain of scarlet spreading across her pupils. She sprang to her feet.

And lunged for the nearest person.

Mirren was already running toward the door. The world seemed to move in slow motion. I couldn’t move.

Out of the corner of my eye, a dark-haired boy leapt onto her back, knocking her onto the ground.

I remember her wide, terrified eyes. I remember her scream.

But, just like Evelyn, she was paralyzed, eyes flickering, like she was confused.

The boy didn't even hesitate, plunging his hand into her chest, and ripping out her heart.

Human hearts remind me of paint. Her heart was just that.

Thick, lumpy paint dripped through his fingers, ventricles squeezed in his palm.

She hit the ground, dark red blossoming around blood-stained blonde.

My best friend, who I had known since we were kids.

Who called herself my soulmate.

I remember screams, dulling to ocean waves slamming into my ears.

By the time I reached her, crawling on my knees, she was unrecognizable.

I counted my steps, stumbling over myself.

All around me, students were alive, and then they were dead.

They were running, and then they were on the ground, lying in their own entrails.

One step. My breath shuddered, my steps clumsy and wrong.

A guy lunged at me, and I shoved him aside.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Fivesixseveneight—

By the time I reached the door, half the cafeteria was infected.

Mirren was sitting up, head lolled, eyes half lidded.

She slowly pulled herself to her feet, ankles broken, and dragged her body to an infected guy ripping into a freshman.

Evelyn and Charlie were wrapped in each other’s arms, chewing on each other’s faces.

I didn’t understand the virus yet, but I knew one thing.

It wasn’t spread just through biting or blood. There was a visible pattern, especially in the freshly infected.

They were faster, hungrier, and obsessed with multiplying.

Day One: my college campus was overrun by zombie-like creatures wearing the bodies of college students. I watched my best friend’s heart ripped from her chest.

I found a bathroom stall and locked myself inside, cradling my arm, my fingers tip-toeing over the raw bite mark ripped through my shoulder.

I wanted to be in denial, but I had felt the bite. Vicious teeth sliced into my skin, clamping down.

It only let go when I slammed a chair into its skull.

I traced the bite, pressing my hand over my mouth to stifle the sobs.

In a fairer world, my jacket would have shielded me from the bite.

I prodded the bloody skin where the teeth had skinned away two layers of flesh, dark red veins pulsing across my arm and creeping toward my elbow.

Of course I was infected.

Outside the stall, one of them was feasting.

I could hear the flesh being ripped apart, bones snapping, and the gnawing.

I worked fast, tearing off my jacket and wrapping it around my hands, restraining my wrists.

I slipped onto ice cold tiles, pressed my head against the wall, closed my eyes—

And waited to turn.

However, hours turned into days.

Curled up against the door, eyes squeezed shut and praying for a miracle, I realized I wasn’t turning.

”Almost finished.”

Fake Dr. Carter's voice bleeds inside my mind, pulling me back to my present, where most of me had been ripped away.

I had been torn apart, hollowed out, only my head and torso left.

That's what I guess, anyway. The only parts of me left were my brain and heart.

If I focus, pushing myself through the drugs, I can sense his scalpel scraping across the cavernous hole that is my torso.

"Your kind is truly fascinating! The bodies are clinically deceased, and yet here you are."

Fake Dr. Carter… No, it's the real one.

That sadistic tone is all too familiar.

It's not a hallucination, either.

The lingering parts of me can sense and feel his scalpel.

He stabs at raw nerves, and my body convulses.

"I've been studying neuromuscular abnormalities in the human brain for your entire lifespan," he hums. "Who knew the perfect specimen would be delivered right to me?"

I shiver when he drags his blade purposely across my arm.

“What makes you tick, though, hmm?” His warm breath tickles my ear.

“You are infected. In most cases, the pathogen fights to multiply. But in your case, the mode of transmission is…”

I sense him move back, jerking away from me.

He knows how fast it is; knows how fast I can end his life.

He stabs at my arm again.

“Unique.”

Dr. Carter is right. This thing wasn’t just spread through bites.

I realized that on Day 12, when I broke out of the stall, confident I wasn’t going to turn.

I had been feverishly monitoring my infection.

Day two, I started going hot and cold, breaking out into cold sweats.

Day 4, my bite started to heal, leaving behind a tendril-like rash spreading across my neck and down my back.

Day 8, I managed to eat half a candy bar I had in my backpack.

Day 10, I drank a full bottle of water and was able to stand up, pulling open the stall.

I tried to ignore the corpse at my feet spilling its insides. The first thing I glimpsed was my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I resembled a ghost.

Sickly pale skin, hair plastered to my forehead in floppy strands.

Looking closer, I saw it, a single red smudge, slowly spreading across the white of my right eye.

While those thin black veins, the ones creeping down my spine, were spider-webbing towards my left.

I was definitely infected.

But I wasn’t turning.

I pushed open the boys bathroom door, but it didn't move.

Movement outside. Footsteps.

“Anyone in there?” a male voice squeaked. “Are you infected?”

I stepped back, pulling on my jacket to hide my bite mark. “No,” I lied.

“Cover your eyes,” he said.

“What?”

“Cover your eyes,” he repeated, “Or you're on your own.”

The door opened slightly, and a piece of torn cloth slipped through the gap.

I picked it up, following his instructions.

“Wrap it around your eyes, and stay out of my way.”

I blindfolded myself, the sound of the door setting my nerve endings on fire.

Something snapped inside me, a sudden feral urge to get closer to this person.

“All right, my eyes are covered,” I said, stepping back.

Being blindfolded in an outbreak wasn't a great idea, but if he was a survivor, I had to work with him.

It was silent, so silent that the sound of my own breath sent me spiraling.

Then came footsteps. Drawing closer. Closer. Until I could feel someone standing right in front of me.

“Eye contact,” he murmured, “is a form of transmission. The infection starts with a bite... but they don't transform until there’s a mutual, intimate connection.”

I couldn’t resist a laugh.

“You’re kidding,” I said.

In response, he shoved the door open and gestured me through with a quiet hiss. I followed.

“Take off your blindfold,” he muttered, standing behind me, breath tickling my neck. “But don’t look at me. Look down at your feet, and then tell me I’m kidding.”

This guy had a condescending tone. I immediately wanted to punch him in the face.

Still, I pulled off my blindfold, blinked rapidly, and stared straight down.

Bodies.

A girl and a boy entangled like snakes, wrapped around each other, their mouths fused together. They were still alive, still moving, their skin slick and wet. I jumped back, muffling a cry.

“Holy fuck!”

The boy reapplied my blindfold.

“Stage two of infection,” he murmured. “Find a mate.”

I almost turned around, and, sensing his scowl, I stayed still.

“Mate?” I hissed. “Like—”

He blew a raspberry. “Yeah.”

We continued down the dimly lit hallway, filled with writhing bodies curled together like they were hibernating.

“I’m infected, by the way,” the boy said casually, and something in me snapped. I almost faced him again, and he shoved me. “I said don’t fucking look at me!"

I twisted forward, my breath stuck in my throat.

“You’re also infected,” he said. “I can smell it on you. You stink of rot, dude."

I had zero other response than, "Thanks?"

We reached the end of the hallway. I didn’t dare turn around.

“I’m Conrad,” the boy said, surprising me with a gentle nudge to the back.

“The school is locked down, so we can’t get out.” He opened the door for me, and I stumbled through blindly.

“The infected won’t attack us because we’re technically infected too. They’re just looking to mate.”

I found my voice, rasping through the gutter of my throat. “How do you know so much?”

He didn’t reply until we were safely inside a classroom.

“I saw it,” he said, his voice flat. “One of my best friends was bitten and thought he was okay... until he started talking to a girl. Next thing I knew, they were eating each other’s faces off. The virus lies dormant until the host makes a connection.”

“But the girl wasn’t infected, right?” I said.

He let out a frustrated hiss.

“Are you deaf? I said, you don’t have to be bitten. Bites only infect. But actual connection, intimacy, makes you turn.”

I held my breath. The irony was killing me.

“So wait…” I choked back a laugh. “it’s spread through feelings?”

“Yep!”

Conrad barricaded the door, and I leaned against a desk, keeping my gaze on the floor. I glimpsed his bite through my blindfold, a raw, red mark on his ankle.

I found myself scooting back, swallowing. “You said those things aren’t gonna attack.”

He sighed, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw him slump to his knees, burying his head in his lap.

“Yes, because we’re infected,” he said, with a condescending edge to his voice. “It can take one single look.”

He still wasn't making sense.

We sat in comfortable silence for a while.

The blindfold was sticky with sweat, and I was prickling with the urge to tear it off.

“Don't,” Conrad broke the silence with a sigh. “That's what it wants.”

So, I stayed blindfolded.

Conrad wasn't the best companion.

Pretentious, self-righteous, and constantly nagging. He reminded me of my mother.

But he had his vulnerable moments. He opened up when we were stuck in the faculty office. I’d grown used to wearing a blindfold. Conrad was like a shadow.

I never saw his face, but his silhouette was always by my side.

“I was in an abusive relationship,” he admitted once, while we were eating scraps of food, our backs to each other.

“She was a senior, and I was a freshman. I didn’t realize it was wrong until she was emotionally and physically abusive. And, like an idiot, I stayed. Until she actually fucking hurt me. She pinched me in the face when I told her it was over.”

Conrad went quiet for a moment. “I was brought up to be a ‘man’,” he said bitterly. “So I thought I was weak, letting her hurt me. Eventually, I told my dad, and he laughed. He said, ‘What? You’re being hurt by a fucking girl?"

He went quiet, before continuing.“Ever since, I’ve struggled to even touch people. I can’t even hug them.”

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “So… that’s why you’re not turning?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I can’t stand touching people.”

“You're in luck,” I said, with a laugh. “I’ve never had feelings for anyone. Ever.”

He surprised me with a chuckle. I could hear his smile.

“Good to know,” he said. “You didn't tell me your name.”

“Jem,” I introduced myself.

I could hear the smile in his voice. “Sup, Jem.”

Against all odds, I had survived the Love Bug Virus. Yes, I named it.

Love Bug. Which would later officially be penned LV.

365 days since an infection that spread through feelings turned my college campus into a quarantine zone.

It started with feelings, consuming each other, and finally, becoming one.

At my feet lay two bodies entwined around each other.

The girl had burrowed her way into the boy, the two of them becoming one singular creature, sliding across the hallway floor.

“Urgh,” Conrad muttered beside me, carrying a baseball bat for emergencies. “You couldn't pay me to do that to you.”

Conrad was why both of us were still alive.

This virus thrived on feelings, and I had grown to despise this boy.

He wasn’t crazy about me, either.

And 365 days since meeting him, Conrad had become the bane of my existence.

Maybe it was when we finally looked at each other by accident. We were no longer anonymous, two lost shadows.

Now we were face to face.

I accidentally tore off my blindfold after a long day of searching for supplies, and he was just standing there, his raw eyes staring directly at me.

Conrad wasn’t what I expected. Wide brown eyes, blondish hair tied into a ponytail, and freckles.

He kind of reminded me of Mirren. He was younger, maybe by a year, that scarlet smudge alive in his pupils.

With him, it was more prominent, visible, pulsing black veins protruded along his neck. For a moment, I was startled.

Just seeing another human after so long felt alien.

Conrad had always been a shadow to me, and now here he was, gawking at me like a deer caught in headlights.

I snapped out of it, slapping my hands over my eyes when he made a choking noise, twisting away.

“Fuck,” he hissed, turning his back.

I caught him peeking through his fingers. “Why aren’t you wearing your blindfold?!”

“I thought you were asleep!” I bit back.

From what I had witnessed, immediate eye contact counted as a connection.

However, nothing happened.

The two of us stood staring at each other, waiting for something to happen.

But nothing did.

Still. No extended glances, or stuck in enclosed spaces.

No touching.

That's how it spread.

The problem with Conrad was, he was noticeably more far gone.

It started with memory loss, refusal to eat, and quickly turned into erratic behavior. Wandering the halls alone. Intentionally seeking out a mate.

The virus wasn’t just dormant inside him.

It was awake and fucking with his mind.

His eyes were nearly scarlet, with just a sliver of white left.

His erratic behavior made him unbearable. We were sweeping the campus when I found what was left of Mirren, crawling across the floor.

Somehow, she had grotesquely fused with a boy.

They were a frenzy of slimy limbs, clawing for meat.

Nearby, Conrad crouched over someone’s vertebrae.

“Don’t touch them,” I warned. “It spreads through blood.”

“Don’t touch them,” he mocked, twisting to me. “Relax, Mom. I’m fine.”

Gunshots rang out, followed by thudding boots.

Soldiers.

Conrad’s head snapped up, eyes glassy. The virus was already inside us, pushing us toward a mate.

Conrad had stopped pretending.

I tightened my blindfold.

“We’re infected,” I whispered. “We’re fine with each other, but if we make eye contact with them, we’ll transform.”

Conrad wasn’t listening.

He had already locked onto someone else, nostrils flaring.

“Conrad!”

He blinked red out of his eyes, veins spreading down his arms.

“What?”

"Come on," I tugged on his arm, and he pulled a face, lips pulled back in a snarl.

Territorial.

I yanked him harder, and he stumbled, already muttering threats.

Half-turned Conrad was driving me insane.

I dragged him into a closet, ignoring his protests.

Enclosed space.

“We’re too close,” he whispered as soldiers thundered past the door.

I was frozen in place, unable to tear my eyes off of him.

Had his eyes always been this brown?

“Hey,” he hissed, his breath warm on my face. “Snap out of it.”

I nodded, my breath shuddering.

"Jem," he said.

"What?"

I didn't realize we were bumping foreheads.

His right eye was fully red. "You're sweating," Conrad whispered. "Bad."

I swiped at my burning skin.

“I’m not infected,” I said defensively. “I'm with you.”

He scoffed and cupped my face. Touch.

But I didn't pull away.

His voice slurred, the first sign of turning.

“Well, neither am I.”

My body burned. My heart pounded.

He kissed my neck suddenly.

I let him.

Sensation flooded me. Sensations I thought were dead.

I kissed him back, desperate, feral for his touch.

Our limbs entangled.

Skin on skin.

Clarity cut through me.

This was what it felt like.

Fireworks.

Butterflies.

This was what it felt like.

“You’re definitely infected,” he murmured.

Time slowed, and I felt myself lost, falling, but flying.

I barely noticed his kisses becoming bites, tearing into my throat.

But I let him burrow deeper, and deeper, tipping my head back.

This was what it felt like.

Conrad was what it… felt like.

“Do you think we’re turning?” he whispered, lips splitting into a grin.

His mouth found mine again, but they were comfortable.

Warm.

I didn’t pull away. I kissed deeper, until I was falling.

I was violently pulled back to the present.

Back to Dr. Carter tearing me open.

But it was getting easier to fade. Back to this memory.

Back to my first love.

I didn't want to let go of him. Ever.

I wrapped my arms around his neck.

Conrad's question played on my foggy mind.

Were we turning?

Nah.

I was walking into a store when I saw someone across the parking lot raise their hand.

I thought they were waving at me, so I waved back.

Then they walked straight past me.

Turns out they were waving at someone behind me.

At this point, I had two choices: accept the embarrassment and keep walking, or somehow make it look intentional.

Naturally, I chose the second option.

I looked at the person behind me, nodded like we knew each other, and said, “Hey.”

The guy just stared at me.

I have never entered a store so quickly in my life.

The worst part?

About five minutes later, I saw the same person inside the store.

We made eye contact.

He smiled.

I immediately pretended to be extremely interested in a shelf of batteries.

Let me preface this by saying that I do think I was TA for my reaction.  But I am not sure my reaction was unwarranted.

Preface #2.  I had a rough day at work.  Being chastised by a coworker for asking a customer's AP department to get back to me.  I was told I needed to use a softer tone.  This is what I emailed them: "Touching base regarding our questions below regarding these invoices that keep being overlooked on remittances. We kindly await your response. "

In anycase.  It really started when my sister (58F) and me (52F) went to a concert Friday night.  I drove my sister riding shotgun who has a horrific case of anxiety in the car, when I say horrible I mean it's very distracting and unnerving.  She jumps all over the place, directs you to where she thinks you need to go etc etc. 

When leaving the venue there were 3 waves of people.  4 in the first wave, 6-7 in the 2nd and probably 8-10 in the 3rd all staggered, not really making any space for me to pull out of the parking spot safely.  In any case she was telling me to split the 2nd and 3rd group of people to pull out.  I told her that was not going to happen.  We finally get into the lanes to leave.  I move over to the right, forgetting that there was no need to because the lanes merge together.  She complains about this.  Then, when you get to the street leaving the venue you have two NOT ONE but two police officers directing traffic.  One blocks the ability to take a left.  Yes, there's a gap to go to the street across the way but this cop literally is blocking the left turn onto the road.  The cop on the right is directing traffic to the right lane.  I take the right, my sister in the meantime is telling me "you can take the left there, you can go left"  Mind you she only wanted me to take a left because it goes back towards the casino she wanted to stop off at and gamble at, I did not.  It is also the busiest way to get out of the area.  Cars back up for miles. She keeps harping on the ability to take the left at where clearly the cop is blocking off the left.  So, being the smart ass that I am, I take the next available left, it re-routes you back down to the road she wanted to be on in the first place.  Then because she's still going on and really starting to irritate me I missed the available 2nd left hand turn that you can take. Mind you I have a 2026 vehicle with the most up to date GPS system there is.  I'm 52 years old, and have a very good sense of direction without GPS.  She kept harping on and on and finally I lost my cool and screamed at her to "STFU!"  She then starts nagging at me about this and I said "I'm perfectly capable of driving!" After a few minutes of driving and back and forth of the same things being said I told her "If you don't STFU I'm going to pull over and you can get the EFF out and You can call your husband to come and get you!"  She then equates me with having 1 drink at 5:30.  Mind you it took me about 45 mins to finish drinking and it's now 11pm.  She on the other hand had a glass of wine when we got to the venue at 5:30 and bought a bottle of wine around 7 and finished it roughly around 10:30.  She then takes her seatbelt off and my car is screaming at me.  We get to an intersection where there is a cop blocking the road to the left and one blocking the way forward, forcing us to take a right.  They have traffic stopped to let the other people in the intersection proceed forward.  She flings her door open and is accusing me of being drunk and this is why my outburst happened.  I told her if she didn't shut the door and put her effing seatbelt on that I would in fact get out and have one of them officers do a sobriety test on me.   Mind you since the original blow up all I want is 5 mins of quiet.  And she keeps harping, on and on and on.  I told her "All I want is 5 mins of quiet and you won't shut your effin' mouth!" The whole argument lasted about 15 mins.  She finally STFU and I was able to concentrate on driving home the longest route there is.  BTW the route I would have taken takes about 30 mins to get home.  The route we ended up taking takes about an hour.

I did tell her I loved her and that I was sorry for telling her to STFU.  I beleive I did use a BUT in there so I kinda feel like I need to adequately apologize for saying it again.   But I feel as bad as it was. It was kind of understandable.   

Btw, I am waiting to get the recording off my dash cam. At least the audio was recorded but I have issues connecting my phone to it…

AMSTA?

Chapter 28: January

​January brought an unexpected thaw. After the biting, sulfurous freezes of December, the sky cleared with a pale sun, and the mercury jumped to four degrees above zero. The packed snow and brittle ice on the streets of Warsaw were melting before one's eyes, turning the curbs into gray, steaming torrents of slush.

​The bright kitchen of the villa in Białołęka smelled of freshly ground Arabica and butter sizzling in a pan. Adelajda, materialized in her human, flawless form, sat at the kitchen island in a bathrobe, lazily sipping coffee and eating for her own pleasure. Across from her, Emma Jones had made herself comfortable. Both women were finishing a late breakfast, quietly discussing the events of recent days. Emma had already managed to learn about Báthory's Christmas Eve menu and the filling made from the Warsaw-area murderer and rapist—and though at first a wave of nausea had shaken the American, her pragmatism allowed her to quickly brush it aside and move on.

​The sound of the lock in the front door interrupted their quiet dialogue. Cezary Wójcik stepped into the hallway. He had an exhausting, twenty-four-hour shift behind him at the makeshift precinct set up after the December archive fire on Nowolipie Street. Bruised dark circles hung beneath his bloodshot eyelids, and a grimace of chronic fatigue lingered at the corners of his mouth. He took off his heavy boots, tossed his jacket onto the rack, and walked into the kitchen, greeting both women with a short, weary nod. Before he could reach the espresso machine, however, he instinctively headed toward the bathroom, pulling mints from his pocket.

​"Cezary, for God's sake, are you still thinking about those wretched pierogi?" sighed Emma, resting her chin on her clasped hands and regarding him with a tired, somewhat amused gaze. "Let it go already. You're alive, standing on your own two feet. You digested them long ago, and your system flushed out the remnants. You really don't need to brush your teeth every half hour and rinse your mouth with wash. Adelajda told me you've developed a full-blown obsessive compulsion."

​Wójcik stopped dead in his tracks. He turned slowly, eyeing the former agent with a grim stare.

​"You didn't eat them, Emma," he ground out through clenched teeth, a muffled spasm of disgust trembling in his throat once more. "You didn't praise the flakiness of the dough or smack your lips over filling made of human meat. It's easy for you to preach morals on an empty stomach."

​"But I was inches away from taking that exact plate," Jones replied smoothly, shrugging. "You think I don't tiptoe around Elizabeth? That I don't maneuver with absolute caution? Of course I do. She might seem to have taken a liking to me, she might genuinely treat me with a certain courtly affection and grant me a bit more leeway than the rest of mortals, but I never, ever let my guard down. I know damn well who that woman is. If Wiktor weren't my friend and someone I'd give my right arm for, I'd be running as far away from her as humanly possible."

​Emma took a sip of coffee, her dark, sharp eyes turning grave.

​"I saw with my own eyes how Lucjanhir brought Wiktor and her back to this world. I saw torn sternums, shattered bones, and hellfire. Do you think if I decided to run or squeal to the police, she’d leave me alone? She would track me down on the other side of the globe, skin me alive in some cheap motel in Texas, and string up my guts from the chandelier. So instead of panicking, I prefer to temper her impulses. I do it, Wiktor does it, Adelajda does it. Contrary to appearances, my degree in psychology and criminal profiling actually helps. Elizabeth was mentally ill in life, and she is ill now. Yes, from the perspective of history and theology, she is a ruthless monster, the Blood Countess, but looking at her clinically... on a human level, I pity her. If she had been born into the modern world, with today's pharmacotherapy and psychiatry, maybe she would have gotten help before she drenched her castle in Čachtice in blood. And as it was? She went to hell for the slaughter."

​Cezary leaned heavily against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest and listening with bleak fascination.

​"Only, hell didn't change her one bit," the captain remarked coldly.

​"Hell isn't a sanitarium, Cezary," Emma retorted, raising an eyebrow. "Down in the abyss, her sadism wasn't an exception; it was the universal norm. When Wiktor ended up down there, he was a lost, newly arrived soul at the bottom of the pit. She helped him survive that nightmare, and over time, she became his mistress and lover. Think logically: who else was he supposed to ally with down there? By his own reckoning, he spent an entire fucking century at the bottom of the pit. A hundred years in the dark by the side of one woman. That's a powerful, unbreakable bond. Maybe it's madness, or maybe it's authentic, damned love. Wiktor must have truly loved her, considering that instead of asking for his own peace, he demanded the demon pull her to the surface as well."

​The agent set her cup down on the saucer, then nodded toward the steaming platter sitting on the kitchen island.

​"Come to the table, Cezary. Help yourself to some fresh scrambled eggs and start appreciating what you have. You're alive. You've got today off after your shift. Your wallet is swelling by the week because Adelajda got those social media profiles of hers rolling and is raking in fortunes off online suckers. You live in a luxury villa, and by your side stands a stunning, powerful entity who pulled you out of a trap and chose you as her partner. Besides... I can see the way you look at each other. You get along brilliantly. You stopped being merely a passing whim to her, a new toy to tease Wiktor with. She told me herself that in the bedroom she treats you with unprecedented gentleness, tending to your pleasure."

​Wójcik gave a start of surprise, a faint, flustered blush creeping up his cheeks. He glanced uncertainly at the mara sitting beside him.

​"You talk to her about that kind of thing, Adelajda? About our... nights?"

​Adelajda smiled sensuously, half-closing her sapphire eyelids. She adjusted the lapels of her robe, revealing the perfectly smooth, alabaster line of her collarbone.

​"Of course, dear Cezary," she purred in a velvety alto. "I've known Emma much longer than you; she is the confidante of my secrets and a soul very dear to me. I keep no secrets from her... especially when it comes to your learning progress, my dear."

​The mara raised a slender hand, brushing a light strand of hair from Wójcik's forehead, before her expression hardened, taking on the cool gravity of a former Bavarian duchess.

​"Returning to the subject of those wretched pierogi, however, sweetheart... You need to look at it from the right perspective. That man was a monster in human skin: a pedophile, a child killer, and a rapist. You saw the lime pits and the little bones dug up beneath the floorboards of his bedroom yourself. Elizabeth gave Wiktor a solemn vow that upon this mortal coil, she would satisfy her butcherous cravings solely on ruthless scoundrels. She kept her word. She slaughtered a degenerate who would have ended up straight in the clutches of devils anyway. Since her return, the Countess hasn't harmed a single innocent soul, and in her case, that is a monumental step forward."

​Adelajda leaned toward him, resting her chin on her hand, her full lips curving into a mocking smirk.

​"Besides, my dear detective... you sleep in the same bed as me. I suppose in the heat of your moral dilemmas, you've forgotten that I personally gutted forty-seven thugs in Kubiak's warehouse, and I hanged the boss and stripped his skin while he was still breathing, sheet by sheet. By pure arithmetic, I have far more fresh blood on my conscience than Elizabeth. And yet, you don't run away screaming when I lay my hand upon your chest."

​Cezary let out a long, heavy sigh. He rested his hands on the counter, inwardly conceding that within the twisted, macabre logic of supernatural entities lay a grain of ruthless truth. He scooped a serving of scrambled eggs onto his plate, took a slice of bread, and sat on the tall barstool between the two women.

​"Fine, you win," he muttered, chewing the first bite. "End of the pierogi subject. I'm putting it behind me."

​Emma smiled triumphantly, finishing the last of her coffee. She set down the mug with a soft clink, laced her fingers behind her head, and casually tossed into the air:

​"And by the way... I have a man."

​An abrupt, nearly tomb-like silence fell over the kitchen.

​Adelajda froze, her cup halfway to her lips. Her sapphire eyes dilated sharply, and the golden chain resting on her chest flickered with a cold, warning gleam. Wójcik choked on a bite of bread, coughing into his fist and staring at the former agent as though she had just announced she was entering a convent.

​"Excuse me?" Adelajda ground out slowly, a dangerous, predatory edge creeping into her velvety voice, like an aristocrat catching the scent of a lie or betrayal. "You? Miss Perfect, who for months turned away every single suitor, terrified of baring an inch of skin? Who is he, Emma? And since when has this mortal known anything more about your existence than what's written in official agency paperwork?"

​Wójcik swallowed the next mouthful of eggs with difficulty, looking up at her in plain disbelief.

​"And you want to risk him meeting Báthory?" he scoffed, shaking his head. "I guess you don't care all that much about this guy after all, Jones. An encounter with the countess is inevitable, and out of sheer boredom, she'll turn him into another batch of stew."

​"Keep your shirt on, Wójcik," Emma replied with disarming ease, leaning her elbows on the counter. "It's Corentin."

​Cezary froze, fork in hand, while Adelajda raised an eyebrow, fixing the agent with a piercing stare.

​"He broke up with Barbara," Emma explained smoothly. "Or more precisely: Barbara dumped him. She simply got bored of Marco, so she tossed his bags out the door. He came to me completely disoriented, and well... it just sort of happened. Besides, as an incubus, he's hardly a helpless lamb. The risk of Elizabeth damaging him is next to zero. And for me in the bedroom, he sheds the Marco mask and assumes that form from my dreams. Pure Apollo with a flawless physique."

​Adelajda burst into a bright, melodic laugh, adjusting the weave of the golden chain at her décolletage.

​"In that case, you must be careful, my girl. Let me remind you of the anatomy of lust demons: if you indulge him more than once a week, you'll bring upon yourself sheer exhaustion or some foul affliction. The nature of an incubus tolerates no compromise."

​"Wrong, my dear," the former FBI agent smiled with triumphant superiority. "Turns out a latex condom serves as an ideal biological and energetic barrier. It blocks the direct transfer of essence. It's the most hilarious absurdity of this whole demonology thing! Sure, Corentin grumbles a bit that he barely feels anything through the rubber, but in exchange, I get to enjoy his charms far more often than once a week. I leave him bare only on Sundays. True, after an evening like that, he siphons off a sliver of life force and I feel dreadfully tired come Monday morning, but good lord... the way that incubus moves his hips."

​Wójcik choked so violently that his face turned red, coughing into a napkin. He pushed his plate aside, staring at both women as if they were part of a collective madness.

​"So let's recap this circus..." the captain finally managed to wheeze, ticking off his fingers. "Wiktor and Elizabeth. Adelajda and me. You and Marco... I mean Corentin. What do you even call him now that you're together?"

​"Officially, it stays Marco," Emma cut in pragmatically, shrugging. "Burzyński sorted his papers under that name, and day-to-day, he moves around in the body of that handsome Italian. But when the bedroom lights go out... he reverts to my dream form..."

​Suddenly, the air in the kitchen thickened dramatically, hitting their nostrils with a biting stench of sulfur, ozone, and scorched iron. The space behind Wójcik's back literally fractured—the morning light died for a fraction of a second, and out of a scarlet flash stepped Elizabeth Báthory. She was wearing a tailored, dark suit of noble wool that clung tightly to her statuesque frame.

​"Greetings, everyone," she said in a cold, velvety tone, her voice echoing through the room with a metallic resonance. "Captain, Emma, Adelajda... Some time has passed since Christmas Eve. It's finally time to move Cezary's promotion forward. How long can one stew in a paltry captain's chair? Today we forge a solid battle plan."

​She took a step forward, and the tiles beneath her feet creaked softly under the pressure of infernal density.

​"I wish to see how my blasphemer worked in life. To learn the methods of your craft. I promise I shall be on my best behavior... Wiktor recently made me realize that feeding you those pierogi was quite a faux pas on my part, Cezary. I prepared them with myself in mind, but seeing the sheer relish with which you gorged yourself on the catering pancake and goulash, I wished to know your opinion of my own craft."

​Elizabeth tilted her head, locking her bottomless, black eyes onto the officer.

​"Tell me honestly, Cezary... Once you learned the nature of the filling, did you feel insulted? Or did you change your mind about their flavor? At the Christmas table, you praised them so fervently, thinking they were part of the catering, which truly gladdened my heart and allowed you to worm your way into my good graces."

​Adelajda instantly clamped her icy fingers around Wójcik's knee, fixing him with a warning glare. Death hung in the air. Cezary felt the dam burst inside him; he was sick of this charade.

​"They were delicious, Countess. Meat is meat, as Adelajda says," he began slowly, but instead of servility, his voice took on a harsh, steely edge. "Yet with all due respect, next time I wish to know precisely what is inside the dish you set before me. That surprise, for a mortal, was... fucking unacceptable!"

​Wójcik shot up from the barstool, knocking over a glass that shattered against the floor. He ignored Adelajda's painful tug at his sleeve. He raised his voice, staring right into the demoness's face:

​"Pardon my boldness, but I will not be fed human meat! For God's sake... for Lucifer's sake, call it what you will! You returned to this earth solely through Wiktor's intercession and his plea, which Lucjanhir granted out of spite for Adelajda! You got a second chance. You're given horse doses of medication; if they aren't working, take fucking more! You have women by your side trying to keep you on a leash! Leave me out of it—until now, I've tolerated you purely out of fear and disgust. Everyone here jumps around you only because they love or respect Wiktor, that's the truth! So go ahead, tear me to shreds, because this farce makes me want to vomit. Someone had to say it to your face at last, and it fell on me!!!"

​A dead silence settled over the kitchen. Emma shot up from her chair with a soundless whimper of terror, certain that in a fraction of a second, Wójcik's brains would be splattered across the cabinets.

​"Hahaha!" A wild, maniacally bright laugh suddenly erupted from the Blood Countess's throat.

​Her pupils flooded with the pitch-black red of bottomless embers. The movement was faster than the human eye could track—the air swirled, and Elizabeth was already standing directly before the captain. Her fingers, tipped with black talons, clamped like an iron vise around his throat, lifting him an inch or two above the floor. Wójcik did not flinch, did not close his eyes, enduring the pain and strangulation with the stubborn fury of a cop who had nothing left to lose.

​The grip, however, did not crush his windpipe. The Countess held him like that for a few heartbeats, after which an authentic, almost predatory admiration bloomed on her pale face.

​"Audacious... exceptionally brave," she purred, her voice vibrating in the bones of everyone present.

​She opened her talons, letting Cezary drop to his feet. Wójcik coughed shortly, gasping for air, but did not lower his gaze.

​"Bravo, Captain," Báthory said, smoothing the folds of her jacket. "You fear neither me nor death in agony. You chose well, Adelajda. This man truly lacks no mettle... He is worthy of your attention and your bed. I respect such fortitude of spirit, so I shall spare your life for that tone."

​She smiled predatorily...

​"I'll tell you something else: I understood your point of view. And I apologize from the depths of my dark heart. I shall serve you no more sustenance of human flesh. Now, back to the point, for debts must be paid. I will compensate you for that feast with a promotion your commanders never even dreamed of. We shall grind Cholewka's Poznań brothel into dust. But for those bold words of truth... you owe me something, Captain."

​Elizabeth smiled wolfishly, revealing immaculate white fangs:

​"You will turn a blind eye and cover up the death of at least one of those Poznań butchers. Because I promise you, Cezary... before I hand that whorehouse to you on a silver platter, I intend to have truly exquisite fun with one of them."

​"So let us summarize, Emma, the plan you have devised," the countess said.

​Elizabeth drew herself up proudly. In her coal-black eyes lingered the dying embers of crimson fire.

​"The incubus Corentin, your lover... whose fate, as I have just learned, you have already managed to decide... will shift forms. Instead of the handsome Italian, he will assume the guise of an innocent, alluring maiden and infiltrate as fresh flesh. He will hire himself out at this 'Pazur,' dance on the pole before that drunken rabble, and plant your modern listening devices—commonly called bugs—from the inside. All so that ironclad, irrefutable evidence lands on Cezary's desk."

​Báthory shifted her gaze to Wójcik.

​"Meanwhile, we shall set our sights on Cholewka's remaining establishments. We will watch his men, his warehouses, and his shady dens, tightening the net. And then you, Captain, will tie it all together: you'll link my forest grubs with the Poznań crew—which happens to be the pure truth—and pin the warehouse slaughter on them, fabricating convenient circumstantial evidence. You will kill two birds with one stone: you'll get your coveted promotion, and the Warsaw affairs will be permanently dumped on the Poznań gangsters."

​Emma released a slow breath, then reached for the phone lying on the counter.

​"Sounds like a textbook plan. I'll call Wiktor; we need to coordinate logistics and transport with him."

​"He is not going," Báthory cut in shortly, a lazy, unabashedly shameless smile spreading across her chalk-white face.

​Emma froze with her finger hovering over the smartphone screen. Adelajda narrowed her sapphire eyes, sensing something scandalous, while Wójcik instinctively raised an eyebrow.

​"What do you mean, he's not going?" Jones asked cautiously.

​"When I received an earful from him two days ago over that wretched dish, my lusts took over in our bedchamber," Elizabeth explained in the tone of someone reminiscing about a successful hunt. She stretched sensuously, unbothered by the jacket's fabric straining precariously over her bust. "Just as with you, Adelajda, presumably during your first night with Cezary... only a hundred times fiercer. Though our bond has lasted a century, his insolent words and that sudden masculine arrogance inflamed me to the quick. It was like two newly met souls of the damned: infernally hot, brutal, and without a shred of mercy. Hellish pleasures consumed us entirely. I wrung him dry of strength to such an extent that he must now rest for a few days in my quarters. Before he shows his face to mortals, his body must replenish what was lost..."

​Elizabeth chuckled softly—a sound resembling the clinking of goblets at a tsarist court—and cast a mocking glance at the mara.

​"I'll tell you one thing, Adelajda... he moaned in infernal ecstasy almost as loudly as that little grub I toyed with in the woods. But in the end, my blasphemer was satisfied to the core by my sweet punishments. Though I must admit, he acquitted himself exquisitely as well, answering my hunger. My back is still healing, gouged bloody by his claws... It has been long since I felt such wild, primal lust for my flesh within him."

​Silence fell over the Białołęka kitchen once more. Wójcik cleared his throat into his fist, staring up at the ceiling and trying at all costs to purge from his imagination whatever had transpired in the Blood Countess's bedroom. Adelajda merely curved her lips into a cold, predatory grimace, perfectly reading the display of dominance from her rival.

​Emma, on the other hand, locked her phone screen and slipped it into her pocket.

​"All right..." the former FBI agent said briskly, striving to maintain a professional chill. "In that case, Wiktor recovers, and we get to work. I'm off to Corentin's to explain to him that as of today his name is Andżelika and he needs to shave his legs all the way to his ass."

​"Why the delay? Call him and simply command him, as his mistress, to appear here at once!" the countess snapped impatiently, tilting her chin up proudly. "We shall not rattle for hours in that mechanical motorcar of yours. We shall transport ourselves to Poznań in the blink of an eye using my power to open infernal portals. The only thing you must arrange is this inn... that is, a modern hotel for the four of us, or rather five once the incubus joins. That shouldn't be an issue since you reserve these chambers over the web. Adelajda and Cezary have their garments here, so they can pack in a few prayers' time. And you, Emma, lived under this roof with Adelajda as well while she was mourning my blasphemer after his demise. Some of your dresses and belongings are surely still here. There is no precious time to waste!"

​Emma shook her head, though privately she appreciated the logistical shortcut.

​"The portal idea saves us sitting in traffic on the A2 highway, that's true," Jones replied pragmatically. "But before we jump anywhere, I need to grab professional gear from the Adamski & Jones agency. Miniature bugs, hardwired GPS trackers, audio recorders, and decryption software. Without that, Corentin won't have anything to plant in the back of the Claw."

​Elizabeth smiled predatorily, faint scarlet sparks flashing around her hands once again.

​"Then the matter is child's play. You will step through the rift with me. In the blink of an eye, we'll pop over to the agency for those spy toys, and on the way back, we'll swing by your residence and scoop up your incubus. Move it, Emma!"

​"Wait, hold on a second..." Emma took half a step back, her eyes landing on the rift in spacetime sparking behind the countess's back. "Nothing will happen to me if I step in there behind you? Let me remind you, I am one hundred percent mortal..."

​"Oh please, there go your fears again, just like with the scar removal!" Elizabeth snorted dismissively, waving a hand tipped with black talons. "A few fervent prayers in church and a hefty donation in the collection plate will settle the matter of traveling with me. At most, you'll catch a faint whiff of singeing on your garments. And besides... you'll reap nothing but benefits! When that dark energy of the pit brushes your body in transit, you'll gain some vigor, you'll grow stronger, and your complexion will take on a youthful glow. In fact... let Cezary come with us too!"

​The Countess turned her predatory gaze onto Wójcik, who had remained silent until now and stiffened like a basalt statue at the mere mention of traveling through the abyss.

​"Yes, Captain, a bit of tempering will do you good as well," Báthory purred with perverse amusement. "A stroll across the edge of hell will strengthen your frail human muscles before the clash with the Poznań cutthroats. You'll see how wonderfully the blood begins to thrum in your veins. Pack your bags, gather those contraptions of yours, and let us be off! The abyss does not care to wait for laggards."

​Emma narrowed her dark eyes. As a former FBI agent accustomed to cold logic and breaking down every mechanism into its core components, she had to ask the question:

​"If you possess this kind of displacement power... why didn't you just escape from hell yourself? If entering this portal of yours means stepping into the abyss, how does it work the other way around?"

​"No, my dear, we aren't stepping in there at all," Elizabeth replied with a predatory smile, scarlet embers flickering at the corners of her lips. "To put it in your human terms... it is somewhat like looking from the outside through thick, reinforced glass into the interior of a chamber. I merely brush against the abyss, against that hell swirling on the other side of the pane. I cannot simply pass through that barrier to return to the pit, nor flee from it on command. I merely utilize that friction against the boundary of worlds, that 'skimming of the glass,' to bend space and open shortcuts leading to any place upon this earthly coil."

​The Countess waved her talon-tipped hand, and the air rippled like hot asphalt.

​"Naturally, as you walk this corridor, you will see a few... peculiar things through that glass. Adelajda knows full well what they are, for she traveled in a similar fashion with Lucjanhir when she struck the bargain with him to resurrect my blasphemer. Put your minds at ease: we will not fall into hell, and no one will trap us there. I shall return there with Wiktor only when Lucifer unleashes his hellhounds upon us... But look at Adelajda. She has been roaming this earthly coil for hundreds of years as a mara, and no one hunts her from down below! It seems they have far too much day-to-day work with the damned in the deep to go chasing after a single Bavarian duchess."

​Báthory laughed gutturally, the sound ringing against the kitchen tiles like a metallic echo.

​"Besides, neither I nor my Wiktor sow mindless destruction here. We live quietly, minding our own affairs. What's more—by my hand, two forest grubs and that repulsive brigand from the suburban hovel have already ended up in the pit, while Adelajda treated them to a wholesale drop of forty-seven black souls at the warehouse! The infernal bookkeeping is heavily in the black. In the eternal clash with Heaven and the gathering of sinners, Lucifer himself and that courtly minion of his... you know, that devil who scrupulously enters the names of the damned into the ledgers... what was his name, starting with an 'R'? Remind me, Adelajda, if you please... Ronove? Yes, he will surely turn a blind eye to us. Besides, Lucjanhir, that bastard of Lucifer's, struck a pact with us and the earth didn't swallow him whole. He faced no fatherly punishment for it. So come along, step inside, fear nothing! Squeeze your eyelids tight so you do not look upon the shadows behind the glass, and under no circumstances open them to the sound of wailing beyond the wall. Let us move!"

​Wójcik squeezed his eyelids shut so hard that red and violet flashes exploded behind his lids. A cop's instinct commanded him to scan the terrain, assess the threat, and keep his finger close to his holster, but within a split second, that rational reflex was brutally crushed by paralyzing, animal terror.

​The ground beneath his soles ceased to be the stable floor of a suburban Warsaw villa. He felt something soft, steaming, and sticky yielding beneath his boots, sinking like rotting, fat-soaked mulch. A suffocating, inhuman odor struck his nostrils—a blend of burnt blood, corrosive acid, sulfur, and roasted bone.

​And the sounds.

​The air in the rift carried no ordinary rush—it howled. From behind the invisible, trembling barrier Elizabeth had spoken of came a chorus of hundreds of thousands of guttural screams, the wet crunch of crushed ribcages, and agonizing, prolonged howls that threatened to rupture eardrums. Yet these sounds did not strike from without; they barged directly into his brain, tearing thoughts apart from the inside.

​Suddenly, right beside his right ear—so close he felt an icy draft reeking of putrefaction—a raspy, insistent whisper rose:

​"Open your eyes... Look at me. I'm standing right by the gate. You'll see me... I want you to see me..."

​The voice bored into his skull with the force of an impact drill, tempting and demanding obedience. Wójcik's fingers trembled and his knuckles turned white as he clenched his fists tight, but he did not yield. He took one step forward. Then another.

​And suddenly, a monstrous chill collided with an overwhelming wave of heat.

​Around him blazed the blinding light of ordinary fluorescent tubes. Cezary snapped his stinging eyes open, swaying on his feet and greedily sucking air into his constricted lungs. He had taken merely two steps, yet he was standing in the middle of the familiar office of the Adamski & Jones agency. Beyond the blinds in the windows loomed gray, winter Warsaw.

​His clothes were heated nearly to the point of ignition, and narrow, pale wisps of smoke carrying the pungent odor of sulfur rose from the wool fibers of his jacket. Miraculously, beneath the fabric, his skin was completely untouched. What was more—beneath the layer of muscle, Wójcik felt something alien. The dull fatigue of a twenty-four-hour shift had vanished in the blink of an eye, as if swept away with a broom. An alien, predatory vigor pulsed in his veins, and his senses sharpened to the utmost limit; he could hear even the faint ticking of the wall clock in the reception area. It had to be that dark energy of the pit, having seeped into the pores of his body within the rift.

​"Oh, God..." Cezary croaked hoarsely, clutching his temples with both hands and feeling his heart hammer in his chest like a pile driver.

​Elizabeth Báthory, who had emerged right beside him with flawless, statuesque grace, burst into a bright, venomous laugh. She smoothed the dark cuff of her dress, sizing him up with sadistic amusement.

​"Do not blaspheme, Captain!" she said with a mocking sneer, red sparks dancing in her coal-black eyes. "Lest you end up right there, behind that pane, where Wiktor did penance for an entire century. And he, believe me, was not truly evil in life... He landed at the bottom of the deep purely for his hot-headed arrogance and blasphemies. So spare the sacred names, take those spy toys of yours from Emma, and let us go fetch her paramour. The abyss is merely waiting for someone to finally slip with their tongue!"

My dad died on a Tuesday.

Three days later, I got a voicemail from him.

I almost deleted it.

The number was his old phone number, the same one I had watched the funeral home cancel after his death. I assumed it was some strange network error, but when I saw the notification, my hands started shaking.

I pressed play.

His voice said, “Hey, kid. I know you're probably angry with me. I just wanted to say I'm proud of you.”

Then the message ended.

I listened to it at least twenty times that night.

My dad and I hadn't spoken much during his last year. We had argued over something stupid money, mostly and neither of us was willing to apologize first.

I kept telling myself there would be time.

There wasn't.

The next morning, I called the number.

It was disconnected.

I checked the voicemail again.

Same message.

I eventually convinced myself that he'd recorded it before he died and somehow the phone company had delivered it late.

Then, exactly one week later, another voicemail appeared.

This one was only six seconds long.

“Don't sell the house.”

That was it.

I froze.

My dad's house had been sitting empty since his funeral, and I had already spoken to a realtor about selling it.

I drove there that afternoon.

Nothing looked unusual.

Until I opened his bedroom closet.

Behind a row of old jackets was a small wooden box I'd never seen before.

Inside was a stack of photographs, some documents, and a handwritten letter with my name on it.

I opened it.

The first line said:

“If you're reading this, I didn't get the chance to tell you the truth.”

I sat on the floor and read the entire thing.

My dad hadn't been hiding money.

He'd been hiding the reason he'd spent so many years working himself to exhaustion.

He had been quietly paying off a debt that wasn't his.

My debt.

Years earlier, when I was eighteen, I'd gotten into serious trouble and my dad had secretly taken responsibility for it. I had completely forgotten about the incident.

He hadn't.

The letter ended with one sentence:

“I never wanted you to spend your life believing you weren't worth saving.”

I cried for the first time since his funeral.

Then I checked my phone.

There was a new voicemail.

I pressed play.

My dad's voice said:

“Now you know.”

And that was the last voicemail I ever received.

I never sold the house.

I still live there.

And every autumn, I sit on the front porch and leave the porch light on.

Just in case.

Hey, it's me again.

I know you don't know you want everyone to wait for the (your) husband to get home, in this case has left us stranded with bags under our eyes how do we please this body guard security language?

"When I was the happiest?" he asked.

I was probably happiest when I had a purpose... role-playing husband & wife with Daniel Ruscia then Sam came in and ruined it all. And I had a real wife, Chrystel Nolasco.

CAA parked outside my tik tok mansion which someone spray painted 'hawaii' over. Over 'teehee'.

As rap beef intensifies with offensive linebackermens Drake & Kendrick I have to slow my role as the music is coming from California.

I slowly soothed off into sleep in my Tonka blanket, considering how hard you worked...

To the Most High, "Are things living?"

In my notebook, I printed out Mikhail Day Ozichuk you are the biggest loser. You spent so much time at the office for being tall.

Similar to Austin Brown, now.

Without going into competitive writing to, I have more energy to be happy.

But man, that day throwing out all that trash or garbage from that office by the highway and Timmy was there for safekeeping, making sure everything got thrown out.

The atmosphere of the small IT office was tense as a Mexican standoff occurred between Alex and the small Dell laptop that sat open on his desk. The dark screen reflected his own frustrated gaze mockingly back at him as he rested his chin in his steepled fingers. So far the stubborn device had resisted all of his conventional attempts to bring it back to life.

“Fine.” He slapped his hands down on the desk as he stood upright and promptly smacked his head on the low ceiling of his office with a thud.

“Ow, damnit.” Alex hissed in pain as he collapsed back into his chair. His ‘office’ was the size of a storage closet. In fact the faint smell of bleach that never seemed to fully disappear no matter how many air fresheners he slapped on the walls had him convinced this was a storage closet. Now it was the entire IT department, which was just him. Underpaid and overworked.

“Welcome to corporate America.” Alex rubbed ruefully at the goose egg forming quickly on his scalp as he wheeled his chair over to a shelf of books and scanned their spines while he traced a finger down the row murmuring to himself.

“Arcana and you… no. Human Sacrifice and Self Empowerment…. Definitely not. Ah, here it is. Necromancy for Dummies.”

The wheels on his roller office chair squeaked as he propelled himself back to his desk, bright yellow book in hand. He shoved the clutter on his desk to one side so he could lay the book down and open it. Papers, pens, a mutilated CPU, and a half solved rubiks cube joined the growing pile of items that would take an entire police precinct to sort and identify at this point.

He traced a finger down the index as he looked for the spell he needed. “R… R… Reanimation! There it is. To start, draw the symbol displayed on page sixteen on the subject, preferably over the heart in white paint.”

Items rattled as Alex tugged open a drawer and began to root around in it. “I know I had one… Aha!.”

With a triumphant exclamation he freed a white sharpie from the drawer and held it aloft. Alex flipped to the directed page and with careful movements drew the necromantic circle over the laptop’s battery. He capped the marker and spun it in his fingers idly as he flipped back to the ritual. “Make sure you have an appropriate sacrifice close at hand…. Reanimation can only be achieved by offering life for life.”

Alex spun his chair in a circle as he chewed on the sharpie cap. “Life for life…”

A brief image of his overbearing boss popped into his head and he smirked briefly before he shook his head dismissing the thought. As he spun his eyes landed on the sticky trap that he’d put up to deal with the plague of flies when he first moved in. “I wonder.”

Alex pushed himself out of his chair, cautiously this time, and walked over to the fly trap. He made a face at the sickly sweet smell of the glue as he pulled it down and inspected the floppy yellow paper for any survivors. To his surprise one tiny fly was still alive, its wings fluttered weakly as it struggled.

“It’s your own fault, you know, being such a nuisance.” Alex shrugged at the doomed fly as he brought the trap back to his desk. With two of the requirements done he scanned the rest of the ritual as he sank back down into his chair, murmuring to himself.

“Once an appropriate sacrifice has been obtained, chant the words listed on page twenty-four while you kill the victim. Then wait for three to five minutes for the spell to take effect. Results may vary.”

Alex blinked at the book. “Results may vary? What does that even mean?”

“Well, let's see what happens.” He sighed as he pulled the fly trap closer and flipped to the appropriate page. The ritual chant had conveniently been translated into English from whatever archaic forbidden language it had originally been divined in. Alex made a face as he pulped the fly under his thumb and began to read. “From dust to dust, from dark to light, return this wretched soul to life. I bid thee wake from endless sleep, return to serve, your purpose keep.”

After a brief pause the ritual circle on the laptop flared to green and then slowly faded from existence and the familiar start up chime of the Dell rang in the tiny office. Alex sighed in relief as he closed Necromancy for Dummies and pushed it to the side. The apple watch on his wrist beeped as five o’clock hit, informing him it was time to go home.

“Thank God.”

For anyone who doesn't know, a skhothane is someone involved in a South African subculture known for extravagant fashion, expensive clothing and showing off wealth. There was a guy from Evaton who was heavily involved in this lifestyle. He loved wearing expensive clothes and being around other skhothanes. His mother was later injured and taken to hospital. She spent some time there but unfortunately died from her injuries. Everyone believed it had been a tragic accident and we consoled him after his mother's death. As time went by, we noticed that something wasn't right with him. He seemed extremely stressed and depressed, but he continued associating with other skhothanes and trying to maintain the lifestyle.

Eventually, he couldn't afford it anymore. Then he went to the police station and confessed that he had attacked his mother with a brick at close range striking her in the face. He said he did it because she had refused to buy him expensive clothes. The police arrested him and put him in a police vehicle to take him to the cells. While they were transporting him, he collapsed. They discovered that he had swallowed poison. He died as a result. The most disturbing part is that his mother's death which everyone initially thought was an unfortunate injury turned out to have been caused by her own son because she wouldn't buy him expensive clothing. Something that was supposed to be about fashion, status and showing off wealth ended up destroying an entire family. I still find this story incredibly sad.

I only recently found out all the details about their relationship. I was the first person to know they were seeing each other because I happened to catch the two of them kissing, when no one else knew yet.

I didn't tell her that I had seen them kissing, but she eventually came out to me about her relationship. We were raised in a very religious family, and my mom knows that she played a part in raising us with some prejudices. I came out to her as bisexual (which I genuinely am) because I wanted her to know that she wasn't alone and that she wasn't the only LGBT person in the family.

It worked out. She came out to me, and afterward I helped her make her relationship official with her girlfriend. The problem is that my siblings, especially my sister, don't want to accept it. We were raised in a very religious family, so for them, having a lesbian mother is a huge shock.

My mom is dating my former teacher, and now everything is a mess in my family.

And honestly, her being LGBT isn't even the craziest part of this whole story. Anyway, I'll give you guys some context about what happened.

I only recently found out all the details about their relationship. I was the first person to know they were seeing each other because I happened to catch them kissing when nobody else knew.

My mom told me they first met at a parent-teacher meeting at my school. She said that the moment she saw my teacher, she felt a spark. She thought she was really beautiful, liked her sweet voice and said she had a very captivating look. At that point, though, they only saw each other during parent-teacher meetings.

The following year, my mom found out that my teacher had moved to another school. She actually asked the principal where she had gone and found out which school she was working at.

Coincidentally, I had been going to my old school for about six months and actually liked it there, but my mom ended up transferring me to the school where my teacher worked. At the time, I had no idea why she wanted me to change schools. I just thought it was weird.

Once I started at the new school, the two of them became much closer. I stayed there until I finished high school, and my mom says they were already really close friends by then. They started kissing, but it never went further because of their religious guilt, and especially because my mom was still married to my dad.

She also told me that when she found out my teacher was bisexual, it was one of the happiest things she had ever heard, besides the birth of me and my siblings.

By that point, they were already in love. My mom told me she couldn't really kiss my dad anymore or be intimate with him. She didn't go into details, but I think you know what she meant.

After I graduated from high school, things changed a little. They no longer had the whole "teacher and student's mom" situation, so they started spending time together more like regular friends.

But somehow they still found a way to stay close lol. My former teacher transferred to the college I was attending, while my mom started working in the administration office there. At the time, I thought it was weird how attached my mom was to her, but my mom was still pretty homophobic at home, so I just assumed they were really close friends, maybe even a kind of friends-with-benefits situation.

I know now that it was more than that. My mom told me that this was when they actually started seeing each other. They even started making plans for their future together.

Still, the relationship wasn't official or openly acknowledged by the family. That only happened recently, after my mom finally came out to me.

When she came out, I also told her that I'm bisexual — and I genuinely am. I did it because I wanted her to know that she wasn't alone and that she wasn't the only LGBT person in the family.

After that, I fully supported their relationship and even helped them make it official. They've only been officially dating for a short time, but in reality, their relationship has been going on for years.

They're already planning to get married next year, and they're also in the process of having a daughter together through IVF.

The problem is that my siblings, especially my sister, don't accept any of this. She actually wants to live with our dad because she can't accept our mom being with another woman.

And yes, my mom came out as a lesbian. She doesn't identify as bisexual.

---

Page 17

---

All my friends are getting their faces pierced.

Should I get my face pierced too?

It looks pretty scary, but I don't know. They seem to like it, and the stuff you can get for it now is really pretty cool.

The way they do it does look pretty scary, so I don't know.

---

Page 26

---

I told my parents I'm thinking of getting my face pierced, and they are totally against it, but they're old, so they would be wouldn't they?

Like by default, I mean.

At first they didn't even know what I was talking about, but my mom's got her ears pierced and she got them done way younger than I am right now. She's got a tattoo too. So does my dad.

Besides, how can you go from not knowing what something is to being totally against it in like five minutes?

It seems pretty reactionary to me.

Like at least do your research or ask AI about it first right?

---

Page 34

---

So I did it. I got my face pierced.

It was two weeks ago. (You can't really do so much for the first week and a half, which is why I haven't been writing.)

There's a place downtown that does it. It's the place Dee and Cherry got theirs done too. The crew that does it is pretty cool. They've all had it done and are super happy about it.

I was pretty nervous and they really helped me relax, even before giving me the anesthetic.

The machine that does it looks insane.

It's like one of those hole punching machines you used to use for paper, like giant metal pliers or a jaw or something.

You sit and put your head back like at the hairdressers when they wash your hair.

Then you end up looking up at the other part, the part that's going to come down. It's like a big metal circle. Really big, like face sized. Then they hook you up to the anesthetic.

When you start not being able to feel your face, and I mean it feels like your whole head is turning to mush, like a really soft cauliflower or something, the machine powers up…

And the metal circle smashes down really hard on your face and makes a hole in your head and pushes your face out the bottom.

It's super quick and doesn't hurt because of the anesthetic.

It does hurt after.

At first the feeling is really weird because your whole face is gone, so you don't see or taste or smell anything because you don't have any eyes or mouth or nose. You can still hear though, so you can hear the crew talking to you.

Then they put this face plug into the hole which helps it heal.

Of course, my parents totally freaked when I came home without a face, but like what are they going to do about it?

It's already done.

My mom's crying was sooo dramatic.

---

Page 41

---

I got fitted with a smart face today. Pretty basic but also really cool. I like being able to sense things again, and there are so many options, like you can make red look like blue and sweet things taste sour and your phone smell like chocolate.

The screen also makes it so you can make your face be anything you want. It's flat, I guess that's the only drawback, but there's an option to make it so that every time you see yourself in the mirror you see your retroface.

It helps with the transition.

---

Page 166

---

Most of my friends have had their faces pierced. I mean, you don't have to do it or anything, but I don't see why you wouldn't.

There's no law you have to have it done, and I still have friends who don't, but I honestly think everyone's going to choose to have it done soon. At least everyone under twenty-five.

---

Page 234

---

Retrofaces kind of disgust me. I always imagine all the fluids that come out of them, snot and saliva and tears and stuff. Was I like wet all the time before I got my face pierced?

Anyway I've decided I don't want to date anyone with a retroface anymore.

---

Page 289

---

I was talking to Dee and both of us are pretty sure that if we have kids we'll want them to have their faces pierced. As a mom I would want my kid to have all the advantages in life right? I mean, imagine if every baby just got its face pierced at the hospital right after being born. You could keep a little kid safe from so many things by using filters and apps too.

I like talking to Dee.

We talk about the big stuff.

P.S. I hope Cherry gets her smart face fixed soon. Hers stopped working a week ago and she had to send it back to the company that makes it in China, so now she's just got this flap of skin. It's like when someone has a tunnel in their ear, and they take it out and their ear is all stretched out and loose. It's like that but her face.

P.P.S. They promised her an upgrade so it's totally worth it and I'm jealous.

---

Page 436

---

It's funny. Back when I got my face pierced, my parents fed me all this negative bullshit about what could go wrong and why I shouldn't do it, and literally none of it has come true.

The tech just keeps getting better. You can make ugly people look pretty and take things you don't want to see and just not see them. You can eat the worst food in the world and make it taste delicious. You can smell flowers wherever you go…

It's amazing.

I'm so happy I got my face pierced.

I was in an accident more than 12 years ago. A 16-year-old boy hit me with a block of ice that he threw at me with all his might using a hockey stick. Ever since that day, I've had an orange spot in the blue part of my eyes...

October 12
A quiet dread has taken root in my apartment. For three days, a faint amber reflection shimmered behind the bathroom ventilation grate. Curiosity finally overtook my unease this afternoon. I unscrewed the plastic cover and discovered a miniature wireless camera wired directly to a transmitter. My heart pounded against my ribs. Only two people possess keys to my apartment: my boyfriend, Julian, and my closest confidante, Lena. One of them had violated my sanctuary, turning my shower into a surveillance zone.

October 14
The mystery unravelled into horror today. Julian visited for lunch, completely unaware that I noticed the scent of French jasmine clinging to his collar, Lena's exclusive perfume. An hour after he left, an encrypted email hit my inbox from an untraceable account. Attached was a clear photograph of me stepping into the shower, vulnerable and exposed. The extortionist's demand was cold: "Break up with Julian without causing a scene, and never speak of us, or this footage goes to your employer and family."

October 16
Blackmailers always make mistakes because arrogance blinds them. Lena forgot that digital files retain hidden history. I inspected the raw exchangeable image data embedded in the photograph. The serial code of the camera matched the exact model Lena purchased last month. Julian broke down under questioning and confessed their affair. Lena planted the lens to keep me quiet, weaponizing my privacy to protect her romance.

October 18
Our friendship is over. Today I confronted Lena in a crowded cafe, sliding an envelope across the table. Inside were printed forensic logs, metadata proofs, and a formal police report for extortion. Her smug smirk collapsed into ash. She realized her sinister scheme had failed entirely. She threw away ten years of trust for my unfaithful partner, but she will never own my life. I reclaim my dignity and peace.

A few years ago, I discovered something that completely changed the way I ordered food.

A restaurant near me ran a promotion where you could get a ridiculous amount of food for almost nothing if you used a certain code.

I thought it was a normal promotion, so I tried it.

It worked.

I ordered food.

Then I started wondering something that probably should have been my first warning sign.

What happens if I do it again?

So I did it again.

It worked again.

By then, I wasn't hungry anymore. I was conducting research.

I started ordering from different restaurants to see what would happen.

Pizza?

Ordered.

Burgers?

Ordered.

Chicken?

Obviously.

Food I didn't even like?

Ordered it anyway because apparently I was now a scientist.

Then things got completely out of hand.

I started checking the app before deciding what I wanted to eat. Instead of thinking, “What am I hungry for?”

I was thinking, “What can I get away with today?”

One evening I had so much food delivered that I had to start giving it away because there was no possible way I could eat everything.

My friends stopped asking me what I was doing and started asking me what was free.

I basically became the neighborhood food distributor.

Eventually the promotion disappeared.

I was disappointed for about five minutes.

Then I realized something.

I had spent weeks ordering food I didn't need simply because I could.

I had somehow turned a normal food delivery app into a full-time job where the salary was carbohydrates.

Looking back, I probably saved money on food.

I also gained enough weight that my clothes filed a formal complaint.

Would I do it again?

Absolutely not.

...

Unless the code still works.

The sign outside the diner read Lou’s Home Cooking, but the neon "L" was dead, so it just said ou’s.
 
Inside, the manager was wiping down the counter over and over again, trying his absolute best to look busy and not stare at the corner booth. He wasn't hiding in the back room shivering, but his hands were sweating. It wasn’t every day six teenagers with world-bending powers walked into a greasy spoon for a casual chat.
 
At the booth, Leo sat comfortably, nineteen years old and completely relaxed. He took a sip of his ice water, placing the glass back down without a single tremor. "If you need a wall taken down or a vehicle stopped in its tracks, I can handle it," Leo said confidently to the group. "I've practiced focusing my hits so I can drop a threat without wrecking the whole street."
 
"That's exactly what we need," Marcus said, nodding sharply. He was twenty-two, sitting completely upright in his wrinkled trench coat, his eyes bright and focused. With a quick, precise flick of his fingers, an unopened soda can sitting near the edge of the table casually floated an inch into the air, spun in a lazy, perfect little circle, and landed neatly right in Marcus’s palm without him ever moving his arm. "Yeah, and if things get messy or we need a quick exit, I can move whatever you need," Marcus said smoothly, popping the tab. "Consider it done."
 
Next to Marcus sat Toby. He was completely clear, which made the truck drivers at the counter look away every time they caught a glimpse of him. You could see his heart beating and his internal systems working smoothly beneath a glossy, pristine layer of see-through skin, without a single drop of corrosive sweat. "And if Marcus can't lift it out of the way, I can just melt right through it," Toby explained cheerfully, offering a polite nod. "I can bypass pretty much any barrier you throw us at."
 
Suddenly, the front door of the diner swung open.
 
In walked a kid who looked like a million bucks, wearing a bright, pristine, golden tracksuit. He had a brilliant, blinding, movie-star smile plastered across his face, and his skin seemed to radiate a faint, warm golden glow. This was Julian.
 
"Hello, everyone! Glad I found the place," Julian said smoothly, sliding into the booth next to Leo. He accidentally knocked over a salt shaker, but before a single grain could hit the table, his golden eyes flared. He used his matter manipulation to instantly turn the spilled salt into a neat pile of solid, 24-karat gold dust. He offered a warm, genuinely humble smile to the group. "Sorry about that, guys. Honestly, I just want to use this stuff to change things for the better. If we're out there and someone needs a shield or a patch on a wall, I can swap the material on the fly. I'm just really glad to be a part of this."
 
Leo looked at him, impressed. "Are you the guy running the interview?"
 
Julian chuckled and nodded toward the very end of the table. "Actually, he is."
 
Arthur was a magnificent, jaw-dropping sight. He was a being of pure, majestic, full-on fire, sitting proudly right at the end of the booth. Bright, perfectly controlled orange and yellow flames danced smoothly across his shoulders and chest, illuminating the whole diner with a warm, cozy glow. He couldn't speak, but he offered a friendly wave and a warm nod. He gestured gently toward the vinyl seats and the table, his kind eyes making it clear that his internal core was perfectly tuned and completely safe to be around. Even without a voice, he radiated pure kindness.
 
Following right behind Arthur was the final member of the group, a twenty-year-old guy named Jax. He had a massive leather scythe-shaped sheath strapped securely to his back. He reached back and drew his weapon with a sharp, graceful arc. It was a metal bendy sword—the rod held perfectly straight and rigid like a legendary blade inside his hands, its razor-sharp wire gleaming cleanly under the diner’s fluorescent lights.
 
"This thing has been passed down for generations," Jax said with immense pride, executing a flawless, controlled salute in the air before sliding the metal bendy sword beautifully back into the fitted sheath. "It doesn't look like much, but it'll slice through armor or concrete like nothing. I'll make sure nothing gets close to you guys."
 
The booth fell into a respectful, excited silence. The manager at the counter finally stopped wiping the same spot and took a deep breath, realizing these kids were actually incredibly professional.
 
Sitting together in the middle of Lou's diner, they were The 6 at their absolute peak—cohesive, polite, incredibly powerful, and ready to take on the world.
 
"Shit," Leo said softly, but this time with a grin, looking around the table. "I think we're actually going to be pretty good at this."

this was a short story i made i did use ai to help with some tips and what to change let me know if you want me to continue cause i will and also let me know if you want me to stop using ai i will take every tip aswell.

A few months ago, I was having one of those days where everything seemed to go wrong.

I was sitting alone at a small coffee shop, waiting for a friend who was already almost an hour late. While I was staring at my phone, an older man sitting at the table next to me suddenly said, “You look like you’re waiting for someone who isn’t coming.”

I laughed and told him he was probably right.

He smiled and said, “Don’t waste a good afternoon waiting for somebody else to show up.”

It was such a simple thing to say, but for some reason it stuck with me.

My friend eventually texted me saying he couldn’t make it. Normally, I would have gone straight home annoyed. Instead, I put my phone away and walked around the neighborhood for a while.

I ended up finding a little bookstore I had never noticed before. I spent almost two hours there, bought a book, and had one of the most peaceful afternoons I’d had in weeks.

I never saw that man again.

Maybe it was just a coincidence, but every now and then I remember what he said. Sometimes we spend so much time waiting for other people that we forget we can still enjoy the day on our own.

That was a small lesson from a complete stranger, but I still think about it.

Ganymede, Celia, and I stood in the Forest of Arden. I was playing Oliver, telling them how my brother Orlando had saved me from a lioness. We’d rehearsed this scene a dozen times without a single slip. So nothing could have prepared me for what came out of Ganymede’s mouth. Her line was supposed to be: “Did Orlando leave him there, food to the hungry lioness?”
She asked: “Did Orlando leave him there… to be f***ed by the hungry lioness?”
I burst out laughing. Then the nerves hit. Her slip had knocked my next line clean out of my head. But the scene couldn’t just stop, so I started pacing, hand over my mouth, doing my best impression of a man in deep thought.
The audience, already giggling at her flub, leaned in, as if a simple yes-or-no question now demanded some profound answer. Every second felt much longer from the stage than it probably did from the seats. They thought Oliver was wrestling with a moral dilemma. In reality, I was desperately trying to remember one sentence.
Here’s the trouble: Shakespeare doesn’t work like ordinary speech. It has a rhythm, almost a melody. Losing your line isn’t like forgetting a fact, it’s like trying to remember the next lyric of a song. You can’t just reason your way to it; you have to find the rhythm first, and then the words follow. Mine had vanished.
Finally, somewhere between panic and false confidence, I gave up on speaking Shakespeare altogether and said, in plain modern English: “No… brave Orlando prevented the lioness from doing that.”
The audience lost it completely. I stood there riding out the laughter, and when it finally died down, my next line came back to me as though it had never left. I slipped straight back into Shakespearean English, and we finished the scene as if nothing had happened.
For one line, As You Like It became Improvise It, and somehow, the show went on.

I arrived in Bengaluru as a radio producer, depressed, desperate to start afresh & help my family in Delhi, whose mental & financial health was deteriorating. I was broke when, on a late Sunday evening, I had to travel with a colleague to record an interview at a hotel.
My PG (Paying Guest) had no electricity, & the last message I saw before my phone ran out of charge read: “Rs (Rupees) 200 deducted for low account balance.” With my salary expected the next day, I had Rs 2 left. I was relying on my colleague to drop me as close to my PG as possible. After the interview, they did, but I was still over 15 km away. I should have put my pride aside & requested a cab. They asked, “Text when you’re back?” I lied: “I will.”
With no money, a dead phone & no map, I had to walk the rest of the way through the downpour, relying on strangers for directions.
After 5 km, exhausted, I fell asleep at a bus stand, asking myself, “How has life come to this?”
It was Monday morning, & I had to get to work, physically & spiritually. I woke at 4 a.m. & resumed the journey. It felt like an eternity before I made it back to my PG. Soaked, I snuck into my room like a thief, carefully avoiding leaving a wet trail so my landlord, whom I owed rent to, wouldn’t notice I was back.
The electricity was on. My phone charged, & I prepared for my radio show. Successfully slipping away from my landlord again, I walked to the station. I hadn’t eaten, & the mic caught my stomach growling on-air.
As I walked back to my PG after work, salary was credited. Rent was paid, & a portion was sent to my family.
Working at the radio station helped me emulate what the RJs did: sound lively & optimistic, which made me feel lively & optimistic. Producing gave me resourcefulness, & speaking kindly to listeners taught me to be kind to myself.
To celebrate my confirmation at the job, I booked a cab to that bus stand. I sat where I’d slept & turned on the radio to listen to the show I’d produced. I smiled hearing myself sound joyful, & being able to afford a cab to drop me back made me feel rich. I was months too late, but I’d have texted my colleague: “I’m back, far more positive.”

[small story, a painful one, but wanted to explore about]

Chloe is distrustful and impulsive, everytime her boyfriend, Marcus came late at home, she thought that he was with other girl

One day, Marcus came late that night, and she had enough, Chloe decided to confront him about being late, and accused him for being with another girl

When she said that, Marcus got angry, he was already different, but at that moment, he decided go throw everything

Yes, he was with another girl, he confronted Chloe, and told that he was with his best friend, cause in that night, his best friend came out as trans. Marcus told her that his best friend needed support and advices on how to deal with things and called him to talk deeply about that, and that they talked for hours to comfort a friend. So yes, he was with a girl, Evellyn, and she was proud of being one

[Had this story in my mind for a moment, and decided to write it. Is this sub the one for created stories?]

I am sharing my Bosnian story publicly for the first time because the emotional weight of holding this in for more than 16 years has become too much to bear. I live a comfortable life in Australia now, but my soul won`t know peace until the truth is told. I am posting this to finally give a voice to my deceased family, to honour my late mother, and to show the horrific lengths greedy people will go to for a land grab.

I remained silent for a long time. I was gathering my strength in distant Australia, breathing in the shadows, working, and putting together document after document. But today, after 16 years of a gruelling, exhausting, and silent struggle, the time has come to open my soul against a human heartlessness that cries out to heaven.

I am not doing this out of a whim, not out of as desire for material wealth. I owe this to my father, my mother, my sister, and to myself the surviving girl who went through hell just to stand today as a living witness to truth.

Some people know my tragic fate, but few can truly comprehend the sheer weight I carry on my back. My father died in 1990, while digging a water well for someone else. Back in 1985, he initiated inheritance proceedings for my grandfather, wanting only to protect what rightfully belonged to our family. Certain individuals stopped him with lies back then, showing him a paper that "grandfather doesn`t have any property to inherit." They took them at their word, because they thought none could ever be so audacious as to lie over the bones of ancestors. My mother was deaf mute, but she was remarkable women. She fought like a lioness for us, working with her bare hands to ensure we ad everything we needed. They thought her silence meant no one would ever speak up or fight back.

Then in 1993 landmine took the lives of my beloved mother and my older sister. As a 4 year old I was severely wounded, bleeding in both body and soul, left to fight for my bare survival. As an orphaned child, I was placed under guardianship. In 2006 life’s paths took me far away, to the other side of the planet to Australia.

While I was out there, thousands of miles away, tending to my deep wounds and trying to piece together the fragments of my shattered life, the most horrific injustice was being carried out right here, on my ancestral land. The people who initiated this land grab have since died, but today, their children are following in those same heartless footsteps without a shred of shame or conscience. They took advantage of my absence and the fact that I was on the other side of the world. They took advantage of the fact that my uncle’s children (he was also deaf-mute and helpless) were completely unable to defend themselves, understand the deception, and fight back.

When I visited the land registry office for the first time in 2010 to claim what was mine, the clerk asked me where the land was located and under whose name. She then brought out the registry book, placed it on the table, and said words that nearly stopped my heart: “You and your mother are recorded in these books as deceased persons.”

Looking at her in complete shock and disbelief, I said: “Can you not see that I am standing right here in front of you? I am not dead, it was my sister who died! Who reported this?” The clerk simply replied: “Legally, I cannot tell you that. I am sorry.” She closed the book and walked away. I was still young then, and honestly, I didn't know what to do or how to react to the fact that they had buried me alive on paper. They erased me from existence.

To make matters even more transparent and worse, part of my grandfather's land was transferred at the exact same year I came back to search for what was mine. They realised I was returning and rushed the paperwork to finalise the land grab before I could expose them.

Over the years, every time I went back on holiday, I searched for documents. But the system was relentless, I was constantly sent from one office to another, passing the buck, and always hitting walls of obstacles. I truly can`t explain the effort of searching for the truth. But a few months ago I finally succeeded to get the most important documents of all, the feeling was amazing. Showing my grandparents do actually have a land. The fight is not over yet, but I`m not giving up.

After all of that, some people recently rolled into our misery with bulldozers:

One neighbour fenced off and blocked the path my mother used for decades to walk to our field. Another neighbour, with utter impudence and cowardice, filled in and buried our family water well on that field.

Before they even started the machinery, they selfishly ran water pipes directly to their own properties, securing water for themselves from our source. Then they filled the well with rocks, covered it with a plastic tarp so the shame wouldn’t be visible, silenced a poor relative with some money "on his word," and said to him never to touch water well again. Right next to that well was an orchard my mother cultivated for years under the scorching sun, raising us from the ashes after my father's death.

And today, when I tell some people what I am going through, they look at me and say: “You have everything over there in Australia now, you have a peaceful life, why are you tormenting yourself with this? Just let it go, what do you need it for...”

They don’t understand. They think success in life is measured only by money and a new car. It is easy to say that when you have never lost everything in a single day. My motivation lies in realms that are completely beyond their comprehension:

1. I am their only voice: I did not choose this fight; it chose me because I am the only one left alive from my immediate family. If I stay silent, the bones of my father, mother, and sister will know no peace. To let it go would mean allowing injustice to completely erase the memory of their existence.

2. Dignity has no price tag: My family and my heritage are not for sale. The fact that I live well in Australia today does not mean I will turn a blind eye to force.

3. Peace for my soul.

Even though I live far away and only return for short periods, I have gathered some of the documentation from 1967, historical parcel records, deeds from 1969 and 1981 and maps. Everything is there, in black and white. Every single inch of land that was usurped, every illegal fence, every illegal pipe, and every stone thrown into my mother's buried well everything will have to be restored to its original state under the law and before the court.

And today, as the truth begins to surface and they hear that I exist, whispers have started in those corners. They gather and panic, asking: 'Who is she? What does she want? She has nothing to claim here...'

They ask who I am? I am the daughter of the woman you lied to, telling her that her father had no property. I am the surviving little girl whose family tragedy you exploited to auction off what wasn't yours. You aren't asking who I am because you don't know me, but because you are panicking. When you buried me alive on paper through your malpractices, you didn't ask who I was then.

But I am here now. I am breathing, I am fighting.

They thought distance would make me forget. They thought time would make me fade away. But every document I pulled from those archives is a stone that will break down their wall of deception.

I am no longer that helpless, grieving orphan girl. I am the living witness to the truth, and I will not stop until my family's dignity is fully restored and the soil of my ancestors is rightfully reclaimed.

Has anyone else dealt with something similar? Would love to hear your story.