He is in the middle of the ocean, and he is drowning. The pulse of each wave is overpowering, and for every desperate gasp for air he seizes, he is swept deeper and deeper with the undertow. His lungs fill with water, and the bitter taste of salt clings to the roof of his mouth. Every muscle in his body throbs in steady rhythm. He feels the vague sensation of hunger rumbling in his stomach, and his abdomen begins to cramp. When he steals a glance above the pulsing waters, he barely notices the cloudless, clear blue sky above, nor the harsh gaze of a blazing, pure white sun fixed as in the middle of a picture frame. With alarm, he is aware that there is no shoreline within sight. He is wearing a white T-shirt that sticks like Elmers Glue to his skin, and a pair of gold-and-pink checkered boxers that sag further and further with each unwitting plunge. When thrown under once more, his eyes blare with saltwater sting as he gazes inadvertently into an endless black abyss below. He feels the panic of disorientation as he looks about him, seeing only infinite shades of blue. Up and down become mixed up, and his slender frame trembles at the thought of impending vertigo. The void, leagues below him, expands like the mouth of a great and monstrous cavern. Pins and needles trickle up and down his flesh, and he is overcome by an insatiable desire to find the surface, ravenous for breath. The sudden blast of a deep, booming noise echoes from far below, a few decibels below the familiar blare of a foghorn. Its reverberations swell all around him. The speckled particles of water around him shiver with fright, and it takes a few moments for his ears to stop ringing. The sound lingers for what seems like entire epochs. He feels the need to vomit as blackness begins to perforate the edges of his blurring vision. Goosebumps creep over his skin like spilt milk. Despite the warmth of the water, a chill creeps up his spine. He tries to scream, but more harsh water gushes down his searing throat instead, cutting the inside lining like a cheese grater. His heart feels like it will explode

(You ain’t gonna amount to much are ya kid)

out of his ribcage as thin veins of strain protrude from his neck. He catches a brief glimpse of a white, circular ball in the sky above the veil of water and is reoriented. He kicks his legs and swings his arms with strength from reserves he never knew his body had. He bursts through the surface, spewing out bitter liquid. He inhales as deeply as he can before he is slammed back into the sea. The undertow sweeps him, and the pressure of the water closes in like a chokehold. He sees a brief shimmer from the corner of his eye, feeling a glimmer of hope. He breaks the surface and turns his head toward this mysterious yet welcome shimmer before being submersed again. A thousand possibilities of salvation shoot through his mind at once. As he flails in the water like a sardine, he hears the bone-chilling foghorn sound again, only this time, it’s somehow louder, deeper, more sinister, more subterranean, and

(When are you going)

getting closer. Closer. Light panic sets on his frenzied mind. Against his better instincts, he dares to glance below to where the sound emanated from. As the echo begins to fade, he sees something, some nameless, colossal shape, begin to slowly emerge from the bottomless gloom of the chasm. He notices fleetingly that there is no other oceanic life to be seen, like they’d all known better than venture into dangerous waters. His nostrils hiss and his body begins to tingle as manic compulsion rings in the thudding space in his head. It’s getting closer. Closer. Unsure of how, he emerges with a jarring splash and his anxious eyes hone in on the object of his newfound courage: a worn but sturdy raft roughly 100 yards away, basked in rays of sunlight, and a woman without a face somehow yelling something too incoherent for him to understand from such a dismal distance. Her hand is outstretched, and a welcome blanket of clarity falls over his racing mind. He begins to freestyle-stroke in her direction, the path of his imminent deliverance, remembering the long-forgotten swimming lessons he’d taken as a child: kick the legs, outswing the left arm, breath with the right arm, repeat. Even with the steady barrage of waves, he ekes his way closer to the outstretched hand of that faceless goddess who would no doubt save him from this throbbing nightmare, this endless cascade of wave after wave (it’s getting closer, closer, he just knows it) which only seems to become more mountainous in shape and size. The hope he feels burns a fire in him, embracing him. Just when he is getting close, so close, so damn CLOSE

(to get your shit together?)

to that life-saving raft, the next wave sends him sprawling back into the water. The dull baritone drawls with menace all around him. His bones rattle, and he feels like he would cry if given the chance. He sees the seaweed-ridden underbelly of the raft bobbing up and down only a few yards away. That deafening sound comes ripping again and courses through his whole body. His skeleton shakes in his skin. His left ear begins to trickle small droplets of warm blood that mix with the salt water. His arms flail brazenly above him. Distress grips his throat like a vice. He turns his bloodshot, bulging eyes below. White-hot fear shoots through his brain, his stomach flying into his throat. It’s getting closer. Closer. He barely even notices that he’s gasped in enough ocean fluid to bring his singed lungs to the verge of collapse. The figure that was leagues under him before is closing the distance on its prey, its unnatural shape slowly manifesting in the dense tapestry of water below. The sea around him appears to elongate, becoming vaster in every direction. Though the faceless woman who would no doubt save him was merely yards away, she appears entire leagues away, worlds away, cosmic universes away. The looming shadow slowly emerges into his field of view. Tunnel-vision sets in on this ominous being that’s only getting closer, closer. He abruptly remembers a book his mom used to read him; some long-forgotten children’s book that his friends all liked but he would feel scared of and because his daddy thought his reaction was kind of funny, he kept the book around anyway. An adorable, big, cuddly, blue monster with big, friendly eyes chased after some kid with relentless jolly. The kid would hide, narrowly escaping the clutches of this big, blue giant (“A Monster is COMING!” he recalls, diverted by the memory), constantly running and giggling like mad. The author later revealed that the monster and kid were friends playing hide-and-seek, and it was the kid’s turn to seek now and the monster’s turn to hide (“Lift the Flaps!” it advertised on its wooden cover). His friends loved and loved the blue, friendly monster, EVERYBODY loved and loved the blue, friendly monster; only this monster, coming from the void, isn’t blue and friendly at all. It isn’t adorable and cuddly. It isn’t jolly and interested in the games of children nor a part of the familiar comfort of home where there was somewhere to run and somewhere to hide. No, this monster is some creature from the nadir of an immense and infinite ocean, and he wishes frantically for his mom, who was always able to keep the monsters away. Broken fragments of sunlight cut onto its vile face as it emerges from the chasm. Its bulging eyes rotate in their protruding sockets with innumerable hues of green splotched around its shifting iris. Its wide mouth snatches open, revealing rows of massive jigsaws for teeth stained with blood-red splatter dripping from its lips. It leaves a bleeding trail in its wake, its lips curved like a crude clown face. The sound evolves into a soul-ripping roar resonating like a frenzied stadium during the Super Bowl, and he realizes it is only a few short leagues away. Large, azure pectoral fins the size of entire whales propel its emerald-scaled body closer, closer. He hears the muted sound of the faceless woman calling out a million miles away and is snapped from a hypnotic trance. The creature is getting closer, closer. Its growl thunders all around him. He is near the raft, bouncing up and down in the raging waters. He turns toward the outstretched hand jutting into the water, a string of garbled bubbles springing from his mouth. He swims toward this woman’s life-saving hand, grappling with mild hysteria. He stretches his own hand forward, his fingertips mere inches from her, using all his might to focus on the hand that will save him. He’s so close, so close, so damn CLOSE

(Look at me)

to her, but the snarling is so piercing, like white static on a television turned to max volume, that he can’t help himself. He looks down, and those hostile eyes are 200 yards away; a vile scarlet tongue escaping the cavern of its mouth. 180 yards away; his body freezes, his innards ice. 150 yards away; its trail is a fathomless, gushing rouge. 120 yards away; horror paralyses him and his vision darkens. 100 yards away; 80 yards; 60 yards; and the paralysis breaks as he is yanked onto the raft by his outstretched arm. Buckets of water spill from his skeletal face. He gapes, gulping great gobs of fresh air. His chest heaves up and down violently. His quivering frame stretches like a starfish onto the granular finish of the raft’s wood. With relief, he realizes that the only sound he hears is the calm crash of waves in the distance. There is no prodigious growl emanating from all sides; no deep and bellowing foghorn. His head pounds like a legion of jackhammers. He sees the crisp sky as its light comes through in thickets. His legs buckle as he attempts standing to acknowledge this faceless woman, and more seawater comes up. She helps him sit back down, and he thanks her with a grated voice. ‘You’re welcome,’ she says. ‘Who wouldn’t save a drowning man?’ She plops beside him, her face a blank slate, and the sun glares in his eyes. He squints, then asks, ‘Where did it go?’‘Where did what go?’‘You didn’t see it?’‘See what?’ He hesitates, then crawls to the edge of the raft, and sees nothing but his own, shell-shocked reflection. Only endless blue. ‘That’s impossible,’ he mutters. ‘What are you talking about?’ She asks. He sits in disbelief for a minute or two, then begins to laugh. At first, it is soft, but it grows louder and louder with respite. She tilts her head to one side. ‘Did I rescue a crazy person?’ She asks. ‘You know what? You might have,’ he replies with a smile. ‘It’s the craziest thing – I could have sworn I was being chased by something down there.’ He is seized with a coughing fit, nearly choking on the surge of liquid coming up. She firmly pats him on the back until it passes. ‘You okay there?’ She asks. ‘I think so,’ he replies, wiping drool with the back of his hand. ‘If it makes you feel any better, I only saw you out there, freaking out of your mind. Didn’t see anything chasing you.’‘That does make me feel better. Thank you,’ he says. He takes in another breath of fresh air. His head feels like it’s floating. His shaky hands rest on his lap, and sitting next to this faceless woman, he begins to feel calm embrace him, a warm blanket on a cold day. ‘What’s your name?’ he asks. ‘I don’t have a name,’ she says. ‘You don’t have a name?’‘I do, but you wouldn’t remember it if I told you.’ He looks at her, puzzled, the sun’s glare obscuring his vision. ‘What do you mean?’ he asks. ‘You never do.’‘I don’t understand.’‘You never seem to until it’s too late, do you?’ He stares at her funny. ‘How about I go first? My name is-‘‘Stop,’ she says. ‘What?’‘Don’t bother telling me your name. Tell me why you’re here, and don’t lie. Tell the truth, and I’ll tell you my name.’‘Why I’m here? I have no idea why I’m here.’‘Is this your first time on a raft with me?’ He looks at her, confused. ‘I…I don’t think so?’ She sighs. ‘Maybe one day.’‘Maybe one day what?’‘Maybe one day you’ll get it.’‘Get what? …I’m missing something.’ She doesn’t respond, looking off in the distance. He takes a deep breath and decides to leave it alone. The thought of how he could hear her voice without a mouth never crosses his mind. The silence is comfortable despite his bafflement. He feels relieved, sheltered by this enigmatic woman. That creature… It seemed so vivid, so REAL, but maybe it was just the delirium of the sea. Maybe he just-plain hallucinated the whole thing. Maybe that creature was just a figment of his imagination. Either way, he is safe and sound. He is okay now, he knows it. He is with this woman, face or no face, name or no name, who has rescued him, and he is

(I SAID LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU KID)

thrown to the other side of the raft at the sudden impact of something from below. ‘No, no, no…’ he mutters through quaking lips, shaking his head. His limbs turn to jelly. She is completely unaffected. ‘What’s with you?’ she asks, her head tilted to one side, now standing still as a rock with one hand clasped on the mast. He wishes she had a face, so he could know who she was (or at least a name to call her by). He stammers for a response, longing for his mom. With horror, he sees a long, blue fin slice through the crest of the water, coming closer, closer, cutting through the surface like a wedding cake. ‘No, no, NO, NO!’ He cries, rushing towards her legs, clasping them in desperation and whimpering like a child. ‘Get off me!’ She says, shaking him off as a picnicker would shake off a pesky fly. With another juddering crash, he is once more sent sprawling into unfriendly waters. This time, her hand is not outstretched. Her facial features begin to appear in splotches, but the murk of submergence prevents him from making them out. He starts to scream but water gushes down his aching throat instead. His ears ring, and before he can gain his bearings, he feels a sharp, twisting pain stab into his left ankle. He looks down. Before his mind could register the blind terror of this abominable creature’s jaw clenched onto him, its wild green eyes spinning in contorted circles, fresh blood seeping onto peeling scales of flesh, he is plunged into the abyss. His skin feels like it will rip off from whiplash, his hands raise above his head in surrender, and he plunged deeper, deeper, into the abyss. That terrible, booming roar overtakes his senses and the familiar blue fades to unknown shades of darkness. Small, light dots appear on the edges of vision as he is plunged deeper, deeper, into the abyss. His brain barely registers how much he wished his mom was here to save him, blood seeping onto his flesh, blinding his eyes with a goopy, scarlet lens. It barely registers how madly he wished that faceless, nameless woman on the raft would have reached out to save him, skin ripping off his bones in thin strips, layer by layer. It barely registers the compression of the water crushing his frame into tiny bits, or the familiar cackle crackling all around him in a stringing legion of echoes, and -

- he woke with a jolted start, unaware of the thin layer of sweat embedded in his furrowed brow. His heartbeat was swift, his pulse quickened, the grating blare of his alarm muted by the latent dregs of a vivid dream he would soon forget. The pale blankets underneath where his chest lay were damp. His hand flew automatically to shut off the blaring alarm clock. He’d neglected to cancel its services the night prior amidst a drunken stupor, for its services would not be required that morning. Narrow sheets of unwelcome morning sunlight cut through the thread-bare curtains of the bedrooms grimy window, and he fought the sudden urge to wretch.

His hands clenched the bedding into tight knots, and the groggy image of crazed emerald eyes cratered in a specter’s skull flashed in his mind like a burst of light from a 1920’s vintage camera. His stomach rumbled, his throat tightened, and his mouth felt dry and sticky. His girlfriend stirred in the bed next to him. His clammy hands loosened, and he quickly dashed to the restroom, almost stumbling flat on his face over the unruly heap of discarded clothing left casually at the foot of the bed. His knees slammed onto cold tile, shooting white-hot pain through rattled bones as he knelt before the Great Porcelain God (as he had done so many times before), heaving up the nights contents in insidious, garbled chunks. Those wretched eyes continued to stare through the haze in his mind’s eye as he clutched the rim of the cracked bowl. His shoulders shuddered during the penultimate expulsion, and a miserable groan escaped his bile-stained lips. He wondered for a moment why he continued to put himself through this ordeal so often but was taken by one final wave of acidic vomit before the thought could reach a rational conclusion. He felt repulsed by the soupy water. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before flushing the shame of an impulsive evening into rusted pipes that would lead it out of sight and out of mind. He rested his sticky head on the seat for a moment, panting like a dog on a hot summers day, then gathered the strength to rise on shaking knees and rid the bitter aftertaste with a heavy dose of Colgate Total Mint Stripe and in-store brand generic mouthwash.

After five minutes of desperate oral care, he found himself plopped in his usual wicker-laced back patio chair, smoking one of the four remaining Pall Mall cigarettes he had to his name. He gazed on his freshly-mowed yard, meager in size but charming nonetheless, his thoughts afloat in melancholy waters.

A hummingbird fed from the wooden bird feeder hanging from rain-worn shingles, its wings veritable blurs. He found himself in stupefied awe at the simplicity of such a creature; how it could carelessly flit about to and fro, not a care in the world, never having to worry about how to pay its half of the rent, or where next week’s gas money would come from, or whether it was smart or dumb because it dropped out of high school in the 11thgrade, or whether its girlfriend found it to be a failure as a man for losing its job after only six months due to “Low Production Results” and “Inability to Communicate in a Courteous and Friendly Manner with Customers.” This hummingbird’s only worry seemed to be which bird feeder it would mooch off at any given moment. Its eyes darted back and forth, and it fled as quick as it came.

Smooth lines of crisp smoke fluttered with grace from the burning tip of his now half-spent cigarette, a quarter-inch of ash tip ready to plop. After another smooth drag, amid a wandering mind, his thoughts turned to his father, a green-eyed man he didn’t enjoy interacting with. Like a lightning bolt out of a clear blue sky, a query he was often asked struck him with such force (a sentence he hadn’t consciously thought of in many years), he nearly dropped his smoke.

“You ain’t gonna amount to much, are ya, kid?”

Where on God’s green Earth such a sordid recollection came from, he couldn’t say. A surge of feelings long suppressed tickled his throat, watering his eyes. The hair on the nape of his neck pricked up. His diaphragm tightened, already aching from the heaving earlier. A mental dam broke. Images of memories long forgotten passed in his mind as a sick, macabre slideshow. He tried to adjust his eyes to focus on the rickety, splintered fence in front of him. It didn’t work. His vision blurred between hurried puffs.

One minute he remembered the picture of the dark interior of his near-empty childhood closet, pockets of light filtering through in dust-ridden lines, cowering with teary eyes upon hearing his father’s angry voice cursing a mile a minute because the Red Sox lost another goddamn game like they have with so many this season while hearing the slaps and follow-up whimpers of his Mom, who took the brunt end of his disappointment with his team and the money he lost on betting on them yet again. The next minute it was him staring down at the well-worn Nike sneakers he had as a teenager while his father hollered at him for the four “F’s” and a “D-“ on the latest report card from school, not wanting to meet his gaze because meeting his gaze could mean meeting his backhand again, and it was much easier to look at the last pair of shoes his Mom had bought for him than to look his father in his half-drunk, half-wild emerald eyes.

This would have gone on all morning had the sensation of burning flesh not caught his nose. He tossed the cigarette, a half-inch of ash scattering on the ground.

He shook his hand in the air, his head swimming. He felt like vomiting again. On pure instinct his hand shot out to grab another cigarette, trembling as his thumb kept slipping on the head of the lighter. After four attempts, the light took on the fifth. The urge to puke was quelled for the time being. His father… why did he have to think about his fucking father? Slow, bubbling indignation simmered inside his belly.

“Good morning,” a soft voice said behind him, snapping him from his petulant daze. His girlfriend stepped onto the patio, shutting the glass door behind herself with a light thud. Her voice was dull and dry. He would have jumped five feet into the air, startled, if his body had the energy for it.

“Morning,” he replied. She didn’t kiss him this morning like usual. Instead, she walked absently behind him, holding a mug of piping hot coffee, steam leaving a soft line hanging in the air. She sat promptly in the chair to his right. She gently placed the cup down and helped herself to a cigarette, a blank, expressionless stare fixed on the potted lilies just a few feet below the bird feeder. He cringed inside, knowing he was already, in just a few short minutes, down to his last cigarette, but said nothing aloud.

“Heard you throwing up this morning,” she said, her voice distant.

“Sorry about that, hon.”

“It woke me up,” she said after a few moments.

“Sorry.” He took a drag. “Could’ve gone back to sleep, you know.”

“Oh, I know. It was loud, though. Really loud. You seemed to go on and on. Hard to go back to sleep after that.”

“Sorry,” was all he could manage. What else could he say? What the hell did shewanthim to say?

She took a small sip from the mug that was inscribed with the words “Who’s the Boss? I’M the Boss!” on the side facing him. “So, are we going to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

“What happened yesterday?”

“What specifically about yesterday? A lot happened yesterday.”

“‘What specifically?’” She turned her head, eyes dead-locked on him as he stared intently at the bird feeder like it was the Taj Mahal, worthy of his undivided attention and off in another world. She continued, “Well, for starters, where were you last night?”

He grimaced. “For Christ’s sake, can we not do this now? Please? It’s like 7 in the freaking morning, and my head is killing me.”

“One, it’s ‘like’ 9 in the ‘freaking morning,’ and two, yes, I wouldlike to do this now. Look, youcalled meyesterday about the job, and you told meto wait up, and you’re the one who didn’t come home till God knows what hour. I waited up and called and called since it was well past 6, when you saidyou’d be home, and the next thing I know, you’re throwing up all over the bathroom this morning making all kinds of god-awful noise. So you know what? Yes, I would like to know where you were last night, because frankly, I feel like I’m entitled to an answer. Or at least some kind of explanation.”

Every word felt like a grating scratch on a chalkboard. “Fine. Fine. Good Lord, I went out for a bit with Brad last night. That’s all. Okay?”

Her head cocked to one side. His eyes met hers with slight apprehension. She didn’t respond, taking a small drag and exhaling out the side of her mouth instead.

He gulped, praying she wouldn’t notice, and added, “Sorry I forgot to call.”

She looked at him, disbelief in her eyes, and he continued, “What?” More silence. “Listen, what went down at the call center yesterday had everything to do with bullshit office politics and nothing to do with me, okay? Brad called after he heard what happened and offered to take me to O’Malleys for a couple beers to unwind – and believe me, I needed to unwind after the day I had. He was doing mea favor.”

What he didn’t tell her was the following: After arriving at 5PM, Brad left around 7. Hehad stuck around for another six hours. He had nine tequila shots, complete with lime chasers and salt lining the rim, and three pitchers of a local ale. When he wasn’t bitching to the blue-eyed brunette behind the counter, he was bitching to the grey-haired cowboy he played a couple of rounds of darts with. He spent all the cash he had, maxed out his credit card, and staggered home under the pale light of flickering street lamps. He vaguely recalled a police patrol car cruising by, eyeing him down.

He didn’t want to tell her all this – she wouldn’t want to hear it anyway. “So that’s what happened. That’s all. No big deal, okay? Nothing wrong with a good time, right?”

He couldn’t get a read on her in the uncomfortable silence. He looked away with a feigned air of resoluteness. Goddamn right there was nothing wrong with a good time. She put her cigarette out with a small hiss and stood up.

“Know what? You’re right. Let’s not do this now.” She scooped up her coffee mug, still steaming, and almost as an afterthought, added, “I’m making eggs,” before sliding the door shut with a soft slam behind her.

“Goddammit,” he muttered to himself, his mouth bitter and his throat raw. His head swam, and a small, thin vein popped from his forehead like the Missouri River on a pocket-sized map. A sick, pithing sensation oozed from his groin up to his chin, and his brow creased as he seized the near-empty pack from off the side table, moving it back and forth in his palm. At length he concluded that this morning couldn’t get any worse, so fuck it, and lit his last one up. His breath came in short, quick spurts between near-frantic puffs.

Five minutes later, the glass door opened and closed for the last time that morning, and the familiar smell of scrambled eggs mixed with vegetable oil and freshly-diced peppers ran through his nose. She sat at the table, hunched over her plate with an issue of Reader’s Digestsplayed out on the cover article. His plate sat to her left, still hot, and he walked past the table to the kitchen, helping himself to his own cup of coffee.

“Thanks for the eggs, babe,” he muttered as he shuffled to his chair. He then saw something on the plate that froze him to his seat. His heart shot up to his throat. Blistered, green eyes slithered back and forth on a protruding, peeling fish-head plopped on his plate, maggots crawling over mold-ridden sockets in droves. Its mouth flapped open and closed, agape with pockets of pus and fleshy scabs oozing thick droplets of blood. A thick, black liquid dribbled from its lips, coating the plate. It groaned, he groaned, his face pale.

Then it was just a plate of scrambled eggs, garnished with diced green peppers. The color had drained from his face. Coffee had splashed onto the table and pooled out, dripping from the tables edge.

“Are you okay?” She asked, looking at him with worry. His head snapped up, pupils dilated. He looked back down in disbelief, like he was seeing a pile of eggs for the first time in his life.

“Y-yeah. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

He wasn’t sure but didn’t say anything. His dream had receded to all but a faded blur, yet that thing that had popped out of his plate seemed as real as the hair on his aching head. He stood up and his knees thumped under the low bottom of the table. He cursed under his breath. She looked at him with that same funny look as outside.

“I, uh, I’m just gonna grab some Tabasco sauce I think.”

“Honey?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you sure you’re ok?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Really.” His legs wobbled as he rummaged through the kitchen cabinets. The Tabasco sauce wasn’t in its normal spot on the oak shelf below the spices. It wasn’t in the wooden drawer next to the aging gas stove to the right either. He searched everywhere, even poking past all the near-empty liquor bottles he’d drained over the last few months, methodically thumbing through each one like they were filing cabinets filled with important index cards. The steady ba-bumb, ba-bumb, ba-bumbthumped on in rhythm in his head.

“Did you find it?” She asked, looking up from the Digestand craning her neck around.

“Not yet.”

“Did you check the spice cabinet?”

“Yes, I checked there. I’ve checked all the cabinets. Can’t seem to find it.”

She uttered a faint “Hmmm,” with a slight nod and went on reading, engrossed in the latest article about underwater deep-sea divers and their many perils with one eye on the kitchen.

“Did you get some at the store on Wednesday?” He asked, now running his hands across the top of the fridge, hope for his precious Tabasco sauce dwindling.

“What was that?” She asked.

“I asked if you picked some up from the store on Wednesday.”

She let out a quiet sigh. “I had to stay late at work Wednesday, remember? I was just gonna go today since it’s a short day.”

He stared at the back of her head, her shoulder-length hair tied back into a ratty ponytail, a small pit of venom stewing in his stomach.

“Okay,” he said in a tone nothing short of sulky. He sat heavily back down in his chair, knees narrowly missing the table’s underbelly. He took a long, drawling bite. It tasted like rubber. The slight touch of a scowl could be seen on his face.

Her interest in the article had dwindled, but she kept it open anyway. She noticed him poking at his plate like it was a dead animal and fought back irritation at his unappreciation. She didn’t want to be regarded as a Saint or anything (it was just a small breakfast after all), but a little sincerity would have gone a long way. She asked, “How’re the eggs?”

“They’re fine,” he said flatly, forcing a smile behind bloodshot eyes.

“You’ve hardly touched them.”

“I said they’re fine, okay?” He looked down.

She cocked her head slightly. “What’s up your ass this morning?” She expected a stronger response than she received.

“Nothing,” he said in a lifeless tone, hardly aware of what she asked at all.

“Really?”

“I’m fine, okay?” His eyes met hers, a trace of irritation in them.

“You sure you’re fine?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” he said, looking back down. “Gawd,” he muttered as he fished out another pathetic bite.

“You know what?” She asked, closing the Digestand turning her body towards him. “You don’t want to talk about getting fired yesterday? Fine. You don’t want to talk about getting plasteredlast night? Fine. Or the way you’ve sulked aroundthe last week? Okey-dokey. Fine. You don’t wanna talk at all? That’s your business, not mine. Look, I’ve already let you off the hook this morning, so you don’t need to patronize me. If you don’t like your breakfast, you don’t like it. Fine by me. Make yourself some toast or cereal if you’d rather have something else. But you don’t need to lie about it, for goodness sake. A little honesty goes a long way, okay? That’s all I’m saying.”

He pressed his middle three fingers against his temples, massaging them gently. His brain felt like it was being pinched by claws on both sides. “Look,” he said. “Sorry. Okay? Sorry. I just feel like shit this morning. The eggs are fine, really. The peppers are a nice touch too. I just don’t have much of an appetite is all. Really.”

She leaned back in her seat, appeased. “Okay,” she said, reaching for her coffee cup. “Thank you.” She took a sip, savoring the taste of the last of their French Vanilla creamer. “Sorry for snapping at you. Too much to drink last night, huh?”

“Guess so.” He smiled faintly.

“From the sound of it this morning, I’d definitely say so,” she said with a tired grin.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“It was pretty bad.” She laughed mildly. “’Nothing wrong with a good time, right?’”

“Maybe a little bit,” he added with a bit of a smile of his own.

“Maybe.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She took another sip. “Just…” She placed the mug gently on the table top and leaned towards him, taking a deep breath. “Just talk to me. Talk to me about what’s been going on with you. That’s all I want.”

“Nothing’s going on,” he said, his instincts putting him on the defensive.

“Come on, babe.”

“I’m fine.” She looked at him.

“I’ll be fine.” He looked back up at her again. God, she was relentless. Why the hell wouldn’t she just leave him alone?

“Really,” he added. Her gaze felt like it was shooting laser beams into his strained face. He stared back down and began fiddling with his breakfast, taking another reluctant bite. Her gaze was rife with disappointment, and discontentment began to sizzle inside of her. She would have shaken her head and pressed him further, but at least he was eating a little more. She made her peace with that and resumed her meal. The silence was deafening, only broken by muffled chewing and the clank of forks against metallic plates. He just wanted to make it through the morning until she went to work at ten, then lay the rest of the hangover off lounging on the couch with whatever spectacles daytime TV would offer. The sizzle within her was just beginning to subside when, between bites, she heard him muttering so softly that she had to strain her ears to hear it. She managed to only catch the last half of his mumbled sentence, “…would taste better with Tabascothough…”

“Okay, you know what?” She erupted, the sizzle inside changing to Diet Coke and his quiet bitching becoming the unfortunate Mento dropped inside of it. “Enough – with – the – Tabasco! What is with youandTabascoall the sudden? Since when are you so in love WITH TABASCO SAUCE?”

“What do you mean, when?” He started. “I’ve always liked Tabasco Sauce! You know that!”

“Since when?”

“Since always!”

“Oh really?”

“Yes really!” His stomach churned with exasperation, his insides crawling.

She shot a glance so full of fire at him that he winced. “You like it so much?” She shouted as she stood up. She seized his plate with menace, his fork clanged onto the linoleum floor, and his eyes widened with shock. “Go buy some yourself!” She threw the pantry door open, the golden handle shuddering as it smacked the wall, leaving a small dent, and she threw his plate with a hearty crash into the black garbage bin inside.

“What the hell are you doing?” He cried, his head clouded with revolt and specks of fury.

“Not like you don’t have the time now, huh?” She said as she slammed the pantry door shut with a hardy bang. Her breathing was rapid.

“I was still eating that!”

“Oh, that’s right, you don’t have the money for it, huh? That’s it, right? Don’t have the money for some of your friggin’ Tabasco sauce?”

“Fuck you and your cheap shots, you-“ he started as he stood up from his chair. His knee thudded against the bottom of the table he’d always considered too small and short, and he cursed again, sharp, twisting pain spiraling up his thigh. She couldn’t help herself. Despite her vexation, she raised an open palm to her mouth to stifle her giggles.

“Shut up!” He yelled, clutching his knee like it was a little child. His stomach twisted in tight knots, and he felt the unpleasant tickle in his throat that preceded an upchuck along with the other symptoms: pounding head, tense shoulders, nauseous gut. “It’s not funny!”

“Didn’t learn the first hundred times you’ve done that?” She asked, sniggering, taunting him.

“Will you quit it? What’s withyou this morning?” He asked, his eyes watery and squinted.

“What’s with me?” She asked, the stifled laughter ceasing and her posture resembling that of a stern grade-school teacher. “What’s with you?”

“I’ll tell you what’s w-“ he started, but the urge got to him first, and his throat clogged with yellowy bits of his morning meal. His eyes splashed open, his hand clasped his mouth like a loaded gun, and he started for the toilet once more. He barely made it, holding back chunks from spewing out the sides of his hand. She heard him retching all the way from the kitchen as his pleasant breakfast came up in full, and heard a series of long, drawn out dry heaves that soon followed. She contemplated going in there and rubbing his back, but her spite towards his unsavory attitude today won out. She placed her hands squarely on her hips, biding her time, waiting with patience.

In this brief silence, she heard the soft ticking of the neon-red clock that hung in the dining area above a framed photo of their first anniversary where they had gone fishing. Simpler times, simpler times. She heard one last whimper echo from the back, the flush of the toilet, and the running of gushing sink water, but found her mind fixed on the steady tick-tock, tick-tockof that bright neon clock. She remembered the department store they’d bought it at – the same one they found the black-rimmed picture frame. She thought they were “quaint and decadent,” buying them that very day in spite of his protests about the cost. She had experimented with her hair that day – trying out a new, cute bun with her bangs hanging just above her eyebrows. Even though he hardly noticed, she had received several admirable double-takes as they shopped.

She’d lost track of time but knew that it’d been at least four minutes since he stumbled out of the room. The sink continued running, and her temper began to abate as the steady tick-tock of the clock rattled on and on. She began to feel some sympathy for him and her eyes kept flickering to that photo taken almost a year ago. Maybe things weren’t so bad after all. Maybe he hadn’t been as ill-tempered as her favorite workmate told her he was acting (based off the symptoms that had been described to her, anyway). Maybe she was getting worked up over nothing. Maybe this, maybe that, a thousand “maybe’s” marched through her mind. Maybe… Maybe… The clock’s latest tickseemed to shout at her, snapping her out of “Maybe” world. She stole a cursory glance at it, noticing that the neon-red, in this light, looked strangely like the red of Tabasco sauce… that ridiculous Tabasco sauce… That friggin’ Tabasco sauce of his…

The acrimonious line “…would taste better with Tabascosauce though…” ran through her head like a dragster, here one second, gone the next, and the small, burning sizzle of resentment began to marinate in her stomach again. The events of the last week unfolded before her like a pop-up book: the incessant whining, the uncharacteristic accusations, the petty jealousy, all sorts of instances popping up and down in sundry images that mocked her. The feeling sizzled and fizzled and sizzled some more as her hands remained fixed on her hips and the clock tick-tockedon and on.

He ran the bristles of his flaxen toothbrush over and over in his mouth. He was so sick of the foul taste in his mouth that he would have gone another round with the john if he had the strength. This morning had not gone the way he wanted – not one bit. He felt like yelling, crying, running, fighting, all at once. The taste began to shift from mush to minty-fresh, and a small dose of relief pricked his heart. The image of that putrid green fish on his plate had made its way to the catacombs of his mind, but the underlying pulse of sickening fear still hung like a slipknot in his stomach. Its contents were vacated, but the shaky, butterfly sensation lingered on, making him feel nervous with nobody around but his own sweaty face in the water-spotted mirror. He took a deep, quivering breath, and sidled to the living room’s black leather couch, clutching his sore abdomen and walking like a hunchback.

“Get it all out, hon?” She asked from the kitchen, gazing at his slouched body lumped on the couch.

“I’ve always hated that damn table, you know. It’s too short –“

“You always hate everything, dear.”

He looked up at her, his eyes moving from slits to startled. His jaw dropped a little, and he felt more stunned than sore with her comment. Did he always hate everything? Was that what she thought of him? Was that how he presented himself to her? To everybody? Good Lord Almighty…“No, really, with the hell is with you this morning?”

“I’ll tell you ‘what’s up with me’– I’m fed up, that’s what,” she said, making her way to stand in front of him. She raised her right hand over her tightly-held hairline. “I’ve had it up to here with you, that’s what.” He looked at her funny, but she continued on, “I’ve been more than patient with your whining and cursing and complaining about anything and everything, but enough is enough. I want this to work – I really do. I want to make it to two years, but for a while now it’s felt like more work than its frankly worth. You don’t tell me anything going on in your life – heck, you barely tell me anything about yourself! I get it – some people are just quieter, and that’s fine, but all the whining? The bitching and moaning? I’m sorry, but enough is enough. This is a two-way street, and I can’t be the only one driving. Either you start talking and telling me what’s really going on with you, or you can leave.”

He looked like she had slugged him in his nuts. “What?”

“I’m not repeating myself. You heard me.”

His head ached, and he leaned forward, eyeballs glued to the tan and blue-striped carpet rug, massaging his temples. God, this morning really had gone another way, hadn’t it? He asked, “What do you want me to say?”

Her heart twanged with sympathy, but the voice of her workmate urged her to stay firm (“Stay strong, girl!”). She said, “For once, I want you to tell me what’s going on with you – I mean reallygoing on. I want you to open up to me.”

He began slowly shaking his head. “Oh, for Christ’s sake…”

“Give me a reason to stay, babe, or I’m done.”

“For crying out loud, I just wanted some Tabasco sauce!” He cried, lifting his blazing eyes to meet her resolute ones, throwing his right hand in the air like he was smacking someone tall upside the head. “That’s it! God, this is not how I wanted today to go. I didn’t expect there to be a federal case made from this! Why are you making such a big deal?”

She took a deep breath (“Stay strong, girl! You don’t need to keep feeding into his buuuuullshit! Be your own woman, girl!” the workmate urged in her head). “Because this isn’t about your Tabasco sauce.”

He looked around the room like his nose was chasing a fly. Befuddled, he asked, “Then for God’s sake, what is this all about?”

“You tell me.”

He felt flabbergasted. His poor stomach, that old summer soldier, did a cartwheel in his belly. His mind was a stormy cloud during monsoon season. His eyes began to sting with the subtle prick of imminent tears held back by a reticent dam. He mumbled to himself, “God, what is going on?”

She said, “I’ll tell you what I think is going on: I think you’re mad I didn’t go to the store on Wednesday because I was slammed at work after getting promoted last week.”

He looked at her like she was a UFO. “That – that’s not true…”

“I think that you were mad because you knew you were about to lose your job instead of getting promoted yourself.”

“No, no, no… I – I didn’t know the axe was coming, and besides, I toldyou I was happyabout your promotion.” In the back of his mind, he wished he had just put salt and pepper on his eggs instead of saying a goddamned wordabout Tabasco and avoided this altogether.

“Sure, you said those words, but I think you were far from happy about it. In fact, I think that you resented that I was having success for the first time in a long time and that you were not. You said what a boyfriend is supposed to say, but I don’t think you meant a word. If that’s the case, I get it – just be honest and we can talk about it. But instead of that, you’ve been a real pain to be around. You’ve been sulky. You’ve snapped at me God knows how many times, over big and little things too. Like when I went out last week with Stacey and you got mad when I left and kept texting me over and over about when I was going to be home and what I was doing. You’ve been watching way more tv and spending way more time in the bathroom watching porn – don’t think I don’t notice – but when I had to askfor some celebration sex the night of my promotion, you were barely into it at all, and I had to finish myself.

“Look, have I made a big deal about any of this? No. Have I said anything? Nope. No, I have not. I’ve been more than a good sport, but enough is enough, and it’s time for you to be honest with me about your feelings – what’s reallygoing on.

“You asked what is going on? I think what’s happening is that you’ve had a stick up your ass for a while now, but instead of talking about it, doing something about it or pulling it out, you’ve been shoving further up there and then complaining about how everything looks brown.” There. She had said her piece; she’d “dropped it like it’s hot” (she knew her workmate would beam with pride right now if she was a fly on the wall), and the ball was in his court.

He sat there, stunned, like she had strapped jumper cables on his nipples and cranked the voltage to 100. He felt naked and called out, like those bad dreams where he walked into the grade school gym and all the girls and boys would stop playing their games and turn to look at him, all in unison, point at his privates and burst into hysterical laughter. He’d glance down and see that somehow Mom (who always kept the monsters away, God he missed her) had forgotten to dress him in underwear and shorts today. His cheeks would flush, and tears would stream. He’d run and run and run until his embarrassment could give way to a deeper shame. His head hung like he was being called next to the gallows. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

He felt her surly stare upon him but didn’t look back. He studied the different woven patterns of the carpet rug, avoiding her gaze. She stared on, unflinching in her determination. He said, “I just… I haven’t been feeling myself lately, you know?”

Her arms relaxed, and she sat softly next to him. Her expression shifted from hard and resolute to sharp but caring, almost motherly. Her voice gentle, she said, “Ok, babe. Good. That’s a start.”

He looked up at her with vulnerable eyes, almost like the eyes of a boy who was too scared to talk but had just been given permission to do so for the first time in his life. Her heart swelled. He asked, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Look, I… I don’t know. I’ve just been out of it, I guess. I always seem to get kind of fucked up this time of year for some reason. I don’t know why.” His lips quivered. He did know why, but some things, left unprocessed, are too painful to talk about. Words would personify it, make it real, and reality wasn’t something he was prepared to face. Reality hurt. Fantasy never did. Fantasy was fun, playing pretend was fun. Hell, it was what got him through his childhood and saved his sanity when his body would moan and ache from being beaten. His best friends, the plastic Luke Skywalker toy with the white garb and cool blue lightsaber, and the Han Solo action figure, complete with the trademark blaster pointed forward (“He shot first!” He would say aloud, absorbed in his own little world), were the bastions of the universe he would escape to and find solace in; the break from a reality too dark and too terrifying to face alone when his mother wasn’t around. When she was there, he had a fighting chance. When she was away, that’s when the real monster showed up, the one who hid behind a million-dollar smile and bright green eyes but came out after tossing back a few cold ones. She was always able to fight him off, but she was only a human. Sometimes she was a rag doll. Eventually she wasn’t there at all; a 1 in 645 chance against her favor when she died from a head-on collision by a drunk driver.

All these days and years later, though, and here he was again, in the same old jam he’d landed in with different women with different faces for nine years – backed into a corner without the words to talk himself out of it. This one looked at him with an affectionate air that made him think of the way his mother did before she passed.

As she was about to speak, the dam broke and he began to cry.

It started as a mild whimper, but when he felt the calm touch of her hand between his shoulder blades running back and forth, he let go. Stinging tears ran down his flushed cheeks and small gobs of snot kissed his upper lip. Breath came in strong bursts between sobs, and he muttered, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” over and over between broken sniffles. “I’m such a l-l-loser,” he threw into the mix once. She opened her mouth but closed it and remained silent, pulling him in closer until he was in a semi-fetal position. His head was fixed soothingly on her lap. She played with his hair affectionately, calming him with patience. His eyes stung with each wave of pent-up emotion gushing through. His breathing started to smooth out, and he said in a quiet voice, “I… I’m not gonna amount to much, am I?” as he wiped the trailing mucus with the back of his hand, vacant eyes staring at the wall.

“Why would you say that?” She asked, a comforting smile mixed with sympathetic eyes looking down at him, fingers running through his matted hair.

He felt himself calming down, relieved by the warmth of her tender touch. “I… I don’t know.” What was he supposed to say? Yeah, babe, you see, what happened was my Dad would back me into a corner and beat me because he was, you know, a drunk, and my Mom usually got the brunt end of it, poor thing, and then I dropped out of high school to help with the bills when he got laid off at the plant, you know, and ‘cuz I never graduated I’ve always felt dumb, and besides, I never understood that high school shit anyway, when was I ever gonna use that shit in the real world, my Dad always told me, a real man rolls up his sleeves and gets a job done, HE never had much use for that math shit either, and with all his faults he was a pretty smart cookie, you see, and anyway babe, what happened was 9 years ago tomorrow my Mom was coming back from the grocery store, she was wearing sunglasses so nobody would notice she had black eyes, she could use foundation make-up to cover up the other scratches and bruises, you see – she used make-up to cover that shit up, I’m sure you can understand how easy it is, but anyways babe, tomorrow will be the 9thanniversary of when she died and after that it was just me and my Pops, so with Mom gone he was sad too, in his own way, and well, he couldn’t afford a gym membership, so it’s not like he could take his shit out on machines, you know, and living in a riggidy raggedy 1 bedroom apartment where I got the couch, we were always in each other’s hair, and plus, I was always bothering him about this and that, so I guess I can see where he was coming from, you know, close quarters and all, and so sometimes he’d hit me, but you see, babe, he didn’t get to go to the gym like he wanted to, so he didn’t have an outlet, and also Mom wasn’t there anymore, besides, he was nice sometimes too, I guess, he wasn’t always all-bad you know, like when he would tell me, when he was REALLY up to here with it after a day of job-hunting and finding jack shit, that he wanted me to be better than him, so that made me feel good ‘cuz he wanted me to be better, but sure as shit he’d change his tune baby, oh yes, he sure would, after a couple of Coors went down the hatch, he really started to sing, but more with his hands than mouth, you get me, and those green eyes of his would light right up, but you know it didn’t always hurt that bad, hell, maybe I deserved it for bugging him after a long day, you know, and, and – and what? Is this what she wanted? To hear the shit that ate at his insides like leprosy? To hear about the kind of dude his Dad was? Nobody wanted to hear this shit – not in his experience anyway. He sobbed, feeling like a can of soda that someone had tossed around without cracking the cap.

She planted a soft kiss on his scalp. Her fingers were a blanket of comfort on a cold winter day. “You can be whatever you want to be, babe. You can amount to anything. We just…” She let out a light breath. This was progress. It wasn’t great, but it was progress, and she was willing to work with that. Maybe this was his own unorthodox starting point. Maybe… Maybe…“We just need to figure out what’s eating you, that’s all. We can get through this – together. Okay?”

He shuddered, no longer whimpering like a child. He sat up and leaned his weight against the back of the couch, exhaling a slow breath. He wiped his face with both eyes and shook his head, taking another deep breath. His wiped, tear-stained head landed on the back of the couch with a soft squeak, and he took another long breath, looking at the popcorn ceiling like it contained the secrets to the universe. His hands lay dormant by his sides. He knew she was still talking, but it sounded like it was from miles away, entire galaxies away. The easy touch of her smooth hand on his right shoulder brought him back down to Earth. He heard the word “Hey” as clear as day in his right ear. His stargaze moved from the strange, revolving patterns on the ceiling to the familiar, submissive patterns on the rug. His head hung, staring at his feet in the same manner it had always hung during one of his father’s scolding’s.

“Look at me,” she said softly, prodding his shoulder. His eyes dilated, narrowing.

“What did you say?” He asked, his voice bland. His eyebrows creased, and his muscles flexed involuntarily. His ears popped, and there was near-perfect silence for the space of ten seconds, where the only sounds he heard was the ba-BUM, ba-BUM, ba-BUMof an escalated heart beat and the tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tockfrom the hanging red-neon clock a thousand miles away.

Her hand left his tense shoulder. “I said look at me. That’s all.”

She may have said those simple words, but his hearing was distorted. His ears started ringing, and what he heard was “I said look at me when I’m talking to you, kid” in a distant voice that was half-hers and half-possessed, like a specter from another lifetime. He turned his head to look at her, but what caught his eyes and ears was the tick-tock of the old red clock hanging like a blazing omen on the wall past her shoulder. Each TICK-TOCKof the clock boomed and echoed all around him. The room shrunk, and the tunnel between him and the burning red clock expanded to the size of a cathedral. An invisible hand slipped a melting ice cube down the back of his T-shirt, and his shoulders convulsed with a shiver. She became blurred as his vision focused on the steady beat of the tick-tock clock. The hanging fluorescent light above the table teetered on and off, a low buzz cutting the air.

His mouth scowled with a twang of revulsion as he watched the red clock’s color begin to drip, drip, drip, down the wall. It was slow at first, a snail’s pace, but the red was melting, oozing in small, thick lines of bloody molasses coagulating into fine, circular tips. The picture nailed below of them holding a large, dead bass was coated with thin sheets of blood; blood dripping, dripping, dripping down from the bleeding clock, it’s hands now fixed in a demented grin, bathed in flickering light. The bass within the glass frame, caked in thickets of blood running off the frame into small droplets, pitter-pattering onto the floor in splotches, did something that flipped a switch in him from “sanity” to something else entirely.

The bass began to move.

He recoiled in horror. The corpses eye, distant and cold, began to move in circular motions within its hollow sockets. Its tail started to convulse, the scales on its body shimmering under the lambent light. Its mouth snapped open and shut in serrated bursts. It seemed to be getting bigger, bigger, expanding somehow within the frame. Its whole body flopped wildly in two dimensions as cold rouge slithered over the glass. Its fin shook, its color shifted to a familiar azure, and thin rows of razor blade teeth jutted out of its gaping mouth. A rank, dark liquid splashed in and out of its jaws. The scales on its skin began to peel, revealing beating patches of flesh and pus. There was a small crackling sound, and the glass started to splinter from a small pinpoint into a spiderweb pattern. It’s wild, juddering body had shifted, grown, and all that could be seen in the 12X16 was the bottom of its jaw hammering down onto the glass, its black stained teeth hissing and biting as the web on the surface spread further. The glass crinkled in a dripping line as the top row of bloodied teeth burst through, sending bits and shards of glass spattering to the floor. The hole grew wider as it bit further and further into its glass cage, tearing at it with its jagged teeth, banging its withered head harder, harder until it gushed out of the frame entirely. Remnants of glass and blood spewed out in a sick pool onto the ground.

Its eyes twisted and turned with glee as it’s body wiggled its way from the 12X16. The frame banged helplessly against the wall with each inch the creature crawled. The scarlet pool below glimmered under the dancing light overhead, glass peppered and shining like small candles. Protruded bits of glass remained fixed in the frames edges, slicing thin cuts into its peeling, creeping flesh. TICK-TOCK, TICK-TOCK, TICK-TOCKbellowed the dripping red clock, its crimson body drooping like a smeared painting. The near-mummified head of the bass snapped back and forth, and the latter half of its pulsating body slid out of the rectangular door. It flopped on the floor, crunching the glass under its writhing body as shards embedded themselves into blood-spattered skin.

It stopped, lying still as a tomb, then its crazed emerald eye fixed on him. He leapt from the couch, crashing to the floor. His eyes were the size of dinner plates. The creature began to flop toward him. Its mouth flew open and shut, hissing, cackling, spewing chunks of flesh and blood from its sides. They splattered onto the carpet and walls in tattered blemishes like a Jackson Pollack painting, leaving a rouge wake. Its tail slapped the linoleum with loud WHAPS!and its fins smacked its body, sticky with gore. Each time its blue fin raised for another WHAP!, it left a thin line of sticky-white goo as more scales peeled off violently, scattering onto the floor. Its convulsing body was a spectral shadow as the light flickered on and on, the TICK-TOCK of the booming clock mere background noise to the hideous grind of the creatures slow, growling teeth. It was getting closer, closer, and his back, damp with nervous sweat, was backed to the wall. He couldn’t speak – his throat was tight, his mouth was dry. She just sat there, staring with alarm at him, as the creature flopped and flopped toward him, chomping at the air with ferocious ardor. It was getting closer, closer, a dark liquid dripping from the balls of its eye sockets, staining its skin. Patches of black and red slapped onto the floor in scaly remnants. Its teeth clanged together in smattering glee. It was getting closer, closer. His heart was going to explode, his hand clutched his beating chest, and it was –

“What is WITH YOU?”

-gone. It was gone. He sat there, stunned, breathless, head spinning, hands shaking, and somehow, it was gone. There one minute, gone the next. He stared at the hole in space and time where it had been flopping hellishly, and it wasn’t there. Just empty carpet rug, tan and blue stripes, bristles and all. He looked at the wall, and the clock hung just as it always did, tick-tockingaway in peace. The picture hung just as it always had, reminiscent of better times. The room had reverted to a normal size. The couch sat where it always had, the table a few yards away, the lightbulb shining functionally, and everything looked like its usual self. He could hardly hear her – her voice was muted, far away, almost like he was underwater. It was the sudden appearance of her face right in front of his that unplugged his ears.

“Hey!” She snapped her fingers with a smooth click in front of his wild eyes. He was brought back to the world, like a magician snapping his hypnotized example back to life.

“Did…. Did you – D-duh-did you s-see…” He asked, naked fear in his face, pointing with a trembling finger to the picture frame, hanging with ease below the red clock.

“Did I see what?” She asked, determination and irritation splashed across her face as she squatted before him.

“You’re… you’re kidding me.” He sat in disbelief.

“Did I see what?” She asked again, her head cocked slightly to one side now. He was pale, and she thought he looked like he had seen a ghost. “Hey! Talk to me. Did I see what?”

“I...” He started, but then he stopped suddenly as his crazed eyes met hers. It was like seeing her for the first time. The edges around her body faded out, and he noticed the firmness of her jaw, the smooth texture of her skin, the shape of her furrowed eyebrows, the roots of her brown hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, the two spots of light acne on her bony cheeks, the elegance of her nose as air went in and out of it in controlled spurts, but most of all, it was the distinguished hue of her iris that caught his attention. How many times had he looked at this face yet never really took note of them?

They were emerald.

He began to shake his head. “No, no, no…” he muttered, clasping his hands firmly on either side, eyes moving to the ground. “No, no, no, no…”

“No?” She asked, feeling confused as hell, and a smidge frightened too. “No what?”

Nine years later, it was the same old jam, same old song and dance. Different girls, different faces, same situation – backed into a corner, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. A therapist he saw once a few years ago (only once – therapy was for chumps, as his Dad had always pointed out) had talked to him about the “Flight or Fight” response and how he was more prone to it than others. He had tuned most of it out because it didn’t apply to him. He was fine, he was alwaysfine (therapy is for suckers), but this morning? This whole morning had been too much. No, no, no – he’d had enough of the color green for one day – maybe a lifetime. Fuck this noise – he was done. It was time for her to go to work and him to sleep it off. He was done.

“No, you know what?” He said, towering over her. “I’m done. This morning? This morning has been total bullshit, that’s what.” She stood up too, backing away slowly.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me. Bullshit. Horseshit. Whatever you want to call it. All I wanted was a nice, quiet morning to chill, take it easy, and sleep off whatever else I needed to. I didn’t sign up for this, do you understand?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about all this shit you started. Yeah, I’m sorry for bringing up the Tobasco sauce – it obviously was a mistake on my part. I didn’t set out to start World War III with it – okay? You’rethe one who started coming at meright out of the gate when I was just trying to enjoy some peace and quiet! Hell, there was even a hummingbird out there at one point.”

She stood up, looking up into eyes that had gone from white hot to ice cold in the span of a few of the longest minutes of her life. “What the hell’s the matter with you right now?” He stared on. “I’m the one who started it? Really?”

“What, you don’t think so?”

“And what the hell does a hummingbird have to do with anything?”

“It has to do with the fact that I was having a perfectly serene day until you crashed it.”

“You call puking your guts out from being too hungover ‘perfectly serene?’”

“I call having some goddamn peace and quiet pretty damn serene. You came at me hard out there, and then flipped out and threw my goddamn plate away! I don’t need this shit, okay? I don’t need this shit! You’ve been driving me crazy all fucking morning!”

“I’ve been driving youcrazy all morning?”

He remained silent, still as a statue with his arms folded, his heart thudding in his chest.

She continued, “You know what? You really are something, aren’t you? Here I was thinking that, after all the crapyou’ve been pulling lately, that you were finally on the verge of some kind of breakthrough – maybe our relationship even going to the next level.” She pointed to the couch as she said this. “But no, you do what you usually do – you went bugshit and now everything is myfault. Is that what it is? Everything’s always my fault?”

A cold grin creeped across his face, not too different than the one splashed across the face of the creature from his now-forgotten dream. “Now you’re getting it.”

She stood there, stupefied. “I… I…” She – what? She was at a loss for words, but found herself saying nonetheless, as a last-ditch effort to salvage something she was afraid was beyond salvaging, “I think you need to get some help. To get your shit together.”

His eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed, his lips a thin line. “I think you need to go to work.”

It was in this instant that she experienced what has often been called a “moment of clarity.” She’d been here before too, hadn’t she? This wasn’t her first rodeo either. She thought he was different, he was supposed to be different, wasn’t he? In the end, when all was said and done, all the differences stripped away, he was the same as all the others:

He thought of her as his plaything, not his partner.

There had been others before him, sure, but they were all just different faces painted on different bodies that were the same person – her little brother, a broken boy who needed his Mommy and Daddy but didn’t have them, whom she raised practically by herself while her parents were off getting high for years on end. Even after he went off to college, an event she considered the greatest miracle of her life, she found herself only attracted to the broken ones; “Lost Boys” for Wendy, only equating love with work and sacrifice. In the end, they always left her. She was unable to save them, just as Wendy was unable to save Peter Pan, who would fly off to Neverland for another adventure, always loving but never learning.

Wendy never could save them, could she? So why did she think she would succeed where Wendy failed?

The voice of her long-time workmate trailed into her mind, words she had dismissed, in her workplace jargon, as “N/A,” because surely she wasn’t like that, not her, certainly not her, “Girl, you keep going for the same damn guy every damn time, don’t you? Girl, you need yourself a man who is his own man, and you know what that means? You need to be your own woman. Imma say this only once, so listen carefully now – YOU-DON’T-NEED-NO-MAN. That’s right, you looking at me like I’m crazy. Guess what? I am crazy, but know something else? I’m right – which means you need to take some time for you. No more fixing broken toys that will just fall apart a few months later. Some things are too broken to be fixed by you alone, you get what I’m saying? You gotta stand upfor yourself, you get me? And after you been doing your own thang for a hot minute, you’ll find yourself a man who be doing HISown thang, and then, and only then, girl -” but she couldn’t remember the rest. She had tuned out the rest of the lecture, but those words had stuck like stone in her mind. All this time later, after she thought she had shaken them off, they blared like floodlights in her head.

Only a few swift moments had passed as all this played out like a movie in her mind, time moving slower in her head than in real life. For the first real moment since she had been a little girl, she took a deep breath, looked into his unwavering eyes, and replied to his harsh words, “I think you need to leave.”

His eyes flickered for a moment, his hard-exterior melting from cement to mud. He asked, “What?”

“You’re right. I don’t need this, and neither do you. I think this,” she trailed her finger from him to herself. “Has run its course. I think we’re done here. Give me your key, please, and leave. I’ll send your stuff to you this afternoon.” She thought her heart would burst from her chest like a 1970’s alien, but she stood her ground, her eyes unfaltering in their steeled determination. She wanted to cry, hell, neededto cry, but there would be time for that later. She’d had enough, and when the cancer was out of her house, she could heal. Now wasn’t the time for tears. Now was the time to stand strong and cut the tumor out for good this time.

“What are you saying?” He asked, a big, tough man who looked at her like a child whose mother just told him “No” for the first time.

“I think I made myself perfectly clear. Please give me your key and leave. Now. I’m done.”

She held out her hand with patience. His mind was too foggy to notice how subtly it trembled. He simply stood there, two degrees shy of utterly bewildered. This is nothow he expected his day to go. He still had faint traces of tears on his face, and asked with searching eyes and in a tone of hurt denial, “Why? Why are you even saying this? What did I do?”

She took a calm breath, hand still outstretched. “I only wanted one thing from you: honesty. To be partners. Equals. Right before you were about to tell me what’s bugging you, you freaked out on meinstead, okay? Just like you’ve done before, time and time again. I love you, and I wish it didn’t have to be this way – I really do – but this whole thing is the straw that broke the camel’s back. I am done. I can’t take this anymore.” He stared at her blankly. “Please don’t make this harder than it is.”

He looked like he’d been slugged in the stomach. He could hardly breath. She said again, “Please, don’t make this harder than it is. Please, just give me your key and leave.”

He was backed into a corner again, only this time, his Mommy wasn’t there to save him. He stole a glance at the picture in the dining room, hanging as a painful reminder of what he was losing. He saw the wide grin on her face in there, the semblance of a smile on his, and the dead, gaping gaze of the fish they’d spent five minutes fighting to reel in together. Together. He looked from that happy face of hers there to her firm one in front of him. Flint grazed steel in his belly, lighting a fire that lit him up from head to toe.

“Who do you think youare, huh? Where do youget off? You’re really something, you know that? Soon as shit gets hard, you want me to fly the coop, that what it is? Huh? This whole thing is fucked, you know that? Fucked.”

“Stop,” she asked, almost pleading. “Just stop. Enough swearing. Enough talking. I’ve already asked twice, please don’t make me ask a third time.”

“No, you know what? Fuck that and fuck you. You hear me? Fuck – you. Fuck this shit, fuck your eggs, fuck your job, fuck the Tabasco, fuck your –“

“I SAID STOP!” She yelled, her body trembling with anger. “Stop! JUST – GET – OUT. Please. I will not ask again. Your keys are over there,” she said, pointing a furious index finger at his keyring laying dormant on the kitchen mantle. “Please, give me your key and leave, and if you don’t stop with this, I will call the cops.”

His throat shrunk to the size of a penny. His breath felt raspy and harsh. “You’re kidding me, right?” He asked, his voice raw and wheezy. “You fucking bitch, who do you think –“

“NOW,” she said with such calm and contained fury that he froze in place. “I’ll say it again – I-WILL-CALL-THE-COPS. Stop. Give me your key, and please, please, just get out. I will not, I repeat, will NOT ask you again. Do you understand?” She held her phone in her hand, poised to call in the police, the device as powerful as a gun, and eyed him down with firm poise.

He looked at her like she was an alien from Mars holding a laser blaster. His ears rang incessantly. Everything moved in slow-motion as he numbly walked to the mantle, passing the tick-tock clock and metallic picture frame, carefully sliding the key he’d had for so long off the metal ring that flashed in the luminescent glare of the kitchen light, feeling shell-shocked. In the corner of his eye he saw that arrogant coffee cup taunting him (“Who’s the Boss? I’M the Boss!”) with its smug bravado, and the urge to chuck it at the accusing picture frame, shattering it into a million bite-sized pieces, flashed in his mind. He walked past the mug, mere inches from his reach, but felt too dazed to follow through, knowing that, at a moments notice, she could call in the cavalry on him. He handed her the golden key, smudges of grime etched into its metallic crevasses, and though she said, “Thank you. I’ll text you later to find out where you are and send your stuff over,” the words came from outer space, muffled by the plugged-up thudding in his ears. He muttered something incoherent, vaguely aware she had said anything at all, and sulked to the door. He turned at profile one last time, then the door clicked softly into its latch.

She waited until his footsteps, sullen and slow, had faded out of earshot before she melted into a puddle of tears. She all but wailed as she rocked herself back and forth in the fetal position, her entire frame shaking. Tear after tear flowed freely down her damp cheeks and sounds she had never heard herself make before escaped her cracked lips. Her heart pounded, pure adrenaline pumping through her veins. Her phone had been unlocked, but it wasn’t prepped to dial 9-1-1, it was queued to dial her dear, dear workmate. Her eyes, blurred and foggy, darted between the steel frame of the patio door and the warm glow of her workmates face on the phone, who was just the push of a button away from her. She reached for it, bracing to calm her nerves and speak with her friend, when a feeling hit her from out of the blue. Though she was in the eye of the hurricane and everything seemed to be in shambles around her, for the first time she’d ever been aware of, there was a glimmer of peace. This feeling was foreign. Time and time again she had felt swept away by the raging winds, but though she felt their force now, she felt like a rock fixed to the ground, the rage of their fury touching her but not moving her. She had done it.

She had stood up for herself.

Hell, not only had she stood up for herself – she was a friggin’ hero. She’d done it. She’d actually done it. She knew when enough was enough, and rather than shut up, bend over and take it, she stood her ground, gave him a chance, and when that expired, followed through. She did it.

By God, she did it.

Her sobs softened to quiet sniffles, and she felt hope rise like the sun within her. Maybe… Maybe… Maybe that workmate of hers, the one she had dismissed before, was right after all. Maybe she couldbe her own woman after all. Maybe she didn’tneed to take care of anyone else but herself for the time being. She’d never taken a break, that’s all she knew since she was a child after all, but perhaps there was no time like the present. Maybe… maybe she could do this after all.

Maybe… Just maybe.

She reached out a steady hand and shut her phone off with determination. Even though this break-up had been messy, she wasn’t broken nor a mess. There was a first time for everything, after all. She decided she would wait to tell her friend in person, who would beam with pride at her like she had just won a marathon. She would pick herself up and take a nice, long, hot shower. She would take her sweet time with the shampooing and conditioning, shave off any stubble on her legs, doll her face up, curl her hair, wear her sexiest outfit, and revel in knowing that there was a difference between being able to do anything, and choosingwhat she wanted to do. Sure, she would be a little late, but she’d never been late before, so one time wouldn’t hurt. She would then cry when she needed to, she would spend time with others when she wanted to, she would enjoy her alone time when she desired to, and more than anything, she would be her ownwoman for a while.

Can’t hurt to try something new, right?

She smiled, wiping away the snot and waterworks from her face, and went about her business. She was hurting, but she would heal. She wasn’t mortally wounded for once – she wasn’t on the verge of death or mauled like an animal.

She was free.

---

He sauntered down the stairs in a clueless daze, his head adrift in a cloud of mist. Each step thundered throughout his body. His downstairs neighbor, Cheryl, waved “Hello!” to him, but only saw a vacant emptiness in the newly-single man’s eyes as he walked aimlessly away that made her blood run cold. He felt lost, adrift at sea, mind away in another world. His body operated on pure instinct as one foot stepped in front of another. He didn’t notice the splendor of the great, rising oak trees he passed. He didn’t notice the pink flowers blooming in the juniper bushes he passed, nor the army of ants assaulting a broken piece of cookie left on the cracked pavement. He simply walked on and on, dazed and confused.

He looked up, unaware of how long he’d been strolling in a funereal stupor and saw that he was fixed with slouched shoulders on a well-trafficked street, shops lining the sidewalks in a long strip, cars bustling by. People meandered in droves. Some couples were holding hands, chit-chatting in bliss. Others walked glued to their phones. Some sat at tables, eating and laughing. Others sat by themselves, a cigarette in hand and a smile on their face as they people-watched in the comfort of their chairs.

He longed for a cigarette, fishing his wallet out frantically only to see its vacant interior. He remembered the blue-eyed brunette he’d given his last dollar to the night prior, the memory hazy and murky, her voice disinterested and sad, and he cursed under his breath. A man walking by gave him a funny glance. God, he could use a fucking cigarette right about now. His stomach rumbled, and his legs felt weak. Someone accidentally smacked his shoulder as he walked by, mumbling a faint, “Sorry,” as he strolled on. The newly-single man noticed the shop he’d been turned to face.

“Wally’s Convenience Store” was inscribed in big, blue, block letters on the big glass window, leaves of sunlight reflecting off its surface. In his bemusement, he peered inside. Rows of differing assortments, ranging from tampons to candy bars, lined its linear aisles. The walls were adorned with all kinds of little trinkets: a sliding row of movie posters, a few boxes on a shelf of Shake-Weights (“As Seen on TV!” it read in bright yellow letters on the box), cell phone cases hanging on a shiny, silver hook, and, lined on a lower shelf, were boxes in a neat row of “Big Mouth Billy Bass” fishes. A young kid chortled inside as he pressed the glaring red button. The head of the fish would slap the box back and forth, singing some song too quiet to hear from outside, its latex rubber ghostly and pale in the glare of the light. He watched with wonderment, fascinated by the product he hadn’t seen since he was a child himself.

Then his heart froze, his fingers cold, and his stomach ice.

The fish was staring at him.

Its head slapped the interior of the frail cardboard box with a burgeoning WHAP!, then craned its skeletal neck to peer right at him. It began to snicker, and its eyes transformed into bleeding orbs of green and black, whirling inside dripping sockets. The child inside kept on giggling, laughing in glee at the novelty of such a unique item, but its dribbling eyes remained faced towards him. He shivered in broad daylight. Its skin began to peel, revealing a metallic skeleton with worms crawling in and out of its seeping flesh. Teeth cut through its rubbery skin, and a sickening dark-blue liquid dripped from its lips, gurgling in its throat. Its underbite slapped up and down, curling into a devilish grin. The music in the background rang out of tune, off-key, playing a twisted melody while it growled in a sing-song voice only he heard, “Wow, you really ain’t gonna amount to much, are ya, kiddo?” He held his hands to the side of his head and began to moan. The fish began to moan, mocking him, cackling, its eyes bulging, twirling in mad ellipses in it’s skull, a small pool of black glistening under the light of the store.

Then it was singing some nameless ditty to the child, whose mother declined his plea to, “Please, please, pleasebuy it mommy?” Its head faced the kid, and the tune was bland and dull, muted behind the plexi-glass. The bebop played on and on as the child walked away, the fish singing absently in its own little world.

He began to whimper and turned away, craving a cigarette and Tabasco sauce with eggs and hash browns.