Day 334 - Hypnotist

Hypnotist

Matthew Ryan Fischer

What power was there in her gaze?

One glance, and I am stolen.

Existence ceases and I end up lost and gone.

Her body a statue; a great work of art.

But her eyes are where the true beauty lies.

I look at them and am held captive,

Hers forever.

Day 333 - Grave

Grave

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

The soil in the graveyard was disturbed. It had rained often, but this was something more. The soil was fresh. Overturned. There was an investigation, but the graves seemed fine. The groundskeeper installed some cameras and an additional guard was added at night. If it was teenagers out having reckless fun, then perhaps this would dissuade them.

She had worshiped death. The graveyard used to be a family plot on a hill, back when the city had been a village. She was attracted to it. She didn’t know why. There were the stories about her ancestors. The blood and the betrayals. The battles for money.

Someone slit their throats, their wrists. They bled out, their blood staining and soaking the ground.

The ground for its part soaked up the blood and drank down their lifeforce.

She enjoyed the legends. It made going there all the more enjoyable. But she was never sure just how real the stories were or what had truly happened. Some said it was jealousy. Others said there was a madness that ran in their blood. She secretly believed that death was a spirit that fed off the living. Perhaps death had been especially hungry when it came to her family. Or perhaps her family simply tasted better than all the rest.

She was in love with death. She wanted death to take her as a bride. She spread her legs and touched herself and imagined what it would be like.

The people visited the graveyard. There were movie nights and horror films and concessions sold. Some of the teenagers stayed late. There were those that wanted a private place to experiment on each other. There were others that came to drink or desecrate. They had all made a mistake they couldn’t have known.

She and death had reached a deal and she was allowed to return to feed.

Every night was the wrong night to visit this graveyard.

In the morning there would be the yard workers. In the day there would be a funeral or a passing mourner, there to grieve for a loved one. In the day they would find the bodies and fear.

But the night was hers. She would be free, to roam, to feed. Beware the night and the horrors it may bring.

Day 332 - Don't Drink the Coffee

Don't Drink the Coffee

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

“How old is that? It smells like something is burning.”

“It was here when I got here.”

“I need fuel. Do you need fuel?”

“I’m just trying to stay awake. You sound like you already have too much energy.”

“A body in motion stays in motion.”

“You ever hear about that idea that if you drink some coffee then instantly take a nap, when you wake up, the caffeine will be more effective? It’s like the nap clears out some receptor in your brain or something, so the caffeine can just take its place.”

“I don’t know about any of that. I just need a pick-me-up. A legal pick-me-up.”

“It’s funny you differentiate your addictions like that. I’m not recommending anything, but if you’re already so addicted and okay with that, then why worry about another?”

“I feel like if I pour enough cream or milk into that, then I’ll be able to drink it.”

“Avoiding the question.”

“No. I’m just in no mood to argue semantics and nuance with you. I don’t need every conversation to turn into some draconian philosophic debate. I just want a quick cup of coffee. Not even a good cup.”

“I don’t think you know how to use that word correctly.”

“I am not engaging in this. I’m going to try some of it.”

“Pick your poison.”

“I will.”

Something was wrong. The stale coffee was like a blackhole that stole time and energy. It also encouraged a bit of nausea.

Day 331 - Noire

Noire

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

A dark night. The man stares out the window, lost in thought. His cigarette burns down without him noticing. The headlights on the 101 are constant at any hour, but as the rain begins to fall, they look like brilliant shimmering starts, flickering across the horizon. It would be a snow moon, except in never snows in L.A. He called it a long night, but that name had already been taken.

A red evening gown and a golden broach with a drop of blood in the middle. If anyone noticed, they might think it part of the design. Cocktails and soft piano jazz in the background. A dinner party for the elite and a swimming pool no one ever used. A six-inch ivory cigarette holder perched between her fingers. She never seemed to ash, but the smoke filled the air with a hint of mystery.

The man with the pinstripes wore a faded gray fedora. The man with the vest and tailcoat had a top hat and walking stick. Both smoked cigars and sipped brandy and whispered hushed secrets to their lovers. Business was good and their money clips were full. They were men of means with friends in high places. One might say they were the men behind the curtain. They didn’t discuss their business in polite society.

The policeman on the corner might look the other way for the right price. One man in the alley might provide the thrill of pills, while the other might rob you blind. The girl across the street would be anyone you wanted if you asked the right way.

A shot rang out. A siren followed.

It was going to be a long night.

Day 330 - Demon Ax

Demon Ax

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Had he found the ax or had the ax found him? Chase wasn’t sure. His muscles flexed and his hands clenched it tight when he would swing it through the air. He felt powerful. He was a weapon, the ax a part of him, an extension of his arm.

At night he would dream of a thousand warriors, all armed and deadly. He was a soldier and cities quivered in fear at their arrival. His arms grew heavy from battle and the blade dripped blood and drank the souls of those he conquered. And when Chase woke, his body was stiff and sore as if he had actually been at war. The dreams seemed real, and felt more like reality than his life. He found himself sleeping more and more trying to chase the high the first dreams gave him.

Chase began to wonder if there was such a thing as a past life. After much consternation and consideration, Chase sought after answers. He tried to find weaponsmiths who might know the history of the ax. And for the dreams he sought the council of psychics and seances. None were of much help; answers few and far between.

The ax sat on a mounted rack, on the wall of his living room. He would take it down day after day, practicing his swings, mimicking attacks he had seen in movies, imagining himself to be some great holy warrior. Perhaps he had been in the Crusades, a member of a grand order such as the Templar Knights. Maybe he had saved a kingdom or a damsel. He was sure there was something special, if only he could remember.

No one gave him any indication that he had lived a past life as a spectacular warrior. But Chase didn’t stop believing. They were wrong. They were bad at their job. They didn’t really possess any spiritual connections to the past. If anything, he had more mystic ability than any of them. His dreams told him so.

He told himself these stories and tried to ignore the darkness that grew within his heart. His dreams turned mean and sadistic. His heart grew fond of the killing, the feeling of flesh splitting beneath his ax. He woke up feeling a sinister happiness that in killing he had found his true purpose. The dreams were real. He knew they were. They had to be, or what else would the purpose of his life be? He had found the thing that gave him energy, pleasure, happiness and meaning.

If the ax could have smiled, it certainly would have.

The ax no longer lived in the living room, but stayed beside Chase in bed.

In his dreams, he drank their blood and consumed their souls and was free to do as he pleased. They were all beasts, and would have done the same to him. When he woke, he was afraid to look in the mirror, unsure what he had become.

The ax called for him, drove him, spurred him on. He wanted to touch it, to lift it and swing it through the air. Sometimes he wondered if he was actually asleep, which was the dream and if perhaps his dreams and reality had merged.

The ax dripped with blood. Chase wasn’t sure whose it was. He didn’t actually want to know. But the ax whispered to him, begging for more. The voice sounded like his own, but it was something more. Something dark, something sinister. The shadow was calling. The bloodlust grew strong.

Chase fought the urge. But soon it would be too late.

He lifted the ax, lost in-between day and night, right and wrong. The desires overwhelmed. He picked up ax, not sure when or where he was. He picked up the ax, the hunger inside demanded it be fed.

Day 329 - Turn the lights off when you leave

Turn the lights off when you leave

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

And so, Las Vegas still stood tall. There had been no great heist, no blockbuster hand at the card table, no once-in-a-lifetime-moment that you only see in the movies. Planes came and went. Another day, a different set of tourists. The dreams were dead, but the fantasy lived on. Someone once said “…so there’s a chance.” If a city could be built on that sentence, this was it. Sinatra once sang about a make-you/break-you town. Maybe if there could be two lines intermixed then that could work. The truth didn’t matter. The reality never did. A million people shuffling and bustling about, just like anywhere else, but maybe something was just a little more broken inside while they did it. Not that the tourists would ever notice.

I heard that once, many years ago, a dream almost escaped, but the city reared its ugly head and swallowed it up before it could. I walked down a boulevard of crushed hope and broken backs with empty wallets. The fifty-year-old neon lights were blinding. I watched as a man used a dime bag to mark his shot on the golf course. No one batted an eye. After the last recession the odds went up as if to keep pace with the inflation. Once upon a time a man could get a free room and a steak dinner for his trouble. The last time I saw a common man I was miles from the strip and there were broken windows and graffiti on the boarded-up motel. But the night sky was illuminated by the monstrosities just a few miles away.

I stood on one street corner in one city, and when I crossed to the other side, I entered a new municipality. I crossed again and changed cities once again. Not that you’d know if you looked around. There were no signs, no indications. Why bother the travelers with little details like where they actually were. I’m sure some brain trust knew what they were doing and what taxes they were taking or chopping up or sharing. Someone was getting rich with a system like that.

I spent a century in Los Angeles, watching dreams crumble and die. I ate like a king, sucking the last ounce of hope out of decay and despair. Walking the streets of Vegas, I can’t believe what I was missing. I thought I had seen it all, tasted the tears, grew fat on sorrow. I had barely scratched the surface. The world was once again my oyster. With this type of sustenance, I might make it another two or three hundred years.

Day 328 - ...and fade away

...and fade away

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Five…

Jason hurried as fast as he could. There was something in the room. Something somewhere, hidden from sight or locked away or buried deep in a bag. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he knew it was there. It had to be. He was there, so he knew it was somewhere close. It was like a magnet. Always drawing him near.

Four…

There was a dresser with broken drawers that didn’t quite open correctly or slide back in. The closet was empty. He pulled the sheets from the bed. Lifted the mattress but saw nothing.

Jason was already beginning to feel fuzzy. His fingers were tingling. His muscles tightened, his back sore. It was coming. He could feel it coming. Sooner than later now. Time was almost up.

Three…

There was nothing. Lamps. A chair with little cushion. He pulled the mirror from the wall but saw nothing to indicate a hidden compartment. If it was in a wall, he had no idea, and more importantly, no time for demolition.

Two…

The door opened. Jason turned. Who was it? Someone who could help? Someone he was here to meet? Something who could make it stop?

One…

Samantha walked into the bedroom and swore she saw a shadow figure move. It was a trick of her eyes, a trick of the light. She had been telling herself this lie for years and it never helped. Samantha saw ghosts and no one believed her so she stopped talking about it.

The room was in shambles. Of course it was. It was further evidence to her, but no proof at all. No one would believe she didn’t do this. There was no film, no photo, no evidence. Just a messy room and her thought that she might have seen a figure when she came home. No evidence of a break in. Nothing to report. Nothing to see.

She might as well be crazy.

But she didn’t feel crazy. But she didn’t know what to do about it. It had been happening to her for so long she just took it as a sad fact of life. She’d put everything back. Reassemble her possessions. Maybe in a week, maybe in a year, a ghost would come to haunt her again and make her wonder about her own perceptions of reality.

 

 

One…

Jason turned, but not it time. He was already fading away. In less than a second, he would be gone. No idea why, or where he was going. No idea what had brought him here, or where it was about to send him.

Jason faded out of existence.

Time moved on.

Light crept it. Black faded to grey and the fog cleared. Jason opened his eyes. Where was he? Someplace new. Always someplace new. He wondered how much time he had. Time was always at a premium but sometimes it played along. Sometimes it stretched and could move slowly and he had a chance.

He needed to get up. He needed to search. He needed to find the signal and stop the machine.

Slowly he rolled over, his back already in pain. He got to his knees and then to his feet and tried to stretch his neck out. Time was already ticking; he needed to get a move on.

Day 327 - The Old Man with All the Paperwork

 The Old Man with All the Paperwork

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

The wait for a seat at the restaurant was estimated to be forty-five minutes to an hour. It had already been forty-five and there was no reason to believe it would be anything less than the hour. Happy Thanksgiving. Try to remember to make a reservation next time.

From the chairs in the food court, I could see the screens in the sportsbook. Men’s, women’s, college, NFL. Over, under, spreads, money lines, first half stats, individual stats. A million and one ways to lose your money.

A table was covered in papers and pencils. Perhaps a great meeting of the minds had occurred. Perhaps a group spent all of ten minutes figuring out what to bet on. Parley. No, Round Robin. No, individual players. The world would be theirs to win.

There was a child making faces at the staff of the sandwich shop. His parents didn’t seem to notice. Cute kid. He seemed bored. Vegas casinos were hardly the best place for children or for Thanksgiving celebrations.

I checked for an update on the wait time. The food court was starting to look better and better.

When I returned to my seat, there was an old man sitting at the table with all the paperwork. He hunched over, pencil in hand, flipping through pages and pages of data. Lost in thought, a man possessed. I, of course, had sat at enough card tables and spun the wheel enough times to recognize the look. I knew that man. I had been that man. It was incredibly easy to be that man. The old man with a plan, like he was going to beat the casino at its own game. The best and the brightest could be consumed by that endeavor. He sure didn’t look like the best or the brightest. But he did have a lot of paperwork.

My stomach rumbled. I was almost too hungry. The games were in full swing, but there were always more to come. I wondered what his move would be. What trick did he have? Where was he going to make his stand?

Nothing about the building fair. Nothing about this town was even or just. Man was very good about tricking himself. Be it hope or desperation or boredom or addiction. Broken dreams and empty wallets littered the streets.

It wasn’t my day, week or year. All I wanted was to be allowed to spend too much money at an over priced restaurant, but even that was getting more and more difficult with so many other tourists to compete with. The town was not for me anymore. Time was moving on.

But there was still time for someone. Godspeed to the old man in the food court, with all the paperwork. I sure hope he shows them all.

Day 326 - Life Advice From the Dead

life advice from the dead

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

After three days of being in the house, Kim began to get the distinct feeling she was being watched. It had happened before. Some clients left cameras placed strategically to make sure she was doing her job and being honest about it. This feeling was not that. This feeling was more broad, more vague, more nebulous. She hesitated to think it was supernatural, but it certainly made her feel superstitious.

Kim had been working in estate sales for nearly twenty years. Not always the most lucrative, not always fun, but it was consistent. She had worked in real-estate at the turn of the century but after a housing bubble was followed by a war driven recession, she thought it was time to make a switch. People didn’t always want to buy or sell a house, but someone was always going to die and the families rarely knew what to do with all their stuff. Morbid, perhaps, but a steady line of work it was.

She was accustomed to handling the materials of the dead. Some people had better collections than other. Some antiques were beautiful and exquisite. Some costume jewelry was more beautiful than authentic precious metals. But that was all rare and uncommon to the job. Most jobs dealt with sorting passable clothing and trying to find furniture without damage. The internet became a tool to sell or give away large swaths of items before the estate sales ever technically began. If customers were coming to the house, you wanted them to have the space required to see what was actually worth selling and not be distracted by clutter or chaos. One book in a hundred might have value. One vinyl record in a thousand. There was no reason to waste a true buyers time on the rest.

Kim was mostly unaccustomed to having emotions about other people’s things. There were of course exceptions, but usually it was just a job. One painting might connect with her and she would purchase it if it made it past the sale. But all that was rare. She had seen millions of coffee mugs, toasters and lazy-boy chairs. Few collections were going to cause her to feel pangs of loss or tragedy. A person had to stay cold to a certain extent. Otherwise, the job could drive someone mad with the sadness of waste and human loss.

This house was different. This house seemed to have more special feelings that then last dozen homes combined. This house made her want to quit and find a new career and she wasn’t quite sure why.

The money was good, but the ghosts were finally catching up to her.

Day 325 - A Recipe for Money

 

A Recipe for Money

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Steven and Jane were tasked with cleaning out the house of Mrs. Kanowsky after she passed. Fountain Valley Village was a retirement community providing twenty-four-hour care to its residents. But the owners had found it increasingly difficult to raise their profits. There was only so much service you could reduce and the dying only had so much in savings and so much medicare. The board had the brilliant idea to convert the surrounding neighborhood into halfway homes, open to people who only needed partial or part-time care. Soon the entire neighborhood was full of retirees. Fountain Valley Village was very happy. But there was only so much land and so many homes they could afford to invest in. Then needed more customers, but more profitable ones as well.

Steven and Jane were not in charge and were blissfully unaware of the struggles of management. They were happy to help the customers, driving them to the store, helping with their cooking and cleaning and setting out pills for the next day. They didn’t have to do too much and weren’t medically certified to provide the more difficult tasks. So, cleaning up homes of the recently dead became one of their more common duties.

“Seems a shame. Such a nice lady.”

“Yep.”

“And friend Sheila Kane died just this summer.”

“Yep. Real shame.”

“Yeah.”

Jane thought it curious the sudden spurt of deaths. It seemed sad that so many friends were going so close together. Steven didn’t notice such things and didn’t think it was all that interesting.

“Just bad luck.” He might as well have said, “shit happens.”

Fountain Valley Village would find new residents. They had a wait-list. There was always someone new. Someone to pay their deposit and monthly. Someone who was slightly younger and healthier and didn’t need quite as much attention.

“Anyone tell her daughter?”

“She had a daughter?”

“You!? You don’t even listen when they talk to us. Of course she had a daughter.”

“Sorry.”

“I’m sure she’ll want to collect the possessions.”

“This stuff? I don’t know that anybody would want this stuff.”

“Don’t be so negative.”

“Sorry.”

“This was someone’s life. Her daughter will want this. You’ll see.”

Steven nodded and continued boxing. Old broken furniture and porcelain nicknacks. No one was going to want this stuff.

“I bet Fountain Valley sells everything and keeps the money.”

“No. That’s now how this works.”

“Has to work somehow. Bosses get better cars. I’ve never seen one of the residents get a nice car.”

“You’re sick and being morbid.”

“Yep. Sorry.”

Steven wondered just how much Fountain Valley was making off the dead. Sick and morbid, maybe, but it seemed like a racket to him.

Day 324 - Forgotten Love

Forgotten Love

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

“You’re not supposed to be wearing that...”

“Oops. Guess I stole it. You gonna tell?”

Vanessa was wearing a bridesmaid dress when Derrick found her. A rich uncle on the bride’s side had rented a hotel ballroom to keep the party going after the wedding reception ended. It was sometime past two in the morning. The hotel had a strict policy and everyone was to have cleared out by midnight. Maybe it was a city noise ordinance, or maybe they didn’t like people having too much fun.

“Some poor bridesmaid lost that, and you’re going to steal her only memento from a beautiful ceremony.”

“Some poor bridesmaid shouldn’t have left it by the hotel swimming pool then.”

“Maybe she had other things on her mind at the time.”

“Probably. But drunk lust is no excuse for leaving behind precious things…”

“You seem like fun.”

“You’ve got no idea.”

The room was still in disarray. Folding tables and chairs pushed around, table clothes stained from food and drink. One had been pulled entirely off the table and wadded up in the corner of the room. Derrick didn’t want to know why or what it might be covering up. Vanessa had a bottle of spirits with her.

“You lift that too?”

“Some cab-i-nets are not locked late at night it seems.”

She stressed the wrong syllables and pulled the words apart. Perhaps she was drunk, considered Derrick, or perhaps it was her sense of humor.

“You going to offer me some?”

“You, sir, are lazy. Look around. Open some drawers and cabinets. Craft services don’t work this late at night. You have no idea what you might find.”

Derrick looked around the room, but made no motion to move.

“I imagine this room was supposed to be locked.”

Vanessa laughed at him.

“Yes. I suppose it was. And yet here I am. And here you are. Imagine the surprise on the staff’s faces. Two rapscallions breaking and entering. They shall arrest us both. I’ll blame you of course. Probably have to testify, but it will be worth it.”

“Boy that escalated.”

“You started it, threatening me over some stolen dress. You sir, are a scallywag.”

“I don’t know what’s happening right now, but I suppose you’re right. My apologies.”

“Thank you.”

Vanessa poured herself another drink and handed the bottle over to Derrick.

“Thanks.”

“And thank you!”

“Are you this drunk or are you really just this fun?”

“Ah, the man has wedding goggles on. He thinks a compliment or two and every woman here is looking to get laid. We’re all so sad because it wasn’t us at the altar. And here you are ready to swoop in and rescue us. Of course of course of course. Just another walking cliché.”

The truth was Derrick had been crossing the courtyard on his way back to his room after having struck out with a friend of a friend of the groom. The hotel bar had called last call, and that put an abrupt end to the evening. Derrick saw what seemed like lights coming from the windows of the ballroom and decided to investigate. He was hoping there might be an after after party and something of interest, and he was not disappointed.

“I think you’re fun to talk to. I don’t know about all the rest of what you just accused me of. But I would like to call you sometime. Can I call you?”

“Why spoil a perfectly good evening? Why turn this into something else? Why do you have to do that?”

“If it’s so perfect, why not repeat it?”

“Perfectly good. As in good enough. Adequate. Passable. Perfunctory.”

“Ouch. Enough. You’re going to break my heart.”

“I think I already did.”

“You’re friends with Debbie, right?”

“You are not going to use a mutual acquaintance to worm your way into my life.”

“Worm? I had no intention of it. I think “wear you down” is much more apt.”

“I’m not interested.”

“No?”

“No.”

Derrick looked her in the eyes to confirm the truth. He was hopeful, but realistic.

“Okay, got it. Well, it’s well past my pumpkin time, so I will leave you be. Thanks for the drink and the fun conversations.”

“Of course.”

“Try to be out of here before the morning staff arrives. You don’t want to go to hotel jail.”

She made some gestures in the air with her hand and waved him away.

“I shan’t be caught my white knight.”

Derrick nodded and left.

 

 

Vanessa was in line at the brunch buffet, wrestling with her headache and stomach, wondering what would be easier to consume, fruit salad or buttery pancakes.

“I think I was calling you Vickie last night. Sorry.”

“I don’t know that I ever told you my name.”

“Well, still, sorry.”

“Meh. It was kind of endearing in a sad drunk sort of way.”

“Ouch. Thank you?”

“It’s a compliment. Trust me. With my hangover I don’t have the energy to lie.”

“You keep the dress?”

“It’s already packed.”

“So last night was fun.”

“Really? You’re going to start that again? So soon?”

“I… It was. Sorry to have offended you.”

“I’m tired and hungover. Read the room.”

They were silent for a moment. Derrick didn’t really know what to say.

“Vanessa. Not Vickie. Take it down to a five and maybe we can sit at the same table while we eat.”

Derrick nodded.

“I can do that.”

“And go grab me a coffee. A great big coffee.”

Derrick saluted and headed off. Vanessa sighed. Her head ached far too much for this game. Still though, it was still a wedding weekend, so she was practically obligated to put in the effort.

Day 323 - Sad Songs on the Radio

 Sad Songs on the Radio

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

The song in the background was telling a story about how strong someone was after the fact. Surely, they were over compensating for something. Or maybe they had overcome. But then what was the point of the song? A reminder? A mantra? Maybe by repeating it enough times, it had come true. Maybe that was the secret. Like a vision board. Anything is possible if you tell yourself to believe it. All this waste of time and money on string theory and dark matter, and they should have just been chanting a mantra all along.

I worried every time Alice didn’t pick up her phone. No text. No message. No DMs on any of the platforms. Months could go by and that was okay, but when the message went out, the message was supposed to be responded to.

It was almost Thanksgiving. Chris had killed himself three days before. I found out about it in college nearly four months later when I bumped into an old high school friend Phil who told me the story.

Alice hadn’t picked up her phone. They had broken up. Again. Again and again. She was under no obligation to pick up the phone and listen to his broken-hearted anger or threats or sorrow or whatever it would have been that time. She had heard it all before. She probably thought she would hear it all again.

I wonder if she regrets not picking up that phone.

I mean, of course she does. But also, like, what can you do? No one phone call was going to stop the inevitable. But you don’t want to be the last person someone calls. No one needs that on their mind forever.

Forever doesn’t seem as long as it used to.

If someone tells you they are fine, you have to believe them. If someone pushes you away when you are kind or when you offer tough love or anything in-between, sometimes you don’t feel like answering the phone.

The following summer Alice and I found ourselves talking at parties away from everyone else. We found ourselves going to parks after the parties ended. We didn’t talk about pain or sorrow or regret, but we both knew the medications the other had been on, and we both probably needed someone who would understand without asking too many questions.

We held hands while on the swings. Maybe out of friendship and comradery. Maybe because it was nice to hold another human’s hand when you’re both overwhelmed and depressed. We didn’t talk about it or name it or soil it by needed to reduce or find meaning.

I tasted sweat on her lips one humid summer evening. We held each other and cried. And the night went on until the sun came up. I have no idea how much that night meant to her, but I think of it. One of those memories.

Six years later Alice’s younger sister developed pancreatic cancer. I don’t know why things like that happen to good people. I read Sally’s poetry after. No one has enough time to pay attention to every hobby or dream of those around them. I could have tried harder. Alice wasn’t my family. Sally wasn’t my family. But I should have tried harder.  

The songs they play are sad. Times of trouble and angles and memories and all sorts of morose emotion. As if hearing sad songs is going to make someone happy. I couldn’t tell Alice to get up and dance or sing karaoke or run around with a smile repeating some inane quote of salvation. Sometimes bad things happen to good people, but Alice seemed to get more than her fair share. Not that she was a magnet or a catalyst. Just a shitty life sometimes. I can only imagine how many tears she has cried.

Still, I wish she would answer her messages. I can’t know. I can’t drive nine-hundred miles at the drop of a hat. I can’t go back a decade to that summer and hold on a little bit longer. But it really would be nice to get a reply, just to be sure, just to know.