Category: Fiction

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Gone Again by Hannah Streett

Hannah Streett

Gone Again

Roku’s fingers drummed on the wooden counter, tapping out the seconds. Once. Twice. Twenty times they repeated the motion, trapped in the rhythm, locked in the impossible task of wearing holes in the surface beneath them.

She hadn’t come yet.

Already sun streamed into the shop, bouncing off the dust hovering in the air and waging war on his eyes. Throughout that glittering mist, at least a dozen people were dispersed, jabbering both to each other and to themselves. Normal day, normal job, normal customers.

Except that she always came before noon. Every day, without fail, even when she had to fabricate something she needed. Every day… except for today.

Roku huffed, straightening as an elderly lady approached the counter. He smiled at her, exchanged a few pleasantries, and traded an armful of food for several cold, clanking coins. She left with a promise to come again, earning Roku a smile of approval from his father. No one doubted that management of the shop would one day pass from father to son.

But Roku only cared that five more minutes had passed with no sign of his friend.

Disgruntled by this break in his predictable and cherished routine, he returned to tap, tap, tapping the counter. If she was trying to drive him mad, she had thoroughly succeeded. He didn’t appreciate being forced to wait.

Resigned as he was, Roku barely noticed as the door swung open furiously. As it slammed into the wall. As hurried footsteps bustled off the street and clattered into the shop. Everyone else glanced toward the disturbance with raised eyebrows, but he didn’t even twitch.

Until someone joyfully shouted out his name.

Roku’s head jerked up. His neck twisted around.

Scattered hair. Bright expression. Rumpled clothes. A young lady, hanging on the doorframe while she caught her breath, training her twinkling eyes on him.

Only on him.

She gave a small, embarrassed smile, pretending like fixing her hair and straightening her clothes would actually return a bit of her dignity. She was so naïve.

But she was Oseki.

And he smiled back.

~~~~~

He couldn’t breathe. He wouldn’t breathe.

Then his fist slammed into the wall, and his lungs gave in with a gasp.

Chest heaving, Roku glared at the floor, growling under his breath. He felt neither the pain nor the relief he expected from his brief, hopeless fight against the wall. No, he was poisoned only by a growing anger at the madness diffusing throughout his life. One thing. He had distinctly planned out one thing in his life, and now it was irretrievably lost to him.

He’d been too slow.

It was his fault.

His fault.

In the back of his mind, he recalled his father’s voice, most of it just a meaningless mishmash of syllables. Just one line kept repeating itself, taunting him, laughing a cruel laugh because he could do nothing. It was the last spoken word he would ever truly care about.

His routine had been disrupted again. Permanently.

She was young. She was beautiful. She was fun. She was friendly. She was happy. She was loyal. She was Oseki.

But she’d never come again.

She was gone.

Taking a deep breath, Roku straightened, leaving his room and brushing past his parents. He saw their relieved smiles, their expectance that he had come to terms with life’s definition of fair. They just wanted him to go back to work—back to acting like the son they loved and adored.

As if.

With a strained smirk, Roku dodged around the counter. Without a single word to a single soul, he marched out of the shop.

Oseki was getting married.

And it wasn’t to him.

~~~~~

Same place. Same people. Same nonsense spewing from his father’s mouth.

“A wife,” he insisted. “You need a wife.”

No one, Roku snarled to himself. I need no one.

He argued at every turn. He rolled his eyes, crossed his arms, poured every ounce of his being into showing his dissatisfaction. They couldn’t force something this ridiculous on him when he was so blatantly against it. Roku wouldn’t believe it. Surely they understood that he would make a horrible husband. That he had no desire to have a family of his own, and therefore lacked to character to do so. That he would refuse to love the woman. That he wouldn’t stay faithful. That he might even abandon her once he had his fun.

Surely they knew these things.

Surely.

~~~~~

Empty words, empty eyes.

Roku stared at the letter in his hand as he would a blank piece of paper. It meant nothing to him. He didn’t even know why it had come. Perhaps most fathers would like to know about their child’s death, but Roku didn’t bat an eye. She was just a girl.

A silly little girl.

Why should he care? He had dismissed any and all association with his wife and daughter long ago, before he married. Because of his indifference, he never established a real relationship with them, and they eventually went their separate ways. Roku was lost to them. He always had been. He had found a new path in life, and since it caused him far less trouble, he liked it much better.

He did.

Ever so lightly, something pricked the corner of his heart, begging him to acknowledge it. But Roku had long since ceased to care about petty things like feelings.

He spent his days pretending to work, quitting when it bored him. He spent his nights dishing out every spare coin on whatever sensual pleasures were available.

He had abandoned his wife.

His parents had abandoned him.

All because she had abandoned him first.

Clenching his jaw, Roku flung the paper into the inn’s fire, stubbornly watching as flames viciously consumed it. No more evidence, no more truth. No more truth, no more reality. No more reality, no more life.

He had escaped.

~~~~~

She came back.

For a few, blissful moments, Oseki came back to him again. She talked to him. Helped him. But not like she used to, and now she was gone.

Gone.

Gone again. Gone to the house of some stupid rich man who didn’t care for her, who she didn’t care about, but who she would continue to survive with. She made that much evident. She wasn’t happy, but she would fulfill her duty like a proper woman.

He always had said she was loyal.

Just not to him.

Over the years, Roku had imagined running into her so many times, but none of his fantasies turned out this. Reality was far more basic, far more cruel. They only exchanged news with simple, careful words, pretending they were both content with their stations in life. That was all.

But it still hurt to see her strained face, her hesitance to go home. She was still so young, but just like him, she looked so old.

Now he was walking away, leaving her behind, the same way he did before. Because that’s what was proper. That’s what people did. That’s what was considered right in this situation, and with Oseki, he had always wanted to do things right. After all, there was nothing left for him to do anyway. He had lost, for sure and for certain. He just had to accept it and move on. In walking away from her, he would leave behind everything in his past and never bother with it all again.

Never.

He’d accept it.

He wouldn’t look back.

He wouldn’t.

…He turned around.

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It’s Been Six Years Momma by Autumn Gray

Autumn Gray

It’s Been Six Years Momma

Six years since the circle of life took its course, taking the only real love I’ve ever known, like a dream replaced with inevitability, she vanished, why didn’t she fight harder, then I could have braced for impact. Time passed, my selfish needs took me away from what I thought would last forever, now I’m sick, not the same, convincing the hecklers inside my head that it’s only a joke, blaming divinity, because I’m the victim, she left me, I have no one, I love her, I miss her, my mother gone too soon.

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The Wind by Stephanie Eberly

Stephanie Eberly

The Wind

I walked along a beaten path. The sun’s rays peeked through the tall trees lining the path. Shadows danced around as colorful leaves swayed in the breeze. The wind plucked a handful of leaves and gracefully laid them on the ground near me. It quietly whispered in my ear as it flew past. I watched in wonder at the power, yet grace, of such an amazing force. Petals caught in the wind’s grasp whirled around me. They gently brushed my face, making me break into a smile. I followed the stream of petals. They sped up, asking me to join them. My legs moved faster, faster, until I broke into a run. The wind in my hair, the earth beneath my feet, and the joy in my heart made me feel free. I was led around a bend and through a wall of vines. I burst through the plants. Birds singing, crickets chirping, and the sun’s warm rays met me on the other side. I caught my breath. The beauty of nature filled every corner. The wind played with the petals. It twirled them through the air; in circles, around trees, in all different directions. It finally placed them on the ground and settled for a moment. I rested beneath an apple tree, the warmth of the sun causing my eyes to close. I heard a tiny whisper in my ear saying, “even though you can’t see me, I am still here,” before falling into a peaceful sleep.

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How to Survive by Hannah Streett

Hannah Streett

How to Survive

The lights have gone. Familiar darkness tickles my skin, poking and shoving, trying to find my weaknesses. But I don’t have any. I don’t want to have any. I am comfortable with the darkness now because that is the only way to survive in this world. As invisible minutes tick past though, sparks jump around within me, causing my limbs to twitch and my gaze to dart hopelessly through the night. No. This is fine. I’m all right with this, remember? They die down, flickering into oblivion, and I relax. This is normal, after all. Why should I feel uncomfortable in my life? There must be an excellent reason hidden within me because just moments later, a remaining, unnoticed spark flares up again and rockets through my body, stronger than before. I stagger backward. A strangled cry stabs my ears. Is that from me? I collapse against the wall, curling up and slamming my hands into the sides of my head. That will make the voices shut up, right? Because for that second, I remember. I remember that I am a horrible person doing horrible things and all I want to do is go back to my ignorance like I have a thousand times before. But this time, the thoughts won’t stay contained. They bounce around my skull in a furious cacophony, berating me for the lies I’ve told, the people I’ve killed. I wish someone would put me out of my misery. But as I scream again, a pinprick of light flickers across my vision and a hand, strong and sure, grips mine. I shrink back. I won’t let anyone help me. I don’t deserve to live unless I can do it on my own. But the hand follows, refusing to let me go. And although I’m trembling, it pulls me back onto my feet.

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Liquefy by Stephanie Glover

Stephanie Glover

Liquefy

For her each day dissolves into the next, like a sugar cube in hot water. Instinctively she clings, grabs, and clutches to the remains of her earlier self. Memories assemble in a dense haze of déjà vu. Little-by-little, piece-by-piece, and bit-by-bit she forfeits what made her sweet and solid. She dissipates.

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Hidden Behind the Mask by Stephanie Eberly

Stephanie Eberly

Hidden Behind the Mask

On top of a hill, a girl sits beneath a lonely Willow tree. From afar it seems as though her eyes sparkle each time the sun’s rays reach between the branches. She is a beautiful girl with long dark brown hair and dark eyes. Her clothing is that of any teen these days, nothing unusual. But if one were to walk toward her, he wouldn’t hear a sound aside from the rustling of leaves. He’d try calling the girl’s name, but there would be no response. Pushing aside the flexible branches, the person would realize that she is crying- no, not a loud sob, not at all. Rather, a silent, constant sob, one that could only be noticed if a person were to take the time to see it. She is sitting with her knees close to her chest and with her head buried in them. The person would try in vain to get her attention. He would approach her and carefully lift her head. But what he would see would greatly surprise him. As his eyes would meet hers, he would be brought back to a different place and a different time. He would not see the happiness and smiles he would so expect he’d see. No, he’d see pain, struggle, anguish, and frustration. He would realize that her eyes, they do not sparkle in the sun because she is happy. They sparkle because each time the sun comes through, each tear rolling from her eyes catches the rays, sending out a brilliant shine. Her eyes are a window to her soul, to the struggle that she faces every day. But no one comes up that hill. They may think to offer a glance, but upon seeing a normal girl with sparkling eyes, they move on. The world beneath the hill only sees a happy, average teenage girl, and nothing more. That’s why she chose the hill, where there is no sound but the rustling of the Willow as a gentle breeze hits its branches. The sound comforts her. The old Willow, the breeze, and the sun are her only comforts. She is alone in this world of a million faces- alone to sink deeper into her sorrow. Because no one takes the time to walk up the hill.

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Waiting for a Second Chance / Never Alone by Sara Pietrzak

Sara Pietrzak

Waiting for a Second Chance / Never Alone

I am twenty-five and alone for the moment, but this is not the moment I want to be alone. Alone in a seventh floor hospital room, I am full of tentative hope. My doctor just came to tell me that after eighteen long months of surviving on hope, prayers, and sheer will today is the day I will receive a lifesaving double lung transplant. Buoyant in my hope, I am grounded by fear and something more—the knowledge that somewhere, maybe in this same hospital, a family is grieving because of my chance to live.

I call my husband, who tells me not to get too excited—most people waiting for a transplant have a false alarm—and that he will be here soon. The next call is to my mom and dad, telling them that they can begin the six hour drive from N.Y. and that I couldn’t have picked better parents if I tried. My voice cracks as I tell my dad that I love him. I talk to my sons; they are 6 and 2, too young to understand what’s about to happen, but I need to hear their little voices one last time. I need to say, “I love you,” maybe for the last time. I wish I could hold them, smell their little boy smell, and place “I love you” kisses on their cheeks.

The cleaning lady comes in and says, “Hi.” I have been here for three weeks, and we have become friendly. I tell her my news, and she drops her supplies to hug me, sputtering in Spanish words that I don’t know but comfort me nonetheless. Her smile feels like the sun right now. The transplant coordinators arrive with my husband, and things get busy very fast. New IVs are put in, and questions are asked. The coordinators speak as if I’m not even there, but it’s ok. My husband is there, and I am not alone. He is the dock where I am secured, steady on the turbulent, unsure sea.

Transplants require so much more than the patient, so the professionals disperse to handle the details. I hardly notice as the doctors, nurses, and coordinators leave us. Jim, my husband and hero, lies next to me on the hospital bed, and we just exist together. We don’t speak; there is too much to say. How do you distill a lifetime, a marriage, into words when they hang on an unspoken precipice?

My arm aches from the fresh frozen plasma being pushed through the IV into my veins. Hot packs, warm blankets, and a dangerous hope combat my need to complain. I feel unworthy of this chance at life, and yet I refuse to believe it will be anything but a success.

The nurses come to collect me. It’s time. I fervently wish my parents had made it; I want my dad to tell me that everything will be okay. Adorned with my pumps and tubes, I settle into the wheelchair. My husband is allowed to walk with me beside my wheelchair all the way to the operating room door. We refuse to say good-bye, but we eat each other’s face with our eyes, committing every feature to heart. His eyes are fathomless, holding emotions neither of us can name. A hug, kiss, and “I love you” later, I leave him behind to face the biggest unknown.

The operating room is freezing and busy. A million different people with a million different jobs don’t even notice I’ve arrived. My nurses, the ones who will care for me after surgery, are there, and the nurses and anesthesiologist responsible for me during the transplant are introduced. They are excited and friendly. Transplants are not an everyday occurrence, even at Johns Hopkins. I’m moved and clucked over. In the rush before, the floor nurses forgot to have me change from my flannel nightshirt into a hospital gown. I reluctantly surrender my last piece of home to assurances that it will go straight to Jim. It feels silly to be sad over an old, worn nightie, but it is the only thing that is mine in this foreign place.

Once I am dressed in a backwards gown, my nurses help me onto the operating table. I take as deep a breath as my sick lungs allow and lay on the impossibly narrow table. As the anesthesiologist explains what happens next, I am strapped onto my own crucifix – my arms spread from my sides. There isn’t much time to be concerned. My oxygen is removed, and a mask takes its place as a voice tells me to count backwards from one hundred. I only remember counting to eighty-seven.

Some people describe out of body experiences, visits from long lost loved ones, or even visits from angels. I have no such encounter. I am here, and then I am gone. It is as if a light switch is turned off and then back on again. There is no perceived passage of time, just a blink. For my family the night is much longer. Jim spends the duration of my surgery alone in an empty waiting room, the clock on the wall his only companion. My parents arrive just in time to see me wheeled out—a bump, bundled under blankets and machines, their little girl, alive for now and most definitely not alone.

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Who is Grey? by Rachael Marion

Rachael Marion

Who is Grey?

Getting into the office building was the easy part. Even finding the file that she was looking for gave the woman no trouble. The problems were coming from the contents of the file itself. There was no organization whatsoever within the fat manila sleeve. So, though it was something that she hated to do, she slid the contents from the folder and spread the papers across the desk. The woman took a few seconds to memorize its order, just in case, before she began her rummaging. Quickly, while still being as careful as possible, she began skimming though the various documents and notes, in search of the incriminating document. She had been informed that the subject matter of this particular document was falsified and wanted to see for herself. If it was, she would have no other choice but to make it disappear. I may have done some bad things in my past, but I am not about to get blamed for something I did not do.
“Who is Grey?”
Her eyes flitted across the question paper clipped to the top of a stack of about nine or ten sheets. The question had been hand-written, underlined, and circled. It caused her to pause in her search for the erroneous document. Quickly, she noted the time from the clock on the desk. She had a few seconds to spare for that thought. The name “Grey” was second nature to her, but she had never realized that the main agent assigned to her case had not made that connection yet. Adrianna “Addy” Grey was her alter ego. She was basically a cover ID. After her brief time in Witness Protection, she learned that a cover identity was nothing without a history behind it that could be researched and verified. After all, the reason she was no longer in Witness Protection was because the man she was hiding from had found her while she was in the program. So, after leaving the program, she created Addy. Addy had school records, legal records, even a job history and an active bank account that began when the “girl” would have been old enough to work. For a long time, she had fooled those who were in pursuit of her, partially because of her extensive cover history, but also because of the things Addy did that she never would have in her own name.
Old news, she thought, turning her attention back onto the paper. The woman found the nature of the question to be unusual in the agent’s file. She almost wanted to write the answer for him. Addy is whoever I needed her to be. Up until recently, that is. The name was still golden in some circles, but it had been on the grid long enough. A good alias only remains that way when you hang it up for a little while. That, however, was not the biggest problem with the name “Addy Grey.” Once again, her pursuer had discovered that this was simply a mask she had been hiding behind. He had found her out. Being Grey was no longer protecting her. But the agent had been pursuing her almost as long as this man had been. How had he not pieced the true identity of Addy Grey together by now?
Against her will, she recalled the man she had been running from for so long. His face, so like hers, except in the eyes. She had never understood what she had done to offend him, but from the moment she breathed he had hated her. He was at an advantage, really, being several years older than her, but she felt her ability to stay invisible gave her a bit of an edge. It was important. Again, she forced herself to stay on task, refusing to think about that part of her life.
Let’s find that document… she thought, glancing at the clock again. Time to get back to work.
The pages beneath the question were a hodgepodge of records, typed-text, and hand-written files. They began hand-written, with a loose connection between her and Grey. The agent had considered the possibility that Grey was an asset or a friend, but recognized the fleeting appearances of the name and wondered if she was even a real person. Smart man… The woman was impressed that she had been able to fool someone so familiar with her file for so long. There were three official records. Two were for government hacking and the third was for some nonsense involving a bank account. That third file gave the woman some pause. She had never been one to care for an excess of money, though for a brief time she did a bit of laundering for an associate. It was not something she cared to do, feeling it condoned morally shady behavior, but she had, at the time, owed that particular person a favor. After she had taken care of the favor, she resolved never to deal in money or banking again. It was too much trouble, and not at all what she was interested in doing with her time. So to see this record stating she, as Grey, had robbed a bank caused her some confusion. This was not what she was looking for, but it was also a false document. Someone was setting her up on all fronts, not just under her own name. She grabbed the file from the set of papers and rolled it up into her sleeve. She still had to find the file she came in for initially.
Almost as an afterthought she glanced up once more at the collapsible clock sitting on the agent’s desk. She had three minutes to get what she needed and to get out. She cursed in her head once again about the disorganization in the file, but her fingers sifted through the various documents until she saw what she was looking for. Triumphantly, she held up the document, checking it over to be sure that it was exactly what she was looking for. It was. She rolled the paper and slid it up her sleeve with the other document and then gathered the rest of the file contents to return them to the manila folder. Hastily but carefully—she had wasted any extra time reserved for excess care by reviewing the Grey file. The folder was placed back into the file cabinet and she was on top of the desk, shimmying through the ceiling tile just in time.

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The Truth by David Winger

David Winger

The Truth

 

Chan sat atop the mountain meditating. The clouds, plants, animals, soldiers and rebels all moved around him as he breathed in and breathed out. As he came out of his meditation, he thought how it was nice to take a break from the constant thinking and willfulness his mind, one of man’s greatest strengths and greatest weaknesses as well. He looked at the valley below and saw everything playing its role in the game of existence. Some seemed wonderful, others appeared horrific; all necessary and coexisting. Monks often acted as if removed from this cycle, existing only to contemplate, but Chan knew otherwise. One could think himself in circles and put himself in a kind of philosophical paralysis. Chan had experienced this when he was younger, but now he knew he had a part to play. Whether he enjoyed or agreed with it didn’t matter. He would simply tell the truth; no more, no less.

That was his part and it was enough. He could no longer hide in the forest or the monastery; once he had walked amongst the people and seen their suffering, he knew he was part of this war with or without his consent. Nothing exists in isolation and when it rains you either hide or get wet. Chan could no longer hide.

As he contemplated, he saw a platoon of the self-appointed Emperor’s soldiers coming up the mountain as if on cue. He sat calmly.

A young man walked ahead of the rest. The young and inexperienced were often sent ahead to seek or draw out the enemy so the rest of the platoon was not surprised or ambushed. The young man yelled for his Commander upon seeing Chan.

The Commander walked towards him, more than confident and with a look of impatience.
“Where have the rebels gone, Monk? I know they passed this way. I have been tracking them. The stupid peasants all but drew me a map,” said the Commander.

“I would rather not say. What you seek will lead only to your death and to that of your men. Please turn back.”

“Ha, I knew you would say some cowardly nonsense.” The Commander pulled out his sword and held it at Chan’s throat.

“Either tell me what I seek or you will die after I will burn down your precious monastery and the nearby village. I have no time or desire for advice or philosophy.”

“That path,” Chan said, pointing. “The steep one, but I warn you it will be your death.”

“Your words are wasted, and know if you have mislead me I shall return and reap suffering you never thought possible,” said the Commander with fire in his eyes.

“I have spoken true; it is against my creed to do otherwise,” Chan replied.

“I know. That’s why I love finding one of your “creed” to question. Most are smart enough to hide,” the Commander boasted, smiling to the junior Officer beside him.

“And others are smart enough to listen. Do what you must,” Chan said indifferently.

The Commander turned and ordered his troops to go down the steep, rocky path. They sheathed their weapons to do so, their armor making the climb difficult. Once they got half way down, a group of rebels ambushed them. Dug in, waiting and well hidden, they surrounded and killed the better equipped soldiers. By the time most of the soldiers had gotten decent footing and drew their weapons they had fallen victim to the rebels’ stream of arrows.

Chan heard the sounds of men killing and dying, then he heard the song of a bird. They mixed together and sounded both horrific and beautiful. This is life, he reflected: horrific and beautiful. Guilt swept over him without his consent as he heard the Commander beg for his life in vain, even though the man had threatened to kill him only moments ago. He reminded himself he had been true to his vows and told the truth, even though he had omitted an important detail.

Chan looked at a beautiful cloud passing by, and felt a pain in his stomach. It was not due to the death occurring nearby or the role he had played in it, but to hunger. He had been on this mountain all day and hadn’t eaten. He walked back to the monastery debating his role in all of this, as if turning the same subject over in his head for the thousandth time would change it or bring a new revelation. He came to the same conclusion he always did; tyrants oppress, rebels rebel and he would tell the truth.

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Mirror, Mirror by Vikki Rowe

Vikki Rowe

Mirror, Mirror

I stared into the blue eyes of my reflection, twisting and kneading my short black hair. Though the bathroom was vacant of anyone else, I knew he was here. I could feel him.

“Why won’t you leave me alone?”

I could feel him twisting and slithering like a large serpent in the space around me. I closed my eyes as I heard his crooning voice whisper at the nape of my neck.

“Because I’m afraid you’re lonely, Holly.”

“I-I’m not lonely. Mother says you aren’t real,” I rebutted; however, my voice offered no confidence in this as it trembled and creaked beneath my nerves.

“You can hear me talking, can’t you? What? Are you going deaf now?”

I could feel my head sink with defeat as he was right. I could hear him.

“No. I can hear you. But…but she can’t.”

“I’m not talking to her now, am I?” he purred.

I shivered at the thought of him behind me; a large predator encircling his prey.

“No…you’re not. You’re talking to me.”

My submission was evident in the arrogance of his words. He was winning.

“Precisely. I can’t leave you alone, Holly. I won’t leave you alone. Then you’ll fall to every lie she tells you. She doesn’t love you. You know that, right? Every little thing she tells you is shit. And you believe it.”

I love mother. He was not allowed to speak to her as such!

“No…no…not always. She sounds so-”

He spun me around and I could finally see the demon lurking from the shadows. He was a slender man with black hair that was always hidden beneath a towering top hat and icy blue eyes that relayed every ounce of fear I was attempting to conceal.

“Truthful? Holly, Holly, Holly… lies are always meant to sound truthful. That’s why they’re lies. If they didn’t sound truthful, why would you believe them? Why would you fall for it every time, like you do? It’s a shame really…if I weren’t here, think of how daft you would be? It must be nice to live in an ignorant bliss, Holly.”

As he spoke the smile never left his face, only seeming to widen at the thought of his words impacting into my skull.

“But…I’m happy,” I said, softly. I wasn’t happy. How could I be? Mother was lying to me.
“That’s because I’m here. She’ll take me away. Then you’ll be alone with her lies. You’ll be happy with her lies. Is that what you want? Holly? Is it?”

He placed his firm hands on my shoulders as he spoke and I felt safe. He could never hurt me. He loved me. He was telling me the truth.

We both hesitated, hearing the rustling from down the hall and her footsteps soft upon the carpet.

“Holand! Who are you talking to?” she called.

I looked up at him and in that second I didn’t want to be left alone with her. What if she kept lying to me? His smile softened and he stood aside, never releasing his grip on me. “No one mother! I’m talking to myself!”