Elysian
AU's Literary Magazine
Volume 5, Issue 1
Short Fiction & Non-Fiction
A Red Rose
Mia Woltman
Mother screamed when she felt the metallic crunch of metal of a truck lurch into the driver’s side of the car. The girl riding shotgun felt her mother clutch the knitted sleeve of her left arm before the two of them went spinning across the frosted pavement. The bitter white snow of late autumn grew warm with blood. The car halted, but the snow kept falling.
~ * ~
I reveal the keys, brushing the eighty-eight of them with a single swipe of my fingertips. The touch feels so familiar, yet so uncomfortably new. I stare up to where the worn sheets of music should be neatly sequenced, but they’re missing. Memorizing this piece had been a year’s project, even more, if one were to count the days where I couldn’t find the inspiration to practice all twelve pages. Winter’s months had been spent committed to sharps, spring’s dewy weeks were passed with remembered rests, and before I knew it, summer and fall had bled together to lead up to this final night. Hundreds of people view the stage from their red-cushioned seats, judging whose stretched hands moved the fastest, whose melody invited them to hum the most, and whose performance deserved the standing ovation. I take my seat at the black leather bench and wait.
~ * ~
“Beena. Beena!” She heard her mother’s wailing that was as sharp as a knife slicing through a wrinkled ball of tinfoil. Ambulances were near; she could hear their sirens in the distance, perhaps they were just turning onto the disheveled street now. She was lying down on her back, able to feel the soft pellets of another snowfall prick her chapped lips. Where’s mother? Her panicking was briefly paused as two paramedics lifted the girl’s freezing body onto a gurney and asked her a series of questions. She wiggled her fingers when the man with the gruff voice asked her to, and she did as she was told: breathe. The paramedics scanned her body: a broken bone in her leg, a deep laceration on her abdomen. Breathe. The exhale didn’t come out, for she overheard someone declare a time of death. Along with the smooth blanket of snow, mother was gone.
~ * ~
I fan out the bottom of the cotton red dress my grandma helped me choose last month. It was the start of the holiday season, so the color felt belonging. The bright lights of the stage smack my eyes with worry. I couldn’t forget the quarter rest on page two or the semi-coda on page six. I tickle the first key: Middle C, an easy start to such a cumbersome song. Pages one, two, and three were as simple as a cardinal during these cold days. I hold the quarter rest on the second page for a single count, stopping my hands from scattering all across the keys when it pops up in the fifth stanza. I didn’t want my scarlet-painted fingertips to slow—they were on a journey, and so was I. Sure, the journey had some twists here and there, like the repeat I nearly missed that races back in time to page one, and the semi-coda on page six that almost made my hands slip off of the white and black ivory in confusion. That damn page six. I’m in the middle of the melody, nearly done, when the vicious lights blare into my eyes.
~ * ~
The teenage girl wore black, and so did the others who arrived that morning. Silent and as somber as a kitten longing for its mouse. The day was dreadful, tiresome. “I’m sorry.” The
two words the girl heard the most. The accident had resulted in two tragedies, but standby always avoided one more than the other. What she liked about grandma the most was that she always knew exactly what to say. Grandma never said the two words, nor asked if the girl was fine. She spent that foggy morning in the clearing of the pine forest wrapped around grandma, who made her feel like a child again. Sixteen felt more like six then. She surveyed with a wobbly chin, the gravestones, dirt, shovels, and the red petals of the flowers.
~ * ~
The final chord of the last stanza is the most mesmerizing part of the entire song. It consists of two sharps, and it requires my thumb and little finger of the bass clef to spread like the patches of a frayed quilt. I place my right foot on the right pedal and let the twelve-page piece dissolve like smoke into the piano’s core. I stand, smile, and curtsey. My heart is pumping with happiness. The audience forces their hands together and I could hear from the stage their staccato applause. Suddenly, I feel my grandma behind me, touching my shoulder. “I’m so proud of you, B.” She sets a rose in my hand. She describes it to me. A red rose. A red rose without thorns. A red, leafless rose that is stripped of its thorns. I inhale the sweet, fresh aroma that is sprayed into the petals like rich perfume. “It’s for you,” grandma says. No, it’s for mother. I clutch the rose tightly entwined in my pulsing fingers and reach my free hand out for my thin cane. I take one last glance back at the stage, believing that I can see the shiny, black piano and the bulbs of the blinding lights that set the stage for the song I had donated to my dead mother. “They’re standing,” Grandma whispers. I could tell that she was close to tears by the chip in her light voice. She is talking about the audience. Breathe. My freckled face lights up while a tear trails down my bashful cheek. This time, I hold the red, leafless rose without thorns even tighter.
Doom-Scrolling
Emma Fisher
1,672 followers and counting. My account has been growing tremendously over the past few months, ever since I started posting selfies. Apparently, people think I’m pretty.
“OMG, you’re gorgeous!”
“I love your makeup!”
“Daaaaaaamn, you’re hot!”
And the like. I scroll through my comment section, basking in the abundance of compliments, but something is missing. It just doesn’t feel right. Should I be prettier? Maybe wear more revealing clothing? Do my makeup a different way?
But people all like me for who I am right now. I shouldn’t have to change anything.
I don’t know.
I just don’t feel right.
It’s early in the morning, and I have to leave for school in an hour. Ninety five percent of that time is needed to do my makeup. So, I take my morning meds, breathe a quick pump of my inhaler, and move into the bathroom to get to work.
Concealer,
Foundation,
Bronzer,
Blush.
Am I remembering how to do this correctly? What if I’m doing it wrong, and it looks awful, and everyone notices.
I finished my makeup in perfect time. It looks decent, but not fantastic. I rush downstairs and start to gather my things to leave for school.
“Sweetie, did you get something to eat yet? You know your brain can’t function at its full capacity when it’s hungry.” My mom calls into the room.
“I’ll grab some food when I get to school!” I shout back, lying. Everyone knows pretty girls don’t have time for food.
“Okay. Have a wonderful day at school!”
I’m out the door before I can say anything back.
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After school, it’s media time. I need to construct the perfect post for everyone to see on Instagram. What should I do this time?
Duck lips?
Crop top?
Inspirational quote?
Maybe I can go to the beach and take bikini pics.
My phone dings, and I glance at the notification. I’m supposed to be in therapy right now. Pretty girls do not go to therapy. I turn off the notification and continue working on my post.
I decided to go with the tried and true: mirror selfies. I put on a cute outfit and made various poses in front of the mirror, taking 100 pictures. Then, I scroll through every single one in search of ones I like.
Except I don’t like any of them. They all make me look fat and stupid.
My eyes look too big.
My mouth is crooked.
My butt looks too small.
I finally land on a small handful of pictures, ones that look decent at best, and transfer them to my photoshop app. This is the most time-consuming part. For each photo, I change the lighting, filter, and background. I adjust all my major features to make them look more “real.” After three hours of editing, they are finally done. I uploaded them to Insta, and now comes the hard part: The Caption.
Flirtatious, yet simple.
Lots of hashtags.
A couple of emojis.
Finally, I have made a flawless post. I hit upload and feel that instant nausea I get every time I post something. I go into the bathroom, dry heaving because I have no food in my stomach to throw up. While I’m there, I check my weight for the fifth time this week. 101. Fuck. I was at 99 last week. I should have said I needed to study instead of eating dinner last Friday.
I rush back into my room because I hear my phone blowing up with notifications. Immediately pulling up Instagram, I scroll through the endless comments. Something’s different. Wrong. I sat there, dumbfounded.
They are all negative.
“WTF is that on your face? A PIMPLE???”
“You try too hard.”
“Stop trying to make us ugly girls feel bad.”
“You suck!”
It goes on and on.
What happened? Why are the comments so bad? Did I not use the right filter? Am I not pretty anymore?
I turn off my phone and throw it across the room, screaming. It crashes against the wall, and the screen shatters. Shit. Now mom and dad will be pissed at me too.
Why is everyone pissed at me? All I did was post a hot picture of me on the Internet. It’s not like I caused world hunger or something! It doesn’t make sense. I was the pretty girl that everyone loved. I am the pretty girl that everyone loves...
Right?
Maybe, I’m not as pretty as I thought I was.
Maybe, I’m not as popular as I thought I was.
Maybe, I’m not as happy as I thought I was.
My head starts to spin, and I become lightheaded. I shut my eyes, yet all I can see are the comments scrolling through my mind.
“Eat a burger, skinny bones!”
“You make me sick!”
“You’re so ugly it hurts my eyes!”
These comments race through my mind at the speed of lightning. I begin to think to myself, What if they are right? What if I am sick, and ugly, and try too hard? My head is pounding with pain and stress.
I continue trying to post good pictures, but bad things like this keep happening. Maybe I should just give up. Maybe I shouldn’t bother anymore.
Deep in the back of my mind, my therapist’s voice pops up. “Take deep breaths,” she’s telling me, “It’s just a panic attack, you’ll get through this.”
Screw her.
I start hyperventilating and reach for my meds. Wrestling to open them, I scream, banging the bottle against the table, and the pills go flying everywhere. What is wrong with me? Why do they hate me?
Tears are now streaming down my face rapidly, and I am gasping for air. This is not right. Why can’t I be perfect? I can’t live like this.
I can’t live like this.
My vision blurry from the sobs, I stumbled downstairs. Screaming at the top of my lungs, I make my throat raw and sore.
I can’t live like this.
I can’t live like this.
I can’t live like this.
I make my way to the kitchen, falling a couple times and bumping into things in a rampage. Before I can even think, a knife is in my hand. I don’t know how it got there.
What am I doing? Am I insane?
I can’t live like this.
Sobbing so hard that it makes my whole body shake, I look at the knife in my hand. I can’t live in a world that treats me like shit. I don’t want to feel like shit. I don’t want to feel anything.
Why am I so stupid?
Why can’t I be normal,
pretty,
smart,
athletic,
anything?
I thought I was cool. I thought I could turn my life around. But I can’t. I’m just a stupid, ugly, fat, little cry baby who can’t do anything without validation from others.
“I hate you!” I scream at myself. “I hate you! I hate what you’ve become!”
The room goes black. Sirens wail in the distance. There is banging on the front door, but I am lying on the ground, helpless. Someone rushes in, and there is shouting, but it sounds so faint. So little. I feel so little.
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I wake up in a brightly lit, white room with a monotone beeping in the background. I look around, trying to figure out what time of the day it is when I realize where I am.
A hospital? How did I end up here?
Suddenly, every moment from the past few hours comes rushing back to me. I lay there for a moment, stunned.
Did all of that really just happen?
In a panic, I look down at my stomach to check for any wounds, but thankfully there are none. I didn’t actually hurt myself.
Wow, I didn’t actually hurt myself.
The realization surprises me, catches me off guard, and I am so giddy that I burst into blubbering tears. My parents walk into the room with terrified looks on their faces and rush over to me. Tears are streaming down my cheeks as they embrace me in a giant hug sandwich. A wave of relief and calm washes over me when I see them.
I close my eyes as I absorb the warmness of their hugs. In my vision, deep and black, I see something in the far-off distance.
Something unexpected.
Something peculiar.
A tiny speck.
It’s so small, I can barely comprehend that it’s even there.
But it is.
It is there.
A speck of light.
A speck of happiness.
A speck of hope.
I Was In Love With A Sociopath
Tania Fernandez
The story you’re about to read discusses the truth behind domestic violence. This piece of writing contains explicit details and content that may be sensitive to some viewers. Reader discretion is advised.
I remember sitting in a tiny hotel room at the Motel 6. The motel was located fifteen minutes from my local hometown. My boyfriend at the time was laying down in our one-bedroom motel room, scrolling through his phone, smiling, and laughing at memes that we continuously sent to each other. He was homeless, and I just wanted to help him for a little. A little seemed to last forever, but it was only the beginning.
I was in love. I was in love with a sociopath. If you look up the definition of a sociopath, it is the exact definition that describes my ex-boyfriend. Scary right? At first, I was not scared. I was in disbelief and convinced that this relationship was going to work out. He was going to be the father to my children. We were eventually going to get married. I was convinced that I was not delusional because he wanted the same lifestyle I wanted. I finally found my match, and I was happy. He was addicting. He was like a muse you would have to stop and stare at. He was my dream guy. Charming, tall, built, great hygiene, good style, and tattoos. He was the new guy in town. Every girl wanted him, but I was the one who caught his attention. I was the real winner, until the end of the relationship. I was fighting for my life. I was instantly pulled in, not knowing he would be the destruction to my world. I didn’t know I was in love with a sociopath until the damage was already done.
I noticed he drank a lot and throughout the relationship, I realized he had an addiction. He never stopped drinking. I would drink with him often, but I ended up getting sick from all the beer we would be drinking; it was that much. We had a couple of arguments when we were drunk. Despite these issues, we had fun together, and we would always go on an adventure. We were owls at night driving until three in the morning. I never got sleep when I was with him.
The day we stayed at the motel; I had an assignment that involved watching a Ted Talk about domestic violence. I had to write a one-page paper about the signs of domestic abuse and what I learned from the video. I eventually learned that I was also a victim of domestic violence. I remember watching the fifteen-minute video and feeling a sense of shame. I had a sick feeling in my stomach as I started to analyze the relationship and noticed the red flags that I didn’t were there. Always trust your intuition. Your intuition never lies and if you’re confused about what’s true, always pay attention to how your body is feeling. The body has its way of telling you that something is wrong. I ignored my gut feeling and that alone made me go against myself. I was naïve that I was not a victim, and I was certain that it was only a normal part of our relationship. I was going through the phase of seeing the red flags.
He once told me he used to set cats on fire in the middle of the street. If anyone is willing to hurt animals, they are willing to hurt people. Animals are therapy and they are service animals in the mental health aspect. Animals are a catalyst to our healing journeys. They should not be harmed. He even hurt my dog, Leo. My dog loved him. We used to bring Leo everywhere with us. There was a point where my dog would get scared of my ex-boyfriend. Leo experienced some of the same extremes I faced. He would get so stressed out that he jumped out the car window. I never forgave him for that one. Anyone close to me knows that I love animals and the signs were all there. I related to the Ted Talk, but I ran away from what was clearly in front of me. They say love is blind. In plain sight was hidden mistreatment that I never knew would turn into psychological and physical abuse.
He was controlling. There would be an issue if I spent too much time with my friends. He always wanted to be with me, and there were times when I just wanted to breathe. Everything had to go his way. There were times when I would wake up from my sleep and he would be checking my phone during the middle of the night. I wasn’t worried about what he would find
because I was loyal to him. He was paranoid and would snatch my phone from my hand trying to catch me red-handed. Without my consent, he deleted all my contacts that were male. There was no reason for him to do that. I was loyal. Whatever my explanation was, it didn’t matter. I had to break off friendships with my male friends to avoid problems. I even offered for him to meet my friends, but he didn’t want to. He was overbearing, jealous, and possessive. It came to a point where I distanced myself from my friends and family because I was always with him. It was a codependent relationship.
He would get mad often, breaking the first thing that he saw. Half of the time we were in my car. I would be driving, and he would get mad at the littlest things. One time he broke my windshield. He actually broke it three times. Then he broke my stereo. I would try my best to say the right thing so he wouldn’t destroy my car. That’s how the abuse started; I have never seen this side of him. Did I even know him? Whatever I said mattered and I had to be careful with my choice of words. I was walking on eggshells. Saying the wrong thing caused him to pour a bottle of Coca-Cola on my head while I was driving. The stains are still in my car. Trust me, I tried my hardest to clean it up. Saying the wrong thing caused him to grab me by my hair and drag me across the room. Saying the wrong thing has caused him to choke me as I’m trying to catch my breath. He would often force me to have intercourse with him. It didn’t matter if I was tired or if I didn’t want to, it had to be his way and I gave in each time. I went against my morals for him. If he was willing to hurt me like this, what else was he willing to do? He was capable of doing the impossible.
Every time I looked into his eyes, I would see dark figures. He was dancing with the devil as the devil talked through him and used his appearance to lure me in. I knew the devil was looking at me, perceiving himself as the one I loved. The devil lured me, captured me, and tortured me. I know bringing up the devil is a major topic, but that’s how I felt. I felt trapped and
alone. I knew he needed help, but I also knew he wasn’t going to get it. I was not going to help him look for it because I was tired of fixing him. I can’t fix him; only he could do that. I was mentally, emotionally, and physically drained. I was depressed. I lost ten pounds being in a relationship with him. I was skinny and I was never hungry. I only ate when he made or bought me food. I also broke my ankle during a physical altercation with him. I think that was the last sign for me to leave.
I started googling ways how to get out. If a google search starts with “is it normal if...”, it probably isn’t normal. If people were to see my google searches during my relationship, they would know I was in danger. Not only did he use me and break things that weren’t his, but he broke my heart. I stopped seeing myself when I looked in the mirror. I was fragile and I wasn’t myself anymore. I felt bad for myself. How did I let myself get here? I was not healthy, and it was my responsibility to turn my life around. I don’t think you can ever forget about the person you truly loved. I prayed to God to give me the strength to leave. I never wanted to look back. I recognized that if I stayed for a little longer, I would no longer know myself.
During the last few months of our relationship, I was planning on leaving him. I had it all planned out but something unexpected happened that ruined my whole plan. I was twenty-one when I found out that I was pregnant with my first child. I knew that I could not have a baby with him because I was moving to college within the next month. He wanted to keep the baby. He only wanted to keep the baby to have me trapped, so he could never get rid of me. He tried to convince me to keep the baby, but I didn’t want to bring a child into this world with an abusive father. I had my first appointment with my doctor a week after I found out. My doctor confirmed I was pregnant, and she told me I was four weeks. I still didn’t know what I was going to do. Should I keep the baby? Should I drop out of college? I couldn’t think straight, I didn’t know what the correct decision was. My pregnancy was burdensome. During the time that I was going
through my pregnancy, he got severely drunk and hit me. I knew it was getting worse when he knew I was pregnant.
How can a man I love so much be able to look at me and know what he has created to just ruin it? I was sick during my pregnancy, and he couldn't let go of the bottle. Never did I think that he would have the nerve to physically hurt me when the other half of him, his child, was not here yet. That same week that I visited my doctor, I got a phone call. My doctor told me I was going through a miscarriage. My heart wouldn’t stop beating. I was relieved that I wasn’t going to have a baby with him, but I was also upset that my first pregnancy ended in a tragedy. That's when I knew I had to leave.
I experienced love at a young age. I was nineteen years old when I met him and twenty-one years old when I left him. Our relationship finally ended when I transitioned into my junior year of college. My move to college was my one chance to get away from him and start over. The move was difficult because I was all alone. I was experiencing the worst heartache of my life, yet I moved an hour away from my family. I was a mess. I had to get it together or I wouldn’t be able to officially move on. Change is scary. Our fear is our biggest enemy, but change is necessary to grow. I didn’t know anyone on campus besides my roommate that I just met. We texted each other throughout the summer to get to know one another, but I knew we were going to be different. We were complete opposites, but she was cool. She has a new roommate now because I ended up coming back home. My ex-roommate and her new roommate are more alike, and they share the same interests. Things are meant to be, I guess. I was only gone for four months, and I know it was a short period of time, but it was enough time to get away from my hectic lifestyle back home.
My family or friends never knew what I was going through. I hid everything from them. They caught on when my first windshield was broken. I told them a rock hit my windshield from
a semi-truck. They didn’t believe me, but they took my word for it. I didn’t want to burden my loved ones with the biggest burden I was carrying. I didn’t want to stress them out. They knew something was wrong when I became distant. No one liked him. I would occasionally sneak around so no one could find out I was with him. He only wanted me to himself. He controlled me, and I let him. I think he liked it.
I mistook lust for love, not knowing where it was going to take me. The relationship took me into a dark place. I felt unseen. How can I find love again with the remembrance of handprints and shattered hearts? How can I become vulnerable again without rushing the process or assuming every man I lay my eyes on will also become a memory? I now hold memories of someone whom I called the future father to my children, to the one I thought would be my forever. They say nothing lasts forever, and this is the one time I’m comfortable with that saying. I didn’t want it to last forever, I wanted it to be over. It was over.
Music got me through my battle with domestic violence. Music was my motivation to leave this intoxicating relationship. Jhene Aiko, who is an R&B singer, got me through my journey. Music isn’t just music, it’s art. If I can’t find words to describe how I feel, music will. Every melody, instrument, and lyric helped me understand that this relationship was not for me. Another artist that helped me through my difficult time was Rihanna. Rihanna is a popular artist who also experienced domestic violence. Her story is shared worldwide. If you listen to her song, Love on a Brain, it describes my exact situation. It took me a while to build my confidence back up. Regaining my confidence meant listening to the same heartbreaking songs over and over. Going to the gym five times a week was my therapy. I lost all my muscle during the relationship, so I had to regain it all back. Reclaiming my self-esteem consisted of regular facials and nail appointments. It took me months to find myself again. The most important was the power of prayer. Prayer helped me regain my strength.
People often ask me why I didn’t leave, and to this day I wonder the same. Why didn’t I leave the first time? Domestic violence can be difficult to explain. The ones who have experienced it can agree that it is not easy, and it is a process. You don’t choose to be in a violent relationship, nor do you choose who you fall in love with. You choose the person you decide to spend time your time with. You choose who has access to your time. You choose people who respect you and those who don’t. Getting out of an abusive relationship is not easy and risky. Getting out is also a choice. The victim must gain enough mental clarity and inner strength to leave. Others don’t leave because they are financially dependent on their abuser or if they have children together. Whatever the reason is, it is important to put yourself first and save your life.
Although my journey was exhausting, I’m grateful for the experience. I am grateful because I learned how strong I am. I was able to respect myself and acknowledge my boundaries. I learned a lot about myself. I now love myself. The dating scene completely changed me. It changed my perspective, and it gave me clarity on which type of people to stay away from.
My love for him was not easy to explain, so I write it out to retell my pain. Discussing abuse is a sensitive topic. It took me a while to decide whether I wanted to share my story. If I share my experience, will I be able to help others, or will they judge me for staying for so long? I eventually came to a point where the opinions of others did not matter, and I was ready to share my story.
I want to help those who have experienced intimate partner violence. Survivors are warriors. Leaving a draining relationship takes strength and those who survived should feel proud. Crying every day is normal, but there will come a day when you find yourself numb to the pain. It can take months or years to get over the traumatic experience. You may even suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). The littlest sounds or unwanted flashbacks can set it off. I often think to myself that I still have healing to do as my heart still aches from faded memories.
The healing journey is a process, and it takes time, patience, and an awakening to reality. For those who have survived abuse, although the memory may not be gone, be proud that you are gone. There may be personal triggers and the memory may still affect the mind, body, and spirit. The experience may not sit well, but the story is something survivors should feel proud of.
Love Has Many Faces
Marisella Kidd
Today I was donning a new look. Today I was wearing Nike Air Max shoes and loose black pants. Today I pushed myself further and adopted my new persona.
I had fallen in love with a girl when I was in sixth grade. She was tall for her age and was constantly dying her hair different colors. She could rollerblade backwards, sang in choir, and was above all the coolest person ever. I also think with a name like Nova, you must (have to) be cool. So, at the young age of eleven I was dead set on becoming Nova’s future husband.
But when I was eleven, she was thirteen and an eighth grader, so she was totally out of my league for various reasons. I knew she thought of me as a weird measly little kid in our neighborhood, so I knew I would be playing the long game. My crush on her faded throughout high school, but I still had a soft spot for her.
Later down the road, I reconnected with her. We were going to the same college and finally on the same footing. It took me so much time in front of my mirror trying to decide whether I would confess. The first time I asked Nova out she had bright red hair with black highlights. She was enchanting, and so I rambled on while she blankly looked at but after all my babbling, she had nonchalantly replied with, “Sure, we can go out.”
The thing I liked about Nova, once she found a person that she wanted to be with, she got close to the person fast. I know this because I have dated her six times, and each time she becomes even more in sync with me, possibly because I know these little things about her already.
When I was sixteen, I figured out I could shape shift. The science behind how and why I can change my entire bodily structure is amazing and unexplainable, yet this has come in handy sometimes. The first time I shifted I was looking at my face in the mirror before school and wished I did not have acne. Within seconds my acne disappears, and my face is bright and clear. Originally, I thought I could just wish for things, so when I got to school and wished to not have a Latin root vocab quiz imagine my surprise when nothing happened. I panicked. I thought of about a hundred different things to figure out how my wish worked earlier that morning. I wondered if I was experiencing body dysmorphia or slipped into an alternate parallel universe where I did not have acne. But through trial and error, I realized I could shape shift.
I have changed into teachers, my parents, friends, strangers, and can even shape shift into people that I have never seen before. I can create the face and body of someone that does not exist by simply focusing on what I want to look like. It’s been a lot of fun, especially when you can make yourself more attractive than you are or give yourself muscle that was never there. But it’s difficult because sometimes I forget what I look like. I am only really myself when I sleep. Though sometimes before I shower, I look in the mirror and confront my true self and look upon what I have forgotten. I am not embarrassed with who I am, but I just want to modify what I have.
Today I had a date with Nova. Our first date was just a simple coffee date. Nothing too special but still sweet enough where we could have a good conversation. I got to hear her life story all over again,
and each time I love it more as she tells it. Even though we had lived our lives in the same town doing the same mundane things, she could tell the story so well. She would make faces, move her arms all over and do different voices. But date number two was going to be a little bit more serious, even though it was only going to be lunch. This was odd to me because the other times I have dated her the second date is definitely dinner and a nice romantic walk. Most likely by date five we are catching up and having lunch. Though she explains over a text the night before that she has a meeting in the afternoon for an upcoming presentation that she cannot miss. But she still wanted to see me.
I am amazing at first dates. Basically, the beginning stages of a relationship, but I always seem to mess things up as the relationship progresses. The longest we have dated was seven months. For someone like Nova who is outgoing, unorthodox and a non-traditionalist this is quite the achievement. Sometimes I think I am not the problem and it is Nova's issue with committing. So, I do everything in my power to become her perfect person, so that one day she will fall helplessly in love with me.
I have been short, tall, skinny, muscular, chubby, every eye color, tattooed, limbless, bald, long haired, and so on. After we had broken up, I desperately wanted her back, so I attempted to shapeshift into a man like her celebrity crush. It went well but I had pondered whether changing just my appearance was enough. So, I created a few good stories and a little bit of a different background for myself to go with the new appearance. Even though I made these little changes there have been different times when she would give me a look. Every time this happened I would be so concerned because her wellbeing is a priority and I would ask, “Are you okay, Nova?”
She would always shake her head and smile, “It’s funny. Sometimes you remind me of my ex, and I can’t tell if that is a good or bad thing?”
In those moments, I freeze up because I don’t know what to say. I also become incredibly paranoid and detached. Usually after moments like that I start to backtrack. She then loses interest as I begin to close myself off, and later break up with me. For me, it’s more like flight has not given fight a chance to make its case. But I still get a little excited because she remembers things about me, the real me.
“Hello, Nova!”
“Hi, Oliver.” My name is actually Damien, but I have been Zander, Parker, Carter, Gunner, and Peter. I cannot believe this is my seventh, second date with her, it is truly an amazing feat. It’s like dating someone who keeps getting amnesia.
“I am really glad we could do this. I really liked the time we spent together earlier this week.”
“You are such a sweetheart. I was surprised with how well it went because at first it felt like we had nothing in common.” I internally cringe at this because now I am thinking I went too far in creating this new persona to finally woo her into being my forever person.
“Even with our differences I think we could be quite the pair." Nova smiles at me and looks down at her menu. Nova currently has navy blue hair and bleach blond highlights; this is slowly becoming my new favorite style. But she is beautiful, regardless and even with her natural dull brown hair.
I have been to this cafe before with her back when I was Parker and Peter. Those people that I had been were closer to who I really was but far more polished than I could ever dream of. I constantly felt like I was trying too hard; but out of all the different dating experiences Nova has had with me those two and of course, me, Damien were the most successful.
Lunch goes well, but I get the feeling that something is off. I do not know if it’s Oliver’s cool guy streetwear style that is new to the type of men she has dated but I am so afraid because this is weird. The conversation keeps flowing but I am still unsure about what the likelihood I will be receiving a call back. It’s not that Nova does not like Oliver; it just seems like her mind is somewhere else. Possibly it’s a work-related thing or some other thing that has been going on in her life that I just don’t have the knowledge of, yet I am still left wondering what I did wrong.
We part ways after lunch. I hug her goodbye and ask that she calls me later. When Nova calls, I am very nervous.
“Hey, Oliver. I just want you to know I had a great time this afternoon, but I don’t think this is going to work.” Tears prick the corners of my eyes, and I hold in a sob. Every time she ends things with me, it is excruciating. I am always incredibly heartbroken because I love her. I have never handled rejection well, and when the person I love the most in the world doesn't want me, I can't help but hurt.
I mute myself as she continues to keep talking. “It’s not you Oliver, it’s me. I have taken a long time and have dated around for the past few years, but I am still hung up on someone else. It’s been years since him and I have talked, and I just wish I could reconnect. Oliver, you are a good guy just not the guy for me.”
I unmute myself and steady my breathing, “I see. I really did have fun with you,” pause because I am curious to know which version of myself maybe has a shot with being with her. Possibly he may resurface and casually bump into her two weeks from now. I cough and then continue, “So are you gonna try to reconnect with this guy?”
“Oh no. I mean I would like to, but it was so long ago. I messed things up and broke up with him because I got scared. Plus, I bet he doesn’t even remember me. It was back in college, and he had these super cute glasses and, well, I am going to stop babbling and let you go. I’m sure you don’t want to hear about any more of this. I wish you good luck in the world of love and have a good night.” Nova hangs up.
I am stuck dumbfounded by some mysterious guy she once dated that I do not know about. I don’t remember her dating anyone after me in college. It was a month after we broke up. Did I think about shapeshifting into some other guy, but she could have been two timing. Or maybe it was some guy before I started going to college with her. Regardless I am so deflated and begin to cry for the second time that night. The past eight years of my life have been dedicated to her and still she never wants me. I am twenty-six now, and I don't want to keep dragging this out. I don't want to give up, but I don't know what I could possibly do more.
I got a craving for all sorts of junk food at eleven o’clock at night and decided to make a run to the corner store down the block. I don’t even bother with shifting and leave the house with my real
appearance for the first time in about three years. I have my hood on and hands in my pockets as I look around for chips, candies, and soda. I turn down an aisle quickly and run into Nova.
“OMG! Hey Damien!”
“Hey, Nova,” feels so foreign leaving my mouth because I have not tested my voice in so long. I forget that my voice is low and nasally at the same time.
“I was just talking about you. I mean it was awkward circumstances but, yeah. Anywho, it’s good to see you.”
“It’s always good to see you, Nova. I have missed you.” It’s hyperbolic because I was just talking to her a few hours ago but it’s true. I miss being who I truly am and hearing how she would be excited to be around me, not any other version of myself, just Damien.
“So, what were you talking about me for?” I ask.
“Oh, you know, past relationship stuff.”
I am a grade A overthinker but no thought of consequences or anything was considered when I blurted out, “Would you like to come over and catch up?” It’s silly because I know she had to work late today, but I so badly want her to say yes.
“Wait, you're mad?” I was so confused. I thought this is what she wanted. I thought she would be relieved to know that all this time she has always been with the guy with glasses she was not over.
But her facial expression reads furious, and her tone is matching up too. “Of course, I am mad! You have been deceiving me, lying to me, and have exhibited stalker-like behavior. Did you think that when you revealed this that I would run into your arms? Don’t you see how this is creepy? The shapeshifting is cool, but the fact that you have been using this to date me is just so weird. Why not just be yourself and ask me out as you, as Damien? Oh my god! How could I have not noticed?”
“Sometimes you would say that I reminded you of one of your exes, which is actually just me.”
“Why don’t you seem apologetic? I have wasted years of my life with versions of you all for what? Seriously, Damien get a life.”
Nova storms out of my house before I can explain myself. I mean maybe I should have been honest, but I did this all because I love her. Why can’t she see that?
Sidetracked by a Ridiculous Fantasy
Kimberly Leslie
“Ma’am, before we start, may I have your name?” I say. The lady sitting across from me on the sofa has a ridiculously sunny smile, just like the rest of the inhabitants in what I dub La-La Land. That’s not the actual name of the town where my next lead for the Hinsdale thief is, but it should be because they all act like we’re living in a fantasy-adventure world.
The lady flips her coiled hair rather dramatically for a simple introduction. “I am Mistress Sylvie Angelica Elisabetta Alesandre, but you may call me Mistress Sylvie.” Her affected voice takes on a breathy tone at the end for some unknowable reason. She’d better not be wasting my time, but she probably will. After all, I’m probably just the girlfriend of the real male detective in charge of the Hinsdale case instead of the leading detective.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Lieutenant Emerick.” Not Miss Emerick. Not Emerick. Lieutenant Emerick. Somehow, the people here seem to miss that first word, and just call me Miss Emerick or worse yet, some nickname only the most sentimental lovers call each other. Like ‘honey’ and ‘sweet pie’. This is in response to a detective asking them for the Hinsdale assassin’s whereabouts, mind you.
“M’kay, m’kay. What brings you here at Heroes United?” Mistress Sylvie writes down what I think is my name.
“I’m the leading detective for the Hinsdale police department. My colleagues and I--”
“Oh, honey. You don’t have to keep pretending here,” Mistress Sylvie says in a voice a kindergarten teacher would use.
“I’m--I’m not pretending.”
“Oh, really? Where’s the leading detective? You know—the Sherlock Holmes figure?”
Even when I try to look for answers by myself, I’m still not really a detective, according to these papers. The badge I don proudly on my uniform, the police car I travel in, the police academy awards mixed in with papers for note-taking and documents for analyzing—none of that is enough to prove my validity as a detective.
I take a deep breath to maintain my composure. As difficult as it may be in a town where everyone believes fictional tropes are reality, I have to for the sake of professionalism.
“My colleagues and I have been investigating the Hinsdale thief. He’s been targeting jewelry stores to steal diamond jewelry and every single dollar bill he can find in the cash register. My most recent lead points here in Odysseus, which, from my understanding, is an area where plenty of jewels are sold. Do you have any information on him?”
Mistress Sylvie beams. She must really like showing off her pearly whites. “Oh-ho-ho! You’ve got a quest to defeat a conniving villain! Tell me, tell me more!”
Does this lady seriously think we’re in some fantasy or superhero story with a cackling, dark villain who’s also the emperor of the underworld? For the love of sanity, this isn’t some maniacal and cunning villain. It’s probably just some reckless guy who’s dense enough to think he can break the law and get away with it.
Still, I know I have to be professional and give her descriptors.
“The suspect is said to be a white man about six feet tall and has short brown hair. He has been seen wearing jeans and a black sweatshirt, and he has been spotted with a gun.”
I slid some photos revealing glimpses of the suspect and a computer-generated image to her. “Do these jog your memory?”
Mistress Sylvie leans over to examine it closely. “He doesn’t look familiar. But then again, I’ve never personally met the villains our heroes face. So, what’s your motive for defeating him?”
“Defeating? Is that the trendy word these days?”
“Tell me everything! Is it to avenge your loved ones?”
“Um, no. All my family and friends are still alive.”
“Perhaps you two were once lovers until you discovered his dark secret.”
I roll my eyes at her idea so ridiculous it could be in a soap opera. “Ew. Sounds like a bad romance plot.”
“Or the villain is actually a terrorist trying to destroy your city!” Mistress Sylvie gasps dramatically and clasps her hands to her face.
“It’s because it’s my job,” I say flatly.
She writes furiously in her notepad, probably her bastardization of my words. “Oh! The noble defender of justice protagonist! I like where this is going!”
Okay, this woman is just blabbing now. What the hell is a protagonist?
I sip my coffee and leave my seat. “I’ll be on my way out since you obviously don’t know anything and are just wasting my time.”
“Wait!” For someone in heels adding a good half foot to her stature, Mistress Sylvie springs out of her seat quickly and intercepts my path.
With a huff, I give her my full attention.
“Maybe one of our participants might know vital information. It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”
“Very well.” I plop back in my seat, trying out a cookie from the platter on the glass table. I can tell they’re store-bought from the artificial sweetness, simultaneously bland and diabetes-inducing. What kind of host gives their guests generic sweets? If you’re going to side-track me, you better give me good cookies at least.
“First off, let’s figure you out.” Mistress Sylvie starts wandering around the couch, drumming her notepad with her pencil.
I facepalm. “Wha–What are you–?”
“You’re definitely an action girl from your police costume, deeper voice, and overall assertive and tough demeanor.” Oh, brother. This woman’s alien speech is driving me to the brink, and all the while, she keeps taking notes like I’m some specimen. It takes all my self-control not to snap. You’d think it’d be the fact she called my profession a fun Halloween get-up, but it’s not even close.
She’s not even the only one either. There was this one man wearing Heroes United themed clothing who started trying to propose to me like in a literal cartoon once he saw me with my colleagues—you know, with chocolates and flowery love poems and phrases like “You’re my missing piece”, “You and I were meant to be together forever,” and “I would die for you.” And of course, supplemented with misused French and Spanish words.
Now my colleagues? He was straightforward with them and said he didn’t know anything about the Hinsdale thief. I don’t know what it is with this town. I wear the same navy uniform as my male colleagues, and I conduct myself in the same manner as them, yet they all think I’m a pretty fling.
“There’s a softness to you, but what is it? What is it?” Me? Soft? Um, hello? Have you not been observing me? Suddenly, her eyes brighten up. “Ah! It’s your hair–both the beret and length.”
Well, you can’t get any crazier than assuming that someone’s hair determines their whole personality. I wear a beret in my hair to keep hair out while also not being heavy on my head. Sometimes, I wonder if that’s what’s been causing these people to take me less seriously than my male colleagues, but I’ve got more pressing matters than deciding to eschew my beret or not.
Mistress Sylvie taps her pencil and scribbles down more notes. “Not enough to be a damsel, but enough to be a love interest.”
I don’t know what this woman drank this morning, but she has me down all wrong. Just because I look a little bit girly doesn’t make me less of a detective. I wear berets, I like wearing makeup, I like longer hair. I also swear, I yell, and I’m not afraid to send someone to the hospital with a battered face and broken bones if it means other people and I are safe.
“Can you please talk like an actual person for one goddamned moment and explain what the hell you’re blabbing about?” I say.
“Well, an action girl is a female who can fight and carry her own, whereas a damsel, or rather damsel in distress, is a female whom the villains capture frequently.”
Why the hell are they gender specific? Couldn’t anyone fall into those roles, if we’re going by Mistress Sylvie’s definitions?
“And a love interest is a female who enamors the hero to the point he pursues a relationship with her. Better yet…” Mistress Sylvie says in a husky voice. “There are intimate make-out sessions in the deal.”
So, basically I’d become a girlfriend. None of that steamy stuff is for me: never wanted it and never will. To me, it’s whatever. Same with the romance.
“Yeah…not interested.” Now’s my chance to talk.
For once, Mistress Sylvie’s composure is shattered. “What? But e-every girl wants to be a love interest. Y-You get to make out with a hunky man, and a lot of those hunks would be willing to have you.”
“First of all, I’m not into anyone, so you’re shit out of luck trying to sell conventionally attractive men to me. Second, I don’t have time for a romantic partner. My job comes first, not fawning and smooching.”
“Don’t be silly, Emerick. Plenty of other females with far more dire situations have had plenty of time for a love interest.” There’s that obnoxious beam of Sylvie’s again as she proves herself to be unhelpful.
My eye twitches, and I slam my hand on the couch to get her attention. “Are you implying that my job isn’t important?”
“No, no! N-Not at all!” I stare her down until she whips out a photobook, probably to win me over, and flips wildly through the pages. She stops at a picture of two kids who can’t be older
than twelve, one girl and one boy, in gold and white outfits. “Just look at Nima Roshenna, who faced world destruction back at her native planet. She managed to juggle both being a heroine and love interest, and she made a cute girlfriend for this nice young gentleman.”
I can’t believe they pull this crap on kids. I push myself off the couch, my last nerve ending reached eons ago.
“Yeah, no. I’m done. Adios and good riddance!”
Before Mistress Sylvie can harp anymore at me, I stride out of her eyesight, and I step outside onto a sidewalk in the same crazy town.
Yet, somehow, it’s less crazy. Hardly anyone is out on the streets, and the few passerby ignore me. There’s no random man trying to woo me, mistaking me for a mere object of desire, and there’s no shrill voice piercing my ears and mocking my credentials. Maybe the solitude is why everything is less nonsensical, but after everything I’ve sat through with that obnoxious lady, I’ll take it.
Finally, I’ve left a world of nonsense and fantasy and returned to a world of logic and reality. I could really go for some donuts and a warm cup of coffee right about now.
Stargazing
Aurora Williams
They sat side-by-side on the top of the grassy hill, legs straight out in front of them and their arms supporting their adolescent bodies as they stared up at the magnificence of the sky above them. The sky was decorated with millions of gorgeous little dots, some forming specific patterns while others were just displaying their beauty to the inhabitants of the Earth. A crescent moon glowed a bright white as it shined alongside the beautiful stars. The tips of the grass blades swayed in the gentle breeze of the wind, dancing along to some inaudible music that only they could hear.
The two teens both sat in a peaceful silence as they continued to take in the natural elegance of the night sky. They had both been outside stargazing for quite some time. It was astonishing how they had not fled back to the warmth of their houses to escape the coldness of the night and the calm breeze. That was one of the reasons why the two loved it outside so much at night. It wasn’t just for the free viewing of natural art that was the night sky, but it was also the stillness, quietness and peacefulness that came when darkness consumed the day. They could relax and be at ease here and for a few minutes, or if lucky hours, forget that the rest of the world existed. Forget their problems, their worries, responsibilities, everything for just a few moments.
“Woah! Check it out!” one of the teens said softly as she raised her arm and pointed skywards, “it’s the Little Dipper!”
The other hummed in response before letting out a “cool” as he gawked at the sight of the constellation in the sky. He then began to scout out the rest of the sky for the larger version of the pattern his friend had just found. After a few seconds of scanning the sea of stars, he finally located the constellation he was searching for. “Hey look,” he breathed as he leaned closer to his companion and pointed with his index finger, “there’s the Big Dipper”.
“Aw… sick…” The female teen whispered as she gaped at the sight.
The two continued to point out constellations for what seemed like hours. It was somewhat of a game that the two liked to play; ‘Who Could Spot and Name the Most Constellations in The Sky.’ They found many patterns among the stars: Aries, Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Pegasus and several others. The teens laughed together as the male of the two came out victorious in this round of their little game. He was proud of himself for finally beating his best friend in their own version of ‘Spot It’, as it was her who usually came out on top. He wore a satisfying smirk on his face as he placed his hands behind his head and laid down so that his back was pressing against the cool grass of the hill. His friend almost immediately followed suit.
Another peaceful silence overtook the two, and they continued to look upon the sight above them. The girl let out a long sigh as she closed her eyes to enjoy this serene moment as best as possible. It wasn’t as if the moment was not already perfect though. She was with her best friend. The calm, restful atmosphere was on point, and the sky was absolutely gorgeous just as it always was. The only true way to make this moment
any better would be to have the Aurora Borealis appear before them, but that was a little too much of a dream. A dream that would most certainly never come true.
The two had decided long ago that they would both see the Aurora Borealis together. They would travel north of the country and let their eyes lay upon the rainbow river that flows through the night sky. Then it would be perfect.
It would take a lot to make their dream a reality, but together they would make it happen.
Soon, the boy began to grow drowsy, and his eyes fluttered shut, a small smile glued to his face. He didn’t care if he fell asleep on the hill with his best friend as they both had done that before in the past. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for them both to doze off to sleep while stargazing, though they would have to endure the wrath of their parents the upcoming morning.
It didn’t matter, however, because the two adolescents were both happy, and that was all that mattered to them. Because after all, out on that hill under the stars and moon, nothing in the outside world ever mattered. It was the place where they forgot everything, even consequences, and they planned to keep it that way.