Some called me a pessimist, some called me cold-hearted, my friends, family and loved ones called me a psychopath. I’m what psychologists would call a nihilist. Or, I was.

The dictionary definition of a nihilist is…

“Noun; the rejection of all religious and moral principles, in the belief that life is meaningless.”

From what I can gather, life has no meaning. We live, we die and it will all eventually come to an end. Because nothing has any significance in the long run. Eventually there will be nothing left to remember us by. Inevitably, at some point in the future your name will be uttered for the last time. No amount of science can staple a reason for our existence onto the front cover of a newspaper. Bold letters stating why we are all here. Why we all die. Where we all go.

“If we believe in nothing, if nothing has any meaning and if we can affirm no values whatsoever, then everything is possible and nothing has any importance.”

 -Albert Camus

For 33 years I lived in a state which conformed to the views of the most prominent nihilist: the German philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche. Life as a whole is an endless cycle that does not truly make a difference. Every person who has lived and who will live, will die. I was told this is an unrealistic and negative viewpoint. I was told I have to try and change my perspective on life.

I tried.

Any research I accumulated was rotted away by my brain; slowly picking apart such ridiculous theories was merely a hobby. Like a starved vulture picking off the remains of an old carcass. I pondered these preposterous daydreams out of boredom, no theory was full proof. Anybody I conversed with clutched at out-of-date religious stories, false hope and an array of fantasies, all of which they insisted gave them a reason for living. Some argued that there was an after-life; that if you lived a ‘good life’ now then you will live for eternity in what they refer to as paradise. I’d argue that when life ends, we end. What we leave behind on this earth will gradually drain into the bottomless pit of humanities past existences which in turn, will be forgotten.

“Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

-William Shakespeare, Macbeth

From my beliefs, the only reasonable purpose to my life is to ultimately come to a conclusion. Philosophers, scientists, teachers and theorists all have one goal: for their work to come to completion. To find a theory which is no longer a theory. One with evidence. One which cannot be questioned. Obviously this is an improbable expectation, seeing as not everyone can agree on one idea. However, that’s what my work is about. It’s the only theory which keeps me going. We could die tomorrow, with no evidence we were ever even here. Nobody to put flowers on our graves. Nobody to tell stories of you to their grandkids.

But that’s life.

Isn’t it?

Now if you as a reader have absorbed the beliefs I’ve put forward then you would recognise the name Frederiche Nietzsche. The man who spoke only of the world as a cruel and meaningless cycle. Right?

Unless you yourself have exponentially ventured into the chaos which is nihilism, you would miss the brighter side of this dilemma. A possible counter argument. A dilemma which many perceive as…

The theory of love.

“There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.” –Frederiche Nietzsche, German philosopher

In my many years dedicated to poking holes in opposing theories, argung that my view was the only correct explanation, I always threw a side-eye at love. It would be comically absurd for everything that has ever been questioned, debated and considered to be blown away by something that is, what many argue, human nature. I wrote novels; hours of typing and thinking. Not once did I face up to my avoidance of love. Some define love as a feeling, some an instinct, some call it fate. I called it fictional. I called it a foreign misconception. The assumption that two people are destined to find each other sounded… impossible. Philosophers from across the globe have confidently expressed and observed love as being the most powerful feeling a human being can comprehend.

I miscalculated such a probability.

“Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.”
-Aristotle, Greek philosopher

I once learnt of a woman who refused to use the word ‘impossible’. I agreed; there’s no proof that anything is impossible. Well, every rule has its exception, surely? My exception was my belief that it is impossible to find fairytale-worthy love. To find ‘the one’. To find that human being who completes you. Your other half. The world is designed to go on, no matter if you discover love.

However, the world likes to smirk at my ignorance. The world likes to calculate how to prove me wrong at every turn. And that’s just what it did. It let me wither away in my painstaking search for a clear and precise meaning of life, it waited. And waited. Until it finally abolished all I had worked towards and everything I had trusted in.

“This fire that we call Loving is too strong for human minds. But just right for human souls.” 
-Aberjhani, African-American writer

I fell in love. An understatement. I plummeted, headfirst, at the speed of light, into love. What had been a black-and-white corridor of what I’d call logical thinking was quickly evolving into a bright landscape with colours painting themselves into each and every corner.

It was inevitable.

I found that Love is one woman who goes by the name of Marceline. Love is what keeps the world together. Love is the reason we are here today. Love defines and etches the path which transforms the world for years to come. Love is the reason to believe in a possible afterlife, because our souls are entwined, and once you find the frayed end of your other half, once you embrace the fact that you have found what you thought your soul had lost, nothing, not even death, can break that tie.

I am afraid to be humbled by the universe for my set ways again. However, I am open to being questioned. Until that happens, I believe I have achieved a conclusion. Completion on a scale every philosopher aspires to achieve. The meaning of life itself: what will be left of us when we leave this earth? I refuse to take credit for this resolution, so I unapologetically use the words of Phillip Larkin.

“What will survive of us is love.”
-Philip Larkin, EnglishPoet

There’s a click from the cassette tape. I take a breath in between the click and the sigh, which commences the recording. Incoherent nonsense litters the background, which doesn’t benefit the clarity of the woman’s words. She begins softly;

“I know it’s a cliché but… I’m not sure where I should start this.” Tears immediately hurt my eyes. I’ve never met this woman before, yet her voice is as familiar to me as my own. That’s my mother.

I can tell she’s beginning to cry as well, because her voice shakes slightly as she continues, sniffing slightly between every word.

“I’m not entirely sure when you’ll see this. I’m giving it to your dad in the hopes he’ll remember something for once in his life.” She stifles her cry for a moment, trying to breathe out what I think is a laugh. “You’ll come to learn that’s one of his defining traits.” I find myself trying to swallow the lump in my throat, pretending to understand the same humour she sees in this.

“You obviously know this already, but, I’m your mother. Or mum. Or maybe mummy? I’m sorry I never got the chance to hear your little voice, but I wonder what you would’ve called me.”

Mum. Hero. The best person I ever knew without meeting.

I find my finger hovering over the pause button. I want to stop the recording. I wish the tape would never end, I wish I could stay here forever. Somewhere I never even was to begin with. Her voice is so gentle, I have to concentrate to hear it through the crackle of the old cassette system;

“I made the decision to name you Stella. It means star in Latin.”

That was one of the first words I can remember my dad muttering to me, as we hid under the bedsheets, huddling together and giggling as we pretended that our golden retriever was going to attack us upon sight, so we had to hide until dark. Or just whenever he had a nap. I wonder if mum would’ve liked our games.

Stella. Stella, my star. He had whispered through the linen, the name rolling off his tongue with ease. It was just perfect. Nothing else would have fit.

“My name is Luna. That means moon. I thought it would be cute. Like, once you were here, we could match names. Star and moon. Mother and daughter. Oh, I suppose it’s just Stella now. I’m sorry.” She croaks the last part through a voice thick with tears, before I can hear another tremble, and she must pull away from the recorder, because her whimpers are muffled.

Please don’t apologise. 

She returns, regaining composure, and breathes out heavily.

“The reason I can’t be with you is because, I’m very sick, Stella.” I blink back tears. She’s sounded in pain this whole time.

“I’ve been sick for a while. I’m sorry it’s like this. I wish I could’ve been older, with my own home, and a good education. A finished one. I could’ve given you so much more. Much better than a tape recording.”

You gave your life.

“The doctors warned me awhile ago. That pregnancy would only weaken me. But I was so blinded by love. The thought of giving you up, even if I didn’t know you, hurt more than any contraction. I would’ve done it in a thousand more lifetimes if it meant I could be with you, my sweet girl.” Her sweet girl. I’m hers. I always have been.

“They told me I was well enough to go through with the delivery safely. But not well enough for much after that. So, my last gift to the world is you, Stella. Please behave.” We both give a soft chuckle in unison, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It’s like, for a few seconds, she’s here. She’s in the room laughing. Not trapped in this tape. Not so far away.

“Your father and I met in a Physics lecture. We studied cosmology. I would pay good money to see the look on his face again when I told him my name.” Dad never mentioned any of this.

“Your dad’s a good man. But he’s only a kid. Still. I know he’ll do his best for you. He’ll teach you all the things that I was supposed to.” My dad is incredible. I couldn’t have asked for more love. But it’s never truly filled the longing for you, mum.

“I don’t know how to end this. I’m not sure if there is a way to end it.” If time has stopped by now, I haven’t noticed. And I couldn’t care less. It’s just my mum and I now.

“Gaze up at the stars for me, every once in a while. Maybe you’ll find me there.” I do. Every night. Trying so hard to catch a glimpse of you. 

My mum loved stargazing. That’s what dad always said. He even admitted that’s what they did on their first date. He tried to say he was bored, but I know it was his idea. I know he wished every second with her could’ve lasted a minute. He once said he could have spent all day looking at the sky, but the only galaxy he ever found was in her eyes.

“Well, my baby, I think it’s time for us to part ways now, I can hear the nurse down the hall, presumably coming for my epidural. That’s just a fancy name for an injection, basically.” My hand clamps tight around the strands of hair I was twirling. 

“Listen to this when you’re sad. Or even happy. Or even when you just need your mum, albeit in audio form. But I hope you know I’m there.” It haunts me every day. You have no idea how heavy the weight of your presence is on my shoulders.

“I love you so much, my star.” The resounding click, signalling the recording has ended, hits me like a ton of bricks. Just to hear her voice sent a chill down my spine that I don’t think can be recreated.

It’s just then, I look up at the moon, the only light in the dark, and I gasp at the sight. The moon, in all her beauty, and a single perfect star gleaming beside her. Luna and Stella. Mother and daughter. The moon and her star.

“We’re done.”

My heart drops.

He continues speaking but I can’t hear what he’s saying. I zone out as I stare into his eyes; the eyes I fell in love with. Gorgeous warm brown eyes. I try to not think about the words that are coming from his mouth, but the way his eyes make me feel; safe.

He stops speaking and looks at me for a response.

Say something, I think to myself, anything.

But I’ve not a clue what to say. I thought I had found the love of my life, the man I was going to buy my first house with, the man I was going to start a family with, the man I was going to grow old with. I don’t ever want to love anyone else.

“You…you told me you loved me.”

My voice trembles. My hands are shaking, my eyes are tearful.

Don’t cry, I tell myself, don’t embarrass yourself not here.

“I did. I haven’t for a while.”

How can so little words hurt someone so much? I trusted him. I trusted him with everything, every little detail about my entire life he knew.

I stare at him blankly. I take a deep breath, stand up and walk away.

Walking away from the biggest part of my life, is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Tears start flooding down my cheeks, I can feel my throat close up as I start to hyperventilate. What have I done? How did I screw up this badly?  I stop walking and put my hand on the wall. I can feel my whole body try to fold and break apart. My heart is aching. My heart is lost; it doesn’t know who to beat for now. My back turns to the wall as I slowly sit down, all I want is to disappear.

Normally when I get myself into a state like this; I phone him. He tells me I’m being silly and to take deep breaths and that he will be at my flat in five minutes.  But he can’t do that anymore, not now, not after what he’s done to me. I pull out my phone and go onto photos. Tears are streaming onto my screen. I search for photos of him to try and make myself feel better but it does the opposite. Every time I see a photo my stomach churns, my breathing stops and my eyes go blurry. I stay like this until my body forces a gasp so I don’t pass out. So, I decide to switch off my phone.   

I manage to gather the strength to get up and keep walking.

I try to think as I walk, but my mind is blank; the grief is consuming my entire body.

I reach my apartment door. I scramble through my bag to find my keys and open the door. I go straight to the kitchen and grab a bottle of tequila and take it with me to my bedroom, and fully clothed I bury myself in my bed. I turn on my lamp and turn on a chick flick.

About an hour and a half into the movie, I realise I haven’t watched any of it. I’ve just been sat looking at the screen.

Bing

I get a notification; I thought I had turned my phone off. I reach for my phone and open it to find a notification from Instagram to say that he has posted something on his story. I shouldn’t look, I think to myself, that will only make it worse.

I don’t listen to myself.

I want to know why he isn’t heartbroken, why he doesn’t care.

So, I go onto Instagram to see what it is. It can’t be that bad, I think, we have only just broken up it must be football or something stupid.

I wish I had listened to myself.

It is a photo of him with another girl on a date. I click on her name to see what she looks like. She’s a small blonde with the perfect body and face. Every part of her is better than me: her eyes are prettier, her stomach’s flatter, her hair’s bouncier. Why wasn’t I good enough? I get up and look at myself in the mirror. I start to compare everything about myself to her.

No.

I’m not doing this to myself. I’m not letting him make me feel like this.

I rush to the kitchen, grab my bag and his keys. I lock the door behind me and rush down the stairs out the main door and into my car.

I slam the door behind me. Thud.

I sit for a minute. I take a breath and start my engine. He only stays five minutes away. This won’t take long. I drive the route that is so familiar to me and park my car in my usual spot. I get out and head up to his apartment. You can do this, I tell myself as I stand outside his door. I reach for his keys put them in the door and open it.

It stinks. It stinks of women’s perfume that definitely isn’t mine. There’s a red bra on the couch, the couch where we used to snuggle up every Saturday night to watch Ant and Dec with a takeaway. There’s lipstick sitting on the counter in the place where there used to be a photo of me, I wonder how long it took for that to be put in the bin. I start to creep towards his bedroom. I slowly open his door, trying not to make a sound.

There he is, lying peacefully in his bed with not a care in the world. Seeing him doesn’t make me smile the way it used to; seeing him makes me want to scream.

I grab one of the pillows that is lying next to his bed.

You can do this.

I put it over his face.

Keep going.

And push down on it.

After a few seconds he starts to struggle. I push down on the pillow harder.

 I’ve never felt so powerful, ever in my life.

He starts gasping for air. I push down even harder until he stops moving.

Silence. What have I done.

From the right point of view the day, like most, seemed normal. However, surprisingly Vienna had turned left. Hans Von Heinz glanced up at the glass panels guarding the staterooms, his dripping fedora barely shielding the water from his eyes.

The call came in at 0700 hrs; a theft they said but alas, Reinhold the day guard found a man, top heavy, lying on his side, a large gash pouring Viennese red onto a white button-up.  So, the detective was called.

“Alfred Stix, pleased to meet you.”

“Detective Heinz, Sir.”

“The egg’s handler was found but my precious Faberge egg is nowhere in sight. You’d better have your best men on the job for this one, detective.”

“Believe me, sir, I am perfectly able to handle this situation.”

“We’ll see about that.”

The curator started walking towards the stairs, gesturing for the detective to follow him. On the stairs they bumped into Maria Koller, trusted associate of the museum.

“Ahh, Miss Koller, this is detective Hans Heinz.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance Detective. I do hope that you can help find my egg. As its owner I will be awarded sizable compensation, but it’s just not the same. Please do excuse me, I must be going.”

Maria began to walk towards the entrance before the detective stopped her by saying.

“Actually Mrs Koller- “

“Miss Koller; I lost my husband in the war.”

“My condolences, Miss Koller. If you wouldn’t mind staying here while the investigation takes place, I would like to ask everyone a few questions.”

“I would love to comply, but I absolutely cannot wait.”

“I understand. Could you return within the hour?”

“Of course, detective.”

Maria walked hastily toward the exit with her heavy bag. The two men turned, and Alfred led the detective to the central exhibit.

The exhibit like, all the others, was untouched except for the empty egg pedestal. Without hesitation Hans approached the empty pedestal. The detective enquired about the egg; he learnt that it was on loan to the museum from Miss Koller and had been delivered to the display on the previous evening.

“I assume you will need to see the body. Such a shame about Manfred, I mean, I saw him just last night when the egg arrived. I must have been one of the last people to see him alive.”

The detective, who by this point was in his own world examining the podium, barely heard this. Alfred pointed to an open doorway to the left of the entrance.

“Down that corridor; you should be able to find it.”

“Aren’t you just going to show me?”

“If you don’t mind, I would rather stay here, I am not completely comfortable with seeing a man in that state again.”

Hans turned the corner to see the body laid on its front. He approached solemnly and found the stab wound in his back. The dead man, with his brown hair and blueish eyes, appeared to have put up a fight. His left eye was black and there was evidence of bruising and contusions on his face. Hans checked the dead man’s pockets but found nothing of any relevance. He walked back into the central gallery to ask Alfred some more questions.

“What was his name?”

“Manfred M – ” he stuttered momentarily “ – Manfred Mayer.”

“Was he a worker at the museum?”

“No, he was not directly employed by us, he was just a night mover. I doubt anyone other than me had ever even met him.”

“Did anything seem off about him last night? Maybe paranoia, or him being anxious?”

“Not from what I could tell. He was just his normal self. His shirt and tie always so perfectly in place. Placing the exhibits seemed an ideal outlet for his OCD. You see, everything had to be placed ‘just so’. If had a keen eye for anything out of place, he just had to adjust it. He noticed everything.”

“Does anyone other than you and the man who called the station know about the body?”

“I shouldn’t think so. When Master Weber told me I strongly requested that he not tell anyone else.”

“Well thank you for your discretion, Mr Stix. If you would please call everyone into the foyer for questioning.”

“Immediately, Detective”

As the curator left the room Hans noticed a glass case. It displayed a beautiful jewel-encrusted knife, owned by the monarchy before their recent end. It was at a crooked angle. Perhaps the case had been disturbed somehow.

After 30 minutes everyone was assembled in the grand entrance. Alfred Stix, curator; Egon Weber, the day guard who had called the police; Bernard Binder, night guard; and Maria Koller, donor of the egg. These were the only people who had access to the establishment at the time of the theft and subsequent murder.

The detective locked the door; no one could leave the room.

“Egon Weber?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Would you please accompany me into the stateroom?”

“Ok”

They walked to the room and took seats facing each other.

“So, Mr Weber, I believe that you were the one who contacted the police after you found the body. Yes?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Well, if you wouldn’t mind going over the events for me.”

“Yes Sir. I arrived earlier this morning to take over guard duty from Reinhold Binder.  I said ‘hello’ to him; we usually have a chat, but today he had to rush off quickly for some reason. I started my first patrol of the exhibit spaces just before opening; that’s when I saw that the egg was missing and ran to raise the alarm. As I was running down the corridor I found the body of Mr Mayer.”

“Thank you, Mr Weber, for your cooperation. I have just a couple more questions for you.”

“Ok”

“What time did you first arrive here at?”

“6.50, just ten minutes before the opening “

“What did you know about the stolen egg before its theft?”

“Not much. I am still very new to this job. I just turned 18 last month and must admit I don’t really care for a lot of the antiquities in this place.”

“Well Mr Weber, that will be all for now. Could you ask Mr Stix to come in, please?”

After Egon left, Alfred entered immediately.

“Hello, Mr Stix.”

“Nice to see you again, detective.”

“You will understand from my lines of enquiry that I need to ask where you were last night.”

“Of course. I was working late in my office, until about 1am, then I walked out the main entrance and said goodnight to Bernard, the night guard, before walking home.”

“Did you see anything unusual on your walk home?”

“Not that I recall. There wasn’t anything out of the normal, except… no, nothing worth mentioning.”

“No, go on. What was it?”

“Well, there was a man who was running the opposite way to me.”

“Opposite way to you. Do you mean towards the museum?”

“Yes, I guess. Do you think that could have been the thief? It’s not really the hour for joggers.”

“It just might have been. What did this man look like?”

“I didn’t see his face, his hat covered most of it, but I remember thinking he had very long legs”

“What time would you say this was?”

“Maybe around 1.15am.”

“Ok, thank you. Just one more question. As the curator, I assume that you are very knowledgeable about the egg. Its history, its owners?”

“Well naturally, its history is fascinating inasmuch as it is a complete mystery. An authentic egg, fabricated at the same time as all other Faberge eggs, but completely lost for many years. The egg was very recognisable from the other ones due to its crimson red colouring. Several scholars have different theories as regards its backstory, but there has never been any evidence to substantiate any of them.”

“Thank you, Mr Stix, I think that is all the questions for you. If you could send in Maria Koller. “

“Certainly, Detective”

Mr Stix left and Maria entered.

“Hello Miss Koller”

“Let me just stop you there. I don’t know anything about the egg being stolen. I simply loaned the egg to the museum, and I don’t think I should be here.”

Maria turned to leave.

“Miss Koller, I assure you this is just procedure. Please sit, I have but a few questions to ask you.”

“Fine, but make it quick.”

“Can you tell me how the egg come into your possession? Where was it being kept before you loaned it to the museum? And can you tell me where you were around 0115 hrs last night?

Maria paused as if calculating her reply.

“I was in my house sleeping. The egg was my father’s; he acquired it at auction. It has been kept securely at my residence since the passing of my father. Now, if you will excuse me, I will be going.”

“Just one more thing, Miss Koller. How well did you know Mr Mayer?”

“Not at all. I never even met him.”

Maria left. Detective Heinz rose to his feet and asked Reinhold Binder to enter the stateroom. Whilst standing at the doorway the detective saw that Maria did not head for the exit but rather to another doorway leading to an anteroom at the far end of the exhibit space.

“Mr Binder, how are you today?”

“Good.”

Mr Binder entered the room but didn’t sit.

“I just have a few straightforward questions for you.”

“Fine.”

“What is your job here at the museum?”

“I’m the Night guard”

“So you were here over night, yes?

“Yes”

“Where were you at 0115 hrs?”

“Here”

“Not very forthcoming, are you?”

“What’s the need?”

This interaction was like talking to a brick wall.

“It would be helpful to pinpoint where exactly in the building you were.”

“I will have to think about it.”

“Okay. Could you stand next to me, please? I just need to see something.”

“Sure.”

Bernard Binder stood beside Hans. The detective towered over him, 6 feet 4 inches compared to Binder’s modest 5 feet 11.

“Well, Mr Binder, why don’t you go back outside and see if you can remember.”

Mr Binder turned to leave. Once he had closed the door, the detective started reading over his notepad, which contained almost every word said in the conversations. He just couldn’t help but feel he was missing something.

After 20 minutes, Alfred knocked on the door.

“Please excuse my intrusion but how long will you be? All of us are getting quite annoyed with how long this is taking. I am starting to think about escaping out the window.”

It was at this moment that something clicked in the detective’s head.

“Mr Stix, when you saw that man running outside, which side of the building was he on?”

“I suppose the east. Why? Is that important?”

“Are there any windows at ground level on that side of the building?”

“Yes, there are. Do you think that’s how the thief got in?”

“Maybe. Show me the windows.”

The two men walked to the east side of the building’s exterior, where there were four windows. The first was fine, the second just the same, and so were the third and fourth. There was nothing wrong with any of the windows, and the detective established there wasn’t a single other way to get in besides the entrance at the front. With this information, he walked back into the state rooms.

“If everyone could please meet me in the Central Exhibit.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to tell you all something.”

Everyone made their way to the Central Exhibit, where Heinz made his final remarks.

“Well, everybody, after all of my findings I am able to say that with absolute certainty that I am unable to work out who did this and it is with great sorrow and annoyance that I must call this case unsolvable.”

All the assembled people looked at the detective in disbelief.

“But what about the man I saw running towards the museum?” asked Alfred.

“That could have been anyone; there is no way of knowing that it was the thief.”

“What about the egg?” said Maria

“Just take the insurance money and go on with your life.”

“But the egg is missing.”

“And it may never be found. That’s just how it is sometimes.”

The detective turned and left the museum via the front door, leaving everyone very lost and confused. As he walked towards the station, he placed his hand in his pocket and stroked the smooth, shiny and red surface of what was inside.

I first saw his death in the newspaper: THE WORLD’S 5^TH RICHEST BILLIONAIRE HAS PASSED! WHO WILL BE THE NEXT DOLCE INHERITOR?” was the headline. I never bothered to read the article; these people have more money than sense and it never has interested me to read about a life that has no relevance to my own. My eyes fell to the poster opposite me: ‘Pay it Forward’, it read. I thought of my father, Ethan Crass. That was his favourite saying; he lived by it. It’s the idea that when you complete a good deed for someone you wish for nothing in return, except for them to pass it on and in turn do a good thing for someone else. I pulled my thoughts back to the present, threw the newspaper on the floor, and left the house. Little did I know I would later read every inch of that article; an article that would then have every relevance to my life.

I am sitting in a hot, stuffy classroom when I get called into the office. “Probably just another routine check-in with me,” I think. However, as I enter the principal’s office, it becomes apparent very quickly that I am wrong. Along with the principal, there are three other people in the room. Two men dressed in suits, one in navy and the other grey, and a woman whose perfume is so strong it makes me dizzy. Or maybe it’s what she says next. “A man named Benjamin Dolce has died.” The headline flashes before my eyes. “You been requested to attend the reading of his will. Does this mean anything to you?” I stare at the man in the grey suit as if he can somehow give me the answer. He does not. “No,” I finally manage. “Well, it’s clear that you must be there. We will arrange a flight for you.” I stop listening after that, overcome with the thoughts in my head. A flight? A flight to where? I have never been out of Seattle, let alone on a plane. A voice brings me back to reality. “Lily?” It’s the principal. He speaks gently, as if he can somehow tell there is a hurricane happening in my head. “We have notified your mother but do you want her to bring anything from home?” I say only two words: “a newspaper”.

As we touch down in South Carolina hours later I have read the article approximately 42 times, along with having had a short nap that was interrupted by various dreams, all centred around the character Benjamin Dolce. As we step off the plane, I no longer feel a part of myself. It’s as if I’m watching my body from above. I get into the waiting car; it’s a black limousine. We drive. I look out of the window; it’s getting dark now. We’re in the countryside. And finally, we turn to go through a set of gates. I look at my mother’s hand placing itself in mine, but I don’t feel it. I can only hear, see and think one thought. What is my place in all of this? One knock on this door in front of me and I’ll find out.

Massive would be an understatement for this house. I have never seen anything like it before. It’s quiet too; eerily quiet. “Come with me,” the man in the grey suit says. He’s the only person that has remained with me the whole time apart from my mother and I have learned that his name is James. He does not wait for me to answer and so I follow, slightly scared to be left in a house that I’m sure could very quickly become a maze. James takes my mother and me to a hallway with pictures lining the walls. He stops outside a room. “You can sleep in here,” he says and leaves. The room is beautiful, with high ceilings and big windows, not to mention the intricate artwork decorating the place. I immediately collapse onto the bed, my mind and body exhausted from the day.

I don’t meet Benjamin’s family until the reading of the will the following day. We’re all sitting in a large room awaiting our fate as a man at the front begins unravelling a sheet of paper. It seems to take forever. A woman, I’m assuming Benjamin’s daughter Gabriella, is pacing the floor. His sons, Alexander and Marco, sit in two armchairs, the in-laws and children sitting behind them. I’m sitting alone: my mother wasn’t allowed in with me. The man clears his throat. “We are gathered here today for the reading of the will of the late Benjamin Alexander Dolce.” He looks at all of us in turn, his eyes lingering on me for a moment, and continues. “I leave my work and business to my three children, along with $1 billion for each of my grandchildren.” Gabriella turns to look at her brothers, shocked but not quite angry. “However, my estate, assets and entire fortune I leave to Lillian Crass. She will inherit $46.8 billion.”

When I was younger I fell out of a tree. It was at such a height that everything was muffled and the world was spinning. It felt as though I was underwater, not knowing which way to go to break the surface. I feel the same way right now, except 20 people are either staring at me or shouting about the mistake that has been made. All I can do is sit there, staring, wondering, trying to break the surface.

I am the last person in the room. Everybody else left, either sulking or still shouting about the unfairness of it all. The man stops me before I leave. “I’m to give you this. It might explain some things.” He hands me an envelope. “Read it alone,” he says. I thank him and go. I decide to go outside: the gardens stretch for miles so I can be sure no one will find me. I sit down at the base of a giant tree. The grass is soft and I am bathed in the morning sunlight. Daisies and daffodils dance around me in the soft breeze. I stare at the envelope. My hands shake as I tear it open, ready to know the truth.

Dear Lillian,

You don’t know me, but I feel as if I know you. These past years I have kept an eye on you, waiting for the perfect opportunity to give you everything. Your life has inspired a lot of mine. More specifically, your father. I have thought a lot about you reading this letter, about what I would say. About your emotions, as you hear the news of the money I have left you. And so I think it’s only fair that I should start from the beginning.

At 23 years old, I was alone here. Having recently moved from a tiny village in northern Italy, I knew nothing and nobody. But I had an idea, a brilliant idea that would be the spark of everything I have today. After my request for a loan was rejected by countless banks I was tired and frustrated. And so, when I went for an appointment at the bank your father worked at, I was feeling hopeless. As a young man, I was not used to rejection, and the fight in me had started to go out. I had no collateral, no reason for them to grant me this money except for my pure genius, which unfortunately most people didn’t accept. Except for your father. Ethan Crass saw my potential and fought for me: he got me my loan. He’s the reason why I am who I am today. I asked him how I could ever repay him, how I could ever express the amount of gratitude I have for this man. But he told me he didn’t want anything; all he wanted was for me to pay it forward. Nobody knows this Lily, but I dedicated my life to searching for a way to pay it forward. But I never could find one that would leave me satisfied; not one deed that I could be sure was going to help someone as selfless as the man who gave it to me. To someone who I knew would carry the torch on. I’ve failed, Lily. I’ve failed your father. And so, I have to cheat the system. I am paying it back, to you, in the hope that you will pay it forward for both of us.

Benjamin Dolce

“What’s your biggest fear?”

It was summer yet despite the time of year it was still cold. The afternoon was soon melting into evening. I was lying on the grass and I could feel the damp seeping through my clothes. I sighed, knowing I would have grass stains I’d probably never be able to get out, yet it was comfortable, lying next to him. I thought about his question, but I couldn’t think of an answer. It was out of the blue and I wasn’t prepared to answer it. I probably should have expected it, he certainly had a habit of asking random questions, I never knew if he was genuinely just trying to get to know me or if it was just something to break languid silences. I looked up to the sky and around at my surroundings desperately trying to find some sort of inspiration for something I could be scared of. 

“That’s an odd question, I don’t think I really have one.”

He sat up onto his elbows and looked at me with a questioning look, his head tilted like a curious puppy. “Come on, you have to be scared of something.” 

 I shook my head. “I mean, I’m not fearless, I’m scared of lots of small things. Like my neighbours’ scary dog. But I wouldn’t say it’s my biggest fear.”

He laughed, before staring ahead and answering his own question in a more sombre voice than before. “My biggest fear is, well, I have mono-phobia. It means I’m scared of being alone.”

He turned away from me so all l could see was the back of his messy icy-blue hair 

that he had dyed to match the colour of his eyes. I think he was embarrassed.

“Hey, that’s much better than a big dog. Why are you embarrassed?” He didn’t answer. Instead he started picking the flowers growing in the grass around about us, probably as a way to distract himself. So I tried something else. I hated seeing him uncomfortable, his emotions were always so infectious. It was great when he was happy, but not so great at times like these. 

“You won’t be alone. I’m here for you ok?” I reassured him, placing my hand on his shoulder hoping to make him feel better. 

He turned back around, this time with a smile. Neither of us said anything else after that. We lay in a comfortable silence, looking up at the sky. I noticed him moving his hands, so I started to watch him as he began making a daisy chain. 

“You know, daisies are actually a type of weed. So are dandelions,” I said.

“They might be a weed but I wouldn’t mind lots of daisies growing in my garden. They’re really pretty, maybe even my favourite flower, or well, my favourite weed.” He picked up the now finished daisy-chain and placed it around my neck.

“Thank you.’’

“You’re pretty too,” I heard him mutter. I couldn’t tell if I was meant to hear it or not but I decided to acknowledge his comment regardless.

“Thank you” I replied. It wasn’t meant to come out like that. He grinned at me, and I couldn’t help my mouth from grinning back. “I mean, nobody’s ever called me pretty before.”

“Why not? You are. Is it because you’re a boy? Honestly, I think everyone deserves to be called pretty.”

It was something I’d never really thought about but now that I was, l realised it was true. Why can’t boys be pretty? Who decided that compliments had to be gendered? I never thought there was anything wrong with being called ‘handsome’. Yet when he called me pretty, it felt different.

The sun was setting, turning the sky hues of orange and pink, and you could already see the stars. The quiet of the park really started to set in, and all I could hear was the sound of both of us breathing. It was relaxing. I started to feel my eyes getting heavy so I let them close, and soon I was slowly drifting off to sleep.

It’s been almost a year since we lay on the grass watching the sunset. I miss those times, I miss him. I looked at the photo on my desk. His smiling face, his bright blue eyes and messy hair. His arm round my shoulder. If only I’d known that was the last photo I’d have with him, I’d have taken so many more. He was the only person that made me truly feel like myself.

It hurts me that that memory that keeps replaying is one of my last memories with him. I could already feel the tears forming in my eyes. The more l thought about it the harder it got to stop them. It was only a few days after that he went for a walk and never came back.

I don’t think I’ll ever get over his death, it was so sudden and l never expected it to happen. Whatever happened between the time he went missing and the time his body was found is all a massive blur in my head. That memory replays over and over in my head every day since I heard the news. It made me so mad that someone could take away an innocent life like that. Years he had ahead of him, stripped away by someone’s selfishness, for what? What could anyone possibly gain from taking away his life, taking him off of this earth, taking him away from his family and friends, taking him away from me. 

It took me a long time to understand why it was that this memory was so prominent in my mind. As it replayed over and over, I finally get it. Although I didn’t realise it at the time, I now know my biggest fear was losing him.

She started applying her makeup, pressing the fine powder onto her flawless skin, scraping the dregs from the pallet. Her lady’s maid began pulling at her hair in all directions, rushing her along.

“He’ll be waiting on you, ma’am,” she said, grabbing Clara’s dress. “The tailor has been working on your dress all night: he thinks it’s his best yet.”

Clara took the dress and felt the silk slip through her fingers. Her lady’s maid helped her slip into her petticoat before helping her into the dress.

She looked at herself in her mirror, and the crack made the green shimmer and her look beautiful.

The ballroom was larger and grander than anything she’d seen before. It was lit by rows and rows of chandeliers, and was full of crowds of people drinking and dancing to the sounds of the orchestra. The gowns, the jewels, the crystals dripping from the chandeliers, even the floor beneath her feet appeared to sparkle.

He was mingling with royalty from far-off countries. But when he saw her, they seemed to disappear. Everyone else around him was like a blur; he was the only thing to make sense.

His hair had fallen into his face, hiding his emerald eyes. Her favourite colour. His blood-red suit stood out among the black and white. The crown on his head shimmered like the chandeliers.

She watched him from the other side of the ballroom. He looked naturally like a Prince.

She was wearing a green dress that night. No, she was wearing a red dress. The one her mother said makes the boys in the village stop to get a second look. The one that transformed her into a different person.

Clara knew her biggest challenge of the night would be not to make a fool of herself, but a part of her knew that wouldn’t happen. She felt a new confidence in herself; she guessed the thought of him being finally near her again calmed her nerves, but obviously that was all in her head. What if he didn’t even remember her? That was a possibility. As much as her mother said ‘she’s a catch’, somehow she had not been able to believe that. Yet.

The nerves were biting at her stomach as she stood waiting. Every possible outcome of the night was darting around her head. Why would he remember her? He was a prince, for crying out loud. She’s made a mistake. This whole night was a mistake. She should just have stayed and watched the village performance, at least they’d have a-

“Clara?”

That voice. She turned around and there he was. He’d pushed his hair out of his eyes, allowing the emerald to be seen. His crown sat slightly slanted on his head. And his suit matched her dress. It was meant to be.

He took her hand in his and bowed. She giggled and wrapped her arms around him.

“I missed you,” she mumbled.

“I missed you too, my love,” he smiled.

“Shall we dance?

They fell in step, letting the rhythm control their movements. All the scenery and people around dissolved. It was him and her, alone.

His emerald eyes glistened, and a smile spread across his face.

Uncontrollable feelings surged through Clara’s body. As if she was dreaming, her body was acting on its own, no chains to hold her back from this pure paradise.

“I was waiting on you,” he said, spinning her around.

“My carriage took longer than expected.”

“Well, you’re here now” The most perfect smile spread across his face. She couldn’t help herself, and soon her face mirrored his.

They danced, they laughed, it was perfect. She’d never be able to describe this feeling to anyone. The feeling of love and being free.

Before she knew it, they were sitting by a fire, drinks in hand, laughing about an old family portrait.

“I wasn’t ready,” he said rolling his eyes.

“I don’t think it’s awful,” she lied.

“It’s bad.”

“Definitely.”

Clara placed her head on his shoulder. She wished they could stay like this forever.

“What time will your mother be wanting you home?” he mumbled.

“She wanted me home before ten,” she said, looking up at the clock, “but I think I’ve missed that.”

“Well, one more dance shouldn’t hurt.”

They made their way back to the ballroom, just in time for the final dance. He took Clara’s hands in his and swept her across the floor. When the music began slowing down, he cupped her face in his hands.

His hand felt cold on her cheek. When she met his gaze, his eyes were no longer emerald but blue, like her own. The guests around them started shrinking. His hand no longer looked like his, but smaller and more petite, like her own. A shiver ran down her spine as the chandeliers began cracking, splintering into the rotten wood of her floor. The gowns, the jewels were just attached to her dolls, sitting as they always were in their dollhouse. Playing make believe. The floor beneath her only sparkled with the glass from her mirror. Clara felt tugging at her hair, her little sister was pulling at it in all directions, rushing her along.

“Mum’s waiting. The production is about to start,” she complained. “And she said you’ve to get your mirror fixed.”

“Late again, I jumped out of my bed. I put bird fat in my hair and slicked it back into the regulation bun. I quickly ran across the metal landing and down the stairs to the flyers’ room. There was no time for breakfast, which was a shame because balut was on. The texture of the squishy surprise inside! Nothing can top it.

The flyers’ room was the loudest of them all, as you could hear the last call of the bird before darkness embraced it. Not to mention the slice of the quick metal sliding down the wooden guides. I was at station 7 today. It was a big upgrade: I was usually in charge of the flightless birds, but today Ines was ill so I got to fill in for her.

They delivered my first bird. I’d never really done this before. It was a black and white hawk-eagle: it had bright, yellow claws and a sharp, curved, beak of a vibrant orange. It must have come all the way from Argentina; wasn’t I in for a treat? Usually they only give this type of bird to the experts, as they are extremely strong flyers. The strong flyers are normally put at the front of the pack.

The bird was locked in a plastic box, with its head poked through a hole created to hold it in place. It looked up at the blade, begging it not to fall. Then it looked to me, with a glimmer of despair in its eyes. They were striking, a piercing yellow surrounded by black plumage.

A strident call shattered the air, louder and more desperate than the others. That’s when I let the blade drop. With a satisfying thud the bird’s head fell on the table. I unlocked the plastic box and removed the body, which was enveloped in a thin layer of sticky blood.

I picked the carcass up by the neck and took a plastic tube. I threaded it right into the jugular vein and took a blowtorch to it. The plastic melted right in, sealing the wound.

The tube delivers blood to the body to make the wings flap. The head is cut off to remove any chance of rebellion, to take away the bird’s autonomy, thoughts and power. It was then time to fuse the legs. Having both legs moving separately can sometimes scratch the tubing, so to avoid that, we bond both of the legs together to create one limb. We pull the claws off and make a cut on the inside of both legs, creating two wounds which we then sew together to form one leg.

Bird after bird I got, head after head I chopped.

Before I knew it, it was feeding time. We all gathered in the feeding hall. We were having whatever birds had passed that morning.

After afternoon feeding I was back on the flightless birds. I was assigned to hook up a cassowary. I was in the blood chamber in the belly of the aeroplane; the cassowary was sedated on a roll-away table. I took the butterfly needle and inserted it into its throat. The tube was connected to the churners, two cylinders attached to every aeroplane that hold the blood. The churners are spun by owls: their heads are attached into a mechanism where they turn them from side to side to side. They spin it so that it doesn’t clot. Whenever it does clot, however, we all get bird blood clot soup for lunch. It has a funny texture: it’s very slimy yet not cold in the slightest, as they heat it up beforehand.

I locked the cassowary in one of the plastic-screened boxes lining the wall of the blood chamber. The door had a hole in it for the bird’s neck, in order to ensure that the tubing isn’t ripped out. It woke up half an hour later and panicked, as expected. It banged its body against the walls, twisting back and forth. This part was critical. I had to make sure that the tubing remained intact and that it couldn’t retract its head back into the box.

It started to growl. The cassowary has a strange call, a sort of dinosaur-esque growl. It sounded like a song of sorrow. No matter; its blood will fuel the plane for at least 30 years. Usually they live to about 60, but fuelling really sucks the life out of the birds, causing them to age faster.

I then went to the blood chamber in the next aeroplane, as there was a problem with the tubing. A rook had escaped and chewed through a quarter of all of the tubing. I had never heard of this happening before; a bird has never gotten out in the 5 years that I’ve been here. There was blood everywhere, birds squawking and screeching but worst of all, a ton of work to do. The rook was nowhere to be found. Probably dead somewhere. We sent out squadrons to capture it.

A team of three in my squadron and I rewired the blood chamber. It took hours. Thirty of the birds were dead, the rest were nowhere to be seen. Most of them flew out the second we opened the doors; the others bled out on the floor. I had never seen anything like it. By the time we were finished, I was starving and exhausted. I went straight to the feeding hall and got my portion of chicken broth with a side of talons. I was surrounded by hushed, curious conversations. Everyone was in shock; nothing like this had ever happened at the factory before.

How on earth had that rook escaped? We tested the cages so many times. They were supposed to be proofed against this.

As my head hit the pillow that night, I couldn’t help but think about where that rook had flown off to. I wonder if it knew how much chaos it caused? Of course it didn’t; it’s just a bird. A few hours later, I finally fell asleep.”

Their mother puffed out her chest, put the book down and sighed. She was wearing a pigeon-breasted blouse, with an impeccably-made skirt. On the tip of her hooked nose, balanced very delicately, were a pair of pince-nez glasses.

 ‘And that, my nestlings, is how the Great War began,’ she said softly. ‘This diary entry was taken by one of the Great Master of Espionage’s closest friends. The Master of Espionage was captured after his wrongful exile by the jealous King. The humans bundled him away and tried to make him work on the aeroplanes. They locked him in a cage and stole his blood. He was stuck there along with many other brethren.’

She continued, ‘Then he escaped: he destroyed the wiring in the aeroplane, taking with him countless others. He flew all the way to the Great Assembly, he pulled the sheep out from our eyes, allowing us to see again. He explained to us all the atrocities he saw there; he wanted to take action. However, the King and Queen were cowards, so he killed them.’

She spoke with a rush of pride: ‘He took over as our leader and led us into war. He created not only a united population but also an army! He gave us all tasks and duties, he made a place for us all.’ Then her voice took on a tone of warning: ‘One thing you need to learn, my nestlings, is that humans are never satisfied. They have legs, they walk. Then they want to swim, because walking isn’t enough. After swimming, they want to fly, so they steal that. They tried to strip us of our flight, but we will not have that. We will drop our droppings on many a human to come. We will grab garnets by the thousands and we will devour doughnuts aplenty! Because that means war.’

The 8th of April, 2000. 20:22, precisely.

Mina was waiting beside the grandfather clock, like she did every year. Except this year, she was all alone.

With each year that passed, her birthday had slowly dwindled to become a party of one. First, her cat died, then her dog, then her grandmother, then her other dog, her father, then, in January, her mother. Not to mention that her grandfather was in the hospice and her sister was in a boarding school in Germany.

As in many aspects of life, she was totally alone. Sad, but at least the fact that she was used to it softened the blow.

Mina had given up on wishing. Specifically, blowing out her candles and hoping upon a miracle that this year wouldn’t be as bad as the previous one. Instead she had resorted to a scornful remark as every year she grew older. Eventually the birthdays seemed to blend together, and she wasn’t sure if it was her twelfth or twenty first.

Mina saw that the sun had begun to make its sad journey to the bottom of the hills, signalling the end of another day. To the majority of the seven billion other people out there, it was just another Thursday. They didn’t even think it was someone’s birthday today, and they probably couldn’t care less if it was. Taking an opportunity to bathe in her own pity, Mina decided she would blow her candles out while enjoying the slow sunset, acting as though she were the only person alive. So, she stepped outside, laying her cake on the patio and sitting down next to it, waiting a few moments, allowing herself to take in the cool breeze which was painting her face.

Then she brought the cake closer to her face, and without thinking too much about it, stated her wish out loud.

‘I wish this year… I had someone to spend it with.’ That was it; that was the wish she made, as her weary breath dissipated the lonesome flame into the atmosphere, her hope subsiding with every particle which vanished before her eyes.

As she walked back into her house, carefully ascending the steps so as to not drop the only thing she had, she found humour in her statement. What was she thinking? She was perfectly fine by herself. She didn’t need someone at her party. Just her, and her cake. That was fine. She liked cake.

Just as Mina set her cake on the kitchen counter, there was a vigorous knock at the door. And that was odd; she had a doorbell. Even more odd, there was someone at her door. That only settled in Mina’s head as her feet shuffled along the hallway and her hand reached for the handle of the door. Gently, she pulled it open and was surprised to see a girl standing there.

She had a poorly-wrapped box in her hand, and as Mina scanned her face, she realised she had no clue who this was. However, what struck her was the remarkable resemblance this stranger bore to her own features. In fact, her entire body was almost a mirror image of Mina’s own. But something was older in her face. More mature. The girl spoke, without any prompt from Mina.

‘I’m here to hang out.’ The girl walked in without invitation, her expression mostly unmoving, totally calm, with just a slight essence of a smile on her face. Mina was rather taken aback; who was this person and why had she walked into her house? Finally, she had to say something, after she was taken out of her state of shock.

‘I’m sorry, who are you?’ The girl turned on her heel and for the first time, the two really shared eye contact.

‘That’s a good question. But it has a very long story to go along with it.’ The mystery woman waltzed nonchalantly through the house, as though it was her own. Then she paused suddenly and pushed the gift towards Mina.

‘Oh, I almost forgot. This is for you. Happy birthday, kid.’

Mina’s brows knitted and her mind filled with questions.

‘Me? How do you know me?’

‘I’m still trying to decide how to phrase that.’ The girl responded to Mina’s confused expression with an even more perplexing answer.

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, second guessing herself. Finally she said,

‘You’ll understand one day.’ She glanced around the kitchen before speaking once more. ‘Well look. I’d love to stay for cake, but I’m not a big fan.’.

‘Wait, but what was your name?’

The girl sighed inwardly, not answering, then produced a crumpled piece of paper from her jacket. She handed it hurriedly to Mina, whose eyes widened with confusion at the object.

‘Don’t open this until I’m gone. Or ever really, you don’t need to. Just, it’s important: don’t open it until I’ve left.’

And with that, the second Mina glanced at the gift, she had left, ambling out the door, prompting Mina to follow. She called after her, desperately not wanting to be alone again. Mina stopped at the door frame, staring longingly at the girl who now stood outside in the middle of the road, waving with an almost disappointed disposition.

Then, Mina blinked, and the girl had gone. Her mind’s creation had vanished before her very eyes, just like those flames did. Gone, almost in an instant. As the lonely feeling sunk in, Mina felt her eyes prick with tears, but she didn’t let any come out. It was her birthday after all. No one should be crying.

But she began to. Without her consent, tears came trickling down and soon her cheeks were stained and her eyes were blotchy and itchy. That feeling of loneliness was even more heart wrenching. It had more impact, the absence of someone.

At least, she thought, still blinking at the spot in the road she had just watched the female disappear from, at least she had gotten her birthday wish.

It was then her memory sparked, and she remembered the note the girl had given her and told her not to open until she had left. Mina rushed back inside and found it. She unfolded it gently, revealing the text across it:

‘You’re going to be fine. Ana will come back from Germany, bearing good news that she’s coming back to the US permanently. Sadly, grandpa doesn’t make it. He died peacefully, in his sleep, and you at least get to visit him one more time before he passes. This is your last lonesome birthday, I promise.

See you soon (literally). From Mina (you).’

A subtle wind blew through the forest, the blazing spring dawn light penetrating through the leaves. A dappled green glow lit up the forest floor like a flame, dancing with the swaying of the branches overhead. Pebbles and stones littered the ground as he silently stepped into the babbling brook, almost spilling up over the top of his boots, quiver on his back.

Over the songs of the larks and rush of the stream, he could faintly hear his prey, one which he had been stalking since the break of dawn. A stag.

Stood proudly with its illustrious pelt shining in the sunlight. Its be-speckled coat was gorgeous, matched only by the nobility and beauty of the animal which bore it, with antlers which spread from its head like well-groomed branches of a tree.

Disappointed would he be if this was not a successful hunt and yet, something stirred inside him as he edged ever nearer to it. How sad it would be to see that creature mottled by the blood from its very heart. Such a majestic animal to be taken so cruelty by the need of his for food. But he did not have any other choice.

He walked as softly as he could, the twigs on the floor proving to be his biggest enemy, one wrong step and he would go without dinner for the fourth night on the trot. As it happened it was only a matter of time, soon his foot fell, and, crunch. He had not stepped on a twig but a branch and the sound shattered the silence of the wood like cannon fire. Slicing through the tranquility of morning. It was almost deafening, and it did not fall on deaf ears. No. The stag lifted its head cautiously, and looked around like he was trying to find someone in a crowd. And in the crowd of trees he spotted the boy rooted to the spot.

Countless things happened at once; the stag’s ears perked up, and the next thing that the boy knew it had turned tail and took flight. Simultaneously he had broken into a sprint in hot pursuit. All that he was thinking was that he had to chase this stag. He had to catch this stag. But then in the back of his mind he thought, ‘Why can I not let this beautiful creature go, I need not kill it, I’m sure I will find another.’ Quickly though, the part of his brain which was embittered by hunger and exhaustion quashed this thought, thinking only – I need food. Those primal survival instincts kicking in.

He thundered through the forest, his heart pounding in his ears, trampling small shrubs and the twigs which had first scared off the stag and leaping over the bigger logs. He fixated his eyes on the stag, though they were fleeting glances blocked by trees and boulders. Soon enough though it seemed hopeless, he had lost it. But spurred on by his hunger he kept running, following the tracks, which, with him, had left far behind by the gorgeous beast . Until suddenly he tripped. Falling for what seemed like a life time until finally he hit the ground. Then all went black.

He came to, but after hours, he could tell because the sun was now beating down directly over head. Dazed, he simply lay there, with a trickle of warmth dripping down his face, and falling into the pool of blood in which he lay. Tentatively he raised his hand to the side of his head. A throbbing pain coursing through his temple. As he took his hand away he saw to his horror, a hand covered in blood.

Despite this minor inconvenience he gritted his teeth and, with his resolution set, stood up. Then the world flipped upside down and then back, spinning like a top. He staggered maybe ten yards and then reached out for a nearby tree, missed and then fell to the ground again. But this did not deter him, he got back up and noticed where he was. A waterfall was draped down a cliff like a cloak into the shimmering pool in the valley. Water. That is all that went through his mind. He began to tentatively creep down the hill, grasping at anything he could for support.

His mind suddenly became clear, however, as he saw in the reflection of the pool that beautiful creature.  One with a be-speckled coat and sculpted antlers rising elegantly from its head. Bent down and taking a long drink. The very stag which he had stalked this morning. This was the very stag which he had foolishly scared away. This was the very stag which he had chased this very morning. This was the very stag which was the last thing he saw before all went black this morning.

He dropped to the ground, his view only obstructed by the shoots of flowers penetrating through the hard ground. He took his bow from his back and an arrow from the quiver. He cocked the arrow and waited. He could feel his heart trying to burst through his ribcage it was pounding so intensely. He attempted to judge the distance, forty yards. Easy shot.

He took a moment and looked at the stag, gaining his composure. He really didn’t need to kill it did he? The battle in his head between the admiration for the beauty of this stag, and his own primal instincts as old as the Earth which he stood on. He needed food and yet he couldn’t bring himself to kill this creature, such a crime to nature would leave a deep and indelible mark on his soul.

This stag was ultimately just the same as him though, a stranger going through life. It seemed so human in its actions, drinking as he would from that pool.  But the cave man inside of him longed for food. It longed for nourishment. And it beat back his instinct to let this magnificent stag go.

Resigned to his fate, he drew back the arrow until the cord was as tight as he could make it. And in that instant, for the second time that day it looked up and locked eyes with him. But it did not run; it too seemed resigned to its fate. Its big doleful eyes made a last plea to the boy. But he simply ignored it.

He breathed in, deeply. And then out again, and just as there was no air left to exhale, he released the arrow.

Mr. Sweeney sat alone on the fourth floor of the library almost directly underneath the sign for the expired books that read ‘PUBLIC DOMAIN’. He sat with his legs crossed and the lid of his pen between his teeth. His hair was overgrown and the humble beginnings of a poorly-kept beard were visible. Outside it was warm. Inside he wore a dark tweed jacket and trousers that rested on him loosely. The sun was bright and illuminated the threadbare carpet. It glared on the dust that came from the carpet with every step.

         “Good afternoon”, the librarian said. The wrinkles around her eyes smiled at him. He had known her for years but didn’t bother to learn her name. He had no reason to.

         “Is it?” he replied. The librarian tensed quickly and returned to her screen. She should be used to him by now. The ageing woman addressed him slyly. “You should be out, no? You’re wasting a day like this.”

         He glanced at her as she spoke mindlessly at him. He hadn’t ever looked at her long enough to see past her tired blue eyes. She had a face that seemed to fade as quickly as the cries of a hungry child. Her fingers were long and told of her age. She wore a modest ring, likely engagement, but had no wedding band. He got back to his work.

Some time had passed. He had flicked through a number of children’s novels before returning ‘We’re going on a Bear Hunt’ and deciding to leave. His eyes pointed from person to person. Students sat, just as countless others had for years, studying for the same exams that occur each year. ‘Why them?’ he thought. A life so easily replicated. He stopped himself. He didn’t want to think this way during the day. They shifted in their seats as he passed them like a cold breeze from the warmth of outside. He noticed but did not care. The door before him opened politely but he didn’t move. He heard a shyly muttered apology and saw the reflection of a young woman in the door. His breath shortened. She seemed just years younger than him but he felt decades older. Her hair was long, like her’s was. Like her’s, her hair was perfectly curled at the bottom to rest just above her waist. He remembered that day they came home from the library together. She wasn’t behaving like herself this day. Her steps were nervous and her eyes wandered from him tentatively. It was the day she decided to abandon their studies and it was the last time they would see each other. She announced with ease her departure.

         “What?” he muttered.

         She repeated herself. His jaw tightened as he shrunk under the weight of the news.

         “I’m leaving,” she said coldly. She explained how she couldn’t ‘fix’ him and that he needed help.

         “I’ll call you,” she promised. He waited for her to call but she never did.

         His feet remained still as he stared blankly at the woman in front of him, trying to swallow the lump building in his throat. She had crossed her arms before reaching into her bag. She seemed awkward and wanted to look busy. She excused herself and he kept moving, but his mind stayed right where she left him.

His head hung low as he walked home against strong winds. Leaden clouds were moving above the trees that lined the pavement. It had gotten dark and he could not escape the echo of her final words to him. The streetlight was very bright in the darkness of his cul-de-sac. It cast light on the impressive home he occupied, and the dignity that he had lost. It was once a fine home. It hosted respectable parties. The walls, plastered blue, had heard the sound of first words and honest laughter. His car that sat parked across the street wasn’t always that dirty. The ivy growing over his windows was once kept at a careful length. The grass outside his home hadn’t always crept up beyond the windows of his front room. The nursery, now with four yellowed walls, was once home to teddy bears and tired eyes at 3 A.M. awake for feeding.        

         He knew he had veered off course but didn’t bother to straighten himself out. What was the point? He never stopped going to the library, but he would sit at night alone. The TV would play something he wasn’t interested in. His books would collect dust and lay untouched. Sometimes, looking at the dull cards that had sat for years on the mantelpiece, he would think. Initially, he would think of the gifts of clothes that would “fit when he’s a bit older” that went to waste. He would think of the money innocent relatives spent on a life never to be lived. He would blame himself for not thinking to donate what was left. And then, he would blame himself for not being the one that was taken. They called it ‘survivor’s guilt’. But he was only a child. He was so harmless and vulnerable, yet so overlooked. How could he be wrong for wishing it was him instead?

The evening had passed and with it the winds grew fiercer. By now he had drunk so much that he didn’t know if he was sweating or crying. The winds on the door grew into a knock and he struggled to his feet. It was his sister. She tried to see him often but he rarely complied.

         “Hi, Jill,” he said. She immediately embraced him and his attempts to forget the significance of the next day failed. She welcomed herself into his home and handed him flowers from the nearest shop and a small card. A cartoon bear held a sign that reminded him she was “Thinking of you!” They sat together for some time but he could never recall what they were talking about. He could tell she was growing frustrated but hid it well.

         “Do you want anything to eat?” He realised he hadn’t offered her anything yet. She followed him into the kitchen.

         “I’ll help myself. Sit down, will you?” She replied as she rummaged through his cabinets. She was wearing an expression that told him she had news she didn’t want to share with him. He was right.

         “I’ve met someone. Finally.” she confessed. “I’ll be moving again. Further, this time. I’ll come and visit when I can, but it won’t be as often. I – I’m sorry.” Her words trailed off as he tried to find something to say. He gave a slight, involuntary sigh. He had the urge to tell her all that he was feeling. He wanted to make a joke of it, lighten the mood, prove to her that he was better. But he would never get better, nor would he ever want to be, he thought. What was the point?

At last, she left. As she floated out the door she rhymed off that he could “call me if you ever need anything” and that he was “doing him proud”. He heard her car door slam shut as the headlights of her car beamed in to his front room. As her engine roared into the distance the silence returned and once again engulfed his home. As he shut the door he threw the supermarket flowers away. But he couldn’t bring himself to toss the card. He read it over and over. Eventually he sat down again and reached under his sofa for the only toy he kept. He held the old teddy for a moment. Its glossy eyes seemed to stare at him and he could see his reflection. He thought of all the toy bears he had been given since he passed. With every one, he was told it would get better with time, but he knew it would never really leave him. He knew in that moment that people would leave and find happiness, something he couldn’t provide, and no one would really stay. But, at least, this would.

He lay alone with the stuffed bear by his side. It had gotten cold but he hadn’t bothered to pull up a blanket. He looked at his alarm clock, whose red lights read 02:36. The cold night breeze outside rattled onto the windows of his bedroom as his mind drifted. He thought of the bear that comforted his chest, moving as he breathed. He marvelled at how animals of such force had been reduced to this. How his son’s life had been reduced to this. He thought of their struggle, always alone and never settling down, but always ready to escape. He thought of how they were lured in with promises, only to be shot down. His chest swelled as he imagined their helpless defeat displayed as a human victory. Like them, he lay exiled from the peace and life he longed for as he submitted to the fatal listlessness that would consume his tomorrow.

He loves me.

‘How to know that you are in love’.

 ‘You can’t stop staring at them.’

Check. When I see him, everything else in that room goes dark, it’s like he’s the only thing that matters, he is the only thing that matters.

‘Time flies by when you’re together.’

Check. I’ve known him for eleven years, it feels like it’s all gone by in a couple of seconds.

‘You want to touch and kiss them.’

Check. The way he holds me in his arms makes me feel on top of the world, I never want it to stop. And when he kisses me, it feels like gold dust falling on my lips.

See, I am in love. It’s normal to get cold feet before your wedding, right? It’s normal to feel like your life is ending, right? I love him. I’ve loved him since we were sixteen. We grew up together. We got each other through the end of high school, college, my mom dying, his dad leaving. He’s the only boy I’ve ever loved.

Which makes me wonder; what if I had never met him? Maybe I would’ve became a doctor like I’ve always wanted to, and not a useless girl with a useless degree because, ‘why should you need a job if I can provide for us?’ Or maybe I would have travelled the world, gone to all the places I’ve always wanted to go to but ‘I have to finish my law degree, maybe we can travel another time’. I never planned on being the ‘trophy wife’, but here we are.

Its not like he isn’t good to me; anything I want I always get. Whether it’s a Chanel bag, or Dior perfume, or this massive rock on my finger. He ‘provides’ for me, we live in a big penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park. It’s a dream. We have five bedrooms, one for me and him, three for our future kids and a guest bedroom. It always feels cold in the house, he’s never home, just me in a big house myself. Maybe it will feel like a home when we have kids.

He loves me, he always tells me that. But sometimes, sometimes I don’t feel like he does. It didn’t use to be that way. But once he started working, he became angrier. He wasn’t the sweet boy I fell in love with anymore. Then it got worse: one day after a long day in the office he came home, dinner had taken a bit longer than usual and wasn’t ready. I’ve never seen him get so mad. It took me a while to cover the bruise, slowly I got better at covering them. No one knew, no one knows.

I’m getting married in an hour. I need to decide, do I go to the wedding, get married, have kids, grow old with the ‘love of my life’? Or do I run away, start fresh, travel, become a doctor? But who am I without him? The only ‘friends’ I have are the wives of his friends. The only source of money is from his pay check. The only life I’ve ever had is with him.

Suddenly I’m back in the room; I must’ve spaced out because now my hair and makeup are done. I wanted to wear my hair up, but he prefers it down. The room is in panic, we must be running late. I have 3 bridesmaids; my little sister, his big sister and my best friend. His mom is here running the show. Thank God for her, because she basically planned the entire wedding, apart from my dress.

My dress. It’s the dress I’ve dreamed of ever since I was a little girl. It’s slim fitting, mermaid shape, with a long train. It has white roses patterned all the way down it, it’s perfect. It’s the perfect dress, for the perfect wedding, for the ‘perfect’ marriage. ‘We’ve got to go! We’re running so late!’ I hear his mom shouting from down the stairs. We rush out of my room, down the stairs and into the limo.  

My hands are shaking. I’m really doing this. I’m signing myself away to this man, this life. Cooking dinner, gossiping with other wives, waiting for him to come home at night. Or finding out about his mistresses, covering bruises, convincing myself that he loves me. We are almost outside the church, the girls have music on, champagne is in everyone’s hands.

‘Why is everyone standing outside the church?’

Silence

Every head turns and looks towards the church. I can hear my heart pounding. My legs are shaking. Every girl is looking at me for answers, I am looking at his mom. We link eyes; she looks as worried as I am.

His mom orders the limo driver to stop. ‘Wait here I’ll find out what is happening.’ She opens the door and gets out.

The chat between the girls continues, more champagne is poured, more gossip is spilt. I don’t join in, however; I watch his mother as she approaches one of the ushers. The usher puts one hand on her shoulder, pulls her in and whispers in her ear. She looks at the limo and looks back at him.

Slowly she walks towards the limo and opens the door. ‘Can you all get out, please?’

She sounds pleading; something bad has happened.

The girls are slowly budging out and taking their champagne with them. It’s just me and his mom sitting there now.

She is upset, she’s crying.  

‘He’s not here, they can’t find him anywhere’.

He loves me not.

Have you ever seen a pin, dropped in a crowded room? That was my life, a bustling room. Hundreds of things going on all at once. Until at one point everything stopped. Why did it stop? Well, that’s because somewhere along the line, somebody made the mistake of treading on that pin. The pin that I fatefully stepped on was Alma. It was my decision to do stupid things for love. But just like finding a pin in your foot, there was going to be blood. Blood that I had to live with, which stained my life forever. In that moment I didn’t care about the boy staring daggers at me. I didn’t care that hours later I had assignments due. I wanted to be with her. I shouldn’t have gone out that night. I didn’t think of the blood.

The investigation began on the 2^nd of February. When interrogated, both suspects seemed to distance themselves from the victim.

3^rd February – Interrogation Room: Suspect One

Oh yeah, Alma. That girl from art? She’s confident, way more confident than me at least. Maybe that’s why we didn’t get along. But what happened to her was a step too far. Listen, just because we weren’t ‘best mates’ doesn’t mean I’d do something like that to her. The night she went missing, I was home alone. 11 Priestly Gardens. We’ve never spoken outside of school, there was no reason for me to be with her that night. I don’t know why I’m here, my parents are going to kill me if they find out that I’ve been brought in by the cops. I don’t know what you want to do with me. I’m no expert, but you could try your luck with that girl from art class. She’s always had some obsession with Alma. Since day dot. Always staring at her. But what do I know, huh? I just want to get outta here. So if that’s all you wanted to get out of me, I’ll be on my way home.

3rd February

I couldn’t tell them the truth. My mouth was coated in the metallic taste of my blood. I’d been slowly nibbling at my lips as I was sat in front of the officer. I’d been summoned to the station earlier in the morning. I knew that they’d found out. I couldn’t tell them that this was all my fault. I couldn’t tell them that I was the one who had said she should go for a walk to clear her head. I couldn’t tell them that I was jealous of the girl in our art class. I couldn’t tell them that I was going to meet Alma the same night she went missing. I was going to meet her. I swear I was. I kept telling myself that she’d never want me. So I sat in my hallway. While she was pacing down the street, waiting for me to show up. I sat there, staring at the rough soles of my shoes. Eventually I shook off my nerves and left to catch up with her. I was too late. I should’ve gone. I should’ve been there. Those few minutes of contemplation would make the difference of whether or not she was alive right now; I think. I can’t forgive myself for that.

3^rd February – Interrogation Room: Suspect Two

Alma. I’d heard of her. I’d talk to her in art, period five on a Tuesday. I didn’t know much about her but her art was beautiful. She’d use colours to communicate animals. Butterflies. She’d paint hundreds at a time. I’d never admit it, but I watched her from the corner of my eye. I couldn’t help it. She was mesmerising. I got lost watching her delicately swipe at her canvas. Each stroke led to another array of bright butterflies scattering across her work. I couldn’t imagine what she’s going through, but I’d never hurt her. She was perfect. Everything about her. On January 31^st  I was starting my art project, due the following day. The only communication I had with her was that I tried contacting her about what pastels she’d use for her realism portrait. I didn’t get a reply. You can check my phone. I had run out of charcoal and it was late so all the craft stores would be closed. It sounds awful, but I wandered through her location on Snapchat. I had seen that she wasn’t home. She was near this address that I’d never heard of. It was called Priestly Gardens or something. I didn’t pay much attention to it. A few hours later I got a message. Through Instagram a guy from my art class who I’d never talked to before. I can show you the text, but from what I can remember he asked if Alma was with me. That’s when I knew something was wrong. I would never have spoken to him but he seemed really worried. I said I hadn’t heard from her but if I could help, I would. I’ve not heard from him since.

3rd February

She had called me that same night. She was alone. She was going to meet the guy from art. Apparently she hadn’t heard from him. He’s always hated me. I could see him scowling at me whenever I got too close to Alma. His eyes would burn into the back of my head. Especially in Tuesday art. I said that I was free if she needed a rebound. I could tell she was upset. When she agreed I quickly packed up some of my dad’s half empty gin and slipped out into the bitter night air. Christ, I wish I hadn’t been so eager. I’m the reason she was wasted and out of control. I should’ve stayed with her. Made sure she got home safe. I didn’t though. I met with her and we went out to the park. She was wearing nothing but a butterfly patterned dress. I offered her my jumper and she took it. That’s most likely how I ended up interrogated by the cops. The girl that went missing was last seen wearing my clothes. I couldn’t tell them that I left her crying for help.

19^th July

I still think about her. I think about how I got jealous of anyone she spoke to. That guy from art class? I never spoke to him again, we occasionally catch each other’s eye. I can’t hate him, I can’t bring myself to. We’ve both lost someone we loved. Alma. God, Alma. I like to think of her as one of her butterflies from her paintings. Beautiful, bright wings sprouting from her back. Unlike her paintings that are now hung next to a memorial of her in the art classroom. She’s free, and she is as perfect as ever.

The light peeks shyly through the curtains, diamonds sunlight flows, glowing rainbow hues onto the walls and illuminating the French flat, revealing the chic interior that matches the Parisian streets. Hundreds of similar canvases, each with their expressive colours, a wooden easel with slight stains of red and the light slithers across the floor and climbs up the beige walls, the purple curtains and into the bedroom. It is the stage on which her ideas perform. Arisen from her slumber, the dark bobbed woman opens her eyes to the warmth masking her face. Her silk pyjamas slide across the bed as she slithers off to her feet. She makes contact with the freezing floor, silently stepping to her wardrobe, floating, to grab her light brown trench coat. She walks through the open space admiring her quirky furniture and her exciting art. Her portal of inspiration. From her window comes a refreshing gust of air, enlivening the senses and relaxing breath.

The city has a heart, a rhythm and a beat, its blood is its people, and its beat is the people walking, and she can feel this from her balcony. Her eyes are diligently watching over her city, her eyes moving from one person to another, examining each one. Who will be her next victim? She has never painted a boring person. Luckily the streets of Paris cannot produce one. Everyone flows with such grace, each with their own quirky style, not afraid to be an individual and yet fitting the aesthetic of her city. Walking across the road is an elderly lady with her silver hair shimmering in the suit, oversized sunglass making it seem as if she is some Hollywood actress and a monochrome pink outfit. A young blonde woman with a scarf tied into her hair, a dress overall layering her striped shirt ridding her green-blue bike with a wooden basket in the front containing some beautiful flowers; or the elderly gentleman walking with a skip in his step in his bright shirt and tie, beret, dark emerald suit and same coloured trousers that are short enough to show his brightly coloured socks that are long enough to reach into his trousers. Or the young man, she has seen him before; he walks past her flat every morning in his expensive suits, shined shoes and slicked-back hair. Like every other morning, he opens the door to the beautiful bakery; when looking, you’d think the glow was coming from the pastries. She should probably go there one day.

She remembers her first; it was where she gained her passion. It was like love at first sight. She met her first muse years ago when she was a starving artist on the streets of Paris, not a penny to her name, trying to make something of herself. Then he came to her; he saw her talent, and he pushed her to be more. He promised her all the fame in the world she’d be up there with Van Gogh and Picasso; people would flock to get a glimpse of the colour she used. But it never came. Their perfect little life was crumbling in front of them, was nothing they could do. The successes soon seemed so far away, and he blamed her. During the countless nights of arguing, he shouted and screamed insults to her face. To him, her talent disappeared. There was nothing to set her apart; she wasn’t an artist. She just painted.  And he just kept pushing her and pushing her and pushing her until she reached her limit; she hated painting. So the screaming stopped; he was gone. And so she dedicated the last picture to him. However, as it turned out, this was just the first of many. This painting helped her find her eccentric style and the obsession with putting life in her paintings.

The soul in her paintings caught the eye of many, and she was finally recognised for her talents in galleries; critics and fans herded around her artwork to just get a glimpse of the ruby red that characterised her canvas. The fame came at once, and she had the desire to recreate the success and feeling that came as a result of the first, but she was apprehensive. There was no way passion came from her unique process. She was terrified at the thought. And so she made recreations using different methods, and she hated it plain and simple. It wasn’t the same; there was no life in the photos, and models were terrible to work with. They thought they could manipulate her. What did they know about art? Nothing. It was easier this way. Her passion had returned, and the flame only grew brighter with her painting thrown on.

She stops her reminiscing and realises her coffee mug is empty, and so are the streets. It is time to return to the inside of her chamber to continue her work. The painting is always satisfying for her, it is like a form of meditation, and the end product is always worth it. The end product is beautiful, the satisfaction of creating something with her own two hands, everything from the brush strokes to the paint. Every person she paints is personal; she never uses the same paint twice; they are individuals with a story and a part in hers. Every time she picks up her paintbrush, she becomes part of it. She dips her brush in the sweet red sap, thin and flowing, as she circles the brush around. Slowly sliding her hand to the blank canvas, she begins the journey. Sliding her brush from one side to another feels like an elegant dance. She can do it so quickly now; she feels as if she knew this person. She did, but they did not. They were a young woman, tho older than her, with dark hair much like her own. She brings her hand down and round to show her long and thin face. She moves the dark gushing red to contour the face of her muse, her hooked nose and sunken, light eyes.

Stepping back, she admires her work, her eyes following every stroke. She has red paint all over her clothing and face; she loves how it feels, connecting with her artwork as one. The face is exactly as she remembers as if she was alive next to her as if it could speak to her.

She has a spot for her newest creation, and so she carefully hangs it up. She never waits for her paintings to dry. She loves how the red drips down as if it is the blood that flows in the body. She stares at it for a good few minutes; she feels like crying. Instead, she turns around to her workspace behind her and realises it’s time to clean up; the part she hates the most is when she realises the mess in her apartment. She grabs her pots brushes and walks back into the kitchen to grab her mortar and pestle filled with white powder she had ground previously and heads toward the bathroom. She always keeps it locked, and so while balancing the pots, brushes and mortar and pestle, she reaches into her trench coat pocket and brings out an old looking key; it is beautiful and intricate, much like her work. She slides the thin key into the keyhole and turns. Walking into the heavenly white bathroom in front of her is the sink and an antique mirror. She looks at herself, her pale skin, black eyes, and red over her face as if it was her blood. Bending down to the sink, she places everything that is in her hands in the basin. Watching as the water slowly purifies the deep red and black, her sins washed away, baptised into a new life. After cleaning, she sets them to her right to let them dry and then turns to her left. And to her left is her bath and in her bath is a body. A woman with dark hair, a hooked nose, dark and sunken eyes, the same red on her canvas, covered her walls and the woman. She bends down to her bath to ensure her dark eyes are in line with the lifeless ones in front of her, and in her sweet voice, she whispers, “I’m making you immortal, my muse.”