You pry your eyes open and the first thing you do is roll over to check the small screen holding your life together. You feel a surge of joy in your chest when you see the notifications though you feel a lingering annoyance at the pending tasks other people have put in front of you. You swing your legs out of bed and walk down the hall to your home office, the grand name you give the small desk pushed up against a wall and propping up a monitor. For the next 8–10 hours, you will work from your medium screen. When you're done, you'll reward yourself with some time laying back and sipping a beer while you watch vaguely human-shaped piles of plastic throw martinis at each other on the large screen. Are we really better off, or just better distracted?

We're obsessed with keeping busy. We glorify hustle culture and the burnout it brings. We're in an endless loop of waking up just to work and going to sleep just to fuel our labor. We are taught to wrap our identity up in our output. The inner self is discarded along with any passions and hobbies that don't contribute to the meager piles of gold we hope to gather throughout our lifetimes. Video games are just wasteful—you could be teaching yourself to code with that time. It's sweet that you like to crochet—have you ever tried selling your work on Etsy?

Hustle at work. Marathon that Netflix show. Keep checking how many likes you got on that social media post, even though you don't care. You don't really care about that sort of thing. But there's that small pang of anxiety, like a guitar string being stretched tight in your chest, when you think about not measuring up to all the rest. You hold your yardstick up to your shortcomings and their highlight reels. This world is designed to keep us busy and anxious. It distracts us from a mind-numbing lack of meaning in our lives.

The endless stream of nothingness helps dull the pain a bit. We scroll and tap past births and deaths and all the mundane little moments that happen in between. Do you remember when media feeds had pages instead of the neverending scroll? They're now carefully designed to keep you trapped in the content loop. You can't stop scrolling now when you have the next breaking news or hilarious social media post right below. Just one more. It can't hurt. You can't afford to miss the next big thing.

Art used to mean something. Now, it's just media. Content. Product. Culture has shifted away from artistic expression and toward meaningless consumption. Slaves to the doom-scroll. We're so privileged to no longer need to cross international borders to experience history's great masters: da Vinci, Van Gogh, Goya. They're now at our fingertips. But instead we're drowning in noise. You no longer feel the surge of anticipation as you approach the room holding Starry Night. You don't stand in front of it with your heart pounding. You don't feel transported to that French village with the detail of each brushstroke.

Instead you see a social media post with a 700x300-pixel picture. You give it a glance and then scroll on to the next piece of content. All those little wasted moments add up, though. Those seconds of scrolling pile up into minutes and hours, to days and years of your life. The attention economy is stealing years of our lives. In chasing constant stimulation, we’ve lost the ability to sit still without feeling like we’re falling behind. We’ve filled every quiet moment with noise, and now we don’t know how to be alone with ourselves.

Chapter 1. The Visionary

The night sky over Silicon Valley buzzed with drones, a constant, artificial starlight cast down from Damian Sinclair’s floating fleet. Like his mind, they were ever watchful, scanning, analyzing, bending the shadows to reveal every hidden movement. Below, in his quiet glass tower, Damian watched the city pulse to his rhythm—a symphony of algorithms and innovations, all in his image. His reflection in the window seemed ageless, unchanging, a mere echo of his own genetic perfection. Somewhere, in cryogenic storage far beneath his feet, lay millions of embryos, each one a small monument to his genius. For Damian, this was no mere experiment. It was his greatest work—his legacy—crafted cell by cell to outlive them all.

A red button flashed on Damian’s desk. Damian strolled over and leaned into the microphone. “Yes, Tara?”

“Mr. Sinclair,” a cool voice breathed, “They’re ready for you.”

He cracked his neck and marched over to his office’s elevator. A grin slowly crept onto his face on the way down to the Keynote Arena. The doors opened to the sound of thunderous applause coming from behind the thick, silver curtain. Damian grabbed a microphone from a meek assistant, stepped through the curtain, and took in the sight of thousands of his admirers, from industry figures to reporters to the lucky few fans that had coughed up the ten grand it took to secure a seat there.

“My friends, today we are gathered to witness history in the making.” He could see a wave of spectators leaning in on the edge of their seats.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I stand before you today not as a mere innovator or CEO, but as a steward of our collective future. We live in an age of incredible achievement and unparalleled fragility. Our world is more connected, more technologically advanced than ever before—and yet, we’re more vulnerable to global threats: climate catastrophes, pandemics, political instability, rampant infertility. One unfortunate crisis, one moment of oversight, and the diverse tapestry of human achievement could unravel.” He paused, letting the silence stretch as he scanned their faces, leaning in, hungry to know his next words. “And only we—yes, we here—can prevent that.”

Behind him, a giant screen showed a cell failing to undergo meiosis, shriveling in a petri dish. It was replaced by a plump infant smiling down at the audience with icy blue eyes.

“That’s why I created Project Genesis, a comprehensive repository of the human gene pool, a vault designed to secure the full spectrum of humanity’s diversity. In this vault, we will store the DNA of individuals from every background, every corner of the globe. It’s a legacy library, preserving the finest details of who we are for generations to come.

“Imagine a future—a hundred, even a thousand years from now—when unforeseen events have altered the face of the Earth, and there’s a need to restore humanity’s genetic essence. Future generations will look to Project Genesis as the beacon of their heritage, able to rebuild a diverse, vibrant human population with all of our strengths and talents intact.

“This isn’t about me. It isn’t about you. It’s about the survival of humanity’s best qualities. Every artist, every scientist, every teacher, every visionary—we are collecting the DNA of pioneers and everyday heroes alike so that humanity will always have a path forward, no matter what happens.” Images of Aristotle, Leonardo da Vinci, and Albert Einstein flashed on the screen. The images faded away to reveal a video feed that panned across the audience.

“Project Genesis isn’t a replacement for human life; it’s a safety net. A precaution. And as your steward, I believe it’s my duty to take this step now. Because if we don’t preserve ourselves, who will?” The crowd roared with excitement.

“You may recall providing a DNA sample with your entry here today. My gift to you all is that each one of you will be part of the first generation of this monumental archive. You will be the mothers and fathers of the future, regardless of the limitations biology may have placed on you.”

A collective gasp escaped from the audience and made way for another round of applause. Damian’s grin grew wider. The crowd didn’t know the first phase was already complete.

Damian walked back behind the curtain and took the elevator back to his office. He pressed a button on his desk and a large monitor lowered down from the ceiling. The news was already buzzing about his announcement. Headlines scrolled across the screen. “Eccentric CEO pledges to save the world.” “Sinclair Enterprises, the nexus between humanity and progress.” “Damian Sinclair champions biodiversity.”

Damian leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together. “Savior of the world” sure had a nice ring to it. It was true, too. At least, it would feel true to the citizens of the world. They would get to feel important and useful, which is as close to a sense of purpose as any mere human could hope for in the modern age.

Damian believed in the power of predictability and perfection. He felt that entropy was an unavoidable eventuality in a chaotic world, but it was his own purpose to harness that random disorder and turn it into a force for good—his own definition of the common good, that is. Human beings were messy, flawed, dangers to themselves and others. Replacing humanity with clones was a necessary evil—and “evil” itself? Such a subjective word.

- - - - - - - - - -

That night, Damian could hardly sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about the millions of new beginnings resting safely in cryogenic freezers in the sub-basement. The first trials had been massively successful. All key performance metrics had been easily met, and not a whisper of it had escaped the top-secret lab. He felt the urge to check on his little ones.

Damian had a dozen children scattered across the world, each born via a carefully chosen surrogate. Each surrogate had been handsomely paid to bring progeny into the world, though a couple had turned down the money, as they felt it was a sufficient honor to give Mr. Sinclair the gift of life. He didn’t have relationships with these children. When they came of age, they would receive access to a hefty trust set up in their names. Until then, they were of little use to him. He would bring them out for photo ops to maintain his carefully constructed image of Damian Sinclair, benefactor and father to the modern world.

But these embryos—these were all his. When the time was right to release the rest into the world, he would release his tight grasp on their cryogenic chambers and unleash them throughout the planet—and beyond. Space was the final frontier, and he had already begun populating it with various satellites and probes in anticipation of a global catastrophic event. It was only a matter of time until humans finished wrecking the great planet they had been undeservedly gifted.

Damian pulled back the black silk sheets and stepped into his gilded slippers. He stopped at the wall of windows and took in the sight of his empire. Below, skyscrapers reached up toward his tower up above, obscuring the colonies of humans marching on the drab pavement underneath. Their lives were so… inconsequential. So meaningless until the moment Damian had deigned to give them something to hope for.

He pulled a white lab coat over himself. He hadn’t checked on the babies since the big announcement. Damian padded over to the elevator and clicked the button that led him down to the sub-basement. He felt the air grow colder and his breath crystallize into the air as he descended.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened. He stepped into the gleaming white corridor and the doors closed behind him. He made his way down the long hall and past the row of heavy metal doors. He stopped with his right foot still hovering over a miniscule speck of dust on the white marble floor. He cursed the cleaning crew under his breath and vowed to relieve someone of their duties the next morning. Damian stepped over the impurity and toward the gold door at the end of the hall, the imperfection still fixed firmly in his mind.

He scanned his lanyard at the door and it slid open to reveal a massive laboratory. Rows of giant freezers stretched through the lab and lined every wall. He turned to a screen next to the door reading -272.5º C and frowned. This would not do. The embryos had to sit at exactly Absolute Zero to be preserved until their deployment. He angrily tapped at the screen to set it to -273.15º C.

Damian strolled through the rows of freezers and held a hand up to the frosty glass. Here laid the next step for humanity. The culmination of his decades of hard work. As he strolled past each cryogenic chamber, his gaze softened to a faint smile. Here lay the next step for humanity, his meticulously designed children, preserved at the very edge of absolute zero. And it was all his. His legacy.

During the day, few people had the privilege of access to this secret unit—only the top scientists and trusted engineers he had hand-picked. During the night, the place was empty. This was his sanctuary, where he could shout his dreams and lofty ambitions out to no one but his army of embryos.

Reaching out, he pressed a palm to the frosty glass, whispering to the embryos, “One day, little ones. One day, you’ll have the world. And when you do… it will be my world.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Damian Sinclair leaned back in his leather chair, the faint hum of the supercomputers below vibrating through his feet. The applause from the keynote still echoed faintly in his mind, a distant roar of validation that never quite filled the void. Validation was fleeting; progress was eternal. He opened a holographic interface on his desk, scrolling through the latest updates on Project Genesis. Every metric exceeded expectations, and yet, the numbers brought him no comfort. They never did.

Sinclair’s gaze drifted to the skyline, the city below sparkling like stars on a clear night. Each light represented a piece of his empire: the research labs, the data centers, the production facilities. To the world, they were monuments to innovation. To him, they were merely tools.

His mind wandered to his early years, back when humanity’s chaos still held sway over his life. He thought of the polluted skies of his childhood, the food shortages that wracked his small town, the global leaders paralyzed by inaction. He had watched his neighbors struggle, their lives consumed by forces beyond their control. They had been good people, but goodness had not saved them. Progress would have.

Damian’s ancestors believed in hard work and fairness, values he came to see as quaint and obsolete. By the time he was 20, he’d abandoned their ideals entirely and joined his father’s empire. His father was an unkind man, a man who shared his beliefs about how humanity had to be reined in and controlled for its own good. The future wasn’t for the weak, the fair, or the sentimental. It was for those willing to bend the world to their will.

Damian came from a long line of entrepreneurs, all starting with a stake in various diamond mines throughout the world. Perhaps you’ve heard of them. They were the ones responsible for the advertising campaign that led billions of women to expect their partners to get down on one knee and present them with a sparkling diamond as proof of their never-ending love. It was pure manipulation of the masses, forcing hordes of young men into debt to prop up the Sinclair Mining Company. Today, the mines were still in operation and kept running with the blood of the poor who had no other choice but to risk their lives and limbs to dig shiny rocks out of the ground.

But the Sinclairs today were more often known for their tech empire, which had been in the making since the dawn of the first computer. They were known for bringing the digital era to the public, from the personal computer to the smartphone and then artificial intelligence engines. Now, it was nearly impossible to find a corner of the world that the Sinclairs had not helped mold. They built hospitals operated by artificial intelligence, lobbied hard with governments around the world to get favorable national contracts, and gradually built the modern skyline.

Damian’s hands rested on the smooth arms of the chair as the hologram shifted to a live feed from the Genesis Vault. Rows upon rows of cryogenic chambers stood in perfect formation, bathed in the sterile glow of LED lights. Inside each chamber was an embryo, genetically optimized and meticulously crafted. His legacy, cell by cell.

A sharp pang of satisfaction coursed through him. These embryos weren’t just his children; they were his ideals incarnate. Their genes carried the essence of his intellect, his resilience, his vision. They were humanity’s next step, freed from the bonds of randomness, entropy, and inefficiency.

“Entropy,” he muttered under his breath, the word bitter on his tongue. He tapped a control, zooming in on a specific chamber. “The enemy of order. The enemy of progress.”

If the trials succeeded, this technology would accelerate humanity’s evolution exponentially. They would be freed from the shackles of natural human error and propelled into a brighter future, a future that was shaped by Sinclair’s hand. Widespread trials had been in progress for decades now, but full execution of the Sinclair Protocol was still in the works. There were still some kinks to work out to ensure that the subjects’ behavior was programmed as intended.

Sinclair opened another interface, this one displaying global headlines. Economic instability in Europe. Protests in South America. Rising infertility rates worldwide. Each headline was another reason why humanity needed him. The chaos outside reinforced the necessity of his work. Without him, the world would burn itself out in a matter of decades.

His public narrative was carefully crafted to position him as humanity’s steward. “Damian Sinclair, the savior of the species,” the headlines proclaimed. The public didn’t need to know the details, the uncomfortable truths about the calculated elimination of diversity. They couldn’t understand.

He skimmed a report on fertility clinics run by his subsidiary, LifeBridge Labs. Their recruitment program was running ahead of schedule. Thousands of couples, desperate for children, had unknowingly contributed their participation to Project Genesis. Sinclair smirked. “A simple trade: their hope for my future.”

For all his confidence in the project, Sinclair wasn’t blind to the risks. Human beings, even in their perfected forms, carried the seeds of rebellion. He’d read the reports of minor irregularities among the early clones—flashes of independence, moments of unpredictability. It was a weakness he couldn’t tolerate.

He glanced at the data on DS-A015, a clone stationed in the cognitive testing division. The logs showed subtle deviations from expected behavior. Nothing dramatic, but enough to trigger his concern. He made a note to have the subject’s parameters adjusted. “Perfection requires vigilance,” he reminded himself.

The door to his office slid open, and Tara, his chief strategist, stepped inside. She carried a sleek tablet, her professional demeanor failing to mask the underlying adoration. At this point, Sinclair practically expected to see it on his underlings’ faces. After all, why wouldn’t they revere their fearless leader? They should be thanking him for all he did for the planet.

“The Vault expansion is ahead of schedule,” she reported. “And the AI deployment in South Asia is complete. We’ve seen a 22% reduction in energy consumption since the rollout.”

“Good,” Sinclair replied, his voice measured. “And the behavioral imprint trials?”

Tara hesitated. “We’re seeing… some anomalies. Minor deviations in cognitive patterns. Nothing to suggest instability, but enough to warrant further observation.”

Sinclair leaned forward. “Define ‘anomalies.’”

“Certain subjects are exhibiting faint traces of independent decision-making. It’s likely just noise in the data, but we’re running diagnostics to be sure.”

“Run them again,” he ordered. “There’s no margin for error.”

Tara lowered her eyes and nodded at the floor. After she left, Sinclair activated the wall screen, filling his office with projections of the future. The simulations depicted sprawling cities powered by clean energy, genetically engineered crops thriving in barren soils, and a society free from war and poverty. Many of the human figures in these images shared his cold blue gaze, like staring into a glacier.

He watched the simulations with a mixture of pride and melancholy. The final stage of the world he was building would never be his to inhabit. It wasn’t about him, not really. At least that’s what he told himself. It was about the legacy he would leave behind—a humanity perfected, freed from the chaos of its origins.

Sinclair poured himself a glass of whiskey, staring at the glowing city below. He thought of the sacrifices he’d made, the lies he’d told, the lives he’d manipulated. “History will judge me,” he said aloud, raising the glass. “But history doesn’t build itself. Progress demands a price.”

His android assistant stepped stiffly forward from its position against the wall. “Right you are, sir. And we thank you for your courage.”

As midnight approached, Sinclair received a notification on his wrist terminal. The Vault expansion team required his approval to proceed to Phase Two. He descended into the sub-basement, where the cold air nipped at his face. The sight of the Vault always filled him with quiet awe—a tangible representation of his life’s work.

He stopped in front of one of the Vault’s chambers, placing a hand on the glass. “You’ll finish what I started,” he whispered. “When the world is ready, you’ll show them the way.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Damian Sinclair entered the executive elevator at precisely 7:00 a.m., as he did every morning. The elevator, a custom-built capsule of glass and steel, provided an uninterrupted view of the city below. For most, the sight would have been a moment of inspiration or serenity. For Sinclair, it was a daily reminder of his dominion.

He tapped his wrist terminal, bringing up the morning’s agenda in a holographic display. Every second of his day had been meticulously planned by his assistant, Tara, under his explicit instructions. Nothing was left to chance. Efficiency wasn’t just a goal—it was the foundation of his empire.

The boardroom at Sinclair Enterprises was a cathedral of innovation. Its walls were embedded with dynamic displays showcasing real-time data from every department: production metrics, R&D updates, and global market trends. Sinclair strode into the room, his tailored, deep blue suit a sharp contrast to the muted tones of the room.

“Good morning,” he began, his tone curt. The team of department heads nodded in unison, their laptops glowing in front of them. Tara stood at his side, tablet in hand, ready to support his every command.

“Let’s begin with the Vault expansion,” he said, eyes scanning the room.

A man with thinning hair and nervous hands stood to present. “The expansion is progressing as scheduled. However, we encountered a minor delay in—”

“Stop,” Sinclair interrupted, his voice slicing through the air. “Delays are unacceptable. Define ‘minor.’”

The man fumbled with his words. “A… shipment of cryogenic units was delayed due to a logistics error. We’ve already—”

“An error,” Sinclair repeated, his gaze narrowing. “Do you understand what this project represents? What’s at stake? Logistics errors are not ‘minor.’ They’re cracks in the foundation.”

The man paled. “I’ll ensure it doesn’t happen again, Mr. Sinclair.”

“You’ll ensure it’s fixed,” Sinclair said coldly. “Today.”

“Today? Y-yes, of course, sir,” the man stuttered.

After the meeting, Sinclair returned to his office, a sprawling glass enclosure at the top of the tower. He stood by the window, watching the city pulse with life. The faint sound of drones patrolling the skies provided a constant reminder of the control he’d imposed on this world—his world. His desk lit up with a notification: a coding anomaly detected in one of the AI systems overseeing the Vault. Sinclair’s jaw tightened. He pressed a button on his desk, summoning the engineer responsible to his office.

Within minutes, a young man in his early twenties arrived, his face flushed with anxiety. He carried a tablet, clutching it like a shield. “Mr. Sinclair,” the engineer stammered, “you wanted to see me?”

Sinclair didn’t look up from the holographic display in front of him. “Your name.”

“Adrian Stevens, sir.”

“Adrian,” Sinclair said, testing the name as if deciding its worth. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“I—I believe it’s about the anomaly in the AI system, sir.” Of course, Adrian didn’t know what exactly the AI system was meant to govern. He was fed a story about it controlling general company operations.

Sinclair finally looked at him, his piercing gaze enough to make Adrian shift uncomfortably. “Not ‘anomaly.’ Say the word.”

“Error, sir.”

“Correct.” Sinclair leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Errors are unacceptable. Do you know why?”

Adrian swallowed hard. “Because they disrupt progress.”

“Disrupt?” Sinclair’s voice was a low growl. “They sabotage it. They undermine the vision, the future. This ‘error’—this lapse in your oversight—could jeopardize the integrity of the entire company.”

Adrian’s face turned crimson. “I—I understand, sir. I’ve already started debugging the system and—”

“Stop,” Sinclair snapped. He stood, towering over Adrian. “I don’t want excuses. I want results. You have two hours to fix this. If you can’t, I’ll find someone who can.”

“Yes, sir.” Adrian nodded rapidly, clutching his tablet as if it were a lifeline.

“Dismissed.”

As Adrian hurried out of the office, Sinclair sat down, his jaw tightening. He despised inefficiency, but what he hated even more was incompetence. He made a mental note to monitor Adrian’s progress closely.

Later that morning, Sinclair descended to the primary laboratory floor. The lab buzzed with activity, a symphony of whirring machines and hushed conversations. Engineers in white coats moved like clockwork, their movements precise and synchronized. As Sinclair entered, the room fell silent. Conversations stopped and heads turned. His presence was a force field of authority, demanding attention without words.

“Dr. Mendez,” Sinclair called.

A middle-aged scientist with graying hair approached, his expression laced with caution. “Mr. Sinclair, welcome.”

“Walk me through the imprint trials,” Sinclair ordered.

Dr. Mendez led him to a workstation where rows of data scrolled across a holographic display. “The latest batch of memory-echo testing shows promising results. The imprints are integrating seamlessly into the subjects’ neural pathways, with a 94% retention rate of targeted experiences.”

“Six percent failure,” Sinclair muttered as he turned up his nose. “Unacceptable.”

“It’s a vast improvement over previous iterations,” Mendez offered, his voice hinting at fear.

“‘Improvement’ is not perfection,” Sinclair said. “Every failure is a liability. Identify the outliers and eliminate the variables.”

“Yes, Mr. Sinclair.”

Sinclair continued his tour of the lab, inspecting every detail. He paused at a station where a junior engineer was calibrating a device. The engineer’s hands trembled slightly under Sinclair’s watchful eye.

“Steady hands,” Sinclair said sharply. “Precision is everything.”

“Yes, sir,” the engineer murmured, focusing intently on her task.

Back in his office, Sinclair reviewed the day’s reports. Every department was a cog in the vast machine he had built, and he monitored each one relentlessly. His assistants knew better than to bring him anything less than complete transparency. A notification appeared on his desk interface: Adrian Stevens had resolved the coding error in the Vault’s AI. Sinclair reluctantly allowed himself a brief nod of approval before noting the next task. Adrian would not receive praise—results were expected, not celebrated.

As the day wound down, Sinclair poured himself a glass of scotch. The skyline was painted in shades of gold and crimson, the city below bathed in the glow of the setting sun. He thought of the embryos in the Vault, suspended in a state of perfect preservation. They were his legacy, his solution to the chaos of humanity. And yet, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered doubts. Was perfection truly attainable? Could he ever trust the system he had created to function without him? Sinclair dismissed the thoughts, taking a long sip of his drink. Doubt was a weakness he could not afford.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Title: Legacy.exe

Genre: Speculative Fiction, Science Fiction

Age Range: Adult

Word Count: 57,660

Target Audience: Adult fans (of any gender) of speculative fiction, science fiction, and suspense/thriller books.

Why My Project is a Good Fit: I’m reaching out because Legacy.exe is in line with Trident Media Group’s reputation for championing thought-provoking fiction. I also see that Audrey Crooks is seeking speculative fiction.

- - -

Hook: When a brilliant young engineer uncovers that he’s a clone in a secret project designed to overwrite humanity with the genetic image of a tech mogul, he must defy his programming, expose the truth, and ignite a global fight for the future of free will.

- - -

Synopsis: Adrian Stevens, a junior engineer at the powerful Sinclair Enterprises, begins experiencing strange déjà vu and fragmented dreams that lead him to a chilling discovery: he is a clone, engineered as part of his CEO Damian Sinclair’s secretive Project Genesis. The project aims to replace humanity with genetically perfect copies of Sinclair, designed to create a world free of unpredictability and flaws. As Adrian uncovers more about the sinister plans, he teams up with Eva, another clone, to expose the truth. Together, they navigate a web of deception, reclaim their autonomy, and stop Sinclair from erasing the diversity and freedom that define humanity. But can you ever really keep Sinclair in one place for long?

- - -

Author Name: Beatrice Gomes

Bio: I am a Venezuelan who immigrated to the US in 1999 and currently live in the Washington, DC area. This is my debut novel. My writing aims to challenge readers to question the nature of humanity and progress. In my day job, I write brand strategies and narratives for medical brands at a marketing agency.

Platform: LinkedIn — /beatricecgomes/

Education: B.S. in Marketing with Minors in Psychology and Digital Marketing from Sacred Heart University

Experience: Brand strategist with a focus on healthcare marketing; lifelong passion for writing

Personality/ Writing Style: I'm a romantic who fell in love with science. My writing aims to place the reader in a morally ambiguous area they have to find their way out of alongside the characters.

Likes/Hobbies: I'm a creative nerd who obsesses over everything from Kurt Vonnegut to Alphonse Mucha's art nouveau.

Hometown: Originally from Caracas, Venezuela; now living in the Washington, D.C. area.

Age: 29

We walk away from the people who do us harm,

because to walk after them is to be the very definition of movement filled with vitriol.

What can be gained from such a brief pain, from someone angling to make themselves a part of your life when you can so easily cut them out? Get out.

Get out of me. Get out of my head, and get away from my life where you are unwelcome.

Pay your patronage to your other fuel,

light your fire there and warm your hands away from me.

Because I aim to give you fire no more. I hope that you will watch my burning body stoke no flames, give no white coal, and shudder with the tiniest wisp of air.

Let me lie cool on the ground, in ways that I know will dissatisfy you because I aim to be your fuel no more. You, who sit in a forest full of sticks, would choose to skin and flay me alive.

I hate what you've done to me. What you've tried to do to me.

To mold me in a way that my predecessors could not. So I gnash my teeth, clenching and grinding dust out of myself as I bear down to dig away. To burrow into the Earth until you can't follow me anyway.

Here, steadfast are my aching bleeding fingers, seeping into the Earth from where I was poured returned in a way I knew you couldn't gather me up. Slipping through fingers, like the oily fat that my body is now. Until I can reform into a new skin, and from the burrow deep within, I may rise through the Earth anew.

And when I look back, I know you are somewhere behind me, and I am somewhere beyond. For my eyes search the woods for your hollowed face, but it is nowhere near me. And I keep checking, looking back as I carefully carve my path, making sure to leave you no crumbs, no pebbles. For I am happy and content in my placement being nowhere you can know.

Goodbye to those so wicked, they'd burn me.

Goodnight to the aching sorrows so I know they will only reach me where you cannot.

We are not one giving unto each other, for I give unto myself. I give myself something new, like the breath of cold air in my fresh lungs. Sure, they ache from the form I formerly took. From the body I used to shake, but I have since shed the skin of yesterday's sorrow, to let my new form dry and bake in sun kissed mornings as I let my fingers caress dew sampled grass.

Here, I can close my eyes, and merely exist. I am free. Free from you, and yours. We aren't going to feel the familiar tear of our soul here. Here is the place where my breath breaths, and nature returns to me a place for another breath to inhale. I just want to know, was this what she always wanted, when she cried at the branch sampled window where branches swayed in shadows, acting like they were knocking, telling me of a place away from the day. Away from the days that felt like a movie I was living and walking through, a non-reality where voices of little things tried to entice me into vices and walk virtues in places that fingers and hands liked to tear and rip... and burn.

No, I am here. I am aching in the space where the voices do not exist. Where the sun dazzles my eyes, and wind wisps my hair. Skin kissed by cool breaths of nature's fair touch. Oh, I can feel the heat in me, and the cool undisturbed by the space of things that linger in the dark of the woods and I can turn. I can swing my body and sway, until I am under the sky and above the Earth, for everything that has come together to ache within me is my reprieve. I am alive. I am alive here, and here I will turn and turn until I can't anymore.

Until my body doesn't want to anymore. Because I want to.

And I know no one can reach me here.

No one.

Seigniorage

April 20, 2025

“Why do you value your skills at such a high rate?

“It took me years to refine and hone each of my skills to the level at which they now exist. Few can match any of them individually. None can surpass all of which I offer today. Thus, their collective value stands.”

“I only ask because the position requires only a specific set of skills and not the entire ensemble you present. Thus, their collective value actually diminishes the individual value of the ones we currently require.”

The argument would continue for a few minutes before (eventually) drawing toward the inevitable impasse. Whether it be egos or obstinance, the party of the first part and the party of the second part could not reconcile their differences. Once realized, they mutually concluded negotiations and went their separate ways.

Doctor Phillip McGuire understood the senior partner’s predicament and was commiserate with him and his unfortunate circumstances in recruiting the best of the best. However, the good doctor was not inclined to permit a monetary decrease in the worth of all his offered services. However pejoratively the adjudicator for the senior partners pressed, Doctor McGuire would not budge. They had the resources to meet his demands, but not the will.

Rarely will two such people ever reacquaint themselves again for the same purpose. Albert Einstein was known for his definition of insanity which bore a striking resemblance to the conundrum in its current configuration. However, by the next morning’s news feed and the abundance of bio-terrorist attacks in major cities with international airports, the old adage found new life.

It was only insane if you expected not to try again.

The firm could monetize whatever debt it incurred in the morning by signing all practitioners of genetically modified resistant strains of engineered foodstuffs (corn, grains, rice and such) as the first step in combating the gain of function viruses looming on the horizon. They would have a monopoly on the government contracts for resistant products and an endless research pipeline for contingencies against all unpredictable viral mutations.

In essence, Doctor McGuire was now worth what he wanted to be paid.

However, in the brief span of twelve hours, no one could accurately pinpoint the Doctor’s location. Furthermore, as if anticipating such a future, all of the Doctor’s financial and research records became equally impossible to locate.

It was as if Doctor McGuire took his ball and went home.

No trace of his existence by the day’s end. Only speculation surrounding his departure and rumors concerning his intent.

By the morning of the next day, a memo containing transcribed notes from the original meeting surfaced. Speculators began buying and selling stocks increasing the volatility of an already troubled market. The senior partners felt the pressure from world wide news sources wishing to confirm their involvement in the attacks.

Usually, such a crisis presents itself with ample opportunities for those with the vision to see such opportunities and those with the fortitude to act on each. The senior partners failed in both the former and the latter. The wave of disinformation surpassed even their ability to foster a presentation of control.

The downward spiral swallowed the group entirely leaving only a pittance of its original value by sundown. The weekend would see government auditors, federal agents, independent lawyers, and a slew of hostile clients and investors descend upon the carcass. The media frenzy began publishing the death toll of those with the contagion or thought to be connected to the contagion.

The White House began issuing a series of directives and the CDC activated an army of health service workers from epidemiologists to emergency responders.

The motion of millions of ants without the consent or direction of the Queen is the new definition of insanity. Doctor McGuire thought about the quote before tearing the paper from the legal pad. He wanted to shred this single sheet, but opted for tossing it in the fireplace instead.

On Monday, possibly Tuesday, he would issue a statement and begin anew with those who negotiate in earnest this time. He was worth what he said he was worth. This time, he would indicate the numerical value with two additional zeros attached.

This time, they would acknowledge it as true.

K, so this post got me thinking. I'm not planning to attempt this challenge. I'll just throw out ideas in a stream of consciousness, so here goes random ideas for hiding codes and illusions in writing.

First, ambigrams (the words that say something different when looked at upside down) would be a good example of this. Sadly, that would be hard to do on prose but they should be incorperated into books more. They could be used on the covers, spines or for chapter titles.

Secondly, you could make papers that when laid on top of each other, and held up to the light, fill in each other's blanks and create entirely new sentences. That or a code embedded in a story through the chapter headings explaining the end. Or, if writing with an unreliable narrator, the first letter of each chapter, put next to each other in order, could spell out "this book is a lie," or something along those lines. Also, I have always loved that thing some books do where the first letter of each chapter looks like something from in the book. We should bring that back. Or, you could punch holes in a book mark and use it like a black out poem. The bottom of the bookmark could have the book title, edition and page number written on it. When you put the book mark over the right page it would spell out a message. Only thing with that is that it would have to be the size of the page or have a way to indicate how it should be lined up.

The other way I see to interpret this prompt is to think about it as a challenge to describe kinetic art, to give the reader the feeling they they are staring at something both still and moving at the same time.

Yet, I think you could also move the subject of your writing to a unconventional extent and full fill the prompt just as well. For example, contradicting yourself, making your reader second guess every turn in plot. having an unreliable narrator, making the reader feel as if they have to go back to the page where the room was first described so that they can double check that it started out as fantasy and not sci-fi. Be so subtle in your writing, as to have your reader believe that the explanation of the murder is accurate when there is something in the first chapter that makes your conclusion fall apart. The detective is the murderer, but he could never admit it, so the reader has to solve it for him. The less auspiscious readers might just feel a bit confused and discontented, but those who truly invest in the story will have a tale they remember for years to come.

This last idea is my favorite. Anyhow, tag me if any of y'all try any of these out. I'd love to see what happens.

Hermann Hesse’s works often explore deep philosophical themes and the human quest for self-understanding and enlightenment. His writing draws heavily from Eastern philosophy, Jungian psychology, and Western existentialism, creating a rich tapestry of ideas that challenge and inspire readers. Hermann Hesse’s philosophical exploration in his works offers profound insights into the human condition, emphasizing the importance of personal experience, the integration of dualities, and the interconnectedness of all life. His writings encourage readers to embark on their own journeys of self-discovery, recognizing that enlightenment is a continuous, evolving process. Here, we’ll examine some of the key philosophical elements present in his most famous works.

The Search for Self-Identity

At the heart of Siddhartha is the quest for self-identity. Siddhartha’s journey represents the human struggle to understand one’s true self and purpose in life. This theme resonates with existentialist philosophy, which emphasizes the individual’s responsibility to create meaning in an inherently meaningless world. Siddhartha’s refusal to accept predefined paths and doctrines underscores the existentialist belief in the necessity of personal experience and authenticity in the search for self-identity.

1. Siddhartha: The Quest for Authenticity

In Siddhartha, the protagonist’s journey is a vivid representation of the search for self-identity. From the outset, Siddhartha is dissatisfied with the conventional teachings and practices of his Brahmin upbringing. His quest for authenticity drives him to leave his home and explore various paths, including asceticism, sensual indulgence, and finally, a contemplative life by the river. Siddhartha’s journey reflects existentialist themes, particularly the idea that true self-identity cannot be handed down through tradition or external teachings. Instead, it must be discovered through personal experience and introspection. This aligns with the existentialist notion that individuals must create their own essence through their actions and choices, rather than conforming to predefined roles or expectations.

2. Steppenwolf: The Duality of the Self

In Steppenwolf, Hesse delves into the complexities of self-identity through the character of Harry Haller. Harry is torn between his human side, which longs for connection and meaning, and his “wolf” side, which is driven by instinct and isolation. This inner conflict illustrates the duality inherent in human nature and the struggle to reconcile these opposing aspects. Hesse’s exploration of Harry’s psyche resonates with the Jungian concept of the individuation process, where the integration of the conscious and unconscious parts of the self leads to wholeness. Harry’s journey is a quest for self-identity that involves confronting and accepting the darker, shadowy parts of his personality. This process of self-discovery is both painful and liberating, underscoring the idea that true self-identity emerges from embracing all facets of one’s being.

3. Demian: The Role of the Unconscious

Demian is another key work in which Hesse explores the search for self-identity, focusing on the protagonist Emil Sinclair’s journey toward self-realization. Guided by the enigmatic Max Demian, Sinclair learns to listen to his inner voice and question societal norms. The novel emphasizes the importance of the unconscious mind in the search for self-identity, drawing on Jungian psychology. Sinclair’s experiences highlight the tension between conforming to societal expectations and following one’s inner truth. His journey reflects the existentialist idea that individuals must break free from external constraints to discover their true selves. Hesse suggests that the path to self-identity involves a deep engagement with the unconscious mind and an acceptance of one’s inner conflicts and desires.

The Concept of Impermanence

One of the central philosophical concepts in Siddhartha is impermanence, a fundamental tenet of Buddhist philosophy. The novel illustrates the transient nature of all things, emphasizing that nothing in life is permanent or unchanging. Siddhartha’s experiences with love, wealth, and asceticism teach him that attachment to transient phenomena leads to suffering. This aligns with the Buddhist teaching of Anicca, which posits that recognizing and accepting impermanence is essential for achieving enlightenment.

Siddhartha: The Transient Nature of Life

In Siddhartha, Hesse’s exploration of impermanence is central to the protagonist’s spiritual journey. Siddhartha’s experiences reflect the Buddhist teaching of Anicca, which posits that all things are in a constant state of flux and that clinging to anything impermanent leads to suffering. Throughout the novel, Siddhartha undergoes various transformations — from a Brahmin’s son to an ascetic, a lover, a merchant, and finally, a ferryman. Each phase of his life teaches him about the transient nature of existence. His realization that neither extreme asceticism nor indulgence provides lasting fulfillment underscores the futility of seeking permanence in an impermanent world.

The river, a recurring symbol in the novel, epitomizes the flow of life and the constant change inherent in all things. Siddhartha’s enlightenment comes when he embraces the river’s wisdom, understanding that true peace lies in accepting the impermanence of all experiences.

Steppenwolf: The Ephemeral Nature of Identity

Steppenwolf delves into the theme of impermanence through the internal conflict of its protagonist, Harry Haller. Harry’s struggle with his dual nature — the civilized man and the untamed wolf — reflects the fluidity and transient nature of identity. Hesse portrays identity not as a fixed entity but as a dynamic interplay of opposing forces.

The novel’s surreal episodes, particularly in the Magic Theater, emphasize the impermanent nature of reality and the self. Harry’s experiences in the theater reveal the illusory and ever-changing aspects of his perceptions and identity. Hesse suggests that true self-understanding requires embracing the impermanence and multiplicity of one’s nature. The Glass Bead Game: The Impermanence of Human Endeavors

In The Glass Bead Game, Hesse explores the impermanence of human knowledge and cultural achievements. The game itself, a complex intellectual synthesis of arts and sciences, represents the pinnacle of human endeavor. However, the novel’s setting in a distant future where the game’s origins and significance have been largely forgotten underscores the transient nature of all human creations. The protagonist, Joseph Knecht, ultimately realizes that the pursuit of intellectual perfection through the game is insufficient for a meaningful life. His decision to leave the Order and experience the impermanent, unpredictable world outside reflects his acceptance of life’s impermanence. Knecht’s journey illustrates that true wisdom involves embracing the fleeting nature of human existence and engaging fully with the present moment. Hesse’s exploration of impermanence invites readers to reflect on their own lives and the ways in which the recognition of life’s fleeting nature can lead to greater wisdom and fulfillment. By embracing the impermanence of all things, Hesse suggests, individuals can attain a deeper appreciation of the present moment and the interconnectedness of all experiences.

The Role of Experience in Knowledge

Hesse’s novel challenges the traditional notion that knowledge can be transmitted solely through teachings and doctrines. Siddhartha’s encounters with various teachers, including the Buddha, highlight the limitations of second-hand knowledge. True understanding, Hesse suggests, comes from direct personal experience. This idea echoes the philosophical concept of phenomenology, which focuses on the individual’s subjective experience as the primary source of knowledge. Siddhartha’s journey demonstrates that wisdom cannot be fully grasped through intellectual means alone but must be lived and felt.

1. Siddhartha: Experiential Learning as a Path to Enlightenment

In Siddhartha, Hesse’s protagonist embarks on a quest for spiritual enlightenment, which serves as a profound exploration of experiential learning. Siddhartha’s journey is marked by various phases — asceticism, indulgence, and finally, a deep connection with nature and the river. Each phase represents a different aspect of human experience, contributing to Siddhartha’s overall understanding of life.

Siddhartha’s encounters with teachers such as the Buddha and the Samanas reveal the limitations of second-hand knowledge. Despite the wisdom offered by these spiritual leaders, Siddhartha chooses to pursue his own path, believing that enlightenment cannot be taught but must be experienced firsthand. This notion aligns with the phenomenological perspective that emphasizes the importance of individual experience as the foundation of knowledge.

2. Steppenwolf: The Journey of Self-Exploration

In Steppenwolf, Hesse delves into the complexities of the human psyche through the character of Harry Haller. Harry’s inner turmoil and existential crisis are central to the narrative, reflecting the broader philosophical theme of self-exploration. Hesse illustrates that true knowledge of oneself cannot be gained through societal norms or intellectual pursuits alone; it requires a deep and often painful engagement with one’s own experiences and emotions. The protagonist’s transformative experiences, such as his encounters with Hermine and the surreal events in the Magic Theater, underscore the idea that personal growth and self-knowledge arise from engaging with one’s inner world. Hesse suggests that the path to self-discovery is inherently personal and cannot be fully understood through external validation or theoretical constructs.

3. Demian: The Role of Inner Experience in Self-Realization

In Demian, Hesse explores the theme of self-realization through the life of Emil Sinclair. Guided by his enigmatic friend Max Demian, Sinclair embarks on a journey of self-discovery that challenges conventional morality and societal expectations. The novel highlights the importance of inner experience and intuition in the pursuit of self-knowledge. Sinclair’s internal struggles and mystical experiences illustrate the idea that true understanding comes from within. Hesse emphasizes that the journey toward self-realization involves embracing one’s inner conflicts and desires, rather than adhering to external doctrines. This perspective resonates with the Jungian concept of individuation, where the integration of the conscious and unconscious aspects of the self leads to wholeness and self-knowledge.

Unity and Interconnectedness

Siddhartha also explores the theme of unity and interconnectedness, which is central to both Buddhist and Taoist philosophies. The novel portrays the interconnectedness of all life through the symbol of the river. Siddhartha’s realization that all things are interconnected reflects the Buddhist notion of Pratītyasamutpāda (dependent origination) and the Taoist principle of harmony with the Tao. This understanding leads Siddhartha to a state of inner peace and enlightenment, as he recognizes the oneness of existence and the dissolution of the ego. Hermann Hesse’s literature is deeply imbued with the themes of unity and interconnectedness, reflecting his profound engagement with Eastern philosophies, particularly Buddhism and Taoism. These themes are central to Hesse’s exploration of the human experience, the nature of existence, and the quest for spiritual enlightenment. This analysis examines how Hesse portrays unity and interconnectedness in his major works and the philosophical implications of these concepts.

Siddhartha: The River as a Symbol of Interconnectedness

In Siddhartha, the river is a powerful symbol representing the unity and interconnectedness of all life. The protagonist, Siddhartha, finds enlightenment by the river, which teaches him that all things are interconnected and part of a continuous flow. The river’s constant movement and its ability to remain the same despite being in perpetual flux illustrate the Buddhist concept of Pratītyasamutpāda, or dependent origination, which posits that all phenomena arise in dependence upon other phenomena. Siddhartha’s realization that he is one with the river and all of existence underscores the idea that true enlightenment comes from understanding and embracing the interconnectedness of all life. This recognition leads Siddhartha to a state of inner peace, as he transcends the illusion of separateness and perceives the unity of all things.

Steppenwolf: The Unity of Opposites

Steppenwolf delves into the theme of unity through the exploration of duality within the protagonist, Harry Haller. Harry’s internal conflict between his human side and his “wolf” side represents the struggle to reconcile opposing aspects of his personality. Hesse’s portrayal of this conflict reflects the Taoist principle of Yin and Yang, which emphasizes the interconnectedness and interdependence of opposites. Through his experiences in the Magic Theater, Harry learns that these seemingly contradictory aspects of himself are not separate but part of a greater whole. The novel suggests that true self-understanding requires integrating and harmonizing these opposing forces, leading to a more unified and complete sense of self.

Narcissus and Goldmund: The Interdependence of Contrasting Paths

In Narcissus and Goldmund, Hesse explores the contrasting paths of the contemplative life and the life of sensual experience through the characters of Narcissus and Goldmund. Narcissus represents the ascetic, intellectual path, while Goldmund embodies the artistic, passionate path. Despite their differences, the two characters are deeply interconnected, each providing the other with essential insights and growth. The novel illustrates that these contrasting paths are not mutually exclusive but are interconnected and complementary. Hesse emphasizes that the pursuit of a balanced and harmonious life involves acknowledging and integrating both the intellectual and the sensual aspects of existence. This unity of contrasting paths reflects the interdependent nature of all experiences and the richness that comes from embracing diversity. Hermann Hesse’s works offer profound insights into the philosophical themes of unity and interconnectedness. Through the journeys of his protagonists, Hesse illustrates that true understanding and enlightenment come from recognizing the interconnectedness of all life and the unity of seemingly opposing forces. His engagement with Eastern philosophies, particularly the concepts of Pratītyasamutpāda and Yin and Yang, is evident in his portrayal of these themes. Hesse’s exploration of unity and interconnectedness invites readers to reflect on their own lives and the ways in which embracing the interconnected nature of existence can lead to greater wisdom, harmony, and inner peace. By highlighting the unity of all things, Hesse encourages a deeper appreciation of the rich tapestry of life and the profound interconnectedness that underlies it.

The Illusion of Duality

Another significant philosophical theme in Siddhartha is the illusion of duality. Throughout his journey, Siddhartha grapples with the dichotomies of life, such as pleasure and pain, self and other, and spiritual and material. His ultimate realization is that these dualities are illusory and that true enlightenment transcends such distinctions. This idea aligns with Advaita Vedanta, a non-dualistic school of Hindu philosophy that asserts the essential oneness of the self (Atman) and the universe (Brahman). Siddhartha’s enlightenment represents the dissolution of these artificial boundaries and the attainment of a holistic understanding of existence. Hermann Hesse’s literature often explores the concept of duality and its illusory nature, reflecting his deep engagement with both Eastern and Western philosophical traditions. In his novels, Hesse delves into the human experience of conflicting identities, opposing forces, and the quest for a unified self. This analysis examines how Hesse portrays the illusion of duality in his major works and the philosophical implications of this theme.

Steppenwolf: The Duality of Human Nature Steppenwolf is perhaps Hesse’s most explicit exploration of duality. The protagonist, Harry Haller, experiences a profound internal conflict between his human side and his “wolf” side. This duality represents the struggle between his refined, intellectual self and his untamed, instinctual nature. Harry’s perception of these two aspects as separate and opposing entities leads to his deep sense of alienation and existential crisis. Hesse’s portrayal of Harry’s internal struggle reflects the philosophical concept of the unity of opposites, rooted in Taoist philosophy. According to Taoism, opposites such as yin and yang are interdependent and complementary, rather than mutually exclusive. Harry’s journey toward self-understanding involves recognizing that these seemingly opposing aspects of his personality are, in fact, part of a greater whole. The novel suggests that true self-realization comes from embracing and integrating these dualities, rather than perceiving them as irreconcilable.

Demian: The Unity Beyond Duality

In Demian, Hesse explores the theme of duality through the protagonist Emil Sinclair’s journey toward self-discovery. Sinclair grapples with the dichotomy between the world of light, represented by his conventional, moral upbringing, and the world of darkness, symbolized by his inner desires and instincts. Guided by his friend Max Demian, Sinclair learns to transcend these dualities and seek a deeper, more unified understanding of himself. The novel emphasizes the idea that dualities such as good and evil, light and darkness, are not absolute but interconnected and interdependent. Hesse draws on the philosophical teachings of Gnosticism, which posits that true knowledge involves transcending the material world’s apparent dualities to perceive the underlying unity. Sinclair’s journey reflects the process of individuation, as described by Carl Jung, where integrating the conscious and unconscious aspects of the self leads to wholeness and self-realization.

Siddhartha: Transcending Duality through Enlightenment

Siddhartha is another key work in which Hesse addresses the illusion of duality. The protagonist’s spiritual journey is marked by his struggle to reconcile opposing paths and experiences. Siddhartha moves from the life of an ascetic to that of a lover and merchant, ultimately seeking to transcend these dualities to attain enlightenment. Hesse’s depiction of Siddhartha’s enlightenment reflects the Buddhist concept of non-duality (Advaita). In Buddhism, enlightenment involves the realization that the self and the world are not separate entities but interconnected and interdependent. Siddhartha’s ultimate realization that all experiences, whether of suffering or joy, are part of the same continuous flow of life underscores the illusory nature of duality. By embracing this unity, Siddhartha achieves a state of inner peace and harmony.

The Path to Enlightenment

Hesse’s portrayal of Siddhartha’s path to enlightenment is deeply influenced by Buddhist principles. The novel emphasizes the importance of mindfulness, meditation, and inner reflection in achieving spiritual awakening. Siddhartha’s experiences illustrate the Buddhist concept of the Middle Way, which advocates for a balanced approach to life, avoiding extremes of self-indulgence and self-mortification. Hesse’s depiction of Siddhartha’s journey suggests that enlightenment is not a destination but a continuous process of self-discovery and growth. Hermann Hesse’s works often dive deep into the philosophical and spiritual realms, exploring the human soul’s quest for meaning and enlightenment. One of his most notable works in this regard is “Siddhartha,” which chronicles the journey of a young man named Siddhartha in his quest for spiritual enlightenment.

The Path to Enlightenment in “Siddhartha”

1. The Search for Self-Understanding: The protagonist, Siddhartha, embarks on a journey to understand himself and the world around him. This quest is marked by various phases and experiences, each contributing to his understanding of life and spirituality. His journey is not linear but rather a series of trials, reflections, and realizations.

2. The Role of Teachers and Guides: Throughout his journey, Siddhartha encounters various teachers and guides, such as the Samanas, Gotama Buddha, and the ferryman Vasudeva. Each of these figures provides Siddhartha with valuable lessons, yet he ultimately realizes that true enlightenment cannot be taught by others — it must be experienced and understood individually.

3. The Rejection of Dogma: A key aspect of Siddhartha’s path is his rejection of rigid dogmas and external teachings. Despite his deep respect for Gotama Buddha, he recognizes that following another’s path cannot lead to his own enlightenment. This rejection highlights the importance of personal experience and inner discovery in the search for truth.

4. The Interconnectedness of All Life: Siddhartha’s understanding of enlightenment is deeply connected to the realization of the unity of all existence. He learns to see the divine in all aspects of life, from the smallest pebble to the flowing river. This holistic view helps him grasp the interconnectedness of life and the continuous cycle of birth, death, and rebirth.

5. Embracing the Present Moment: A crucial part of Siddhartha’s enlightenment is his ability to live in the present moment. The river, a central symbol in the novel, teaches him to embrace the “eternal now” and find peace in the present. This awareness of the present moment is essential to achieving true inner peace and enlightenment.

6. The Integration of Dualities: Siddhartha’s journey also involves the integration of various dualities, such as pleasure and pain, success and failure, and life and death. He realizes that enlightenment lies in the acceptance and reconciliation of these opposites, rather than in the pursuit of an idealized, single truth.

My bones creak and moan, as if they’ve seen too much, as if they’ve moved through a world too harsh. Another day of resting my glasses on my notepad and crawling into bed, when life becomes heavy and I need a soft place to land. I’ve lost count of how many years I’ve let my muscles weaken, just like my doctor warned me, and I promised her and myself I’d do better. I remember at my last physical, I told her I don’t get enough exercise, and I apologized. She said, “Don’t apologize to me, apologize to yourself.” Not getting enough exercise and feeling sorry for myself are understatements of four aching decades of eroding self-esteem. My promises are brittle and break in my filthy, lying hands. But they’re at least stronger than I am, they regenerate like cells; I keep making them.

You do not get notified when someone unfollows you. But I want a reason. There should be a pop up window that says, "Be honest, why did you unfollow this person?" I could collect the responses like data points, but maybe some of them were from internet robots, and the responses weren't real. I start to wonder if I'm real, what it means when someone clicks a button and I disappear, forever, from their feed.

I like to scroll through Facebook, where I have an account only in order to read the comment sections of politically loaded posts. Some people might call that being an "internet troll." But hey, they posted it. I'm just an innocent bystander, reading it.

I never comment. Complete silence from my little computer, a rectangle I carry around with me like it means anything except that I'm being tracked by Apple, Inc.

I judge them, silently. I am the same person who unfollowed me, the infinite loop of social media. People in the real world can't just press "unfollow" and walk away from someone talking to them. That would be considered rude, but on the internet, you can do that with one click. You have been silenced.

I see people's comments and wonder if they know that they are only one of billions of Facebook users, that they are a single grain of sand in an hourglass that makes Mark Zuckerberg another dollar. If they know that their iPhone is listening to them, pushing targeted ads at them, and they don't question it. That Facebook, and all social media, are constantly changing to better suck us into it, to make us addicted.

Maybe my silence is just as toxic, my laughter at my fellow Americans on Facebook only heard by Apple, Inc., and then later I get a push ad from a mental health agency. Go figure.

But, jokes on them - I can't afford healthcare, like every other American. It's funny, how we throw insults at each other online when most people probably couldn't define the term "algorithm" to save their lives. Who are you talking to, really, on the internet?

Likewise, who are you choosing to listen to?

And maybe that's the point. I'm laughing at Facebook posts daily and the billionaires know that they got me, hook, line, and sinker.

Just because I'm only listening, doesn't mean I am not a part of the conversation about social media.

I had a dream again last night.

Everywhere I turned I was alone.

When I walked down the outdoor hallway,

I was alone.

I could see the lights spurning, blinking and fluttering in and out and hear the laughter casually echoing from the room I was approaching. Two in one bed, another set (myself and someone else) in a second bed and the last my supposed confidante or so she likened herself. She liked to repeat she was in some capacity as a health professional, and she'd been very good at it.

What I know for certain is that we were all precariously living on together in a very tightly-kept pact. One agreement on a belief, and all it took was for me to not agree for it to fall apart. For me to question it slightly with a keen mindset trying to discern where the line might need to be drawn a little more early and suddenly all the friendliness within them turned to ire.

Their smiles became more sinister and their eyes glittered with a new glint that said that'd be out for me, and the room became hostile.

I think I remember trying to argue and refute that my standing was nothing against them, but that I just didn't agree with the method of thought because of how it came across to others, how hurtful it was.

Didn't matter.

They kind of all leaned in, lobbing personal attacks at me, breaking into my soul with things that I had said in trust to try to gut at me, and they were all taking helpings. Chunks... of me. And I was becoming flustered, trying to find an exit where they had it blocked, asking me to be accountable, and that I should be ashamed and alarmed.

Something about the lack of reprieve shook me up, because they started laughing, and I wasn't. I was looking at them... horrified, because it was going too far, and then they started to question my relationship with the one I shared the bed with. That I was some sort of floozy, and that I was doing an injustice similar to cheating to this... girl. I looked at my confidante once, and she just stared at me... unsmiling, and I finally managed to shove my way out of the room and run.

At some point, one couple had left earlier after twisting the knife in enough and decided to go on and have a good night. They looked at me as I ran past, and they flipped me off, laughing and shouting behind me that I wouldn't get far. That they'd find me, and that they weren't through with me. Like I was toy... in their sick sadistic game.

I was trying to hold it all together. My chest was heaving, my body ached, and tears were letting loose from my wet eyes until I wanted to scream, scream like I was crying out to the air how tortured I felt, because I was beyond being able to ask for help. I was too terrified too.

I made my way to a fence, and I found a Doberman running along it with me from the other side. He probably wanted to tear me limb from limb if he could get at me, but he was an animal, and the idea of being torn apart terrified me, but not as much as it should have at this point. A mauling by a guard dog in a blank field hosting a compound building further in didn't terrify me nearly as much as the people who wanted to stick knives and forks in me for slighting them out of belief. God, why was I here? Where was I? What was my mission or point to being with people who's aim was nothing more than the torture me for fun because we didn't agree on beliefs?

I cried at the back of the fence and at some point, the Doberman managed to slip from his fence to come to the broken concrete wall I scaled and stood on top of. I walked on it like it was tightrope, and when I closed my eyes, it was like I was in the VR we all played again, and I could see the man, skinny as he was - emulating the model of his narrow frame - turning and jumping from his vehicle to take aim to snipe me. Like he could do this every chance he got, like I couldn't live without looking back behind me and around me, because they said they'd 'destroy me' and I could still hear the tilted laughter still in their voices from when they said it.

And I opened my eyes, glimpsing the dog, and the one from the upcoming house I couldn't also scale the wall of. All yards unknown. Chances I'd be taking into getting torn to ribbons, and suddenly I wasn't as afraid. I guess being torn apart by a thing that was merely acting out of its nature wasn't as terrifying as being torn apart by things that merely wanted to torment me until they were satisfied. Until... all the glee and joy of it was through with them, and I was mere jilted by the idea that even little that it was... that whatever prior relationship we had had in essence no bearing on their ability to withhold that punch or the volley of punches they were aiming to lob at me.

"Just gut me already."

Willow has her head down, concentrating minutely on sanding the piece of wood in her hands. Devon is doing the same. Concentrating hard, but he can't help the sensation of suffocation that has come over him. He needs a single moment to breathe. So he looks over at Willow for a moment. That moment is enough to earn a sharp reprimand from Mrs. Ward, who brings her stick down hard on Devon'd palm.

"Devorah!" she yells harshly. "Get back to work!" Devon cries out in pain. But what hurts more than the physical pain is hearing himself be referred to by that accursed name. He hates that name. He hates being thought of as a girl. Every moment of it stings him and wrenches him. But he doesn't tell Mrs. Ward not to call him that. Of course he doesn't. Of course he can't. Not when he has seen Millie get whipped to death. Not when he knows the risks.

Willow startles a little bit when she hears Devon's birth name being yelled. She hopes her best friend is okay. She knows that if he gets whipped, she will try to defend him. Never mind that they would both end up being whipped. But thankfully, nothing dangerous comes from the situation. So she goes back to her work.

The work is grating. It is absolutely grating. Willow and Devon both think that the wood that they are sanding is luckier than them. Because while the wood's body is being sanded away, their minds are being sanded away, are being scraped and grated until there is nothing but bloody mesh left. And they hate it. They absolutely hate it. But they cannot even seriously consider stopping. To stop is to get their food rations cut.

They are sanding down the rough bodies of wooden dolls. These dolls are for children whose families can afford them. They are for children who have families. Children who have money. Children who have loving parents who will give them whatever they want. Willow and Devon are not those kinds of children.

They are orphans. And they are stuck here, in this orphanage, where they have to support the orphanage by doing labour each day. There are many jobs to do. Many ways to support the orphanage. The orphanage sells dolls, and Willow and Devon are tasked with sanding the carved pieces, along with some of the other children. There are children who carve, children who paint, children who make many, many doll clothes, children who glue on the hair, the list goes on.

They never get to play with any of the finished dolls themselves. They never get to play with the dolls that have pretty, painted faces, and bright clothes made of fine fabric, and woolen hair. They never get to play with the finished dolls, but they do get to see them, up on the shelves of the store, when they are occasionally brought out to meet patrons of the orphanage. Seeing such pretty toys make their hearts wrench with twisting misery. It doesn't seem fair to them that other kids have such nice toys while they have to play with the ugly and deformed dolls that are half-finished mistakes.

The shop brings a hefty profit for the orphanage. But it is a profit that the orphans never see. The orphanage is crowded and run-down. Their clothes are threadbare. But they do see that the men and women who work at the orphanage can afford delicious and intricate meals made out of fine ingredients. They can afford fine clothes made of expensive fabrics.

But the children are not allowed to complain. They have to go to work each and every day. So that's what they do.

Willow and Devon have to scrape their minds raw in order to walk along the tightrope of perfect focus that their jobs require. They have to go fast, go fast, go so very fast. They have to be perfectly efficient. They have to sand as many dolls as they can in as little time as they can. And they are always having to. And their minds are a panicked, frantic rush always. And their hands work at inhuman speeds.

Willow often wonders whether they are human or not. She doesn't think they are. Humans are not meant for such cruelty. Humans are not meant for such hopelessness. Especially not human children, like these eleven-year-olds. But Devon always promises her that they are people. They are completely people and the trauma in their lives can never negate that.

The children don't have to just work fast, they have to work perfectly. The wood has to be perfectly smooth, the proportions have to be exactly right, all the curves and lines have to be perfect for a beautiful doll in every way. They have to strain against themselves to keep their minds sharply focused on every single detail of the wood, on making sure they get every single detail right. It is excruciating, and it makes them choke with fear. But it is what their lives are.

For hours and hours and hours and hours they have to keep doing this. Time all blurs together into one terrible, trembling, never ending moment that stretches out until eternity, like some vile and thick slime that sticks together while it's being pulled apart. The pain, the terror, the strain, the exhaustion. The rush, the panic, the suffocation and death, it all blurs together. It blurs together and it blurs together and it never stops.

The children want to do anything else. They oh so desperately want to do anything else. But they cannot. They cannot be children. They cannot be people. They cannot be anything but perfect, efficient machines that work, work, work, for hours on end. They cannot be anything but perfect, immaculate dolls themselves, puppets that are strung to the wills of their owners.

Willow has the guts to call them their owners. She has the guts to call them their masters. But in the silence of her heart. In the secret parts of herself that she has to hide from everyone except Devon, she knows what is what. To an extent. And she does not lie to herself. But anyways, she watches her mouth around the adults. She has to.

She is tired, though. She is incredibly tired. All the children are tired. Her hands ache, her mind aches, her heart aches, her soul aches. She feels as if she has died and went to hell. And this is some sort of strange punishment for her soul. She wishes she was dead. Because then she could see her parents again.

She isn't the only one who is incredibly tired. All the children are. But all the children are also afraid. They are afraid to step even a toe out of line. They are afraid because Mrs. Ward will yell at them, venom and hatred raining down from her voice. These children are still children, no matter what they went through, no matter what they still continue to go through. And children are afraid of being yelled at. Children are afraid of being talked to as if they are nothing.

The children hate living in fear. They hate letting fear rule them. But they have to. Because they are always in a dangerous situation. They are always one wrong move away from getting screamed at, getting starved, getting locked in the walled courtyard in the winter. There is too much power that the adults hold over them. The power to feed them. The power to clothe them. The power to keep them alive. The lives of the children belong to those who run the orphanage, and everybody knows that.

Still, the kids want to be children. They want to play. They want to learn. They want to be held and protected and loved. They want their minds to be free, their bodies to be free, their hearts to be free. The love, the kindness, the safety, the comfort that comes with being a child, they want all of that. But they don't get even a taste of it. They have to live their lives like ghosts in a machine.

———

Mealtime is almost worse than work. But not really. But it is an aching, gouging, melancholy time anyways. The children have to be quiet. They always have to be quiet. And the all of the swirling loneliness suffocates them. The loneliness squeezes their throats, squeezes their eyes, squeezes their intestines. The loneliness smothers them like a thick, heavy blanket. And they can't breathe. They can't live. They can't stand. But they have to stand anyways.

Willow and Devon get Mrs. Ward's dinner from the kitchens. The meal had been prepared by other children who were working in the kitchens. It is a tantalizing meal, and it brings water to the mouths of Devon and Willow. They gaze at all they cannot have as they set the silver tray on the the table where Mrs. Ward sits in her fancy and cushioned chair.

The pair then go back to their own spots on the wooden bench that doesn't have a back rest. They fall in line with all the other children seated at the tables. They all want to talk to each other. They all very desperately want to talk to each other. And they all need to talk to each other too. Children are not meant to be lonely.

It is horrific, it is suffocating having to be in the same room as other children, having to be so close to other children, yet having to be silent. There are people all around. There are children all around. They could help each other, they could comfort each other, they could hear each other's problems and communicate with each other. But they can't. They can't offer each other any company, any simple words of comfort, or any companionship.

And it's torturous. It's all incredibly torturous. They are human beings. Despite being orphans, they are human beings. Despite being poor, they are human beings. Despite being exploited, being devastated, being denied, they are human. Though of course, despite is not the right word. It is because of these things specifically that they are even more human, even more human than the comfortable people in their houses who never have to think about anything ever could be.

The children gulp down their words. They gulp down the words they are oh so very desperate to say. And the words sit damp and wet and heavy, oh so heavy, in their guts. Cutting into them, grinding them, weighing down their hearts and their minds and their bodies. All the words they cannot say claw into their throats and still they have to force themselves to keep their mouths shut, keep their mouths shut, keep their mouths shut. Because the alternative is so much worse.

But still, there is a sense of solidarity that pervades through the room. A sense of solidarity that it is impossible to miss, that is thick in the very air itself. Because the children all think about each other. And they know they all think about each other. Of course, they can't comfort each other, can't talk to each other, can't even look at each other. But they can wish that they could do so. And all the children know that all the other children wish that they could do so.

There is a strange sort of solidarity in the air always, every second that there is air. There is a strange sort of unity, of connectedness. They aren't allowed to connect. But they do. They do however they can, even if it is only in the silence of their own hearts. Even though it is only in the silence of their own hearts. They connect to each other.

But of course, that doesn't make the loneliness go away. The loneliness is still thick and overwhelming, is dark and wet and poisonous and suffocating, absolutely suffocating. It doesn't stop the loneliness from painting every part of their lives in a darkness that is deadness, a deadness that is silence, a silence that is dark. It doesn't stop the loneliness from being worse than death.

The children don't complain though. They can't complain. They aren't allowed to and that makes it so much worse. That makes it so, so much incredibly worse. Because, if pain is allowed to be expressed, if it's allowed to be spoken about, if it's allowed to be brought into the light of day for others to acknowledge, then the pain lessens. But if pain isn't allowed to be all that, if pain isn't allowed to do all that, then it multiplies and multiplies and multiplies intensely. And it's unbearable. Unendurable. But they have to endure anyways.

The adults, though. They can talk. They don't talk to the children. Of course, they don't talk to the children unless they're shouting rebukes or barking orders. But they talk to each other. Each of them sits at the head of a different table, in plush chairs while the children sit on hard benches. But the tables are close to each other and they can talk amongst themselves easily. So they do.

They talk about their lives, and their thoughts and their emotions and their needs and their wants. They talk about their experiences. About the books they read, the plays they attended, the clothes they bought, the other things they bought. They talk about how their families are doing, and about their plans for the future. And they listen to and respond to each other.

The kindness, the politeness, the cordiality with which they talk to each other cuts deep. It cuts each of the children so very deep. Because the adults in their lives are capable of being kind. The adults in their lives are capable of being caring. It's just that they aren't kind to the children. They just aren't caring to the children. And that cuts deep. That cuts so deep. That cuts so incredibly deep.

All the children think it would be better if the adults just didn't talk at all. Because then at least, the children wouldn't know how kind the adults were capable of being, despite those adults being so cruel to them.

But anyways, the children shove their food into their mouths and they gulp the food down. Because they have to. Because this food is the only food they have, the only food they get to eat. And if they don't eat, they get yelled at, which is so abjectly terrifying. And if they don't eat, they starve. And no matter how much they want to starve, no matter how much they want to die, they don't have the courage to actually do so. They are just children after all.

But the food is difficult to eat. It is disgusting. Bland and tasteless and burned. It actually isn't even tasteless. It tastes burned and charred. The children who cook meals for the other children in the orphanage have to cook an incredible amount of food in not nearly enough time, with not nearly enough people. It's not their fault that they cannot do a good job of it. And the other children don't blame them for it.

The food, aside from being tasteless, is absolutely devoid of nutrition as well. There aren't enough vitamins, or minerals. Not enough amino acids or proteins or healthy acids or calcium. There is just blandness, just carbohydrates, just what would keep them going long enough to keep working. Their bodies are breaking down because of this impoverished meal. But their caretakers do not care.

The children know. They know that there is something wrong with the food. They know it doesn't have what food should have. Because they see how pale the other kids are, how sunken their eyes are. They feel how much their bodies ache and how unsatisfied they feel after each meal. But still, at least they are getting fed. And the children know that even that can be taken away from them if they complain. So they don't.

After meal times, it is always time to do more work around the orphanage. Sweeping floors, washing walls, wiping windows, dusting railings. Keeping the place immaculate for the visitors who come to see if they want to spend their money on this operation. Work never ends for the children.

———

"I can't wait to grow up and get out of here," Willow whispers to Devon. Her voice is hopeless and hopeful both at the same time. She sounds exhausted, is exhausted, and her voice is soft.

"It's seven more years until we turn eighteen," the boy answers. He sounds defeated.

The two children are lying face to face, inches apart from each other, breathing in each other. They are curled up on the thin straw mattress that is on their shared cot, under the ratty yet warm blanket that they are lucky to have. Between them is a half-finished wooden doll, with strangely-shaped limbs and no face. They both hold on to the doll as if it is a lifeline.

They are in their room. Though the more accurate word would probably be cell. There is a small bed in one corner of the room, a window on one wall, half of it across from the bed and half of it reaching towards the centre of the wall. The window reaches up to the low ceiling of the room. There are bars on the window, made of metal, which also reach up to the ceiling but stop just before. Besides the bed, there is no other furniture.

It's night time. Just shortly after the children were sent to bed. They have to be quiet, have to be careful. But, here in the silence of the night, with no-one seeing them, no-one rebuking them or hurting them, or judging them, they can talk. And the two children do talk. They talk like they do every night, hands laced over the wooden doll.

"Seven years," Willow repeats. "That's as long I've been in this accursed orphanage."

"I've been here five," Devon whispers.

"I miss my parents. So much." Her words sound hallowed. Haunted. She feels the loss every moment of her life.

"Same. I had an aunt who wanted to take care of me. But they didn't let her." There is a deep sense of loss in his voice.

"I was staying with my neighbours before the orphanage came."

"It's strange, how they want us to be here instead of with families who want to raise us,"

"They want us to work for them. It's their business model." There is ire laced thick in Devon's voice.

"They want us as slaves," Willow asserts, full of hate and wisdom. "And slavery is illegal, so they frame it as if they're helping us."

"And they make sure to get as much money as they can out of us."

"It's really unfair. I hate it."

"I know. Me too."

"And I love saying that I hate it."

"I love hearing you say that. Because it's the truth."

"You give me life. Talking to you, it gives me life."

"It gives me life too. I don't know if I could have borne it, if I could have survived without you."

"I feel the same way."

Suddenly the sound of the lock turning in their door creaks throughout the room. Both children have been listening for this sound. They have been keeping their conversation low so that the sound of the lock could be heard. And it can be heard easily, as it reverberates through the quiet room.

The kids immediately hush, and they close their eyes to pretend to be asleep. It is still early in the night, but they are technically supposed to be asleep anyways.

The night guard, Miss Binny, comes into the room. She is not that much older than the oldest inmates at the orphanage. She has dark hair and darker eyes. And the children like her.

"Aww," she coos softly, looking at the "sleeping" forms below her. "You little girls are so cute." She keeps her voice soft, keeps it hushed, for fear of waking up the children. Of course, she doesn't know that they're already awake.

Devon and Willow, on the other hand, are listening closely to everything they can hear. They are soaking up the small comforts like drooping, wilting plants soaking up water in a drought. And they are taking in every bit of comfort that this adult has to offer. Because it's never enough. What the adults in their lives give them is never enough. Not even Miss Binny.

"You girls are always so sweet." She brushes a soft hand oh so tenderly over Devon's cheek, and then over Willow's cheek, and they both cherish the soft touch. It is the only soft touch they have received all day, except from each other. It is the only soft touch they have received from an adult. And they cherish it. They cherish it so much.

"Sleep, so soft, like clouds under moon. Sleep, for dawn, will be coming so soon." She sings the soft lullaby for a few moments. Her voice is soothing, is a low murmur in the otherwise quiet room. The two children listen to every moment.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," she says as she leaves he room. The door shuts behind her, and the lock clicks back into place. The moonlight flows in through the curtains as the children open their eyes and gaze into each other again.

"She's nice," Devon whispers.

"She is. But that doesn't make being here bearable," Willow complains.

"Still ..." Devon starts, "it would be so much worse if she wasn't here."

"I wonder why she's like this. Why she's nice to us."

"I wonder too. But she is, and that's what matters."

"I wish we could see her not just during the night."

"Me too. She would be so much better than Mrs. Ward or the others."

"I hope she stays until we turn eighteen."

"Me too."

"When we turn eighteen. That's so far away." There is desolation in Willow's voice.

"It feels like decades, doesn't it?" Devon sounds hopeless. Sounds destroyed. Because he is.

"It's more than half of how long I've even been alive."

"And life these days feels so long, doesn't it?"

"Yes. It does. It feels so unbearably long."

"Every single moment seems to stretch and drag out."

"Minutes feel like months. Days feel like years."

"If every day is a year how are we going to get through seven years of hundreds of days each?"

"I don't want to. I don't want to get through it."

"I don't want you to either. I want you to be free."

"I want you to be free too."

"Freedom. What does that even look like?"

"Like no more work, oh my gods."

"You're right. And enough actually healthy food. And being able to play."

"It means people being nice to us, and having friends."

"It means having a family. It means being able to be with our families."

"I miss my family." The deep, aching sadness is pouring off of Willow in torrents.

"Me too. I can't bear living without them. But you're my family now, too." He brings his hand up to softly stroke Willow's cheek, and finds it wet with tears.

"I love you so much."

"Me too."

"But we'll have to live without freedom."

"Not if we don't live."

"Are you. Are you suggesting we die?"

"I don't want to live. Do you?" Devon's words are darker than blackness and deeper than the earth.

"I don't want to either." Willow takes a long time to think before she says this, but she speaks these words with such absolute surety that it sends shivers up Devon's spine. She takes a while to think, again. "I don't want you to live either. Or anyone here."

"So do we just ... not live then?"

"I don't know. Do you think you'll be able to do that?"

"I will, but I can't let you die and I'm really sorry about that." There is deep remorse in his voice, deep shame. His voice wavers with raw emotion.

"I can't let you die either. But I want you to be free. I want you to be free so bad." Her voice wavers with raw emotion as well.

The two children lie in silence for a while, hands interlaced over the doll. They stare at each other. And their eyes are shadowed, their mouths are shadowed, their faces are shadowed. Their hearts are shadowed. But they have each other.

The lock on the door creaks open once again and Miss Binny comes in. She softly strokes the children's hair and whispers a gentle prayer over them before leaving. Once the door's lock clicks shut once again, Willow speaks.

"We can leave." Her words carry a furtive, barely-there note of hope.

"Leave the orphanage?" Devon's words are laced through with disbelief.

"Why not?"

"Because they've done so much for us. They've fed us, and clothed us. They've given us somewhere to stay. I don't think it would be right, letting them down like that."

"They fed us. Sure. But did you taste the food they fed us? I know it was all they could afford but still, I don't think we owe them for that."

"I don't think they can't afford better food," Devon admits. "You see how the adults eat. You see how they dress. You see how they conduct themselves. They have money. They just don't want to give it to us."

"Yeah, I think you're right."

"They do say they aren't able to do better though?"

"As if that stands up to any scrutiny."

"But still, they are doing something and that's better than nothing and that something is keeping us alive."

"They don't care about us. They don't care about our lives. If they did, they would treat us better. If they did, they would let us talk to each other, let us be friends with each other, let us play and have fun. If they cared about us, they would be kind to us." Her words are urgent and pressing and oh so assertive.

"They don't care. They only care about making money from our work. But still, they did help us."

"This isn't help. There's no love behind it. There's no respect behind it. There's no humanity behind it. What will help is if we get out."

"But don't we owe them?" Devon's voice is uncertain, hopeful, scared.

"Owe them for what? A life that isn't a life? A life that is worse than death? No, we don't owe them for that." Willow asservates. She stays quiet. She has to stay quiet. She knows the importance of it. But her voice is still filled with intense passion anyways.

"You're right. We don't." Devon takes a while to pause before saying this. But he does say it. And there is absolute certainty, and a terrifying hatred. But Willow is not scared. She smiles, and Devon gives her hand a little squeeze. "They are only keeping us alive for money," Devon continues, "we give them so much more than they give us. And our lives are not worth living anyways."

"They're really not," Willow agrees solemnly.

"So we should leave."

"We should. We should get out of here and go back to the people who were actually taking care of us. They were much nicer, and I know that they miss us."

"I'm sure that they do. But how do we leave? All the doors are locked and all the windows are barred."

"Hmm... I don't know." Willow takes a moment to think. "We could ask Miss Binny for help. She seems to care about us."

"She really does seem to care about us," Devon agrees. "She's a night guard. I'm sure she doesn't know what horrors go on in the daytime. If we could tell her, if we could let her know about our issues, then I'm sure she would help."

"So when should we tell her?"

"I don't know. Soon, hopefully?"

"I think we should take some time to prepare what we're going to say. We need to convince her of our struggles."

"I agree. We should tell her about how hard it is working all day, and being able to talk with no-one, and having to work so fast and so perfectly, and having to eat such bad food, and having no friends, and being yelled at. Being yelled at and being given orders. Being forced to obey. Being scared."

"Yes, we should tell her all of this. And we should tell her how miserable we are and how much we want to be free."

"She'll help us, I'm sure."

"She better help us. Or else, I don't know what we'll do."

———-

The children spend the next few days being miserable, being anguished, like they always are. But there is also a shining, crystallized sense of hope, along with that anguish. It is sweet, so incredibly sweet. And it is soft. So incredibly soft. It makes life just a little bit better. And they are just a little bit lighter, despite still being weighed down with as many dread-heavy, dead-heavy boulders in their guts.

They hide their hope. Of course they hide their hope. Everything rests on their ability to hide their hope. Everything rests on their ability to act like everything is normal, everything is unbothered, everything is unchanging. They take care to be silent, they take care to be dead-eyed, they take care to not step out of line. And the adults cannot tell. They cannot tell that there are dreams going on right under their noses.

The two friends spend the nights talking about what they are going to say to Miss Binny. And they plan as carefully as they can, until at last the long-awaited night comes.

"Good night, sweet children," amiss Binny whispers, standing over the two friends.

"Miss Binny," Devon speaks out softly. "Can we talk a little?"

"What?!" Miss Binny asks surprisedly. Her voice is still quiet but it is louder than it was before. "You girls are not asleep?" Devon decides to not correct her. They don't have time to argue about gender right now.

"We were waiting for you," Willow explains, clutching the deformed doll close to her chest. "We have to tell you something. Something important. You're the only one we can trust."

"Aww, you girls can trust me?" the young adult coos, "I'm very flattered."

"Yes, you're very nice," Willow continues. "Much nicer than all the others. And we are very grateful for you, and we are very grateful to you. We are very grateful for everything that you have done for us, and we cannot thank you enough."

"Yes," Devon echoes, "we are incredibly thankful, and incredibly grateful, and we cannot thank you enough. But thank you. One million thank yous. One billion thank yous." The children know that such praise is a bit of an exaggeration. Definitely, they are grateful for Miss Binny, but not that much. But they also know that grovelling will help them persuade her to their side.

"Aww, thank you so much, girls. I am very flattered." Her voice is thick with sweetness and happiness.

"Can we tell you something, though?" Willow asks. "Will you listen?"

"Sure. I'll listen," she responds.

"We hate it here, being in the orphanage," Willow explains. "The work that we have to do, it's too much. It's way too much."

"We have to work as fast as humanly possible," Devon adds. "Faster than humanly possible. We have to work faster than machines. And it's hard. It's really, really hard. It's scary and overwhelming and we feel like we're drowning all the time. We feel like we're dying all the time."

"Okay." Miss Binny's words are serious, are pensive.

"And we have to do everything exactly perfectly," Willow adds. "We have to do it all absolutely perfectly and not make any mistakes ever. Or else we get yelled at. And it's really scary, it's really terrible getting yelled at. There is so much hatred in their voices, so much raw anger, so much disgust. And no love. And, having to do our work without any flaws makes the work so much more panicked, so much more grinding and stressful and unbearable."

"They yell at us for a lot of things," Devon explains. "If we do anything wrong at all, whether we're working or not, they yell at us. And it hurts so much, to be yelled at. It's so terrifying. We feel like we're not humans, we feel like we're not people, we feel like we're going to die."

"They don't ever talk to us kindly," Willow states. "They don't ever say any kind words to us, they don't ever say any friendly words to us. Whenever they talk to us, they're either yelling at us or they're barking orders. They always speak with hatred in their voices. And it's so hard, it's so hard to live through that. It's so hard to live like that. It's like, we almost don't want to live." The "almost" part is a lie, of course.

"And we're not allowed to have friends," Devon adds. "We are not allowed to talk to other people. We're not allowed to talk to each other. We can't have friends. We can't connect to each other. We cannot help each other. We cannot comfort each other. We cannot share our lives with each other. We can't share our thoughts, our feelings, our emotions, our wants, our beliefs, our experiences. It's suffocating. It's crushing."

"We're never allowed to play either," Willow voices. "We're children, and we're not allowed to play. We're children, and we're not allowed to have fun. It hurts us, it crushes us. It feels like we're dead inside. This isn't any sort of life. It's not any sort of life at all."

"Oh my," Miss Binny's voice is compassionate. "I'll talk to the directors about improving the working conditions."

"That's the thing," Devon starts, "the directors won't care. If they did care, they would have fixed things long ago. If they did care, they wouldn't let the conditions be this bad."

"They don't think of us as people," Willow asserts. "They just think of us as a way to make money. They won't care."

"Well what do you want me to do?" There is a note of exasperation in Miss Binny's tone.

"Well, we were thinking you could help us sneak away." Willow's voice is sweet and imploring. "We won't ask anything more of you, just that you take us out of the orphanage compound. We'll figure things out from there. Please, help us get away. We'd be beyond grateful. It would be the nicest, kindest thing imaginable."

"Yes," Devon echoes, "it would be so incredibly nice."

"Children," Miss Binny's tone is harder than it usually is, colder than it usually is. "I can't do that. The orphanage takes care of you. Even if they hurt you, they still keep you alive. And the world will not keep you alive."

"We have people who took care of us before we came here," Devon insists. "And this life isn't a life. This life isn't worth living. Anything is better than this. Anything."

"Please, please help us," Willow begs.

"I'm sorry girls. I can't. You are safer here. You are provided for here."

"We're not happy here," Devon insists. "No-one can be happy here."

"I am sorry for you," the adult insists. "I really am. But I won't help you get out. You have to realize, this is what's best for you."

"Miss Binny," Willow pleads, "We thought you were kind."

"Kindness has its limits. I won't let you betray the people who have raised you. I won't let you betray the people who are keeping you alive."

"They don't care whether we live or die," Devon insists, "they only care about the profit we make them. We don't owe them anything."

"Whether you know it or not," Miss Binny retorts, "you owe them your lives. And I can't let you betray them."

"You're betraying us!" Willow proclaims softly, exasperation coating her voice.

"I will not let you do this!" Miss Binny declares, and she strides out of the room, locking it from outside.

———

"I hear you girls have been attempting to escape." Mr. Riche's words writhe and squirm in thick disgust and slimy malice. It sends shivers up Devon and Willow's spines. The two are standing in Mr. Riche's office, a large space with polished floors that reflect their bodies, and with furniture strewn around all over.

"We ..." Willow begins, "we didn't mean it. We were just trying to see what would happen if we tried."

"As if," Mr. Riche spits out. "Trying to lie will only make everything worse for you. I suggest you both accept your punishment with grace and humility."

"Our punishment?" Devon asks, voice terrified.

"You will be made to work during meal times instead of participating in the food with the others." Mr. Riche's voice is stark and cold and abjectly apathetic. The two children's eyes go wide in dread, but they do not dare to look at each other.

———

And so they hunger. Willow and Devon hunger. They hunger and it slices into them, grates on them, tears them down. It claws and bites and tears and wrends their insides. Their stomachs, their lungs, their chests, their hearts. They feel heavy and achy. They feel as if every step is painful, every movement is painful. Their minds feel thick, feel suffocated, feel throbbing with pain. They are lightheaded, and dizzy, and they are so, so empty.

The emptiness scrapes at them. It digs into them with thousands of needles everywhere. Every breath feels like breathing in death, feels like breathing in sand, feels like breathing in pins and needles. Every breath is jagged, is ragged, is aching. And it's never enough. Their lungs feel as though they are never filled, feel as though they are perpetually empty.

There is a throbbing in their heads, a throbbing that is overwhelming and grating. A throbbing that leaves them hollow, leaves them hurting, leaves them drowning and aching and boiling alive. They feel as if thick, viscous, hot poison is dripping down their brains, as if their brains have been hollowed out and their skulls have been scraped raw. Their emotions are overwhelming.

Their stomachs twist and writhe and squeeze. Their stomachs and chests feel like grand, aching caverns, deep and dark and empty and unfillable. They twist and writhe and squeeze inside the children, and they ache and they ache and they ache so much. As if there are thousands of sharp, jagged knives inside their guts, that dig in every time they take a breath and leave them jagged and bleeding and raw.

The pain from their stomachs radiates out to all parts of their bodies, to their arms and legs and hands and feet. Their limbs ache as well. They feel heavy and groggy. Their joints ache. And they feel as though there is a low, slow-burning fire in all their limbs, as if they are being burned alive, roasted. And it hurts to move, but they have to move anyways. They have to work anyways.

All day, they have to sand dolls. And it doesn't matter that they're hungry, it doesn't matter that they're hurting, they have to keep up with the rest of the children, they have to sand faster, so much faster than humanly possible, and they have to do it perfectly. They have to, or else their punishment will be extended, and so they do, no matter how much it hurts.

During meal times, they are sent to work cleaning the compound. This is also incredibly difficult, since they have to clear away every speck of dirt and dust. They have to go incredibly fast as well, and this overexerts their aching bodies. And it overexerts their aching minds, which are constantly screaming, are constantly having to scream at them, to go faster and faster and faster and faster. Better and better and better and better. Don't stop and don't stop and don't stop and don't stop. Until they are drowning in the screaming, absolutely starved of air.

They are sent often to clean the office spaces of the orphanage council. These offices are at the end of a long hallway that bends away from the rest of the orphanage. Therefore, from the large windows of the council offices, you can see the rest of the building, the orphanage proper where the children do their work and live their "lives".

These offices are large, they are immaculate, they are filled with intricate pieces of furniture and pretty ornaments. The two children are amazed, but also horrified, to see such vast displays of wealth. To see such resplendence when they know firsthand the poverty that exists just within view of the windows, just within easy sight of those who spend their days here while all the children toil away and waste their childhoods just over there.

They know it isn't fair. The two friends know that it is so very much not fair. But they don't know what they can do about it. They know they can do nothing. And they hate that fact, and the thick, heavy bitterness that they have to swallow down and choke on.

There is so much bitterness in their lives. There is so much powerlessness. There is so much agony. There is so much violence. Violence that has been going on for a long time. Violence that is as old as the deaths of their parents. Violence that has been wrought of exploitation and dehumanization. Violence that has come from betrayal. And violence that has come from the powerlessness that has coloured every experience that they have had in years. No child is meant for this much, or any, violence. No child is meant for this much, or any, cruelty. But Willow and Devon bear it and they have to bear it.

No matter how unfair it is, no matter how unbearable it is, no matter how absolutely impossible to bear it is, they have to bear it. And so do all of the other sweet and devastated children imprisoned in the orphanage.

———

They've been starving for three days when the storm hits. The wind howls and bellows, and the trees outside knock against the windows. Willow curls up closer to Devon. Both children are scared. Both children cannot sleep. Both children are clinging to each other for dear life, are clinging to their doll for dear life.

"I hate being here," Devon whispers.

"I hate being here too," Willow agrees.

"We should get out of here." His voice is dead serious.

"We tried already. Do you want to to get into even more trouble?" There's a note of desolation laced into her voice.

"Just because one escape plan didn't work doesn't mean that another won't."

"And what if we get caught again? Do you think you could take another punishment? Do you think you could take more hunger? Because I definitely can't."

"I can't either. I don't want us to get punished. Especially not again."

"So why are you proposing that we go out and get ourselves punished again?"

"Just hear me out. We won't get punished, I promise. We'll be able to actually escape this time."

"We won't get caught? How?" There is a note of confrontation in Willow's tone, but louder than that is the note of yearning.

"We'll be sneaky this time. They won't know that we're planning to escape. They won't know until we're already gone."

"And how will we be that sneaky?"

"We've been being sneaky since we came here. They didn't know about our friendship. They didn't know about our camaraderie. They didn't know about how we longed to get free, how we helped each to get through these horrors. They didn't know anything about us for so, so many years. Because we were good at keeping things secret."

"You're right," Willow agrees, "we are good at keeping secrets. But keeping our friendship secret is really different from keeping an escape plan secret. We'd have to make preparations beforehand, before escaping. And we'd have to keep those preparations a secret. How are we going to do that?"

"We'll find a way. We'll think really long and hard about it, and we'll find a way."

"The last time we didn't find a way, now did we?"

"The last time we were stupid. We trusted an adult. We shouldn't've done that, because they're all part of the system of this place, no matter how nice they might have been. We're smarter now. We know better. We won't make that mistake again."

"I agree. We do know better. And we are smarter now. But who's to say we won't make a mistake again?"

"We'll be more careful this time. We'll think everything through this time. They won't be able to stop us this time."

"Why are you so certain?"

"Do you know the part of yourself that knows you love me, that knows you love all the children here?"

"Yes."

"That part is very certain, isn't it?"

"It is."

"And you know that that part of you is telling the truth, and it knows the truth, and it knows what's real and good no matter what, right?"

"Right."

"Well that same part is telling me that we need to escape, that we can escape, that it's possible for us."

"Okay."

"Take some time to look within yourself. Take some time to think within yourself. You will see it too. You will see that we can escape."

Willow takes a while to think.

"I want to believe you," she finally responds. "I really do."

"Then do it," Devon suggests, "believe me. Believe yourself. Believe us."

She takes another while to think again.

"Okay," she finally replies.

"So you'll try to escape with me?"

"I will. We'll be careful, though."

"We will."

———

The next day, the two friends are cleaning the offices again when Willow looks out of the window for a second and she sees it.

"Devon, look out the window," she whispers. He lifts his head for the smallest moment before looking back down at his work. There are no adults supervising them so they can do this.

There is a fallen tree. It was knocked over during the storm. But that's not what's remarkable. What's remarkable is the fact that as it fell, it knocked out an entire corner of the building. The dining hall had the corner of two of its wooden walls stripped away. And light could be seen coming from the dining hall. However, at the very top of the rip in the building, it is darker. As if the only light is coming from the tear in the wall. And they can see a layer of wood that separates the ceiling of the dining hall from the dark crawl space above it.

The children continue cleaning, as if nothing is amiss, as if nothing is strange. They continue cleaning, and then they go back to working on the dolls, then they go back to cleaning. Then they go to bed.

"Did you see that?" Willow's voice is soft and hushed.

"I did see that. The building was destroyed. It was ripped open. We could just walk right out."

"We could just walk right out."

"But we can't, Willow." Devon's voice is discouraged. "They've definitely noticed the storm damage and locked off the dining hall."

"They have. But what about the space above the dining hall?"

"Could you elaborate?"

"There is a space above the ceiling of the dining hall. You saw it. The dining hall was light, because light was coming in through the windows. But the space above was darker, because there were no windows there. Also, there was a wooden layer separating the two spaces, you could see it."

"So what?"

"If there is a space above the dining hall ceiling, there might be a space above our ceiling. And the two spaces could be connected."

"Just because there's a space above our room's ceiling that leads to the outside, that doesn't mean we can reach it. We have a ceiling above us, in case you haven't noticed."

"But this building is cheap. Everyone knows that this building is cheap. I'm willing to bet that the ceiling beams aren't actually nailed down, they're just placed on the wooden beam framework. I'm willing to bet that we could just lift them away."

"You know what? That sounds so plausible." Devon's voice is beaming with hope. "Let's check. But let's wait until Miss Binny comes in and then leaves again first. We don't want her walking in on us."

"Absolutely." Willow smiles in the darkness.

And so they do wait. Miss Binny comes in, and she sings to them, and this time the children know better than to get caught up in her sweetness, in her softness. She strokes their hair, and they pretend to be asleep, and they don't have to force themselves to not recoil at her touch. A soft stroke is a soft stroke, even if they hate the person giving it to them. And then the two friends are left alone.

Devon walks up to the window and he climbs the bars on the window that are put up to stop them from escaping. He laughs ruefully inside his head at the irony. When he reaches the top, he reaches one hand out to lift the beams of the ceiling away. They move away easily. Willow has to stop herself from screaming out loud in joy.

——-

Willow and Devon know that time is not on their side. They know that the gap will be fixed in just a few weeks at most. But they also know that they have to make sure they do this right, that they plan this right. So they take a day to plan. And they plan as meticulously as they can. And they take a day to count.

The thing they're counting is how long the stretch of time is between Miss Binny's visits. If they know how long they have after she leaves and before she comes again, then they know how fast they need to go, they know what they do and don't have the time to do. They know when and how to best strike. When and how to best try. When and how to best win.

It's hard, staying awake when you're starving, when you're exhausted, when you've worked all day. It's really hard. But what is harder is letting your best friend live a life of slavery. They know that they'll be able to be free, to be loved, and to be fed when they escape. They know that they'll be able to be children at last. And so they can keep themselves awake. Their excitement and anticipation can keep them awake.

It's a blessing of fate, Devon thinks, that they're able to stay awake despite everything. It's an act of goodwill on the behalf of a universe that had given them nothing but suffering up until now. He resolves to make as much out of this opportunity as he can, and he resolves to not fail this time. He can't let his best friend down. He can't let down the girl who is so incredible, so amazing, so much. He can't let down the hope that he gave her, or the hope that she gave him as well.

Willow feels as though she is finally, finally close to something somewhat resembling life. As if a beautiful and delicate wildflower is about to bloom. She knows that she will never be free of the curse of this place, and she'll never be free of the scars and the markings that it has left on her. But she also knows that she must rebel against this place that has taken so much from her, she must rebel against this place that has taken so much from so many of them. And she must make a new world for herself and her best friend.

Both friends have their hands interlaced with each other. They are taking turns squeezing each other's hand, first Willow, then Devon, then Willow, then Devon. They are squeezing each other's hands in a steady, uniform, pulsing rhythm. Like a heartbeat. Like the rising and lowering of the tides. Each time one of the children squeezes the other's hand, they both count. First one, then two, then three, then four. They count and keep on counting, higher and higher and higher.

It would be very boring, doing this, under any other circumstances. It would be very boring, just counting the minutes away. But this isn't just any circumstance. This isn't just any counting. They are counting the seconds and minutes they have to escape. The seconds and minutes they have to become free. And it's so exciting. It's so exciting doing this. It's so exciting, and entrancing, and thrilling, and intoxicating. They are tired. Of course they are tired, are exhausted. But it feels like pure electricity is flowing through them anyways.

After a bit more than two thousand counts, Miss Binny comes in again. She sees the two children curled up around their doll and she smiles to herself.

"They sure do love that doll," she murmurs. "I suppose that's understandable. It's the only toy they get to have. Poor children." She doesn't say anything else and then she leaves again. The children start counting again, in the silence of the night, in the silence of their minds. They need to know whether the times are always uniform, between different visits. If visits can even be the right word for it.

Willow counts. And in between counts she thinks about how hungry she is. She thinks about how tired she is. But she also thinks about how excited she is. It's cruel, it's oh so cruel what they have forced her to endure. The hunger is oh so cruel. The exhaustion is oh so cruel. The work is oh so cruel. The lack of kindness and softness and love is oh so cruel. The roughness, the rudeness, the hatred. The lack of freedom, the way they don't allow her to be a child. But what will be great, what will be beyond the sweetest pure sugar, will be getting revenge on them all by succeeding at escaping. And she knows that she can do just that.

Devon counts as well. He counts his own pulses. He counts Willow's pulses. He counts his own hand gently squeezing Willow's. He counts Willow's hand gently squeezing his own. He thinks about his hunger. It is impossible to not think about his hunger. It is impossible to not think about the pain of it. But he thinks, once they get out and become free, there will be no more hunger, there will be no more pain, there will be no more ache.

The darkness covers the two friends. It is like a blanket. It is like a cloak. It gives them cover and protection and just a bit of comfort. They know each other well in the darkness. They have grown up together in the darkness. They have shared their deepest, darkest secrets with the darkness, in the darkness, with each other in the darkness. And they trust the dark. They trust the nighttime that has brought them tiny slivers of freedom as much as it could for many long years, and will bring them a much bigger freedom soon. Hopefully. Hopefully.

They also trust the moon which shines its beautiful, soft light, more silver than anything imaginable. They trust the moon which sends its light through their window whenever it can, illuminating their lives with a softness and a steadiness, lending an otherworldly tint to their nighttime reality, to the reality of the time that they can share with each other.

Miss Binny comes in four times in total. It's always a bit more than two thousand counts in between visits. So the children know that they can have a bit of time to escape. They let themselves fall asleep finally, knowing that tomorrow will be the the last day they stay in this accursed place.

———

The day goes on and it's weary, like every day is. They are bone-weary, just like they are every day. Not just Devon and Willow, but all the children of the orphanage. They all deserve so much better, every single one of them. They all need so much better, every single one of them. Willow and Devon wish they could save each and every one of them. They wish that so badly.

But finally the night time comes, and it is time to go. It is time to put everything into action. It is time to use the one small chance they do have.

Willow and Devon are lying down, the blanket above their heads, completely covering them. They are talking silently, waiting for Miss Binny to come and then go.

"I want to save the other children too," Willow whispers.

"I do too. But how are we even going to contact them? We can't go out into the hallway. Miss Binny might be in the hallway."

"Well, can we get to their rooms from the attic? It probably connects to all the other rooms." There is hope in her voice. And love. So much love.

"We could try that. It's a good idea." There is a sort of brightness in Devon's voice that has never been there before.

"No. If won't work." Willow's tone is dark and death-kissed.

"Why?" Devon's tone rapidly darkens as well.

"We won't know whether Miss Binny's in the rooms. What if she's in the room when we enter it? Then everyone would be in a lot of trouble and no-one would escape."

"You're right. I guess we can't save everyone." There is resentment laced into Devon's words. But he knows, he knows Willow's being reasonable. "I'm sorry. I guess we can only save ourselves."

"Still, I guess that's something," Willow replies, tone laced with ice-cold sadness but also with fire-bright hope.

The lock in the room clicks, and the night guard walks in. She sees the two lumps, the two children, under the blanket. And she speaks a soft prayer over them before leaving.

"Now's our chance," Willow states into the small room.

"Yes, now's our chance," Devon echoes.

The two friends get up, silently, soundlessly. Their hearts are beating so hard that they can feel it in their chests, they can feel it in their throats, they can feel it in their stomachs. This part of the plan is the trickiest part, and they want to make sure they are doing it right. They want to make sure they don't kill their dream before it even gets started.

They roll up their thin straw mattress, each rolling up one end so that the mattress has two rolls in it, and one flat, unrolled space in the middle, between the two rolls. They shape and mould the rolled up parts of the mattresses, so that they look like two children sleeping. This is a critically important piece of the plan, and it's critically important that they get it right.

And so they hold their breath while they're doing this. They hold their breath and they hold their hearts in their throats. They are terrified. Not more terrified than they ever have been in their lives, but overwhelmingly terrified anyways. But they are also exhilarated. They are soaring on possibility, on hope, and it is this hope that is guiding each and every movement of their hands as they make sure to fashion the straw mattress just right.

After they are done shaping the mattress, they carefully drape the blanket over it. They pull the blanket down over all sides of the small bed frame so that none of the portion of the bed frame that's for sleeping on is exposed, so that they cover every place that they mattress would have been. They cover every place that the mattress would have been, so that the night guard cannot see the lack of the mattress on the bed, so that she can only see the blanket, and she thinks nothing of it. And of course, they make sure to cover the rolled and shaped mattress as well.

This part is terrifying as well. They know that they have to do it just right, in order to make everything believable, in order to make nothing suspicious. They know that if Miss Binny happens to try to touch what she believes are the two children, they will be doomed. But they also know that Miss Binny tends to not try to touch them if they're covered with the blanket, so they are not too worried about that. Still, they are worried, and they make sure to make everything absolutely perfect, entirely perfect, so that they have less to fear. So that they can succeed.

The children look at their handiwork. And they smile. They are smiles laced with thudding hearts and twisting stomachs and soaring spirits, with hunger and fear and hope. They are smiles supersaturated with so many emotions, both good and bad and everything in between. They are smiles laced with joy and worry, and they are laced with love, so much incredible love.

"Let's put the doll in the blankets now," Devon suggests. His words are hushed. Are so quiet that they're barely there. But Willow hears. Willow always hears, just as she is meant to.

"But I want to bring the doll with us." Willow's words are equally quiet, are equally hushed. No-one outside the room would have even the slightest chance of hearing her. But Devon hears perfectly, just as he is meant to.

"I do too, but if we leave the doll, it will help convince Miss Binny that we are sleeping in bed." Devon's words carry regret in them, but they also carry a note of logic.

"I suppose you're right," Willow concedes. "If she sees the doll here, she'll be sure that we're still here and that we haven't left." Willow's words are sad but they're clear, they're understanding, they're resolute. She takes the doll in her hand and then places it inside the blanket so that only its misshapen head is sticking out.

"Bye-bye, doll," Devon whispers.

"Bye-bye, doll," Willow bids quietly.

They proceed to the next part of their plan. Willow and Devon climb onto the windowsill and they oh so gently, oh so carefully remove the beams on the ceiling right above the windowsill. Their hands are almost shaking, with excitement and fear both at once. They know that they have to do this quietly. They know that they have to do it as quietly as they can so that nobody outside the room has any chance of hearing them. But they also know that they have to do this quickly, because the two of them only have a certain amount of time to get out of this room. And so they also move as quickly as they can, despite the fact that the balance of speed and silence is hard to maintain.

When the beams have finally been moved enough to let a body though, the two friends silently celebrate in the quietness of their minds. But they only take the smallest moment to do this, since they have to get moving immediately. They know that they don't have time, they don't have time, they don't have time. They have to move and they have to move fast. And so they go on.

Devon climbs down gently as Willow climbs up the bars of the window. Devon ponders how ironic it is, that the very thing that was meant to keep them locked in - the window bars - is the very thing that will help them escape. Willow reaches one hand up through the hole and she grabs hold of a wooden beam that connects two rafters. It is hard to grab onto and get a good grip, but the abject terror with which Willow is operating sends so many pulses of frantic energy constantly flowing through her that her hand becomes strong and she is able to grasp the beam and not let go.

She then reaches her other hand to join the first hand, holding the beam from the opposite side as the first hand, so that both sets of fingers are facing towards the middle of the beam. She breathes. And she takes her feet off of the window bars. The sudden weight is hard to hold up. But she's terrified. She's so terrified, and her whole body knows very well the importance of this moment. So her hands are able to hold her up. They are able to hold her up despite having to hold all her weight. Despite having to do so through hunger. The fear wins over the hunger.

She swings her body back and forth, each swing becoming wider than the last. Then, eventually she is able to swing her legs all the way up to the ceiling. She bends her knees when she reaches the ceiling and then she straightens them so that they catch on the ceiling. She winces at the sound this makes, but she prays to whatever divinity might be listening that the adults think this sound just a random knocking about of things.

She walks her hands down the beam, first letting go with one hand and then holding on again farther down the beam, then letting go with the other hand and then holding on again farther down the beam. As she does this, she walks her feet along as well, being sure to move as quietly as possible so that no sound escapes. This act is difficult, and requires immense amounts of strength from her arms and her hands and her core. But eventually she reaches the edge of the hole in the wall and she lifts her body up so that she is completely inside the attic.

She smiles, and then softly, silently, crawls away to give Devon the space to get himself up into the attic as well. Devon follows all the same steps Willow followed. He is strong, because he has to be. He is silent, because he has to be. He is quick, because he has to be. And thank all the stars in the sky, he is successful!

The two children quickly move the beams back in place, as quietly as they can, so that the hole in the ceiling is covered. Then they move.

They crawl through the attic. The attic is small, it's cramped. But thankfully the children are small as well, and they can fit. The universe is really on their side, making things work out for them. They thank the universe and continue crawling through the attic. They have to make sure their hands and feet reach the floor softly, silently, without any sound. And they have to make sure they get out of here before dawn.

Their hearts are singing. They're still afraid, but their hearts are singing. They are still weighed down by heaviness, by desolation, but their hearts are singing. They are so close, so close, so very close. And they feel how close they are. And they know that they cannot mess up these last steps. They cannot go so far only to be caught. But they are fairly confident, they are fairly confident that they will not be caught.

And so they keep on crawling through the dark attic towards the light. Because the attic is pitch black. But there is a faint glow of moonlight coming through the hole in the walls. Once again, the moon is their salvation and saviour. And they thank the moon immensely for its help, and for always being there for them whenever it could be.

They crawl over the seemingly unending stretch of orphanage. They don't know where they are in relation to what's below them. But they know that they are getting closer, getting closer, getting closer and closer to freedom.

Finally, they are right at the broken corner. It's time to jump.

"I'm scared," Devon admits.

"It's one jump. One jump and then we'll be free," Willow comforts.

"But still ... it's so high." He sounds like the child he is.

"But if they catch us now, up here," Willow points out, "they will kill us."

"You're right, they will."

Devon jumps, and lands with a thud, legs banging into the fallen tree. It hurts. It hurts so much. But he stops himself from screaming or crying out or making any sound. And Willow does the same. The next thing they both do is look up at the sky. This is the first time they have been outside in years, under the clear and open sky that sparkles with stars.

"It's so beautiful," Willow whispers, amazed, awestruck.

"It is," Devon agrees.

"Where should we go now?" Admittedly, the children had been so worried about trying to escape that they have no plan for what to do after they did escape. But there is a vast and mighty forest on one side of them and the town on the other side. And they have a choice.

"Let's go to the forest," Devon suggests. "They will look for us in the town, they will search everywhere. But they won't go into the forest. You've heard what the adults said about the forest. It's too dangerous. No-one ever goes there. They won't search there."

"The forest doesn't look scary to me," Willow proclaims. "It looks so beautiful. It looks so amazing. I want to go there." There is wonder in her voice as she says this, looking out over the thick wooded land.

And so the two children go off, into the undergrowth, following a small deer trail that is illuminated by the smallest fragments of moonlight.

———

The two friends keep walking all night, and until the night turns to day. They have never felt this light since their parents died. Of course, they still feel heavy. They still feel so incredibly heavy. The death of their parents weighs them down. The horrors they have endured for so many years weighs them down. They are weighed down by thousands of boulders, in their chests, in their stomachs, in their throats. In their hearts, in their minds, in their spirits. They are weighed down and they always will be. But still, their souls are flying. There is sadness, yes, but there is happiness too. There is happiness, yes, but there is sadness too.

The forest is beautiful. The forest is incredibly beautiful. The deer trail they are following is small, tiny and narrow. It is ringed on either side by tall, towering trees, by wild and brilliant bushes, by wild herbs. They see squirrels and birds and even a moose. They freeze when they see a snake and they carefully avoid it. There is wild, wild green and wild, wild brown, in all different shades and patterns and textures.

It's all glorious. All of it is so glorious. Even the snake. And all of it is so healing, so soothing, so calming. Of course it doesn't heal everything. Of course it doesn't fix everything. The scars that the children have to bear, they will have to bear forever. The weight that the children have to bear, they have to bear forever. And the forest doesn't fix everything. But it sure does help. Immensely.

They feel at home here. They feel more at home than they have ever felt since their parents died. And they feel free here. More free than they have ever felt before. They are mesmerized, mesmerized, so deeply mesmerized by everything all around them, by the life and love and flow and burning of everything all around them. It is so full of emotion. Each and every inch of the forest is so filled with emotion, filled with spirit, filled with love and life and harmony. It's glorious.

And they feel so intimately a part of it. They feel intimately connected to it, connected to all the life around them, connected to all the flowing love that pulses and weaves its way through the forest. They feel intimately connected to all the different parts of the cacophony around them. And they feel their hearts, they feel in their hearts the importance of their connection, the importance of their existence, the importance of their love.

They are mesmerized, and held like they haven't been held in years. But they are also hungry. Incredibly hungry. The hunger gnaws at them and they are desperate for food.

Thankfully, they quickly find a large patch of wild berries. They immediately descend upon it, pulling berries off the bushes and shoving them into their mouths. They eat berry after berry after berry after berry until they are absolutely stuffed and can fit no more, following the bushes away from the deer trail.

"Hi, children," a voice calls out. "I didn't expect to find you here."

Hearing this, both of them snap their heads around in surprise and terror. Standing before them, partially obscured by a large bush, is a woman clothed in a leather dress. She has long hair, and kind eyes, and skin that is darkened by the sun. She is gazing at them with curiosity, sombriety, and just a hint of amusement.

She is not what the children are expecting at all. They do not expect for another person to be in the forest. They are afraid. They haven't had any good interactions with adults so far.

"Who are you guys?" she asks again. "I'm Elizabeth, and I'm a girl."

"How do we know we can trust you?" Devon asks warily.

"You don't have to trust me, I'll earn your trust," she replies. "But in the meantime, do you two children want to come meet the rest of my group?"

"Okay," Willow responds.

They are lead through the forest to a small spring. Beside the spring, there is a small group of tents, made of wood and furs. There are people gathered around, doing various things. They are also dressed in leather.

"Who are these ones, Elizabeth?" someone who is probably a man asks.

"I'm not quite sure yet, Jason," Elizabeth answers. "They're children, and I found them by a berry patch. I think they need water. Do you guys need water?" Elizabeth asks.

The two newcomers nod, and a teenager goes up to the spring and fills a leather pouch full of water, before handing it to them. The two drink heavily, trying the quench their thirst.

"So you've met me," Elizabeth tells them, "But this is my friend Jason, and his wife is away gathering food along with their two older children Dustin and River. This is his youngest child, Inara, who's a girl. This is my wife, Alexandra, and this is my brother Kaiden. This is his wife Christina, and their two children Ali and Ruth. Dublin and Candace are away setting traps, and their children are with them. Dustin and his husband Tristen are also setting traps."

"Nice to meet you guys," Willow answers. "Why are you out here in the woods? Don't you know that it's dangerous?"

"Well, that's what the city dwellers think," Inara answers. "But Elizabeth and Alexandra were the first people who stopped listening to the brainwashing and they came into the forest. They've convinced the rest of us to join them, over the years, and we couldn't be happier. This is a nice place. How about you guys, why are you here?"

"We lived in the orphanage," Devon responds. "Well, not lived, really. It wasn't a life, really. We escaped, and decided to go into the forest because the people who ran the orphanage wouldn't look for us here."

"That's a good idea, coming into the forest," Kaiden responds. "We're glad you came here. Do you want to live with us? You guys are children and need to be taken care of. We'll take care of you."

"Okay," Willow answers. "You folks seem nice. I'm Willow, by the way, I'm a girl. And this is my best friend Devon. He's a boy."

"Nice to meet you both," Christina says. "Welcome to our community."

"Is there anyone you left behind, who you want us to convince to join us?" Jason questions.

"If you could free the other children at the orphanage, that would be good," Willow responds. "But that's not possible."

"You could help us find our families, and bring them here," Devon pleads. "After our parents died, I was being raised by my aunt and Willow was being raised by her neighbours. We miss them. I'm sure they miss us too."

"Absolutely," Alexandra answers. "We will find them. Don't you worry, we will find them. And after that, we will convince them to come into the forest. I'm sure they'll agree once they know you children are here. Do you know where they live?"

"Yes," Willow answers. "How could we ever forget our homes? We always thought about going back throughout our whole time at the orphanage."

"Yes," Devon agrees.