Lucky to be Alive
The children watched their mother with wide, expectant eyes. Mallory looked down at the twins, who were sitting cross-legged in front of her, with a dull and tired gaze. “I s’pose you’re expecting a story,” she started.
“Yes!” The children exclaimed in unison. Mallory laughed. The corners of her mouth turned upwards and she smiled, but only slightly.
“Did I ever tell you about the time your father and I raised the dead?”
Her children knew it was all make-believe, of course, but they made-believe as children their age often did. The boy especially let himself be enveloped by his mother's imaginary world. He hung onto her every word, as if he were dangling off the edge of a cliff and they were the only things he could hold on to. As if Mallory’s words were the only things keeping him from tumbling into the bottomless abyss below. The mischievous glint in his eyes reminded Mallory too much of herself. Perhaps it was why she was so hard on the boy.
Meanwhile the girl, with blonde hair and blue eyes like her father’s, listened to Mallory’s stories with a sombre expression, drinking in every word and evaluating every sentence. She’s much too analytical for her age, Mallory often thought. Still, she was grateful that the girl was able to keep her brother grounded.
“What happened next?!” The boy exclaimed as Mallory detailed a long, drawn-out brawl with the living dead.
“She’s getting to that,” his sister scolded. “Let her finish.”
Mallory chuckled and continued her story. What the children didn’t know was that Mallory always told the exact same story; she simply mixed up a few details each time. Last time it was a fight with werewolves, before that it was a vacation gone wrong. The details changed, yes, but the story always remained the same, and the root of the story was one-hundred percent true.
Maybe, one day, she would tell them the entire, unedited truth. One day she might tell them exactly how they were conceived, how lucky they were to still be alive. Mallory might tell them how lucky she herself was to be alive. One day she might tell them why they didn’t have a father, why their mother was away from home most of the week. Perhaps, one day, when they were older and the word “rape” meant something to them, she would tell them.
Until then, however, Mallory would continue her fictional tales, and when her children asked how she managed to survive her countless hardships, she would say:
“With a little bit of luck, of course. That's all you need, really. Just a little bit of luck and the will to live. Always remember that.”
The Weekend
Saturdays were always the worst.
Bubbles of air escaped my clenched teeth and burst at the surface of the numbing, pink water. I could taste the metallic tang as it rushed from my lip and filled the pure liquid with its signature color. The bruises on my face ceased their stinging and I reminded myself to not gasp for air, no matter how much my lungs burned.
The hand clenched tightly around my unkempt hair lifted my head out of the water. I felt the sting of the bruises again for a split second before he shoved my head under once more. I caught a glimpse of my hands. They were clutching the smooth rim of the sink so hard that my knuckles had turned white. I could feel small, cold pellets hit the back of my head and neck. He was adding more ice to the sink.
He lifted my head again and I couldn’t help myself; I took one, loud, sweet breath of air. Life. I could feel it filling my lungs, a sweet second between the terrible torture.
My fatal mistake was thinking that I could have one moment of happiness.
Before I finished my breath, he pulled my head back and shoved it under the water faster than I could close my mouth. Pink water raged through my trachea. I started to cough, my arms flailing, my head shaking from side to side. Precious air escaped me as I retched violently into the numbing abyss. My hand hit something, something human. It was his wrist. I grabbed it and tried to pull it from me. The edge of the sink dug itself into my chest as I pulled at his hand, yanking my hair painfully with it. In a fit of anger, he brought my head out of the water and struck it against the metal faucet, then he threw me to the ground and stalked away.
Finally alone, I refilled my supply of oxygen and retched the water from my lungs. He would come back before the day was done and repeat the cycle. After all, the bruises had to be gone by Monday, before anyone could see them.
I curled up in my too-thin clothing and tried to dry my face. The bruises still hurt as I pressed lightly against them. Through my clouded, blurry vision I saw the door. Like a gateway to heaven and salvation, it shone with an almost divine light. Like the gateway to heaven, it was locked to me and only me. Leaving was out of the question.
I picked up a chunk of ice that had fallen to the floor and put it to my new injury. He always kept me home on Saturdays. Like a punching bag, I relieved his frustrations. And so it would continue until I took my last breath, most likely at his hand.
Indigo
Red is the color of blood. The color of Her blood. Red is what Lauren Daniels sees whenever she closes her eyes. Red is the color Lauren can never wash from her hands.
Orange is Her favorite color. It is the color of the glass bead Lauren wears around her neck, the bead that was once Hers.
Yellow is the color of the caution tape surrounding Her house. The tape Lauren feels restricted by, bound by. The tape Lauren feels she has to return to every day.
Green is the sickness Lauren feels when she thinks of the violence and death. Green is the feeling of bile rising in her throat. Green is the feeling of Lauren's love torn away from her.
Blue is the color of the police officers' uniforms. Blue is the color Lauren hates the most. It stands for the protectors of the people. The protectors who couldn't give less of a shit about the death of a queer.
Indigo Violet is the name passed from person to person the day after. Indigo Violet is the name whispered instead of spoken, as if it were a vulgar swear. Indigo Violet is the name Lauren dwells on day after day, night after sleepless night.
Indigo Violet is Her name.
Lauren will do anything to bring justice to her wife.
Red
Her
Blood. Red blood squeezing through my fingers and dripping to the ground. Stinging pain. Red vision. Red-stained green stem with pink thorns tearing through my skin. Red drips soaking into red petals beneath my feet. Red to brown to black. Black, crusty, dried blood. My skeleton rests with the stem in my hand, the thorns embedded into my bones. The throat of the rose was slashed along with my own.
Him
No one can know. No one will know. Her body will rot in the room forever. Rose, she said. She called the girl a rose. Her rose. Liability. Her love makes her this. Brown hair that will slowly dull and fall. Black hair that is still bouncing and curling. Blue eyes, green eyes, the latter now lifeless, the former with no more want for sight. Blue eyes as piercing as mine, green eyes fierce and ready to kill. I will kill her if I have too. More blood on my hands does nothing. They're too bloody to tell the difference. Too red. Red, the color of my new ghosts. There is not a day in the future I can foresee without me being haunted by the color red. Sister. Sister, wake up. Breath the breath of life again. Sister, please. Is my kinship not enough? Are my tears not the fountain of youth? Have I been lied to all these years? Your death was not a mistake. My actions were swift and true and scarlet. I could not see clearly. My vision was clouded with the bloody color. The crimson. The ruby. The cherry. The rose. The red.
What if Stan was a little too late? (This is why all of my friends hate me now)
As the shooting star flashed across the demon's solitary eye and remained there for a split second too long, Dipper knew that that would be the last time he would see his sister. He tried to scream, but nothing came out. He merely gaped at Bill as the demon snapped his fingers and Mabel disintegrated beside him. Bill's fist clenched tighter around Dipper to make up for the now-empty space, breaking a few of Dipper's ribs in the process. "Mabel..." He managed to gasp, his vision becoming blurry with tears. Bill's laugh echoed throughout the fearamid, almost covering up the loud, grief-stricken cry of, "I'll do it!"