This is the story about how I died. Don't worry, though, I came back!

For writers, our deaths are the hundreds of works we never finished

Held in piles of notebooks and unfinished documents of story ideas

Our inspiration and motivation can be vibrant one day but lackluster the next.

To the random disappearances and lack of updates— then suddenly writing chapter after chapter in one day.

We could quit, but the thought of being successful and saying, "I did it!" Is too tempting.

The life of writers is fascinating yet tiring.

The week dragged on. The only thing in my mind was just "carry on until Saturday."

Eventually, the week closed off. I sprawled on the bed and scrolled through my phone. Barely five minutes later, I looked back towards the window. It was still there. I stood at that window, staring at that car, forever in a stalemate with it.

A loud ping came from my phone. Picking it up, I noticed a message from Wade.

"Clara, Amelia & I are here at your doorstep," it said. I typed a quick reply, pulled out my backpack, put it on, and walked toward the door. I briefly stopped at the kitchen.

"Mama! I'm going to hang out with some friends," I called.

"Okay! Text me and don't come home late!"

I met up with my friends outside. We chatted for a bit, and everything was mundane for an outsider looking in. No unnatural motives, no ideas about searching for alternate truths.

The vague chatter ended as quickly as it started.

"So, how are we going to do this," I asked, shifting uncomfortably. Clara shrugged and walked across the street. She stepped toward the car. The rest of us followed like ducklings. A small pit began forming in my stomach. I felt as if we were nearing the end of days.

We stood around the car expectedly. Our eyes were watchful for anything that could happen. Still, nothing. I think of scales when I look at the car. Unbalanced and unfixable scales. This backward curiosity could cost us our lives, a voice in my head, deepening the pit. We're vulnerable here, and we shouldn't be here, and we shouldn't be snooping around a stranger's car. Out risks are the undertaker's dream.

"What's that?" I sampled out of my fear. Amelia sprinted over to the hood of the car. By one of the wheels, a neat burgundy envelope was neatly sat on the gravel. Amelia opened it gently. We all huddled around it. She froze as she read it. A sense of panic filled us. The tension was so thin you could cut a knife.

"What does it say," I whispered. Amelia passed it to me, her face going pale.

"I know your curiosity. I have seen everything. This world is not as you think it is. So, stay far away. I swear on Hate's last breath if your naiveté doesn't kill you, I will."

"At least they were direct?" The head shaking and shoves drove the point home for Wade's untimely jokes.

For a while, no one spoke. The fear silenced out voices.

Eventually, we decided to leavem we didn't even cross the street when Clara gasped, making us freeze again.

"Look!" Clara grabbed my arm as we all watched in shocked awe.

Navy blue smoke oozed slowly from the key hole of the house in front of us.

It surrounded it as the door creaked open.

They call this "teenage rebellion." I call it classical conditioning.

You'd think adults would realize something was wrong if one of their kids was tormenting the other. Forcing them to do their homework and throwing tantrums until they got their way.

You'd think they'd notice the young girl always on the verge of a breakdown. She's always about to cry and wants nothing more than to be left alone, with her mind at ease.

They told me they knew me better than I knew myself. But why? Why do they know me better? I feel like a different person around them. One who is guilty all the time, a paranoid scapegoat.

"What happened," asked my mother before manipulation shut down her reasoning.

"What did you do," accused my father, unaware he was fooled.

My sister sits idly by—can't blame her, I would to if I had the chance.

Then, there's him. He's younger, but the power he gets is unbelievable. It conflicts with me. Whether to hold him accountable or to find fault in my parents for being twisted to enable him.

It was only a matter of time before I'd stop trusting them. It's like Pavlov's dogs— too much like Pavlov's dogs. Adults were the neutral stimuli slowly being attributed to distrust as they disappointed me again and again.

"Why are you so nervous," I'd be asked, without being allowed to explain.

"You're being dramatic." Became the blanket statement that would fix everything.

Perfect! I would think. Now, my trust issues get worse. It's like there's an invisible tape over my mouth, muffins every word I say so that it can never be believed.

I don't understand why they'd think I'd trust them. If they can't draw the line at this, where would it be?

Kids at school?

Teachers?

A future spouse?

Or would the conditioning go so far that they'd think I'm the problem for everything?

I don't know if I should tell them. Would they even hear it? Should I assume they'd react appropriately if they did?

There was a quote, " Conditioned people only function within the limits of their conditioning." Who wrote that? I can't remember. Whoever it was, they got it right. Is it possible to escape your conditioned environment? Will you be able to realize it's wrong or not? No one's given me an answer. Kids can't. Adults wouldn't. People my age are as lost as I am.

I can't trust them. My brain's conditioned my not to. It's just instinct. How would I know if they're lying. They could be! I'm not one of them. They wouldn't take me seriously.

"Hello, are you still there," she said. I can't speak. Everything's caught up inside me, ready to run away first chance I get. I nod. It seems to satisfy her. She passed me a small bag.

My instincts tell me to drop it. Throw it away. But that's not what an adult would want. I can't trust, but at least I could fake it if I obeyed.

"Thank you," the words barely leave my lips as I carefully open the ribbon, tying it all together. It's a small plush and an abundance of candies.

"Alright, alright, settle down class. You can eat the candy now but only if you behave." I watched her as she put on a movie. People were yelling out suggestions. She eventually settled on "A Nightmare Before Christmas" and went back to her desk. My body relaxed once she was farther away.

I pulled out the plush. It was a small opossum. Everyone was playing with theirs, so an array of animals were being handed around the room. Everything was real, so why did this seem to fake? Why to all of us and for nothing in return? She and I both know how many of these kids are "class clowns" as they call themselves. But she still gave them this regardless?

My eyes wandered to the small pile of candies. Smarties, different brands of chocolates, and even Starbursts. My mouth watered, but instinct gave way. Why would she do this? Something was going to happen tomorrow. As adults always did, she'd say, "I gave you this one good thing and will now pile on hundreds of bad things onto you!"

Despite my reluctance, my instinct for food triumphed my trust issues. Still, it lingered, I waiting for the inevitable. Nothing happened. The only thing being piled onto us was the story of the movie.

My heart is happy, but my brain thinks it's been tricked. As much as I didn't want to, I saved some of the chocolates and Starbursts. Anything to delay my brain from thinking she would take this away. Still, almost everyone finished. Was this a plan? To wait for all of us and then take this away?

But she didn't. The class ended. I still had my opossum and my candies. I came back tomorrow, and no impossible assignment was given.

Any idea that I should trust her was thrown out the window. It's October. She's biding time. I bit back any urge to ask. How should I know if she'd answer truthfully or that she wouldn't spread my suspicions to my parents and my other teachers. I'd rather have indifference or tolerance compared to this. This was unpredictable. It kicked my instincts into overdrive.

It didn't matter, I can't trust any of the adults. They're all the same. A child's trust is a toy to them. Sure, maybe some of them act careful with it. But it will always be broken. It's beneath them. It would never be their equal because it's not an adult's trust. It's a child's. An easy target's.

There weren't enough candies or plushies in the world that could prove me otherwise.

The dishes overflowed. The rug was a crumpled mass, an unintentional booby trap. The soup was half finished, and the pot was boiling over.

Hastily, I scrambled to the stove and shut it off. While he sprawled himself over the couch, beer in hand. The TV mindlessly babbled as he watched it without regard to the hot mess around us.

"David, honey, could I have some help here?"

"Ah, just do it, yerself, ya old hag!" He waved an uncaring hand at me. Slowly, I brought myself back to work. I washed the chipped tea cup as I wondered where the charming man I once knew went. The yellow mustard went back into the cupboard as my heart sunk.

"He was never that person," a small voice in my head hissed. "He knows you love him too much to complain as you're neck up in junk!"

Silent years fell as I sat by the window of our bedroom. Another Christmas came and left with poisoning isolation.

My family seemed so far away, and my friends weren't able to contact me anymore.

No more cherries I got to pick from bushes in the country. No playing in the tennis courts. No putting on fluffy socks as my brother and I raced across tile floors.

Now, my life was a shadow of what it once was. It is filled with creaky wooden planks and a deadbeat.

The only joy I could get was from the neighbors' Christmas lights. Oh, how beautiful they were flickering crimson and green.

Eventually, night would fall, and I had to tear my eyes away from the lights.

As I slept, a strange thought entered my mind. I should leave. Go home for Christmas. Slowly, I crawled out of bed. I packed a bag long into the night. Once the work was done, I went back to sleep, waiting for the morning.

Christmas morning. I tentatively crept down the stairs. Pulling my backpack on, I skidded toward the door.

The bump of my shoulder on the shelt shocked my soul out of my body. Everything froze as his angry footsteps came closer. Louder. And louder. My heartbeat stopped.

"What the HELL are you doing!?" His ranting was cut short when he saw the backpack. My breath was caught in my throat.

"Are you leaving me," he shouted.

"No! No! I just wanted to go home for Christmas please—"

I don't remember anything after that. I huddled myself in the corner. He had been gone for hours, but it still felt as if he was right beside me.

Between sobs, one thought entered my mind.

His demise would be mine.

I'm not sure where I got the idea of how he would die. Maybe I wanted him to suffer the way I have for four years. Maybe it was inspiration from the pranks my brother pulled on each other in the brighter days of my youth.

Whatever the idea came from. I worked tirelessly. Tying and taping. Screwing and measuring. Then all I had to do was wait. Patiently wait like a predator for their prey.

Soon the prey did come. Staggering drunk, per usual. I faked washing dishes waiting for the inevitable tug.

And it came.

He went flying and flailing. His voice pierced my ears. Still, a smile plastered my face.

Now he knew what agony felt like.

I waited for silence. His breathing was ragged as I walked over to him.

The look on his face— Ah hah ha! Oh how I've waited for this.

I could only smile as his breathing cut short.

As I stood over his motionless form, the trails of blood that swarmed out of his body filled me with euphoria.

My lips curved into a small smile as I addressed him.

"Merry Christmas, honey," I said. He gave no reply— of course, he couldn't. What was I thinking? I giggled at my own foolishness.

"I wish my gift was as special as yours," I continued. "After all, I've got exactly what I wanted."

The lights were too bright for my eyes and the music was deafening. My legs were jelly, and my arms were aching for her fingers had become thorn.

I was in pure bliss.

I was whirled around before I could purpose. My face grew warm as she pulled me close.

"It's you that I want to dismember," she said. Her voice was smooth as honey that I couldn't force away.

She had become my angel and my devil. She healed me and destroyed me.

At her command, I would rip my heart from my chest. As we dance, I feel my soul burst into flames.

A voice speaks in my mind.

"Her heart is as hard as stone or mahogany," it says.

"That's why I am in exisquiset agony," I reply.

We dance, and I feel like I've ascended to the heavans. My holy blood is only a small price to pay for eternal paradise. The pain was nothing in my engulfed heart. Neither bruises, blood, nor burns could stop me from loving her. This torturous dance of love would be sought 'till the end.

I couldn't stop myself from thinking otherwise.

Song- The Masochism Tango: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ZV6wKSMZjdg

"Your death will be slow,"

He said in a voice that chilled her to the bone.

"But if you tell me a story, it will be painless."

She trembled in his gaze, her ears filled with the sound of the crackling log fire

In her beating heart, she felt it become her pyre

Accepting his offer with a small nod, she tugged on her mustard sweater

A gift from where times were better

Her mouth, dry from the anxiety,

Began a tale of fantasy

Once she began, she wouldn't stop,

Talking night and day, like a fizzling pot without a top

Her words became tapestries,

A rusted key,

The feel of velvet,

Of beautiful maidens bearing chipped red nail polish

She spoke and spoke until the clock broke

Only when the prince made her pause for his scribe to copy the story did she pause

When the man of curly hair, round glasses, and pale blue typewriter stopped clicking the keys,

She returned to the point of the story

Days passed until her tale ended

Waiting for her soul to be taken,

She heard applause

"Wonderful, wonderful!" The prince cried

He declared that the girl would not die

Instead, her life of hardship became one of luxury,

All she needed was her ability to tell a story

The pair would grow close

The tales they swapped became the foundation of a home

She liked villains with blood on their hands.

At first, it hurt to take a life. Then, the blood on my hands became as common as air. It was simply there. There was no guilt. No disgust. Just emptiness. One became two, then four. Four staggered into eight. Eight people too close to finding out what I've done...

She found me after the eighth person. I wanted her to. The shrill cry she let out panged me.

"I thought you liked villains with blood on their hands?"

And I bloodied my hands for her. Too bad it was her own.

"Hey guys!" I dropped my stuff by the bleachers. Then, I plopped down between Amelia and Clara.

"Hey!"

"Kelly didn't show up again?" I tilted my head in confusion. "Is she okay?"

"I don't know. She hasn't responded to any of my texts," Clara replied, shrugging. "I'm sure she's fine."

I pursed my lips. Kelly being sick often isn't an unnatural occurrence. It didn't mean I wasn't concerned. The school had a strict absence policy. You were tempting fate being out more than sixteen times a year.

"So what's new with you guys?"

"Mr. Morgan assigned another quiz." Clara and I groaned as the words left Amelia's mouth.

"Isn't this like quiz number six of the month? " I put my head in my hands. "At this rate, we'll be getting quizzes from him on Teams 'til it burns!" The others nodded in agreement. At this point, I'm certain we've lost count of the quizzes he's given us.

"Is the quiz easy," Clara asked.

"Yeah, just long." There was a collective sigh of relief. Constant history quizzes can be annoying, but at least I could count on an easy A.

"Crossing my fingers that it is as easy as you said. We've got Finn, Andrew, Carl, Jake, and Madelyn in one room," Clara mumbled. I nodded. This day was going to get longer and longer, I could feel it. The thought of being in a room with them, trying to get through my quiz in piece, gave me hives. I'd sooner walk up the Stairs of Valhalla.

"Guys, I've been seeing some weird stuff lately." I turned around quickly, making sure no one was eavesdropping. The others looked at me with piqued interest.

"What kind of weird stuff?"

"Well, more like a weird thing," I explained. "There's this car that parked across the street from my house. It looks like a normal blue Chevy, but something feels off about it."

"Like what?" Amelia and Clara turned to face me.

"Well, besides the fact that the car was made in 1957, nothing I can see. I've seen it in front of the house for weeks, and it's never budged! Even on weekends."

"Maybe they have another car," Amelia asked. I shook my head.

"It's an apartment building. No garage."

"You've seen it too?" I jumped in my spot. The fear left my body when I saw it was Wade. I nodded. He sat beside us.

We all took some time to process what we were just talking about.

"It's a mystery," Clara piped up with jazz hands.

"Yeah, a mystery with a really boring premise," I added.

"This whole town is boring! I don't know what you expected." Amelia threw her hands up. I gave her that one. Not much happens in suburban New Jersey.

Wade opened his mouth to say something, but a sharp whistle interrupted. We all went to our spots for attendance.

Eventually, after all the classes took attendance, they opened up the crate holding all the balls. We all stood off to the side while everyone else ran like it was the "Hunger Games" Cornucopia. I noticed Amelia grab something from behind the bleachers. A spare volleyball.

"Where'd you find that?"

"Someone left it here, and we've been hiding it, so we didn't have to run there," Clara explained as kids swarmed the crate.

We all stood in a circle, and Amelia served the ball to Clara.

"So what was going on that you blew up on Finn in math," Wade asked.

"I did not blow up on him!"

"Yeah, you did, we are literally two seats away from each other." I rolled my eyes and blocked the volleyball.

"It's not my fault he's annoying," I snapped. Wade shook his head.

"So I've heard. You fixate on this at least once a week."

"I have three classes with him! That's half my day stuck with him!" The ball flew outside of the circle, and Clara ran to get it.

"Well, we can't do much about that. But you can't fixate on it all the time. It's not good for you." I scowled. He's right. He's always right about this. In the eyes of strangers, I look like I'm about to blow up at a minor inconvenience. Being annoyed by Finn was like foreplay to my eventual breakdown.

"I'll try," I say as Clara comes back with the ball, and we resumed our game.

Finally, gym class ended. My legs felt like they were torn apart and were begging for mercy. The four of us sat by our things.

"I thought of something," Amelia told us out of the blue. "About the car, I mean." We all turned our attention to her.

"What if we all met up at the park on Saturday and tried to find anything suspicious?" The idea was turning over in our heads.

"I'd have to ask my parents first," I said. There was an outcry of 'same'.

"It's the only idea we've got. We might as well try."

"Should we ask Kelly or May if they've seen anything?" Wade suggested.

The rest of us attested to having them know.

"The more evidence we could find that something weird is happening, the better," Clara reasoned. I hoped that her conclusion was the case. A small voice in the back of my mind mocked me for my thoughts. It could be broken, or no one was using it because it qualified as vintage, or maybe the owners were in the process of getting a new car...

"You okay?" Wade tapped me on the shoulder.

"Yeah, just thinking. What if we're going about this the wrong way and nothing is happening?"

"If they weren't using the car, wouldn't we have seen another car anywhere by the house," Wade replied flatly.

"Fair point." Still, there was doubt in my voice. Trying to find something wrong was like trying to remember the name for all the stars in the sky. As I walked to English class, I tried to find anything about the car that could qualify as off-putting. Nothing. It was as plain as the rest of this town. My brain repeated that this was a lapse of judgment— that it was just going to be a hoax and lead to my downfall. The mindset common in fallen heroes made so much more sense.

There was some hope mingling with my doubt. This wasn't just a strange thought anymore. It was a mystery and we were going to get answers.

We weren't leaving clueless without a fight.