Her eyes were glazed over, shimmering only to my flashlight. The light revealed the foam drooling from her mouth like that of a rabid dog. The room was filled with an edgy metallic smell. Her lips were covered with the devilish white powder.

She had overdosed.

I knelt down, the light stayed on her still open eyes as if they were to blink back to life. I took her hand; it was coated with the horrid powder.

Despicable.

My heart started to pulse murderously. After all of the turmoil we had fought through. After all of the breakthroughs. After all the promises. I looked at my hand. It was coated with the same horrid powder. She was never one to keep promises.

"You bitch!" My hand flew down angrily, marking her face red. "After all you had said, after all we had done together!" My eyes stung with water, blurring everything around us.

What a waste.

I touched the end of her hair, it was coated with vomit.

"You bitch..." I whispered, as if I was still afraid of her yelling back at me. 'Bitch? Me? You’re the bitch!' I smile crept onto my lips. She was always one to argue. Oh what she would have done if I had smacked her when she was still…still…

"Alive..."

The word bled silently out of my mouth and dripped into the room, leaving her and me in an even colder loneliness.

I smiled and smacked myself, laughing hysterically.

"There, we're even..." My lips numbed, a metallic taste filled my mouth. I could feel the redness mark my face. Her eyes stared up into nothingness as I stood again and grabbed my cell phone. The authorities would know what to do, they would take her away.

They would take her away.

I laughed again. She took herself away. She always said that she could. The threat littered our relationship. I knew that no matter how hard I tried, how hard I pushed her to get out of her hole; it would be her to make the final grab and pull herself out.  I guess she wasn’t strong enough after all.

"Well, you won this time Sarah." Her name burned my ears. My eyes stung again. Sarah...

You stupid bitch.

I knelt down next to her and looked into her white-covered eyes. A tear fell onto her cheek. I wiped it with my thumb, and gently pressed her eyes closed. Slowly I approached her dried lips and kissed her passionately, pressing my tongue aggressively inside hers, tasting the clumps of powder and poisoning myself with her kiss.

I took a deep breath. My lips went numb and quickly dried.  The room began to spin and blur behind a white-haze. My body began to shake horribly. With my last ounce of control I lied down next to her and took her powdered hand with mine. I finally closed my eyes as they began to sting; a single tear trickled to the floor. The room continued its horrid torrent as the taste of vomit began to flood my throat. I started to convulse.

You stupid bitch.

Over the next few days I studied my father. I even began skipping school to stay on the farm. It wasn't hard to keep inconspicuous, I had to stay to the shadows and hide in the high grass and fields, just like the bad guys and monsters on the late night scary movies. With what I can remember, 5 more victims were taken to that barn over the next 3 days; six deaths total.  A few nights before I left my dad sat down with me and talked to me about what he’s been doing.

“Son, I know that what I am doing may be wrong in your eyes but you don’t see what I see.” He adjusted in his green chair. His shirt was still red from today’s doings. “I need to do this.” He pointed to the television.”This…this machine is what causes it all!” He stood up and ran to the closet, opened the door and ripped out a baseball bat from the pile of stored junk. “It needs to be done!” With one swing he shattered the television screen. With another swing the television was shattered across the floor. Father dropped the bat and sat down and rubbed his hands together; they were clean save the brownish red stain under his fingernails.

“Dad…” I stuttered.  I remember asking the question. I remember shaking uncontrollably because we were in the same room. I remember the stench of blood.  Asking why had always been a habit of mine.  I asked my teacher when she told us the story of Christopher Columbus’ journey to the new world. I asked why to my teacher out of curiosity, but with my dad it was out of disobedience.

“Don’t question me.” He stood. “When you’re old enough you’ll understand.” He walked out of the room without saying another word.

                As the rest of the week drew to a close my father spent more and more time in the barn. The stench of rotten flesh and blood was spreading across the yard and into the house; it was inescapable. My father had long given up on tending to the crops and it showed. The fields of tall barley and wheat had long withered away; even the soil had drained itself of life.

                I’m not sure if I should of left, thinking back on it now it was a cowardice move. The police had already started searching for the killer. I could have told them it was my father. I could have stopped the chaos in the beginning, before things got out of hand. I was afraid; I’m still afraid.

The night I left was horribly condemning. Though we lived away from the city we still couldn’t see any stars, the overcast was too thick. In the distant horizon was the coming onslaught of a storm.  A frequent rumble of thunder wasn’t very welcoming for my escape. I couldn’t change when I left though, the time was now.

My father left to pick up supplies. Because the police had started their search he said he wanted to clean up the mess in the barn. The trip would be quite a while; we lived a sufficient distance away from the city that I could get enough time for a proper escape.  I had already packed my things; I packed light. Save the truth the heaviest thing I brought with me was the portable radio, everything else was either money or a satchel filled with a few set of clothes.

I had been planning my escape the evening I found my dad in the barn. I spent all night searching through the house while my dad spent his time in seclusion. My clothes were already in my room, a jar of money on top of the fridge; my dad’s rainy day fund. Thinking about it now I figure, with the storm coming I suppose the time was ironically appropriate.

The old satchel I found in the basement, it was my dad’s. When he was young he would use it to deliver food from his father’s farm to the few neighbors they had. My radio was sitting on my window sill when I was packing up my things; it wasn’t a part of the original plan to bring but later that night I decided I would need it.  I was listening to music when the song was interrupted by an emergency broadcast.

“An emergency broadcast in the Dane county area. Be on the lookout for a man, short, trimmed hair, and thick brown rimmed glasses -- Height of 6 feet 3 inches.” They wanted dad. I stood up and leaned against my bed. “This man is wanted for questioning pertaining to numerous missing person reports. If you or anyone you ma--.”

A scream came from the barn. I ran to the window and shut off the radio. I saw two struggling shadows through the cracks of the barn walls. My dad had killed someone this morning. This would be the first time it would be two murders in one day.

His face was emotionless but his movements spoke stronger. The scythe in his hands was stained with a vibrant crimson when I walked in. It was the same scythe I used the day before to till the crops in the field surrounding our house. The man on the ground I’ve seen before, on television, he's a car salesman who worked at the ford shop downtown.

                "He's a bastard to innocence." That was my dad’s excuse for slaughtering that man. I didn't understand him, I still don't understand him. Later that night my dad told me that he was disgusted at the world and how it had become a minion to television’s desires. He told me how he hated what the world had become and that through his hands he would bring back humanity’s righteousness.

                I walked in and dad was standing over the body, cocking the murder weapon above his head, the only noise was the blood dripping from the tip of the scythe, down onto the scattered hay across the dirt floor. My mind wants to remember the scene more gruesomely but in truth the day was beautiful. The sun was out for most of the day, the sunrise was a gorgeous multicolored symphony that quickly filled the horizon and slowly disappeared as I began to get ready for another day at school.

 I remember my father being a proud man, mainly about his work. He was a hard worker, considerably detailed and diligent about his farm work. When I went to school I saw him sharpening the scythe and sickles in the tool shed, preparing his tools for the day’s biddings. Dad always stood up strait, walked around quickly but not impatiently. He always wore white shirts, short sleeved and tucked into his jeans. He wore a brown leather belt. The shirts, somehow, were rarely ever stained with dirt. I remember him being a good man.

When I walked in dad was hunched over, his back was as curved as the scythe in his hands. The shirt was still tucked in but it was stained a horrible red. Our eyes met, I could feel myself shake from his intense but eerily calm stare.

"Oh my…God…” I nearly choked on my words; I didn't want anything to be said. The silence was my only sancuary. The wind whispered through the cracks of the boarded windows and stirred my dad and me through the silence. The victim stirred at my dad’s feet and reached his crippled hand towards me.  

"H-help me! I don't deserve thi-!" Before the salesmen could finish my father stooped down and brought the scythe across his neck.  With a horrid crack a fountain of red spread across the floor. The metallic smell filled the room.  My father looked at me and sighed.

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”

    Spring's come again. For a few hours today I watched a tree dance against the wind. The tree was almost bowing it was so low to the ground. I wanted it to break, I wanted to see splinters spread across my lawn. Whats the saying? 'With Spring comes showers' or something to that extent, I'm no good with remembering things. Either way it doesn't apply here. Spring doesn't bring rain that replenishes life. Spring doesn't bring a renewed sense of hope. Spring brings a cold wind and an even colder loneliness.
    Winter was fun in a sort of I-want-to-drink-the-stuff-under-the-sink-to-see-how-it-tastes sort of way. I spent the majority of my time in public, trying to save myself from Spring's condemnation. Alas, the melancholy attitude of winter covered everything with a dull, bleak grey. I was left alone, watching the snow melt away and mix with the mud. Towards the end everything becomes disgusting and its so horribly romantic.
    How is Spring the season of love? Spring doesn't bring love, winter does. Spring is just the bastard child that hides in the shadows of the rest of its family. Spring is the unexpected offspring of a 17 year old girl who thought she could earn love with sex. Even so, couples have littered the streets and love is so very much in the air, kind of like when someone vomits; you don't need to see the mess because you've already inhaled the horrible stench.
  

I woke up to the sound of rain, gently patting the windows next to my bed.  I rubbed my eyes and looked down toward my feet where I kept the clock.  The bright red numbers shouted at me, it was 3:41 in the morning. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to sleep any more so I slid out of bed.  After a long drawn out yawn and the residual stretch I looked at the clock again, hoping I miss read it.  It was 3:42.

                “Damn…” 

The hallway was darker than my room, it had no windows.  No moonlight leaked in and stained the carpet with a square of white, it didn’t bother me.  I wanted it to be dark, maybe it could lull be back to sleep.  I passed a muffled painting in the hallway and saw the light switch.  Should I flick it and force the darkness to hide in fear?  I shook my head, why would I want to be rude to my new friend, it was welcoming me, helping me get back to sleep.

I stumbled down the hallway and found the closed door that lead to the bathroom.  The knob was cold, almost as cold as the linoleum flooring.  I shut the door behind me and found myself in pure black.  I smiled and foolishly greeting my new blindness.  I looked up to where the mirror once was and imagined what I looked like.  Frayed black hair strewn about, dark bags under my eyes from lack of sleep, and wearing thick black-rimmed glasses, I’m sure my shirtless chest looked pale as usual, patterned with small goosebumps. 

The toilet was painfully frozen.  I couldn’t help but squeal when I sat down.   I don’t know why but I always sat down when I peed.  I suppose it could be a sign of childhood turmoil, or a hollow memory I once had that scarred me. If sitting down when I piss was the only repercussion from this past turmoil, I was okay with that. 

The flush echoed through the house, as it does in the night.  Sound often fights darkness, and tries to wake me up late into the night.  I hate it.  I covered my ears after I pushed the trigger, trying to block out the scream that careened out of the swirling water.  I’m sure this habit could also be some sign of a blocked memory, I didn’t bother caring.  With a sigh I walked across the linoleum floor again and grasped the frigid handle, back into the hallway. 

My eyes had adjusted to the darkness and I could see what was in the painting I had passed.  Not that I didn’t know what was in it before.  It was a simple dog, looking out of a window, a gift from my parents that I kept for reminiscent purposes.  I walked back towards my bedroom, thinking to myself and cursing how many times I’ve been forced out of sleep.   

I stopped in the doorway in my bedroom.  I didn’t want to enter, even if I was sleep deprived.  The bed was there, and I knew that.  So were the door, the carpet, and the desk.  But worst of all was that doo.  My bedroom was a cage that I had a choice of entering or not.  I didn’t dare go through in this state.  I sighed and rubbed my eyes, sauntering into the next room. 

The room was half a kitchen and half a living room, neither meeting the full expectations of their names.  The kitchenette had a simple tan counter and scattered appliances.  I could see the rain through the side window, just above the sink.  The fridge suddenly began running, its sound mindlessly nulling me back to exhaustion. I rubbed my face and ignored it. 

Across to the other side was the living room.  The bookshelf, stacked full of assortments of books, was the usual reason I came into the room. Next to the shelves sat a fireplace, lined with brick and dug into the wall. It was quaint but I never bothered to turn it on and didn’t now.  I stumbled over and plopped on the tan couch that sat across the room, facing the fireplace.  It was soft, somewhat alluring to the thought of sleep. I sighed and looked down.

 Through my mindless saunter in the night, through sitting on the couch admiring, admiring the white squares scattered across my living room floor, through these things I adored the nothingness.  I did no longer want rest, and no longer wanted to be alert, I wanted nothing.  Nothing was no enemy to sound or darkness, it was a neutral party, a possible dictator for each. 

The couch helped welcome the nothing.  Sitting there, the cushions welcomed the darkness, helping it lull me back to sleep.  I didn’t bother pursuing the darkness for the back of the couch was prodding against my spine, happily joining sound in ushering my back to awareness.  It was a perfect negation of each that made a path for nothing to step forth. 

My eyes, glaring down towards the white square stain, finally blinked.  I leaned back, feeling the welcoming prod, and looked up towards the clock on the shelves.  It read 3:52.

                “Damn…”

I returned to nothing, determined not to remember my hunger for sleep.  The living room had a strange, soothing blue hue about it.  I didn’t like it.  Now, after struggling to stay awake and deciding to ignore any sort of comfortable thought that might bring me back to my bed, this calming blue has become another ally to the darkness that taunts me.  In desperation I stood, and moved toward the kitchen, trying anything to stay awake.

Just as the bathroom, everything was cold to the touch.  The cold floor attacked my feet until I made it safely to the lone red rug that lay in the center.  I looked out the window, the rain was still monotonously beating against the house.  It was painfully tranquil. My eyes glared out into the misty, wet night and I gave in. I couldn’t fight it anymore.  My eyes began to drag and slowly closed off to the moonlight.  I stood there, hunched over the counter top, nearly touching my face against the cold surface. 

The room filled with light, and a moment later with a loud and sudden boom.  It was Lightning and thunder.  Sound had a secret weapon, a weapon of mass destruction against the never ending oppressive darkness.  I smiled, cheering on my new allies. My eyes sheepishly glanced at the red clock.  It was nearly 4.

The red numbers flickered slightly in contrast to the mountainous bursts of light from outside. I turned and sauntered towards the window, I could feel the cold seeping from the bottom of the glass.  Outside life was different, it was alive.  The trees vigorously danced against the wind.  The shadows frantically hid from the vibrant blasts of light and came out when only the weak glow of the moon lit the earth. It was serene.

In my last conclusion I stumbled into the dark hallway and back into the cage.  The room was more endearing than before.  I ignored the confining walls and doorway, deciding at last to surrender to the comfort of my pillow. I closed my eyes.

    Who is this gorgeous woman?  I can’t help but stare at her long, toned legs.  Her hair, as if glowing, shines golden, highlighting her red dress and hot red lips. The jazz band in the distance begins to rotate solos; I can barely hear it over the crowd.  The woman, her legs crossed gently, sits at the far side of the bar, looking out to the dance floor, as if waiting for her prey.  She smiles and slowly turns towards me, her eyes piercing through the mist of smoke and harpooning deep into my soul.  My heart starts racing, excited and fearful, of what I have no idea.

    “Watch out for her, she’ll eat you alive…” The gentle, melodic voice came from behind me.  I swung around in my chair and looked.  A smiling black man looked back at me, his face clearly weathered.  Across his cheeks were darkened blemishes, some scars some other. His streaked grey hair across the sides of his head only highlighted the seemingly omnipotent wisdom of the old man. “You shouldn’t have your eyes wonder so ignorantly, it may shatter your innocence!” The man laughed and smacked my back, rubbing it as if he was a father. 

    “Care to dance?” I turned around again, only to see the temptress herself.  Her bosom flaunted her chest, having her cleavage tightly pressed together.  My eyes shook, fighting the urge to glare at her body. “Well?” Her voice had a sense of elegance to it yet still boasting a sense of pride and ego.  I didn’t like it.  I looked into her eyes; they were deep blue and looking back to me seductively.  I smiled, the band picked up as the trumpeter played his final measures of his New Orleans Street Beat solo.

The basement was quiet, the only noise echoing from behind me.  The washing room was walled with driers and washers, all cracked and worn in its own unique fashion.  The sound of the vending machines, combined with the random crackle of zippers against the inner-metal lining of a drier made my work harder than usual.  I looked up.  The far florescent light that highlighted the distant rooms was rampantly flickering on and off. It was horribly distracting. With a stretch I looked down and the clock in the lower right corner of my thin laptop screen. 

12:25 and still awake, it was most likely the coffee I had chugged about an hour back.  No matter, I turned in my seat and forced my spine to crack, it was a good crack.  I could feel the vertebrae separate the come together with each pop.  I coughed and it echoed, louder than the drone of the washing room. With a moan I rubbed my face and looked around, I was alone and the only light around me was the dim glow from my computer and the still incessant flicker of the florescent light.

The paper, the one that I’d been avoiding for the past few days, was due the next day.  It was about the social ambiguities of America, always a controversial subject with this class.  My teacher wasn’t a dullard, in fact I was sure he was a genius, at least I hoped he was.  He needed something to make up for his lack of social understanding.  In the recent weeks we had argued over a few world topics which ended in him losing his temper and me marching to the dean’s office to report him.  After realizing that I was the one starting a few the emotionally fueled debates and he was the one that was going to get kicked off of campus at the end of the year, I decided to cool it a little in his class. The easiest way, of course, is not go to class every day.

The paper was glaring back at me, about 200 words short yet in enough detail that even the local newspaper wouldn’t want it.  I looked at the clock again in hopes that the time would have changed; 12:27.

“Damn it.” The papers I had across the table were beginning to blur together, I was losing the buzz from the earlier tanking of coffee that rallied me till now. Sitting in the wooden chair, my fingers brushing against the grey keys, I was fighting to stay attuned to the paper.  My eyes began to bow down as if weights were tied to the eye lids. My back started to slump.  I could feel the symbolic drool beginning to seep from the corner of my dried lips. 

A slam came from down the hall, from the next room.  My head rose quickly, I felt my neck stiffen.  My eyes darted into the darkness, I could see only the random on and off of light from that damned florescent. ‘Someone should change that,’ I thought to myself.

Another Slam.  It was louder than the first one, more defined, almost like the difference of hitting wood on wood and hitting metal on metal. I squinted.

“Hello?” My voice was timid, I don’t know why.  Whatever it was made me fear it. Quickly I slammed my phone back into my pocket and folded my computer shut.  “Shit.”

With the loss of the dim light of my laptop screen I was in blackness, the flickering light in the distance seeming more and more like a sanctuary with every passing second of me stranded in the darkness. I pulled my satchel close and peeled the flap back, quickly dropping the laptop and any other notebook, paper, or book back into its compartments.

Two slams, both louder, it sounded like someone fell down, as if they suddenly fainted. I turned again and pulled out my wallet.  The only thing keeping me locked in this darkness was a simple door, only opened by a keycard, which every student gets.  Quickly I ripped the card out of my wallet and stumbled towards the door.

A growl screamed through the darkness, slowly dimming to a constant moan.  It was close, whatever it was. I turned behind me, thinking I could suddenly peer into the darkness and happily see a student drunkard making their way to their vending machine.  The darkness, it was blinding, it was almost like it covered my ears with an omniscient white noise, hindering all of my senses.

I quickly turned and my foot, only clad in a measly slipper, slammed into the bottom of one of the many couches randomly scattered across the dorm basement rooms.  The pain was crippling, like daggers stabbing from the tip of my toe to the top of my thigh.  My hands shot down and held my knee, thinking I could somehow stop the flow of pain.

The moan was loud and distinguished, right next to my ear. Quickly I ducked, the pain shooting once again up my leg.  A grunt escaped me as I scurried on hands and knees to the square light that stained the floor just in front of the door. I scrambled to my feet and outstretched my arm, slapping the ID card against the scanner.  It beeped once.  One beep meant it recognized it was a card.  My breath stopped in my lungs. I waited for the second beep. 

I felt a cold wet hand against my calf; the grip nearly shattered my leg.  I once again feel to my knees. With the constricting pain came a horrible stench, like rotten meat.  In panic I kicked as hard as I could, feeling my feet slam against soft, wet flesh.  The grip tightened and was joined by another, slightly more deformed grip. 

Teeth sunk deep into my calf, I could feel this creature chew against the last patches of flesh hanging from my lower leg. In pain I screamed, hoping someone would hear me. The second beep echoed through the basement and the door slid open.  In desperation I flailed my arms towards the door, reaching for any sort of leverage.  The door slowly opened and spewed more and more light into the room.  The wet hand released and I threw my hands up, grabbing the door frame and pulling myself against the light.  The door slammed shut, metal against metal.

The rotten stench was still in the air; I looked down and saw my leg, crimson-stained and missing most of the flesh, small chunks of flesh dropping to the floor against the backdrop of dangling skin.  I was bitten.  

 

Ben awoke in panic. His eyes flung open to darkness.  Sitting up he felt drops of sweat trail down his chest. He looked across the room to his roommate, Nick, he was sleeping. With a sigh Bens head gently landed back on his foamy pillow.  Still breathing heavily, Ben’s eyes glared to the white, blotchy ceiling that covered their dorm room. 

Ben moaned, he couldn’t fall back asleep.  Rustling back and forth, trying different positions, even sleeping above the covers, Ben found no comfort.  Again he sat up, something wasn’t right.

“Dude, Nick.” His voice shattered the silence.  Nick didn’t answer, he was a heavy sleeper. “Dude…Nick!” Ben’s harsh whisper echoed through the small room. Nick stirred.

“God Dammit dude…what is it.” Nick leaned over and looked at his clock. “Its 12:23 and I have an exam tomorrow…” Nicks buried himself back into his pillow and blanket. Ben moaned again and sat up, scooting to the side of his bed. Looking out the window the view wasn’t georgeous, it hardly made the campus look welcoming.  A few lights were still on and a few people were still out, many of them students who were about to drink till morning. 

Every Thursday night the campus was barren.  Most of the students, of proper age or not, went to parties hosted by the many fraternities and sororities that lined Main Street. This Thursday was no different, with only a hand full of students seen outside, Ben turned back towards the unlit room and sighed.

“Just lay in your bed and you’ll probably fall asleep…” Nick said, clearly still awake. Ben looked at him and shook his head.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom…” Ben went to his desk and grabbed his keys; the rattle was loud enough to make Nick roll in his bed. Ben slipped his feet into a few cozy slippers he had gotten for Christmas and opened the door. A blinding light filled the room.  Nick swore, clearly having an equally agitated time falling asleep.  Ben quickly stepped into the light and quietly shut the door behind him. 

The hallway smelled of axe deodorant spray.  Ben’s neighbor in the dorms was a pair of jocks who figured that covering every inch of their body was just as good as a shower. Ben was used to it, he had gotten used to a lot of the informalities of college.  Though only a second semester freshman, Ben had proven to himself and others that he enjoyed the college environment more than the structured 8 hour learning block that was given every day in high school.

Ben walked down the hallway, his slippers flapping behind. In the distance a door closed and out from the corner walked a small pack of girls, each decently attractive. As they began walking towards Ben their conversation stopped and they looked at the ground. Ben chuckled, another informality of college he had adapted to.

The bathroom was annoyingly freezing. With a quick trip to the urinal and a few shakes to make sure he was done, Ben walked towards the sinks.  5 were lined on the wall, each having an individual window attached above them.  To Ben it was a surprise that each sink was spotless.  Usually the sinks were filled with some cereal or soup, or even hair from people shaving. 

Ben looked into the mirror and saw himself squinting back.  His hair was thrown about and his shirt was wrinkled.  Either way it didn’t matter, he could barely see the details because of his glasses lying on his desk and not on his face.  Rubbing his beard Ben moaned again.  He wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.

The moonlight of the grey German sky dyed the cobblestone path, glistening off the pub’s quaint stone steps, hinting of yesterday’s showers. I was a part of a mass of teenagers, half native and half foreigners.  Still excited by our final performance, the group rowdily prowled through the streets. I was of the foreigners, eloquently displayed by my idiotic stare at the commodities of the natives. A few of us carried instruments, tenaciously flaunting our musical talent to the rest of Germany. The group waited outside the pub, many of us still grasping the antiquity of the obscure world surrounding us.  I peered towards the building. The pub windows were lined with copper bars, caging the inside from the harsh verdict of the outside. Throughout the pub people innocently delved into the depths of their mugs, the final ritual of the native’s day. The only whisper of light coming from the urine-colored bulbs rampantly scattered across the ceiling.

The waiter approached, an empty, browned stained mug in hand. His condemning blue eyes fell upon us as the group flooded into the pub, rushing past me like I was a stone in the middle of the raging rapids.  The waiter flipped his golden blonde hair out from his accusing eyes and smiled, jutting his already bulging jaw out and baring his sharp teeth.  I stared back at him, his green collared shirt and wrinkled khakis clashed against the persona of his head, as if from two different entities, his body lacked the muscular composure to support his face.

“Good evening.” The words were shattered between a heavy German accent and horribly spoken English. The waiter turned and waved us to follow, the group whimpered as if all dogs just told to heel after doing something bad. He turned again, grinned and flaunted his sadistic smile, looking at me. His eyes burned through my soul and I returned to the crowd, cowering inside the protective shell of the group.  Like dogs entering the kennel we mindlessly followed, afraid of an unknown punishment for an unknown disobedient act.  We were lead into the pits of the pub, at last reaching the backroom, scattered with tables. 

Nonchalantly the waiter strolled to the tables and quickly set them up in two rows along the side walls.  We all walked in, separating and congregating on opposing sides.   I sat on the foreigners huddled side, crammed atop the cracked leather booths.  The question came just as I sat, the words ripping through my soul, tearing me in two halves.  Before anything was spoken all sound was lost and my mind was thrown into the past, remembering what we were told.

The band room wasn’t eloquent, and it wasn’t clean by any means.  I had spent hours sitting in the linoleum clad room diligently toying away at my saxophone.  Who would have thought that the same room that gave me the privilege of travelling across to another world would also open a door for me to condemn myself?  Everyone had gathered, their one month lives packed in bags, tickets held in their excited hands. Just as I stood I saw my teacher enter.  He was weathered, a clearly wise man.  Calmly he spoke of the alcohol in which the natives would drink daily. 

“Do not touch it.” My teacher said. The idea was simple at the time.  If I didn’t touch it I wouldn’t be in any sort of danger, right? Everyone giggled innocently, nodding in a agreement with their teacher. They’re all liars.

I flashed back to the room, back to the darkened hall.  Staring down at me was the piercing eyes of the German waiter, the sentence came again.

“Beer for ya?” He said it as if he knew me, as if he knew what was good for me.  I looked at him, locked in the moment, lost in turmoil.  Unable to speak my foreigner ally, seemingly honest in his actions, slapped me on the back and answered for me. 

The waiter left, smiling more devilishly than I had ever seen before.  My miserable comforter who had graciously answered smiled at me, his smile was just as the waiter’s. My eyes darted across the table, the drinks had been served.  In moments my world began to thin, the last few steps before the gates of hell.  I looked down, the filled mug sat bellow me, its scent wafted up towards my nose.  All around me they feasted, natives and foreigners alike.  I could feel it, the celebration, it was burning inside me.  I felt the mug and felt it’s cold, addictive touch.  As if running in circles my mind shot back to the band room, the rules ran through my head over and over again.

“Do not touch it. Do not touch it.  Do not touch it.” The words were no longer my condemnation, they were a joke. I laughed at it as my mind returned, reminded by a native howl.  Rushed again by the moment I finally grasping the handle and lifting it off the thick wooden table.   I sat there, as if time had stalled.  My mind begged me, my body demanded me.  With only a whisper of the band room the memory flew was gone, my last civilized thought. 

The drink was cold, colder than I had expected.  I could feel the cool ale warm my inside as I innocently delved into the depths of my sin.  With a slam the glass mug was back on the table, half empty, half stained brown.  Staring at it, I licked my lips and looked around and savagely howled, joining in celebration with the rest.  With nothing left to do I smiled, showing my now nearly sharpened teeth.

    The night sky was strewn with stars, illuminating her white dress, shimmering off her long, crimsoned stained scythe. The blood wasn’t hers though, it was mine.

    I stammered across the grassy knoll of the park, my hands were clutched across my abdomen. I tasted the blood, smelled it too. I was getting dizzy.

    “You… who are y-“ I couldn’t speak, the blood was pooling at my feet. I could feel my warm insides draining down my legs. The pain was crawling across my body like a swarm of red fire ants. Through the sting I howled, “Who are you!”

    I fell to my knees, the moon was just behinds her, shadowing her petite body. I didn’t make sense to me, a girl, no doubt the same age as me, cutting me open with a scythe. Who is she? The words rambled in my head, as if the answer would somehow save me from death. My body gave and I feel to my side, curling in a ball. The last thing I remembered was the taste of the salt from my tears, mixed with the iron of my blood, and hearing the only words she said.

    “I am the reaper.”