“It’s fine! All the big companies are working on it, and even if something does happen any old IT guy should be able to handle it. Now please for the love of god go to bed.” Mark’s mother’s words hold the finality of a goodbye, but he beats her to it with the press of a button. When the heaviness in his head fades he gets up from bed he passes his reflection in the mirror; he needs a haircut. He'll have to use his work computer to book the appointment during his lunch break and pray that the threat of the apocalypse has cleared up some space.

This predicted disaster first became known as “Y2K” in 1995, but its shadow had loomed over Mark’s life long before that. The idea of a computer malfunction being the cause of a technological apocalypse first popped up in chat rooms in the 1980s, slowly gaining traction as time went on. By the 1900s there was a generation of young adults who had grown up under the threat of extinction, a generation Mark was a part of. He carried the fear inside him all his life; Deep, primal, sitting within him, head raised and watchful. He rejected normalcy, at least in his mind, keeping to his room and his computer, then his dorm in college, and now his suffocatingly small apartment, always waiting, forever holding back. He’s never had a girlfriend, no siblings, no extended relations beyond his mother. His world is small and bleak, and soon it will be gone.

Mark straightens his tie before he clips it to his shirt. Something in the lines of fabric and the way they fold across each other, it’s the closest to peace he’s ever felt. The rest of his life is a mess, his bed unmade and cans of beer and half opened bottles of wine. Only his ties are durable and strong, and when he puts one on he can feel the difference in meaning between those two words falling softly against his chest. He will miss that feeling much more than anything else. Now he gets in his car at three in the morning and drives past undamaged billboards and quiet sidewalks until work starts, savoring the change in the air.

—

At five Mark enters the small office on the thirty second floor of the Linstead building. Only three other people are here this early, including his desk neighbor Sarah, who quickly puts her resignation letter back in her purse.

“Any computer issues Sarah?” Mark asks, his voice so anxious it almost sounds hopeful.

“None so far, thanks” Sarah replies. Her eyes calculate something over a hundred miles away, and Mark sits down and stares at his computer, feeling lost. He lets out a deep breath to blow away Sarah’s words like sand.

“No problem, no problem.” He says the words more to himself than to her, hunches forward across his keyboard, eyes dull and glazed.

Sarah pulls up the news for the third time this morning; the headlines all look the same. Demands to listen, to run, to ignore, all centered around the threatening aura of ‘The Bug’, and the end it promises. She’s been interested in the prospects of Y2K since its invention. The bug offers her something more terrifying than death: The chance to witness the collapse of society. It's all the more sweet considering humanity’s tendency to keep inventing new prophecies, that here is one that can actually come true. There will be no more clinging tight to loved ones, hearts crying out from their chests, never feeling truly afraid. New Year's Eve is on Sunday, and true fear will settle in, plunging to the bottom of people’s hearts until they sink. Sarah will sit and work on yet another one of her father’s pointless projects, spreadsheet after spreadsheet of nothing, until she sees that look swimming in Mark’s eyes. Then, she will walk up to the office on the top floor and look down at the man that raised her just far enough to see the top, and then left her there to wallow. She will dare him to challenge her, and when he doesn’t, she will leave and never see him or this building again.

Years of working and waiting have led up to it, but the moment won’t happen until Friday, and Sarah wishes there was something more meaningful to occupy these last few days of normalcy. Her family’s old bunker is already stocked with enough supplies to last her decades, including but not limited to the small .32 pistol Sarah always keeps on her person, and a sense of deep satisfaction that comes with knowing that she is firmly in the right. Besides that, she’s got electricity, running water, and company if she chooses, though she doubts anyone else in this building will last till the end of the first week. Maybe Mark; Mark who always looks afraid when nothing has even happened. He’s the most aware of his surroundings, of the sensations of life. He’s not bad looking either, thick dark hair, long slender arms, and flashing eyes make him look like a deer frozen on a lonely highway; not unintelligent, and never still no matter how his legs hold him in place. Mind forever racing, eyes unblinking. Alive in all the ways that matter. Sarah shuts down her computer and leans with hands over head. A new plan springs unbidden in her mind,

“Mark?” She stands up to see him over the cubicle, “Will you go on a date with me?”. Here, in a public space where he can’t immediately reject her, he looks up in shock, and she can see his mind turning. Silently Sarah moves to his side and wraps her arm around his, careful to let everyone notice the gesture. His pulse is quick through his long-sleeved shirt, faster the farther they move, out of the main annex and into the empty break room. “So?” She asks, “Tomorrow night at the Italian place off Lake Street.

Will you do it?” He barely moves, doesn’t breathe, only his pulse reminds her that he’s even real.

“Sure,” Mark says, a whisper against the hum of the vending machines.

“Good. 7:30, I’ll see you there.” Sarah closes the door behind her when she leaves, and meets any furtive glances from coworkers with stony disdain. Pleasantries are yesterday’s business. Today is decidedly a day of preparation. And tomorrow, Mark will survive the apocalypse.

—

The next day Mark has all his ties laid out carefully on his bed. None of them seem good enough, at this moment he can’t fathom why he ever thought any of them were “strong”. No, all these ties say to him that he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve anything nice, or beautiful, or intelligent. Certainly nothing like Sarah, who is lightyears out of his league, and never paid any attention to him before. He puts on the only plain black tie he owns, and feeling a long fall below mediocre, walks to his car.

—

“This way please.” The waiter weaves between the tables faster than Mark’s legs can carry him, Sarah miraculously keeping pace ahead of him in shoes with heels that look thinner than eyelashes. They stop at a booth at Sarah’s whispered request, and she slides into the cushioned seats and pats the spot next to her with a small, secretive smile. Mark reluctantly acquiesces, keeping a respectful distance between them.

“Is that a new tie?” Sarah moves to touch it, and Mark resists the urge to bolt.

“It’s, I don’t know.” Mark looks at the menu to avoid giving a better answer. It’s very Italian, and all of it looks incredible; Yet another thing that Mark is going to miss when everything is over. Only his proximity to Sarah (so close it’s hard to think about anything) stops him from ordering the entire menu, and preserving the memory of this

restaurant long after the whole place is burned to the ground.

“I’m paying, so get whatever you want.” Sarah’s smile is deep red against white teeth. The color screams danger, life-changing danger, and set in a smile like that is promises that Mark will never forget tonight, no matter how hard he tries. He flounders for a moment, entrees and appetizers and desserts. The waiter stops, refills water, and asks for orders. “Mark?” Sarah asks, waiting, for his order, for his decision, for his choice. The world is nearly over, money will be obsolete. Now or never. Now. Or. Never.

He orders everything on the first page, and Sarah’s smile doesn’t flicker. Not when more food than 20 people could eat shows up at the table, or when the bill (somewhere deep in the hundreds) follows. It’s all so beautiful and perfect that Mark is certain he’ll wake up in his bed the next time Sarah speaks, but he never does. He doesn’t even understand what they talk about, just Sarah’s mouth, moving, mesmerizing, and red red red. Bundles and boxes of leftover food, piling them into the back of Mark’s inelegant sedan, laughing at a joke Sarah didn’t tell, leaning into the touch of her hand on his arm. Driving to her apartment and helping her carry fettuccine and alfredo, and marinara to the elevator. Pressing all the buttons just so he can be near her longer, so this night can never end. Intoxicated, from red wine, or white, or that lipstick she never stops applying even between putting leftovers in her fridge.

“Can I tell you a secret?” A bottle of wine is in front of him, and she pours something dark and heavy before passing him a glass. He pauses with the glass up to his lips.

“Okay.” He smiles more genuinely than he has in years. Intoxicated, inebriated, bigger and bigger sips that taste like sugar and burn on the way down.

“My father’s Mr. Linstead. My family pays for all of this.” It explains the apartment, it’s almost as grandiose as she is, but for once the large space doesn’t make him feel small.

“Really? I couldn’t tell.” She laughs like raindrops, and Mark tries to match the sound, unsure if he intended to tell a joke, but not caring much either way.

“They left this whole place to me. And some other things.” She’s so truthful with him, eyelashes lowered humbly over features carved in breathing stone.

“Like what?” He wants to know everything about her. Anything she will tell him. The person who he sat next to for years, who he had always known was beautiful but never exactly how. His mother once described love as warm and full and Mark feels like he is on fire, reaching in all directions, consuming, growing and loving Sarah with every inch of him.

“A boat, which I don’t use. Three cars which I pay someone else to drive, and my favorite place. My hideout.” She looks at Mark when she says it, and his drink spills down the front of his white shirt. She sighs, “You should go, Mark”, and takes the empty glass from his hand. Sarah walks him to the door with a delicacy only reserved for

something precious, and presses a small cream colored towel into his hands. “I’ll see you soon” Mark nods and folds the towel to his chest, his heart feeling like it’s trying to jump out and reach for her. Then she leans in and kisses him chastley on the cheek, before closing the door softly between them. Mark doesn’t touch the spot until he gets home, and then only with a disbelieving reverence of someone who’s entire world has been shattered, but not in the way he expected.

—

The second she was alone behind her apartment door, Sarah realized her very first mistake. The man she asked out two days ago may have looked alive, but only in the way one looks alive when the world is being good to them. Since then he no longer holds the lean, muscled terror and anticipation she saw in him that day, and as much as she pretends not to notice, she no longer feels the same attraction that drew her to him initially. Instead she’s disgusted, more with herself than him, for offering him her respect and companionship, for offering him a drink and watching him swallow so fast he nearly choked. A waste, she decides, that’s what last night was, and nothing more. It only makes her more determined to avoid Mark today, and finally pay her father the final visit she has been longing for.

The elevator smells of lemon air freshener and superiority, a combination that Sarah has become accustomed to over the years of watching it get to her father’s head. She breathes in deeply, letting herself feel the way he must feel after putting her down all these years; powerful, in control. That feeling will be hers soon enough, but being around Mark gave her a small taste, and she craves more. The top floor secretary doesn’t try to stop her from walking into Mr. Linstead’s office suite, pressing the button to let her in without being told. As the sleek glass doors part Sarah suppresses the urge to return the frown that outlines her father’s face on the other side of the room.

“Work doesn't start until 7:00” He says, eyes turning to his computer, dismissing her.

“I won’t be there.” Sarah replies, and he sighs, adjusting his ill-fitting glasses. “What do you want from me Sarah, I’ve given you everything-”

“Everything but this” she gestures to the office, to its stainless steel and crystal glass.

“Yes, everything but this.” He sighs again. Sarah looks down at him, putting years of resentment into her gaze. He only blinks dumbly up at her. Work starts at 7, like he

doesn’t know who she is. Now, at this moment, he is supposed to finally see what all her efforts have been for. Mindless piling of papers and emails, so she can stare him down as his world starts to end and hers truly begins. She walks up and places her resignation letter on the table softly, a final goodbye to the daughter he could have had. But Sarah’s father only looks at her like she’s a child again, small and stupid; A nuisance. That look doesn’t belong in that perfect vision she has spent so long crafting, and in his eyes she can see the version of her he’s always seen; the girl hiding in that fancy apartment across town, sitting in her small cubicle chair, daydreaming of power and respect she can never have. Because she doesn’t deserve it, and never will. Because she is deeply, fundamentally, wrong. Not a child that needs to be cared for, but a rabid dog who he doesn’t have it in him to kill. That was his first mistake. She wants to wrap her hands around his aging throat and squeeze. She leaves the room.

Everything was leading to that moment of pure ecstasy when the elevator doors closed around her. But now she only feels trapped, claustrophobic and clawing at the air for release. She was wrong when she said her father wasn’t killing her. He was, slowly, over years of files and phone calls and meetings. Over office chairs and coat hangers and broken printers he boxed her soul into neatly arranged rooms and numbers until she turned into this thing who sucked up the elevator air like the final lifeline tethering her to the earth. Straight from private high school to prestigious college, she never felt the suffocation until it was too late, and the world was already scheduled to end. What a waste her life has been until now. Only the end of the world can make her feel alive again.

—

Mark sets his phone as far away from him as he can and determinedly scrubs at the red mark on his cheek. He’s been branded by her, no hiding it, and the incessant scrubbing has only made the spot more obviously red. It’s been five hours since he collapsed on his bed and stained it with the alcohol that was still drying on his shirt. He has two, maybe three hours to get himself sorted before he sees Sarah again. He doesn’t know how he’ll face her, but he refuses to text her until then, even if it means he’ll never know how to rid his face of whatever chemicals she used to make her lips look like that. More than anything he remembers when she asked to tell him secret, and the way it curved her lips against each other when she answered. Then he ruined his nicest shirt, and she kissed him, and he floated for so long he worried he wouldn’t be able to come back down. His feet are on the ground today, but his heels are angled keenly upwards, just enough to remember all the shining colored memories and feel swept up in that one perfect endless moment once again. He’s sure he’ll never live as brightly as he did last night when he hears his phone ring. He answers without thinking,

“Don’t come into work today.” Her voice is ragged, but he recognizes Sarah’s voice as the one that has practically haunted him since they last parted. The sound of her distress quickens his pulse instantly, setting him on edge. “Everything is starting to fall apart around here,” her voice darkens suddenly, “Don’t waste your time.”

“I won’t.” He promises, meaning it. “Come to my place, or meet me somewhere, I don’t care. I need you to tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m fine” The words sound strained and false.

“In person. Where are you? I'll pick you up.” He’s still wearing his shirt from the night before, and he attacks his closet in search of something else to wear.

“Just stay away from the office, and prepare yourself.” The last part is an afterthought, but Mark catches it. Whatever she’s scared of, it affects everyone. He takes two seconds to grab his keys before leaving.

“Stay where you are, I’m on the way.”

He hangs up. Sarah wouldn’t have thought to give him a second thought unless something is going wrong at the office. He breaks the speed limit more times than he can count, but he makes it there in less than half an hour. He finds Sarah in the seating area next to the front desk, and sits down quietly beside her. “What’s happening?” He asks Sarah’s pale, unresponsive face.

“It’s almost New Years.” Her eyes roam over to the secretary at the front desk, who looks away quickly. “Everybody’s ready to stop working.”

“Me too.” Mark says, standing up and offering Sarah his hand. Sarah stands up without his help, color slowly returning to her features, and walks out the door.

“I shouldn’t have called you.” She says, mostly to herself, although Mark overhears as he slips out the door behind her.

“I’m glad you did! It was an emergency, and I know you were just looking out for the office, but I needed to see you were safe. With the end of the world being so soon, I couldn’t risk…” He runs out of words to describe the sudden burst of feelings the past day and a half have shown him, and he just gestures at her instead. She laughs, not the pretty tinkling laughter of last night, but low and dark. “I mean it Sarah! It’s going to

happen soon, and I just have to save you before everything goes to shit.” She laughs louder, nearly doubling over, and the blue-black suit she’s wearing creases from the effort. She leans on Mark for support, and seeing his concerned look, laughs in what can only be described as a cackle.

“Okay Mark, when is this happening?” Sarah manages to spit the words out between fits of laughter, trying to recollect herself.

“New Year's Eve. And you don't need to believe me, I know how it sounds, just trust me and you can see it all for yourself.” He says, waiting for Sarah to steady herself enough to stand on her own. She wipes the corners of her eyes on her sleeve and smiles, and Mark’s whole body feels light with relief to see that she is coming back to her normal self. She grasps his hand tightly, and this close to her face he can better see the slightly puffy redness around her eyes where tears must have fallen. His eyes go to her smile, which cuts through his pitying thoughts like the sun through heavy clouds.

“Of course I trust you Mark! You’ve saved me once already today, why not twice?” Mark is too caught up in the warmth of being praised to question her words. She thinks he’s a hero, so for her he’ll learn to fly.

—

Sarah sits on the edge of Mark’s mattress as he paces frantically, erratically, so deep in motion that she can barely understand what he’s saying. Just an hour ago she had been so upset with herself for bringing him into her life, but now here he is, and all she can think is how eerily beautiful he looks.

“If you are coming with me then we can’t be here. I can’t defend the both of us when people figure out what’s going on and start panicking, and I refuse to put you at risk. That means nowhere near public areas, where at least half of everyone will immediately resort to violence and whoever's left will get caught in the crossfire. Nowhere above ground is safe, but no one is willing to sell or rent out a bunker for less than a half million dollars up front. Then there’s food and supplies, defensive measures. To do this legally could cost several millions of dollars that I don’t have, and raiding stores is risky both before and after the event.”

He babbles on, and she only stares. He’s back to how he was before, an animal trapped in a human body, with only the fragile trappings of human complexity to quell the insatiable instinct to survive. She kisses him hard, and when she feels their hearts

beating together she knows she gets the feeling that there is more than one way to make her feel alive.

Another way is drinking, a habit that Sarah has only ever observed from a distance after seeing how dull and complacent it made people. Not Mark, he’s glowing, and while he does lose some of the fear that she finds so enticing, she’s starting to appreciate him like this, unaware and happy, and so warm in a world that has only ever felt empty and cold. She’s on her third plastic cup full of whatever vintage Mark has been storing away in his cupboards, and when she laughs she likes how real it sounds. Mark does too, because his voice is just as loud and full, and one of his neighbors must be banging on the door for them to be quiet, because that can’t be her blood thrumming in her ears, and her feet spinning her around in dizzy circles. Because what would that make her? A fool? She’s so happy she can’t think of a reason she should care.

They play music and drink and talk all day, far from the careful flirtations and dry comments of the previous night, and when the sky turns golden outside they open up the window and take turns smoking one of Sarah’s old french cigarettes. The city looks oddly beautiful framed against Mark’s trailing line of hazy smoke.

“We still need somewhere to go.” Mark sighs nervously, interrupting Sarah’s thoughts. “I want this to work, but I can’t save you on my own and-” She kisses him on the nose.

“No problem. Remember my secret?” He half-nods.

“But I don’t know how money can help. Banks will shut down, airplanes will be falling out of the sky in a few hours, and there’s little chance we’ll find a place safe enough to be worth paying for.” He buries his hands in his hair and pulls, and Sarah shushes him softly.

“Not that part, Mr. Linstead has cut off my access to that by now. My hideout, that’s what we need.” She kisses him again before he can ask questions and starts to gather her things. “It’s a little ways South of the city, so if we want to get there in time we need to leave now.” This is far from how she had planned to start the apocalypse, but if it means she gets to see Mark in her world, then it will all be worth it.

—

The drive takes two hours in Sarah’s private limo, with the divider up and the music blasting, and Mark only takes small sips of the drinks that Sarah proffers him,

trying to sober up for the final hours this world has. He looks out the window to miles of trees as the car parks in front of a small gravel path.

“Finally.” Sarah yells, Mark shushing her as he takes his duffel bag from the car.

“Where is this place you keep talking about? We need to find shelter in the next hour, or else there will be no light to go by.” He trusts Sarah, or he trusts that she has a plan, though he doesn’t trust that it’ll work. He is supposed to save her, and here he is following her into the woods, slightly drunk and totally vulnerable. He misses his apartment, the smell of clean sheets and smoke drifting through the window. The darker it gets the more he wants to run, screaming, crying, begging the driver to take him back. But he’s in too deep now, and he can’t see anything but Sarah, suit coat tossed aside and hair disheveled, pushing through the brush ahead of him. She’s laughing again, smiling back at him as she runs farther ahead. Cold sweat falls down his back as he notices for the first time how sharp her teeth look, and how her eyes seem to glow with something lethal. She doesn’t look beautiful anymore, just wild, and the fear that Sarah has taken the place of in his mind now returns when the movement up ahead of him stops.

Sarah is standing in the center of a small clearing, entering a code into a keypad and moving away as hydraulics hiss and pull back to reveal a staircase leading into the ground below. Mark tries to see the person who just hours ago had kissed him and drank with him, who he’d always admired but never thought was within his reach. A pit in his stomach threatens to swallow him up, because when he looks at Sarah he doesn’t see that person anymore. All he can find in her is chaos embodied, twitching and searching for something to upend. She takes his hand before he can think to run, and leads him into the lion's maw.

—

It’s been a few weeks since Sarah last saw the bunker, but in that time she had paid to have the place entirely refurbished and stocked. Its green steely walls are starkly contrasted by modern furniture and sleek countertops. Pipes and wires are slightly obscured behind various appliances, and the whole place hums slightly like it has electricity in its veins. Mark drops Sarah’s hand as she strides in ahead and enters the key to close the hatch behind them. He pats his pockets frantically for something, and not finding it, lets his hands drop to his sides, rigid and pale. Sarah doesn’t notice, or rather she doesn’t care. Everything is going far better than she could have hoped, and a light gray clock on the wall next to her tells her the time, ten minutes to twelve.

“I don’t have my phone.” Mark says, hands grasping at nothing.

“It’s fine, you won’t need it anymore.” Sarah tries to dismiss his worries with a kiss, but he pushes her away.

“My mom is going to get killed out there and I’m in the middle of the forest and I need MY PHONE!” He shouts, words blurring together, holding onto Sarah so tightly his veins protrude from his skin.

“It’s almost over Mark there’s no time” She needs to get him away from the door before he leaves for good, but he’s stronger than he looks and Sarah struggles to pry his digging fingers from her shoulders. She kicks him in the shin, hard, and he goes down, for all the world looking like he’s about to drown. “Listen to me! You cannot go outside okay? Fuck everyone else, fuck your mom, fuck my asshole dad. Fuck them! Okay? Fuck them.” She’s raving, and she can’t stop, she won’t stop until it’s all over. “I chose you for a reason, and you are going to live.”

“Chose me?” Mark's eyes are quiet and bottomless. “For what? For this? You knew about this.” The last part isn’t a question, of course he would figure out that she had planned everything, she brought him to a bunker and he only thinks to question it now? The hilarity of it is very apparent, and she wants to laugh. This, however, is not a good time.

“It doesn’t matter. We aren’t going anywhere.” Mark looks like he’s about to cry, but he stands up and walks over to the kitchen area.

“We’re stuck.” He’s opening a cabinet, closing it hard, and moving on to the next one.

“Yes” She says, watching him shakily uncork a bottle of champagne, not moving to drink it as it spills over onto the floor. They both look at the clock at the same time, and don’t move until the last hand hits twelve. Mark nearly drops the bottle, straining to hear the sound of screams that must be coming from every direction. He hears nothing, and barely notices when Sarah takes the nearly empty bottle from Mark and replaces it with a new one and tips it up to his mouth.

—

Mark wakes up surrounded by empty cans and bottles, presumably having passed out sometime after the drunk panic that Sarah had set him in. He rolls over, trying to be quiet despite the way his head is pounding, and sees Sarah open the hatch

to outside. He stumbles after her and into the gray early morning, and sees Sarah typing into her phone. Unthinking, he lunges for it. If the world is over then his mother is dead, and he has spent the last few days of her life drinking, crying, and staring into Sarah’s dark, rictus smile. Sarah’s grip on the phone is loose, and he gasps in tears when he realizes he doesn't even remember his mom’s phone number. He stares at the panel of numbers, only alerted by the small blinking light in the corner of the screen when Sarah’s hand crushes against his wrist and the phone clatters to the floor.

“It doesn’t work anymore.” She says, and crushes its small screen with the thin point of her heel in a spray of glass and plastic. Mark chokes on a scream when he sees the wild animal that overwhelms her features. Her lips are drawn back to show shining gums and teeth that snap and snarl as she speaks. “Get back inside.” Her voice doesn’t match her face. It’s desperate, tired, and it reminds him of the person who took a chance on him; who cared for him, even in ways he didn’t want or understand, and who seems to need him just as much as he needs her. He relaxes. Everything is over, the phones are broken and both their parents are dead. Sarah was right. She is right. Mark goes back inside, and Sarah hides the code from him when she closes the hatch behind them.

Chris huffed, setting down his fork. “Kids, I think it’d be good for you to get some sun. Go outside for a bit.”

Rose was confused, and looked down at her breakfast. “But I’m not—”

“You can reheat it later,” Chris pressed through gritted teeth. “Just go.”

Freddie wordlessly pushed his seat away from the table and placed his hand on Rose’s head. “C’mon,” he grumbled.

But she stayed seated, watching Freddie disappear into the hallway. Rose looked back at her parents, thinking.

Lesley glanced at Chris, who was silent. It seemed as though his forehead gained a new wrinkle as he impatiently tapped his temple with his finger. His eyes flicked between Rose and Lesley restlessly, his nail seemingly pressing deeper and deeper into his skin with each tap.

“Rose, honey, you should really go with your brother,” Lesley said, a little nervous.

“Are you two gonna fight?”

Lesley smiled a little, but her eyebrows creased, wrinkling the aging skin on her forehead. She reached over the table and rested her dried and calloused hand on Rose’s. “No, sweetheart. We just need to talk, is all.”

Rose didn’t say anything else, but continued to look between Lesley and Chris. Freddie re-emerged from the hallway, a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. He looked up expectantly at Rose, saying nothing, but extended his hand towards her. She finally gave up, slowly sliding her chair out from the table and walking towards her brother. Her footsteps seemed to echo on the hardwood floor as she stepped away from the table.

“Let me get my bag,” Rose said quietly. Her brother only nodded.

Freddie watched his parents from a distance, and he knew exactly how their discussion would play out. He and Rose would walk out of the house, and for a while his parents would be civil. His father would be collected enough to talk somewhat calmly to his mother, until she inevitably makes one small observation that makes him blow up at her. There would be yelling and screaming, crying on his mother’s end, and pure rage on his father’s, until eventually, she runs out of the room, clutching her mother’s locket close to her chest, and finally, the feeling of complete isolation and the idea of being trapped in a loveless marriage would sink in, and his father would weep.

He knew roughly how long this would last. Too long to just stand outside and wait for the argument to finish, but too short to actually do something useful in that time.

Rose finally came out of her room, a small bag over her shoulders. Her eyes briefly met Freddie’s and he could see the fear and anger simmering inside her. He held his hand out to her again, placing it on her head as he pulled her close to him.

Together, they walked out of the house in silence. They headed to the subdivision, and as Freddie was about to cross the street, Rose pulled his arm to turn instead, heading towards the ending sidewalk.

“Where do you wanna go?” He asked, stepping into the street so as to not walk in the grass. Rose stepped onto the curb, absently pulling her brother along as she balanced on the concrete. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out, allowing Rose to guide him.

“Gas station,” she answered, using her free hand to clutch the strap of her bag.

“Oh cool. You grabbing snacks?”

“Kinda,” Rose answered as they approached the end of the subdivision. She quickly glanced around the street, deeming it safe, and stepped onto the road.

Out of the corner of his eye, Freddie saw a flash of red barreling down the road. He shot his head up, staring at the car now rapidly approaching and, without thinking, gripped Rose’s forearm and yanked her back, sending her crashing into his chest. The car zipped by with a long honk, just missing the two of them.

“Asshole!” Freddie yelled after the car. “Sorry,” he added to Rose.

Rose stared at the ground with glazed eyes, holding tightly onto Freddie’s forearm wrapped protectively around her collar. He slipped his phone into his pocket and moved his arm, resting it on her shoulders, as he walked them the rest of the way down the street.

He glanced down to Rose, who was still looking to the ground. “Are you okay?” She just nodded. “Did I scare you?” Again, she was silent. Freddie took that as a yes, and gently rubbed her arm. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

They were quiet the rest of the way, and by the time they entered the store, Rose seemed more alive. Her head was held high as she took in her surroundings, active in her environment.

“Whaddya want?” Freddie asked, taking his arm off of Rose. She grinned a little as she beelined for the freezers, and Freddie slinked off to the register, where a greasy looking 20-something year old was behind the counter, texting. His polo shirt was too big for him, the neckline drooping past his collarbones. The top button was undone, revealing a few wispy strands of chest hair. “Trevor!” he announced.

The employee looked up, his greased bangs falling over his eyes. “Hey Fred,” he answered with a gap-toothed grin. He casually slicked his rat-stache with his thumb and index finger. “You looking to get me fired? I don’t know how many more times I can get away with this,” he joked. Trevor turned and scoured the wall, knowing what Freddie wanted. “Same as always?”

Freddie mumbled a “yeah,” taking out his wallet. “And…” he trailed off, looking at the vast collection of nicotine behind Trevor. “Add a strawberry watermelon.”

Trevor paused for a second, but picked out the two vapes. “That’s gonna be extra, y’know.”

“I know,” Freddie answered lightly, already taking out extra cash.

“Alright, it’s 32.43, but you know the deal,” Trevor said, sliding the packages over the counter. Freddie handed him 40 dollars—he punched the amount into his register, breaking the extra 10 and pocketing the remaining seven dollars and 57 cents.

“You know I’m gonna get that back at some point or another,” Freddie joked, taking the vapes and placing them into his bag just before Rose approached the counter, holding two Monsters and a Rockstar.

“Hey, child-Fred,” Trevor said with a grin, scanning the drinks.

“It’s Rose, but hi,” she answered with a smile, ignoring Freddie’s amused expression.

“Since when did you start, like, getting energy drinks?” Freddie interjected.

“Since, like, I was in 7th grade,” Rose answered in a mocking tone. She slid off her small backpack, looking around for her wallet.

Freddie watched as Trevor started to grab a plastic bag. “Don’t you want any snacks? You barely ate breakfast,” Freddie noted, and Rose froze for a split second, but continued searching quickly after.

“Not hungry,” she dismissed, finally finding her pastel wallet.

“Trev, don’t ring her up yet,” Freddie said. “I’ll pay for it.”

“But—” Rose started, but he already started walking.

“What do you like again?” he asked as he headed towards the snack aisle. “Those weird little chocolate mushrooms and shrimp chips?”

Rose watched as he wandered the store for a few minutes, before finally finding her snacks and grabbing them. He thought to himself for a minute, then picked up a few more things. When he returned to the register, he was balancing 6 different things in his arms. He then dumped them onto the counter, letting Trevor scan them as he retrieved his wallet again.

“Freddie,” Rose complained, but he grabbed her hood and pulled it over her head, covering her eyes.

“Don’t worry about it,” he brushed off, pulling his card out. “We’re gonna go to The Spot and chill for a while—you’re gonna get hungry. And I will too.”

Rose pulled down her hood and pushed her hair out of her eyes as Freddie pocketed his wallet again.

“The Spot?” Trevor mused, pulling out a bag. “Where’s that?’

“Your mom’s house, stupid,” Freddie answered with a laugh. Rose took her drinks and shoved two of them into her backpack before slinging it back over her shoulder. She let Trevor bag the third drink before handing it over to Freddie.

“Thanks. I’ll see you later,” Freddie said gently, starting to lean over the counter. Trevor leaned in, and Freddie kissed him on the cheek.

“Tonight, maybe?” Trevor offered.

Freddie glanced down at Rose, who was pretending to gag. “I’m not sure when we’re gonna be back tonight. Tomorrow?”

Trevor grinned, kissing Freddie on the forehead. “Sure. See you then.”

As the two walked away, Rose playfully elbowed Freddie in the stomach. “You guys are gross.”

“Okay? You’re a loser,” he answered with a grin. As soon as they stepped out of the gas station, Freddie turned to Rose with a stupid grin on his face. “I’ll race you to The Spot.”

No one turned their head when a scarred man with a sword more scarred than he strode into the market one sunny day in Achaia. He wore no armor, except for a boar hide pauldron on one of his shoulders. His sword, bronze and elegantly curved, bounced with each step. He was no familiar face, but the townspeople sensed no danger in his confident strides. The stranger only glanced at the many wares around him, colorful textiles, beautifully handpainted pots and vases, wine and bread that filled the air with their dueling fragrances. He did stop to inspect a whetstone sold by a stout old man, who grinned when the stranger and his blade approached, clearly in need of one.

“Good sir! Might I interest you in this whetstone here? I have specifically carved it for swords such as yours, it will help to keep the balance in your blade and allow it to glide through the air faster than the Lord Apollo’s arrows!” His sales pitch was impressive, obviously rehearsed but impressive. The merchant held out the stone, beckoning him to take it from him for further inspection. The stranger remained silent, but took the stone. He turned it over on his palm, brushing it with his thumb. He lifted his thumb and inspected the wear the stone had created on his callouses. Blood stained the line he had followed when he carressed the stone with the pad of his thumb. His face could have almost been interpreted as impressed. As he reached into a pouch at his belt to retrieve the coins necessary for his purchase, the stranger looked up once more at the old salesman. But now, behind the old man stood a young boy, his hair was closely shaved to his scalp, his chiton was dirty and frayed at the ends. He couldn’t have been any older than 13. The stranger could not speak, he could not move. The whetstone began to shiver in his hand. The boy had not said a word and yet had deafened the scarred man.

He inhaled sharply and tried desperately to re-orient himself. He wasn’t quite sure how long he had been standing there, mouth agape. He poured a few drachmae into the old man’s outstretched hand and left quickly, gripping the bloody whetstone as if it were his lifeline.

He finally found a moment’s peace as he gazed towards the setting sun as it dipped behind a new small village. The man’s curled dark hair rippled in the evening breeze. He patted the hilt of his sword at his side, a reflex he’d developed long ago to insure it hadn’t left his side. He paused a moment, considering his habits. His sword had been so long for him the only item he carried with him, save for some drachmae and his clothing. His entire life could stand below one worn hilt. What kind of man was he if truly, his life lay in his weapon? Where could he go that would not have him cutting someone down?

A withering, shaky voice cut through his thoughts like its own kind of blade. Its edge would be warped and scarred, shakily sawing through the man’s consciousness. He turned to find its owner. Before him stood an old man, sincerely older than the man at the market. His legs shivered, straining against the weight of the man. He hoisted himself through each step upon a dried-up branch. His wrinkled and sagging skin made it nearly impossible to discern his features. Only a few teeth could be seen clinging to life through his lips when he spoke.

“Might you be the misthios Aeschylus?” Every breath he took seemed strained, the frail little man appeared to be within an inch of his life.

“I am, though I do not know what services a man of your age and wisdom might need from me, I am a fighter, I have always been. You do not seem like you have many enemies.” Aeschylus stood to properly face the man, towering over him as a statue of the great god Zeus towers over groveling petitioners in his temples. The little old man chuckled with genuine amusement.

“I do not wish your services, rather I wish your company, young man. I wish to make pilgrimage to the Pythia at Delphi, but the road is too treacherous for someone as frail as I. Would you accompany me to the oracle, and assist me as we cross the land? When we arrive, you may speak to her first if you wish, that would be the only payment I can provide.”

Aeschylus considered the strange offer, then considered its goal. It had never occurred to him to visit Delphi. Now, just as he had felt his life was losing all direction and flowing down the blade of his sword as blood had flowed down it so many times before, he was presented with the old man who wanted his help to reach her. He looked the man over once more, observing his bare feet and the branch he used to keep himself upright.

“Alright, we will travel to Delphi together. We can leave now if you’d like.” Aeschylus surveyed their surroundings, racking his mind for the location of Delphi, and even his own location. He had simply been wandering this island until he found work, and hadn’t bothered much to orient himself.

“No no, these old bones must rest before such a journey. Delphi is not far, perhaps we could travel it in a day, but I wish to rest before we go.” The old man gently lowered himself to the grass.

“Here?” Aeschylus asked in surprise as he realized the old man was laying down to sleep right before him.

“Why of course, I am much too tired to return home. We will rest here, the Earth gives me great comfort.” And with that the old man laid his walking stick into the grass beside him and went to sleep.

Aeschylus awoke at dawn, the old man already bearing down on him, smacking his forehead with his branch not so gently.

“Awaken hero! There is much to be done!”

And so he did. Aeschylus gathered his things, few as they were, and set off. At first, he found it difficult to match the old man’s weary gait, but he fell into a rhythm eventually. A slow march towards the harbor. They would need to find a boat that could take them to Phokis, home of Delphi. When they arrived Aeschylus made a deal with a sailor by the name of Kallinos. One of the rowers for his ship carrying lumber had fallen ill, and he needed someone to fill the seat. So, Aeschylus climbed below deck with the rest of the rowers, while the old man joyfully sat on the ship’s deck, taking in the scenery.

When they arrived in Phokis, Poseidon had been good to them, so it was not too long after they’d departed, Kallinos paid Aeschylus a few drachmae for the work and sent him on his way.

It took the pair until dusk to reach the Chora of Delphi, at the base of Mount Parnassos. The old man held out his arm to stop Aeschylus.

“We are approaching, how does it feel to be so close to the gods?” A grin spread across the old man’s barely toothed mouth as he shut his eyes and raised his head to the heavens. Aeschylus looked around him, and up towards the Temple of Apollo.

“I do not know yet if I want them to be this close, the gods have not always been so kind to me.” Aeschylus fell quiet, he’d said too much and barely anything at all in just one sentence. The old man didn’t seem to notice one bit, in fact he began to chuckle.

“Oh misthios, you are far too young to be quite such a downer. Come now, the Oracle awaits us, with baited breath I’m sure.” And he once again began hobbling through the streets of the Chora, not once sparing a glance behind him to ensure Aeschylus was following.

[To be continued]

She recounts the tale as if it was a love story, her father does the same.

They both spin the same tale of how tragic it started, but how it became something so much more.

How one day everything changed completely, and she was no longer his captive but his bride.

With the same circumstances,

unable to leave the castle walls or return home.

Gaston no longer speaks in opposition to these claims, gaston no longer speaks to the townsfolk.

Neither does the beast,

but she claims he is scared of frightening us.

No one questions these statements any longer, barely anyone even bates an eye.

When the 17 year old starts again,

on the love story that was her life.

The flower so young and so beautiful,

a rose.

The color so bright and glorious,

a rose.

The smell so enticing and distinct,

a rose.

The idea so strange and delirious,

a rose.

The sound so completely silent and quiet,

a rose.

The one so tragic and weak,

the little Briar Rose.

I think he was in love with a version of you,

maybe it was one you made up for him,

or one you already had in your back pocket.

Maybe it was a part of both,

those gold slippers were certainly in your back pocket,

but you’d never have worn them if not for him.

You seem surprised when he asked you to dance,

but you had expected it all this time,

since that little fish promised you luck in his little pond of gold.

He splashed around and had you promise to take care of him,

you could have refused like your mother did with you,

but unlike them, you lost him safe and sound.

They never helped you, never cared for you,

you had no reason to do anything in return,

not a pure sole blamed you for sending your mother that jar.

Not a good sole in the country blamed you,

you even offered to bath her, what a kind sister you were,

it was a true shame that the water was too hot,

or that she was just a bit too sensitive.

A chewed up tongue.

A stepped on face.

A dented ball.

A drowned boy.

A smashed in wall.

A cried out girl.

A shouted king.

A weeped queen.

A endless wedding.

A stopped honeymoon.

A true love story.

Follow the breadcrumbs:

The salty,

The sweet.

Follow the breadcrumbs:

To find a path,

Or to eat.

Follow the breadcrumbs:

To safety,

Shaped so vaguely.

Follow the breadcrumbs:

To an end of it all.

Follow the breadcrumbs:

Why can’t you hear your brother call?

There was no stopping that man.

With his great big eyes,

And his great big ears,

And his great big teeth.

There was no stopping you from sharing your life.

The full story of your past,

the full story of your path,

the full story of your plan.

He would get you or another one sooner or later.

A little girl on her way home from school,

A little boy on his way to his work in the city,

A little girl on her way to her grandmas.

You’d never even see it coming.

Because the forest is beautiful,

Because the forest is grand,

Because the forest is wonderful.

It’s all those things and more, until it’s not.

There’s no moral to the tale,

of a little girl with nothing to spare.

She had nothing at all,

she’d never grow more than 4 feet tall.

Her body lay in the alleyway of France,

maybe used one day as a transplant.

A match was unable to keep her warm for long,

there was no chance she could hold up or be that’s strong.

With no moral and little meaning,

it’s no wonder she hasn’t made it to the big screen.

A little boy gifted with life,

a present he did not take well.

A little boy gifted with a dream of some,

though he was not allowed the ability to sleep.

A little boy gifted with a generous caretaker,,

even if he loved to run wild without help.

A little boy gifted with a trip to an island of toys,

a chance he barely thought through.

A little boy gifted with the skills to escape a giant whale,

though he ended up needing someone else to help.

A little boy gifted with an opportunity to truly be,

even he could not see the appeal.

Oh Rapunzel,

You beautiful thing.

Do you think your mother cried when she had you?

Because it hurt,

or because she knew you weren’t hers?

Do you think your father bothered to hold you?

Because he knew it would be the first and last time,

or because he didn’t want to touch you?

Do you think the witch grinned when they handed you over?

Because she wanted a little girl for so long,

or because she took one away from another pair?

Do you think that the parts of your life that are so important, ever had an answer?

Because I don’t,

or maybe they do, but you won’t ever get one yourself.