Reading, Writing and Running for Your Life...

The moment Sebastian watched the nanny's car disappear around the corner, he suddenly began to question his choice of outfits for the day. As he turned, facing the school, he found breathing became a bit more difficult, his bow-tie, tighter than he had remembered, scratched like steel wool around his neck. Burning up in the chilly, early morning Autumn air, Sebastian uncharacteristically felt the need to unbutton his tailored jacket which now fit the boy like a latex surgical glove. As he turned toward the school, his vision began to blur. The trees blended into the building and the ground into the sky, and from the smudged mass of kids gathered around the flagpole, three figures bled off and quickly approached Sebastian. Fuzzy, but with laughs and taunts crystally clear, these three faces attached to six fists, like finger-paints doused in water, smeared, creating a dark colorful mass of soon to come inevitable pain. But the boy did not need to see their faces, he knew exactly who they were. Blind to him now, their pug noses, glazed over and swine-like eyes, Skoal stained teeth and greasy tuffs of hair have become permanent cast members in Sebastian's nightmares. Like three pigs, and not the cute kind - instead, the huge, dirty mean kind with sharp teeth that grunt and squeal and eat their own shit stood inches from Sebastian's face, their breath like sour milk. Yes, Sebastian knew these pigs and they knew Sebastian. The boy closed his eyes, his teeth gritted, readying himself for the first blow. Waiting to see stars and small birdies flying and tweeting around his head, he instead heard a voice. Slowly, he opened his eyes to see Miss Leeds, the school Principal, standing firmly between Sebastian and his three assailants. Though on her face appeared what could only be described as a smile, the tone behind her bared teeth made her words, "Good morning, boys," send shivers down all their backs. "Good morning, Miss Leeds," grunted the pigs, now hooves in pockets. Sebastian politely smiled, buttoning up tight his jacket from the sudden chill. Through the same "smile", Miss Leeds continued, "What's say we get to class, shall we? Let's make today a great one. High-five!" And one by one, the three pigs slapped Miss Leeds outstretched hand and walked into the school. Sebastian, left alone, tentatively raised his hand but was left hanging as Miss Leeds turned and started walking toward the open school door. Denied, Sebastian followed her as she called back to him, "A bow-tie, huh? It fits you." The compliment made Sebastian smile, until she went on to say, "Maybe you should eat lunch with the teachers today."

Sitting in homeroom, Sebastian busied his mind with thoughts of home - his parakeet, the nanny's birthday cake and hopefully, the return of his parents. He looked at the clock on the wall - three hours till recess, the scariest 45 minutes of the day, but today, he had a plan. Sebastian figured out where to stand, where to hide, where the least numbers of kids could be found...safety - a small patch of land behind the school garage, a row of hedges, tall enough for Sebastian, but too short for the smokers. It was perfect, and then smooth sailing for the rest of the day - home for cake and presents and mother and father. Sebastian just needed to keep to the plan, but as they say - Man plans...God laughs!

Over the intercom, Miss Leeds started her morning announcements and at the end, she gave a special shout-out to the birthday boy, Sebastian Goodnight. Sebastian froze. All at once, every kid in class turned in Sebastian's direction, and with hunger in their eyes, one girl asked, "Did you bring cupcakes?" Sebastian stared blankly. The girl asked again, "Did...you...bring... cupcakes?" Sebastian finally shook his head no. Pissed, the girl turned away and under her breath, she whispered, "You should have brought cupcakes."

Miss Leeds continued and offered up a challenge to the entire school. With a satanic glee in her voice, she said, "I want every single student to wish Sebastian a happy birthday today. Seek him out, hunt him down, let him know how much this school cares. Let's make this birthday one he will never forget. Have a great day, everybody!" And with a click, the intercom went quiet, but Sebastian's mind raced. Shocked by the attention, he slowly came back to earth when his teacher started her lesson for the day. A bit weary, Sebastian began to breath a bit easier, she didn't bring him to the front of the class, she didn't make him write down what he wanted for his birthday, she didn't even ask how old he was. Maybe everything would be OK. Who listens to those stupid announcements anyway, most people in school didn't even know who Sebastian was. Almost calm, Sebastian's heart steadied...until the intercom blared Miss Leeds voice once again, "And just one more thing. In case you don't know Sebastian, he's the one in the blue jacket and little bow-tie. Happy Birthday Sebastian...Sebastian Goodnight."

Go Sebastian, It's Your Birthday...

"Good morning, sweet boy," said the nanny as she knocked outside Sebastian's bedroom door. She had done this, more or less, everyday, she would guess, way back since Sebastian was four. She was hired to cook to clean, to do the laundry and several things at this moment she could not recollect, so many chores, but still always a wink at sad Sebastian on the brink from his parent's never ending neglect. In a day so brief and slim, how she managed from floor to brim, clean rugs, scoured pots, forks and pans, if Sebastian had known not better, his one true friend and babysitter had more than just one and two hands. So, "Good morning, sweet boy," but to Sebastian's dismay, the nanny added something a bit extra. "Good morning, sweet boy, and might I just say, good morning and a big Happy Birthday!" But Sebastian was not happy, staring out the window for mom and pappy, hoping against hope they'd come home. In what country were they exploring, over which ocean in planes a'soaring, was it Guam, Nice, Paris, France or maybe Rome? Promises were made, but just in case, the nanny prayed for his parent's quick and timely return, it's been months and not one note, they managed a text from a fun filled boat, but in truth, it seemed the children were of no great concern. Still, the nanny wanted things better, so she smiled through the door she entered, though the parents were no where in sight, this day will be a good one and will be full of adventure, "This I promise, Sebastian Goodnight."

The nanny turned on the light to Sebastian's room, only to find the bed empty. Over by the open window sat the boy, staring down the long drive, listening for the almost forgotten particular sound his father's car made as it would creep slowly, tentatively, sadly toward the house - but this morning was still quiet. Watching him, the nanny's smile fell, but she quickly picked it up again before Sebastian turned. He was dressed, not in his normal clothes but the brand new outfit his parents sent...money for the nanny to go out and buy. Big boy pants with pleats, crisp white shirt, tailored jacket and blue bow tie. "Adorable," she thought. "Are you wearing your birthday outfit to school?" Sebastian nodded. "Well, you look fine, just don't get it dirty." They both smiled, knowing that was not a possibility. Sebastian didn't get dirty or wrinkled or disheveled in any way. He did not play - in the dirt or anywhere else, he could sit still for hours. The birthday outfit would remain as crisp and clean, pressed and kept as the moment of its purchase...and this thought made the nanny's smile fall again.

"You look fine, but Sampson looks cold," said the nanny, pointing with her finger to the tiny yellow parakeet sitting on Sebastian's finger. The bird's eyes stared out the window as intently as the boy's and every bit as sad. Sampson, however, was not staring down at the road, but up - up and out to the open sky, watching the other birds free flight. Sampson was, perhaps, the one creature in this house sadder than Sebastian. The bird's clipped wings, Sebastian's fear of all things made these two a perfect pair.

Sebastian's parents had a habit of being absent, so in their stead, a gift would be sent. A package would arrive and be found on the hallway table - how polite they were. Wrapped in brown paper, covered in stamps from some far away land, and inside, always with a note, "Sorry we couldn't make it." or "Couldn't get away." or "We're having too much fun!" and always signed, "Sincerely, your mother and father". Gifts for birthdays, gifts for Christmas, missed Parent Teacher meetings, missed school plays, a gift for every occasion. Sebastian often thought, if they actually ever showed up, he probably wouldn't even notice, their faces unrecognizable and in his memory, almost forgotten. But of all the gifts, and there have been many - life size Terracotta Soldiers from China, telescopes from Madrid, handmade cigars from Cuba - Sampson, the tiny yellow parakeet from Australia was Sebastian's favorite. Weary of each other at first, the two slowly began to trust. Sebastian had no fear of Sampson, and every night, when the bird was returned to its cage, the boy's heart would break. Seeing his friend locked away was unbearable but in Sebastian's dreams, Sampson would soar.

"It's time for school, put Sampson away," the nanny said, "you can play when you get home, and maybe your parents will be here when you get back." Anything's possible. Sebastian gently placed Sampson in his cage, took one more look out the window...no one, and sadly left the room. Watching him leave, the nanny folded her arms from the chill in the room. Walking to the open window and just before closing it, she also took a look outside...no one. "It's still early," she thought, and off she went to join Sebastian.

And Sampson in his cage began to chirp so big and bright, waiting for the quick return of his friend, Sebastian...Sebastian Goodnight.

In the Land Under the Neath...

...there was a little boy who was scared. Scared of the night, scared of the day. Scared of dogs, of cats, of mice and men, of cars of bikes of turning 10. So scared in fact, he would not laugh or pray, his mouth remained closed, afraid of what he might say. Anything and everything gave this boy such a fright, his name was Sebastian...Sebastian Goodnight.

He was only turning 10, but already his hair was turning grey. His skin, drawn and in the right light, translucent. Thin, and jumpy he was, and so slow from lack of slumber, by the time he nodded yes to the question "are you hungry?", his food was cold and had been eaten by his older sister. Everyday, his huge emerald eyes sank deeper and deeper inside but still from left to right they darted. And his hands, his small childish hands, how they would shake as he held them firm on his lap, holding tight, they still trembled and produced a loud and rhythmous tap. Against his legs, his hands would move, creating a large and terrible bruise, constant movement like a crazed athlete, keeping time and pace with his erratic heartbeat. No rest, no comfort, no peace dark or light, no happy moments for Sebastian...Sebastian Goodnight.

"What is wrong with you, Sebastian?" Everyone would ask, but no one knew the answer. His doctor thought a pill might help, but which one? So many. Let's try them all. The pink one made Sebastian sick, the blue one made Sebastian more sleepy and the green one made Sebastian very very angry. After extinguishing a rainbow of choices, they settled on the yellow pill. It made Sebastian do nothing, nothing at all, he just sat quietly in his chair, he didn't move or cry or do anything unpleasant, so as far as everyone was concerned, they had found a winner, that is until the yellow pill was found to be extremely dangerous for children under the age of 13. The words psychotic and suicide were casually thrown about, "Let's just see what happens," the doctor said, and Sebastian stayed on the yellow pill up till the day the government mandated they be taken off the market. So back to the questions, "What is wrong with you, Sebastian?"

Sebastian's sister thought he was crazy, just "no good," she would say, but that wasn't true. He was a good boy and if his parents were ever around, they would see that. The nanny tried her best to make him feel better, but in the end, Sebastian spent all his time alone. He would sit in his room in front of the window and stare outside at the other little boys throwing the football in the street. They stopped, years ago, asking Sebastian to come out and play, knowing the answer and tired of asking the question. In the winter, Sebastian would open the window, letting the cold air in. Too chilly for the neighborhood kids to play, Sebastian would stare down the road. Waiting. Hoping. He would go to his secret draw and quietly pull out an old grey blanket no one knew he had. If his parents found out, it would be in the trash, along with everything else that used to belong to his older brother JoJo. Good at everything, scared of nothing, JoJo was 16, but looked 25. Big as a bear but gentle as bunny...until someone messed with him or with someone he loved. He always protected Sebastian, from the bullys at school, from the lighting and thunder at night, and even from their sister. When he ran away from home 2 years ago, Sebastian was crushed, but he understood and was happy JoJo got out. He knew someday they would be together again, but until then, Sebastian held tight to that grey blanket. JoJo's name was hardly ever mentioned by anyone else in the house, so it appeared he was not missed...not true. Sebastian's parents said they didn't care JoJo was gone, and sometimes, Sebastian believed them.

Of all the things Sebastian feared, one stood out above the rest. Her name was Evelone, and she was Sebastian's older sister. The first born and as far as she was concerned, the only one that mattered. As most brothers and sisters, Sebastian and Evelone looked alike, a fact Evelone hated. To rectify this horrible situation, Evelone took every opportunity to change Sebastian's appearance. So proud of her long, black, straight hair, and wanting hers alone to be the longest and straightest in the house, one night, perm kit in hand, she snuck into Sebastian's room and gave him what should have been the curls of Shirley Temple. Maybe she didn't read the directions correctly, maybe she didn't know how long to keep in the chemicals, or maybe she wanted all of Sebastian's hair to fall out, regaurdless, Sebastian and Evelone looked different now. She swore it was an accident, but her laughs when retelling this story is in itself, quite telling. She tortured Sebastian in all sorts of ways, mentally, physically, emotionally, with her fanged teeth, sitting quietly on the edge of his bed during a thunderstorm, saying not a word, or throwing on him a pot of fresh and very hot coffee, still saying not a word. Evelone was evil and the scariest thing about it was, she knew it...and she liked it.

In Sebastian's house, the parents were always gone, JoJo was gone, the nanny was gone at night, so it was just him, all his fears plus Evelone.

No wonder he was always so scared.

Wrapped in his grey blanket, he sits in front of the window, waiting, hoping to be saved, but no one ever comes. Sebastian thinks to himself, "I wish I could save myself." Covered and warm in his blanket, he closes his eyes, but sleep never comes.

Bedtime Stories...

I used to enjoy my walks home after work. The beauty of this city at night, the quiet and empty sidewalks, the nightsky's stars so out shined by the millions of lit windows dotting the sleeping skyscrapers like a metropolis star map, leading me home, all helped my full head clear. But lately, I crave chaos and the 8 hours of mind numbing stupidity I endure everyday at work. Lost for now a cleared mind, unwanted and impossible to maintain, too easily filled with the regrets and sorrows of recent events. I need noise. I take the largest sections with the biggest tables inhabited by the most ridiculous people all to keep my mind off one...one particular person, and for that 8 hours everyday, she is gone...until the long walk home.

Tonight was no different. I welcomed the woman and her allergies to gluten and dairy, to soy and nuts. Her life threatening dietary issues proved invaluable for keeping my mind occupied for a good 30 minutes. Nobody dies today, not on my watch. I was happy to receive the new winter menu, hot off the presses with its complex flavors and numerous never before heard of ingredients and looked forward to the food test. How about throwing in a wine quiz? Just give me some time and I bet I could name that Cabernet in three sips. Give me more, more! Fill my head with inane gossip of who's fucking who - give me more! Give me more! But time passes so quickly when you're having "fun" and before I knew it, the old neon clock above the bar struck twelve and the tables were transferred and I had on my coat and was out the door and I forgot everything about the night. I forgot how the new chicken's potato terrine is covered in duck fat and what was the difference between old and new world wines and who's fucking who now? All gone, and with each step down West Broadway, an old memory of Kristyna strolled on in, and by the time I got home, my mind was full and ready to explode.

No sleep tonight, I thought. Another 10 hours of eyes open, staring at my smoke stained walls. No sleep tonight. I stood on my street in front of my building for a moment, slowly scanning the windows of apartments on my block for any sign of life and so jealous when none were found. Each window, dark, lightless and I imagined within all the happily sleeping bodies. Window after window, dark tonight...all but one. One in my building on my floor in my apartment. The window of my roommate and very best friend, Heather Mary.

I walked inside and put down my keys. Heather Mary's door, I noticed, was slightly open. Quietly, I knocked. "Come in," she said. "I can't sleep," she said. "Tell me a story," she said.

I walked in and sat down beside her bed. "I don't know any stories, at least none that are appropriate for bedtime." She smiled and said, "You know I like inappropriate stories." "Alright," I said, "have you heard the one about the crazy girl with a dead dog who tried to kill the dumbass and his friends?" Heather Mary nodded, "Yeah, that sounds familiar. Is that the one about the nice guy who always picks the wrong girl and when she goes nuts, all he wants to do is help her and make it all better?" Lowering my head in embarrassment, I said, "You've heard that one, huh?" Heather Mary replied, " Yeah, like a million times. Why do you think he does that? Why do you think he feels such responsibility for people. Why does he take on everybody's problems?" I looked at Heather Mary, "He's the protector." And she shook her head, "Who's gonna protect him cause one day, that shit's gonna get him killed." "Heather Mary," I said, "fear can't get in the way of doing what is right. Sometimes, we have to be brave."

I remembered when I was young, "I hated going to sleep at night, my room was the darkest room in the house. Just one window. My dad wouldn't let me sleep with the light on cause I was a boy and only girls slept with the lights on or with a night-light or with stuffed animals, so I would lay in bed, covers up to my chin and pray to God to keep me safe. When I was 8, my mom tried to make it better by telling me a bedtime story about a little boy who was afraid of everything, just like me. Each night, she would sit by my bed and tell me about his adventures and how he became a hero and the bravest boy around." Heather Mary pulled the covers up to her chin, "Was the little boy's name Paul-David?" "No," I said, "It was Sebastian. Sebastian Goodnight." And with a squeal, Heather Mary curled up in her very large bed and said, "Tell me that story. Tell me the story about Sebastian Goodnight."

"Alright. Let me see. How does it go again? It's been a long time. Oh yes, I remember now."

"Once upon a time..."

Midnight in the Garden of Good and E.VIL-lage

"The night's heavy rain softened the ground nicely," I whispered, and Edgar DuHaven agreed. Such an ugly evening, its cold wind, lighting and thunder, however, ensured our much needed privacy. As I dug the small hole, Edgar nonetheless kept a stern watch. His eyes, peering through the wall of ivy weaving its way in and out of the locked gate and the 1o foot high metal fence surrounding this small and often overlooked Community Garden located somewhere between Ave. B and C, somewhere hidden away in the East Village...not the greatest of locations, the years of neglect, beer bottles, trash bags and worn soiled mattress had turned this small patch of land into a place for the forgotten, the discarded, a sort of graveyard for the broken...fitting. There's no place like home.

The hole was finished. I placed my coat over the open grave, shielding this soon to be and way over due resting place from anymore water pouring inside. I sat down beside it, my knees pulled up to my chest, teeth chattering staring up to the black rainy sky, spotted with moonlit clouds of fastly moving white and waited. I had no idea if Kristyna would show, and if she did, what would she do? I hadn't spoken to her since that night.

Her secret out now. The young 8 year old girl, frightened, crying softly on the floor was gone now, and before my eyes, she aged - back to the adult woman I thought I knew - she aged, and the woman who walked out the door to my apartment was much older than the one who let herself in the few long hours before. Frail, spent, saddened so she was, I hung up the phone in my hand, knowing all too well the decision to let her go may come back to haunt me. If that day comes, I will deal with the consequences, happy to see her again. Heather Mary thought I was crazy, but when Edgar DuHaven finally came to, he laughed. "Big Surprise," he said, then to Heather Mary, "Was there ever any doubt he would let her go?" Heather Mary shook her head, "No," she replied. It's nice to have friends that know you so well.

I sent Kristyna an email, telling her my plan, telling her how this all needs to stop, to put everything behind us. To bury the past. She didn't write back, but something told me she would come. So I sat, in the rain, drenched, knees to chest, teeth chattering and waited, and as the rain poured, a little after 3 am, Edgar whispered, "Someone is coming." We both stopped breathing and stared through the ivy covered gates. Under the street light, a figure stood, then illuminated by a bolt of lighting, we saw who it was. Hair soaked, drenched from head to toe, standing silently outside the garden was Kristyna, and in her arms, in a small black bag, she held her past.

No one spoke as we stood over the grave, still empty. No one knew what to say or what to do, but it didn't matter, I thought, we were all together...Me, Kristyna, Edgar DuHaven and via Edgar's cellphone, Heather Mary...my little family, bruised, beaten and a little worse for the wear, but still a family and I was so proud. How cool were we, to put aside our petty feelings and opinions and safety concerns, to come together in this moment...a moment of grace.

We stood for an hour, we four. No rush, the sun would wait. To pass the time, Heather Mary propped her phone by the stereo in her room, piping music into the garden and we quietly hummed along. No rush, when ever you're ready. Then finally, after a huge exhale, Kristyna carefully climbed into the hole and gently put down her burden. I reached into my pocket and handed Kristyna the one missing piece and on top of the small black bag the tail was placed. She said a few worlds so quietly, only a dog could hear and climbed out of the hole. I grabbed the shovel and started replacing all the wet dirt and after a few minutes of patting it flat, the burial was done, the burial of this girl's dogs was finally done.

The rain stopped. We all looked up and saw the beginnings of a blue sky. It was going to be a pretty day. Kristyna turned and without a word climbed over the fence and walked away into the morning light. Over the phone, Heather Mary finally spoke, "Is it over?" she said. "Yes," I replied. "Good, could you pick me up a bagel on your way back? I'm starving." We stopped by Kossar's and I bought us all one, Pumpernickel for me, Cinnamon Raisin for Edgar and an Everything for Heather Mary. I love Kossar's bagels.

And She Whispered into My Ear with the Voice of a Child...

Girl Cracked...

"Elle a obtenu un pistolet!" screamed Mr. Jingle Maryweather as he dashed from the chaotic room. Desperately trying to reach the safety of a bound and gagged Heather Mary, Jingle vaulted the still out-cold Edgar DuHaven and with a loud "merde" and a soft splash, he found himself paw deep in a warm puddle of pee now forming on the floor between Edgar's out-stretched legs. Step, shake...step, shake, Jingle muttered angrily, "Vous estes un garcon stupide!" And he couldn't have been more correct. I am a very stupid boy.

Turning my attention away from the tiny wet paw prints and back to Kristina, I found myself once again staring down the barrel of a very loaded gun. As if under ten feet of water and still plunging downward, all sounds went murky - the traffic outside the window, the TV next door, all noise sodden but one. One tiny, quiet voice way back in the back of my head and as clear as day, "She's hot!" it said. I glanced away from the gun and found Kristina's eyes, "Yeah, she's hot," I agreed, "too hot." The voice, louder now replied, "It's OK, you're fireproof, baby." I shook my head, "No. Not anymore." The voice laughed, "You just need to cool her down a little, that's all." Kristina's eyes shifted, "Who are you talking to?" she said, looking around the room. But I didn't hear her, all I could hear was the voice. "Let me throw some cold water on her, that'll do the trick," it said. "I can't, I can't." Kristina touched the gun to my head and said angrily, "Who are you talking to?" I took a deep breath and swallowed hard and unlocked the the old wooden door to a name I hadn't said in months - "Tommy," I said. Confused, looking again around the room, Kristina cautiously asked, "Who's Tommy?" "He's the voice that lives inside my head. He tells me to do things," I answered calmly. She asked, "What kind of things?" I answered, "All sorts of things." She asked, "Bad things?" I said, "Sometimes." "Oh God," she said. I laughed, "It's OK. See, you're not the only crazy person in the room, you're among friends."

"Stop it!"

Both our head jerked toward the sound. It was Heather Mary, freed from her gag. "Stop it! Stop talking like that!" she begged. Pissed at the interruption, Kristina rushed into Heather Mary's room, "I should have known, if I put anything close to that mouth of yours, you're gonna eat it." Heather Mary shouted as Kristina tried gagging her again, "You don't know who you're messing with, girl. For your own sake, you need to get the fuck out of here!" "Shut up, Heather Mary, what is your fat ass gonna do, huh?" Kristina yelled back. "It's not my fat ass you got to worry about. It's his. You're scaring me, Paul David, please stop!" Kristina had had enough, "Why do you talk so damn much?" and back goes the gag. I looked at Heather Mary trying to break free, "It's OK, I got this under control." Then back to Kristina, "Now where were we? Oh yes - gun to head." Kristina slowly and nervously raised the gun back up. "Gun to head," I said again, "do it Kristina, you got me right where you want me." Kristina instead takes a step back - the first moment of weakness...Tommy likes.

Flustered now, Kristina said softly, "Look, I just want to know one thing. Are you breaking up with me?" I laughed. Gun to my head, friends tied up and knock out cold...and I laughed. "You threw your dead dog at me." As if to make sense of it, she replied, "I didn't know it was you. You broke into my house." And tit for tat, I said, "You got a gun stuck in my face." "Well," she said, "I guess we're even then." "No where near," said Tommy. "No where fucking near."

"You're good, Kristina, very good. You fooled a lot of people, but trust this - Tommy would have seen you coming a mile away...and he would have stopped, and he would have waited for you, slowed down his stride for you, all so you could catch up. Tommy would have enjoyed that. But sadly, that's not what happened, Paul David instead talked to you and listened to your stories and thought he was getting to know you, but that was all a lie, wasn't it? You see, Tommy doesn't listen to stories, he's not interested. People don't interest him, their stories are a bore. Like listening to someone talk about the dream they had last night or the hilarious thing little Billy did yesterday at the park - no one cares about your dreams, no one cares about your kid. Tommy doesn't care about your stories. It's a good thing for Paul-David, cause while he's been listening, Tommy's been watching. He knows you. Tommy knows all about you, Kristina."

And with her last bit of bravery, defiantly, she said, "You don't know me and stop calling me Kristina! That's not my name!" A bit shocked, Tommy replied, "Really? What should Tommy call you?" Brushing the hair away from her face, she said, "Kristyna. My name is Kristyna." Pardon me? She continued, "With a Y, no I." "Is it pronounced the same?" Tommy asked. "Basically," she said, "but that's not the point." "Very well, Kristyna," said Tommy, watching the gun drop lower and lower, "ah ah ah, watch the gun, it goes up here, right at the temple for the most damage. More bang for the buck." Kristyna shook her head, "You're losing it." To which Tommy replied, "Not yet."

"You're different, Tommy will give you that. You have a shell around you, egg thin but a shell none the less. Most people don't even have that. But I can crack it. Oh come on, let me crack it...just a little? Just a lil bit? Where should I begin, Kristyna? Tommy did say that correctly, with a Y, no I, yes? Putting up signs for your little lost pup, hoping for any, any human contact at all. Boy, did you get more than you bargained for. So lonely, no friends, always eating alone, party of one. One slice of pizza, one piece of cake, just one straw in your vanilla milkshake. I see the way you walk down the street, always looking over your shoulder, but who are you looking for, have you been a bad girl? Is that gun getting heavy, I bet it is. Or maybe not, maybe you're used to it, the weight, the feel of it. Pulling the trigger. Did daddy teach you how to shoot? Did you get real good at it? A little too good? Did mommy and daddy regret the day they ever put a gun into those stubby little pickles you call fingers. I watch you, but I could be wrong...but probably not. Alone, all day in that big empty house of yours, listening to your own private voices screaming in your head, telling you how bad you are, how worthless you are, how disappointing you are and will always be. "You're nothing, Kristyna." "You're ugly, Kristyna." You got a stupid name, Kristyna." Make the voices stop! But you can't, your conscience has no volume control, it's always turned up and up and up. While Paul-David stared into those big dark eyes of yours, it was Tommy who noticed you almost never blinked. Never close your eyes. Afraid of what might be standing in front of you when they open? You should be afraid. You should yell out but you can't, someone outside your head might answer back. So in that big house of yours, in the many rooms, you sit quietly, not saying a word, afraid someone will hear you and find you and do to you what you have done to others. But don't be afraid, nobodies around, you're all alone. No need to be quiet, nobody can hear you. It's just you...just you and that stuffed dead dog of yours hiding in the closet. So scream, Kristyna, scream your fucking head off. Scream, baby. Scream, scream, scream!"

And she did.

In the corner of the room, she fell into a ball and she screamed. And her screams pierced my ears and woke me up, like I had been in a dream, watching all this shit from a distance. I ran to Heather Mary and pulled off her gag. "I went too far," I said. "You went too far," she agreed.

I rushed to Kristyna and knelt beside her broken frame. "I'm sorry," I whispered, "I'm so sorry." She looked up, eyes red, "I want to tell you a secret," she softly said, and whispered it into my ear.