Fire raged in the center of the Vortex as Ash approached, lingering on the edges of the maelstrom. It blew upwards like a great well of fire, and around it stood twelve judges, watching, waiting, lingering to see what she would do. They sat at their posts and didn’t move, not even Horsey, whom Ash would have thought would be more trembly than that.

“Where’s Fidelity?” Ash finally asked.

They watched her, twisting their eyebrows together as if she had asked something unreasonable, as if she had spoken gibberish instead of fact, merely Latin instead of a name. “Who?” Kuyibka asked.

“Yes, her.”

Loki laughed from his seat, a low dry chuckle that sent chills through Ash’s bones. She knew him well—had once had an intimate familiarity with him, but even now the sight of him again once more stirred her heart into trembling fear. Had they once been like family? Friends? Enemies? Mentors? She couldn’t remember, and the variations the story had taken seemed to mesh and collide here in the darkness of her mind/the brightness of the Vortex. She couldn’t entirely decide where she was seated and where her heart was at.

“For someone who likes to play with fire, you tend to avoid it,” Loki said.

Confused, Ash turned back to the fire, leaning into it, staring down. Through the flames, there opened a gap in the well, a long dark abyss traveling downward.

And clinging to the ledges of the abyss was the Who. Crying out, Ash lunged forward, attempting to grab her hands, her clothes, anything to pull her up by. “Don’t just stand there!” she screamed to the characters. “Do something!”

They shook their heads and didn’t move. “She’s been like that for days. We can’t reach her.” Still though, they didn’t try to warn her off or tell her It was a lost cause for her to try. Maybe they knew that even if they had, she wouldn’t have listened.

So Ash lunged forward, leaning deeper and deeper, and then just barely managed to snatch hold of the Who’s jacket. She looked up then, and the two met eyes, and Ash was startled by the unfamiliarity in them. It was as if she was looking into the eyes of a stranger, one so hopelessly lost and uncertain, caught in the abyss of sorrow and suffering and coming face to face with an unexpected hand.

“Fidelity!” she shouted. “Give me your hand and I’ll pull you out of there.”

The woman stared at her again, as if plunged into deeper confusion. “Please, give me your hand,” Ash pleaded, reaching deeper into the well. The fire and flames had previously parted as if to make way for her presence, but now the girl’s gaze narrowed, and the flames began to rise higher and creep towards her again.

Confused, Ash lunged for her hand and grabbed it, this time taking it from the ledge and pulling backwards with all her might.

“HELP ME!” she cried again, begging the characters to join her, but none of them did.

Anastasia tilted her head to the side and said softly but not too softly for her to still hear the cold spite that lingered, “Where were you when we needed your help?”

“She’s going to fall!”

“Why won’t you let her?” Loki asked.

“Because I don’t want her to die! She’s in danger. She needs help!”

“What if what’s better for her is at the bottom of the pit?” Loki asked, a gentle eyebrow tilted upwards.

“You don’t know that,” Ash insisted. “The better world might be the one up here. Heck, it probably is the one up here. Give me a hand for crying out loud; she’s already infected you all.”

Fidelity began to twist in her grasp then, and Ash had to redirect her attention to pulling her out, and she strained, heaving with all her might and strength, but nothing worked. Now, she held half the weight of another person and her own, and she began to slip into the well after her friend.

“I’m not going to let you go,” she told Fidelity, and at that, the girl’s eyes narrowed, and the flames immediately roared higher.

Crying out in pain, Ash began to slip, doing everything she could to hold on. Fidelity began to twist and writhe, attempting to yank herself from Ash’s grasp.

“STOP, STOP, what are you doing!” she cried out, but it didn’t change a thing.

Then from below, she could hear her words repeated back to her in a much more sinister tone of voice, “I’m never going to let you go.”

And in seeing the man holding on to her friend’s leg, Ash shivered in fear. She couldn’t let her go. She couldn’t.

But if she didn’t…. If she didn’t let her go, what greater harm would be done? Would she have to spend her entire life bouncing back and forth between person and person? Lost in the world that had been created for her to live in?

The characters watched, judging her from their podiums, and once more she pleaded for help, once more she tried to pull up her friend, but the weight was too much, and with Fidelity squirming as she was to get free, Ash just. Couldn’t. hold. Her. Anymore.

And the Who yanked herself free and fell into the abyss of the well below. And Ash stood still at the topic, shocked. Confused. Hurt. Crying. Wondering.

“Is she going to be okay?” she asked.

She looked around the circle and noticed that some of the characters had disappeared with the fall, including Horsey.

“I guess you’ll need to leave that up to us to decide,” Loki murmured, bridging the gap between them and peering into the fire. “Since you couldn’t help her either, you are free to leave when you’d like.”

Choking back a sob as the heat scalded her face, Ash stepped backward, fleeing the fire in fear and shame.

Soul Searching

By Asche Keegan

I’ve been soul searching lately, but I never thought I would find myself on the softball field, caught between a base and a pop up high in the air.

The game is tied, and the pitcher shoots me a glare through her eye makeup. I grin back, leaning onto the back of my foot. She throws the ball, and even though it is just outside the strike zone, I swing, making contact and watching it soar into the air. I can feel my soul rising alongside it, as if freed from all Earthly pursuits.

I’m a Christian; Someday I’m going up there, I think.

That’s my first thought, and them I’m racing towards first base. The coach is yelling at me to run faster, to beat the ball, so even as I touch the base I’m turning towards second.

I’m excitable, I realize, and it pushes me on, propelling my feet forward.

My teammates are screaming at me in the dugout, yelling for me to beat the ball, and I dig in my heels, running harder. As I round second, my coach is watching the ball, telling me to hustle if I want to make it to third.

I’m obstinate.

The ball’s coming towards the base, but I beat it to third, and the umpire calls me safe. The player at third sighs and throws it to the pitcher, who misses the ball.

My coach is screaming for me to stay on the bag, where it’s safe. My teammates are yelling at me to stay. Everyone on the bleachers is yelling for me to stay where I am.

But I’m ambitious,

            so I take off running anyway.

I give it all I’ve got, even as the pitcher realizes what is happening and whips the ball to the catcher. I drop my knee and slide, foot slamming into the plate just as the catcher turns to tag me out.

“She’s SAFE!” the umpire cries, almost as excited as I am. I stagger to my feet, my teammates shaking their head at me even through their grins.

“The coach said he was gonna kill you,” one mentions as an aside.

But as we stream back onto the field to shake hands, I realize most of all that I’m competitive, and that probably accounts for the entire lot.

 

Haunted (Journaling)

By Asche Keegan

I have abandoned my old haunts, but they have not abandoned me.

I sit alone in empty rooms, ancient worlds calling to me. Voices whisper. Remember your first English teacher? In that dusty room? It was always raining outside. The projector was broken. She did everything by hand, brought props to class. She was so busy, but you never saw it. She would have corrected your passive voice.

The dust makes me cough, but I go to the window and look out. That same tree still sits here outside the window, lightly waving its branches. She was there when they hospitalized you. Then, you didn’t even say goodbye.

I leave and keep wandering.

I find myself in an empty auditorium, standing on a table and staring at the giant screen opposing me. Remember when he taught you how to dab? This was the only classroom you goofed off in, the only class you played Minecraft during. One of only a couple teachers to whom you never sent a thank you note. It still smells like mold and mildew and the green velvet that encased the walls.

I can’t stay here, so I leave the school, wandering.

And then I’m running, feet slamming the concrete until I reach the soccer fields I grew up on, where three years of soccer and training left me behind. Now, I’m slow and gasping for breath, hands on my knees, sputtering out my protests before the voices begin. You always played on the Turquoise team. Lost every game but one in your second year. That was pretty cool. To win for once. You hated the Orange team. And the White team. But the umpire gave you free candy sometimes.

I catch my breath and keep running.

I pass the softball field where I caught my first pop fly—Remember the sunflower seeds covering every inch of the dugout?—the other fields where I played first base for three years—remember that one time you played pitcher? Is it still an old haunt if you’re playing again this year?—and then I’ve crossed the loop, and I’m heading back into town again—remember when you learned how to drive on this road?

I pass the hotel I grew up in—remember when they kicked you out?—and the ice cream store we used to visit every week—but you only ever got bags of baby carrots—and the Pizza Hut we always longed to go to—even though you could never eat pizza—and still I keep walking.

And as I walk, the voices point out things that used to be here but aren’t anymore—remember when that billboard advertised swimming lessons? That used to be a jewelry store. The bookstore’s been out of business for years now.

And everywhere I walk, the memories rise up, overwhelming and consuming me. The new hotel, the sauna place, the gym, the old gym, the Kids Club, the hospital, the stores where we ate all those baby food peas, parking lot after parking lot imprinted with memories traced right along the white parking lines.

There’s a road here, which we proudly marched down during the annual Christmas parade—Remember when you had friends who cared about you? Remember the pedophile you accidentally let into the organization? Remember the triumphant lifting of your banners? Remember the lights and the glow? The breathless anticipation? The aching in your ankles? I’m crying in the middle of the road. There’s a car coming, but I barely see it. I can't handle it anymore.

I leave the city behind, and I step into fantasy, wandering.

There’s so many doors everywhere, stretching into other worlds, and I pick one at random, falling in. When next I open my eyes, I’m surrounded by caterpillar weeds, stretching forward in all directions. Above me a million galaxies appear in the sky, and lanterns light a path through the field. Somewhere soft music lilts on a warm breeze that smells like hot chocolate. Remember when Ayla held you when you cried? Remember when your best friend had a discussion with Ayla for you to get her to stop being angry at you? Remember when Ash died?

The last thought dissolves the world, plunging me into the next. Red clay now covers every surface. Flat-topped homes have caved in places, been demolished in others. A long road, made up of a dust just as red as the rest of the world, stretches out into the far off distance. A lone man stands just within sight of the end of the road, staring into the sunset. Remember when Requiem was just a thought? When you created a world just to spite your broken mind? When you got plunged into a half-composed parallel universe you never thought you’d see? Then chose to write your book about the other side of the planet? The betrayal still stings, and I start running to the man whose name I can not remember.

He turns, and those great blue eyes sparkle with joy, and then I’m falling through another door in the universe.

Landscapes flash before my eyes—Remember the world of killer bats? Remember when you fell in love? Remember when you poured out your heart and soul in a sandy volleyball court? Remember when you shattered and love picked you back up again? Remember the world of the fire magic? Remember the NanoFic you started but never finished? Remember Peridot? Those creepy children? Stories flash past too quickly to keep up with, and I plummet through doors.

Yet then it stops, plunging me into a world where the mountains tower far above my head, the sun can never be found, and the sand goes on forever. “No!” I scream. Remember when you lost yourself here? Remember how many characters you killed? Remember when you killed your soul here? Remember when you gave in? Gregarious circles in the sky above me, great black wings blocking out what little light remains, and still I scream at the universe. “No! You can not leave me here!” Remember the pain you caused? The people you broke? The people who broke you? You couldn’t save them. You couldn’t even save yourself. The voices crush me, and I fall shivering to the ground, searching vainly in the sand for some sort of light to dispel the darkness with. You will never be able to save them. You are worthless. Useless. Pathetic. Incompetent. Why did you want to go home? You don’t belong there anymore. You don’t belong anywhere but here.

The Fische start to creep towards me again, and I crawl backwards. “No,” I voice, trembling. “This is not my home. I refuse. It will never be home.”

You don’t have a home anymore.

“Then I will make one,” I announce, and I push past my fantasies, wandering.

Beyond my fantasies there is nothing: only vast emptiness devoid of light, sound, and movement. Miraculously, the voices fall silent—there’s nothing to remember when nothing has ever happened. I lift my hand to create a new world, but it falls back against my side again, limp. What good would it do to create another world instead of living in the hundreds I have already been given? For an instant, I imagine a million different ways to repaint my mental walls, but I give up, for no world could ever satisfy me.

Someone slams on a horn, a jarring sound that yanks me from my reverie. I find myself watching the sky, raindrops touching my tongue. Despite only the brief moments I spent on other worlds, my raincoat is soaked and a black SUV is swerving to a stop in front of me. That's what I need, I think abesently. A world where it's always raining.

I look down and meet the eyes of the driver. Wordlessly, I move off the main road, stepping onto the nearest sidewalk.

“Hey!”

I turn.

A pause. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. “But I’m going.”

The driver wants to ask another question, but I don’t give him the time, and I keep walking, wandering.

Disclaimer: 

This is not my own work, but rather a close-imitation writing exercise based on Jamaica Kincaid's short story, "Girl." The purpose of the exercise is to mimic the writing style of another author and simply replace key words and phrases with your own! I did this for my creative writing class - which I love - and liked it enough to share it here. Nevertheless, I would still count this as a journaling entry, though I suggest you read the original first. :) Enjoy!

What My Mother Taught Me (Close Imitation Exercise) 

By Asche Keegan

Order your textbooks on Monday and line them up against the wall; pack your book collection on Tuesday and put the boxes in the van; don’t check your phone; carry a pencil and a pen; forget about your friends after you take off; when taking notes to help you study, be sure that they aren’t scribbled over, because that way they won’t be legible after class; make toast when the cafeteria is closed; is it true that you socialize more than you study?; always spend your time in such a way that it won’t hurt your grades; On Sundays, try to act like an adult and not like the kid you’re so bent on remaining; don’t slouch when you’re talking to me; you shouldn’t speak when I’m talking, not even to give clarifications; don’t eat wheat – indigestion will follow you; but I don’t talk when you’re talking, and I never slouch; this is how to write a sentence; this is how to write an essay for the sentence you have just written; this is how to edit an essay so you can submit it on time and to prevent yourself from looking like the irresponsible kid you’re so bent on remaining; this is how you stay up late for hours every night so that you get all good grades; this is how you eat plenty of protein and vegetables so that you get all good grades; this is how you make pizza– far from my room, because the smell makes me sick; when you are teaching others, make sure they get plenty of sleep or else they won’t understand you when you are teaching it; this is how you multiply; this is how you divide; this is how you do a geometric proof; this is how you write a story you won’t like too much; this is how you write a story you don’t like at all; this is how to ruin a story you like completely; this is how you study during the day; this is how you study during the weekend; this is how you study during the weekend with a holiday; this is how you study during the night; this is how you study while you eat;

[...]

This is how to make the benchmark; always double-check your work to make sure it’s good; but what if I run out of time on the test?; you mean to say that you’re really going to be the type of kid that will run out of time on the test?

 

"Blurry Photographs" (Journaling)

By Asche Keegan

Some say love is invisible. It’s not.

It hides in the way two people look at one another, the way they talk and the lilting of their voice whether they stand in person or call across great divides. It shines in the teasing laughter and the caring acts that trace ways across the constellations of the unimaginable reaches of the human mind.

You can see love in the faces of those who have confided their heart and soul with one another—who have been left bleeding to death and stitched back together by the person who they love. The smiles are larger, the touches are gentler, and even in photos it seems like the edges of hardship and reality have been blurred just a little when they’re standing next to each other.

Some say love lasts forever. It doesn’t.

In fact, I used to think my parents never truly loved each other, but old pictures seem to tell a different story. In pictures, everyone is laughing, smiling, hugging and standing close to each other. The smiles are larger, the touches are gentler, everyone seems so loving and caring, and more than anything else the people feel like family.

The pictures show a family that hasn’t yet seen the trials of the world and splintered apart beneath them, unable to survive through sickness and in health. The world has twisted their features, and now even in the happiest of pictures you can see the forced attempts at a smile, the misery beneath every gaze, the heartache that evolved so quickly from the love that once flourished everywhere.

Acts of service and words of assurance have become a thing of the past, and the world that once stood aside before their love has kept on doing what it does best—dishing out hardships and strife before humanity has time to recover from the last challenge life threw at it.

Yet here in pictures preserved on digital profiles of twelve years ago, you can finally see why your parents have kept trying—hoping to salvage what is left of the love that existed so long ago. The message is hauntingly beautiful, but perhaps it is a warning of what is to come.

Is love worth it? I don’t know.

What should you do if nearly all love is doomed to fail? What can you do when no matter how strong you build your bonds, they will splinter apart and leave you with only a harmful shell of what was? How can you love when your own doubt holds you back?

These questions and a thousand others just like it plague my existence. I sit here sobbing, listening to the loud voices of beautiful children in digital videos, bemoaning the gradual deterioration of happiness and the establishment of hard lines into the faces of children and parents alike.

 Old pictures share hope and tragedy, and the comment sections echo of a patient, happy life that once was vibrantly lived. So be wary oh lover, for perhaps the world will gape in wonder at the beauty of your devotion, but more than likely it will shudder beneath the weight of your heartache and burdens, before moving on ambivalently.

What I Regret

By Asche Keegan

“What’s this?” the dragon asked, tucking his wings around me. “What feeling is that?”

I stretched back against his green scales, then turned and met his ichor eyes. “You wouldn’t know it,” I shrugged. “Ever heard of regret?”

Gregarious frowned—I could tell from the way his mouth tightened and his eyes slanted. “Why would you of all people be feeling regret? What are you feeling guilty for?”

I hesitated, looking out towards the mouth of the cave we were huddled in. The formless sky never changed, but for a moment I thought I saw a shooting star darting across its exterior. Distracted by the motion, I detached myself from Gregarious’ side and walked out onto the top of the mountain, looking for the sign in the sky.

I almost tripped, an action which would have sent me plummeting thousands of miles to the ground below. Gregarious had taught me how to influence matter in this world of mine, but I still did not relish the idea of falling. Besides, the only way to reach Gregarious’ cave was to fly.

“Are you regretting leaving your friend again?” Gregarious called out to me, attempting to redirect the conversation.

I shook my head. “That hurt, but looking back, it needed to happen. We’ve both needed to grow and mature a little. Learn what’s really important—that kind of thing. We’ll be trying again after next semester though, I think. I’m regretting the rest of it.”

“Why would you do that? Remember how she hurt you?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the star, trailing above me in its full magnificence. It felt out of place in this otherwise desolate world, kind of like myself. “‘Faithful are the wounds of a friend,’” I quoted. “That’s the last thing she sent me, but there’s more to the passage. Just a little further down in Proverbs, it says, ‘Do not forsake your friend.’”

“Why are you telling me this?” Gregarious asked.

“Oh, I thought you had asked.” I paused, one foot in front of the other, arms outstretched to keep my balance. “I hurt her too. And then nothing went well because of it. I’m regretting the stubbornness, the unwillingness to fight for what I needed to.”

“But you’re a fighter,” Gregarious said.

“I pretend I am,” I replied, turning back to him. “But I give up too easily, especially on the important stuff. That’s a lesson I’ve learned. You know, Proverbs isn’t the only passage I’ve been studying. 1 Corinthians 13 shares some important insights as well.”

“Have I not taught you what love is?” Gregarious asked. “Remember, it’s painful. It hurts everyone it touches, and then people abuse it. You get hurt, you give up everything for people who would never do the same. You pour your heart and soul into making something succeed, only for another to sabotage it.”

“You’ve always been a pessimist, Gregarious,” I replied. The star was trailing off now, stretching out over the desert and growing fainter. “That’s not what love is. It doesn’t envy or boast. It does not get angry, especially over nothing. Love is patient, kind, humble, forgiving, truthful, polite, and selfless. It protects, it trusts, it hopes, and it perseveres. By that standard, I’ve never loved anyone—not even myself.”

“So that’s it?” Gregarious asked. “You’re just going to go back to her just like that?”

I wobbled on the cliff edge, staring at the drop once more. “I’m not ready yet, but I’m getting there.” I wondered how much energy it would take to make a cloud to catch me if I leaped. “I’m learning how to love, and once I do, she and I can be unstoppable together again. Because sometimes—” I trailed off, running towards the edge of the cliff, even as Gregarious’ nostrils flared, and he shouted at me to stop.

“You just have to take a leap in the right direction,” I finished. Winking at him, I dived off the side of the cliff, simultaneously loving and despising this feeling of falling. Just in time, I summoned all my energy together into a wind tunnel that caught me before I hit the ground.

Adrenaline rushing through me, I looked back up to see how far I had fallen. Only a silhouette in the night, Gregarious lazily spiraled downward. “And maybe someday, I’ll teach you how to love as well,” I murmured to the dragon, before grinning and chasing the shooting star across the desert sands.

By Asche Keegan

I glide through the night air, wind buoying my white wings upward. Exhilaration guides my every movement, slight flicks correcting my direction. I tuck my wings against my chest and spiral downward, whooping in delight as I plummet to the Earth. The action is both terrifying and spectacular, but I have faith that I will catch myself before I hit the ground.

Ocean looms beneath me, and I remind myself of Icarus who flew too close to the sun. But my wings aren’t made of wax, and they won’t melt or dissolve when I throw myself into the waves. The splash creates a satisfying sound, and I grin as I flail to the surface, gasping for breath.

Flying at night offers the best rewards, for the night air crackles differently. My wings carry me safely towards shore, and as I float, I watch the stars dance. The sand crunches, the trees whistle, and an owl hoots somewhere within them.

Here, I am far from all those who enslaved me, from the lassos that curled around my wings, teaching me to beat them for strength while tying me to the ground. Yet, out here I am free, left to fend for myself against the wild. I contemplate entering the woods, flying away from all that I have. It would not be hard to run out into the night, never returning.

The idea seizes me like the air around me, so I run without caring for the tracks I leave behind me, dashing into the woods and screeching at the top of my lungs. I heard it would throw off any threatening animals, but when I halt my progress and listen, I hear nothing.

Eyeing the forestry behind me, I trudge forward, but my right wing snags on a branch behind me. I turn back and try to yank them free, but feathers rip free with them, and to my horror, droplets of blood splatter to the ground.

Clutching my wounded wing to my chest, I press forward regardless, looking for a perch to spend the night. I climbed upward, but I picked up the soft pad of an animal somewhere nearby, and I circled higher into the air, struggling to avoid the branches stretched out to trap me.

Then, a predator leaped at me, snarling even as I shot out of the way, trying to make it high enough to break through the thick canopy above me.

We raced, but soon I finally reached it, the immense patch of the night bursting around me. A howl ripped through the night, and I shivered in frustration, gliding back out and circling over the forest as I contemplated my next actions. I did not yet have the skills to survive on my own, despite all the training I had gone through. I circled again before unleashing a cry of my own frustration and gliding back in the direction of the camp.

The night air did little to comfort me, and as I spiraled downward, I cried for the enslavement that would soon suffocate me once more. I plummeted—

—and I watched the eagles coming back home, coming back to the handlers and the chains that would cuff their ankles to their perches.

I stared at my own hands and feet, once more examining the one weakness in the iron shackles. “I am not ready,” I whispered to myself. “But soon I will be free.”

And I came back home, towards my imprisoners.

“What’s wrong?” 

I’ll tell you tomorrow.” 

“Part of me is a little Disappointed and frustrated That you would end things before they even had a chance to begin.” 

“You’re essentially my little sister.” 

“91221” 

“91221.” 

 

You’re running.

Your feet slip and slide through the sand, pulling you back, just like every other obstacle in your life. You do the same to it as you’ve done to the rest—you push it back and keep running. The sand smells bad, the result of hundreds of smelly, bare feet leaping into it for a game of sand volleyball, but you don’t give it much mind. Still you trudge your way through, remembering your own night of sand volleyball here.

You were all shouting and laughing. You teased each other over ridiculous plays, because none of you knew how to hit the ball, let alone serve it. The sand added an extra level of entertainment, and once you got bored of attempting to play volleyball, you settled around with the others at the edge of the rink, burying your feet in sand up to your knees. You listened, but their words drifted away, and your only thought was for the cold encapsulation of the sand around your legs.

But that was then.

And this is now.

It’s a quarter past midnight, and ten minutes ago you were laughing, shouting, and singing along to the roaring music at the top of your lungs. It was a beautiful night to be alive, and you were loving it for all it was worth. An uncontrollable urge to be outside had pulled you out into the November night, clad only in a T-shirt, rolled jeans, and a golden bracelet you got for graduation. 2020 sparkles clearly on it when you touch it, but you pull it closer to your chest, not wanting to accidentally lose it somewhere in the sand.

Like always, you’re running alone. It’s easier this way, you tell yourself. You never have to worry about someone else telling you what to do or what to say. There is no responsibility or commitment except to yourself. Distracted, you slip in the sand and fall, hard to the ground.

It is then that the frustrations, the pain, the anger, the anxiety, and all the other emotional trauma finally catches up to you. You lay where you fell and stare at the full moon above you, crying. Why do the tears always come so easily? You ask yourself. Crying solves nothing, so bitterly, you force them away.

You stand up, like you always do, and you keep walking.

Around and around the court you take laps, circling back over and over again, unwilling to stop walking, because when you do, everything catches up to you.

“Ash!” someone calls, interrupting your disjointed trudging. You turn, squinting in the dark. Surprisingly, there are two girls, one of whom swore never to talk to you again. “Are you okay?” she calls.

You hesitate, not knowing what to answer, and your voice breaks as you call back your reassuring “I’m fine!” Yet in that moment, you know beyond a doubt that you are not fine. You are not okay. You’ve never felt so hopelessly helpless.

The girls express their doubts, but it’s lost on you as you plummet into a hole of self-defeating darkness. You search for a rope, but you can’t find one…

“At least get a coat or something,” the other girl says.

You suddenly shiver in realization but laugh shakily. “I’m fine,” you repeat. “It’s like seventy-something, right?”

The others shake their heads. “It’s thirty, Ash.”

“Oh,” you reply. It didn’t feel that cold, but suddenly their bundled coats make more sense. “I’ll go inside soon,” you lie, attempting to placate them.

“Okay,” she trails off, and the two of them walk away as you thank them. You stand there a few moments longer, wondering if the entire conversation had been imagined. You wonder if you had only seen her standing there because that’s who you wanted to see.

You turn the music back on, and then you’re running again, slamming your feet into the sand again and again, feeling the friction burn your heels. You’ve done nothing but lose everything.

“Take me to a different place/Where love is not illusion based/And fear is just a word they can define.”

The music soars around you, and you are running faster and faster, tears streaming down your cheeks, until you suddenly stop and slam your fist against the padded pole. It feels good, so you do it again, before sinking into the cold, wet sand.

Who am I? you ask yourself.

And you realize that that is your largest problem. You have forgotten who you are. You’ve forgotten what and who you love. You have forgotten where you came from and where you are going. You’ve sacrificed yourself for people who didn’t care enough to sacrifice themselves for you.

You’ve become a people pleaser, trying to make everyone in your life happy except yourself. You wrestle with that a moment, but discover that your biggest problem is that you are only happy when you are making others happy. However, you’ve done nothing but cause hurt and pain and suffering to everyone you love.

“You’re a terrible person,” you scream to yourself. You can never be good enough.

The thoughts start to swirl around again, and you realize that for all you have done and no matter how hard you have worked to get here, you’re on equal footing with people who didn’t work half as hard but are a million times richer than you. Your best friend owns a forest and a mountain, for crying out loud.

And then it hits you.

None of these people can be called your best friend. They will all find someone better, moving on, and even the closest among them will betray you if they think it to be in their own self-interest.

The package you’re wrapping for her birthday, including the object you’d had specially made for her back in August…the object that you had brought all the way to college with the intention of mailing in time for her birthday…

You realize that this must have sparked this sudden need to get away. To be outside. To run and run and run and scream for all you’ve lost.

You lie there a moment in the sand contemplating this, then you stand up and leave the court, still barefoot. You walk across campus, and when you check your phone, it’s 1 am, and you have 10% remaining. But it’s too cold for people to be loitering, so you feel safe enough by yourself.

You walk to the center of the commons and stare at the sky, where the full moon is making its nightly trek across the universe. In the distance you think you spy Orion’s belt, and it brings back countless memories of your home back in the rural city.

It reminds you of the World Between Worlds and its fallen Empress. You haven’t seen her in weeks.

Why do you care so much for something imaginary? you ask yourself. 

Because it’s all you have, you reply.

Your heart squeezes, and you close your eyes tightly before picking up your shoes and heading back to your dorm.