Trapped in a cell of my own making.

Day indistinguishable from night,

Dirt floor and stone walls surrounded.

Torches exposed a hopeless existence.

“You create your own freedom.” Truth revealed.

“How?”

“Through the water.”

A reservoir appeared.

Time passed, duration undetermined.

“Your life waits for you.” Truth urged.

Trembling hands gripped a rocky ledge.

Body submerged. Nose held. Head dunked.

An informal baptism.

A tunnel presented.

I resurfaced, wanting guarantees.

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

Terrified, I climb out,

And retreat to the safety of my cell.

Descendant's dolor dwarfed during death. Distant daughter deposed during dedication. Dutiful, despondent delegate

discouraged darning documents,

declaring damage dateless.

Doubtful deputy defended doer, deducing debilitation.

Due defied deliberately.

Defective discernment dismays dissenters. Doctrines dictate decent dockets, demanding detailed dynasty. Disheartening dichotomy dejected drawing determined deponent.

Wandering Larvae

Crawling Underneath

Watching Your Tracks,

My Suffering Continues.

Puss Drains as I Attempt Self Removal.

I Still Crave a Return

To Where You Found Me.

Her fears were groundless. She saw the same people every morning; the Chinese lady who walked with tiny steps and perfect posture, the jogger who wore a light strapped to her head, and the woman who walked four dogs ranging in size from a dachshund to a German Shepherd. Neighborhood life before sunrise had a specific, predictable, and safe rhythm.

“As long as you’ve got Scout, nobody’s gonna mess with you,” her husband reassured. Scout, a golden retriever mix, was a gentle giant at 105 pounds, and fiercely protective of her. Still, she worried whenever a car drove by slow or lingered at a stop sign. Most people on the road at 4:30 am drove with purpose. They were not out for a joyride.

A street light was out on part of their walk path. Every day, she convinced herself they’d be safe if she made it past the burnt out light. As they approached the darkness this morning, a car turned down her street with bright lights, blinding her view of the sidewalk. She took her cue from Scout. If he was OK, she was OK. The car pulled into the gutter, slowed to a roll, and stopped.

She stopped too, deciding her next move. Scout gave no indication of danger, but intuition told her to stay away from this car. “C’mon Scout, let’s head home.”

Clicks of car door latches cut through early morning silence. She quickened her pace refusing to look back. A loud pop filled the air, followed by a heavy tug on Scout’s leash, then no movement. A pillowcase was pulled over her head before she could see him lying on the ground.

“Like I told you. Always shoot the dog first,” were the last words she heard.

She picked her coat off the ground to tie around her waist. Four hairy knuckles peeked through dead winter grass, unearthing a shallow grave. Fingers trembling, she dialed 911, fighting instinct to run.

Coincidence turned to accusation, leading to trial and death sentence. She wanted to appeal, but family advised against it. She should take punishment without complaint, like a good girl.

Her mother, shamed and embarrassed, still agreed to prepare her favorite supper. A squeaky wheeled cart brought the last food she’d ever eat. Her mother refused to enter her cell.

The cover lifted off a silver tray revealed steaming lasagna. “Mom, this isn’t my favorite meal, it’s Diane’s.”

“This took a lot of work. Quit bitching and eat it.”

She always listened when told to be quiet. Why stop now? She unfolded her napkin, lifted the fork, and took the first bite of her last meal.

She covered her tracks, kept her distance, and disguised herself, certain he never noticed her following him to work, the gym, on dates, or to strip clubs. She had no idea when he found out.

She’d been in love before, but they never loved her back. He wouldn’t understand she only did what was necessary.

She sat tied to a chair, awestruck at his deception. The rope was entwined around her and the entire room.

“How many times have you been in my home?” she asked.

“How many times have you been in mine?” he replied.

“What is your plan?”

“I’m weaving this rope so if you try to escape, the tension will trigger this rifle to fire. Then you’ll be joining your friends in the trunks in the attic.”

Her heart swelled at the realization she had met her equal. Shame it would be ending, but even she thought this a fitting end for her.

They landed in Switzerland for their honeymoon. He was promised to a bitter hag at his mother’s urging, but had loved this woman all his life. A tragic accident made their love possible.

“This place is like a fairytale,” she said. She pulled him close, pressing her lips to his. His former fiancé’s perfume wafted through the room. “Do you smell that?”

“The bouquet at the nightstand?”

“That must be it. A little strong, don’t you think?”

“We can put it outside.”

“No. It’ll be too cold. Don’t want to ruin it.”

She undressed. He wrapped his arms around her naked body. She buried her face in his chest, wincing as perfume flooded her nostrils. “Why does he smell like her?”

Not accepting an outside influence present, she continued kissing her groom, tasting him, inhaling him, certain once he entered her, their union would banish the scent.

“Oh god. It’s too intense,” she said.

“I know. You’re incredible.”

“You don’t under… The pain. I can’t….”

“What? What’s happening?”

The coroner said it was likely an aneurism, but wouldn’t know without an autopsy.

Exhaustion gave way to sleep after everyone left. His old betrothed visited his dreams. “I’m sorry you had to find out like this,” she said. Flashes filled the widower’s mind. A severed rope. A crumpled body. His new bride luring a groomsman into the coat closet.

“I tried to tell you, but you refused to hear me.”

He knew he was in love the moment he saw her bashing in the windows of, what he assumed to be, her ex-boyfriend’s car. She was beautiful, even from across the parking lot. She screamed something he couldn’t make out. Instinct told him she was justified.

The boyfriend waved his hands, begging her to stop. She ran toward him, baseball bat in hand. Metal reverberated off the pavement upon throwing her chosen weapon on the ground. She stood tall, chest heaving, watching the man run away.

She paid no attention as he approached. Her appearance came more into focus; the curve of her hips, the definition of her shoulders. He pictured them laughing and playing on a beach surrounded by children building sandcastles. His pace hastened.

No one believes

This is the one.

This last call costs my license,

This bet diminishes my son’s college fund,

This piece of cake induces diabetes,

This line causes a heart attack,

Or we won’t wake from this injection.

We know

We should stop,

For ourselves, for those we love,

For those foolish enough to love us.

And we want to.

But, just one more,

And tomorrow, we’ll be good.