La Poseurs discussion

Here we'll post the finalist entries.

EJ:

Smitten Bitten

The day had started like any other.
Lily and Henry were walkin' along the street, shovel and hoe in hand; the caked on dirt had dried in the swelterin' sun. Pieces chipped off when the metal nicked the ground from hands too tired to lift them up higher, showerin' the sidewalk with pieces and bits of earth. The handles were worn down with use.
How many times was somethin' buried by them?

Accordin' to Lily, she had lost count a few months ago (must've been around 12 or sometin').

It had all started last year though. The infection had run rampant through the streets - highly contagious, very deadly sort of thing. This wasn't some run-of-the-mill cold or een-fluenza either, neither did those who died stay dead half the time. Every once in a while, they came back... usually hungry for sometin' they couldn't get. We found that out the hard way with Jill and Henry's best friends Jack and Jill. Poor sons of bitches didn't see the old man behind them until it was too late. Well, Jack got bit 'round the crown area, and Jill wouldn't leave his side - even after he turned - and they tumbled into the infected land together. 'Til death do us part got a whole new meanin'.

Sometin' else fell off the tips of the tools they carried. Whiter and harder with more substance than dirt. It had some sticky gunk still stuck to it from some poor bastard's skull. Both of them had it so there must've been two of 'em to take care of. Since they were walkin' alone, I'll have to assume it was their only livin' friends: a couple that they didn't even know the first name of: the Smiths.

The Smiths were relatively nice and quiet folk who kept their noses out of other's business. They ambled around in the shadows and rank of some earthy substance we couldn't ever identify. Maybe pot or hash. Maybe it was just indoor fauna. Didn't matter anymore since they got bit.

Henry must've told a joke to Lily about somethin' because she is laughin' up a storm right now. It's nice to see them still able to laugh and smile amidst all the chaos and destruction around them. The bodies that pop up along the streets, just lyin' there in the summer heat. They must be dead because if they were undead, they'd already be reachin' and clawin' for the couple as they walked hand-in-hand. So sweet.

Sometin' cloyin' was at the back of my throat then, chokin' me up. I thought it might be sometin' I had eaten or maybe it was the sight of love in a god-forsaken city that caused it. I hacked up somethin' and spat it in my yard. That was definitely not a piece of love.

You're probably wonderin' who I am and why I'm watchin' these here folks amble up the street after they buried a different couple in a yard or junkyard or sometin'.

Well, I'll let all you in on a little secret. I'm plain-old bored nowadays. My wife is inside lyin' in bed, just waitin' for this all to be over. I'm sittin' on a porch, gun in hand, waitin' for sometin' to come along and try to uproot me. Haven't seen an infected walk by in days; must be a shortage of them or maybe a mob or battalion is readyin' themselves for battle to take us down.

I really don't give a shit. As long as my wife is alive, I'll stay here and protect her. I love her. So much.

Now I know what you must be thinkin'. If yah love her so much, why are you outside? Well, that's because I'm protectin' her, you dumb son of a bitch! I don't want no one goin' near her!

I remember when I first met her. Saturday night at the Moose Paddy down the street. She was sittin' at a bachelorette party because Charlene had gotten herself married to some ranger or other. Well, she wasn't really sittin' there, she was their server. New gal at the place. I was sittin' in the corner, nursin' me a beer when she came up and reminded me of the special.
If you're sad, you drink free.
Charlene and I were plannin' on gettin' married a while ago, but she broke it off. I got another free round. She came down and sat by me, and we really hit it off. We talked of roses and hogs and farmwork. A few months later, we got hitched and moved in here. Never a single fight between us, bless her soul.

I hear her movin' around upstairs now in her bed and sigh. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I open the screen door and walk inside, takin' stock of the place. Peeling wall paper and old knick knacks and furniture. A picture of her forty years younger; our marriage photo thirty years ago. All neat, all tidy. I had just finished dusting them this morning. I went on up the stairs, gun still in hand, and opened the door.

There she was in all her sixty-year-old majesty. My love of my life, her eyelids twitchin' her hands movin' restlessly. I sigh again as I watch her. So beautiful.

The bite on her left hand is visible in the sunlight puncturin' the window drapes. It was shallow and we thought she'd be fine, but then the blood trickled out and we knew it was over. She was pickin' roses when it happened. She loved those roses.

I walk up to her twitchin' body and lightly kiss her on her forehead like I used to do to wake her up, but instead of openin' her eyes, she just lay all still like. I lay down in bed next to her, my cheek against hers. I line up the gun with her temple to get a straight-through-and-through shot and squeeze the trigger.

We lie there peacefully, the sun slanting the window, un-moving and beautiful. The laughs trickle in from Lily, and then all is quiet as the dead rest.

Defying Gravity:


The Colours Are All Wrong

“I tried to paint you a picture, but the colors were all wrong...” - All We Are; OneRepublic


Seven hours.

He cleans the house thoroughly, getting every little nook and cranny. Dusting, vacuuming, sweeping, washing. He even straightens out the furniture and polishes it. He knows how she likes it; perfect and wonderful and just beautiful in the particular, organized world that is her mind. And he will do anything in his power to make the world beautiful in her eyes. Somehow she always sees the beauty in herself, but not that of the world and life around her.

It is one of the things he loves the most about her.

He pauses, lingering over the shattered vase that he still hasn’t cleaned up. He probably should. But oh, it is one of her favorite vases, is it not? What would she say to it being thrown away? It was practically a family heirloom. He bites his lip, the decision agonizing. After a moment he sweeps it all up but instead of throwing it away, he deposit it in the little mirrored box perched on their fireplace mantle. There, he thinks, satisfied with himself. He needs not worry.

They had warned him, several times over. “That girl is no good” - “Find someone better” - “There are so many women in the world and you picked her?” - “I’m sure there is someone who is a better fit.” But he hadn’t cared - still doesn’t care. No, he doesn’t need them. They do not understand their love, their wonderful, unfathomable love. No one can tell her that she is beautiful quite like he can. No one can make him feel special like she can. That’s what love and marriage is, isn’t it? - A partnership. And that is what they have. A partnership for life.

He smiles, just thinking about it.

Six hours.

He pulls out all the canvases that he had bought, laying them all out before him. Their pure beauty, undamaged, unbroken, uncoloured - without life, he tells himself. Without its colours, a canvas has not yet lived. And really, who is he to deny the poor canvas a simple pleasure such as merely living?

And so he takes brush to paint, brush to canvas. He works now, putting all of his artistic efforts into this. It has to be beautiful, as beautiful as her. No, almost as beautiful as her. Nothing in the world is as beautiful as her.

But he can try. Try to make something that she will love; something that she will almost rival her beauty - not quite; nothing can rival her indescribable, abounding beauty.

Five hours.

Still, he paints. Still, he loves. Still, he tries to recreate the beauty of the world - his world, his love. It does not seem to work. But he will try. He will always try for his love. She is his world and it is the least he could do to make her world - her perfect little black-and-white world - as beautiful as it could be.

He owes it to her, really - she makes his world beautiful.

He is simply repaying her for this.

Four hours.

He frowns at his work. It is not beautiful. It is not perfect. It is not her. It is ugly, horrible, terrible, she’s going to hate it, and all that he can think to possibly do is scream, a scream full of pain and ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I tried’ and loss and sorrow and why can’t he just do something right for once?

He’s never done anything right. He dropped out of law school, he loved her, he married her - he does not regret it, not for a moment. A world of beauty is infinitely better than one of ‘What If?’

He remembers the words, though. Over the telephone, of all things. They couldn’t have even bothered to see me again. He had always known that they disapproved of her, and really he kind of expected them to turn down the wedding invitation but really, really, he didn’t expect to be disowned.

It’s okay, though; he has what he wants, what he loves, what he needs.

Three hours.

He sits in front of the piano, playing the keys over and over and over again in exact repetition, not missing a single note. He would not dare to; he knows that this is her favorite song and he knows that it will be worth it, too. Worth it to see her smile and feel her kiss upon his lips and just her, because to him, everything about her is wonderful and perfect.

She’s going to love it playing for him, he just knows it. It’s wonderful; she is going to be so happy when she sees all of it - the clean house, even the paintings with all the wrong beauty, and him at the piano. She’s going to love it, he knows.

It’s like the very first time all over again and she will love it. After all, she loves him almost - not quite - as much as he loves her, now, doesn’t she?

Two hours.

It is now that he ends up running to the twenty-four-hours-a-day market down the street from their dinky little home to buy the flowers - he wanted them to be fresh, because it was when the flowers were fresh that they were the most beautiful, and he only wanted the most beautiful for her.

They are lilies, her favorite flower - pink and white and almost as lovely as the tinkling sound that is her laugh, almost as lovely as the stars that shine in her eyes when she smiles, almost as lovely as the being that she is.

They are her favorite. She is going to love it, he knows.

One hour.

Before he leaves, he returns to their room. He adjusts things, making the bed with hospital corners like she showed him how and with the pillows all poufed like how she likes it. He pauses by her side of the bed, the right side, because she is always right, and he inhales deeply, inhaling her smell that still lingers.

He reaches for the bottle looking so radiant on her vanity table, and sprays it about the room. There, he thinks. Now it all smells like her, and that is good. He places the little crystal bottle where he found it.

He gets in the car, starting to make the drive. He smiles, they’re going to see each other. He’s going to see her.

Time’s up.

He closes the car door behind him, bouquet of lilies in his hand. When he reaches her spot, their spot, he pauses.

“It’s a lovely day,” he tells her, before giving her the flowers.

“I wish that the park wasn’t our meeting spot, but here we are,” he says.

“I cleaned up the vase,” he tells her, “but it’s okay. I saved all the shards. I know how much it means to you.”

“I cleaned the entire house, too!” he says, excitement showing in his voice. “I know how much you love it when it’s clean, so I cleaned it.”

He pauses.

“I practiced my - your - our song. For hours, I even practiced an hour today. Just for you. I love you,” he tells her, sincerity flooding from the last three words.

“I - Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says, cutting himself off.

“I love you, you know,” he tells her, hoping the words will sink in. “I would paint the world, make it beautiful for you if you wanted it. I would give you everything.”

There is a long, long silence.

“I love you,” he says one last time, before turning away from the gravestone and walking back to his car, not caring if anyone hears his loud, broken sobs as he walks away from his world, his world that is now gone.

Before he gets in his car, he looks expectantly up at the sky, like her face will appear in the heavens at any moment. This is ridiculous, he tells himself. She never believed in God. He doesn’t either. But he believes in them, and really, he tells himself, that is enough.

Angel:

The Damned

I watch her come out of the bathroom, my sweater covers her body like a blanket that stops at the beginning of her thighs, but the sleeves go past her fingertips. I almost choke on air.

Her long dirty blonde hair travels down past her shoulders, resting on the dark blue fabric, she climbs into bed with me, I catch my scent on hers. Her green-blue eyes look up at me, her skin is so tan I might get burnt just by touching her.

She wraps her arms around my chest, pulling me close. Her light pink heart lips brush my cheek. It snakes its way up to my ear. "Good morning, Nathan." Her voice is tender, sexy. I drown into her. I turn our faces are so close that I could kiss her if I just pushed my lips outward, our foreheads touching. "Good morning." I hum, kissing her teasingly.

When I pull away she is staring into my eyes as if she doesn't know who I am. "I never did get your name." I say softly in the same hum I had just used. "Clara," She whispers, pushing against me I grow weary and we rest for the shortest of time.

We cuddle close, for hours to come. From time to time I just stare at her beauty, every now and then she lets me caress her cheek. "You're so beautiful." I finally say, my blue eyes looking up at hers. She blushes but only for a mere second, her hand lifts and I can feel it in my hair, "I love jet black hair, so much." She says dreamily.

Before I can say anymore more she tugs. "I think I love it a little too much." Her voice has suddenly changed, she sits upright with a jolt, her legs crossed together. Her hand still stuck in my hair pulls me up. I think maybe she's joking when she uses her other hand to touch my cheek. "And those blue eyes." She smiles, in almost a sympathetic way. "It's too bad they have to go." She smiles mischievously and my stomach fills with rocks. She pulls as hard as she can and a fistful of hair is before me. "You know Nathan," Her voice is so different. "My name isn't really Clara." She laughs lightly, as if she's heard a funny joke. She pulls the hair close to her chest, looking down at it.

I want to leave.

It starts with the eyes, she had grown tired of the handful of hair, pushing me down she sits on top of me, her waist on mine. She is holding scissors. "I have always wanted to do this, I'm glad you talked to me at the bar or I would never be here." She talks like I care. She opens the scissors and closes them twice, staring at the silver in her hand. "Ready?" She says her eyes lit with amusement. "No-" I croak, she doesn't talk again for a long time.

I can't see.

"Do you know of Poe? Edgar?" I can hear her somehow. I feel a tug at my shirt, it rips with a screech and something cold brushes my chest. "What's going on?" As I speak I taste the blood from my eyes in my mouth. "I'm murdering you Nathan." She sounds bitter, but there is joy in the voice as well.

The screams didn't last long, the blood from my eye sockets drowned them out. She cuts back and forth as if she is making art, I can hear a fidget, she is playing music now.

I can't feel.

She is at my face again. "Clara?" She stabs my nose, and I scream out in pain, I begin to choke on my own blood. "I told you my name isn't Clara!" She pulls the knife out of my nose with a tug and begins to trace the cold knife along my cheek, I can feel her carving something into my cheeks. I scream again.

I can't talk.

She is silent and the pain is no more, I think of moving but I stop myself, I try to speak but it comes out as a moan. I can't speak, I can't talk, I'm better off dead. I tell myself.

"Now, now Nathan. Don't you worry, the best part comes very soon." She says and I can feel weight on my chest again. "This is the funnest, trust me." She doesn't laugh this time, nor giggle. But I can tell she's happy.

"I'm surprised you didn't figure it out, Nathan." She lets out a laugh-filled breath. "They call me the one who matches two together, that I create love." She spits out the words, at the end she adds a hysteric laugh. "So naive." I feel the worst pain in my chest and my body lurches forward. Everything I know fades, and my body goes limp. I am dead.

"My name is Cupid."

Melanie:

(Untitled)


I am the man that makes you feel anxious when you see him in public. You avert your eyes from my greasy mulch hair and my long pale face. Your heart beats a little faster when you think that I'm following you. I am the man who drives a large van with blacked-out windows and a busted left headlight. You wouldn't be surprised if you saw my picture pop up on your television while the beautiful woman on the screen is informing you on a bank robbery or a cocaine ring. I am that man who scares people. I hate myself.

I hate my body and my clothing. I hate my job, I hate the city. I don't understand their expectations of what is normal. I feel like a gangly teenager; I do not feel like I belong. There's really only one thing that I do not hate.

The alarm's shrill sound scraped across my brain. I raised a lethargic hand to silence the goddamn thing that so harshly tore me out of the soothing emptiness that was my dreams. The sound did not cease with one tap of the button. I grabbed the clock, tearing the cord from the plug. I slammed it against the wall with a furious scream. The goddamn clock crumbled to pieces of wire and bits of broken plastic in my hand. I hate that clock.

I cleaned up the shards of alarm clock that had sprayed over the room like shrapnel. I made my bed with precision, as always, but just as I was placing the final pillow, my doorbell screamed, followed by an angry knock on the door that shook everything in my apartment. I positioned the pillow with care, then walked to the door and stared through the peephole. My Indian neighbor's warped face was snarling at the door. I turned the doorknob carefully, opened the door slowly. My Indian neighbor was a whirlwind of emotion. My Indian neighbor grabbed my shirt collar and pulled me to his face. My Indian neighbor smelled like curry, even this early in the morning.

"Every morning!" my Indian neighbor yelled. "What the hell do you do EVERY MORNING against that wall!" my Indian neighbor said, pointing in the direction of his room. "Your screaming and slamming on the wall wakes my family up every day! This needs to stop!" My Indian neighbor cursed in his native tongue. "So, what do you do that is so noisy?"

I blinked, my face centimeters from his. "I… tripped." I did not make eye contact. My Indian neighbor released my shirt collar by shoving back into my apartment. "You will not trip tomorrow, boy." My Indian neighbor stomped away, the fat in his midsection jiggling. I hate my Indian neighbor.

I paused for a moment, shut the door, and continued to get ready for work. I ate three eggs and a toaster waffle. As I waited for my coffee to brew, I watched television. The newslady was reporting a spike in arson cases in the past few weeks. She informed the public that the police have not caught the man or woman who has been setting public buildings on fire in the dead of night. I clicked the television off. I hate the newslady.

I changed my clothes and brushed my teeth. I slipped on my old leather jacket. It smelled like her. I wanted to throw the jacket away, as it was dirty and distentigrating, but I couldn't, because it smelled like her. I left my apartment for work.

The mail room is a shiny dungeon of flying envelopes and shouting men. I quickly collected a stack of mail and dumped it into my cart. I punched the buttons on the elevator and the doors swished open. I circled throughout the entire office building, not looking at the people as I tossed their mail on the desk. One of the heavier envelopes tipped over a man's thermos of coffee. He yelled at me, but I didn't listen. As soon as I was done with this, I could see her. I hate work.

I pushed my squeaky cart back down to the shiny dungeon. My boss took me by the elbow and dragged me into his office.

"Do you realize how many complaints I've gotten that have been centered around your behavior? Purposely hitting people with your cart, spilling coffee, not paying attention to people? Son, you cannot work here if you can't have a positive attitude." I stared at The Crack in the wall behind him. "You need to clean up your act, or get out." The Crack didn't move. "Are you listening to me?" The Crack. "Get out. You're fired. Clearly, you don't care about this job." I stood up, spun around and ran out of his office. I ran out of the mail room and up the emergency stairs that stretched to the attic of the office building. I hate my boss.

But. Finally. I could see her.

I pressed open the door to the attic. It surrendered to my weight with a creak. I shut it behind me. I struck a match. I smiled. There she was, her red hair swaying around her shoulders. "Hello," I whispered to her. I set the match down on a cardboard box. She stood up so slowly. "Dance for me. Please dance for me," I begged her, my smile too big for my face. She obeyed me. I love her.

I love her because I felt powerful enough to give her what she wanted when I was around her. She was greedy, yes, but I always gave her what she desired. She made me feel in control. I love her.

She danced for me with such grace. The dance started out as a slow ballet, but then quickly accelerated into a salty tango. I love the way she moved, how she could seem to be getting into a rhythm, then completely changed her motion, speed, or direction. Heat rose to my face as I watched her. Tears came to my eyes. "You are so beautiful." She seemed so happy.

She beckoned me to dance with her. The last time I danced with her, I got hurt, but I cannot deny her today. I touched her. The pain was excruciating, but she kept coming closer, so I let her. She was all around me. I wanted to scream, but I did not want her to think that I did not love her. She spread to the other carboard boxes. She spread to the walls. She burned the walls and the people in the offices below.

Oh, I loved her. She was the only thing that understood me. I don't mind that she killed me, because I know that at least she will go on forever. Happy Valentine's Day.

Kenzie:


My Sweetest Downfall

His hair was long when we first met.

Samson Oliver Riella. He was my first love. I can’t exactly explain it, but it worked out, better than it should have. He was loud and outspoken. I preferred to keep to myself. He liked to express himself through his paintings and sketches. I liked my own medium of musical notes, composed by piano and held together by my soft voice. The history books would forget about us, though. In most people’s eyes we were just average, insignificant.

I knew we weren’t, though.
~~~~~~

I looked up in the mirror as I finished cutting his dark brown hair, and I found his eyes (the same beautiful shade as his hair) watching me carefully. I smiled at him as I put the scissors down and he turned around, running his fingers through his soft, but thinning locks.

“You did pretty good, Lark,” he said quietly, his smile evident in the way he said it, his soft accent weaving its way through the words.

“I’m glad you like it, Sam,” I smiled back at him, then kissed his cheek as I took his hands to pull him up to his feet. “Would you like something quick to eat before we go?”

Samson’s eyes didn’t leave my face as he nodded, until he looked through the bathroom door into our bedroom. “Nothing too much, babe, I’ll just have a quick rest.” And with that he kissed my forehead before walking into our room, lying down on his back then resting his forearm against his own forehead.

I kept my smile for him as I walked out of our bathroom, through our small apartment to the tidy kitchen. I pulled the loaf of Wonder Bread out of the bread box and then went to the cupboard, pulling out his Nutella, and a knife, then I tried to spread the hazelnut condiment as smoothly as I could. I debated whether or not I should set the knife in the sink, but I set it on the rim of the jar so he could lick it later, then I turned to the refrigerator to pull an apple out for myself. I went to get the corer out of the drawer when I suddenly felt a pair of strong, warm hands over my eyes.

“Your hair is red,” he said, then kissed the back of my neck.

“I smiled, then took Sam’s ands off of my eyes, surprised when he reached down to my waist, turning me toward him then picking me up and setting me on the counter.

“And you’re beautiful,” he breathed, leaning toward me, his lips slightly parted.

“Compared to a potato,” I joked before our lips touched, referring to when we first met each other.

It was at the art gallery, and I had heard about an exhibit featuring repurposed musical instruments. I had found it, looking at each component curiously, and I didn’t even realize that he had come up from behind me.
“It makes me think of Ireland,” he had said, pointing to some strange shape near the base of the sculpture, which looked like a potato. “Because of the potatoes, yeah?”

“And potatoes are solely Irish?” I turned toward him, raising an eyebrow.

I guess he had recognised my accent as being from the Emerald Isle, and he smiled. “No, but it seems to be only of the only things history books remember. They certainly picked something important to include in that Irish section,” he continued, then his grin grew wider. “But they certainly forgot the most beautiful thing from the land of the leprechauns.”

I didn’t realise what he meant, or even register that he was attempting to flirt with me.

“Well, she’s standing next to me,” he leaned over and whispered, then he laughed quietly when I blushed, my face matching my hair.

“Larkin Clodagh,” I bit my lip, looking away. “Larkin Anais Clodagh.”

“Samson Riella,” he smiled as he ran a hand through his long, dark brown hair.

He pulled away from the gentle kiss, looking into my eyes for a moment before smiling. “For the record, I like you much better than I like potatoes.” He kissed my nose before taking his Nutella’d Wonder Bread and taking a bite. “I’ll be ready to go in five minutes.”

I nodded, crossing my legs and picking up the apple, not bothering to core it as I took a bite. “I’ll drive.”

He looked back at me and bit his lip, but nodded as he went back into our room. I don’t know why. To change into some nicer clothes? Where we were going, it didn’t really matter what he was wearing.

I turned on the radio as I finished the apple, trying to pick out the song by the tune, then I nodded to myself. Kiss Me by Ed Sheeran. It was a beautiful song, and Ed has hair the same colour as mine. I have to like him, right?

I heard Samson in the bathroom as the verse came on, “Settle down with me/And I'll be your/safety/You'll be my lady/I was made to keep your body warm/But I'm cold as the wind blows so hold me in your arms.”

I bit my lip, feeling a pang in my heart, then switched the station to VFX, the pop/hip hop station, then I turned it off quietly as he came back in.

“Ready?” He’s smiling, his brown eyes sparkling as he takes the keys off of the hanger by the door, tossing them to me lightly.

I nodded, then slid off of the counter, kissing his cheek as I slipped my shoes on and opened the door, walking out into the hallway, smiling for him.

We got in the car, and I quickly started it, turning the radio on, grateful Kiss Me wasn’t on still. Instead it was Coldplay’s Strawberry Swing, and I turned to Samson with a smile as I buckled. It was one of our favourite songs.
“Ah, now the sky could be blue, I don't mind/Without you it's a waste of time/Could be blue, I don't mind/Without you it's a waste of time,” we both sang, then I giggled as I backed out of the car port, and he took my hand as soon as we were on the main road.

“The sky could be blue, could be gray/Without you I just slide away/The sky could be blue, I don't mind/Without you it's a waste of time.”

Samson grinned and leaned his head back against the headrest of the seat, looking out the window as the commercials on the radio played. “Larkin, everything’s going to be okay, right?”

I nodded quietly as Florence + The Machine’s Lover To Lover started to play, and I turned the music down in case he wanted to talk some more.

Samson ran a hand through his hair again, readjusting how it fell across his forehead, then he looked back at me, rubbing his thumb over the back of my hand. “You’re doing alright, aren’t you?”

I nodded, glancing at him before I looked back at the road. “I’m doing fine.” I shrugged, then slowed down at a yellow light, stopping when it went red. “What about you?”

Samson looked back out the window, then shrugged as we went again.

We really didn’t have to drive, we only lived a few blocks away, but it was cold outside, and it was snowing, so we weren’t going to. I pulled into the parking lot and got out of the car. When Samson didn’t get out, I went around to his side and opened the door for him, holding my hand out for him.

“There’s my stubborn Irish girl,” he chuckled as he took my hand, stepping out of the car, and we both walked inside where we were directed down the hallway into an office, where we waited for a few more minutes, in nervous silence. I sat down next to him, squeezing his hand as comfortingly as I thought I could be, then kissed his cheek as the door opened.

Samson stood when the man walked inside the room, introducing himself as Doctor Malachy, another Irish immigrant himself. He pulled out his clipboard and motioned for Sam to sit, looking at me and greeting me quickly before searching through his papers. “Mr. Riella?”

Sam nodded, sitting tense and straight, not the way he usually was, then he ran a hand through his hair.

Doctor Malachy sighed and took off his glasses, sitting in his chair and rolling it over to the two of us. “Hodgkin’s Disease.” He sighed. “We’re going to need to do another CBC just to check on those cells, okay?” He rolled back to his desk, getting a pair of gloves and a syringe, watching as I helped Sam to roll his sleeve up past his elbow.

I watched as Malachy prepared the area, then took out a small amount of blood, covering the insertion with a cotton ball before he went over to the hematocrit. We watched it spin around and I leaned my head on Sam’s shoulder, closing my eyes for a small moment, then sat up straighter when the doctor turned back around, stating that he had to go visit the lab tech for a few minutes.

Those few minutes were torture.

I don’t remember what happened, but I do remember Sam carrying me out of the office, tears streaming down my face.
~~~~~~~~

It was spring now. I remember it, because we had gone on a picnic to the park. I liked Sam’s hat, and I remember telling him that he should have got one for me, too.

He wouldn’t let me buzz all of my hair off, he said that my hair was too pretty for me to be bald. I told him tough. We came to a compromise, and I cut almost all of it off, but I donated it to Locks of Love for other cancer survivors.

We were under the shade of the big oak tree, and he ran his fingers through my short hair as we kissed gently. I remember how his beanie felt under my fingers.

I had fallen asleep in his lap, though. I trusted that he would watch over me and protect me should any monsters come to eat me.

I remember my fingers felt different when I woke up. I rubbed at my eyes as I woke up slowly, feeling something sharp poke the soft skin of my face, and I opened my eyes to see a glimmering diamond ring sitting on my finger. My jaw dropped and I looked over at Sam, who had a proud grin on his face.

He said it was because I stuck with him, I didn’t leave when I had the chance. I wasn’t going to leave him anyway, I told him. I would never leave him, my sweetest downfall.