"He's so creepy."

My boyfriend taps the glass. I swat his hand away and give him a stern look.

"He is not," I chastise, reaching for the chopsticks by my bedside. "You just can't get over your Neanderthal impulses."

Phil, the tarantula, sits in his cage staring up with wide eyes.

I smile at him, and imagine him smiling back. What a curse, to have an animal so adorable and fuzzy-looking that I know I can never pet. He turns his body the slightest bit.

"We had 'em for a reason."

I roll my eyes, grabbing the crickets from the top shelf. One of their legs sticks through the hole of the strawberry container. I push it back inside.

"I just don't understand," he begins. "It's not a dog or a cat. It doesn't purr or sneeze or bark or stretch. It looks at you because it doesn't have eyelids. It doesn't even talk."

"Does it have to?" I reply, rather harshly.

My boyfriend sighs.

"I'm not trying to fight, I just—" he pinches the bridge of his nose. "How could you love something that doesn't love you back?"

I want to fight back, retort with some witty quip or long convoluted speech. I don't, though, because truthfully I can't answer it myself.

The lady at the thai place forgot my chopsticks.

I rationalize to myself.

You already have a salad that needs a fork, all it would be is a waste. I look at the bag inside the bag, and the irony makes me chuckle.

The biracial cliché is so overplayed, I think, with the fork between my fingers.

...

My flat face used to make me feel ugly, when it filled out my cheeks and softened my jaw. But now it just made me upset. How could she not know? Are hooded eyes that hard to see behind my thick rimmed glasses?

"Can I get a chicken katsu?" I asked her.

"Chicken katsu?" She corrected subtly, second hand embarrassment thick in her voice. I cringe. Keenly aware of my patrilineality.

...

"That's ones wrong," my mom tells me. "All of them are."

My toddler-esque hangul mocks me. 'Who do you think you are?' It taunts. I glare at the giyeok. It glares back. I'm mad at the letter G.

"You really ought to be more careful," I chastised, pulling the thread up.

Holding still was seemingly impossible for him. Whether tapping his fingers against his arm or stretching his neck, he was always moving in one way or another. Like he would freeze if he stayed still for too long. I couldn't fault him too much; he'd been laying there for what seemed like ages. Lacerations of various sizes littered his back, and deep bruising spanned from the small of his back to his upper left shoulder. His hair fell in lengthy reddish curls around his face.

"You should learn how to sew," he gritted through his teeth.

I rolled my eyes, even though I knew he couldn't see me. The urge to tug a bit harder on the thread came into my mind, but I quickly shook away the thought.

"You're lucky I found you out there at all," I lectured, hooking the needle under the skin of his shoulder blade. He took in a sharp breath. "You could've died, you know."

"The thought never crossed my mind."

I couldn't tell whether he was making some sort of macabre sarcasm about his near death experience, or whether he was being genuine.

"How much longer do I have to lay here?" He asked.

"I'm almost done. Be patient."

"Us higher beings aren't known for our patience."

I smiled. "At least you guys seem to have a sense of humor."

He laughed, softly. There was a sort of boyishness to him that felt endearing. I didn't know whether it was his delicate features or soft laugh, but the contrast between that and the fate he faced was tragically poetic.

"Not all of us," he said after some time. "Just me."

...

"Alright, I'm done." I sighed, trying to shake the numbness from my hand. It had taken me another half hour to finish the sutures, during which neither of us really said anything more. At a certain point I thought he'd fallen asleep, until he told me the elbow I'd been resting on him was digging into him.

"Took you long enough," he joked, sitting up and stretching his arms. I sat next to him awkwardly, fumbling with the hem of my shirt.

"Can I ask you something?" I finally said.

He didn't answer, simply looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite place. Kind, no doubt, but still perplexing.

"What... happened?"

He tensed, then met my eyes.

"I made a stupid choice. I tried to take down a kingdom all by myself. Tried to topple a deity. What a fucking joke." He laughed an exacerbated, pitiful laugh. "You should've heard it. The last thing Isaiah said to me, I—"

His voice wavered.

"What did he say...?" I asked hesitantly. He didn't answer, and I was afraid the eggshells I was walking on had finally broken. But then he spoke.

"How you have fallen from heaven, morning star," he regaled his name's meaning mockingly, "son of the dawn."

He took in a shaky breath.

"That's funny," I said under my breath, almost immediately regretting it. "S-sorry. It's not funny, just... That sounds like something someone told me once."

"Who?"

"My mother."

It was his turn to ask questions now.

"What did she say?"

"Pretty much the same thing," I took a breath in, "but without the courtesy of being called her son."

I sat there motionless, using whatever energy I had to stop myself from breaking down. Then he brought me into a tight embrace. I embraced him back, clinging to his torso. My hands traced the injures on his back, gliding across the sutures that had brought us to this moment. Then I cried. Then he cried. And we were two sinners, weeping on each others shoulders.

"Hate the sin, love the sinner."

The old woman with the curly bob gives a small smile. Her gaze doesn't meet mine, as she's sitting down, but regardless I meet it. There's warmth in her words, but all I see in her eyes is pity. She holds out a pocket bible outstretched in her hand.

The stand she's behind is typical of any small-city-festival-proselytization booth. A white fold-out table adorned with banners, booklets, and other religious literature. All of the important words— Hell, repentance, judgment, Leviticus —are bolded on the signage.

I think about what she must have thought in order to stop me specifically. How my height gives away my biology. The way my feminine shape must still peak through my boxers and cargo pants. The trans tape peaking out the side of my sleeveless tee. The boy I'm interlocking hands with.

I grab the bible with my free hand. Deep copper text on top of a dusty navy cover. I trace the words 'King James version' with my thumb. How could something I spent so many years escaping still look this beautiful? I grip the book out of frustration.

"But I am the sin," I tell her.

Her smile waivers, caught off guard, and she looks at me in confusion.

"The sin is fused into my skin, and threaded into my heart. The sin is graffiti scrawled on an overhead highway sign, with the words 'FAGGOT' and 'TRANNY.' Separating me from the sin is like splitting an atom from itself. Me and the sin are like the men i commit them with—"

She huffed, in her objection.

"—entangled despite the eyes."

One day closer to freedom, I think, wiping spaghetti stains off of a red-and-white tablecloth. The checkered print had been seared into my mind by the time 7 o'clock hits. Glasses clank and clatter as I load them onto the tray. I try (and fail) to grab a plate without getting butter on my hands.

Of all the days to be wearing rings.

I let out an annoyed sigh, and haul the tray to the back.

This isn't my job— I wipe a plate into the compost bin —I'm a host. I'm not a busser, I'm not a server. I sure as hell don't get paid like one. I pick the straws out of the cups. A plate shatters in the kitchen. I should quit.

I don't, though, instead I simply continue grabbing used napkins and utensils and keep my thoughts to myself. My coworker, one of the serving staff, passes by my left shoulder with a plate of chicken parmesan (I could smell it before I saw it). She turns to me before making it to her table, and asks me something:

"We're getting drinks after work, wanna come?"

My feet, calloused and blistered beyond belief scream to me. "Please, not a moment more of walking!" They beg; they know just as well as I do. I have to do this all over again the next day, and the next, and the next after that.

I know all of this to be true, and yet I still muster up a reply.

"Sure, when are you off?"

A screaming silence stood in the air.

The counting of an analog clock could be heard clearly throughout the small studio. The ticks were practically claps with how much silence they could move through. They imagined the inside of the clock. Gears scrapping against each other, springs and sprockets bouncing up and down. Intricate enough to fit inside a flat circle the size of a small cake.

They shifted a bit. A few joints let out a satisfying crack. Staying in the same position for so long began to show its effect, but they couldn't be bothered to do anything about it.

"You awake?" They asked the boy underneath them.

His body laid slack— one leg draped over the edge of the couch. His arm curled under their chest, holding them in place. He had to take noticeably larger breaths because of the dead weight. With every one he took his chest rose and fell, and they rose and fell with it. Their breathing was off-sync from one another; he began inhaling moments before they began exhaling.

"I am now," he replied.

"I can't exactly stay in the same position all night, you know."

"Sounds like an excuse to me."

They rolled their eyes.

"Fine, I'll get up if you want me to—" they propped themselves up to move, but he pulled them back down.

"Hey, hey, I didn't say that." He held them tighter against him.

"That's what I thought."

The same silence overtook the air again. Not awkward, just... present.

"I can hear your heartbeat," he whispered.

"Surprising, hm?"

"...What is?"

"That I have a heart."

Although her mind was not completely awake, she could still feel a presence looking over her... Authoritative and pestering.

She turned her head and saw an officer walk through the door. Everyone sat up, expressions of worry and interest sprinkled the room.

"Hello 2100 residents" he chirped, plastering a fake smile, "Just a friendly reminder that all citizens of Aeonia must take their mandated dormancy tablets, in order to assure a full healthy sleep."

His eyes glanced at the blank expressions around the room. He cleared his throat and continued. "Recently, we've noticed certain... individuals" he paused, glancing at Caesthoffe "Not working at their full potential during job time. To ensure complete productivity, an officer will now monitor residents before the nine o'clock lights out announcement, starting tonight."

Caesthoffe rolled her eyes, both at the new regulation, and his grating voice.

"So if you will please, pull out your medicine and take one now"

She swallowed. The officer seemed to notice her disdain and smirked, an incredibly punchable smirk at that.

"Is there a problem?" he asked.

"No officer," she replied flatly, "None at all."
She reached under her bed and opened her drawer. Everything was scattered sparsely, making it easy to find the pill bottle, especially with its blue lid and label contrasting the pure white of the walls. She looked up at the officer and noticed she was the only person he'd been eyeing the entire time. Her hands wrapped around the lid, popping it off rather easily. She shook it slightly, and two round white tablets fell into her hand (as apparently, {} was oblivious to any other color). Caesthoffe looked directly at the officer as she tilted her head back, and swallowed both of the pills, never breaking eye contact.

...

She removed the blanket off her body and sat up. A slight rush flew through her head, but she quickly shook it away. She slid off the edge of the bed and kneeled in front of her drawer. Sliding it open was almost impossible without hearing a soft whirr, creating more anxiety. She grabbed a piece of bread, or at least what she hoped was one. Trying possibly a little too hard to be silent, she less-than gracefully crept towards the white door that sat at the other end of the room. Her hands wrapped around the handle and pulled the door open.

Clink

The piece of metal she'd stuck in the lock time and time again fell sharply. She worriedly looked behind her... no one so much as stirred.

She picked it back up, and carefully set it in the lock, shutting the door as gently as possible. Her shoulders relaxed, and she leaned against it. The quick stomps of her feet echoed up the stairs, and out the large door at the top of the roof.

She looked around a bit. Most of the lights had been shut off, the only other sources came from the guard towers that sat on the corners of the large wall surrounding Aeonia, and the large building that lay in the middle known as the Centre.

Caesthoffe walked to the edge of the roof and dangled her feet over the side. The air had been a little cold, and the thin uniform they'd been issued hadn't done much in terms of keeping her warm. She supposed Aeonia tried to distract from it by making the uniforms look visually appealing. Her sleek black top would almost be perfect if the designers had simply left the sleeves on. The corner of her top held an emblem, a circle with a line cutting through the top and bottom paired with an arm on either side, one pointing up, one pointing down. Her pants were a matte grey, with a solid white stripe going down the left leg. The Centre had told the citizens of Aeonia that their uniforms were made with the finest resources available. Caesthoffe scoffed, crossing her arms tightly to her chest to preserve the little warmth she had.

Caesthoffe took a bite of her bread. Smuggling food was becoming much harder since the Centre had discarded the pockets on the new uniforms, now the only accessory held was a long zipper that drew halfway down her back. It proved irritating when she took it off and the zipper met her long brown hair.

She looked to her right and could make out one crow, sitting on top of the Eastern tower, the only thing giving it away being the slight shine that reflected off its feathers.

Caesthoffe tore off a bit of bread and threw it onto the roof of the Complex below her, almost hitting the 2 on the large white numbers that read 2400.

"Speaking of," Caesthoffe whispered.

She watched as it opened its wings and flew down to the complex below her. Cautiously, she saw it hop over to the piece of bread and peck at it. Presumably sure of its safety, it pecked a few more times. Caesthoffe's gaze lingered for a while, as she watched in amusement and chuckled. The crow froze. She silently reprimanded herself for startling it, and tried to mend its trust. The crow looked at her and tilted its head. Unsure of what to do, she carefully ripped off another piece of bread and threw it down. The crow hopped out of the way and took a bite. Caesthoffe smiled.

Her smile faded.

Quickening footsteps and loud bangs echoed from the stairwell, reaching Caesthoffes ears. The crow she had been feeding had also noticed, as it flew away from her complex, past the wall, and into the dark.

Her heart started to race, as she frantically searched for somewhere to disappear. She noticed the walls that surrounded the stairwell entrance, and sprinted to the side, pressing her body as close to the wall as she could, cloaked in shadows.

The door opened with a sharp slam and two officers struggled through the door, dragging a young boy roughly by the arms, not looking older than fifteen. She could see in the dim light, that he'd already accepted a beating. The swollen dark blue splotch that spread across his eye and the blood that covered his mouth and nose gave it away. His desperate pleas for aid were muffled by the cloth gag that had been wrapped around the corners of his mouth, behind his head.

Caesthoffes eyes looked on in horror and repulsion as the officers shoved the boy on his knees, causing him to whimper. One officer grabbed the boy's arm and pinned it behind his back, making his breathing became more erratic and sharp. His lungs coughed up blood onto the officer in front of him.

The officer stepped back in disgust, and light hit him just enough for Caesthoffe to view his face. His skin was creamy white with what looked to be a yellow tint, and his jaw looked sharp enough to slice glass. The hollows of his cheekbones cast a deep shadow on his skin, and she thought she saw a smear of blood above his eyebrow.

He reached forward and clenched the collar of the boy's tainted uniform, and he threw a quick strike to his jaw. His body immediately flew to the left, toppling onto the concrete with no resistance. Caesthoffe winced and had to cover her mouth for fear of sobbing. She couldn't have been surer of death.

The boy wasn't dead. His mind was still very disoriented and stunned, but he was nonetheless alive. Caesthoffe couldn't help but admire his strength, as he got onto one knee and muttered what would be his last words

"Go to Hell."

Caesthoffes' mind raced as she let out a loud no, desperately trying to save him. The boy looked to his side, meeting Caesthoffes eyes before his head broke open in a misty haze.

Caesthoffe looked down at her appearance, and for the first time in a while, realised how insane she looked. Her eyes narrowed on every part of her figure. Blood stained her

Caesthoffe Ardent was starving & nearly dead. Her stomach ached, and her mouth hadn't so much as touched a scrap of bread. She couldn't recall the last time she'd eaten a solid piece of fruit or a slice of meat that hadn't been dried. How she missed it. Her diet now consisted of MRE's, and dried milk, which had to be rationed carefully. She had agreed to only go out for a supply run when her last can of food was pryed open.

Looking around the small house she'd found made her anxious. Although food was scarce & she couldn't go out for too long, she always thought she was too lucky. Most couldn't find a shelter when the sirens went off... She'd been lucky to find a house with a cellar. She'd been lucky to have a weapon to protect herself. Hell, she'd been lucky to have a companion, even if he wasn't human.

As if reading her thoughts, Ares jumped onto her lap. His fur had a dim shine in the waking hours and his ears perked up.

Contrasting most cats, his tail was rather short & stubby, almost as if it had been folded over itself. Although Caesthoffe didn't know whether this was a result of breeding or some accident before the apocalypse, but she took solace in not knowing.

He licked her hand, and a slight smile came across Caesthoffes face. She knew providing for another mouth was more was more work on her part, but to take him with her, putting him in danger with her. She was on the run and would most likely be until her demise. Would he be better off without her?

She shakes her head and her mind rezones.

"Focus" she muttered, picking Ares up "I can't be worrying about dumb shit like this."

Caesthoffe glanced around @ the room, and sighed. She'd reinforced the windows, and took stock in the armoury (if you could call 25 bullets & a semi-auto pistol an armourry). It was fairly easy to run out of distractions when your shelter is a shed at best. Defeated, she grabbed a map from the wall and set it on the floor. The creases where it had been folded over itself posed annoying.As her fingers roamed thru the small streets of Albuquerque, and over the crossed out gas stations, she came to the realisation that the nearest food source was miles away.

She cursed under her breath, and started packing. Ares meowed, and narrowed his eyes, seeming to reprimand her.

"What? Do I need to put a nickel in the swear jar?" she remarked, sarcasm laced in her voice.

He hopped out of her arms, and sat on top of the map, seemingly crushing Rio Rancho.

Caesthoffe glanced around the enclosed space she was stuck in. The place was so unlike any place she had ever been. It contrasted the dirt caked mine shafts that she'd grown up in.

A sudden jolt made her stumble a bit. As she tried to regain her balance, she realised the elevator was broken.

"Great," she muttered under her breath, "Of all the placees that could've broken down, it was inside the richest place in Aeonia."

She fumbled with the elevator buttons for a while, but when she saw it was useless, she became irritated. She'd gone through so much, only for an elevator to stop her.

There was no escaping the eventual and inevitable death of the Centre Gold Mine. Her cracked walls led people to believe she had long passed her prime and was only a simple husk pleading for an end. She met her conclusion eleven years earlier.

The fin, of a murder-suicide.

Caesthoffe knew what the Centre had done to her. She was reminded every day when she drifted past her brothers mangled helmet, the only piece of him able to be excavated. The rest, left to rot.

Which is not to say she wanted him out of his urban guy, or that she would arrive if the Orocott had gathered enough funds to remove his body. Seeing him might

Asterland had tried to play-down the accident. They reused the same speech they gave for every other tragedy. The one where a high-ranking official would stand on a podium above the citizens, and give a low-effort apology that always found a way to shift the blame.

Caesthoffe would replay the scene in her head, at a punishing rate. Perhaps it was a deep, underlying thirst for pain. Masochism is an unintentional occupation that many in Orocott posess, mostly against their will. They have to learn to enjoy the pain, or they'll end up stuck in a gold mine, under a pile of rubble & coal.

Leo took a step back, and looked down. Blood seeped through his shirt, staining his chest a dark crimson.

Reality crept in, through the gaping wound... that made his body collapse onto the grass.

As Leo waited, for the inevitable & impending death, he thought of many things.

He thought of his brother.

He thought of his friends.

He thought of his wife.

The last minute of his life, he decided, wouldn't be spent hurting the people he loved. He knew he wouldn't make it... And he accepted it.

Before he died, he had to say goodbye.

He reached into his pocket, desperate... Running out of time.

The phone rang.

Hello?

"Hey, uh... hey August," Leo trembled "It's Leo"

"Oh, hi baby. You had a good day at work?" she asked.

"I, um, I've had better"

"Aww... That's okay. I'll make it up for you when you get home" August chuckled.

"Y-yeah..." Leo felt tears burn his eyes as he held back a cry. "About that, uhm,"

He took a shallow breath."I've got extra work, at the office today... I-I won't be home for a while"

"Oh" she mumbled. "Well, don't work yourself too hard"

"I-I won't, baby," Leo laughed, from both pain and guilt.

"August?" Leo asked

"Yeah?"

"I love you... So, so much"I love you t—

To all the people I'm afraid to talk to,

To ████, who's known me since fifth grade.

To the skater I met in creative writing.

To ██████, who I barely got to know.

I don't hate you, I just don't know how to thank you for making my life so great.

And if I wasn't such a fucking coward, I would tell you all of it

My mind is an inescapable critic who won't let me speak again.