The year is 2001. Inside an overpriced two bedroom apartment located in Fremont, California, a little girl hides in the bathroom with the door open and listens to her parents fighting as she attempts to read "A Solitary Blue" by Cynthia Voigt, a book about a boy who has been abandoned by his mother.

Her own mother, an immigrant, tells her husband she is unhappy in America. They fight, because she gave up her life for him, and he tells her he will do the same, that they can move back to her country.

The mother scoffs. How will the kids go to school without knowing how to read or write the language?

Put them in foster care and we'll go, he says.

Later that night, the mother finds her daughter in the bathroom softly weeping, book in her hands.

What is wrong? The mother asks her. The little girl says, she is crying because-

Because the book is sad? Her mother suggests.

Yes... it is very sad, says the little girl.

I notice a record store. How does a record store that buys and sells vhs videos and vinyl survive in this day and age? I walk in.

A man with huge scars on his neck and a quite frankly scary vibe is sitting in the middle of the store. He looks important. Something about his demeanor.

He starts talking to me. He asks, why I was there. I say, I just noticed the old record store and thought it was unusual so I checked it out. He says, You are just like me. You stumble onto things by accident. I stumbled into a lot of things in my life. What's your name?

Samantha.

Samantha. Let me see your hands.

I show him my hands because he gives off the energy that he isn't someone you want to slight. He notes that my hands are soft. He says, women's hands were always soft. Not like a man's hands. Men have to work with their hands... no! Men have to kill with hands.

I don't want to judge this statement. Maybe he is military.

Could be, but it doesn't seem like it.

So I said, everybody does what they need to do.

He looks at me and we come to an understanding in that moment. I don't think he is military. Maybe he is making fun of me and pulling a prank?

He says, you're right, samantha, I did do what I needed to do.

He pauses.

You see this scar? He points to his neck. A man tried to kill me, and I had to take care of it.

I don't miss a beat. I am so sorry you were in that position, and I'm so glad you're okay now.

Thank you Samantha. Do you ever go to New York?

No, I don't really go over there.

There's a place on XX street. People selling all sorts of things. A guy was there selling a $200 camera for $20. Good deals over there.

It seems like hes asking me my opinion of the black market, but the truth is I love a good deal, and I say as much.

A hispanic man in the back calls out. That's the boss!! That's the boss!!

Im nervous now. I smile. Oh this is your boss? You have such a nice boss.

The boss looks at me again.

Samantha, I'm gonna do something I dont normally do. I'm gonna give you my card. I do a lot of things. I wanna make you an offer you can't refuse.

Jesus christ, is he really what he is implying, or is he just pulling a prank?

I want you to keep in touch.

He hands me a business card. There is a logo I recognize- the punisher. A Latin phrase- I look it up later to find out it means, "if you want peace, prepare for war." A second saying next to his name-- it says, a good friend. A worse enemy.

This is an elaborate prank for him to have these business cards on hand. Now I'm scared.

Wow, thank you. I'm not really looking for work right now. But if I ever see you again I'm more than happy to talk and hang out. Youve been so nice. I smile and start to walk out the door.

I hope you call me, Samantha.

I am going to be one hundred percent honest with you, I probably wont. I'm just so bad at keeping in touch. But it was so nice meeting you!

I hope you call me, Samantha.

I keep the card for 6 hours, and I throw it away on my way to the psych ward.

I still hear his voice in my mind. I hope you call me, Samantha.

To this day I wonder what sort of life I avoided, and sometimes, when I'm in a really bad place, I wonder if I could get a second chance on that offer.

Come around my friends, for I have a tale to tell. No, no, it shall not take long, but it is of the utmost importance that you listen. It is a tale of love and sorrow. It starts with a girl. Let me tell you so that you may understand.

There once was a small, quiet village, and in that village, lived a girl called Konane. Her father was lavishly rich, and gave her whatever she desired, for her mother had passed and it made Konane terribly unhappy. He gave her everything, if only to see his beautiful young daughter to smile again. One day she asked for a pony, but her father decided it against it. Jewels and dresses were one thing, but a living creature? No, it was for the best.

But I want one, she cried. I shall be unhappy without it!

You have lived without a pony thusfar, her father said gently. You will continue to live without one just as well.

Konane wept.

A raven nearby heard her tears, and flew towards her. I have been watching you from afar, he said. I must admit, I am quite taken with you. You are very beautiful. Surely too beautiful for tears.

I am unhappy, she said.

Why are you unhappy, my love? the raven spoke.

I want a pony so badly, she said. I am so lonely. My mother is gone. I have no friends. A creature as lovely as a pony would surely keep me company and make me happy, but my father will not let me have one.

The raven considered this for a moment. Konane continued to weep. Such a small thing to make such a beautiful girl so upset!

I shall tell you a secret, the raven said. We ravens are magical beings. When we give one of our feathers to someone we love, that feather has the ability to grant one wish, any wish you'd like. We do not do this often, for losing our feathers means losing our flight. But I shall let you pluck one so that you may get your pony. It is only one feather after all, and I cannot stand to see you cry. It is too heartbreaking.

And so Konane plucked a feather from the raven's wing, and the very next day, her father changed his mind. I supposed you are old enough to take on some responsibility, he said.

And so Konane got her pony, and she was happy, for a while. But soon, she lost interest in her creature, and would forget to feed her poor pony. In time, the poor thing had died. Konane's father shook his head.

Perhaps you have been too spoiled, he said. You are of age to work. It is time you take some responsibility for yourself. I cannot support you any longer.

Konane was not pleased.

Oh raven, Konane said. Why must my father hate me so?

Your father loves you, the raven said.

I cannot work, Konane cried out. I don't know how! I shall fail. The villagers will laugh at me for being stupid. I can't survive on my own! I shall starve! Oh, I am so useless, I hate myself!

Do not hate yourself, the raven pleaded. I want only for you to be happy.

Do you suppose I could make another wish? she asked. Just one more! she begged.

The raven looked at her with worry, but what could he do? He did not want her to be sad. If it is for your happiness, I suppose one more feather does not make much of a difference, he said.

And so, she plucked another feather. The next day, her father died, and his fortunes were left to her.

Oh raven, she said. That wasn't what I wanted!

I am sorry, the raven said, feeling guilty. Please, take my feathers. As many as it takes to make you happy.

So, she did. Soon, the raven lost the ability to fly, and spent his days hopping on the ground, staring at the sky. He told himself it was worth it to make Konane happy. But no matter what she wished for, Konane did not get any happier, and the raven had but one feather left.

One day, Konane met a man. He was very handsome, and she became smitten with him. Oh, she said. I love you!

I do not believe you do, he said.

Why not? she cried.

You do not love anyone but yourself, he said simply.

No, I love you! I will die without you! Please! she begged.

You are very beautiful, he said. Truly, many men would kill to have you. But I cannot love you. I am sorry.

Konane grew angry. I will make you love me! she insisted. She went to the raven for help.

I know you have but one feather left, she said. But I love him! If he were in my life, I would finally be happy. Please, make him love me!

You may take my last feather, the raven said sadly. I can no longer fly either way. But I cannot make him love you.

Why not! she cried.

Love is a stronger magic that mine, the raven said quietly. It cannot be bought. The only love I can give to you is my own.

But I don't want yours! she cried out.

Though hurt, the raven tried to console her. Please Konane, he begged. I love you. I only want your happiness.

Get away from me, you wretched creature! She screamed. I will never be happy! Oh, I shall die!

And so, selfishly, she did.

She was buried in the nicest part of the graveyard, next to a beautiful tree that blossomed in the spring. The villagers mourned her lost beauty. Someone so beautiful should not die so young, they said.

The raven watched from afar as they buried her. He remained silent as they left her flowers, watching people come and go, until less and less started to come, and until finally, the last flower withered and died.

As night fell, the raven hopped towards her grave and said nothing. He simply started to dig.

When the morning came, the villagers were shocked to find Konane's corpse dug up from her grave, her chest ripped open where her heart should have been. Small pieces were scattered around the graveyard, but most of her heart had been eaten.

Oh no, the villagers wept. How will she feel love in heaven without her heart?

Hearing this, the raven appeared, his beak and claw bloodied. There is no heaven for the likes of her! he screeched angrily. Only hell!

Upon seeing the raven, wingless, hopping, bloody, and angry, the villagers scattered and ran into their homes, frightened. No one dared to go near that grave again. It was a terrifying event.

And truly, that is it. That is the end.

You may be wondering, friends, why this story is so important. I have told you to warn you. Since the night Konane's heart was stolen and destroyed, there have been rumors. People have been seeing a featherless raven hopping about, his beak and claw bloodied. Parents have been waking up to find their children dead, without their hearts in their chest. They say the raven has been visiting the beds of spoiled children at night, eating the hearts of those who show they are ungrateful for the love they are gifted. Please, be happy with the things you have, and show love to someone other than yourself.

I have told you this to warn you friends, but if the raven does visit you, I cannot feel sorry. Those who are ungrateful for the love they receive do not deserve to feel loved at all.

Allen, an old, African American man with a raspy, course voice, liked to sing. Loudly. So everyone in the psych ward could hear him.

"Me and... Mrs. Jo-ones, we got a thing going on-n... "

He liked to quote things from the Bible and preach to the hallways. Loudly. So everyone could hear him.

"And Jesus said, Who do you think I am? And Peter said, You are the Lord, Jesus Christ."

He liked to quote famous speeches from Martin Luther King, who he sometimes said was his 3rd cousin, and other times said was his 6th. Again, he did this loudly.

"FREE AT LAST, FREE AT LAST. THANK GOD ALMIGHTY, WE ARE FREE AT LAST."

Allen had one lung, stomach cancer, and made two millions dollars every hour. He had a book coming out in December, and a play coming out in the fall. He asked me to marry him on several occasions, saying he wanted a young wife to bear him many, many children, but always mentioned that he was more attracted to women over 40. Allen informed me that my asian ancestors were cloned in the womb of an African women by two scientists three hundred years ago. On a separate occasion he informed me that I was black, and so was Beethovan. Allen also mentioned that he graduated from Julliard after recieving a scholarship 'for life' to attend, and that he was, in fact, the next Beethovan and Mozart combined.

Allen was batshit crazy, and I sat down and listened to him talk for hours because no one else wanted to. I figured it was better for me to suffer as Allen quietly talked than for Michael to punch Allen in the face for never shutting up.

Allen told me stories about his past, things that were absurd, and things I couldn't be sure were not true. His mother died of stomach cancer, he was once a car insurance salesman and had a boss who was 'a Jew,' he was the baby boy of his family. He was poor as a child. These things, I believed could be, if not were, true.

Then he informed me he was going to 'tell me a secret,' and whispered in my ear that he was a CIA agent with a liscense to kill, and that he was at the hospital because the government had plans to blow it up in the next week.

Allen would tell me history, tell me what was wrong with young people like me, tell me anything his mind thought of, because he never stopped talking and often lost his train of thought to another thought. Perhaps patronizingly and a tad sarcastic, irritated from sitting a whole two hours listening to him spew nonsense as he drooled, I told him he was very smart for knowing so much.

"Smart?" He said. "No, I'm not smart." He looked me in the eye.

"I'm a genius."

Sometimes I got tired of listening to him. Sometimes I got tired of hearing about him being a professor at Princeton, about him being a composer, about him being a CIA agent. Sometimes I grew tired hearing every day that someone stole his $200 Bible, his $150 Koran, his $300 watch, only to see him carry his Bible and Koran around with him a few hours later. I got tired of hearing about Jews and Blacks, about Obama being his cousin twice removed, about him owning 362 houses in Trenton.

But every day I sat and listened to him, because everyone else told him to shut the hell up, and he would only get louder.

"If a dog bites you, it's the dog's fault. If a dog bites you again, it's your own damn fault. Don't make the same mistake twice!"

"Allen," said the counselor. "Sit down and eat your breakfast man, shut up!"

I felt bad for him.

"I dont know how you do it," Jodi would say. "You have the patience of a saint."

"I make a game out of it-" I said. "I try to figure out what things he tells me are actually true."

From what I could tell, very little of what he told me was true, and I could tell because he always repeated the same stories, facts, and quotes with different details. He would ask me how many books were in the Old Testament, how many in the New Testament, and answer for me, before I had the chance to. He always made the numbers up, because each time he answered, the number changed.

Even though he could be annoying, there were times I liked him. Sometimes I enjoyed his crazy rants. Sometimes he said funny things. But I suppose the times I liked him best was when he sang. I would smile when he did because it amused me, and he would smile back, sometimes even laugh, and I realized it was very rare for him to smile. That thought made me sad for him.

Towards the end of my stay at the hospital, Allen wasn't nearly as annoying as he had been in the beginning- at least, with me. He surely annoyed everyone else just the same, but not me. If I was talking to someone else, instead of interrupting as he often did, he waited for me to be done. Instead of having to excuse myself from him after listening to him for an hour, he started to 'let me go' because he realized he had been talking to me for too long. He was still crazy, and he was still annoying, and he still drooled, but as my patience for him grew, my need to be patient lessened. I actually grew fond of the crazy old man, to the point that I genuinely started praying that his mental and physical health would improve.

The day I was discharged, he asked me if I was leaving. I said yes, I was going home. He told me he wanted to tell me a secret. Thinking he was going to tell me about his secret agent status again, I leaned forward, and to my surprise, he kissed me on the cheek.

"I love you."

And I know that a crazy old man kissing you on the cheek and telling you he loves you should be something that is alarming, but it wasn't. It wasn't alarming, concerning, or creepy. In his words there was sincerity, and it was so touching, it made me want to cry.

"Call me, okay?"

I smiled. "Okay Allen, I will."

Shooken up, I went to my room. As I packed, I started to cry. I cried because I was leaving. I was leaving Jodi and Michael and Jacob and Allen, and Allen was going to stay here with no one to listen to him and it made me sad.

And I kind of want cry now, because I never did call.

But at the same time, I have to smile. Who is listening now?

The whole damn hospital. Because Allen? He's loud. And he likes everyone to hear him.

Michael rapped to himself sometimes. He got angry whenever Allen went on his crazy batshit rants, or when Allen would sing loud. Allen just wanted an audience. It pissed Michael off. "Can you shut the fuck up man? Knock it off!" I used to get scared, cause I thought he would start a fight. He never did. It looked like he wanted to.

One time Michael stood up in the middle of the room. He looked happy.

"I wanna thank you all," he started, and everyone turned to look at him. "I just wanted to say how thankful I am for all of you and your participation in the movie, and once I get my 17 million dollars, for real for real for real for real, as soon as I get this money from the movie, I'mma give you all 2 million dollars and a bouncer so you stop sinning." Michael was a Christian man.

"2 million, 4 million, 6 million...." He pointed to each person, counting how many millions he would give them. "...and a bouncer so you stop sinning. Thank you." He sat back down. He rapped to himself.

Most of the time, he would say hi to me. I would say hi back, shy and scared. He asked me what my name was. "Samantha. Nice to meet you Samantha." He grinned at me. "She waaaaant it."

It seemed like a vaguely lewd comment, but I just smiled and ignored it.

Jodi, who was there for alcoholism, told me to be careful with Michael. "There was another girl here, Amanda," she said, "She was pretty, she was really nice. Anyway, Michael comes up to her, and asks her if she as a boyfriend, and she says yes." She took a moment to think about what had happened. "And... he asked her if she ever cheated on her boyfriend. And apparently she had cheated on him once before, so she explained that, and he said, do you wanna cheat on him again? And she says, with who? And he said with me!" I laughed.

"So yeah, just be careful of him, cause he can be really inappropriate," she said, and ate her pudding.

I suppose he was right, because one day, during group, he turned to me with a dazed look in his eyes. "How are you Claire? How's teaching?"

"Huh?"

He frowned. "You don't teach anymore?"

"No," I said, confused. "I don't teach."

"Oh." He smiled. "You wanna make love with me again?"

I was taken aback, and declined. He must have thought I was someone else. It made me sad for him, because I realized that he had talked about Claire before. I overheard him talking. "Why are you here?" someone asked.

"I lost my soulmate," he said.

One morning, after I woke up, he insisted on making me my coffee. "How you doin' boo?" He said. "Don't worry about it, let me do it for you. How many sugars do you want? Three?"

I nodded and smiled. "Thank you," I said.

"No problem. You know, I just wanted to say I'm sorry for what happened in 2003, Claire," he told me, as he stirred the sugar.

One of the counselors overheard what he said to me about making love. He must have talked to him, because later, when Michael was coherent- which was most of the time, despite his moments in delusion- he came up to me and apologized.

"I'm sorry Samantha, I was just joking you know, I was just pretending you were someone else but I was just messing and I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable or anything like that, that's not me, I'm very respectful towards women, you know? I'm a man of Christ, I respect people and I just wanted to say I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable."

"It's okay, really!" I said, slightly embarrassed. "I'm fine, I didn't feel uncomfortable, I was just, you know... worried about you."

"Yeah, you just kinda remind me of her I guess, it was really just a joke, you just remind me of her alot, and you know, now that you're doing this to me you remind me of her more now."

I didn't know what he meant by doing this to me- whether he meant getting him into trouble, or telling him that it was okay and not to worry- but I felt sad for him.

"You kinda got me in trouble there you know!" He laughed. He was trying to be friendly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to." I smiled. I liked Michael. He seemed like a nice person. He was just heartbroken.

When he wasn't delusional, he talked about trying to find peace in himself, using the strength of God to guide him, during group. "I'm just trying to live on life's terms," he said. "I mean, I lost my girlfriend, and I don't have her anymore, but I just gotta accept it and live on life's terms."

"But what does that mean, living on life's terms?" The counselor said. "What does it feel like?"

Michael looked down. He sighed.

"It feels like a nightmare you'll never wake up from."

I found your name carved into the floor in the cupboard underneath the staircase. A trapdoor. I opened it, finding only a hazy mist, and started to climb down the ladder, out of curiosity. The soft, gentle mist surrounded me, filling me with a sense of dread and a strangely familiar sense of comfort. As I climbed deeper, I heard the soft echo of a gentle song -our song- calling out to me. Playing, softly but hauntingly, slowly and gently. As I reached the bottom of the stairs, my feet touching the soft carpet beneath me, a soft light filled the room and I saw you.

You, just standing there, tall with crystal blue eyes and smiling your crooked smile. You held out your hand, palm up, vulnerable and weak, and I took it. I took your hand, and we walked side by side, hips glued together.

And we walked. And we talked.

You looked at me with those crystal blue eyes, and you knew me just by looking. You kissed me with a smile. You saw me, me, reflected in your eyes.

And we walked. And we talked.

We did all the things we always did, all of it familiar, none of it new. Everything repeating itself. The way you stopped talking, but kept kissing me. They way you stopped knowing me, but kept feeling me. The way you stopped trying, but kept walking. The way you looked at me with your crystal blue eyes, and never saw me. We walked side by side, but you were no longer there, you were no longer with me. Just an empty shell of what used to be.

And I was angry. Every burning hate, every angry thought, every single tear I ever cried came rushing back. I wanted you to see me, to know me, to talk, and the angrier I got when you didn't, the farther away you walked. The frustration built up, the hatred, the anger. And you felt it, too, because you stopped kissing me. Stopped looking at me. Stopped walking. I got angrier and angrier, and you did nothing to stop it. You gave up and let me walk away with my anger, alone.

Then there was just sadness.

I waited, but you didn't come back. You left and forgot me, just like that. And now that I was alone, there was nothing to do but go back and forget.

The music started to play again, that soft, haunting song, a reminder of what was lost, and the room turned dark.

It took me hours to find the ladder again. As I started to climb back up, I felt a tug on my shoulder, and I looked back. There you were, standing there, staring with crystal blue eyes and smiling that crooked smile. You held out your hand, palm up, but I knew better. This was a memory. Memories were just a trap.

You packed your things. You bought your books. You moved into your dorm. You met your roommate. You kissed mom and dad, said goodbye to your brothers. You were nervous, but excited. Still, you were shy. You missed your friends. You called them, and spent the night talking to them. You met no one that night. I wondered where everyone was.

I knocked on your door. I asked if you knew. You said you didn't. I asked if you wanted to go to breakfast. You said okay. We went. We ate. We talked. You laughed at me. I embarrassed myself. I told too much, I was too bold, I wanted to be myself right from the start. You liked me for it.

We became friends. We made other friends. We stayed up all night. We texted each other. We fell asleep side by side.

You fell in love with me. I wasn't so sure. My roommate got drugged. It was still the first week of school. She had gone to a party. She was pretty. The whole floor stayed up all night worrying, and you rubbed my back as I took care of her.

We went to classes. Some were boring. Others were interesting. Professors were intimidating. The campus was small, but I had classes at night. I'd get lost walking back to the dorms. You had to come get me, even when I knew where I was.

We went to a concert. We slept on the same couch. We walked through my neighborhood. I told you I loved you. You almost cried. We held hands. I took your virginity. You were nervous. You got better as time went on.

We did our homework, and watched movies with our friends. You hated your roommate. You listened to music. You played video games. I wanted attention. I wasn't feeling good. You held me. We'd fight. You broke a promise. You lied. I cried all night.

We slept together. I slept too much. My sister visited me. She was in trouble for drugs. She needed to get away. I didn't know how to help her. You bought me Christmas presents and gave them to me three weeks early. You wanted to see me smile. I made you happy.

We went on break. You lived far away. I missed you. You didn't call me. I got angry. You got angry. You stopped responding. I wanted to die. I screamed at you. You cried. We made up. We got better. We went back to school. We were happy.

You acted funny. You wouldn't tell me your class schedule. You stopped going to class. You spent hours in your room alone. I didn't know. I wish you told me. You got kicked out. Financial aid screwed up, you couldn't pay. Your parents were angry. They blamed you. You blamed you. I helped you pack your things. I didn't cry. I wanted to.

Your parents wouldn't let you speak to me. You were being punished. It was hard. My sister kept calling me. I stopped going to classes. I got a job at a video store. My manager kept hitting on me. You started seeing a counselor. You visited me at school. It was only for two hours. We spent those two hours napping because I was tired. I had stayed up all night waiting to hold you.

A professor told me to drop out of her class. She was going to fail me. I did. I went to the school counselor. She told me I was trying to handle too much. They gave me pills to make me feel better. It was the end of the school year. My manager left the store.

You got a job. It was a late-night shift. It ended at four in the morning. You slept all day. You were miserable. I stayed up every night to talk to you. My mom moved back in town. She brought home a man. She already had a man at home. It was two men, my mom, and my sister. We all lived together. I couldn't take it.

I moved in with my friend. I left my father alone. He was unemployed. He had nothing to do, in a big house all by himself. I felt sorry.

You reconnected with your old friends. You got a new job. You bought me things. I wore dresses. Your parents were still angry. They thought I was a distraction. I didn't want to be tied down. I wanted other men. You said it was okay. I didn't want to hurt you. I started drinking. I was raped. I only wanted you. You said it would be okay. You loved me. We broke up. I quit my job. I moved in with my dad. He got a new job. We loved each other more.

I wanted to be pretty for you. I was worried I wasn't. You told me I was. I didn't want to be fat. I feared getting older. You said you couldn't wait. You said I'd be beautiful.

I knew what you meant.

Closer

I’m at a club in the city, and the music is loud. Way too loud. I can feel the music pulsing through my body, forcing its beat into my bloodstream. My ears hurt. Its a small little club, so is the volume really necessary? The band that’s playing is crappy, anyway. Definitely not my type of music.

I’m standing around, looking at the scene. Not too many people here. Not to say that its totally empty, but you know. There could be more people, is all. Really dim lights. Can’t see much. Its pretty dark. And way too loud.

It's definitely way too loud in here.

I look over at my friend, whose busy chattin’ it up with a guy from one of the bands. That is to say, one of the better bands. The band we came to see. Not the crappy one that’s playing right now. I want to go up and talk to her- I hate being alone- but I don’t want to interrupt their conversation. She’s a major fan, hardcore, so I know she’s loving every second of talking to him. I guess I’ll just have to suck it up.

Loneliness sucks hardcore.

“Hey.” One of the guys from the band comes up to me and starts talking to me. He’s the one whose name I don’t know and face I don’t recognize. I know the other ones, just not him. Oh well. At least he’s from the band, not just some random creepy dude, so I can feel comfortable talking to him and stop feeling lonely.

I try to see his face, but its too damn dark. From what I can see, he seems like he’s a good-looking guy. His face is too shadowy to tell for sure, but I can see his eyes. His eyes strike me. His eyes are beautiful. They’re the kind of eyes you need to stare into for a moment because there’s something there. You don’t know what it is, but there’s something there. There’s something there.

Can I kiss you?

Wow, why did I just think that? I shake the thought away. What’s wrong with me? No way. I’m seventeen. He’s like, eight years older than me. That's just weird.

Okay, so I don’t really think the age difference is a big deal- I mean, my own parents are like, fifteen years apart. But still, I’m jailbait, and besides, I don’t even know his name yet. I shouldn’t want to kiss this guy I don’t even know. What’s wrong with me?

Weird thoughts aside, we start talking. I still don’t know his name, but the conversation is too nice to interrupt and ask. He grabs my hand and starts moving it weird. What the hell? Oh, I get it. He’s teaching me a handshake. We go over it a few times until I get it. It feels cool. I feel like we bond that way. He goes up to another guy- presumably one of his friends- and tries to do the handshake with him. Epic fail. They mess up within seconds. He smiles and tells the random guy, “Check this shit out.” We start the handshake and do it perfectly.

We are so fucking cool.

Can I kiss you?

But I still don’t know his name. I don’t think he knows mine. So I tell him. He tells me his. I smile and nod, but I don’t really hear what he says. The music is still too damn loud. He says something, but I can’t hear it, so we have to put our faces right next to each other to hear the words from our mouths. We’re so close to each other, our cheeks are almost touching. He says something funny, and I laugh. My cheek bunches up as I smile, and our faces touch. For a split second, I feel a spreading warmth and a shock of electricity at the same time. Somewhat startled, we both move away from each other, but I wish I had stayed. I want to get closer to him. I want to be as close to him as I possibly can. What’s wrong with me?


Can I kiss you?

He sighs and tells me how tired he is. Its late and the bands are running way off schedule. Its nearly two. I smile and ask him if he needs a shoulder to rest on. He does. He rests his head on top of mine. And I’m happy about it. I am so, so happy.

What’s wrong with me?

Can I kiss you?

The crappy band ends, and its time for the next band, the good one, the one he’s in, to go up. He leaves to get ready. My gal-pal, who has also been abandoned from her band-guy, finds me. We place ourselves directly in front of the stage where our guys can see us. We take pictures of them on our phones. He’s never in the light, and I can’t see his face in any of the pictures. It sort of sucks. I want to see his face, but the club is too damn dark.

The band starts to play, and the rhythm of the song becomes the rhythm of my heartbeat. The song becomes a part of me, natural and vibrant, rather than a forced pulsing throughout my body. This is the music I love. This is the music I came to hear. I can feel their energy, their passion in the music. I love it.

Its gotten so late that only a handful of people have stayed for the band. Its a shame. As my gal-pal and I dance to the music- we’re the only ones who seem to have enough energy left to dance- I keep my eyes on him. He sings backup and plays the guitar, or maybe the bass. I’m not sure which one. It doesn’t really matter to me. He’s so into it, so you can tell he loves whatever he’s doing, and that's the most beautiful thing in the world, you know. When you see someone doing what they love. It makes me happy to see him play like that, to sing like that, to smile like that. Really, really happy. Why does it make me so happy?

Can I kiss you?

Wow, I can’t believe how into him I am. I just met him. I barely know him.

But he looks so happy, and his smile looks so real, and I want to kiss him so much.

Can I kiss you?

Their set ends, ending the show, and the club bouncer kicks us out without any warning. Jackasses. My gal-pal and I wait for our ride outside. Its cold. I want to see the band again, tell them how great they were, but they’re still inside.

Well, maybe I don’t really want to see the band. Maybe I really just want to see one person. If I could just find him again, I would be happy.

So we decide look for them- my gal-pal wants to find her band-guy, too. We walk into the parking lot, where their van should be, and low and behold, there they are. All hanging out near the van. All except for him. Just my luck. Its cool though. I like the guys in the band, they’re all friendly. We all chat for a while. Its nice. Still, I’m still waiting for him to show. He’s got to show up sometime, right?

Eventually he does, and I’m so happy to see him. He sees me and smiles. I smile back. I can see his face now, out there in the street light. He’s handsome. Really, really handsome. I want to look at his face forever.

Can I kiss you?

We all talk to each other for a bit. Its cold out. The band offers to let us in their van for warmth. Not that there’s any heat in their old van, but it might be a few degrees warmer. You never know. But it doesn’t matter. Our ride is here. Before we leave, I get him to do the handshake one more time with me. I feel special with this handshake we do, connected to him. Closer.

Can I kiss you?

We say our goodbyes, promise to see their next show. We start to walk toward our ride, and I look back at the band, specifically at him. I wave goodbye, tell them I’ll see them soon. My eyes linger on him as I turn away. I want to keep looking at his face. I want to stay and talk to him. I want to do that handshake one more time.

Can I kiss you?

I was always head over heels for you, ready to jump the moment you said, "up." My eyes met your face once and never stopped looking for it since. My hands touched your skin and has been craving that softness again and again. I came to you, I walked up to your bed, and you invited me into it's sheets. I jumped in.

I remember being at the train station and walking to the edge and reading a suicide prevention billboard. You told me about suicide, how people jump from the tracks, how selfish you thought it was. Don't jump, the billboard says. How can you ignore it?

There is a memory I hold on to when you first loved to chase me, when your eyes devoured me like prey. In the end, that's all I was.

Now I am craving your skin, but not your touch. I'd rather you didn't touch me anymore. I am not a handled doll.

Lately, I've thought a lot about jumping in front of trains. The whistle of the train is comforting, scheduled and right on time.

"What's up," you say.

I jump.

He started coming through my window, on the nights that it rained, when I was sixteen.

It was always when it rained- he loved the water, the icy cold drops falling from the sky. I always left the window open, just wide enough for his intense blue eyes to look through. And he would come in, gracefully, like a cat, his body and clothes dripping wet, his night-sky hair sticking to his face. His blue eyes always looking at me, always piercing, his long eyelashes wet with raindrops. He was beautiful.

He never spoke to me. He never needed to, as if his voice was the silent yet roaring sound of the rain. He had no words that needed to be said- and neither did I. Our bodies spoke for us. And, while I didn't know him, while I had never met him, my soul knew who he was. I knew everything about him- his quiet, gentle nature, his cold, yet caring presence. How terrifying his temper was. He was mysterious and strange, and I knew nothing and everything about him. Like a childhood memory I could never forget, just couldn't recall.

So, when he first crept in through my window, at age sixteen, somehow, I was not afraid.

And when his cool, rain-drenched fingers gently traced my body, my face, it wasn't suspicious or strange. It was natural to me- like something I had been feeling for years and years. And when he first kissed me, a soft, cautious, and gentle kiss, I returned that kiss, falling in love with him. There were no words, only actions- our bodies recognized who we were, reacted to each other. We were lovers. We were soul mates. We were meant to be this way.

That first night, I experienced an immeasurable pleasure and an unbearable pain. A completely perverted euphoria, an overflow of intense emotions. Each touch, each kiss, sent a cold shiver through my body, an almost cruel pleasure.

That first night, I knew. No one else would be able to recreate these feelings for me.

Gently he peeled off my clothes, one by one, and that cold, cruel pleasure would intensify, heighten in its ecstasy. He spent a moment to gaze at me in admiration, carefully stroking the gentle, immature curves of my shivering body, before he moved on. He laid sweet butterfly kisses all over. And he entered me, kissing my mouth, if only to muffle the scream that came. He did that every time, even when we had long been loving, even when the scream no longer went past my lips. He was a creature of habit if there ever was one.

And there was a sort of warped beauty in the way we molded together. The way our bodies fit in with each other, distorted and strange, easing its way into perfection. The way a hand fits into a new glove.

The pressure in my hips was unbearable. The grinding, that suffocating, insufferable feeling, nearly sent me to tears.

Was it rape? No. I took him in, just as he took me. I yearned for that final collapse, the shuddering and release, the euphoria behind it, and the exhaustion that followed.

And yet, he always left once I fell asleep. I would wake up to a cold morning, feeling the same loneliness and emptiness of the sky when the rain had left.

I would always be left alone, even though I would try to stay awake, always with the desperate desire to simply hold my love. To be there in his presence. To simply be with him. Every time, I fought sleep as if it were a horrible demon, begging my body to reject the wretched creature, if only for one night. Perhaps then he would not leave. But sleep inevitably comes, no matter how you try to deny it. And when sleep came, he left me.

I always woke up alone. And I hated him. I hated the trap he had put me in- I would never be able to love another, hold another, be with another, ever again. I would always yearn for the rain, wishing the loneliness and suffering would leave, in hopes that one night he would stay.

But he could not stay. He wouldn't stay.

He never did.

Perhaps I already knew. I don't remember. I don't remember much now. Just that I loved him.

But when he left, like he always would, I hated him.

I hated him more than anything else in the world.

And it was only when he came back, the next time it rained, would I love him again.

It didn't rain enough.