Gully

"Abagail?"
"Yes?"
"They're coming for you."
"Who is this?"
Click.

Silence. I stare at my cell phone and the seven second call I've just received. It's a number I don't recognize, but local if the area code is to be believed. I try calling it back. No answer and no voicemail setup. The lack of voicemail strikes me as extremely odd, unless this is a new phone this mystery caller was using. I try looking up the number online, but all I discover is that its a cell number.

I'm considering whether I should just let it go or if this is threatening enough to call the police when there's a knock at the door.

It's the police.

"Abagail Andreson?"
"Yes?" I'm as confused as ever.
"You're under arrest for the murder of Jacob Gully."
"Excuse me?!" I feel my pulse instantly start to race and my head spin.
One of them has moved behind me and I feel something cold on my wrists.
"You have the right to remain silent..."
"Who the hell is Jacob Gully?!"
"Anything you say..."
"What's happening??"
"...can be used against you..."
"Anderson is a common name."
"...in a court of law..."
"You've got the wrong person!"
"You have the right to an attorney..."
"Yes, I'd like an attorney, please. Now! I need..."

I must have passed out because the next thing I remember I'm sitting in a dimly lit room, still handcuffed, with a man who must be a cop staring at me. There's what's clearly a two way mirror behind him.

"What you did to Jacob Gully was brutal," he says to open.
"Where's my lawyer," I mumble. I feel dizzy and the room starts to shake a little. It's hard to focus on this man.
"On his way," the man says. The way he says it and the fact that I don't remember ever telling anyone whether or not I had a lawyer of my own tells me he's lying. One thing I'd thought is that cops wouldn't lie, at least not blatantly. But of course I've never been arrested for anything before, so how would I know?
"Why did you kill Jacob Gully?" the man demands after the silence in which my thoughts are trying to get caught up to the current scenario.
"Who is Jacob Gully?" I demand.
"Don't play dumb with me," he says. "You know who he is."
I frown and start to doubt myself. Do I know a Jacob Gully? I remember a Jacob I met at a bar three weeks ago. I don't think he ever gave me his last name. Did he give me a phone number? I know I never gave him mine, and even if he did give me his number, I never called him. I open my mouth to say all of this, but then think better of it and only get so far as taking a little gasp of air before I close my lips again.
"You see?!" the man insists, lighting up in a terrifying manner. He stands up from the table and slams his hands down on it. "Now tell me why you murdered him?"
"Who are you?" I insist. "And where's my lawyer? Stephen Gilbert is his name."
"He's on his way," the man assures me.
"Liar!" I shout standing up and slamming my own hands on the table. "Why would I have a lawyer? I made that name up. Who are you people?" I stare at the mirror behind my interrogator. "What is going on? What is..." I feel an overwhelming sense of vertigo and everything goes black.

When I wake up again, the same frightful man is sitting across from me, but now there is a new face next to me. He smiles so reassuringly that I can't help but smile back. Mr. Fake Policeman sneers. "We got Stephen Gilbert for you," he says.
I feel my stomach drop and look at the smiling fool next to me. "You've got to be kidding..."
He holds out his hand. "Stephen Gilbert," he says. "Nice to meet you."
"You see!" I exclaim, turning to the man across the table as I take the new man's hand instinctively. "I've never met this man before in my life."
"You probably heard my name on television," the smiling fool announces. "I'm quite the famous lawyer in the area."
The fake cop takes a deep breath and then slams the table again. I feel myself bounce slightly in my chair. The smiling lawyer fool drops my hand and seems otherwise unmoved. "Enough!" the fake cop shouts. "Tell me what I want to hear!"
My face must wrinkle in a look of total disdain because that's what I feel. "What kind of cop are you?" is what I want to say, but of course I don't because I'm already quite convinced this man will claim whole-heartedly to be a cop dispite of what I've decided, so I just remain silent.
"Tell me!" the man shouts again, starting to turn red. I see a vein pulsing in his neck. He seems about ready to turn into the Hulk. I would laugh if the situation weren't so terrifying.
I jump again when I feel a hand on my shoulder and then I realize it's the crazy lawyer guy sitting next to me. "Better just tell him the truth," he says in an insultingly condescending tone.
I now turn to this supposed lawyer in disgust. "What are you talking about?" I demand. "I have been telling the truth. I don't know who this Jacob Gully is and I surely didn't murder him."
"Now now," the lawyer says in a tone that makes me want to punch him. He is literally looking down at me now as he shifts his chin downward. I don't know why, but the desire to punch him fades away to something else; could this be a sense of shame? I think it is! I try to fight it, but I can't. This is ridiculous, but still, I feel myself say: "Well, I did meet a Jacob in a bar a few weeks ago."
The lawyer takes his hand off my shoulder and the fake cop seems to light up in positive glee.
"But I don't even know what his last name was!" I insist. "I never talked to him or saw him again after that, and I surely didn't murder him!"
The fake cop is looking smug now. "Oh are you sure about that?" he asks. He pulls a plastic baggie out from under the table and I see my cell phone inside of it.
"Why did you take my cell phone?!" I demand before I can think better of admitting its mine.
The fake cop just keeps smiling as he presses the power button and shows the contact entry someone's pulled up on my phone. It says: "Jacob Gully" and then there's a number I don't remember ever seeing before. But it's local.
I want to scream at the top of my lungs, but I can't. There's silence as the cop keeps smiling. I'm not sure what the lawyer is doing until I hear the squeaking of a chair shifting away and look to see him scotted away and shaking his head in seeming disappointment. That's enough to make me realize how fully ridiculous all of this is.
"I'm almost certain I never put that name in my phone."
"ALMOST certain," the cop repeats with extra emphasis, and suddenly, I start to question everything.
I lean forward with my forehead on my hands. "I just need to think," I whisper.
"What was that?" the cop asked.
I look back up at him. I feel like I'm about to cry. "Can I get a different cop, please?" I ask timidly. "And a different lawyer."
The cop gives a smirkly smile and I know he thinks he's won. "Of course, sweetie," he says, the sense of victory obvious. "Let me see what I can do."

The next cop they send me is a woman. She's young and pretty with subtle but dark lip stick and haunting blue eyes. The lawyer looks like he's pushing 80.
"I know how it feels," the cop says.
"Excuse me?"
"To be confused," she continues. "I can't say as I've ever murdered anyone, but I've certainly been caught doing something wrong and instinctively tried to defend myself to the point even I believe what I'm saying."
She leans across the table and places her hand tenderly on my arm. "I can turn off the cameras if that makes it any easier," she whispers.
My head darts around searching for cameras I'd never seen before.
I feel myself starting to give in to this all, but still I try to fight by saying, rather docily, "Are you even allowed to film me?"
The cop pulls her hand off my arm and doesn't answer. I turn to my lawyer. His eyes are closed and his mouth is open and I fear he might be dead until a reverberating snore emits from his mouth.
"Is he sleeping?" I ask the cop.
"Don't worry about him," she says. "It's just you and me; and I want to help her."
In silence I stare behind her at the one way mirror. She realizes what I'm doing and glances back as well.
"I can make them leave," she says softly.
I figure that would make it a little better and I can't see any reason this would help her so I nod. She gives one curt nod back, then stands up and leaves the room. I think about trying to see if the door is unlocked and I can make a run for it, but before I can figure out just how guilty that would make me seem, I'm distracted by a light going on behind the one way mirror, which is now a two way window.
I see the female cop talking, seemingly very calmly, to two other men in cop uniforms. One is the crazy man who had been interrogating me before. He is yelling at her, presumably in protest over how he wants to watch me fall apart. The other is standing just behind him and is totally silent. I can only see his profile at once, but then he turns and looks at me and I feel my heart skip a beat.
I know him. I'm not sure from where, but I'm sure he do. He wasn't wearing a cop uniform before, but still I know I've seen him somewhere.
And then I gasp as I remember.
"That's him!" I exclaim. I'm trying to talk to my lawyer, but then I look over and see he's still sleeping. So I look back at the quiet cop and whisper, "That's the Jacob I met in the bar."

The watching cops leave and the female cop comes back in the room. I'm smiling when she enters.
"I didn't kill him," I say.
"Excuse me?"
"I didn't kill Jacob," I proudly announce.
She looks stunned and almost hurt. "I thought you were going to be honest with me," she whispers, leaning close.
"I am being honest!" I exclaim in positive glee as I jump up from my chair. "I just saw him behind the window! He's one of your cops!"
"My cops?"
"You know what I mean. Those two cops you were talking to behind the mirror: one of them was the one that was yelling at me before and the other one was Jacob! The Jacob you claim I murdered!"
She frowns. There's silent for a moment and then she asks, softly still, "What other man?"

When I wake up again I'm in a holding cell and I feel moisture on my face. Apparently I'd been crying. I don't remember passing out. I look down at the floor and see a picture. It's the Jacob cop, but he's naked, his eyes are closed, his skin is pale, and there are lacerations all over his body. I turn away and vomit.
"Why did you do it?" I hear a male voice say. It sounds familiar.
I look up but there's no one there.

A moment later, the female cop walks up. "How are you feeling?" she asks.
"I don't know," I say. I feel my eyes tearing up again, but I'm not sure why. "What happened?" I ask.
"You confessed," she says.
I jump up from my seat, am hit with a sense of vertigo, and sit back down, but still I look up at her and say with stunned confidence, "I did not such thing."
"I'm afraid you did." She sounds sad for me, quite the opposite of the first "cop" I encountered. Neither of them seems very cop-like and I'm still wondering what is really going on here. She pulls out a small tape recorded from her inner coat pocket and clicks play. I hear a voice that sounds similar to mine, but something isn't quite right about it.
"I did it," the voice sobs, "I killed him. I killed Jacob Gully. But it was an accident I swear!"
"It was an accident that his body was covered with knife wounds, many of them applied after he was already dead?" I recognize the female cop's voice, but somehow I still can't quite recognize my own.
"I'm so sorry," the voice that is like mine but not mine sobs. "I'm so sorry."
The cop stops the tape. "I'm so sorry," she echos. She seems to mean it, but I know that she's lying.
"That's not me," I say.
She wrinkles her brow in what I'm guessing is supposed to be confusion. "I really am sorry," she says, "but that is you. I'm sorry I deceived you, but I recorded you up in the interrogation room just before I brought you down here. You were crying as you confessed, and I can still see the tears fresh on your face."
I touch the tears on my face and my mouth drops open, but still I know something is wrong here. I know that's not me on the recording. "It's not me," I insist.
She relaxes a bit and smiles softly at me. "I really believe you think that," she says. "And if anything, that will help your plee."
"What plee?"
"Insanity."

Am I crazy? All of this has seemed so strange from the start. None of it has made any sense. But I can't be crazy. If I were crazy, I would have felt this way before; something like this would have happened much sooner. If I am crazy, it's not me that's really crazy; someone must be playing with my head. Was I drugged? Could that be what's going on.
"Hey!" I shout, jumping up and running to the cell door. No one comes so I shout again, "Hey!"
Finally a fat, lumbering male cop waddles my way. "What?" he demands with a bored sigh.
"I need a drug screening," I say.
His eyes open up a little. "You want a drug screening?"
"Yes, please."
He sighs. "Okay, I'll see what I can do."

It took too long. That was the problem. That was why it came up clean. "I know I was drugged," I insisted afterwards as the angry male cop put me back in the cell.
After he closes the door, he turns and looks at me. He doesn't seem as angry any more. "Listen," he says. "I'm sorry you have to go through this, but I promise, after the trial, they'll get you help. I'm going to see what I can do to expedite it."
"It's not my fault!" I insist. "I was drugged, poisoned, duped, something!"
He sighs. "I'm afraid not, sweetheart," he says. "Something of that potency would be detectable in your system for a long time."
"What potency?" I ask. "Who says it has to stay?"
He sighs again. "I'm sorry I was so rough on you before," he says. "It's my job."
He turns to walk away, but I shout out. "I want to talk to the other cop!"
He turns back. "To Victoria?" he asks.
I shake my head. "No," I say. "To the other one. To Jacob."
He frowns and looks like he might get angry again. "Just stop," he says. "Jacob's dead. You killed him."

It gets really dark that night. And cold. I feel so lonely. I wonder if anyone is feeding my cat, but I really don't care. I'm being accused of something I didn't do. Any humor that I may have seen in it before is long gone now. I just want to cry, but even that I can't do, so I just close my eyes and try to fall asleep.

"Don't be afraid."
I open my eyes. The light is blinding for a moment, but then my eyes adjust. I look around. I'm standing in a meadown on a hill side. Wide open spaces, tall grasses, trees on the horizon. I know I'm dreaming.
"Don't be afraid," the voice says again.
"Jacob?" I whisper. I turn and there he is. He's smiling, but his face is covered with scars.
"They can't hurt you," he says.
"What?"
"They can't hurt you," he says again.
"I know I'm dreaming," I tell him.
He reachs out and touches my face and for a moment I'm sure I'm not dreaming. "Check the phone records," he says.
"What?"
"Check the phone records."
And then I awake with a gasp. I'm in my dark cell again. I'm all alone.

The next morning I shout for the guard again. It's a similar lumbering fool, but a different fellow from the day before. "I want to talk to the first cop," I say.
He looks at me suspiciously, seems to have no idea what I'm talking about. "The one that brought me back after the drug screening yesterday," I say.
The fat fellow gives a brief nod and then walks away.
It feels like hours before bad cop shows up in his newly discovered good cop demenour. "Abagail, what can I do for you?" he asks.
I know this new-found friendliness must be part of some ploy. I can't believe he went so suddenly from believing I was a vicious killer to believing I was simply insane. If I were an insane killer, would that really be so much better to him than being a sane killer? Especially since they're accusing me of killing one of their own, a cop, I can't imagine it would make much difference to them. But still, I decide to risk that he'll actually help me, so I say, "My cell phone."
"Yes?"
"I want to see it."
He smirks. "I hardly think that will be allowed," he says.
"Then you look at it," I say. "Check the call log."
He frowns. "You don't think we already did?" he asks.
"You did?" I ask in surprise.
"Of course we did," he insists.
"Then you know."
"Know what?" He's either a great actor or he really has no idea what I'm talking about.
"I got a call right before I was arrested. See who it's from."
He sighs as if he's getting tired of this all. "There was no such call," he says.
"What?"
"There was no such call," he repeats.
"Then someone erased it," I insist.
"We're trying to get you help as fast as we can," he says. He just stands there looking at me for a moment as if he expects to say more. I look back, wondering what to say, when an image flirts across his face. It almost seems... it almost looks like Jacob.
"What does it matter to you?" I ask.
"What do you mean," he asks.
"What does it matter to you if I'm crazy or not?" I say.
"My sister," he says.
I'm silent waiting for me to go on.
"Jacob was my partner," he says, "but my sister, my crazy sister, she was my sister."
My eyes grow wide. For a moment I feel some deep connection to this man. I'm not sure what is going on, but I feel like I'm on the verge of something. "Are you saying..."
He frowns and looks like he's about to cry. "See you around, Abs," he says, and he turns and walks away.

I know he wasn't talking about me, or if he was, he was just trying to trick me. Abs, he called me. He took a gamble and lost. No one calls me Abs. I don't know why he wants me to think I'm crazy. I don't know why he wants me to think I'm his sister. Maybe he takes some sick pleasure in it. But the other cop, too, the female cop, she also wants me to think I'm crazy.
What happens when a crazy person commits a crime? Is it any better for them than if they were sane? Maybe these people just want to lock me away. Maybe they think death is the easy way out. But why do they want to do anything to me? Why do they care at all. I didn't kill Jacob.
But then how did I know? How did I know he was a cop?
Maybe he told me in the bar. Surely that's it. People also start out with their job, especially if it's something daring like being a cop.
But what if I'm looking at this all wrong. What if he isn't a cop at all? Maybe these people are just messing around; playing with my head. They never said anything about him being a cop until I started thinking he was a cop. Are they just going along with me on some things and opposing me on others? Why are they after me? Why are they after me?
"Relax."
I gasp. What if none of this is real? What if they only decided Jacob was a cop after I decided he was a cop if this is all in my head? Am I really crazy? Am I really that crazy?
I get up from the bed. I look at the bars of my cell. They aren't real. None of this is real.
I walk towards the bars. I'm not afraid anymore. I close my eyes and I walk.
I hit my head on something and I feel myself falling. The world stays dark.

"Order! Order in the court!"
I look around in surprise. How did I get here? There are people behind me, watching, sneering. There's a man beside me, old and wrinkled, but awake this time.
I look across the aisle and see the other lawyer, the smiling one, what's his name? Stephen Gilbert, that's it.
"What is he doing over there?" I ask, staring at Gilbert.
"He's the prosecution," the old lawyer beside me says. His voice startles me. It's old and wrinkled like he is, and I don't understand how I can have a lawyer who's never spoken to me before. "One of the up and coming prosecutors," the old man attorney goes on, "but don't worry, I have experience on my side and I negotiated quite the deal for you."
I look away towards the judge. Why is he wearing a white wig? That seems odd. I feel like I'm back in the 1700s. "How does the defendant plead?" the judge asks.
Both lawyers stand, which even I know is odd for this point in the trial, and together say, "Insane!"
There's an erruption of noise in the courtroom. Shouts and hollers. "Order! Order!" the judge is shouting. "She killed my son!" I hear a woman shout, but I turn and can't tell who shouted it. I can't tell what any one is shouting, there's too much noise. I close my eyes and cover my ears, but still I hear the shouts and then, suddenly, it all stops and there is nothing but silence.
Timidly, I uncover my ears, and then I open my eyes.
What I see nearly convines me I really am crazy. The room around me is frozen. My lawyer is standing stoic beside me. Ahead of me, the judge's mouth is open as if to shout something and the gavel in his hand is suspended in mid air, the stenographer looks horrified. I turn and look at the crowd behind me and see that they, too, are like an angry photo, unmoving and silent, but raised up in outrage. Then I sense movement ahead and turn with a start.
A man walks across the frozen stage. He's wearing a blazer and holding a beer can. There are no scars or marks of any kind on his face. He's like he was before, the first and only night I remember actually seeing him. "You didn't kill me," he says.
And then I hear a voice in the back of my mind squeel, "But I did!"
That voice, the second voice, I've heard it before! I've heard it before!
"Remember," Jacob says simply staring straight at me. I'm lost in his eyes and then...
Everything starts moving again. I'm staring ahead into nothingness. The noise is back, but it's in the background. What I hear clearly is a voice. "Remember."
I jump up and shout, "298-1375." There is still noise so I shout even louder, "298-1375!"
The judge stares at me and the rest of the court takes note. Slowly they quiet down and sit down until only I am standing, staring at the judge.
"What was that?" he asks.
"298-1375," I say again. "That's the number that called me right before I was arrested, to taunt me. That's Jacob's real killer."
The court erupts again and the judge is pounding his gavel again. He points at some cops in the corner and then at me and they rush to get me out. I think people are throwing things at me. I think it, but I don't understand. The anger and rage against me. I don't understand and then... outside the doors is silence. And I feel relief.
I look to my right at one of the cops who led me out. "Thank you," I say.
"You're welcome," the other says.
I turn and gasp as Jacob's face stares back at me again.

And then I'm back in the cell, that same dark cell that tormented me before. I touch my forehead and still feel the bruise from when I tried to escape before. Maybe I really am crazy.
And then I have a visitor. It's the angry cop from the start. He walks up to the cell, looks at me for a moment, and then unlocks the door and opens it.
"You're free to go," he says.
I stare at him in disbelief. "Is this some joke?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "No," he says, and I'm sure he's trying to sound reassuring, but his voice just makes me even less sure. "You were right from the start. Now you're free to go."
I stand up hesitantly.
"But what happened?" I ask.
"That phone number you remembered," he said. "It was Officer, well, former Officer Victoria's brother."
"What?"
"I don't know how you knew it, but after you said it, we looked into it. We found he had been calling, and apparently threatening, Jacob for months. Seems Jacob had been..." the cop sighs heavily, sadly, "Jacob had been making unwelcome advances on Victoria. She told her brother and he ended up killing Jacob. I'm still not sure why they chose to frame you... I guess because you had met Jacob recently and with your history and all..."
I can't believe what I'm hearing, but there's one part that jumps out at me. "What history?" I ask.
The cop frowns. "Your history of mental illness," he says. "They used you, Abagail. I'm sorry I didn't believe you before. It just all seemed so crazy." He reaches out his hand to touch my shoulder, but I jerk away.
I don't understand why I'm doing this, but I back away and sit back down on the cell bed. "Close the door," I say.
He looks at me in confusion. "What?"
"Close the door," I repeat. "Something still isn't right. Close the door and bring me a psychiatrist."

They cleared me. Just like the drug test, they cleared me. When I think I'm not crazy I am, and when I think I'm crazy I'm not. I don't know what to do other than go home. The sun is so bright. I've been down there so long, I'd almost forgotten what it's like. How long has it been, 5 days, 10 days? I hope the neighbor lady with the spare key had enough pity to go into my house and feed my cat.
So what do I do now? I guess I just go on with my life. I go home. They give me my cell phone back and I can't help but check. There are no calls from that number, no calls at all from 298-1375. Victoria must have erased it.
I check my contacts then. Jacob Gully's number is still there. Victoria must have planted it. I delete it. I sigh and put my cell phone away and walk to the nearest bus stop. It will be good to be home. I close my eyes and feel the wind across my face.
"Why did you do it, Victoria?" I hear a voice whisper.
I open my eyes, but Jacob isn't there. He was never there, and never will be. I don't know why I feel so sad. For some reason, I miss him, a man I hardly knew.
I get on the bus and go home.

My cat is still there, alive, so someone must have taken care of her. She makes me smile as she purrs and rubs up against my legs. I sit on the couch and watch the news. There's the story of it all, summed up in a few minutes, how Former Officer Victoria, feeling threatened by a co-worker, begged her brother for help and her brother took that as a request for murder. I'm barely even mentioned. In fact, I think the only mention of me is "an anonymous tip". I was hardly anonymous, but oh well. I'd rather be free and anonymous than...

I wake up to the sound of my phone rining. I pick it up and look at the number. It's one I don't recognize, but I answer it anyway. "Hello?"
"Abagail?"
"Yes?"
"They're coming for you."

Bits and pieces of memories. What else would be of interest to anyone? You don't want to hear my whole life's tale. You just want to hear the dangerous bits.

I was dating two boys at the same time when it happened. Neither of them was aware of the other. They went to different schools; actually, they even lived in different states, though just barely. I never really lied to either of them, it was just that to each, the other was a "friend". I guess I might have implied the "friend" was a female, but oh well.

I was "going" to school when it happened. I would loiter around the campus until one of the faculty saw me and asked me to leave. I only had to stay long enough to meet the kids who wanted to buy from me anyway. I never got caught doing anything illegal. They were good kids. I had a lot of respect for them, standing up for authority the way they did, even if they had to do it in secret.

I was performing at three different clubs when it happened. Of course my boyfriends didn't know, and neither did my parents or the few "friends" that I had. What would they think of me? I didn't need their respect or their sympathy or their love. I didn't do it for them. I did it for me. It made me feel beautiful, just for being.

That's all you really want to hear, right? I've told you the juicy bits. You can infer the rest for yourself, but I suppose for those who really want to know, I can tell the rest.

I'll start with the least justifiable and go to the most:
The boys had both cheated on my closest friends.
The clubs let me read poetry and sing.
I was giving away literature the schools wouldn't allow them to read.

But you didn't want to hear any of that. You just wanted to hear what you wanted to hear.

Truths My Mother Told Me

When I was very young, maybe seven or eight, I asked my mother a lot of questions. "A lot" isn't really strong enough to capture the number of questions I asked. She would often tell me things like, "You'll understand when you're older."

At that age, I imagined "when you're older" as just magically happening one day. My tiny mind didn't grasp the concept of gradually acquiring knowledge. I just figured that one night I would go to bed not knowing all these things, and then the next morning I would wake up knowing it all. When a couple years passed and this still hadn't happened, I decided that "when you're older" was just something my mom made up to get me to be quiet. I stopped asking so many questions after that.

I was a late bloomer in most regards. As late as ninth grade, I still viewed boys as primarily stupid and disgusting. I didn't really understand what "attraction" meant and I certainly didn't understand why everyone felt the need to be partnered up for dances and crap.

My liking of boys was the first thing that I noticed come about gradually. It wasn't like I woke up one day and decided, "Holy crap, that guy is hot." I grew from dislike to indifference to tolerance to liking to attraction over the course of about a year and a half.

When I had that first crush, one of the first things my mother told me when she found out (somehow) was that "No boy will every be worth it." At the time, I really wanted to ask what "it" meant. I had my suspicions, but I didn't think my mother was talking just about that. At any rate, I was pretty much done asking questions at that point so I just said, "Ok", and left it at that.

The first crush, as usual, didn't pan out to much. I'm pretty sure he didn't even know my name, but that's how it goes. Later I had a couple relationships, followed by a really long one that ended with me wondering why I had wasted so much of my life. That was when I understood. I told my mom, "Thank you", and wished I had really listened to her sooner.

There were lots of "thank yous" that went out to my mom over the years. It's hard to call to mind all the exact circumstances, but there were so many times that nonsensical things she had said just suddenly made sense. And yet, I never viewed my mom as a fount of endless wisdom. She just told me the truth when I could handle it and told me to wait when I couldn't.

I met many other mothers over the years. I had friends who came and went into and out of my life, and their mom's with them. I saw three basic types of mom. There was the cookie backing mom who always had something tasty to offer you and some obscure story or piece of advice. There was the polite mom who seemed to trust her daughter more than perhaps she should, but still had a nervous smile on her face whenever we would go out. And, fortunately less frequently, there was the hovering mom who wanted to know everything about her daughter and barely let us leave the house. I'm sure there are other types of moms, and in fact I know there are, because my mom didn't fit into any of those molds, and I always liked to think she was the only one like her.

My mom had half her head in the clouds and half her head firmly grounded. When she smiled, she meant it, and when she frowned, you knew she was disappointed. She was there for me when I needed her, but didn't force herself on me. She didn't say "I love you" a lot, but yet I knew she did. She seemed lonely sometimes, but she never called just because of that. She always had something to say and some reason to say it. She didn't talk just to talk. For most of my life, I have tried to be the same.

I've decided I never want to have children. I've been married for five years, and my husband got into it knowing my stance. If he ever backs out on that part, I know it won't be worth it. My mom taught me that.

I never want to have children because I could never stand any living creature loving me as much as I loved my mom, and I don't think I could ever be as wonderful as my mom was.

The day of my mom's funeral was the hardest day of my life, and I don't wish such torment on any one. They say losing a child is the worst feeling ever, but if I did ever have a child, I'd almost rather lose her than have her go through the torment of living me.

I don't know how many people have ever truly felt alone, but I did the day my mom died. In between the tears, I fought to remember all the wonderful things she had told me over the years, but I couldn't remember a single one at the time. That was terrible.

I'm not going to bore you with all the other things I've remembered now. I just wanted to take the time to write, like I do every year, to remind myself of how special my mom was to me. There was one thing I do remember her saying, that I never forget now, and that was "Nothing lasts here forever."

Those were the last words she said to me.

It seemed fitting.

I wonder often why she chose to say "here". My mother wasn't a terribly religious person, so I don't think she was referring to eternity, but maybe she was. I do know she had faith and hope, even though she didn't speak of them much. Mostly, I just think it's another one of those things that I won't understand until much later.

And this time, I won't be able to thank her.

Some things do come suddenly. Mostly, it's the things you don't want to come at all.

I love you, Mom. Rest in peace.

Remembering, Part 1

Wake up.

Who am I? Why am I here? I know what this place is called. It's a hospital. I'm in a bed. It's so bright in here. I don't know why it's so bright, but I don't think it's supposed to be so bright. Someone just walked in the room and they look really excited that I'm awake. I think she must be a nurse. She looks pretty frazzled and well worked. I think nurses work really hard. More people are coming in now. They're saying a name. "Clara." Is that who I am? Why can't I seem to say anything. I think I'm choking. I think I'm crying. There's definitely something wet on my face. I don't think I even know these people. They seem to know me. They keep saying that name.

"Am I Clara?"

They seem really worried now. And scared. There's whispering and they left. I feel so alone. I felt comforted when they were here. I don't know who I am or where my family is. Could that have been my family? That's ridiculous. I don't remember those people at all. But I can't remember myself either. I'm not even sure I know what I look like. My hair is brown? Or maybe it's blonde. No, I'm looking at it now, it's definitely black. This is all so weird. Wouldn't you think someone named Clara would have lighter hair? Who would name a black haired baby Clara? Maybe I didn't have hair when I was born. Or maybe I dye it. I would have to see the roots to really know. Why do I care what my natural hair color is?! I don't even remember my last name. I sure hope those people weren't my family. I'd sure hope I'd at least remember my family! But I don't even remember my own name. This is so surreal. What even happened to me? I don't remember anything, but I feel exhausted. I wonder if I was asleep for a long time. They're coming back in the room now. I don't know what to say to them.

"I'm sorry."

They're crying. Well, at least the woman I thought was the nurse is. Is that my mother? Could that be my mother? She looks too young to be my mother. I feel like I must be at least 30. That woman looks like she's in her late 40s. How old am I? How can I not even know how old I am. I feel so old. But I think 30 is old, so I must not be 30. Who on earth am I? Oh, there's a doctor stepping forward now. He better be a doctor and not my dad. He has some sort of chart. Amnesia. Yeah, I could have told me that.

"What happened to me?"

Car accident? Well apparently I'm at least old enough to drive because no one seems shocked that I was driving. If I got in a crash maybe I'm young and reckless. Oh. Drunk drive, other guy's fault. Well that sucks. I was coming home to visit my family. I must be in college or something. That would certainly make sense. At least I'm not dead, but this sure sucks. I feel like I'm trapped inside my mind somewhere and I can't get out. Even I don't know where I really am. Geeze that sounds philosophical. I sure hope I'm not a philosophy major. That stuff seems too deep for me. But maybe it isn't. Maybe I love it. When you have amnesia, can things you love seem foreign to you? Well, it must be possible because I'm sure I love my family if I was coming home to see them and they all seem completely foreign to me. But then again, maybe they were forcing me to come home and I really hate them all. But that doesn't feel right. Nothing feels right. This is all so exhausting and is getting me no where. I'll figure it out tomorrow. Right now, I'm so tired I just need to...

Sleep.

My World

I made this world, my world, for them, that they would enjoy it and that they would thank and praise me for what I had done for them. But they don't even know that I exist. I've sent them so many signs, so many messages. I have even showed myself in person, told them directly that I love them, showed them what my love is. Still they ignore me. I taught them by example how to live, the secrets to true joy and happiness. They think their way is better. They forget and ignore me.

They don't want my way because my way seems hard to them. They don't realize how draining and difficult their way is. They think they know better how they were designed to live. They forget that I was the one who designed them in the first place. They make things of their own design and get angry when those things don't act right, don't do what they are meant to do. The things they create break and they try to fix them, but yet they won't let me fix them, my creation.

They want to be loved by those they care for, and yet they show me no love. I not only care for them, I made them, I designed them. That desire for love that they have, I put that there to begin with. Don't they realize I want it, too? Don't they realize I have a plan for each of them?

They think they are better on their own. They think they understand. Some even think they understand me, but they don't. They think no one can possibly understand them, though they are simple beings, and yet they presume to know me. I have revealed myself to them, but the full extend of my will is unknowable. I have shown them time and time again that I know what I am doing, and that I am looking out for them, but still they won't trust me. They turn to their own ways. They turn to the very things that are hurting them so much. If they would just let me work my desired purpose through them, they would see what their lives were meant to be. I made them. I designed them. I made this world for them, and another even better if they would just accept the offer I give to them.

I love my people, my creation. I love each and every one of them that has been and is and ever will be. I know all their futures. I know the choices they will make and I know the choices they should make. Still, I reach out to them and beg them to do things my way, the right way, the way it was designed to be. If they would listen, they would know what freedom and happiness and love really are. But I did not design them to be forced to do my will. I offer freely, and they must accept. They must see and open their hearts. I want them all to come to know the truth. And it starts with just one.

If just one will see and know and accept and understand what I am trying to say, what I have been trying to say all these years, then it can spread. If you know the truth, if you have the secret to true happiness, it has to spread. That one person has those they love and each of those has others they love, and that's how it begins. That's how the truth spreads.

I love you. Will you love me? Will you accept my call to be the start of something wonderful?

Princess

The sun still rises. 293 days trapped in this tower and the sun still rises. My mother used to tell me that someday my prince would come. I'm not even sure if I want him to, considering it was my mother's prince who put me here.

296 days since my mother died. She fell off a horse and broke her neck, or so the clerics said. There was nothing they could do for her. I had to be seen at her funeral, but as soon as it was done, he locked me away.

The first few weeks were the worst. I didn't know what he meant to do with me, feared he would have me killed as I feared he had my mother. Once enough time passed, I knew I was just going to be stuck here.

They give me food and water. Good food and fresh water at that. It is clear they don't mean to kill me. I think they are keeping me to be married. I'm nearly 17, so it must be coming soon. I wondered if he meant to marry me himself, and was just waiting for enough time to pass since my mother's death, but the mourning period is long past now, so I must be intended for another.

I never liked him that much even before. I don't know why the realm still cheers for him. I hear them sometimes, from way up here. He has had a tourney just a few weeks passed, probably to symbolize that he is officially out of mourning. I was not in attendance of course. He probably figured it was still close enough to mother's death that it could be said I was still in mourning even if her husband was not. After all, we women are a weak sex and cannot recover from grief so quickly as our male counterparts.

293 days. I keep count carefully to keep myself from going crazy. I try to hope that there will be a prince yet for me, a true, good prince, but it seems unlikely. The realm has forgotten me, and never cared all that much about me even when they remembered me. It was my mother they had loved, and then the prince she married. They never loved me and they had completely forgotten my father even existed long ago.

I am a princess, but I don't feel like one. Of course, I've never met another princess so I never know what I ought to feel like. My mother was already a queen when I was born and I have no other siblings. It really is surprising that I am still alive. Maybe I am not entirely forgotten even now.

Or maybe I am still alive because I am forgotten. Maybe I only live because this great king told the servants to bring me food and water every day and never told them to stop. Either way it doesn't matter. I just sit here and watch the sun rise out of one window and set out of the other. Anything else is meaningless. I wish I weren't a princess.

Is there a point to all of this? No, not really. I write my thoughts only to keep myself sane. I have no requests or wisdom to share or anything like that. I don't know if anyone will ever even find this diary. I certainly hope the king does not, at least not while I still live. I suppose I do want someone to know the truth: that I am still here, and I am still the princess, even if it is hundreds of years and my name is long forgotten before they realize it. I am a princess and someday, my mother promised me, my prince will come.

Redemption

Sometimes I still have the dreams. Even after five years, sometimes I still see it while I'm sleeping, the face of the life we took. When that happens, I open my eyes and I tell myself that it was wrong, but there's nothing I can do now to change it. All I can do is try to make other things right. And at least these dreams that I dream now aren't real.

It was hard not to blame myself, and even knowing that I wasn't the only one to blame didn't make it any easier. After all, I was the only one who realized what we were doing in time that I could have stopped it. It took time to realize, but now I know that even as horrible as what we did, what I did, was, there was something to be gained from it. That creature, that good, pure guardian, did not die in vain.

Telling the others what I knew helped. It wasn't something I could keep bottled inside. It was strange to think that I was the only one who knew, truly knew, the fullness of what we had done, that knew for a fact that we had destroyed something good. I don't know what they really thought about what I told them. One didn't seem to care, another was quiet as always, the third really seemed to take it to heart. I thought I knew and loved him once, but time changes good feelings as well as bad.

Whatever they've done with their knowledge, I've done my best to find redemption. What I've realized recently is that I never truly will find it, but still I try to do what's right. That's why I volunteer at the animal shelter and why I help coach soccer for the elementary school kids. That's why I give all I can on the field and even more when the game is over. That's why I talk to the kids and try to help them. That's why I'm going to be a teacher one day.

I know I won't fix everything, and things still would have been better if we hadn't made the mistake we did, but that's really all it was: a mistake. Saying anything more or less isn't going to fix it; nothing will bring him back. I have to live with what I did, but he wouldn't want me to do anything else. I know that it, he, whatever would want me to keep living. That was his whole purpose: to see that I and the others kept living. I won't destroy him yet again by denying him that.

And so I live. Sometimes I'm still haunted. We all have our demons, and though I don't know of anyone, aside from the other three, who have as strange and unique a story as ours, we all have our demons still. The one thing I don't do is confess to anyone else that it was real. I know they'd think I was crazy, but knowing that those who went through it with me know it was real is enough. Just having one other person to talk to, not to mention three, makes a world of difference.

And so it is. I tell the kids the same thing I tell myself: we all mess up and we all do bad things. It doesn't do any good to dwell on it. Say you're sorry and try to do better next time, and I mean really try. And remember when someone does something mean to you, that they mess up too, just like you do. Forgive and don't hold it against them.

I know that if he could forgive me, he would. All I saw in his eyes at the end was pain and sadness, but I like to think that if he could look into me again, I'd see pride in his eyes instead. I try to do what's right by him, and I will. In my own way, I have become the next guardian.

-Amanda