Erm...

thethemeis: Shame
theauthoris: Deadbeat

I just stood there starring at the floor.

“What the fuck man!”

The only bare section of carpet in which a complete version of it’s pattern could be seen was between the chair and the wall. Five and a half pattern lengths by eight and a bit the room was.

“Are you actually going to say anything?”

My fingers were dancing. It wasn’t their usual measured & co-ordinated jig. They skittered and tripped, frantically trying to work out the pressure growing in my pounding head. It was a futile effort.

“Do you even remember what you did last night?”

It was something to do with the kitchen. I’m sure there were many things, but the really bad one involved the kitchen. I couldn’t see it from where I was standing. I’d been confronted before I had the opportunity to check on the results of my previous night's actions. Perhaps i'm wrong. Domestic issues can be easily forgiven, he looks far angry than that. How long has that newspaper been under the sofa.

"You do this all the fucking time! You get so pissed up that you don't know what you're doing and you fuck it up for the rest of us."

This is definitely about more than the kitchen (unless i've broken his Jura Impressa 27, chrome). I must've done something to damage our reputation. That's always the problem when I get on the charlie. Nine times out of ten i'm the bomb. My wits are sharp, the girls love me and the guys hate me. But every now and then it goes horribly wrong and I come off as an absolute cock. Perhaps that's it, maybe I went rogue and fucked it up for the other guys who were onto a sure thing.

I switch my view from the floor to the new Sony 65" LED backlight TV, HD & 3D. The news is on, something about atrocities in some North African country. I know it's important to stay on top of current affairs, but I struggle to motivate myself to do so. Personal i've never found it that useful, my conversation is always built more around the moment. I wonder if always carrying things on your head like that has some sort of long term effects on the brain.

"So what was she like than, was it worth it?"

She? Who's he talking about. There was no one in my bed this morning. I say morning, it is nearly noon. Maybe she's already gone. Why would he be angry though? Unless... Marisa, she was there last night. I wouldn't though, would I? I mean, I definitely would! Who wouldn't? But I wouldn't actually. We have always got along though and she wouldn't have any problem doing it, not the way it ended between them. If it was Marisa then it's a cruel shame that I can't remember the night's events but still face the repercussions.

The Warehouse

thethemeis: Shame
theauthoris: LiamD

   ‘It’s a real shame y’know,’ a ridiculously stereotyped Brooklyn accent tells me as I awaken. Like most voices I hear for the first time, this one sounds familiar, yet I can’t quite place my finger on where I have heard it before. Perhaps I never will. Much of my body aches and a connection between my physical state and the passive aggressive tone of my acquaintance becomes apparent. I cautiously open my eyes and try to stop them widening in shock when they see the gun pointed toward my face, close enough for me to read the embossed ‘COLT’ and patent information that runs across the steel barrel. The hand inside the leather glove that holds the pistol steady belongs to a well-dressed young man with clean, slicked-back hair. If he wasn’t pointing a gun at a man bound to a chair who had been asleep not two minutes ago, I might have thought him respectable.

   ‘A guy with your… skills… could make a lot of money working for the boss.’ he tempts. In spite of myself, I have to disguise a suicidal snigger at his pronunciation of the last word, and how it could almost rhyme with paws. He pauses for a moment, perhaps awaiting a response. If so, I don’t give him one. Instead I think about the connotations of what he is saying. If someone has found out what I do, I can sure see the potential benefits of having me as a ‘friend’. The problem is, my little trick is far from reliable, and if these people are as shady as this gentleman implies, I doubt they would have much sympathy or patience on my ‘off’ days. My best hope at this stage is escape.

   ‘What’s going on? Who are you?’ I ask in what I hope is a confused tone. I scan the room in front of me, trying not to move my head too much. The last thing I want to do is excite his trigger finger.

   The room we’re in is some sort of warehouse, I’ve gathered that much. Behind my captor is a large, green-coated machine with a jagged metal feed tray that disappears into its belly and presumably connects to the long conveyor belt emerging from it’s rear end. It’s neighboured at either side by identical machines in a row which spans the entire width of the room – about one hundred metres give or take. There must be at least thirty of these beasts in total. From the messy spats of ink on and around each unit I guess them to be industrial printers. Whatever they are they clearly haven’t been used in a while, and that thought above all others scares me; I can’t think of many reasons to bring someone to a place like this.

   ‘If you don’t quit with that “Where am I?” shit, you get a bullet in your skull, capisce?’ This time I don’t dream of laughing, all the faux-humour from his face has faded and I’m left eyeballing an angry man with a gun. I nod slowly. His voice, that which was earlier so deceptively good-natured and breathy, is now harsh and nasal.

   ‘I’m trying to help you here, pal. Not many people get a second chance after crossing the boss.’ He sighs, as if genuinely distressed at my predicament, or perhaps at himself for losing patience, before continuing in his previous warmer tone. ‘Killing you… that would be a real shame.’ I feel my aching muscles tighten as he speaks the worst aloud. Is murder his priority? I’m not convinced, but the thought of it still frightens me. His eyes have something about them. They are the cold blue eyes of a killer.

   This may just be the worst case scenario playing out before my eyes. Even if I can loosen this rope that binds my hands together there’s no cover nearby, no getting away from a jerk of his index finger and the bullet that would follow.

   ‘Last chance, bub. Whaddya say…’ he is cut off mid-sentence by a shrill ringing coming from a nearby desk. After racking my brains I recognise it as the sound of an old-fashioned phone. The phone he answers is in fact ancient by todays standards, not that I have any idea what day it is…

   ‘Y’ello?’ he pauses after answering and makes subtle improvements to his mannerisms, some visual. ‘…Yeah I’m here with him now boss…’

   While he’s distracted I frantically examine my immediate area, there must be something around here that can help me escape a bullet in the head. I realise I’m panicking and force myself to calm down. Closing my eyes, I count to five slowly, then open them and take a fresh look around. Nothing too far away can help me, I’ve established that. What is there nearby? I come close to giving up hope when my head droops and I finally see it. There, on the floor no more than thirty centimetres to the right of my chair, is the solution to my problem.

   ‘…Are you sure? Think of the things he could do for y… …yes boss, I’m sorry, whatever you say… no boss, you won’t have to do that at all, I’ll get right on it…’ He turns back to me sporting a grim smile, apparently not noticing the serene expression that has replaced the flood of anxiety I had previously felt. His telephone conversation and morbid grin should leave me unnerved, but instead I’m feeling the enchanting pulse of excitement, maybe even with a hint of confidence.

   ‘Sorry, kid.’ He says. ‘Looks like you should’ve taken the lifeline while you had the chance.’ He raises the colt so it’s once again pointed towards my face, tells me one last time:

   ‘It’s such a shame,’

   then fires his weapon.

An Unusual Love

thethemeis: Shame

theauthoris: Aaron Twentythree

   A lot of people I talk to about this ask me if I've ever had sex with women, and if I think I'd enjoy it. Of course I have. Hasn't everyone? It was ok, but it's not what I want. It's not what my body needs. I heard someone say once, 'the heart just wants what the heart wants,' and that's exactly true. I can't change the way I am just to suit the warped perceptions of others. If they have a problem with what I enjoy in my private life, then that's their issue to deal with, not mine. They should mind their own business. I don't go barging into their houses telling them how to chop their onions.

   But still, the shame eats me up. I can't reveal to anyone new what I'm into. I'm sure a lot of people would be fine with it, but there's a heartless few who would scoff and judge and treat me like a freak, an animal that should be caged up. Only a few close friends know just how deep this goes. I certainly can't tell my parents, they'd disown me for sure. They're so hung up on what the neighbours think of them that I'd be excommunicated before I could even say, 'I'm sorry, but...'

   So instead, I'm writing it down. Once and for all, I'm admitting that the love that I've found in life is less usual than you'd expect from someone who is in every other respect as everyday and normal as I am. I'm telling the world, and if the world doesn't want to deal with it then that's the world's problem. I'm shedding the shame, so that others just like me can follow suit without fear or delay.

   Here it is, for you to get over:

   I am in love with my car.

What You Need to Know About Women

thethemeis: Bad Advice

theauthoris: Aaron Twentythree

   ‘The one thing you have to know about women,’ the man says, sitting next to his son on a bench at Waterloo East station, the rain beating down on the corrugated roof above them, ‘is that they’re all lying, cheating, filthy bitches. None of them can be trusted, and none of them are worth a second of your time. That’s the truth, buddy. Remember that.’

   ‘Okay, dad,’ replies the boy, playing with a Dr. X action figure that he holds in his hand.

   But the man isn’t finished there.

   ‘There’s this thing called sex,’ he continues loudly, ‘which you’ll learn about when you grow up, and that’s how babies are made. The one thing you need to know about it is never to have it, because no matter how much you don’t want a baby and no matter how careful you are, those lying cheating bitches I told you about will sabotage the whole thing and get pregnant deliberately just to trap you in. You’ll hear the phrase “lock it down” one day, and let me tell you now that that shit was invented by a woman. A woman thought that up, when she was planning how to get herself preggers and lock her poor man down. Probably poking holes in a condom or something.’

   By now, the commuters that stand around waiting for their rides home have started shooting uncomfortable glances at the man, for just a couple of seconds here and there. Some of them let their eyes hover, and judge the man for holding an open can of Fosters; but he doesn’t give a fuck.

   ‘Okay, dad. What’s a condom?’

   ‘Just this thing that women sabotage to lock you down, son. Forget about those, they might as well not exist. Bottom line is, don’t have sex. Not with women, anyway.’

   ‘Got it, dad.’

   ‘And another thing. If you decide to talk to a woman ever, don’t let them know how much money you have. That’s like, the biggest mistake you can make. Women only like two things: money and power. It’s the only reason they’ll ever be attracted to a man. And once they’ve got that man, they use up all his money and destroy all his power and then they move on, like fucking… leeches. Never let a woman near your credit card, your bank statements, your car, or anything else that means anything at all to you or has any monetary value.’

   ‘What about my Action Men?’ enquires the boy, looking up at his father and squinting, trying his hardest not to look at the woman who is scowling so harshly at his dad.

   ‘Fuck your Action Men,’ burps his dad, before taking another huge swig of Fosters. ‘Haven’t you grown out of them yet? How old are you?’

   ‘Seven and a half.’

   ‘Younger than I thought. Whatever.’ He hiccoughs.

   The woman who has been scowling at the boy’s father tuts and sighs then smiles at the boy, wishing for his sake that his father was giving him a better upbringing. ‘What?’ the man barks, ‘Got something to say, darlin’?’

   She hasn’t got anything to say. She returns to her free paper.

   ‘That’s another thing about women. They think they’re right about every fucking thing in the world. They’ve got more opinions than brain cells. You think of something, I guarantee a woman will have a strong opinion about it. And it’s not just your everyday sensible opinion, it’s a really fucking irate opinion that gets her all riled up and hot and wet about it. She’ll scream the house down about fucking… health policy, but if you talk about something important like football, she’ll roll her eyes like you’re the one who’s always talking shit. And then there’s the…’

   ‘Dad?’ The boy interrupts.

   ‘What?’

   ‘The other day mum said, “Don’t listen to your dad, he’s a complete fucking drunk waste of space. He must be the only man in the world with an IQ identical to his dick length.” Was she right?’

   The man just stares at his boy, leaning on his knee with the Fosters can in hand. The woman who was scowling laughs to herself, trying to keep it under wraps but snorting loudly. The conversing pair remains silent for what seems like minutes, just staring into each other’s eyes.

   ‘Yeah, she probably was,’ says the man, bringing the can to his lips again.

A Trip to the Shop

thethemeis: An Endless Cycle

theauthoris: Deadbeat

I awake in a room that looks as though it belongs to an anally retentive student mid-way through exam season. Two of the walls are custard yellow with small paper notes and the TV has been turned into a noticeboard, complete with calendar. I recognise it as my house, though laid out very differently. My head is pounding and mouth is desperately dry, I must've been on the booze last night. I make my way into the kitchen and sure enough, standing on the kitchen counter is a police line-up of possibly guilty, non-branded spirits. Personally I think the white-label gin is acting as though it has something to hide. Now I can add on to the increasing pile of questions I have surrounding the state I find myself in, "why have I reduced myself to buying such cheap, nasty booze."


I reach out to the cold tap and place my head open mouthed underneath it. I doubt there's a clean glass in this room. I twist the stainless steel faucet, but to my arid throats disappointment nothing happens. Upon closer inspection the tap and sink look as though they haven't seen moisture in a considerable amount of time. It is only at this point that I begin to realise just how much of a state my house is in. Having woken up feeling like George Best's adopted and equally mistreated liver, I missed the more obvious signs and simply assumed that my house was the victim of a weekend long binge. Now I look closer I see that all of the windows are covered. A large metal dustbin stands in the corner surrounded by empty tin cans. All the electrical appliances are either missing or used for other purposes. There are no homely comforts at all in fact. It's as though i'm living in some post-appocalyptic squat.


Eventually I find what seems like a bucket of rain water near the front door and quench my thirst before setting off to find out what the hell has gone on here. It seems that the yellow post-it-notes which cover the walls are instructions written by my own clumsy hand. I make my way over to my new 42 inch TV which seems to be the centre of the whole operation. A sign above the calendar reads:


CROSS OFF THE NEXT DAY ON THE CALENDAR AND COMPLETE THE SET TASKS


Apparently today is 13th February, a Tuesday. There's only one task for today. SHOPPING. I glance back through the previous months, noticing that shopping is a fortnightly activity for me. Ah well, at least I can get myself something half-decent to drink now.


I still can't remember a damn thing. It's not just the previous day that i've lost, no matter how hard I can try I can't picture anything that explains my situation. I still have all my old memories of Adriana and Chris, of moving here. They all feel distant though, like a film I watched a long time ago. I'm not exactly sure how much time has passed, but I can tell it's been this way for a while.


Also attached to the derelict TV set are some basic instructions for my shopping trip. It tells me where to go, even though there's only the one shop in town. It says that there's a shopping trolley just outside the house which I can use and to make sure I stock up mainly on bottled liquids and tin foods. Even though I know the instructions are from my own hand, I can't help but feel irritated by their patronising tone. I trail off half way through and decided to just head down now to get something which will settle my stomach. After searching through the living room for about 5 minutes, I find my wallet and head out of the house.


I wasn't quite ready for the sight that awaited me on the other side of the door. It appears that it is not just my house which is in a state, the whole town appears deserted. Not just that, the buildings all looked as though they'd faced some great bombardment. Windows were smashed in, doors hung loosely off of their hinges. Some even just had great big holes through the walls. You could be forgiven for thinking that nobody had lived in this town for years. I notice the trolley that was mentioned in the note a few meters away from my front door. I begin to push it down the road, still in awe of what had happened to our small community.


After 15 minutes I come to the local food store. It was big enough for all your essentials, but we still tended to make a monthly trip up to City to get all the other things we occasional needed. We used to anyway. I hadn't seen a single trace of life all the way here and the store seemed to offer no more reason for optimism. As I approached the door, it hit me. The foulest stench I could imagine, like old garbage that had been left to rot beyond all recognition. I may not have seen a single living person in the town, but I wondered briefly I was about to encounter one, or possible many deceased ones. Barging my trolley through the broken, automatic doors I got a sight of what it was that had caused the unholy smell. Rows and rows of putrid vegetables. And further beyond that, what used to be the fresh meat section. There were flies everywhere, it was like one of those relief videos for an african village. I had absolutely no desire to investigate the scene further, so I quickly made my way to the opposite end of the store, where the liquor was kept.


I noticed that all over the store, the shelves were largely bare. The only shelves which seemed well stocked were the ones containing rotting produce. Upon reaching the liquor section, I found the answer to at least one of the questions buzzing around my head. The reason I had taken to drinking such low quality spirits was that there was next to nothing else left. All the beers had gone and most of the wine. There was only the cheap red left, which I wasn't fond of at the best of times. Naturally all of the whisky had gone. I was only left with a few dozen bottles of various budget spirits and a mixture of liqueurs that I hadn't (to my memory) tried before. I decided to be conservative and only took a few bottles of what was there. Besides, excessive drinking probably wasn't helping whatever was causing my memory loss.


I spent the next 20 or so minutes collecting various tinned food and some dried produce. I had to venture near the bakery section for the jars of jam which was another less than pleasant experience. I found a few post-it-notes in various places around the store too. One informed me that there was some extra supplies in the back, but I discovered that I must've followed this note several times previously as there was significantly less in the store room than it seemed their should be. The empty cardboard and plastic packaging also pointed to my previous hoarding. On closer inspection I decided that there probably was still more than enough throughout the store to feed a person for many, many months. It's just that I had (I assumed) already taken a lot of the good stuff.


As I went to pick up a sweet snack for myself on the way out I wondered just how many times I had done this before. Working my way through the chocolate bars I noticed that all my favourites had already gone.


ONE PER DAY!


...a note screamed assertively at me from the top shelf. "Fuck you" I thought and scooped an entire box of Twix's into my trolley. They're by no means my favourite, but given the choice they'd have to do. But what will I do next fortnight. Milky Way probably, then the Smarties, then god knows. I was stuck in a loop. Performing the same tasks month after month and probably thinking exactly the same thoughts every time. Perhaps two weeks ago I was stood going through exactly the same shit in my head. But this loop can't last forever. There are supplies here for now, but they'll eventually deplete. I've got to find out what the fuck is going on.


I leave my trolley where it is and run out of the store. I go house to house looking for clues, breaking in through the window where I need to. Most homes look as though they've just be left in hurry, others seem as though they've been turned over and left in a state. Not to the extent of my house, but definitely squatted in briefly. There's no sign of people (or bodies) in any of them and I begin to turn my attention to going through their kitchens whilst i'm there. A few places still have some useable supplies. One house even had a half full bottle of Jack Daniels. I take a few swigs as I go through the rest of their larder. I polish a few tins a sardines and make my way upstairs to see what else is about.


I find a study that appears to have belonged to the man of the house. In the top draw of his desk I find a journal and begin reading from the end to see if it offers any clues as to what has happened. The last entry details a fairly uneventful day in which the writer has to attend a meeting in the city about some merger or other. It's hard to tell exactly what he does for a living, he spends most of the entry describing in great detail how much he despises the head of the opposing companies board. I drink a little more JD and carry on reading backwards. Nothing out of the ordinary seems to happen in the town. In fact his personal life seems to feature very little in his journal at all. Eventually I decide it's a waste of time and put it back in the drawer.


I've only been awake for 3 or 4 hours, but with quite a large amount of Jack Daniels now in my system and still feeling quite drunk for yesterday I begin to feel drowsy. Admittedly I got up a little early on account of being so incredibly thirsty. I decide to have a quick nap in the master bedroom before I take the shopping back to my house. I finish off the bottle of JD and lay down.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

I awake in a room that personifies middle America with it's huge wardrobes and meticulously tidy decor. This certainly isn't my house. I feel slightly tipsy, though not overly hung-over. Despite this I struggle to remember how on earth I came to be here. It seems to be late afternoon. I get up off of the bed, fully dressed, and move to the door to listen out for anybody else that may be in the house. It sounds eerily silent out there. I slowly make my way downstairs to find that the place is completely empty. It looks as though somebody has burgled the place,  the window is broken and everything has been turned over. I haven't got a clue what i'm doing here but i'd decide to leave before any blame can be put at my door.

I open the door slightly to make sure I can sneak out unseen, only to discover that the whole town is deserted. Not only is the town devoid of people, it looks as though it has been hit by some natural disaster. I walk out into the middle of the road to take in the whole scene. The house that I have just come from is not far from the local food store. In a state of complete confusion I run back to my house to see whether my wife and son are there and to make sense of this whole thing.

I run in through the open door and find myself in a room which feels as though it belongs to a mentally unstable poet. I search through all of the rooms but find no trace of either Adriana or Chris. Then I notice the new 42 inch television which is now absolutely covered in paper. I read the notes which explain that I have damage my brain such that I am experiencing life through a series of short passages, after which time my memory disappears. I large note on top of the TV set reads:

CROSS OFF THE NEXT DAY ON THE CALENDAR AND COMPLETE THE SET TASKS

I look at the calendar which states that today is 14th February, a Wednesday.

The Glitch

thethemeis: An Endless Cycle

theauthoris: Aaron Twentythree

   This must be a glitch, Darryl thinks to himself, as Scarlet stomps into the room complaining about how he's left his used underwear lying around or she doesn't like the way he smells today or some bullshit that he doesn't have the attention span to listen to. Like a moth to a fly zapper, she always seems to decide to fuss around him just as he's sitting down to get stuck into some programming. 

   'And you never rinse the bath out after you've got out of it,' Scarlet continues, and Darryl thinks about how she never used to complain like this. Once upon a time, she was madly in love, desperate to impress him, absolutely blind to his myriad of flaws; but a few weeks ago, something changed. All Darryl did was sit down in front of his laptop, much like now, and start programming; but somewhere along the line, he missed something. He made a mistake, or overlooked a vital event, or completely ignored a glaring problem, and now he's stuck on the end of a constant barrage of displeasure from the one who used to do nothing but worship him. Rather than talk to her to sort it out, he resorts to coding more often now. If he lacks the ability to fix his relationship through talking, he'll fix his applications through hard work instead. 

   And so he just frowns harder at the screen, taps the keys on his keyboard with a little more purpose, and looks harder for this glitch of his, while she walks from each decorative object in the room to the next, straightening each one and complaining that they weren't straight before she did so. 

   The sex is another thing he misses. At the click of his fingers, with just a few simple commands, he would once have her on her back with her legs behind her ears or hanging from monkey bars upside down completely naked, ready for the next sexual adventure he had decided they should try. This was back when their relationship was young, back before he ran out of ideas. Now, she even complains in the bedroom. Sure, she'll take part in sexual activity as much as he wants; but why would he want to when she is tirelessly making it clear that nothing he's doing is a thrill to her?

   ‘What are your socks doing here?! Your socks do not belong here!’ She screams.

   Or maybe it’s not something Darryl has done at all. Maybe this is just the way the relationship was always going to develop. Maybe from the start, it was programmed into her that she would get this way. Maybe they’ve spent so much time together stagnating in this tiny flat that she was always bound to lose interest. Maybe he’s not the girl he was looking for; after all, he’s never had a girl like her before.

   And just as he begins to think this, it hits him. Right there between the eyes, the glitch smacks him with the hard realisation that everything he has done to debug the relationship so far has been completely and utterly retarded. There it is, an endless cycle. An infinite loop.

      public static void Main(String[] args){

         while(true){

            Issue newissue = findSomethingToMoanAbout();

            moanAbout(newissue);

         }

      ...

   He had written it months ago, when joking around with his friend that she never complained and that maybe she should try one day. He had forgotten it was there, and now it had come back to bite him. ‘YES!’ He yelled, punching his fists into the air and rocking back in his chair.

   Excitedly, he highlighted the offending loop and hit Delete. Barely able to contain himself, he hit Build Solution… and uploaded the new code to his device.

   Then he sat back and watched, as Scarlet stopped complaining, put down the furniture she was moving around, and walked out of the room, heading straight for the monkey bars.

Church Roof

thethemeis: Idols

theauthoris: Aaron Twentythree

   We should have known their relationship wasn’t healthy from the start. She was obsessed with him, dependent on him, following him everywhere like a lost puppy. Her eyes grew wide and tearful and her body recoiled into an invisible shell even when he just left the room. When he went to work for the day, she would hardly be able to lift herself from the sofa, sitting there all day barely saying a word and biting her nails. You could encourage her to open up, try as hard as you could to charm her out of her basket, but she just wouldn’t be happy until he returned.

   So we tried to wean them off each other. When two people are that close, you can’t just tear them apart; but we tried to ease in a kind of space between them, a small amount of slack so that they both had space to blossom independently.

   Obviously, when he was offered that three-month placement in Slough, we encouraged him to take it with zeal. He was unsure how she’d react being so far from him for a quarter of a year, but we told him it would be great for her, and that by the time he came back she’d be a new girl. So he left, and the hell started.

   At first, she threw a tantrum every day. Not twenty-four hours could go by without a plate being smashed or a glass being thrown against a wall. All her frustration was aimed at us, the people who had torn her from her idol. We thought it’d pass, that it’d make her stronger, but it just got worse.

   Soon, she’d leave the house and go missing for a couple of days and come back in messy clothes with a handful of stolen goods. She’d come back smoking two cigarettes at once with FUCK THE WORLD written across her forehead in lipstick. I begged her, implored her to straighten up and fly right; but she didn’t want to know. She wouldn’t be happy until he was back.

   Then, with only two months before his return, we got a phone call from the police, telling us to come to the church down the road as soon as possible. “There’s a situation,” they said, “that requires your attention.”

   She was standing on the roof, screaming at the top of her lungs, incomprehensible wailing that I could only guess would translate to “bring him back”. I would have been reluctant – the first rule of parenting is never to give a child something they’re screaming about just because they’re screaming about it – but when that child is standing on the roof of a church screaming it, looking ready to jump, you just oblige.

   He arrived three hours later, tired from the drive and slightly irritated that he was dragged away in the middle of a work day, and spoke to the attending police officers for a while before climbing the stairs to join her on the roof. From down there on the pavement, we saw him approach her cautiously, trying not to step as close to the edge as she was. We saw him talk slowly and calmly to her, persuading her to step away.

   We saw her posture ease up, the tension slowly drain out of her. She was happy again, now that her idol was back. Just when she needed him, he had come; and she was noticeably happier already.

   After a few minutes of talking, it seemed to be resolved. She stepped back from the edge just a foot, and he embraced her in his arms. She nestled her head into his chest, and their hug displayed a love so infectious that all of us on the pavement jumped up and down with relief. Some people clapped. I saw a lady police officer wipe a tear from her eye.

   Then she jumped. With her arms still around her brother, my daughter launched herself from the roof, dragging him down toward the ground with her. Head first, streamlined, like a falling dart, they rushed toward the concrete floor a hundred feet below, and the crowd fell silent. All relief was obliterated, and a mere second later, so were both of their heads. They hit the ground with a thud, and I was too shell shocked to react until minutes later.

   I guess she wanted to ensure that she’d never have to be without him again. I guess she hoped that by dying together, they would be together forever. But whatever she believed, she’s left me childless and feeling like I have no purpose. All because I wasn’t sensible enough to nip her obsession in the bud.