The sound of heavy raindrops echo throughout the room as my eyes discreetly glance up to the wooden clock. It's now 3:36 pm, an hour and half past the time my shift was originally supposed to end. Then again, I can't really complain. I'm lucky enough to have even scored this job as an architect. I stroll around the classy living room, wondering to myself what it would be like to own a house this big and expensive. I'm quite taken aback by some of the scenery.

          There's a chandelier hanging from above, along with a granite table just below. The two leather couches are positioned before the wall's flat-screen television, which rests above the crackling fireplace. I suppose it's cozy, especially with the harsh wind whistling outside. 

          My boss, Anthony—sixty-three and nearly retired—stares out of the balcony window, phone in hand.

          "Alright...yeah...okay," he says, listening in between breaths. "We'll have the patio measured out...sure...bye." 

          He hangs up, before saying to me, "We're good to go. I'll give you a call later in the week."

          I don't get a word out before he's gone, just like always. Anthony always seems to be one step ahead of me.

          I take one more look around, before grabbing my rain jacket off the coat rack and head for the front door. I make sure to zip it all the way up, so it covers the lower half of my pointed chin. 

          Once outside, I quickly make my way past the tarped-up pool, feeling the rain bounce off my head and body. The numbers along the side deck for how deep the pool is gradually increase: three feet...six feet...nine feet.

          I grab the keys out of my pocket and unlock my 1997 Toyota Camry. The front lights flash before me as I enter the driver's seat. Realistically, I could afford a nicer and more modern vehicle, but truth be told I'm just too lazy to invest in it. The engine starts up and I place the gearshift in reverse, backing my way out of the driveway. It's not easy—the side mirrors are fogged from the cold weather—and the car's back windows are flooded. 

          However, I manage, and proceed down the wet road.

          I'm now making my way home, and will be there shortly.

          .   .   .   .   .

          Later that same night, while observing the pot of boiling water now coming to a sizzling peak, I lean myself up against the counter. It's now quarter to five, and the grey clouds cover the murky January sky. Heavy raindrops continue to fall, pelting upon the small rooftop. 

          My name is Bradley Marinez. I turned twenty-six last September, and have been living here alone at 3689 Dawson Crescent for two years now. There are a few other houses in the area, but for the most part it's a rather isolated property, near the edge of the forest.

          I also suffer from depression from time to time, which has been a battle on and off my whole life. know depression is so fucking promoted to talk about in our society, but I'm just so unmotivated lately, I don't know what to do.

          Sadly, I'm missing my cousin, Randy, who's been my best friend for the last few challenging years. He's always there for me, helping out wherever I'm struggling. Unfortunately, he had to move back west for his current job situation. I really miss him, like a lot.

          My left hand slowly stirs the second pot of tomato sauce, smelling the fresh pepper I added last second to the spaghetti I'll be eating tonight. There's also a half-empty bottle of Sriracha Hot Sauce to my right. A little bit of that may go in, too. I haven't had anything to eat the entire day. My appetite has been really low as of late, and when I do consume food, it tastes flavourless for the most part.

          After zoning out into space, I take a step back and make my way into the dining room. My pale skin slightly tenses up, feeling the cool air drift throughout the room. I cross my arms, leisurely making my way over to the windowed door, leading out to the back deck. All the trees and bushes have lost their once-alluring leaves. They sway back and forth in the winter's flurry, bending in curved angles. I can hardly see anything. The windows are fogged up again, and it's pretty much dark out now, due to the time of year.

          I'm basically ready to return back to the kitchen, when I spot something out the corner of my eye. A figure lurks by the forest entrance, maybe ten or fifteen yards behind my wooden fence. I can't help but watch in bewilderment, not being able to comprehend the situation. I assume it's a woman because of her frame, but I can hardly make out anything specific in these conditions. Extremely long, black hair flows down her back, blowing side to side. What on earth is she doing out there? Isn't she freezing in this kind of weather? It's just pouring out, literally a storm.

          I continue to observe her. She's walking around, nearing the ravine in the concealed distance. 

          Narrowing gradually from the darkness, she slowly fades beyond the forest trees, disappearing into the night. 

          Huh...that's a little unnerving. Not sure why she's back there. As I said, there are very few properties around here, and the nearest town isn't for a mile. On top of that, the one time I ventured that area in which she disappeared, I couldn't make any progress whatsoever. That ravine is just so steep, and would be horrendous in these slippery conditions.

          Now being shocked for a second time, I turn back to see the pot of boiling water overflowing onto the element, spilling along the ground below. I sprint over to the stove and turn off the dial. Strains of noodles clutter all over. Hot steam blows in my face while grabbing a kitchen towel.

          Eventually, I'm able to get control of the situation, and patiently wait for the smoke to disappear. My pale eyes gaze out of the kitchen window towards the forest. The sky has now turned black, and the sound of loud raindrops continue to ominously pour over the rooftop.

          What the fuck was she doing back there? I think to myself, now looking back down to the floor below.

          Unfortunately, I now have a mess to clean up.

          .   .   .   .   .

          Three Weeks Later

          After coming right home from the library, passing by my street sign that says "Dawson Crescent," I walk straight over to my raggedy front porch. There, a sturdy pair of garden clippers rest, followed by me picking them up. I clench my teeth together from the cold air, debating whether or not if I'm going inside to grab a second sweater. No, I should be fine. I'm just giving that thorn bush out back a quick trim, that's all. It seems that every time I go back there—not that often—it's grown taller and wider than before.

          I did a poor job maintaining my yard last summer, which is ironic with the type of work that I do. Procrastination has always been one of my weaker traits. It's sad, really.

          To the left, I make my way down the ivy-covered pathway and enter the backyard. Everything is dead and bare—the trees, the bushes, the vines—even the grass has a hard, crunchy feel to it. 

          I think out loud and mumble under my breath, "Shit, it's cold." Now I'm seriously wishing I had a pair of thick gloves to cover my hands.

          Beside the wooden shed I built, near the back of the property, I adjust the safety button on the clippers and begin snipping away at the overhanging branches of the thorn bush. One by one, they fall to the frosted ground below, forming a small pile. If there's anything I need to do this spring, it's getting my ass out back here and fix the damn place up—maybe plant a garden or a few small trees. I hope to give my cousin Randy a call if he visits. He's always willing to lend a hand when needed.

          The thorn bush is now trimmed to my preference, cut around the angles, nice and short. 

          I bend down and carefully maneuver my fingertips in an attempt to pick them up, but misjudge the tiny gaps of free space in between the thorns. I feel a sharp sting and whisper, "Fuck." I drop the small bundle back down to the grass, feeling my thumb mildly throb. Not wanting to get cut more than I already am, I think it's best I do get myself a pair of gloves.

          After retracing my steps, I make my way back to the front and slip my shoes off before the entrance door. I'm surprised when I find out it's not locked. Wow, that's actually really stupid of me, and justly this wouldn't be the first time I've done this. 

          Somewhat disappointed with myself, I make my way inside the house, spotting a pair of green gardening gloves laying coincidentally amongst the foyer table. I grab them both, sliding the left one on first.

          I'm ready to cover up my right hand, the same one that got scratched, when I see my phone resting in the kitchen. That reminds me, I need to call my boss, Anthony. 

          I make my way over to where it lay charging. I press the home button and see he's already messaged me.

          Bradley, call me when you can.

          So I pick up the device and type in my passcode. I then hit the small phone icon and place the screen upon my crisp ear from the chilly air outside. It rings several times, before he eventually picks up.

          "Hey, Bradley. How's it going?" he asks.

          "I'm good, boss. How are you?" I lie. I'm not actually doing well. But I think everyone at some point in their life has exaggerated their happiness because they don't want to let others down.

          "Great," Anthony replies. "Listen. We're gonna try and scope out that patio."

          "Mrs. Heatherton's?" I blankly ask.

          "That's the one. Can I count on you to be there at 11:30 tomorrow?" His heavy breathing echoes into the phone.

          "Yeah...I'll be there," I tell him with sincerity.

          "Perfect. I really appreciate that, Bradley."

          "We need it!" I say with exaggerated motivation.

          "Yeah, no doubt." He chuckles. "That's all I need. See you tomorrow, kid." He hangs up before I can get another word in, just as I suspected would happen.

          I place the phone down and head back out the front door. It's a bit tedious getting my shoes on again since I'm wearing both gloves now—but it's worth it—they comfort the brisk air from my hands. 

          This time, I wish to go right and take the opposing direction, rather than use the typical ivy-covered route to the left I originally went. I make my way past the garage, feeling the wind gradually pick up. I push past dead leaves and ferns grazing over my ankles. The gloomy sky above gives a preview of a torrential downpour coming later on.

          While reentering my backyard, I follow myself along the fence. For whatever reason, I choose not to travel around the shed as before—I'm a weird, lazy shitface. So rather, I advance through concealing bushes and sticks of bamboo—which on the other side—will lay the trimmed thorn bush. I don't know my reasons for this, but I just innocently do so. Out of natural instinct, I duck my head and close my eyes. Leaves rub over my squinting face as I feel my way through.

          Moments later, my leading fingertips graze into the free, open space. My back and head arch into their natural position...as my eyes open. 

          My entire body, head to toe, freezes as goosebumps tingle up and down my stiff spine. My stomach cramps up, and my legs wobble below me. There, around twelve feet away, is that woman I spotted a few weeks ago. I'm sure that it's her, that same lady from the night pouring with rain, along with her ominous, long black hair. I just recently forgot about her actually.

          She's crouched with her back turned, kneeling down exactly where I was doing yard work. It seems as if she's examining the pile of thorn branches. She's wearing mostly grey—a raggedy jacket, loose sweatpants, and a pair of half-tied running shoes—possibly the exact same outfit from the night I first saw her out back here. Her lengthy, charcoal hair sways in the wind, covering up more than half of her obscured, pale face. At this angle, I can hardly make out any of her attributes. But how hasn't she noticed me yet?

          Eventually, she proceeds to pick up a handful of thorn branches, just as I attempted moments prior. It's as if she's analyzing them, like a scientist would do in the lab, studying a new kind of chemical. But is this just a coincidence? Or did she know I was back here trimming the bush? I don't even know if she's aware of my presence, or maybe she certainly is, and it just doesn't phase her. Either way, I'm not going to just stand here. This is so random, so unexpected, but most of all, so...weird.

          A lump begins to form in my throat as I contemplate talking to the strange woman. I clench my fists upon my thighs in an attempt to relieve anxiety. The rain starts back up, now showering, but I hardly notice. I just want to ask her what she's doing back here, that's all.

          My mouth opens and asks, "M-ma'am?"

          She quickly turns back towards me, thorn branches still in hand, now exposing at least three-quarters of her partially distorted face. She appears startled, a marginal representation of what I'm going through. Her skin and lips look quite wrinkled, even though she really doesn't appear that old. But it's the way she looks at me with those two eyes. They remind me of those black holes in space; they suck you right in and never let you escape. They just make me feel so...vulnerable.

          She rises to her feet, rather tall for a woman, and says, "Oh my goodness, dearie! You scared me!" 

          Her hair is still partially covering her mouth, and her words are just overall unclear. I'm intimidated, but at the same time strangely curious about what she has to say.

          So I reply, "I'm sorry, ma'am. But can you explain what you're doing back here?"

          She awkwardly says, while referring to the thorn branches, "Well, I was just passing by dearie. That's all."

          "Oh...okay?" I reply without even realizing I'm saying the words. "May I ask where you live, ma'am?"

          She points back towards the forest where I spotted her a few weeks ago. "In there, dearie."

          But that doesn't make sense, unless she is homeless and somehow set up a camp back there. I'm the farthest property pushed back to the forest, and no one ever goes in those woods because of how steep and dangerous the ravine is.

          "Is it okay if I use the shortcut?" she asks, this time pointing towards the fenced gate at the end of my property, the one that I actually built.

          My head is baffled and I can't think straight, so I impulsively respond, "Sure, go for it."

          She begins to slowly make her way back to the gate, gradually opening it.

          After closing it, she looks back at me with a chilling expression and says, "Thank you, dearie."

          I nod, still trying to figure out what's really going on here. Part of me wants to ask her if she needs help, then there's the other half that is so creeped out, I just want her to get lost. 

          She then pushes on through remains of winter's nature, again, gradually vanishing beyond the gloomy forest perimeter, taking my cut thorn branches. I'm left in a worrying state of confusion. Although, watching her disappear gives me a strange sense of relief. As I mentioned before, even though she's a woman, her presence is very haunting and intimidating. 

          I'm already turning around and making my way back into the house.

          Wow.

          That was really strange.

          .   .   .   .   .

          Six Days Later

          Every half hour or so, I can't help but quickly peek out the back window. 

          Over the last week, I've been rather nervous around the house, and have not once forgotten to lock all the doors. That woman has been on my mind ever since our face-to-face encounter. I ended up calling the police afterward, giving the best physical description possible—mentioning all the peculiar features and aspects she held. I can't say I'm too worried about my safety at this point, but wanted to make sure if the woman was okay, considering she seemed detached from reality. I was told by the police to call back if she makes another appearance.

          I shift my head to the right, hoisting my body up a few inches to see over the window. The backyard is empty, other than a few brown, dead leaves scattered across the frosted lawn. My eyes scan the forest in the distance, attempting to catch the woman's lurking presence. It's a rather intimidating process. As I've made clear, I don't find myself physically threatened by her, but there was just something about the way she managed to slip back there without my awareness that sent a harrowing chill down my spine.

          My view of where she lay crouched was blocked off from the bamboo. If only I had walked down the ivy-covered pathway again, I wouldn't have experienced a borderline heart attack when spotting her. There would have been some distance, rather than sneaking up almost right behind her without even knowing it. Don't take that nonchalantly though. It still would have been scary. Just the crooked eyes...the long, black hair...the menacing voice.

          For real though, was she watching me to know about those thorn branches? I was only back there for what, like, five minutes? The pile really wasn't that distinctive, so I'm skeptical. 

          Regardless, it made me very uncomfortable. I just can't help but wonder what she's doing in the forest, or if she lied and didn't even go back there in the end. It's been a full week now since I saw her. I have so many questions and so few answers. But do I really want to know the truth about her?

          I think I need to get some rest and stop obsessing about this bizarre woman.

          .   .   .   .   .

          Forty-Eight Hours Later

          It's dark out, and I just got home from an eleven-hour shift of work. Exhausted, and drained mentally, I'm sitting at the dining room table, finishing my day off with a glass of steam milk. I rub the temples of my forehead, massaging out the tension from my headache. Feeling anxious, I can sense the beginning of a migraine coming on. I get them from time to time, and can really cause me a lot of stress and discomfort. There was a certain instance where I actually ended up in the emergency room because of one. I really hope that won't be the case tonight.

          On the topic of work, I really respect Anthony as my boss, but I'm not sure if the job is working anymore. I was so grateful when I first got the opportunity as an architect. It pays well, it looks good on your resume, and it's also something I felt would bring me joy. But now I'm not so sure. I find myself coming home after these late shifts and don't feel a sense of accomplishment like I did when I first started. I think this might have something to do with the depression, because not even a month ago I was confident that this was the career route I wanted to go. Ugh...I'm really overwhelmed right now.

          To make matters even worse, the migraine is starting to spread down my shoulders and through my upper back. The tension and soreness in my muscles are starting to become unbearable. l take another sip of steam milk and try my best to relax. But like always, once the migraine takes over, you have to go along and just let it play out. I'm feeling nauseous and really need to lay down. I'm also beyond tired from working eleven hours, so it's only fitting that I call it a night and go to sleep.

          Agitatedly, I arise from where I sit, making my way to the stairs and heading down to my room. 

          On a side note, it's beginning to snow outside. I was watching some thick flakes slowly falling from the sky earlier, exposed by the misty light of the dim streetlamp. I figured watching that, along with the moon's shining reflection, may calm me down, but I guess not. 

          My brain is starting to pound like a set of drums, and the nausea is only getting worse at this point. I'm quite nervous, and try my best to not think about it.

          Back downstairs in my room, I crawl under the bedsheets, and skip brushing my teeth. I know that probably sounds really gross, but I'm just in too much pain right now to do so. With effort, I hunch over and turn off the light, sending the entire room into darkness. 

          It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the lighting, before they can vividly make out the walls and other aspects of the room. Within the darkness, I turn on the fan also beside my bed. I've been sleeping with a fan ever since I was a kid, even right here in the middle of winter. There's something about the white noise that brings me peace and comfort.

          About eight minutes pass by, with the wind and snow whistling outside. My eyes stare up at the ceiling, hoping that I'll be able to drift off, but not sure if I can with the migraine. Once again, I continue to rub my temples in an attempt to release the tension. Nothing is making sense these days. My brain just feels so scattered and all over the place. It's like my thoughts are race cars, going around and around the track with blazing speed. I hope that things can be different in the future. I hope that I'm able to—

          Tap tap tap, abruptly echoes a noise throughout the room. I quickly dart up from the bed, feeling a shrieking sense of shock and terror inside me. I glance over to where the sound came from—the blinded windows that overlook the backyard. 

          My restless feet touch the floor, as I now hunch along the edge of the bed. My heart is nearly beating out of my chest, and my tightened palms clench the cushioning pillow for comfort. All I can do is quietly sit here, waiting for whatever next is thrown at me, on top of this gruelling migraine.

          Tap! Tap! Tap! The banging windows cause my body to slightly convulse. Miraculously, I find a way to stand up, and nearly fall back down I'm so confused and worried. I yell out, "W-what the fuck!" I pause where I am, uneasily waiting for a response. I'm standing in darkness, filled with fear and distortion.

          "Oh, dearie," says a familiar, haunting voice. "Did you forget about me?"

          The woman, I anxiously think to myself. It sounds like she's crying this time. I couldn't hear her approaching before from the sound of my fan spinning, but now I'm able to make out sniffles and tears. She sounds like she's in quite distress.

          "M-ma'am?" I ask from one side of the window, once again attempting to converse with her. "What are you doing on my property again?" I wonder how she knows that I sleep down here. It's almost even scarier to not see her abnormal face, and only hear her direful voice.

          "I...I'm so lonely," she mumbles under her breath, her crying now getting even harder. "Please...I need someone to hold me."

          I feel a shudder go down my spine once again, just like the first time we met in the backyard. I have no idea what to tell her. All I know is that she can't keep coming back here and harassing me whenever she wants to.

          "Miss," I say again, trying to be patient and kind, despite my horrifying situation. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave. I own this property and you can't come back here. I'm sorry."

          "Please, dearie," she repeats, the tears and desperation echoing in her voice. "I just can't take it anymore...I've been alone for so long now."

          "You're going to have to leave now. If not, I'm calling the p—"

          "You lied to me!" she screams out of nowhere, a blistering rage now forming in her voice.

          Terrified, I can barely even respond. There's so much fear and confusion trapped inside me, on top of this brutal headache and migraine, that I feel like I'm losing my mind.

          "What do you mean I lied to you?" I ask, baffled.

          "Do you have an idea how many people have lied to me! How many people have let me down!" she screams on the other side of the window, her cries echoing throughout the room. "You'll pay for this, dearie! Mark my words!"

          And with that, I can vaguely hear that crunching noise you make when walking through snow, telling me that she's taken off, most likely back into the forest beyond my yard. 

          I don't move a muscle, or dare to even blink. I just quietly listen to the sound of my heart thumping in my chest. Again, everything is quiet. No noises...nothing but the sound of a moth flapping around above the ceiling. I'm pretty sure she's gone at this point, but with the way she's been conducting herself, I can't be too sure.

          I wish I had answers to why this is all happening.

          .   .   .   .   .

          Four Months Later

          I'm half asleep, half-dead, sitting in the back of a taxi cab, not having the slightest clue as to where I am. I'm so drunk that the car's walls and back seats spin in circles. Don't worry though. I'm not doing this for reasons you may assume. When it comes to my now alcohol use, I'm very careful, and make sure to regulate it strictly. You see, I hardly ever drink (probably why my tolerance is low and I'm so wrecked right now), but lately I've started to hang out at the bar with some friends a little. Yes, I've managed to develop two new relationships with my coworkers.

          Anthony hung up the towel not too long ago. He asked me to take charge of the architect company for him—own it—but I politely declined and thanked him for the offer. He was a really good guy. He taught me a lot, but I just felt like my world needed a cleansing fresh start. 

          I'm now simply working over at the town's local library, the same one I've been using my entire life. I monitor the second floor, check up on overdue returns, and just assist people with questions in general. It may come across as a "downgrade" from being an architect, but I'm much happier and content with life.

          This is where I met Joe and Dumar, who both created this weird, instant sense of connection. They were a little bit different—just the way they dressed and talked—but it really didn't matter. They both opened up so easily to me, like a flower blooming in the spring. There weren't any hesitations or awkwardness. I quickly embraced them as my friends, and it's been an interesting journey ever since. Overall, I'm more alive and just...happy. I'm really glad I made this decision to switch jobs. I truly believe it has done good things for me.

          Still, I must admit, there is tension back home. Even with all the new support I'm receiving, it's been very difficult to adjust back to my surroundings. The good news...I'm moving in just two days! That's it. I luckily found a place closer to the library in town—an apartment. It's about a twenty-minute drive from here, and filled with many other residents. I wish it could have been sooner, but I still need to be grateful. I'm really excited about this transition.

          Nonetheless, the taxi comes to a halting stop, or does so in my intoxicated mind.

          I hear the driver say, "Okay. That will be $27.50, please. Thank you."

          Shit. That's a lot more than I predicted. I reach into my shorts and pull out a twenty and ten-dollar bill. I hand him an even thirty, at least I think so.

          "A-are you driving me home?" I randomly blurt out in slur. "You...you can k-keep the change." 

          Even within my dissociated, emotional state, I'm really wishing I had accepted Joe offering me a ride home. He managed to control any liquor cravings tonight, unlike Dumar and I. He's driving way, way out of town tonight to visit his mother tomorrow, so that's why he didn't consume any alcohol. I was on my seventh shot when ready to call it quits. That's more than plenty for someone like myself. I can't even slightly remember how much Tequila I downed after that, and I'm surprised we didn't get kicked out. Now I'm nothing but a crashing trainwreck.

          Anyway, I pop open the back door, feeling my staggering legs set foot on the ground. It takes a moment to gain enough strength, but eventually I handle the tricky task of pulling myself out the taxi. While taking in the fresh scent of the early summer evening, I body myself up against the vehicle.

          I blabber nonesense again and say, "Are...are you driving m-me home? Howwww can I pay you back?"

          The driver glances at me with an almost disappointed look. The poor guy probably deals with this kind of stuff on a daily—that's his job.

          Still, I find the situation amusing, hearing him tear off down the street and leaving me all alone.

          I now struggle up the driveway. There's a sign resting on my lawn that says: 3689 Dawson Crescent—SOLD. I feel proud of myself, a feeling that I didn't experience a whole lot in my past. Now coming to think of it, I guess us drinking tonight was an early celebration. I'll tell Dumar that tomorrow when he comes over to help me start packing. I hope that he's not too, too hungover, or myself for that matter. The moving truck is supposed to get here later, around 6:00 in the evening.

          I flounder as I reach the porch, making my way towards the short, dark bush. This is the spot I use to hide my spare key.

          Next thing I know, I, myself, am laying at an angle down on the bush. No lie, when I snapped back into reality, this is how I found myself. What the fuck? I confusingly think, feeling branches poking at my sensitive skin. I have no clue how long I've been here. I'm in laughter, but at the same time painfully uncomfortable. You see, this is why I only sometimes drink, and why it has not yet become a regular weekend activity. Hell, after this, I bet you a steak dinner it never will be one. This is just embarrassing!

          I raise my quivering hand to the door lock, trying to insert the small, gleaming key. It takes three tries to get it right—maybe even four—I'm not sure. Once accomplished with steady effort, I forcefully push through as I turn the knob. It's almost even darker in here than outside. Luckily, I remember to pull the key out, but don't remind myself to lock it up again because I'm so fucked up right now.

          Regardless, without any awareness, or memory of how I got there, I now find myself lazily sitting on the couch. 

          I take a moment, then glance down to the floor and see a black, rectangular object. At first, I really don't know what to make of it. But the longer I inspect, I'm able to realize that it's the channel changer. I lean over and pick it up, asking myself where I'll place the television in my new apartment when I start the moving process tomorrow. Although, I'm in no headspace for this right now with the extreme amounts of alcohol inside me.

          I press the circular button on the channel changer, watching the screen light up before my eyes. It's now 1:49 am, and the first channel to come on is the news—a recap—not a live broadcast. I find the anchor very difficult to believe. He looks more like a bodybuilding criminal than a reporter. I hate to be stereotypical—I really do—but this is taking things a little too far. I cringe at his bulging arms and shoulders ready to pop out of his three-times too small suit. And his bald head and dense beard aren't winning him any extra points. Jesus...who in their right mind would even consider hiring this guy? They must have been piss drunk like me.

          It's now 2:03 am, and I haven't understood anything going on in this movie. I'm watching a film called Diamonds Before Gold, which took me several attempts to read the title properly. A woman in her mid to late thirties shows up each time I catch a glimpsing shot. She has long, brown hair, wide lips, and I think those are greenish, blue eyes. She's pretty. Although, I'm clueless as to what purpose she serves in the movie because I'm still so drunk.

          Next thing I know, I'm finding it rather difficult to breathe. Again, I must have passed out, like receiving a fierce uppercut right to the chin, dropping me straight down to the canvas floor like a Mike Tyson knockout. I'm just so...so drowsy. Like Goddamn, I can't even comprehend it. Everything seems like I'm in a dream.

          Still though, I take note of my airflow. It feels like my stomach and breath are no longer in sync, and aren't working together as one. In my drunken state, I can almost envision myself underwater—perhaps a calm, peaceful, frozen lake. Bubbles surround me as I attempt to make the surface above, but for whatever reason, I just can't get there. It's as if the ice is blocking me from reaching oxygen. 

          It's starting to become quite claustrophobic, and now beginning to concern me. I adjust my body slightly to see if that helps, but it doesn't. My neck begins to swell with pain, my lungs tighten and clasp, and my face squints. What the hell is going on here? I ask myself, continuing to hyperventilate. Why can't I break through to the surface of the lake?

          My heavy, sunken eyes then open for a single moment, before closing back down, still in a somewhat relaxed, yet worried state. It's as if I'm laying down on a hospital bed. You know in the movies when the doctor is standing over you, and your vision glimpses in and out of reality? 

          But the longer I lay there, and the more discomfort I feel, my intoxicated mind realizes...there actually is someone standing over me. Someone covering my nose and mouth, trying to kill me. I never thought I'd see her again, but it's the lady from the backyard.

          My sight blurs even harder and faints more intensely, causing another loss of consciousness. I'm now back down in the dream-like lake, desperately pounding on the ice blocking me from oxygen above. It's downright horrifying. My lungs whimper for air amongst the ice-cold water. 

          Meanwhile, back in reality, my arms and legs desperately kick at the woman, attempting to pry her off me. I'm in utter shock at how strong she is, or maybe I'm just so weak from being catastrophically drunk. When I saw her frail body in the backyard, I could never have imagined this.

          Gradually, my intuition slowly returns, and my eyes lock back in on the same ones I never wished to see again. I moan and scream into her hands, somehow realizing that she's wearing gloves to cover up any fingerprints.

          "I told you, dearie!" she shouts under her breath, glaring at me with a sinister look. "You'd pay for this one day! Nobody lies to me!"

          In the heat of the moment, I feel all the depression and loneliness I was experiencing in the past come back. All the sadness...all the anger. WAKE UP! I desperately scream inside of my head, apparently stuck back in this demented dream. LET ME BREATHE! I'm still consumed by the alcohol, blocking off most of my rational brain cells. Although, I still have enough sense in me to fight back, or at least try in my drunken, dysfunctional state. I continue to slap my hands at her, but my strikes are weak, and barely affect her.

          I'm starting to go crazy. There just simply isn't any air entering my system. The circumference of my neck beams with distress, along with my face hot as boiling water. I continue to scream for help, my cries only coming out as faint moans up the dense walls of the house. Not even a nearby owl in the trees can hear me. My toes curl; my fingers twitch uncontrollably. Everything hurts so bad—I'm defenceless in this state. It's the most horrible feeling imaginable.

          Traumatizing, horrific moments pass by. My tight, flexing muscles are now beginning to gradually loosen. My petrified, racing mind starts to eventually slow. That's when I realize it's almost easier to give up—to just simply let go and stop desperately pounding on the metaphorical ice blocking me from the lake's surface above. I now let myself calmly float to the bottom of the remote lake, looking up at the surface as I peacefully drown. It's strangely calming and relaxing, to know that I'll never be seen or heard from again.

          Everything goes quiet and peaceful—no sounds or noise. Everything goes smell-less and tasteless—no odours or buds. Everything goes blind and black—no colours or patterns. Everything goes senseless and numb—no touch or feels. 

          So...this is it. This is what it feels like to be laying in your coffin; this is what it feels like to be in a fatal car accident. This is what it feels like to die. 

           I don't enjoy it or dislike it—just in between. I don't embrace it or push it away—just in between. I don't cry for help or sense any joy—just in between.

          Just in between...drifting me away into the darkness.

          .   .   .   .   .

          Online News Article

          July 2nd News Report

          Good morning.

          Down on the seventy-four highway, two semi-trucks abruptly collided, sending a young driver off the road. Witnesses claim no intentions were made, and the opposing driver added he only wished to switch lanes. Later, a young lady sits down and explains her brave reasoning as to why she stood up and exposed three men insulting a heavy-set woman. And local town mayor, Raymond Sanders, is questioned over all the oil spills in Mary's Harbour. 

          We'll now provide you with a snippet of our main topic this morning—a murder investigation at 3689 Dawson Crescent.

         Law Enforcement is currently taking a look at the small house. The property was recently sold by a twenty-seven-year-old man, who was planning to relocate to a new residency, quite literally one day before his fatal attack. At this point, the victim will not have their name disclosed. It's said, however, that the man was living on his own, and worked up at the Garfield Library. Locals said he stuck to himself for the most part, but shortly before his disease was spotted hanging around with two other men his age.

          Saxton Moving Trucks, the same company that the victim had hired for the big move, were alerted when they spotted his front door open the next morning, and were unable to locate their latest customer. 

          Sadly, his body was actually found in the forest right behind the property. His deceased presence lay shoved in between a log overhanging the creek bank, this all taking place at the bottom of a steep, treacherous ravine. It took a rescue team to retrieve the body without disrupting the crime scene.

          Reports claim the cause of death is presumed loss of oxygen. However, no injuries were discovered around the neck area, and to who or what caused this crucial act is still unknown. Coincidently, and quite disturbingly, four more bodies were found in the forest behind the house, all within a forty-yard span of the original victim. Further lab tests will need to be taken, in order to figure out the identity of the four new victims. And if these cases are all related in a similar way, is also still unknown.         

          Investigators have been searching for any possible clues over the last twenty-four hours, but very little evidence has been found. Apparently, only a few fading footprints were found inside the original victim's home. At this point, those too are not leading any further progress for the search crew, as the team is having serious difficulty finding any sort of possible match. Officer Riverdale claims that his main concern is just how little progress has been made in what originally seemed like a "mediocre" case.

          For more on the tragedy, go to "AcademyNews.ca," or tune in with us throughout the week. Thank you, and have a good rest of your morning.

          .   .   .   .   .

          Seven Years Later

          I really love this new neighbourhood—love the atmosphere, love the people. But most of all, I love living here with my husband, Gerade, and my lovely son and daughter, Carter and Sabrina. We moved in here to 4127 Dawson Crescent about six months ago, and have nothing to complain about. It's simply wonderful. 

          However, there were rumours about a man being murdered years ago in this same neighbourhood, but I'm just not buying it. I bet it's a bunch of silly kids telling campfire stories, attempting to scare off the locals. All four of us are very happy and content. We couldn't ask for anything more.

          My name is Kathrine Valleywood. I love physical activity, especially going for long runs in the evening. It's been a hobby of mine ever since the ninth grade, back when I first joined the track and field team. 

          Standing before the refrigerator, I admire some pictures from my old album hanging along the door. I can't help but smile, as I clearly remember the one on the top left. It's all four of us, the family, standing before a water park on our first road trip back east. Those were such great memories.

          I adjust my shoulder-length blonde hair and pick up the last bag of groceries. It's filled with apples, oranges, and bananas. I open up the fridge, disposing of them one by one along the bottom drawer.

          Also, on top of that, I'm supposed to be taking the kids out to the park soon. They'd been begging me all day, so I finally gave in and said yes. Last time I checked they were playing in their rooms.

          I call out in a motherly tone, "Kiddos, are we still going out for our walk?"

          I first get a response from Sabrina.

          "Yes, mom," she says in her young, dainty voice. "And are we still going to the park?"

          "Of course, but I've got a meeting later. We have to get going really soon."

          I'm still waiting to hear from the other one.

          "Carter, does that sound good to you, honey?" I ask.

          "Yes," he says, sounding like he's playing with his toy trucks. "But only as long as you push me on the swing."

          I laugh. "Okay, I promise. We're heading out in five minutes."

          My arms swing back and forth, clapping in between. I walk over to where my husband sits at the table. He looks handsome, as usual, especially with that tie and dress shirt on.

          I pleasantly greet him with a smile and say, "Hey, sir. Whatcha' workin' on?"

          "Hey there, hun. Just working on some papers," he says with concentration, before scratching his head. "How was your day?"

          "Pretty good. I went for a long walk. I also picked up those hamburger buns you requested."

          There's a brief moment of silence as he writes something down.

          "Great," he eventually replies. "I'll start up the barbeque when you get back."

          "Awesome. Can you make them extra juicy like last time?" I do really love his burgers.

          "Mhmm," he replies, giving a slight hint that he needs space to focus.

          I respect his silent gesture, making my way over to the window that exposes the backyard. There, I admire the ocean-blue sky, the vanilla-white clouds, and the peachy-orange sun. I inspect the long stretch of forest in the background, noticing how lusciously green the trees are, and how chocolate-brown their trunks appear. What a beautiful day out, one that sets a really joyous mood and tone. It's almost like a painting you'd find sitting in a store, or maybe I'm just overly observant. 

          That's when I notice something, or someone, roaming by the edge of the forest.

          The sound of Carter crashing down the hallway can be heard, along with Sabrina chasing him.

          They ask, nearly simultaneously, "Are we finally going now?"

          "Yes, of course we are," I tell them.

          But before we go, I quickly have to ask my husband something.

          I turn back and whisper, making sure the kids don't hear, "Hey, babe."

          "Yeah, sweetheart?" he half-consciously replies.

          "Who's that in our backyard?"