Better Than This.

Alex sat on the floor, trying to figure out what to do. On the left, sat a bottle of prescription meds. She could take them now, and end it all. End all the pain, end the suffering, the yelling, the crying. She could end the indifference. Sometimes she was so sad, in so much pain, she couldn’t breathe. Then, she would feel nothing. She knew a joke was supposed to be funny, but she didn’t feel it. She knew a movie was sad, hell she was sad most of the time she knew that feeling, but couldn’t experience it. It was an odd thing, to not feel anything. But then the pain would come back, and breathing became harder and harder to do.

Worse, she had to fake it. Her parents said “No one is happy all the time.” God, she would take being happy sometimes. But she was never happy. Ever. Her friends were worse. “I know exactly what you’re feeling! I’m so depressed too!” or  “What do you have to be sad about?” or her favorite “Just get over it! You’re fine.” Alex wanted to scream at them. Get over it? She wished she could. She wished she could wake up one day and just be fine. She would suddenly know what it felt like to be happy, to laugh at a joke that was funny, to smile because she just felt like smiling. They knew how she felt? What bull. She saw them, smiling for no reason, laughing with everyone. They were sad sometimes, they were not depressed. But “depression” and other neurological disorders had become a thing. Everyone had OCD, depression, anxiety, or bipolar. It was sickening.

People were suffering. Suffering! And nobody cared. Everyone over used the words to diagnose people with mental conditions and chemical imbalances in their brains to describe being sad, or neat, or scared to do something they probably shouldn’t anyway.

Just one more reason for her to swallow the whole bottle in front of her. Her mother told her she’d go to hell if she committed suicide, but almost anything was better than this. She would rather go to hell then go to her piece of crap therapist who nodded his head and prescribed more medicine that made her tired and sluggish. It didn’t make her better. But did he care? No. She hated him. She hated herself more. She couldn’t even tell him the pills weren’t working. She couldn’t tell her mother that her therapist was terrible. God, how she hated this life.

On the right side was a suitcase with clothes in it. Everything she would need was in that suitcase, including $12,000 she had saved up by dropping out of high school and working 50 hours a week for the last year. She never bought anything, she never did anything, so saving was easy. If she took the suitcase, she was leaving and never coming back. All her important documents were in there, she could get a new job, get a new life. She could try, one more time to be happy, to love her self, love the world, love someone else.

It was a long shot, but almost anything was better than this.

“Alex! You better clean up after yourself! I’m tired of picking up your shit!” Her mother yelled from the living room.

Right, she couldn’t leave a mess…

“Don’t worry mom,” she whispered. “You’ll never clean up after me again.”

Alexandra Jane grabbed her suitcase, left the bottle of the pills on the floor, and left the house she had lived in for the last 17 years. She never turned back again.

Note from the author: All those living and suffering with depression, anxiety, OCD, bipolar, or any other mental illness, know there is help out there for you. You are loved, you are appreciated, and you can overcome whatever you set your mind to. Please, get help if you need it. 

– 1 (800) 273-8255 The National Suicide Hotline Number

Please call if you need anything. Do not let your battle win. It’s a daily fight, but you can do it. 

Just a Few More Pounds

Maria laid on the floor doing her nightly workout.

Fifty crunches, thirty push-ups, fifteen burpees, one hundred jumping jacks, thirty mountain climbers, two sets of twenty second planks.

It was rough but she was dedicated. She had already lost fifteen pounds, she just had to lose thirty more and she would reach her weight goal. She was being very careful, making sure to only drink water in the morning, and only eat celery in for dinner. She told people she was on a cleanse. Most people said she didn’t need to lose the weight, that she was fine.

But she wasn’t. Nowhere close to it.

She didn’t want to be fat anymore, she hated the way she looked. She hated her muffin top, the way her stomach fell over her jeans like she was pregnant, how her chest was sagging, how her arms flapped when she moved them, how her legs jiggled when she walked. She hated everything about herself, but soon she would love herself. Soon.

Just another thirty five pounds to go.

Once she was done, and drenched in sweat, she looked at herself in the full length mirror in her room. She thought she could already see a difference, but she knew she had to keep going. She was already getting compliments on her weight loss. People were telling her that she was glowing, that she looked better than ever, and Maria was very happy about that.

She couldn’t wait until her stomach was concave, her arms were muscular, without being to much like a body builder, until her hip bones jutted out just a little, until her thighs had space in between them. There were many things she was looking forward to, but mostly she was just looking forward to being skinny.

Just another forty pounds to go.

Maria went to the bathroom to take a shower, but first she had to weigh her self to make sure she did not gain weight that day. The scale weighed her at 101 pounds yesterday, and today she was 101. Although she was disappointed she hadn’t lost anything, she was also glad she hadn’t gained any weight either. Her cleanse must be working the way it should.

One day, Maria thought, I’ll be skinny. Forty five more pounds, and I’ll stop. 

Before Maria started her rigorous workout and strict “cleanse” she was around a healthy 120 pounds for a young woman somewhere between 5’3 and 5’5. No one could pinpoint her height since she seemed to grow and shrink on a day to day basis. But she was never satisfied with herself. She was always looking at the models in magazines, at the way her stomach looked like she had a beer gut. People always hit her thighs, joking around about the way they would jiggle. Her family would tease her about the way her arms would flap whenever she moved them. “Chicken Wings” they called them. She hated her chicken wings. Everyone asked her to workout with them, and she knew it was because she was fat. Obese. Giant.

As Maria laid in the tub, letting the hot water spray over her, she imagined her life as skinny. Men would say hi to her, maybe even flirt with her. Maybe she’d go get a boob job so she could be skinny and have big, perky boobs. Women would be jealous of her body, of the way she looked. Maybe she would try being a model. Sure she was short, but she could wear high heels and look tall. Of course, she would have to get a face lift to get rid of the wrinkles around her eyes. But hey, plastic surgery could fix the other stuff. For now she just had to lose the weight.

Maria left the tub and went into her room. She could smell the Chinese food her roommate ordered, tempting her, calling out to her, to eat it. No! she told herself sternly. Do you want to be fat again? She shook her head gently, scolding herself. No, she would never be fat again.

She stood in front of her mirror, naked, pulling at the loose skin, at the fat still left on her body.

Fifty pounds to go and she would be happy.

The Yellow House

The real estate agent stood on the corner of the street staring at the house that she was supposed to sell. She had tried many times to sell it, but for some reason no one would buy it. She had shown it to many people, and many had made offers, but just as the offer was about to be accepted, they would back out.

But not even the real estate agent knew of the demons that lived in the house.

By looking at the house that took up the entire corner of Viscount and Ryding, no one would be able to tell the evil that took place inside. The pale yellow paint that covered the house’s exterior bellied the tortures that existed inside. The bright white door and porch contrasted the darkness that was a constant friend to those who lived there.

The house had been stayed for over 100 years, but even without being kept, the house managed to stay pristine on the outside. It was finally federal property, so it was being sold.

Those more prone to feeling the energies and auras of spirts long departed cannot be in the house for long without the terrifying screams finally getting to them. Mediums and psychics have deemed the house untouchable, since they cannot get within one mile of the house before they feel the pain those have endured living in that house. Those who have no inclination towards the undead, and have no extra feelings, get bogged down by the sadness that comes with being within one foot of the house. When the neighbors walk by the house, they get a chill that runs down the back of their spine.

The history of the town mysteriously has nothing written about the house. The history of the house is the best well-kept secret in the country.

There was a man, a rich man, whose name is unknown, from England, who wanted to build his own house. He hired carpenters and construction companies, and they built the lovely Victorian style home. It was large, four bedrooms, one master bedroom, two full bathrooms, a large living room, a kitchen and dining room. But, the most important part of the house, the basement.

It is longer and wider than the house itself. It had a special purpose.

At this time, almost no one lived in the small town. So the man could go about his business with no one noticing what he was doing. He came over from England with a bevy of servants. Upstairs maids, cook, housekeeper, and downstairs maids, but oddly, no butler. If someone were to watch the comings and goings of the house, they would notice only females coming in and out, working, and never any males. The man had no friends who visited him, no one to question his business.

On the outside, the house looked lovely. On the inside, the house was hideous.

At night, the man would walk down the stairs to the basement, where another group of women lived. They were not servants, nor were they illegal slaves. They lived in the basement, never seeing the sunlight. When the man would walk down the stairs, all 10 of them would immediately get on their knees.

“Welcome home, Master,” They would whisper. Master didn’t like loud noises.

He would slowly strip down, so he would not destroy his clothing. That’s when the women knew their torture was about to start.

Unspeakable crimes were committed in that house. Crimes no one knows about. The history died when the Master did. The girls, not knowing what to do with themselves, having lived with their Master for so long, waited in the basement of the house, screaming and crying, some even killing themselves. The servants had all died along with the man, who, when he realized he was dying, poisoned his staff so no one would know the details of his heinous actions.

None survived.

And still, the real estate agent took one step towards the house, and for some inexplicable reason, decided to come back another day to fix the house to be sold.

“Do you want some more tea, Susan?”

Five friends sat at a table in their favorite country club. Dressed in all white, they looked as if they were getting ready to play tennis, but they never left the table. Their conversation was just one of many in the dining room, and was similar to the conversations they had at the same table, every day.

“Would you like some more tea, Susan?”

“Linda, stop giving me that look!”

“Tina, maybe you shouldn’t put that much sugar in your tea.”

“Oh where is the waiter? I need some food!”

“Are you sure you want to eat again, Mikayla?”

One woman in particular stood out. Her short brown hair was tied up in a ponytail, her shirt was a little tighter on her body, her pants a little baggy. One could almost see her eyes growing larger as her head moved back and forth, trying to follow the conversation.

Of course, she stood out because she was the only one there. She wasn’t even there where she thought she was. She was in the Bergen Regional Mental Institution. She was sitting on a cot, in a padded room.

The nurses could hear her talking outside the door, and every once in a while would check inside, for it seemed there were too many voices coming from the one room.

But no, it was just Susan, talking to herself. Her straight jacket keept her from harming herself, as she had in the past. Anyone who looked into the little window on the door would see her head as it bobbed back and forth, her hazel eyes growing wider as she tried to follow the conversation she was having with herself.

(Listen to this as you read the story, it makes it better.)

I hear you.

She sat on the corner of her bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, arms around them. Her eyes were wide open, staring at the darkness of her room. One could almost hear humming coming from her room, but the moment someone opened the door, she would go back to rocking silently.
Crazy, they would whisper as they stared at her.
What is wrong with her, they thought.
She wanted to scream I CAN HEAR YOU! but she never did.
But no one could hear the voices she heard. She couldn’t tell anyone either. It would just confirm in their minds that she was nuts. Certifiable. Insane. Wacko. The list went on and on. But the voices she heard were not in her head. She could hear the thoughts of others. And she knew it was true. It was hard not to answer the questions people had in their head, and sometimes she forgot that they hadn’t asked the question out loud. They would think nasty thoughts, dirty thoughts, despicable thoughts. She wanted to scream I HEAR YOU! but she never did. That was not the worst part.
Not even close.
One of the guests was not what they said they were. She didn’t know what it was. It was passing itself off as a human male, but from what he said in his head, he was not anything close to human.
Tasty humans, he would think as he stared at someone.
Would anyone notice she was missing? he would think about another.

But how could she confront it? It came into her room over and over again, threatening her in its mind.
Tell anyone what you hear and your mother will be the first to go.
Do you want to come play with me?
Do not pretend you cannot hear me, child. I know you can.
She wanted to scream I CAN HEAR YOU! But she dared not to make a move. She just started humming again, to drown out the noises.
It was showing her images now. What would happen if she told what it was. What would happen if she came to it.
I promise you a life better than this.
Come with me, child. You could live for thousands of years.
Just take my hand.
Oh God, it was in her room. When she looked up, she was startled by the handsomeness of the body’s face. She knew it was a lie. She knew he was not human. Was it  even male? Oh God, oh God, oh God. 
“What is your name, child?” the creature asked. It startled her.
She just hummed louder.
He tsked.
“Would it help to know mine? It is Abbadōn. I am Greek.”
“You are the destroyer, the ruination.”
“Ah, you know your history,” he smiled. You could see the demon eyes glowing devilishly. He knelt by her bed. “Come with me. I can make your burden easier to bear. We can destroy things together. Everything and anything.” He touched her hair, her temple, and suddenly she could hear nothing. She looked up at him in wonder, eyes growing impossibly larger.
“Maeve,” she whispered.
He just smiled again and whispered softly “I know.”
She put her hand in his, wanting to go wherever he went. For he was the one who took away the voices. That was all she cared about.
“Ah, darling, we will get along well with each other.”

In a flash, they were gone. Maeve, only 16, would have many names in the future. Apollyōn being one of them. But she would never be seen in her time again.
She would always hear the voices, but she found someone who could take them away.

Ice Queen

They called her cold, the Ice Queen. It was an odd description for someone just shy of 19 years, but an apt one. The young girl only had to look at someone, and her brown eyes would give you a chill. As the Ice Queen made her way through the crowd of the ballroom, young maidens whispered behind their hands.
“Look, she’s here.”
“That’s her! The Ice Queen.”
“What is she wearing?”
“Do you think she knows she looks ridiculous?”
The Ice Queen did in fact, know that she looked ridiculous in the light pink confection her mother had made her wear. But you had to care to fight, and unfortunately she did not. The low neckline showed more cleavage than was the current fashion, the waistline high, just under the bust. Rosettes were placed all around the bottom of the long, full skirt. Her dark brown hair was high on her head, with little ringlets framing her face. She was short, this Ice Queen, only coming up to the shoulders of most of the males of her acquaintance. Even looking ridiculous, she was beautiful. While the women whispered behind their hands, the men stared. Some glared at her form, that she looked like God put her on earth for man to love, but she gave men no more than a curtsy or nod as encouragement. Other men tried to bet on who could unfreeze the Ice Queen.

Alexander Ashton, The Fourth Duke of Westbrook was different from the others that stared at Lady Catherine Brooks. He watched the lady walk through the crowd, with her shoulders back and her head high. Just looking into her eye, one would think there was nothing inside of her, no emotions what so ever. But he knew differently. Tonight, he thought to himself, tonight I will get her to marry me. His eyes followed the lovely form that breezed by the ton as if they were no better then the footman passing out drinks. While others saw a frigid woman, Alex saw only the woman locked behind ice. For the last month, he had danced with her, pulled her outside, went to garden parties lavishing attention on her. The ton was beginning to talk, but he could care less. He had chased his fair share of skirts, but since he had laid eyes on the Ice Queen, he knew he wanted to melt her icey exterior. He had conversations with Catherine, and had cracked the shell she kept around her, but tonight he would peel it all back.

Catherine was walking towards the garden, away from the music, away from the people staring at her. She could feel his eyes on her, but she did not want to acknowledge him. Once outside the doors, she sat down on a bench in the darkness. Breathe, she reminded herself. It seemed to be getting harder, going to these events. She was beginning to feel, and she hated it.
“What are you doing outside, milady?”
Catherine turned towards the deep timbre of the familiar voice. She looked at the tall man that followed her outside. He was taller than most men, standing above six feet. His blonde hair and green eyes made him look charming. The fact that he was always wearing a boyish grin did not help. He made the ladies swoon, and the gentlemen roll their eyes. Anyone he wanted was his. Except, of course, Lady Catherine. Tonight he was exceptionally good looking, with his dark green waistcoat, starch white linen shirt, velvet coat, and breeches. One could tell, simply from looking at him, that there was no padding to help broaden the shoulders, or corset to hide a growing stomach. No, not this duke.
“Is it a crime to come outside for some fresh air, Your Grace?”
“Not a’tall. Thought you were trying to run away, Cat. Couldn’t have that, could we?” Alexander said as he sat on the bench next to her.
“My name is not Cat, and you know that, Your Grace.”
“Course it’s not, Cat.” He just grinned wickedly. He almost chuckled when he heard a growl from the lady. He did enjoy getting on her nerves.
“Was there something you wanted, Your Grace?”
All of a sudden, Alexander’s demeanor changed. He turned fully towards her on the bench, his green eyes glowing with pent up desire.
“You know what I want, Catherine,” but he didn’t give her a chance to respond, to tell him she wouldn’t marry him. His hand cupped her cheek and he kissed her gently. Catherine tried to keep her emotions locked in tight. She could not let this affect her. But she felt herself warming. She leaned into the kiss, her body moving forward of its own volition. Putting her hands on Alexander’s chest, when she wanted to pull him closer, she pushed him away.
“Stop!” Catherine yelled. All the emotions she kept locked in tight, were starting to bubble over. No! her mind screamed, “NO!” she cried, jumping off the bench.
“Catherine?” Alexander asked, confusion showing in his eyes. Slowly, he stood up, never taking his eyes off her. “What is going on?”
“You don’t understand, I cannot marry you. I am unfit! Ruined! A disaster!” The Ice Queen was melting, panic showing in her eyes.
Alex, aware of the guests only ten feet away from them, pulled Catherine further into the garden. Catherine remained unaware of what was happening, her mind whirling.
“Catherine,” Alex said, pulling her into his arms. “Please, just tell me what is wrong.”
“Alex, you make the emotions so hard to keep locked up tight. I can’t handle it,”  Catherine said, laying her head on his chest. God, how good it felt, to be held by him. For the last month, she could go nowhere without Alex being there. She stayed away only because she knew it was dangerous. She would begin to feel, and emotions would choke her until she couldn’t breathe. But here, in his arms, she felt safe.
“What happens, Catherine?”
“I start to panic when the  emotions come. I have to keep them inside, or I can’t breathe. When I’m with you, I start to feel happy, but then fear comes to, and everything I felt when I started locking up everything,” she lifted her head to look at him, tears glittering in her eyes, “I would rather be the Ice Queen, then be seen crying and panicking every time someone makes me sad. It’s too much. It’s why I can’t marry you. You’re going to be a duke, and a duchess has to be a hostess. I could never be that.”
“How do you feel now?”
Catherine took a moment before she responded, to make sure she was completely honest when she said “Safe.”
“Well, how about I make you a deal. You marry me, and always tell me how you feel. If you are ever sad, or can’t breathe from too many emotions, then tell me. We can just leave for a little while, until you feel better,” he smiled down at her at her gasp.
“Alex, you couldn’t!”
“I am the Duke of Westbrook milady. I can do anything I damn well please. If that means never entertaining, and  living a quiet life in the country, making my wife laugh and smile, so be it.”
Then, for the first time in nine years, Catherine began to smile.
“You mean it?” She asked tentatively.
“My dear, the day you said you would rather be in the country then London, I knew you I had waited long enough in marrying.”
“But you love London!”
“Only when you are here.”
“Oh, Alex, I want to marry you so much. Are you sure?”
Alex pulled Catherine closer and kissed her soundly. One hand on the back of her neck, one hand on her waist, he kept her close until she kissed him back. When he pulled away he saw the dazed look in her eye and grinned wolfishly.
“Oh yes, Cat. I am getting a special licence tonight. No way am I letting you change your mind,” he gave her a quick peck on the lips before continuing. “And love, whenever you feel overwhelmed, just come to me. In the middle of a ballroom, in the middle of a garden party, when your parent come over, hell, when my parents come over, just come into my arms. You never have to worry.”

Alexander Ashton, the Duke of Westbrook, pulled Lady Catherine Brooks into the ballroom, and announced to the crowd that the Ice Queen had melted, and was going to be the future Duchess.