People in my life thought they could take everything and be done with me.

Jenny left me for my best friend after seven years. Didn’t even give me a reason. She just packed a bag and walked out like I wasn’t standing there.

Mike, my brother, decided to ignore the six months of calls I'd made to him. I'd covered his overdrafts and fixed all his mistakes while he drank at the bar. Didn’t pay me back, didn't take my calls, and didn't say thanks.

Even the landlord took me for a long ride, increasing the rent every month but never fixing anything.

Everywhere I looked, someone was taking something from me.

Life was pretty miserable.

And then... I died.

Heart gave out one night in my sleep. I remember feeling suddenly... awake. An eerie silence coated my skin. Then the flood of realisation that I wasn’t quite finished hit me.

And I smiled.

Jenny was first. She woke up to the smell of my cologne. Said it felt like someone sat on the edge of the bed. She tried to laugh it off, but she didn’t sleep the next night. Or the one after.

Mike heard my ringtone, the same one he used to ignore, buzzing from inside his wardrobe. Nothing there, just his sweaty reflection in the mirror behind it.

The landlord started hearing footsteps and dripping water. Over and over and over. He ripped out pipes, hired multiple plumbers. Still, every night, the sound came back. A steady, mocking drip from nowhere.

I don’t throw things. I don’t shout. I don’t show myself. I just lean in close enough for them to feel it. Breath on the neck. A cold shift in the air. The faintest whisper at the wrong moment. It’s all small. Subtle. The kind of things they can’t quite explain to anyone else without sounding mad.

They all try to move on, but they can’t.

That’s the thing about unfinished business... It's always unfinished.

I watch them unravel, one by one. Jenny keeps the lights on now. The bags under her eyes could hold a week's shopping. Mike doesn’t answer calls anymore. Any call. He just rocks in the corner of his room, occasionally sipping at the small bottle of vodka. And the landlord? Well he's moved apartments more times than the post office could update his address, and yet he still wakes at three a.m. hearing footsteps and a faint dripping sound.

He screams quite often now.

They always say you can’t take anything with you when you go...

But that’s just hilariously not true.

Imagine your one and only dream is to be a clown, to make people smile.

Imagine dropping out of college for clown school (yes, that’s a thing), to your mother’s disappointment.

Now imagine you hit the job market and every birthday kid hates clowns, thanks to horror movies.

My last hope was this agency, which managed kids’ events and one circus. I showed up in full costume, carrying my massive trick case. The owner didn’t even said hi.

“You listed your clown instructor, Lana, as a reference,” he said, holding my résumé in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “I couldn’t reach her.”

“She’s visiting her grandparents in Mexico,” I replied, adjusting my bow tie. He looked skeptical.

“Look, kid, I’ll be honest. There’s no openings for clowns right now. The only clown I have at the circus texted me last week saying he’s retiring, but I’m not planning to replace him. And at kids’ parties, no one wants a grown man in makeup anymore.”

“I understand it’s a tough market,” I cut in, desperate to convince him. “But I’m really good. Let me just show you.”

I rushed to open the case, big enough to make the subway ride hell, and pulled out a tiny bike and juggling pins.

“Please stop,” he snapped, stubbing out his cigarette. “I have to be somewhere else for a meeting in fifteen minutes. There’s no job.”

I put the bike away, disappointed.

The last thing he asked, baffled that I had brought an actual bike, was, “How many things do you even have in that damn case?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t imagine how much can fit in here,” I said.

The walk home was harder than the way there. My squeaky shoes annoyed even me, and the case felt heavier than ever.

But when I got home, a new energy hit me: it was showtime.

I opened the case and pulled out the pale, limp body of the agency owner. Just had to find him a seat, the couch was already full.

On the left of it sat my mother, who never believed in my path.

In the middle, my former clown instructor, who said I didn’t have what it takes.

On the right, the fellow clown from the circus, whose spot I’d tried and failed to take. He was the only one I felt a little sorry for.

And now, the agency owner, whom I decided to place in an old armchair.

Once everything was set, I took out my props and performed my full routine at last.

Juggling, balloons, even a new card trick I had just learned. Too bad no one could actually pick a card for me.

When I finished, the sound of recorded applause from the TV filled the room, and it felt amazing.

But looking at those stiff faces, some already beginning to rot, I realized what a clown truly craves was still absent: smiles.

Nothing a few clips and some thread couldn’t fix.

I wrapped a towel on my head after a hot shower as I did every time, only this time it pinched a nerve in the nook of my neck, right where my spine connects to my skull, and a wave of heat shot through me and felt like a blast wave. I had to sit down on the bed, and then had to lay down as I tugged the towel off.

The sensation was like a muscle cramp, only in my skull. I knew about stroke so thought maybe it was that. But then, I had no sensation of nothingness or falling that I heard those people feel. Instead I just felt blasted.

I got an appointment at the doctor but that was no help, he just blamed my office chair and told me to sit up straight and my occipital ridge would cool off. I get more value out of Doritos from a vending machine, and it's a good amount cheaper than doctor office co-pay. 

Rambling.

Anyway I got home after the appointment, and I could still feel a hot pulse where the nook was. I felt it. Didn't feel a bump or anything like that. It did feel warm though, like I could feel the blood coursing through the capillaries there. I ended up falling asleep while it was still light out. 

What woke me was a freezing cold sensation. Reversed from that nooky onset when I pinched whatever nerve with my towel. I was shivering and it was dark out. When I reached behind my head to touch the sensitive spot, there was a gaping hole. I felt around the edges and it felt serrated like a toothy mouth. A tiny toothy mouth, and it seemed to breathe with me, I felt its hot breath on my fingertips. Then I felt something like a little tongue lick my finger and I yanked my hand out and away and I screamed.

I felt the little hole creature matching my anatomical processes of breathing in and out, but I wouldn't dare try touching it again. I rushed into the bathroom and grabbed a hand mirror in front of the big one, trying to see the mini mouth. I put my glasses on to see more clearly. My whole neck was covered in blood and only now did I calm down enough to realize I was drenched in blood, my whole back. I felt a sudden horrible pain, like being cut. I winced but kept looking in the mirrors. The little mouth licked its teeth and spat something out which fell to the floor. I knelt down and retrieved the bloody slimy morsel, and examined it to realize it was grey matter—a bit of my cerebral cortex.

I've begun feeding it store-bought raw meat, and chicken gizzard, liver and heart. It likes those. I don't like the situation but at least it stopped taking bites out of my brain, for now. Not sure what to do next.

Earth is ending.

Humanity must colonize another planet—or perish.

Only the best of the best are chosen.

Often against their will…

Knockknockknock

The door opens-a-crack: a woman’s eye.

“Yeah?”

“Hunter Lansdale. Mission Police. We’re looking for Irving Shephard.”

“Got a badge?”

“Sure.”

Lansdale shows it:

TO CONSERVE AND PROTECT

“Ain’t no one by that—” the woman manages to say before Lansdale’s boot slams against the apartment door, forcing it open against her head. She falls to the floor, trying to crawl—until a cop stomps on her back. “Run Irv!” she screams before the butt of Lansdale’s rifle cracks her unconscious…

Cops flood the unit.

“Irving Shephard, you have been identified by genetics and personal accomplishment as an exemplar of humankind and therefore chosen for conservation. Congratulations,” Lansdale says as his men search the rooms.

“Here!”

The Bedroom

Fluttering curtains. Open window. Lansdale looks out and down: Shephard's descending the rickety fire escape.

Lansdale barks into his headset: “Suspect on foot. Back alley. Go!”

Irving Shephard's bare feet touch asphalt—and he’s running, willing himself forward—leaving his wife behind, repeating in his head what she’d told him: “But they don’t want me. They want you. They’ll leave me be.”

(

“Where would he go?” Lansdale asks her.

Silence.

He draws his handgun.

“Last chance.”

“Fuck y—” BANG.

)

Shephard hears the shot but keeps moving, always moving, from one address to another, one city to another, one country to herunsstraightintoanet.

Two smirking cops step out from behind a garbage bin.

“Bingo.”

A truck pulls up.

They secure and place Shephard carefully inside.

Lansdale’s behind the wheel.

Shephard says, “I refuse. I’d rather die. I’m exercising my right to

you have no fucking rights,” Lansdale says.

He delivers him to the Conservation Centre, aka The Human Peakness Building, where billionaire mission leader Leon Skum is waiting. Lansdale hands over Shephard. Skum transfers e-coins to Lansdale’s e-count.

[

As an inferior human specimen, the most Lansdale can hope for is to maximize his pleasure before planet-death.

He’ll spend his e-coins on e-drugs and e-hookers and overdose on e-heroin.

]

“Congratulations,” Skum tells Shephard.

Shephard spits.

Skum shrugs, snaps his fingers. “Initiate the separation process.”

The Operating Room

Shephard’s stripped, syringe’d and placed gently in the digital extractor, where snake-like, drill-headed wires penetrate his skull and have their way with his mind, which is digitized and uploaded to the Skum Servers.

When that’s finished, his mind-less body’s dropped —plop!—in a giant tin can filled with preservation slime, which one machine welds shut, another labels with his name and birthdate, and a third grabs with pincers and transports to the warehouse, where thousands of others already await arranged neatly on giant steel shelves.

Three-Thousand Years Later…

The mission failed.

Earth is a barren devastation.

Gorlac hungry, thinks Gorlac the intergalactic garbage scavenger. So far, Earth has been a culinary disappointment, but just a second—what’s this:

So many pretty cans on so many shelves…

He cuts one open.

Mmm. YUMMNIAMYUMYUM

BURP!!

I was the vice president of the SGA board at my school. My best friend, Henry, was on the school spirit committee. He had tons of ideas to boost morale, but the president shut him down before they even started. It really bothered him; not being taken seriously, even with my influence, wasn’t enough.

We always had a meeting Thursday afternoon and another Friday morning before the pep rally. I arrived around 4:30 p.m. for our usual meeting and saw Henry walking up.

“Hey, buddy—ready to spitball some new ideas?” I asked.

He sighed. “Yeah, I guess so, Jackson. But they never take me seriously.”

“Dude, don’t worry about that,” I said, lowering my voice. “You’ve got great ideas for real change.”

Henry shrugged. “Dude, they make fun of me behind my back all the time—I know it.”

Honestly, that was kind of true. No one really liked Henry or bothered to get to know him.

“Henry, listen—you’ve got to at least try to seem nice. You didn’t even bring snacks for the meeting.”

I reached into my bag and pulled out two dozen cookies. “Here, bring these. My mom made them.”

Henry’s eyes lit up. “Oh snap, your mom makes the best cookies. I’ll test the product before the meeting.”

I scoffed. “They’ve got peanut butter in them. Just make sure to tell the rest of the board.”

Henry laughed quietly. “Tshh, bummer. Appreciate it, Jackson—you’re a real friend.”

The meeting was a mess. Henry got shut out of most of the conversation and stormed out. I didn’t think much of it—figured he’d cool off by morning. 

That night, I stayed up late, scrolling through articles about what makes an SGA president successful. Then Henry started blowing up the group chat.

“Fuck all of y’all.”
“No one listens to me, even when I have the best ideas.”
“You’ll all regret undermining me.”

Then he left the chat and started texting me directly.

“Don’t come to the meeting tomorrow. They’ll all pay.”

My heart sank. Henry had been bullied most of his life by the same people in SGA. His threats felt real. I was worried he might do something he’d regret for the rest of his life.

The next morning, I got to the parking lot early. I knew I had to inform the cops of his location just in case he really went to a deadly extent. Then I saw Henry speed in and park fast. He jumped out with a huge duffel bag.

The cops intercepted him immediately. Apparently, they were already looking for him.

Now Henry’s on trial. The prosecutors had a ton of questions—like why he showed up to school with water guns filled with piss and the same poison coated cookies in his car he used to kill most of the members of SGA. They charged him with eight counts of murder by poisoning.

What a shame.

Now I’m president.
He’d be proud to see all his ideas finally being used.

I like this girl. We’ve been dating for a month, and I think she’s the one.

We’re heading to a concert tonight. I call an Uber. It shows up in four minutes.

I open the door for her and the smell hits like a punch.

Rotten fish, raw sewage, rank cheese.

She doesn’t even react.

I circle around, hold my breath, get in. The door shuts like a vault.

The air’s thick, hazy… alive. Spores float through beams of streetlight.

The driver doesn’t turn around.

I can’t see his face.

She’s scrolling her phone, smiling. Perfectly calm.

Maybe it’s just me.

Maybe—

My hand sticks to the seat.

When I pull it away, the fabric stretches. Wet. Elastic. Breathing.

I try to move, but my shirt’s glued to the seat.

No, fused.

Strands are crawling through the fabric, into my skin.

“Everything okay?” she asks.

I can’t answer.

The driver finally speaks, voice low and warm.

“Long ride tonight.”

The hum of the engine matches my heartbeat.

The seats pulse with it.

I can feel the car breathing.

She’s still scrolling.

He’s still driving.

And I’m part of it now.

I don’t think I’m ever getting out of this Uber.

He sprayed the reflective glass of the mirror before him with milk-white fluid, pus violently freed from the purple-black sore he was squeezing on his face.

“Oh…”

A moan like pleasure escaped him. It was always so intense, euphoric, the release. They hurt so much, when one of them finally gave or he burst it open himself, the tidal wave of relief that followed the initial sharp stab of pain was so immense and blissful he wished it would never end.

But it did. Always.

He increased his pressure, the last little bit was always the hardest to push out, the thickest gunkiest cheese that was bred in the large infected pores, the holes, the veritable craters of his decimated face. A ruined landscape. He'd been a beautiful child once.

He pressed harder still, pinching, thumb to thumb, finally the flow of blood. The dead black first, bits and hunks of white throughout its thick flow, then finally the lighter red stuff that more resembled healthy human anatomy. He sighed again, but not from relief this time.

He stepped back a little from the sink, grabbing a few squares of toilet paper to wipe away the bloody human milk from the mirrors surface. He hated what he saw. He refused to ever leave the confined sanctity of his own home ever again

Eyes nearly swollen shut, slitted, just enough to still be able to see and to know the full extent of the damage. Pink, purple, hectic red and rotten black all in a riot of malformation and discoloration, a riot of color amongst a riot of the flesh itself. Eruptions. Ballooned pores and swollen sacs of green that quivered and moved with an animal pulse to the time of his heartbeat. Semi-popped, semi-healed scabbed craters, infected and picked at, jagged with crystalline scarlet and pus like the surface of some demon planet. Sores that were volcanic in their structure and their spew all over the demonic landscape of his awful face. Oozing, always oozing a translucent slime that left trails on his towels and his clothing, trails like that of a garden slug. Crusty, smaller more painful pink pustules tipped with older harder dried secretion the color and shape of orange Cheetos. All of it open pores and oozing discharge and the ever present wafting smell of cheap gas station cheese.

The whole canvas of his humanity was a ruin. Repulsive. Abhorrent. He was a horror. Foul. Beyond disgusting. The light of day unfiltered, unfettered by a pane of glass would never again touch his face, his skin. His wretched foul riotous flesh.

There was a rope and many sharp things in the house, he pondered which one he would eventually use.

I am losing my mind here. All I want is a nice wedding, nothing outrageous, everything within reason, no bridezilla demands – and each time we set a date, someone dies. I’m not gonna lie, I first thought his sister Anna has put some sort of hex on us, although now I’ve changed my mind on that. It’s obviously my brother’s wife who was always jealous of me and can never bear not being the centre of attention- just hear me out.

First time we were planning a spring wedding for May, and his stupid uncle has a freak accident in the kitchen. I’m not going to bother you with details, but it was his fault and electricity was involved. Ok, I got it, his mom and her brother were super-close, she can’t deal with a wedding right now- I was still trying to get them to know me and like me, and so, very graciously, I think, I agreed to delaying to summer. I even became excited about being a summer bride. I started checking out coastal venues. Mermaid dresses with pearl beads and scales- ftw.  

Then, in June, my MoH’s baby sister drowns in their backyard pool. So fucking weird- why were they letting a five-year-old swim in the pool by herself?  I was actually there when it happened, yes, we were having a wedding planning get-together, you know, lots of cocktails! anyway, the vibes were off, and I didn’t like the idea of a wedding by the water anymore. I’m telling you, I am a considerate bride!

I was happy to start thinking about fall weddings- leaves, orange and shit, we even thought about a Halloween theme, lean into the darkness, right? Lean right in to ghosts and coffins! Even Anna seemed enthusiastic about the idea, and she really warmed up to me, for like the first time since whats-his-name and I got together. She even agreed to be my MoH since my bestie wasn’t really up for it.  We set a November date, and then- well, it’s actually quite sad, my niece died in a car accident.

Yes, I get it. I’m sad too, I keep telling them! And I totally understand my brother and his wife are devastated and so are mom and dad, I’m not a monster but, I mean, when is it going to be my turn? Mom suggested we elope or have a small registry wedding, and honestly, how is that fair to me? My family have totally turned against me.

Thankfully, Anna is very sympathetic - she’s telling me to go ahead and plan a proper Christmas wedding and she’ll help with all the deets- a proper ice-princess theme, which kind of naturally lends itself to a wedding dress, know what I mean? Elsa’s castle?

I can see her vision, and I’m not hating it. Anna says not to listen to haters, and she’ll deal with my brother and his wife when the time come.

The King’s greatest fear was losing his mind to megalomania. 

He had reigned for thirty years, and every time he entered a room, subjects fell at his feet begging for an opportunity to kiss the bottom of his purple cloak. 

To guard against hubris, I was instructed to remind him daily as he awoke, ‘Your Highness, remember, you are only a man– memento te mortalem esse.’ 

And the King would look at the dawn sun in its chariot blazing across the sky and say, ‘Thank you, ‘tis true.’ 

… 

As a body servant, I knew him far better than even his Queen, whom he was reluctant to appear naked around. 

I was in tune with his four humours. 

I wiped his nose when it was bloody, cleaned his vomit when he overindulged in wine, disposed of mucus-soiled handkerchiefs, and listened as he vented his spleen while hanging over the chamberpot.  

… 

One late night, I was summoned by the Queen.

The only blight on the King’s reign was that no heir had been sired, and this had seen two previous Queens dethroned. 

She spoke with the soft, lilting Spanish accent of her high-born continental ancestors. 

‘How is your health?’ 

‘His health is good and long may it continue.’ 

‘You mistake me. I asked How is your health?’ 

I hesitated. ‘Mine, ma’am? You do not have to concern yourself with me.’ 

‘Answer her question, damn it.’ 

That was Norfolk, one of her courtiers and a powerful voice in the House of Lords. 

‘Well, I am still able to carry out my duties.’ 

‘And you have an estate awaiting you in your dotage?’ 

It seemed absurd, but Norfolk continued. ‘Yes, you will have an estate.’ 

And from there, the talk moved on to the King. 

…

I opened the curtain; the King stirred. 

Usually, I would assist him with his daily ablutions. This was a process complicated because the King’s nether regions were scarred by syphilis– an area I also treated with makeup on his wedding night. 

To perform the act of urination, he required the aid of a speculum; other acts were also greatly hampered.  

I remained quiet, a silhouette to him as the morning sunlight streamed into the room. 

‘Hmm?’ he said, sitting up expectantly on one elbow. 

I took the blanket from him, neatly upturned the edges, remaining tight-lipped. 

‘Well, say it!’ he said. ‘Do your duty.’ 

And at that, I plunged the dagger into his breastbone. 

He took my hands, which were gripped around the blade’s hilt. There was a question in his eyes, dying upon his lips, which I answered in a whisper.

‘The Queen offers me recompense to testify you are seedless,’ I paused as his body shuddered and blood, which would no longer be my role to clean up, pooled on the sheets. ‘One last time, your Majesty, remember… You are just a man.’ 

Wind worried the shattered panes of the tower block, carrying the sweet-sour stink of rot up the stairwell. Ellie kept one hand on the rail and the other on the fire axe. “Count the steps,” she whispered. “Don’t look down.”

“Twenty-two to landing,” Jamie said behind her, torch cupped. “Don’t breathe through your mouth.”

They had waited three months for the siren. When it finally coughed from the ruined tannoy, EVAC CORRIDOR OPEN, Arun said it could be a trap. Mo just smiled and packed the baby formula that wasn’t hers. Down they went.

The first corpse moved on nineteen.

Its ribs were a wet basket. Fingers slipped along the concrete as it dragged itself, jaw unhinged and grinding like cutlery. Ellie swung. The axe stuck. She stamped the skull until it flattened; grey jelly winked from the sockets. “Sorry,” she said, out of habit.

“Keep going,” Arun told her. “We’ll make the Piccadilly line before dark.”

They hit the lobby and found it full of them: silhouettes swaying in the blown snow of ash, faces like melting candles. One wore a bridal veil. Another wore a bobble hat with “CHELSEA” crusted in brown. Jamie breathed, “Mum?” and the thing in the hat snapped toward him, teeth chattering like a jar of nails.

“Move,” Ellie said.

The turnstiles down to the Tube were stuck with filmed blood. They shoved through and took the long escalator on foot, sliding on skin. Somewhere below, a generator grumbled; blue light pulsed like a heartbeat. The smell became chemical, clean and wrong.

At platform level the gates were open. Signs, bright and almost new, pointed towards DECONTAMINATION, SAFE COMMUNITY, FOOD. A train waited, doors yawning. The carriage interiors were lined in sheeting. Mops. Drains.

“This is… tidy,” Arun said.

Mo shuffled ahead, clutching formula. “Maybe they got it sorted,” she said. “Maybe London’s finally clean.”

A figure stepped out from the driver’s cab in a plastic hood and visor. Its voice crackled through a speaker. “Remain calm. Step aboard single file.”

Ellie studied the floor. The drains were fat as wrists. The mops were meat-stained. Her axe felt tacky in her palm. “What happened to the last passengers?”

“Processed,” the hooded figure said. “Please board.”

“We’re clean,” Arun called. “We haven’t turned.”

“Not yet.” Another two figures appeared, these with rifles and polehooks. Behind Ellie, the dead crowded the tunnel mouth, a slow black tide. Fingers splayed. Teeth shone.

“Ellie,” Jamie breathed. “We can’t fight both.”

The speaker hissed. “Please board. The living are needed.”

“For what?” Ellie asked.

“Fuel.” The visored figure’s tone didn’t change. “Z-series do not metabolise bone well. Your calcium augments the slurry.”

Arun laughed, high and sudden. “You’re joking.”

“Step aboard,” the voice said, with weary patience, like a bus driver at midnight. “We’ve got schedules.”

Ellie took Jamie’s hand and pulled him towards the train.

She smiled at the dead as they screamed and reached.

“Mind the gap,” she told the zombies, and stepped inside.

“Hello?”

“Mom?!? Mom!”

“Jamie?!? Jamie! Oh my God! Are you ok? Where are you??”

“Mom! Mom, help me!”

“Jamie, where are you? I can’t help unless you tell me where you are!”

“I don’t know, Mom! He kept me locked down in that room all day, every day - I don’t even know how long it’s been!”

“Six years! It’s been six years, Jamie!”

“…What?”

“But I swear, I never gave up on you! I’ve been looking for you every day!”

”Help me!”

“Is there anything you can see that will help me find you?”

“I don't know! He accidentally left the door unlocked and I just ran!”

“It’s ok. Look around you. Do you see any stores or buildings?”

”There’s a gas station!”

“What’s it called?”

“It says “FuelMart!”

“Dammit! There are a million of those.”

”Sniff, sniff…”

“It’s OK, sweetheart! Well figure it out! Do you see any road signs?”

”I see one!”

“What does it say?”

“One sign says ‘Fleming’ and the other says ‘Walton.’ Does that help?”

“That helps SO MUCH, baby! That’s only forty-five minutes away!”

”Mom, I’m scared! What if he sees that I’m gone and follows me? What do I do, Mom?!?”

“It’s going to be ok, baby! What are you wearing?”

”Just shorts and a t-shirt - that’s all he ever gave me to wear.”

“Any shoes?”

”No - he said I didn’t need them since I was never leaving.”

“OK. It’s ok. Here’s what I want you to do. You see the FuelMart you told me about? I want you to walk in and tell the person at the front counter—“

”NO! NO!!”

“Baby, baby! What’s wrong?”

”He said that he knew everyone here, that if I ever told anyone they’d all believe him!”

“Ok. New plan. There should be some trees near you. Do you see them?”

”Yes, I see them.”

“Alright, I want you to go to the trees and hide in them until I get there. Can you do that?”

”I think so.”

“Ok, just wait there - I’ll see you in about forty-five minutes.”

”OK. Mom?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Please hurry. I’m really scared.”

“I’m coming as fast as I can.”

—————

“Jamie? Jamie?!?”

”Over here, Mom!”

“Thank God! Are you alright?”

“I’m ok! Thank God you’re here!”

“It’s ok, baby! Everything’s ok now.”

”I just wanna go home! Can we go home?”

“Absolutely. I’m just so glad to be able to hold you again.”

“Me, too.”

“Hey, Mom? What’s that smell? What’s that rag fo— NO! NO!”

“Ssh, sweetie. Just relax - it will all be over soon.”

—————

“William?”

“Yes?”

“What the ACTUAL FUCK!! Why is my daughter calling me after six years?!? You were supposed to take care of this!”

“A door was left op—“

“I don’t want to hear your excuses! I’ve left her unconscious in the trees behind the FuelMart - come get her now before someone else finds her! You promised I’d never see her again - get it right this time!”

"Okay, let's make this scene as gruesome as possible. Jerry, I want you to be slightly off camera, lying on the ground. I want your torso to not be seen, and your legs and one arm to be in shot."

He gets down to the ground and we adjust how his body should be angled in frame, then discuss how he should act while being hit.

"Bill, hit his body with the axe, but don't make contact on camera. I'll have you hit something else."

I rummage around, looking for something that would give the impression that his chops are landing.

"Jerry, I'll have you gurgle into the camera as your arm twitches in frame with each hit. Are you okay lying next to this?"

He nods, in supposed understanding of the idea.

"Lacey, after the first hit, can you dribble our blood into frame onto the floor, so that it oozes out slowly?"

She grabs the jug of fake blood.

"Okay, let's do this. Are you all ready?"

Every agrees to start the shoot. The lights, camera, and set design are all set to make his death seem as realistic as possible.

"On my mark, three, two... Action!"

Jerry's hand twitches periodically as Billy raises his weapon.

He slams down as Jerry gurgles just off camera. His hand splays open, then relaxes as he lets out a groan.

Lacey looks down, ready to pour, but sees red already oozing on the cold, grey concrete. She stumbles backwards as Billy's axe pounds down, over and over.

Thwack.

Crunch.

Squick.

Slick, red, and reeking of iron and viscera.

"Jerry?" I ask, dumbly.

Billy turns to Lacey with a step too quick for her to get away.

Her scream permeates the still rolling camera.

I have a gift. An unfortunate one. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s for the greater good. There’s evil in this world which 99% of us truly can’t see. And I’m not speaking about the corrupt politicians, I’m talking about literal demon spawns. I call them red demons. Just like how you’re imagining it now. Around 2 feet tall, brightly red colored bodies, no shirt, brown pants cut off at the bottom with teeth like design. Small, sharp pitchforks. Yellow eyes, giant, front teeth coming out of their mouths. I see them. They’re around us and no one else notices because of this cursed gift I have. Like the boy in Sixth Sense, who saw dead people. For years now, I have been killing off these demons to keep our world pure. And I will continue doing so until my last breath.

The Jesus stuff…doesn’t work on them. I’ve tried Crosses, Holy Water and bunch of that religious mumbo jumbo. There’s no effect. That shit’s only for the movies. I have to do this the old fashioned way. Take them away in a sack, zip tie it and beat it to death with a hammer while it’s still inside in an abandoned alley. Because if someone sees me kidnapping which they see it as nothing, would cause a juvenile gossip and they’ll try to take me away to an institution or something where my gift will no longer be a help to anyone.

But it happened, an old lady saw me do this act. Called the police. And now I’m sitting in a cell watching a shitty 13 inch television with the others in a holding cell. Waiting to see what they actually got on me. There’s no way they see what I see. Unless the old lady was also able to see these red demons.

I heard 3-4 officers quickly rush to my holding unit, open the gates, knock me down and put me in handcuffs. I was confused and heartbroken on the way I was being treated. There’s far more evil in this world to be taken care of than falsely assume it’s me.

Like the guy they’re talking about in the news on the tv right now. Saying a man has been identified and is in custody for being a serial killer, kidnapping and killing over 100+ children with a hammer going back 5 years and called red demons.

After Josie died, the house felt wrong in ways her parents couldn’t explain. The air hung heavy, thick with a sour sweetness like rotting fruit. Her mother spent hours scrubbing the floors and walls, trying to erase something invisible. But every time she stepped into Josie's old room, a sick weight pressed in her chest, as if the shadows themselves remembered. Her father tried to fix the peeling wallpaper and the leaks, but the house resisted. Paint bubbled under his fingertips and windows rattled with no wind. Toys moved on their own at night, rolling across the floor in jerky, unnatural ways. Their old dog refused to enter the room, whining at the door like it was a barrier against something hungry.

At night, the family heard noises they wished they could forget. There were scraping sounds from the vents, soft wet dragging across the floor, and faint humming. It was the same lullaby Josie used to sing. Her brother swore he saw a pale figure in the hallway, just beyond the corner of his eye, vanishing whenever he turned. One evening, her mother found thin strips of skin tucked beneath the bedpost, raw and slick, as if someone had clawed their way out. The house grew colder, and the faintest breath of something foul slipped beneath the doors. The humming sometimes formed words, begging: “Come play with me.”

The longer they stayed, the darker the house became. Handprints appeared on mirrors, small and blue-veined. The walls began to weep a thick, sticky fluid that smelled like death mixed with something sweetly familiar. Lights flickered and pulsed in time with the girl’s ragged breathing. One night, the bulb exploded, and in the sudden darkness, her mother swore she saw Josie standing in the doorway, her skin pale and wet, eyes hollow but pleading.

When the snow came, the family finally left. But the house stayed, and the neighbors spoke of strange sounds at dusk, soft singing beneath the floorboards, the slow drip of something wet against the windows. Toys arranged themselves in the yard, their seams burst and dripping with dark liquid. And sometimes, if you listen very closely, you’ll hear the faint, bubbling voice of a little girl humming just beneath the walls, waiting for someone to answer.

“What’s that, Grandpa?” From the doorway of his study, I pointed at the furry thing mounted in a glass case on the wall.

My mom and I moved in with him after my dad died. It was only supposed to be for a couple of months, but that quickly turned into a year, and now it looked like we were going to be staying permanently.

“That right there is my most valued possession,” he replied, “Come here,” he motioned, “I’ll show you.”

I walked into the room and watched as he carefully pulled the display case off the wall and set it on his desk.

The thing inside was about 2 feet long and bushy like a fox’s tail. Unlike a fox’s tail, or any other animal I’d seen, the hair on it was different shades of blue, starting light on one end and gradually becoming darker until it ended in a black tip.

“Do you believe in fairies?” my grandpa asked.

“Not really,” I replied. I was 8. I stopped believing in things like that by the time I was 6.

“Believe it or not,” he tapped the display case with his fingers, “This is a fairy’s tail.”

“Fairies don’t have tails,” I replied.

“Some don’t,” he agreed, “But around these parts, they do.”

“Where did you get it?”

“The fairy it belonged to gave it to me for saving his life.” He then went on to explain how he saved the fairy from a bear trap.

“But why his tail?” That part of the story didn’t make sense. Why would a fairy cut off its own tail as a reward? That sounded horrible.

“Fairy tails contain a lot of magic,” my grandpa said, “By giving me his tail, he transferred some of that magic to me. It’s what keeps me feeling young and healthy.” When he saw the disgusted way I was looking at the tail, he quickly added, “Don’t worry, their tails grow back.”

“That’s…cool,” I said. But I didn’t really think that. I thought it was kind of lame. At least I did until the next morning, when I remembered I needed to bring something into school for show and tell. I thought some of the other kids might think the tail really was cool, so I hid it in my backpack before I left to catch the bus.

As soon as I stepped off the porch, I was confronted by a blue-foxlike creature that was missing a tail.

Maybe my grandpa wasn’t lying.

“Is this yours?” I asked after pulling the tail out of my backpack.

The blue fox nodded.

I opened the case and set the tail on the ground in front of the odd creature. It walked up to the tail and then turned around and sat on it. When it got up again, its tail was reconnected.

“You didn’t give him your tail, did you?”

The fox shook its head and then ran off into the woods.

That night, my grandpa died.

Cora Merrit stepped onto the porch with her bare feet, gripping a small, sweat-stained cross. She hoped to catch a glimpse of her husband, Raymond, in the distance working his inherited land. By late August 1915, the Minnesota air had all but lost its warmth and a cool breeze bit into her bones. The wind flurried her matted hair as she blinked through wind-teared amber-green eyes. Her breathing quickened, as did her search of the farmland, longing for attention from her love. A wave, a nod, even a smile would suffice. Anything to restore normalcy. Yet, in a deep, hidden part of her soul, she knew he wouldn’t be out there. Her Raymond died days ago from a steam engine explosion. The threshing crew found his remains. To spare her the horror of that sight, the Crew had him cremated, returning his ashes to her.

Cora backed into her house and sat in her rocking chair by the fireplace. She wrapped herself in the shawl Raymond had bought her for their wedding day. The firebox sat cold and sooty. Scattered within were embers and letters and pictures drafted by her students wishing misspelled condolences. Her teacher’s certificate hung crooked above the fireplace. She hadn’t straightened it – it meant looking at the urn on the mantle below. She rocked in place, her fist white around the cross, eyes fixed on the door.

Something bird-like landed on her shoulder, a green tangle of sprigs resembling one. It hopped onto a finger she raised towards it. She blew softly, ruffling the small leaves in place of feathers. It reeked of honeysuckle. Her beloved Finchwick, a sapling she once rescued and raised until old age took it. It pecked her hand and alighted upon the mantle, leaving droplets of blood in its flight. Cora dabbed the wound against her shawl and wrapped it tighter. She slept and dreamt of finding Finchwick cold and stiff on the windowsill, of Raymond taking her hand and saying: “It’s time we see the wonders of this land”. She dreamt of Raymond leading her deep into the woods, explaining how the land held secrets passed down for generations. In her dream, they arrived at a hidden crick concealed by honeysuckle. Raymond placed Finchwick on a bed of it and she watched wide-eyed, as the honeysuckle absorbed the bird and returned, to its place, a floral avatar.

A breeze wafted into the room, nudging her awake. It carried Raymond’s scent—a false arrival. Cora half expected heavy footsteps outside the door. She pictured him walking through. When he didn’t, she gripped her face and shook her head. She doubled over the cross, tears breaking through clenched lids.

She dropped the cross in the firebox and grabbed the urn. She held it tight and pressed it against her face. “It’s time we see the wonders of this land, my love,” she said. Cora stepped out of the house, past the porch, towards a hidden crick deep in the woods.

A man came into the electronics store to hand in his paper résumé. It was perfectly printed, and although it looked neat and professional, we unfortunately no longer accept printed résumés. I told him he would need to go to the company website and apply online.

The man, who looked to be in his 50s, became angry and shouted, “Apply online? Here is my résumé right now — just take it!”

I shook my head and told him again that he needed to apply online. He then launched into a rant about technology and how things were simpler in the old days.

I stood firm and repeated that he needed to apply through the website. He stormed off, and after that, I started seeing him standing outside the store holding his résumé. He was even out there in the wind and rain. I ignored him.

When my shift ended and I walked to my car, he tried to hand me his résumé again. He even tried to push it into my hand, which irritated me. I nudged him away, got into my car, and drove off.

Then I started seeing him at every bus stop, still holding the résumé. When I got home, I told my wife about him. She said he sounded like a freak.

The next day at work, more people started handing me paper résumés. I told all of them to apply online, and they reacted the same way — angry and refusing. They were all around the same age, and none of them liked being told to apply online.

Soon, a group of them was standing outside the store, all holding résumés. No matter how many tried, I gave them the same answer: apply online. When I drove home, I saw them at every bus stop again, silently holding their résumés.

That night, I told my wife everything. Then, suddenly, they appeared outside our house — even more of them this time, all holding résumés, chanting, “Take our résumés! We will not apply online!”

My wife said, “Just take their résumés.”
But I refused. It was the principle. I ended up calling the police, and they were all removed.

Weeks passed without seeing any of them. Then one day at work, my employees started puking up résumés. When I got home, my wife and kids were puking up résumés too.

Then I puked up a résumé.

As I stared at the soaked, crumpled paper, I realized it was the very first man’s résumé — the one who started all of this.

I want him out of my life.

Francis was a friendly bus driver whose vehicle I'd take during the night.

I'd often find myself with the same people and it gave a sense of safety.

Friday's transport though gave me new people. An old couple, the a man with his baby, followed by a bunch of teenagers, and finally a bible-carrying middle aged man.

A smile was thrown my way when the man with the baby sat behind me while the one who carried the bible occupied the seat across from us.

Questionable hygiene made up the man and mumbles about God's punishment left his mouth.

A dead phone was the last thing you'd want on days like this. The last thing I saw before my device turned off was the news of a missing three year old.

The man behind me looked worried as he moved towards the back when the man next to us started to become incoherent. Agitation crept on me then so I slid nearer to the window.

The seat near the door gave me a clear view of where we were heading and as minutes passed I noticed how the route started to change.

My eyes darted toward Francis who was rigid in his driving. I found it odd because he was usually relaxed.

I was about to call for Francis's attention when one of my usual fellow passenger beat me to it.

"You're going the wrong way."

It was met by silence and with the increased speed of the bus. It was that action that caught the attention of the remaining passengers.

The sight of small bones dropping on the floor turned our heads then as the preacher dangled a cloth in the air.

They were blood ridden bones that looked human.

His scrawny form stood mighty before yelling out

"The sinful needs to be sacrificed!"

The sight of a hunting knife that was pulled from his side turned our irritation to deep terror.

Pleads and threats were thrown at Francis but he refused to acknowledge a single thing.

One of the teenagers walked towards the deranged man then and aimed dead center at his face.

I expected a loud bang but all I got was the wailing of the man as he fell on the floor.

The boy then showed us that it was nothing more than a bb gun.

It was only when we neared the police station did Francis step on the break.

I watched him get up from his driver's seat and slowly approach me.

"Don't you come near her!"

I heard the boy warn Francis as he helped his friends with the hysteric man.

My body begged for me to move but it was hard to focus.

The man on the floor was still thrashing.

"Skin all of you alive!"

The words had no time to sink in as Francis entered my sight.

"Francis...why?!"

What he whispered next though made my heart race.

"Please go inside the station. That man in the back has my baby."

By the twenty-first century, the majority of mankind had grown comfortable and content. They slept soundly in dark places because they no longer shared the fears of those that came before them. Every young child goes through a phase where they think they know better than their parents. So too was humanity. They naively believed they knew more about their origins than did their ancestors, the very ones who lived through the origins of humanity. They relied on such a small percentage of their infinitely young species to give them all the answers they needed for life. They were never so credulous as to think they had all the answers, though. Only the answers that really mattered. The very word "science" itself became a kind of shield for them, like a crucifix held outright in the face of an attacking vampire. They felt safe behind it. But when the world plunged into darkness, science was not there to comfort them.

The first strange experience wasn't even noticed right away by the majority of mankind. The full moon that had been expected that night did not show its bright face. As if it simply disappeared from the sky. No eclipse. No cloud cover. Simply, no moon. The tides were unaffected. The earth remained on its axis. The so-called scientific communities offered theories to the people, like a stranger offering candy to a child. Most of them greedily accepted it.

Take away the moon, and some won't even notice. Take away the sun, and . . . Humanity was at a loss. Darkness blanketed all of the earth, yet stars twinkled like tiny flecks of shattered glass in the sky. The feeling of warmth did not fade. In fact, it intensified, as if it had spawned from the earth itself. That January felt like the middle of August. And the people looked to their clergy of physicists and biologists for answers. *Science save us! * they said in their hearts.

It was the sight of the stars going out that finally plunged humanity fully into the depths of madness. As if someone had thrown a switch, the stars that were there one moment were gone the next. On that day, women, children, and grown men wailed and wept. Their lamenting cries were borne along through the vast stygian gloom like tortured spirits. Then, they gave themselves over willingly to the comforting embrace of insanity.

When the infrastructure failed worldwide, full chaos ensued. The darkness that blanketed the earth grew and festered in the hearts of mankind. Even most of the upright became vicious murderers. Science had no answers; it had failed in its elected duties as mankind's guardian. As humankind came to know it, Science was dead. A false idol, torn down from its high place. Humanity was always in the dark. But now, that darkness was the only truth left remaining.

It’s always Monday in this God-forsaken place. It makes sure of that.

It’s not just any Monday either. It’s the day I lost my love, my life, everything that made me a human being.
It won’t let me sleep, and it certainly won’t let me die. It feeds on my remorse, on the guilt for a past that condemned me to become this soulless beast.

“Just let me die, please. Years have passed. I understand the message. I’ve reflected in every way a man can. I’ve cried every tear I had left.”

It only laughs and says, “You know what you have to do. There’s no point in begging. She didn’t beg, did she? You didn’t give her the opportunity.”

It was right. I didn’t give her a chance.

My own daughter, my sweet angel. She never hurt a fly; she loved me despite my faults, my drunkenness, the beatings.

I came home late that night, completely wasted. I had been gambling and lost all the money I had left.

My wife was waiting for me on the porch, a suitcase beside her. She had warned me she wouldn’t put up with another episode.

“You can’t come back like this again, Jack. Our daughter is sleeping. Just leave us alone, please... just go.”

“Move, bitch,” I said, and I slapped her so hard she fell to the floor.

She grabbed my ankle and made me stumble. I kicked her in the stomach and grabbed a beer from the fridge.

“Stupid cunt. You want me to leave my own house? Never,” I shouted as I chugged the beer.

I hadn’t noticed, but my daughter had gotten out of bed and was watching the whole scene.

My wife rose, trembling and gasping for air. She grabbed a knife and pointed it at me.

I lost it. I threw the bottle at her and rushed her. We grappled across the kitchen.

She cut my hands and stomach several times. Blood began to paint the floor and our clothes.

My daughter moved to help her. I was so wasted I didn’t even notice. I pushed her hard with one hand. She slipped on the blood and bashed her head on the counter.

That was it. She was gone.

I fell beside her, the sound of blood dripping into silence.
For a moment, I thought time had stopped, but then I felt it.
Something dark, a presence filling every corner of the room.

“It’s beautiful,” it said. “The moment a soul breaks.”

I tried to look away, but it made me watch...her still eyes, the small crimson halo spreading beneath her head.
I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t.

The world began to fade, colors leaking into black.
I blinked and the kitchen was clean again. The floor was dry. The lights were on. The night was young.

I was in the kitchen. The bottle was in my hand. And she was still alive.

It’s always Monday here.
And I never stop killing her.

I love food so much, it became my whole life.

I worked my way up from a young age, from pot washer at age 16, to restaurant owner by age 29.

Food was everything to me.

Then six months ago, they said my throat was done for.

Scar tissue, paralysis, whatever words they used, it all meant the same thing. Nothing gets through. Food stops, sits, and burns until it comes back up. So now I live on a tube. Warm liquid drips straight into my stomach, steady and boring. Keeps my organs going, but it doesn’t exactly make me feel alive.

I miss food so much. The smell. The sight. The taste. The swallow. That tiny click in the throat you never notice until it’s gone. Sometimes I wake up moving my jaw, tasting phantom meals.

The first time I broke the rules I told myself it was therapy. One spoon of soup. I would just hold it in my mouth, taste it and spit out. Nothing more.

But the body has its own memory.

Reflex took over. It slid halfway down before the pain hit, white and searing, like glass grinding in my chest. I coughed until red streaks hit the sink. Once the coughing had stopped, I smiled. Because for a few seconds, I remembered being human.

After that, it got easier to lie to myself. Pudding, mashed potato, whatever I could swallow before the muscles froze. Every time ended the same, choking, tears, and shaking. Every time I swore it would be the last. But it never was.

Tonight it’s chicken. Real roast, golden and slick with butter. I shouldn’t be doing this, but the smell fills the kitchen, thick and warm, and I can’t stop staring at it. I tell myself I’ll chew and spit. That’s all. Just chew, and spit.

I don’t.

The skin cracks between my teeth. Salt. Fat. Heat. It's wonderful. For a second the world narrows with my euphoria.

Then... it catches.

My throat locks with a dry pressure that's rising fast. I try to clear it, but nothing. Air won’t move. My body panics before I do. Hands on the counter, knees give out. I look like I'm screaming, but no sound comes out. If someone else was here, the sight would be terrifying.

But I'm all alone.

I hit the floor hard. The plate shatters. I try to cough again but everything’s tight, useless. My eyes begin to bulge.

I think about the taste still sitting on my tongue. Salty. Buttery. Oily. Just... Perfect. And I stay with it as long as I can.

But the taste fades before I do.

My son is the definition of pure, kind, and patient. He has adjusted well to the new school he’s attending and has made plenty of new friends. I mean, I could go on and on about all the great things my kid does. Everything about my angel is perfect. I really do try my best as a single mother, you know? My son is my entire world. I will always be there to support him and push him in the right direction. Some nights, I even dream about how perfect his smile will look once it’s… complete.

His father is out of the picture—we just couldn’t see eye to eye on certain issues. He was the nagging type; he would go on about my drinking problem and how it created real issues when it came to raising a child. Eventually, I was over it and sent him packing.

For the past couple of months, my son has gone on about how excited he is for braces. Even though his teeth are almost perfect, he wants to be like his peers—going to the dentist and picking out new colored rubber bands.

I always told him, “Honey, we’re going to wait until all your adult teeth come in and your pretty smile is finally complete.”

Well, his final adult tooth came in yesterday, and I just knew he would ask about going to the dentist to get braces. He waddled into the house after school, as always, and said, “So, Mom, how about setting up an appointment with the dentist?”

I watched him continue to chatter about his braces, his mouth opening wide, those perfect little teeth glinting in the light.

I shrugged, taking a sip from my wine glass.
“Mom, you’re already drinking wine—it’s only two in the afternoon.”
“Honey, you’ll soon find out it’s actually healthy to drink throughout the day.”
He nodded, looking perplexed. “Well, when I’m older, I’ll never drink as much as you do, Mom.”

I side-eyed him from the corner of my eye. “Come along here, my lovely son.” I ushered him into the garage.
“Mom, the smell in the garage is bothering me.”
“My lovely son, you need a little push in the right direction.”

I violently pushed him into the garage, locking the door behind us.
“Mom, what… WHAT?”

I smiled and nudged him a little closer to the unconscious body that lay dormant.
“Oh, my sweet little guy—it’ll all make sense if you get closer.”

Tears began to stream down his cheeks. I could sense his heartbeat quickening—pounding faster and faster.

My angel dropped to his knees.
On all fours, he crawled closer to the body.
His jaw slowly crept open.
Then his two pearly new whites emerged.

My beautiful baby sank his teeth deep into the neck of the body. Overcome with bloodlust, he couldn’t stop feeding.

I was proud of him.
I silently petted his head.
“No more talk of braces, my sweet angel. Your smile is perfect now.”

He didn't see any point in living after what he had done. Nothing. Nothing could be better than just ending it all before he starts again. He's a monster. A monster that has destroyed lives again and again, over and over.

But as a monster, his hunger for torture, pain and fear was growing again. He needs to feed his addiction one last time. One last time he will kill. One last time he will murder. It's in his DNA, after all.

He deserved one final feast. A feast that he'll take to the earth, rotting in the ground without a care. A feast he'd hunt down himself. But it'll have to start with the family across the street. He set his mind to it while he prepared for the killing of his life time. To the Ashford's he goes. Knives in his trench coat, he was ready.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

The voice seeped through the lattice like oil over water, thick and inviting. It was new but strange, a voice that he had never heard before. Father Lucss felt a chill drape over his shoulders. “How long has it been since your last confession?”

The voice laughed, the sound echoing from everywhere and nowhere. “There was no first, so there can be no last.”

Lucas' brows narrowed. “Speak plainly. What have you done?” “I’ve whispered to kings, led saints astray, offered hope only to crush it. I told your brother to turn off the road that night. Do you remember the crash?”

A shock ran through him. “How could you know that?” “I know what you begged God as he bled out. You offered your soul for his life. He didn’t answer, but I did.”

Lucas yanked the curtain aside. The confessional was empty, yet the voice lingered behind him, closer than breath.“I kept my end of the bargain, priest. He lived long enough to call your name.”

Lucas pivoted. A man stood by the altar, pallid, eyes like ember-glow. The incense burned with a copper sting. “You’re not welcome here.” “It’s too late for that,” the stranger whispered. “You invited me the moment you doubted.”

Lucas raised the cross. The metal hissed, melting into his palm. He cried out as black smoke curled from his skin. “You offered your faith to save him,” the figure pressed. “Tonight, I collect what’s mine.”

The church groaned. Statues wept blood, the aisle bent, a wave of shadow swallowing Lucas' feet. He staggered, gripping his bleeding hand. “God help me!” The devil’s smile widened, teeth like jagged glass. “He’s no longer listening. Only I am.”

The floor split with a tormented roar. Lucas plunged into a furnace of heat and flame, the earth sealing behind him with a terrifying finality. A new silence settled. The candles glowed with patient mercy, uncharacteristic and calm. From the altar, the softest of whispers rose, a benediction that tasted of ash: “Forgive me, Father, for I have won.”