Reflecting on 2021, truly marked the zenith of my young career. The pandemic was coming to an end, I was fresh from the hallowed halls of a prestigious but unheralded college, thrust into the corporate labyrinth where, as a mere sidekick to the big shots, I contributed to a deal of record-breaking magnitude. My modest corporate minion life was exaggerated into legend by my professors during an alumni reunion, leading to a rather embarrassing episode where I was paraded around as the poster child of their education career’s success. My parents, not ones to shy away from a bit of pomp, lauded my achievements to anyone within earshot.
But as 2022 unfurled its chaos with the epidemic, my professional life spiralled downwards as swiftly as it had risen. I was laid off, and replaced by a nepotistic hire—my boss's new mistress's nephew. During my dismal final days, my colleagues, once comrades became corporate sharks, whispers of them scheming to claim my last efforts as their own filled the empty office spaces.
Compelled by financial duress to abandon my central city dwelling, I relocated to the outskirts with two college mates, Jaz and Kath, who had similarly found themselves victims of the economic downturn. We settled into apartment 606, a unit with dubious charm, suspiciously affordable on the 13th floor of a dreary building, its corridor haunted by a flickering sensor light that was only designed to function on rare occasions. Yet, the apartment itself was surprisingly very well furnished, almost like something that jumped out from a design mag, out beating sample rooms in Ikea, boasting a spacious balcony, a living room ready for an impromptu soirée, a dining table that’s good enough to hold a banquet(became our co-working space) and a kitchen isle that became our sanctuary and curse.
When we first settled into our new abode, we discovered a trove of fine kitchen utensils, perfect for whipping up sophisticated cuisine and crafting cocktails worthy of a swanky soirée. Tucked away in the fridge, among the remnants of the previous tenants' life, was a quaint note: “The three of us really enjoyed our stay here, especially our meals and nights spent by the kitchen island. We hope you find as much joy in it as we did. Use it well.” With a casual flick of my wrist, I dismissed the note into the garbage can, oblivious to the depth of its seemingly innocuous message. Little did I know, that piece of paper was more a passing of the torch than a simple goodbye.
Our initial days in apartment 606 brimmed with camaraderie and impromptu celebrations: movie nights sprawled on the living room sofas, barbeque dinners under the stars on our balcony, and co-working sessions at the dining table, peppered with resume tweaks and contemplative conversations over cocktails. We even scored a second-hand karaoke machine, allowing me to channel my inner diva—a throwback to my musical theatre days in college and my stint as the voice of corporate presentations and negotiations at my previous job, where I was known for my resonant yet finely tuned voice.
Yet, as the months wore on and the job market remained unyielding, our early merriment slowly surrendered to a creeping anxiety. The kitchen island, once the heart of our home where laughter and shared meals flowed freely, gradually morphed into the epicenter of our collective unease, bearing silent witness to the quiet desperation settling over us.
One evening, in the suspiciously affordable yet stylish apartment, I sank into the sofa, my spirits dampened by my favorite team's disheartening loss. The mood was grim, mirroring my fears of my beloved player's potential retirement at season's end. Later, as we congregated around the kitchen island for dinner, I transformed into an impromptu sports commentator, passionately preaching about the game’s disappointing details that led to failure and my favorite player’s fine qualities. Meanwhile, Jaz updated us on a friend's melodramatic breakup, with guesses that something ugly must have happened behind the scenes. Kath, ever the culinary enthusiast, not only served up her delicious pasta but also dished out the latest celebrity gossip, each tidbit as spicy as her sauce.
The next day, during a late breakfast at the same kitchen island—our unwitting oracle—we were hit by a triple whammy of reality checks. The news of my favorite player's retirement broke, echoing my gloomy predictions from the night before. Jaz chimed in with an update that our friend had uncovered a cheating scandal worthy of its own reality TV special. And Kath, never one to be left out of the drama: her favorite celebrity was now the star of a scandal.
By the third morning, as we sipped our coffee, the newspaper slapped me with another bizarre twist. I was going through the devastating economics and politics sections, then I saw the sports section——featured an irate coach, hell-bent on convincing my favorite player to dismiss retirement plans and keep his jersey on a little longer. Meanwhile, Jaz had good news for a change: it turned out our friend's love story might have a second act after all, as misunderstandings were being cleared up. Amidst these revelations, Kath, who had been grumbling about the nearby supermarket’s inability to stock anything remotely gourmet, and hadn’t had a taste of her favorite Blue Mountain coffee since the beginning of that year, triumphantly found a can of Blue Mountain coffee, and it was on sale and therefore affordable—proof that miracles happen, and sometimes they even go on discount.
As I sat there, absorbing the serendipity of our discussions manifesting into real-world events, I couldn't help but marvel at the mysterious knack of our kitchen island. Was it merely a coincidence, or had this stylish piece of decor become the unlikely conductor of our lives symphony? One thing was certain: life in apartment 606 was never dull, and our kitchen island seemed to be more than just a place to eat—it was a place where, apparently, you could stir the pot of fate.
I decided to conduct a whimsical experiment with our now seemingly magical kitchen island. Clearing my throat theatrically, I declared, "I should be interviewed for a director position." To my sheer astonishment, the next day a headhunter rang me up, claiming I was the ideal candidate for a directorial role at a prestigious corporation in my field. Despite the other candidates possessing decades more experience which defeated me with no effort, and my own lingering self-doubt from months of unemployment, I sailed to the final interview round with the company's executives.
Upon returning to our apartment, I found Kath flaunting a chic dress from a designer brand brand she’d snagged on clearance—a little luxury courtesy of our wish-granting island. Inspired, I approached the island and cheekily requested, "Get us jobs. Something fun." Lo and behold, the following day was spent lounging and binge-watching Netflix, only to be interrupted by a call from a former bigwig at my old job. He was venturing into a more illustrious company and wanted me onboard. The informal chat that followed was a breeze, and just like that, I was back in the game with a fancier title and a fatter paycheck.
The subsequent week was a flurry of celebrations. Jaz secured a senior-level position, and Kath landed her dream job at an influencer management agency. Feeling triumphant, we decided to indulge in a night of fine dining—our first in months. That Friday evening when I went from office to restaurant, on a whim, stopped at a convenience store to grab snacks and cigarettes for our post-dinner revelry. Outside, I encountered a homeless person. After offering him a sandwich (which he traded for a cigarette instead), he took a drag, peered into my eyes, and ominously muttered, “Look, young lady, this isn’t my business, but be wary of what you wish for; everything comes with a price. Good luck and god bless you.”
His words barely registered until later that evening when a mishap occurred that seemed to underline his warning. As we enjoyed syphon coffee post-dinner, a barista accidentally tripped over Kath’s flowing dress. The resulting spill left her with first-degree burns, abruptly ending our night as we rushed to the emergency room. Though it was "just" a first-degree burn, the pain was significant enough to require several days off for Kath’s recovery. Amid the drama, I couldn't help but wonder about the cryptic caution from the man outside the store—had our fortunate streak come with a hidden cost?
We chalked up the coffee calamity to bad luck. The next month flowed smoothly: Kath's fingers healed, she returned to work, and I quickly found my groove at the new job. With all of us gainfully employed, our communal meals at the kitchen island became rare. My mornings were a whirlwind of grabbing breakfast and coffee on the go, followed by an hour's commute to a job that had me scarfing down instant noodles by nightfall, just in time for a quick shower.
As the busy season kicked in, my workload ballooned—not just from the seasonal uptick, but because I was hell-bent on proving my mettle. I quickly outshone most of my peers, and my employer, recognizing a budding overachiever, piled on major tasks, which I eagerly accepted. What started as the occasional hour of overtime soon devoured my weekends. Unpaid overtime, as the fine print in my contract gleefully noted, became my new norm. Driven by a mix of ambition and expectation, I had become the go-to young hotshot, the erstwhile record-breaker now expected to continually outdo myself.
Mentally, I was too swamped to entertain thoughts of anything beyond work, which, in a twisted way, felt like a break. Physically, however, the strain began to show. A bout of flu caught on a business trip escalated into a fever. Sick as I was, deadlines waited for no one, and I soldiered on medicated and miserable. By the time I made it home, my voice had abandoned me. Unable to utter a word the next morning, I resorted to emailing my manager about my sorry state.
That week, robbed of my voice, I mused that it was perhaps a well-deserved hiatus for my overworked vocal cords—a silent retreat if you will. But when my voice did return, it was as a raspy whisper, a shadow of its former crisp and melodious timbre. My doctor offered a grim prognosis: slight improvement might come, but the golden tones were gone for good—scarred by the relentless grind. Ah, the price of ambition—a scratchy throat as a permanent reminder of my corporate conquests.
It seemed I had unwittingly exchanged the clarity of my voice for the tumult of career success. In the midst of our domestic enchantment with the possibly mystical kitchen island, Kath unearthed the contact of a reputed psychic, hailed as the finest in the land. However, the consultation fee was nothing short of princely, and with Jaz vehemently dismissing anything that couldn't be explained by cold, hard science, she promptly opted out of splitting the bill. Kath and I, unwilling to drain our wallets on what could be mere phantasmagoria, reluctantly let the opportunity pass.
Meanwhile, I couldn’t help but notice a curious change in Jaz’s routine. She had ceased dining at the kitchen island, avoiding it as if it were cursed—or perhaps, in her view, simply out of style. The Saturday morning brought a particularly harsh twist: a murder of crows took to spiralling above our balcony, their cries as sharp as the plot of a Poe novel. We found ourselves drawn to the infamous kitchen island, lined up like the cast of a macabre play, silently praying for the birds to disperse. Kath, ever trying to restore some semblance of normalcy, offered up cups of Blue Mountain coffee. She absentmindedly inquired if I wanted cream or sugar in mine—a blunder that made me realize just how long it had been since our last coffee klatch at this very spot. My inner monologue couldn't resist a dark wish for the crows to scatter, perhaps too dark, for they began to dive bomb our balcony in a feathery kamikaze. The spectacle was enough to knock Jaz off her feet—literally—as her mug met its end on the floor. Kath, meanwhile, made a hasty retreat to worship the porcelain god, and I sat frozen, my brain offline, pondering the twisted power of our kitchen island's apparent wish-granting.
After the unnerving spectacle of crows turning our balcony into a scene straight out of a Hitchcock film, our first rational step—post-collective fainting, of course—was to summon cleaners to manage the feathery carnage. Then, still rattled but increasingly curious, we visited a psychic, who, contrary to the crystal-ball-gazer image, operated out of a posh boutique in a high-end mall and dressed more like she was headed to a fashion show than a séance. We laid bare our saga of the seemingly cursed kitchen island, complete with photographic evidence of where domestic bliss meets eerie phenomena.
The psychic introduced a term that chilled the air around us: “limbo,” the threshold between our world and the otherworldly, and she dubbed our kitchen island the "Devil’s Bargain Counter." According to her, our wishes came with a heavy and unpredictable price, because we have accidentally started trades with beings from the netherworld. Her advice was disarmingly simple: cease all trades on the island. To address the repercussions of past wishes, she advised us the first line of defence, which was an eclectic mix of offerings laid out on our cursed countertop: raw meat(rooster works the best), a cocktail of spices(coca and cinnamon preferably), liberal splashes of spirits(whiskey and rum ideally), and an eerie bouquet of black flowers(luckily I found some black roses at a flower shop of the mall). In a grander gesture of appeasement, Kath relinquished her shiny new diamond bracelet, Jaz her absurdly expensive headphones, and I parted with cash—— a hefty slice of my bonus in hopes of placating whatever capricious spirits we'd angered.
Our return to normalcy was brief but sweet, prompting us to plan a getaway, eager to forget about our nefarious kitchen island. Yet, the respite was merely a tease. Jaz, in a stroke of spectacular misfortune, narrowly dodged disaster twice in one day—first nearly becoming subway track fodder on her way back after work, and then almost getting knocked out by a rogue plant at our apartment building’s doorstep. Clearly, our previous offerings were mere appetizers to whatever forces we'd stirred. The psychic, summoned once again to our now-dubious sanctuary, decreed that the spirits had developed rather expensive tastes, unsatisfied by our initial gestures.
In a desperate bid for closure, we had the psychic over for a nighttime ritual, timed perfectly with Earth's closest approach to the netherworld, according to her. Our living room turned into a ritual chamber, with windows blacked out for days, to keep the otherworldly dealings strictly nocturnal. That night, we arranged ourselves around the island, now less a kitchen fixture and more an altar of last resort.
The psychic, amidst a chorus of Latin incantations, directed us through a chilling séance that included a mirror that reflected nothing but darkness and a burning black candle, the three of us sat in a row, joined hands, eyes closed. When the black candle was flickering at its last, the first eerie scratches heard prompted our eyes to open prematurely, we saw a command appear on the island, written by invisible hand and pen, in blood-red script, urging us to find the next "succeeder" before our lease on otherworldly disturbances could be terminated.
With bated breath, we agreed, and as if by magic, our signatures materialized on the countertop, then faded as the candle sputtered out. We tore off the black cardboard taped on the windows at dawn, the sunrise revealed a final message etched into the surface: "Debt cleared." As the daylight grew, the ominous inscription dissolved into nothingness, signalling the end of our spectral saga.
The ordeal, now officially behind us, left us enjoying a semblance of normalcy: life in 606 returned to its mundane rhythm, with dinners and movie nights back on our social calendar. Though not without its scars—literal and figurative.
It’s been two years since then, Jaz, in the throes of romantic bliss, is now gearing up for a new chapter waiting to be written alongside her soon-to-be spouse; Kath, her career finally taking a lucrative turn, was poised to upgrade her living situation, she secured a lease on a lavish serviced apartment in the city center—a place that matched her newfound financial swagger.
I’m not without my own leaps forward. With a modest boost from my parents, I took the plunge into homeownership, snagging a property within the city’s vibrant confines. The process was a whirlwind of paperwork and decorating decisions, culminating in a space I could truly call my own.
As we are packing up now, my last act is to type out our story, at the infamous island, and of course, I left a note in the fridge for the next tenants:
"Welcome to 606. We had a wonderful time here, especially at the kitchen island, filled with joy and unforgettable moments. We hope you find as much happiness as we did. Use the isle well. Warm wishes, the previous tenants."

Basically the title. I’ve commented here a few times but never really posted, so I just wanted to share my thoughts on a year of zero alcohol.
My wife and I both decided to stop drinking after Mother’s Day last year, and we’ve both been able to stick with it. It was tough at first - a cold drink calling on a summer day, or some cocktails with dinner - that was difficult. The cravings subsided and are nearly nonexistent now. Before, I would have 2+ 6 packs of strong IPAs from thurs-Sunday, along with wine, bourbon, and even my home brewed mead. I do miss brewing mead the most of anything alcohol-related, but I’m looking into brewing kombucha soon, so that could be a nice replacement.
I don’t think it was hard quitting physically, but it was more difficult changing my frame of mind. Initially, I viewed quitting as a punishment to myself for being “bad” and drinking too much, too often, etc. and that once I was better I’d be able to resume in moderation (lol sure bud). Once I was able to shift to the mindset to realize I was no longer actively engaging in something I have familial problems with, that did nothing but make me sick, instigate arguments, and lighten my wallet, it made the days where I craved a drink far far easier.
I finally got consistent in the gym once I quit, and at 31 now, I’m in probably the best shape of my life. The sleep is better, which was one of the first apparent benefits. I’m less bloated all the time, and things like knowing that I can go to a function and never have to worry about pacing myself or “am I ok to drive home” “did I say something stupid” make it that much more worth it. I don’t view this as a “forever” thing, but I certainly don’t see alcohol having any part in my life, if that makes sense.
Thanks everyone!

I've always been bound to death.
On my eighth birthday, a shadow strode into my house and shot me and my family dead. I remember it vividly, every detail, every angle, etched and stained and carved into my memory.
I sat very still with my knees to my chest, my gaze glued to my siblings.
Lily and PJ looked like they were sleeping, and I could almost believe it.
I didn't look at the shadow.
From the comfort of my knees, I waited for my brother to lift his head.
But his body was so limp, so still, every part of him faltering. My sister’s head was nestled in his shoulder, thick beads of red running down her face.
They're just sleeping.
I could tell myself they were— as long as I didn't look at the splatter of scarlet staining the back of the couch and pooling at their feet.
BANG.
Mom’s body dropped onto the ground.
I lunged forwards, slamming my hands over my ears.
BANG.
PJ’s head slumped forwards, a teasing smile still frozen on his lips.
BANG.
Lily gently tipped into PJ, like she was going to sleep.
Before she closed her eyes, Mom told me to run.
I can't remember how long I stayed under the shattered remnants of Mom’s favorite table. The shadow was waiting for me to move, to make a noise.
I watched booted feet crunch through glass, getting closer and closer, and slowly, fight or flight began to take over.
Making it halfway across the living room, my palms slick with my mother’s blood, I thought I was going to live.
Cruel fingers wound their way through my hair and shoved me to my knees. I remember the phantom legs of a spider creeping down the back of my neck when the shadow with no face dragged the barrel of his gun down my spine.
“Turn around.”
The shadow had a voice.
When I didn't move, the protruding metal stabbed into my neck.
“Turn around, kid!”
I did, very slowly.
Behind him, my siblings still weren't moving.
They were asleep.
Lily was still smiling, strawberry blonde ringlets stained red.
I couldn't see PJ’S face anymore.
BANG.
I didn't feel the gunshot.
I didn't feel anything.
Looking down, I glimpsed slowly spreading red blossoming like a flower.
It felt like being cut from strings.
I hit the ground, just like my mother, my body felt heavy and wrong.
Paralysed.
I remember being unable to scream, unable to cry, the salty taste of metal filling my mouth. It was like being winded. Rolling onto my side, all I could see was flickering candlelight.
The air was thick, so hard to breathe.
I rolled onto my back trying to suck in air.
The shadow took a step back, opened the front door, and bled into the night.
I don't remember the pain, and I don't remember dying. I couldn't breathe, couldn't conjure words in my mouth.
I felt warm and sticky, lying in my own blood.
I think I tried to move.
But I was so tired.
I’m not sure what death feels like, because it's like going to sleep.
I remember my last shuddering breaths, a lulling darkness beginning to swallow me up. I don't know why I wasn't afraid.
Oblivion almost felt like I was sinking into lukewarm depths on a Summer’s day.
Oblivion wasn't pain, and there was a peaceful inevitability to it.
It was endless nothing, a nothing I found myself gravitating towards. But before I could envelope myself in that darkness, it was spitting me back out.
The next thing I knew, I was in a white room, a slow beeping sound tearing me from slumber. I had a vague memory of slow spreading roses blossoming across my shirt, like summer flowers blooming.
Everything was white.
The walls, the ceiling, and my clothes.
Sensation hit me in slow waves.
Exhaustion.
I felt it tightening its grip around my brain, dragging me back onto a mountain of pillows when I tried to jump up. My Aunt May was sitting next to me on a plastic chair, her warm fingers entangled in mine. Aunt May and Mom were practically twins, with the same thick red hair and pale skin.
Mom wore her hair in a casual ponytail, while May preferred a strict bun.
I had to bite back the urge to yank my hand away.
Aunt May was asleep, used tissues filling her lap.
There was a nurse pottering around, checking my vitals and prodding my arms. My eyes felt heavy. I had to blink several times to keep myself awake.
“Charlie?”
The nurse’s voice was like wind-chimes.
I pretended not to notice her forced lipstick smile, the way she stood with her arms folded, staring at me like I was one of my cousin’s experiments. “You were in an accident, sweetie,” the nurse spoke up. I could see her trembling hands. “Just, um, try and rest, okay?”
I wanted to ask where my family was, but I already knew the answer.
I think she knew that too.
“You died, Charlie.” The nurse’s voice was eerily cold. “You were dead for thirteen minutes.”
She took slow steps towards me, her eyes growing frenzied, like she couldn't understand me, like I was a puzzle she could not solve– and it was driving her crazy. I could see it in her twitching hands, her wobbling lips that were trying and failing to appear stoic.
“In fact, I just pulled you out of the morgue, honey. I opened up your body bag that I had just zipped up, and told your aunt that you were a miracle I just… can’t understand.” The nurse sounded like she was trying to choke down a laugh, or maybe a sob.
“Charlotte, you were pronounced dead at 3:02am from a gunshot wound to the chest.” Taking a slow, sobering breath, the nurse tried to smile. “The bullet went through the right ventricle of your heart and severely damaged your left lung, rendering you unable to breathe. Your heart stopped, and after four attempts to resuscitate, we called it.”
Something slimy wound its way up my throat when she began to pace the room. “I… did all the paperwork. It took me two minutes. Your death certificate was signed, and your body was taken to the morgue to be prepped for transportation. Then I had my lunch. Tuna salad with a protein milkshake. I’m not a fan of the chocolate flavor.”
She shook her head. “Anyway, when I came back to you, you were awake inside your body bag.” Her voice was starting to break. “You were…um, alive, and asked me for apple soda.”
The nurse moved closer, and yet kept her distance.
I could feel myself moving back, panic writhing through me.
“So.” The nurse spoke calmly. “How the fuck are you still alive, Charlie?”
I think I passed out after that.
When I woke up again, my head a lot less heavier, the nurse was gone.
Slowly, my foggy brain began to find itself and connect dots.
My mouth was dry, full of cotton.
There was a sudden tightness, a sharp and cruel sting in my wrists.
Something sharp was protruding into my flesh, and no matter how many times I violently wrenched my arm, it was stuck. It didn't feel right to be able to breathe so easily.
I knew the second I woke that my Mom was dead.
Lily and PJ were dead, and it was like losing them all over again.
As clarity came over me, I found my voice, a strangled cry escaping my lips.
“Get it out.” I whispered in a shrill cry.
Tugging at the IV in my wrist, I tried to yank the needle from my skin.
“Get it out!” I shrieked, my gaze glued to the tiny spots of blood staining the insertion point.
I could see it again.
So much blood.
Mom was curled up on the floor, lying in slow spreading red that wouldn't stop, seeping across her beaded rug.
She was all over me, slick on my skin and caked in my fingernails.
I couldn't wash her off of me.
“You're okay, Charlotte.”
Aunt May’s voice came from my right, stabling me to reality.
The world started to move again, started to make sense again, when she cupped my cheeks and told me to breathe. When I opened my mouth to ask where my family were, she lightly shook her head and I swallowed my words. Aunt May handed me a glass of water, and I drained it in one gulp.
She told me I was a miracle.
Aunt May didn't say much, and when she did, she broke into sobs.
Her eyes were raw from crying, clinging onto me, her shuddery voice reassuring me that I was going to be okay.
She told me I would be living with her from now on, before wrapping me into a hug and leaving to get coffee.
Once my aunt was gone, another nurse came to prod my IV.
I tried to sleep, but the uncomfortable tightness of the needle sticking into my skin and the sterile white lights in my eyes made it impossible. I waited for grief to catch up with me, drowning me in a hollow oblivion I wouldn't be able to claw myself out of. But I didn't feel sad. I didn't feel angry.
I wanted to know why my family were dead.
I wanted to know why I was breathing, and their skin was ice cold.
Rotting.
The sudden image of maggots crawling up my brother’s nose sent me lurching into a sitting position, my stomach heaving. Reaching for my glass of water, it was empty. The sensation of throwing up felt familiar, almost comforting.
Mom was always with me when I was sick, holding my hair back and lulling my hysteria with reassuring murmurs.
I was frowning at the trash can by the door, my cotton candy brain trying to figure out if I would be able to make it in time, when a small voice drifted from the doorway, startling me.
“I don't want you to come live with us.”
My cousin was peeking through the door, hiding behind a shock of dark brown curls. Jude was the only brunette in our family. The rest of us were redheads.
I wasn't sure why he was dressed up like a ghost, draped in a white cloak that was way too big for him. Jude was a weird kid. His mother, and my auntie, had inherited the family house, so in his mind, that made him superior.
Jude made it clear he didn't like his cousins, refusing to let us play with him and banning us from family gatherings.
When the adults were drinking cocktails and losing their awareness, Jude ordered us around. The times we did play with him, our cousin showed us his spider collection, or the raccoon brain he kept in a jar. PJ was convinced our younger cousin was a serial killer. Several months earlier, he'd happily showed us the roadkill he'd been growing bacteria on under his bed.
Jude’s ‘experiments’ were worrying.
He stuffed mushrooms down my brother’s ears while he was sleeping, to, and I quote, “Recreate The Last Of Us.”
When Lily had a nosebleed during Thanksgiving dinner, Jude collected all her bloody tissues and refused to tell us where he'd put them, and what he had done with them. Fast-forward two months, and I found them under a nest of spiders. Jude was trying to adapt the spiders to be able to feed on human blood. I was surprised my cousin hadn't immediately demanded to see my siblings’ dead bodies for autopsy.
Jude stepped into the room, shuffling his feet.
“I'm sorry about Lily, PJ, and Aunt Ivy.” He mumbled, glaring at the floor tiles.
My cousin made no move to offer real sympathy, instead speaking to the floor.
“But I don't want you to come live with us.” Jude lifted his head, looking me dead in the eye. “I don't like you, Charlie. I want you to stay away.”
Before I could reply, he stepped back like I was diseased.
“You should be dead.” Jude grumbled.
He scowled at me, getting my age purposely wrong as usual before running off.
“Happy 68th birthday.”
I was six months older than him.
In Jude’s eyes, I was ready for retirement.
Still, though, my cousin was right.
I was stone cold dead, and then I was somehow alive.
Which was wrong.
Growing up, I realized Death was not so subtly attempting to fix his mistake.
It started small. I'd choke on things I wasn't supposed to choke on.
Chips.
Candy.
Ice cream.
Aunt May had to perform the heimlich manoeuvre when I choked on a piece of chicken. I thought I was just really unlucky, but then I locked myself in a freezer that didn't have a lock, and almost drowned in the local swimming pool, catching my foot in stray netting.
At the summer fair, Jude convinced me to try apple bobbing, only for my head to conveniently get stuck underwater.
It started to make sense.
I was supposed to die with my family that night, and death was out to get me.
Death started to get clever, changing his tactic. Instead of using everyday things to try to kill me, he sent reinforcements.
I turned twelve years old, and my aunt threw me a huge party, inviting all my classmates. Aunt May was rich, rich.
Mom never explained it, but our grandparents left everything to May.
The house was like a palace, a labyrinth of floors I was yet to explore, and two swimming pools.
I was in the kitchen cutting myself a slice of cake, when, out of nowhere, a dead boy came rushing at me with one of my aunt’s favorite kitchen knives.
A dead boy who I immediately recognised.
Wren Oliver.
Several years prior, he'd gone missing from his parents' yard. The town launched a full investigation, only to find his body in a ditch a week later.
So, Death had sent a footsoldier.
Hiding under a hooded sweatshirt, Wren appeared older, like he had grown up with me. But there was a startling vacancy in his expression that drew the breath from my lungs, freezing me in place. Wren’s death was announced as an accident, though his wounds suggested the opposite, dried blood smearing his right temple and a cavernous hole in his chest, his clothes painted, stained, in bright red, glued in sticky mounds clinging to him.
The boy’s eyes were wild, feral, like an animal.
His hair was longer, a mess of reddish curls matted to his forehead.
Lip split into a demented giggle.
I remember taking a slow step back, my gaze glued to the knife.
Wren’s fingers were wrapped around the handle like he knew exactly how to use it, how to plunge it into my heart and kill me for good. He moved like a predator, zero self awareness or recognition, only driven to kill me.
The dead boy prided himself in slow, intimidating steps, shoving me against the wall and dragging the blade of the knife down the curve of my throat.
His eyes confused me, writhing with hatred that was artificial, programmed into him as Death’s official soldier.
He didn't speak, only smiled, revelling in my fear. I could tell it thrilled him, my trembling hands, my sharp, heavy breaths I couldn't control. Squeezing my eyes shut, I waited to finally die.
I waited for the pain, and to lose my breath once again.
But death was playing with me.
When I opened my eyes, the dead boy was gone, and I was on my knees, screaming.
“Wren Oliver is trying to kill me!" I managed to hiss.
My aunt knelt in front of me, her expression crumpling.
*Sweetie,” She spoke softly, squeezing my hands. Aunt May was trying to appear calm for my sake, but I could tell she was scared, her frantic eyes searching mine. “Wren Oliver is dead.”
The kids surrounding me started to giggle, whispering among themselves.
In the corner of my eye, my cousin was leaning against the door, mid eye roll.
When my aunt was ushering kids back to the pool, Jude came to crouch in front of me. Ever since I started living with him, he'd made sure to keep his distance.
This time, though, Jude leaned uncomfortably close, a sparkle in his eyes I had never seen before. Inclining his head, he rocked back and forth on his heels, prodding me in the forehead.
“If you see the dead boy again, can you tell me?” His lips curved into a smile.
“I did see him.” I gritted out. “I’m not lying.”
Jude shrugged. “I never said you didn't,” he lowered his voice into a whisper, “I wanna know when you see him again.”
“Why?”
His lips curved into a smirk.
“So, I can catch him.”
My cousin got closer, his breath tickling my cheek.
“I seeeeeeee dead people.”
After that incident, death left me alone for a while.
I was fifteen, walking through the forest with a friend, catching fireflies in bell jars. Aunt May was lucky to live so close to the forest, the entrance just outside her back door. When we were littles, PJ would drag Lily and I down the trail to escape Jude’s weird experiments.
I decided to invite Jem Littlewood on a summer walk.
Jem was cute, but in a dorky way. He was chronically clumsy, and dressed like he'd been spat out of a John Hughes movie. We hiked all the way to the end of the river and had a picnic, watching the sun set over the horizon. I was having conflicting feelings for this guy.
Jem was obsessed with fireflies.
Though he seemed more interested in photographing them than me.
The guy couldn't seem to sit still, jumping to his feet to marvel at tiny specks of light dancing in the air.
“I'm just going to take photos!” Jem beamed, holding up his camera.
I had to bite back the urge to say, “Don't you have enough photos?”
I nodded, and he turned and sprinted back down the trail.
Before his footsteps ground to a sudden halt.
At first, I thought he was snapping polaroids.
When I got closer, though, blinking in the eerie dark, I caught something.
Bending down, I picked up a bell jar still spilling fireflies.
Further down the trail, Jem was lying crumpled in the dirt, his camera smashed to pieces next to him, blood running in thick rivulets down his temple. There he was. Leaning against a tree, his arms folded, was the ghost boy. Wren Oliver was growing up with me. Now, a teenager, and yet his face was carved into something else entirely, more of a monster, slight points to his ears and too-sharp teeth, eyes ignited.
Wren didn't look like a ghost boy anymore.
Death had dressed him in shackles of ivy, a crown of glass and bone forced onto his head, entangled in his curls. Death was torturing him.
Wren’s body was its canvas, and every time I got away, he was punished, painting his failures across scarred skin.
I should have been running for my life, but I was mesmerised by each symbol cruelly carved into his neck.
The boy did a slow head incline, like he couldn't believe I was standing in front of him.
His slow spreading smile caught me off guard.
I remembered how to run, stumbling over my feet.
But I couldn't move.
The burning hatred that death had filled him with, was stronger, hollowing him out completely. I managed two shaky steps, before I felt him, an unearthly force winding its way around my spine. This time, he didn't hesitate.
I watched his mouth move, a single curve of his upper lip that wrenched my body from my control, slamming me against a tree. There was something around my throat, choking the breath from my lungs, a thick fog spreading over my eyes.
Following his mouth curving into silent letters, I could feel my feet slowly leaving the ground, my legs dangling.
I was floating.
Hovering off of the ground, suspended by his words.
Through half lidded eyes, I caught the glint of a blade between his fist, but I couldn't move, couldn't scream.
He was drowning me, bleeding into my blood, spider webbing and expanding in my brain without moving a muscle.
Instead, the ghost boy stood silently, running his thumb down the teeth of his knife while he ripped my lungs apart.
It was like suffocating, sinking into that peaceful oblivion I met at eight years old.
This time, though, the darkness was starving.
“Charlie?”
My eyes found daylight, a scream clawing out of my mouth.
“Charlie, it's past curfew!”
Wren flinched, his stoic expression crumpling.
The dead boy’s lips moved again, this time in a curse.
Fuck.
“Charlotte!”
Staggering back, Wren’s eyes widened and the suffocating hold on me severed.
His head snapped in the direction my aunt was coming from.
“Charlie, answer me right now.”
He hesitated, his bare feet pivoting in the dirt, like he was considering finishing me off. Wren studied me with lazy eyes, sucking on his bottom lip. When my aunt's footsteps got louder, branches snapping under her shoes, something contorted in the boy’s face.
Fear.
I guessed the boy wasn't expecting other humans to intrude.
Wren fell over himself, shuffling on his hands and knees, before diving to his feet. When he turned and ran, I was released, slipping to the ground, trying and failing to draw in breath. I barely felt the impact, only a dull thudding pain. I could hear the ghost boy’s footsteps, his uneven, shuddery breaths as he catapulted into a run.
Under a late setting sun, I watched his dancing shadow disappear into the trees.
Mission unsuccessful, I guessed.
When I was fully conscious, Aunt May was checking over Jem, helping him sit up.
“Where did he go?” I managed to get out, scanning the darkness for Wren.
“He's okay, just concussed.” May whispered, dialling 911.
My aunt applied a dressing to Jem’s wound, ignoring the boy’s hisses.
“Keep still.” she murmured, smoothing his bandaid. “What happened, Charlotte?”
“She pushed me over.” Jem groaned, shuffling away from me. When my aunt told him to stay calm, he straightened up, leaning against the tree. “The psycho bitch tried to fucking kill me!”
When my aunt's gaze flicked to me, I shook my head.
“It was Wren Oliver.” I gritted, teetering on hysteria. I could tell she didn't believe me, but I couldn't stop myself.
I prodded at my throat, clawing for the indentations where his phantom fingers snaked around my neck, squeezing the breath from my lungs.
But there was nothing.
I could feel my mind starting to unravel. I nodded to my disgruntled classmate trying to dodge my aunt’s prodding.
“Ow, ow, ow! That stings!
“He knocked Jem out.” I managed. “Then he tried to kill me.”
Jem surprised me with a scoff. “You're seriously blaming your psychotic break on a dead kid?”
Aunt May pursed her lips, motioning for Jem to be quiet. Judging from her face, however, she agreed with the boy.
May forced a smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. “Okay. Can you, uh, describe the boy to me, Charlotte?”
“He was wearing a crown,” I said, “And he looked my age.”
Aunt May cocked her head, and I saw real worry, like she was trying not to freak out. Jem made a snorting noise.
“I'm sorry, he was wearing a crown?”
“Yes!” I insisted, getting progressively more frustrated.
I tried to jump up, only for my aunt to gently lower me back down. “I know it sounds crazy, but death has sent Wren Oliver to kill me, just like my family. He tried to kill me when I was twelve, too!”
Jem let out a bitter laugh. “Your niece is a fucking wackadoodle.”
Aunt May’s eyes darkened. She grabbed my shoulders, her nails stabbing into my skin. “Charlie, I want you to listen to me, okay?” When my eyes found the rapidly darkening sky, my aunt forced me to look at her.
“Charlotte!”
She was as scared as me, her voice shuddering.
“Wren Oliver is dead.” My aunt said firmly, shaking me. Even then, though, I wasn't even looking at her. I was trying to find his ignited eyes lighting up the dark. “Wren died at eight years old in a terrible accident, and you can't keep using him as an excuse for your mental trauma.” There was something twitching in her expression I was trying to make sense of. When I risked a look at Jem, the boy was staring at me dazedly– like I really was crazy.
Aunt May pressed her face into my shoulder, and I could feel her tears soaking into my shirt. She was trying to hold it together, trying to understand.
“Charlie, I know you lost your family,” she whispered. “But you and Wren Oliver are not the same. You survived, and he didn't.” Her voice splintered.
“You need to come to terms with that, okay?”
When I didn't respond, she pinched my chin, forcing me to look at her.
“Charlotte.”
Aunt May’s voice turned cold. “I ignored this when you were a kid, but if you continue to use this poor boy as a coping mechanism, I will have no choice but to send you to a specialist.”
When Jem was taken away by paramedics, Aunt May held my hand, squeezing my fingers for dear life.
I caught her gaze scanning the tree's around us, delving into twisting oblivion. Every little noise sent her twisting around. She was looking for something.
“I'm going to get you help.” Aunt May said in a low murmur when we were back at the house. Jude was sitting on the kitchen counter, legs swinging. I could feel his penetrating gaze burning into the back of my head.
Aunt May set a cup of cocoa on the table.
“No more fairytales.”
By the time I was eighteen, I had bitten three therapists.
They refused to believe that death was coming to reclaim my soul, and was using a dead boy to do his dirty work.
For my 16th birthday, I braced myself to come face to face with Wren Oliver’s ghost.
I wasn't even in town, staying at a friend's house.
But dead boys, and especially dead boys moulded into Death’s personal soldiers, could materialise anywhere.
I locked every door in the house, and taped up my friend’s window.
Nothing happened.
On my seventeenth birthday, I was sick in bed with gastritis.
Still no ghost boy.
Death seemed to have finally left me alone.
On my eighteenth birthday, I was stuffing books in my locker when my cousin popped up out of nowhere, scowling as usual. After an unexpected growth spurt and losing a tonne of baby fat, my cousin had scaled the high school hierarchy, swapping his weird experiments for a varsity jacket and experimenting with his sexuality.
The two of us had come to an unspoken truce.
I kept quiet about his spider collection to his popular friends, and he tolerated my existence until I left for college.
“Your surprise party is cancelled.”
Jude leaned against my locker, running a hand through thick dark hair tucked under a baseball cap. Jude never admitted it, but he was definitely embarrassed of being the odd one out.
My siblings may be dead, but they were still redheads.
I pulled off his cap with a smile, throwing it in his face. “Sure it is.”
My cousin’s eyes widened. He lost his slick bravado, grabbing for his cap.
“Hey!”
According to my cousin, my party was unexpectedly cancelled every year.
I wasn't sure if it was his weird superiority complex, or just plain jealousy, but it was getting exhausting.
Jude followed me down the hallway, matching my stride.
“Can you just not come home tonight?”
I quickened my pace. “It's only a party. I'm having some friends over, and no, we won't go anywhere near your room.”
“No, I mean.” Jude stepped in front of me, and for the first time in a while, he wasn't trying to hide disdain for me.
His dark eyes pinned me in place for a moment, the world around us coming to a halt. Sound bled away, and all I heard were his slow breaths. There was something there, an unexplainable twitch in his eyes and lips, that twisted my gut.
Jude stepped closer, his lip curling. He shoved me back, losing his facade.
“Stay the fuck away from the house tonight.” He said, and his voice, his tone, was enough to send shivers creeping down my spine. Jude had always hid behind a ten foot wall in his mind. It was jarring to see something in him finally start to splinter. Fuck. I thought.
This kid had serious Mommy issues.
I blinked, and the world resumed, kids pushing past us.
Jude seemed to catch himself, slipping back under his mask.
“I'm having friends over,” he rolled his eyes, “Your presence will ruin the vibe.”
“It's my birthday?”
He groaned, tipping his head back. “Yes, I know. But–”
“I think you can deal with the attention off of you for one night, Jude.”
“Will Wren Oliver be there too?” Jem Littlewood hollered.
Jude didn't respond for a moment, his lip curling.
“Shut the fuck up.” He spat at Jem, who immediately backed down. With an audience this time, Jude forced an award winning smile. “Fine.” His lips split into a grin I knew he hated. My cousin clamped his hand on my shoulder, hard enough to hurt. I could feel his fingers pinching the material of my jacket. “Have it your way, dude.”
Jude backed away with a two fingered salute.
“Happy 78th birthday!”
In a sense, I wish I listened to my cousin.
My party was a success, sort of.
Four of us, a crate of beers, and no sign of my cousin.
I was mildly tipsy, sitting on the edge of the pool, dangling my legs in the water when my friend demanded more beers.
I was also hungry for cake, so I stumbled inside in search of the goods.
The house was dark, lit up in dazzling blue from the pool's lights reflecting through the windows. Aunt May was in her office on the ground floor, and Jude was getting high in his room. In my drunken state, I found myself marvelling my aunt's house, and how much of it was left unexplored.
For example, in the foyer, past the spiral staircase she’d had custom made, was an elevator I had never questioned.
There was a girl my age standing on the staircase.
She was frozen, mid run, dressed in ragged jeans and t-shirt.
Everything about her stuck out to me, bringing me to a sobering halt.
The girl reminded me of my sister– or at least, if my sister had ever grown up.
I wasn't sure if I was drunk or hallucinating.
Her flower crown was pretty…
Lily had grown wings.
I was slowly moving towards her, a sudden bang sounding from the kitchen.
The bang of something shattering on the floor.
Twisting around, I found myself gravitating towards warm golden light.
The first thing I saw was the refrigerator door hanging open, and someone, no, something, rooting around inside it.
Glued to the spot, I dazedly watched them grab milk, guzzling it down, and then soda, cracking open each can and sucking them dry, before carving their fingers into my birthday cake.
But I wasn't looking at the spillage of food seeping across the floor. Instead, my gaze found a crown of antlers, both human and animal bone entangled with dead flowers and human remains glued to a head of familiar matted brown curls. There was something sticking from battered and bruised flesh, twin gaping slits sliced through a torn shirt resembling glass wings that were not yet formed, reminding me of a butterfly.
Wings.
But not the wings I dreamed of as a kid. These things were unnatural mounds that both did and didn't make sense on a human boy. I could see the trauma of them slicing through his flesh, monstrous, looming things protruding from what was left of a human spine.
Human, and yet I couldn't call his beautifully grotesque face human.
Wren Oliver had grown up with me, now an adult.
Eighteen years old.
His clothes confused me, a single white shirt and shorts.
Wren’s feet were bare, battered and bruised, blood smearing my aunt's tiles.
Angel.
Death had turned his footsoldier, and my future killer, into an angel.
But there was nothing angelic about the dead boy, his body and mind sculpted and moulded into Death’s own.
The boy no longer resembled a human, feral eyes and a manic smile, choking down pieces of cake. His face had been contorted into a monster, gnashing teeth and sharp points in his ears, a sickly tinge to malnourished skin.
And that's when it hit me, watching him stuff himself with food.
Something slimy inched its way up my throat.
The boy didn't move. I don't even think he'd noticed me, gorging himself on anything he could get his hands on.
Chicken, raw bacon, leftover salad.
When he moved onto cupcakes, licking frosting from his fingers, I glimpsed markings on his arms, a language I didn't understand, carved into him.
His wrists were shackled, bound, in entangled iron and vine, iron that was ingrained into his skin, vines and flowers and ivy entangling his bones, that were part of him, polluting his blood. Slowly, my eyes found stab wounds splitting open his torso.
Raw flesh, where his skin had been torched, melting, and then merging, ripped apart and put back together over and over again.
I found his heart, the gaping cavern in his chest where it should be.
And it was.
Marked, carved, and branded with a symbol resembling an X.
Wren Oliver was not dead.
But, just like me, he should have been.
I remember saying his name, my voice slurred slightly.
I didn't drink that much, but I could barely coerce words, my head spinning.
Wren’s neck snapped towards me, his eyes narrowing with resentment I couldn't understand, hatred that seemed to puppeteer him. Slowly tilting his head, the boy’s lips split into a grin, eyes filled, polluted, with mania.
I could see where his lips had been stitched shut, and then ripped open.
“Hi.”
He held up his hand in an awkward wave.
When one of my friends stumbled into the kitchen, Wren reacted on impulse.
He picked up a knife from the counter, throwing it like a dart, straight through the guy’s throat.
Something shattered inside my mind.
Ignoring my friend bleeding out, Wren stumbled over himself, abandoning his feast. He took a single step towards me, backing me against the wall, coming so close, close enough for me to feel his very real breath grazing my cheeks. Just like when he was a kid, he traced the teeth of his blade down my throat. I wasn't expecting him to burst out laughing, trembling with hysteria.
His eyes were wild, feral and wrong, almost euphoric.
With what all I could only recognise as relief.
BANG.
I was barely aware of the gunshot.
The bullet went straight through his head, the winged boy hitting the ground.
Dead.
I saw the blood stemming around him in a halo before the bleeding pool faltered, seeping back inside his head.
Like rewinding a VCR.
Wren was dead, and then he was alive.
Wren’s body contorted, his chest inflating.
His gasp for air was painful, strangled, eyes opening wide.
Terrified.
“You fucking idiot.”
Jude’s voice sent me twisting around.
My cousin stood in the exact same robes he wore as a child.
The world tipped off kilter, and I was on my knees, then my stomach.
I sunk to the floor, my thoughts swimming.
Jude’s murmur followed me, creeping into the dark.
“I told you not to come home.”
I can't remember how long I was unconscious for.
When I woke, I was dressed in an evening gown, a dress that used to be my mother’s.
My vision cleared, and I found myself sitting in an unfamiliar room resembling an abandoned swimming hall.
The pool itself was empty, the bottom stained revealing scarlet.
There were symbols carved into each tile.
Like a game.
“Sit up straight, Charlotte.”
I was sitting at a banquet.
Jude was in front of me, sipping on wine.
He caught my eye for half a second before averting his gaze.
At the far end of the table sat my aunt May.
Kissing the rim of her glass, her smile was twisted.
“I've been waiting so long to give you your birthday presents, Charlotte. Your memories should be returning soon.”
“Mom.” Jude muttered, hiding behind his glass. “Calm down. You're embarrassing yourself.”
Ignoring my cousin, May tapped her glass with a fork, and in walked my birthday presents.
No, dragged.
By their hair.
Wren Oliver, the dead boy, was in fact my aunt's prisoner.
Behind him, was the girl who looked so much like Lily.
I think that's why my aunt chose her.
Aunt May cleared her throat.
“For a long time, our family has lived among creatures who live in the forest you played inside. In exchange for keeping this town safe, they only ask for small favors. Wayward children who disappear into the woods are good enough payment. Charlie, you and your siblings do not share our inheritance. Your mother never wanted fae children. She wanted you to be human.”
Aunt May’s smile faded.
“After losing my sister, and my niece and nephew, I made a deal to give my last surviving niece 100 years of life.”
Her words were white noise, my gaze glued to my birthday presents. I couldn't call them human anymore.
I couldn't call Wren human, when his face was so beautifully grotesque, painfully hypnotising.
The monstrous things sticking from twin slits in his back were supposed to be wings, except they looked wrong, cruelly protruding from his exposed spine. Under the influence of alcohol earlier, the girl made me smile.
Her wings, to me, looked like one of a real fairy.
In reality, they were torn and shredded apart, bigger than the girl herself.
When she dropped onto her stomach, she was dragged back to her feet, her knees buckling under the weight. Her tiara of flowers and bone looked pretty to me when I saw her on the stairs.
Now, though, I could see the pearly white of a human child's skull forced onto her head, dead flowers threaded through cavernous, gaping eye sockets.
The two of them were violently shoved into the empty pool.
“Jude. Please demonstrate, sweetheart.”
Jude stood, pulling out a gun, and aiming it at the winged girl.
BANG.
The girl’s body hit the tiles, her blood seeping across stained white.
“Now, of course, our king did not give you life for free.” May continued.
“The King demanded a debt, as well as two heirs to join him in his court once your hundred years were complete.”
Her lips quirked into a smile.
“The king is smart. If a child cannot be stolen from the human world, they can, however, be made, moulded and shaped from their human forms, skinned of their humanity through their suffering, leaving a hollowed out shell in the child's place.” She was speaking so casually, ignoring Wren’s whimpers.
“The conversion takes a while. 100 years to birth a fully blooded fae heir, who will lose their human memories, in preparation to join their new family.”
Jude shot Wren in the chest, his eyes empty.
This time, he dropped his weapon, using finger-guns instead.
“Bang.” He deadpanned.
Then the neck.
I watched Wren come back to life, and then die.
Over and over again.
I think at one point, he screamed and cried.
But not now.
He was their puppet on display, dancing for their entertainment.
Half lidded eyes drowned in oblivion found mine, and I understood his hatred.
Before he was shot again.
Stabbed.
Branded and burned, and ripped apart.
At some point, I screamed at them to stop. I couldn't breathe, slamming my hands over my ears and begging them.
Aunt May didn't listen, ordering for my hands to be tied down.
“The King required two human sacrifices to suffer in your place.” She concluded. “For one hundred years.”
Aunt May’s smile was suddenly sad, and she lifted her glass in a toast.
I was watching their blood trickle down each tile in the pool, like every death, every time they suffered, my body became progressively less human.
I felt disgusting. I wasn't supposed to be alive. Every single year of my life, every breath I had taken, was stolen.
Aunt May nodded at me, her lips forming a proud smile. She stood up, and was handed a sacrificial knife.
Climbing into the swimming pool herself, she strode over to Wren.
The boy slumped to the floor, trembling, his knees against his chest.
Aunt May grabbed him by the hair, forcing his head up, and sliced the blade across his throat.
His eyes flicked to me, and I swore he smiled.
Spots of red dotted yellowing tiles, a river trickling under my aunt's heels.
“Happy 78th birthday, Charlotte.”
Last night ended with me being locked in my room.
It's been almost 15 hours, and the door is still locked. Please help me. I'm fucking terrified of what my aunt is planning.
I can't stop shgajing. FycjbfucibFUCK
If she is telling the truth, I shouldn't be here, right??
And I can't stop thinking.
Is Wren Oliver trying to kill me, or himself?

TLDR: I'm frustrated with my current job for several reasons and am considering looking for something elsewhere. I also considering a career change but am unsure how to break into a new field. I'm not sure if I should just ask for a raise and try to stick it out, move on to a similar position at a different company, or switch careers entirely.
Thoughts and advice from anyone who has successfully change careers at 30+?
For anyone who has felt underpaid and actually received the raise they requested, did it really help? Or were you still ultimately just unhappy with the work?
Here are the details, with my potential options at the end:
I'm a 33 year old restaurant manager. I've been in the food and beverage industry for 18 years with 2+ years of management experience. I've been in my current position for 7 months after transferring from another restaurant with the same parent company. I transferred from out of state, and I accepted this position without ever setting foot in the restaurant - so there certainly was some inherent risk involved. I am in charge of the restaurant service, while there is another branch that handles all the catering/banquets, with a Director of Dining Services to which we both report. I was given a pretty specific objective when I was hired: to help transition a members-only club to a public restaurant. I was sold on the premise that the chef is great, it's a beautiful space, and my job would be to take the bar program and service to the next level, matching the quality coming out of the kitchen. This was supposedly the only missing piece. While there are positives to the job, there a lot of negatives, most of which were not disclosed during the interview process. In a nutshell, senior leadership has done a poor job of preparing the restaurant team to execute their vision to a high level, and I am left dealing with the consequences.
Pros of current job:

• Chef and his food are fantastic. The dining areas are newly renovated and very nice.
• Senior leadership has quickly grown to trust me. They genuinely want this place to be great and believe I am an important piece to the puzzle.
• I have a great deal of autonomy in terms of the bar program and day-to-day operations.
• A very favorable schedule for the industry: only open 11a-8p M-F.
• Decent pay compared to similar positions elsewhere.
• I get along with everyone in the building.
• If I stick around for another 1-1.5 years, I will likely be qualified for a big step-up in both pay and position at another restaurant/company (though I am worried that I am not gaining quality experience).
• There really is a lot of potential, and if I were to help execute this vision, it would be a significant boon to my resume.

Cons of current job:

• I was not warned about the lack of proper restaurant infrastructure.
  • No reservation system (I confirm them all manually by email and log in Excel).
  • A retail POS system that is not optimized for restaurant service (crashes often, lacks important features that are essential to restaurant function).
  • I was tasked with doing the legwork on both of these issues, which I believe should have been handled by senior leadership.
• The structure/setup of the building itself is not optimized for the services we are being asked to execute.
  • Kitchen on 2nd floor; main dining area and bar on 1st floor, plus full-service rooftop bar and dining. All with no dedicated service elevator - it can take 10 minutes to get to and from the rooftop to the kitchen.
• I have little to no control over these big-picture operations/decisions, including infrastructure, that significantly impact my ability to do my job well and creates embarrassing situations for myself and my servers/bartenders with guests.
• We are understaffed for the amount of dining areas we operate, but not busy enough to hire and retain more staff.
• I feel underpaid for the value I provide, as I feel I am being asked to handle more than standard restaurant manager duties.
• It's a very small operation. I am the only full-time manager within the restaurants.
• There is no mentorship; my company / senior leadership does not take an active role in my career development. I am still learning and growing, but only through experience and my own trial and error.
  • The particular setup of this operation is such that I don't even get to work with the financials much, which I have done in the past and absolutely should be gaining experience in at this level.
• I have no desire to do my boss's job (or her boss's job), and therefore see little to no room for growth within the company (at least at my location).
• There really is a lot of potential, but I believe senior leadership has taken the wrong approach and is trying to do too much, too soon, while also expecting progress and profits to show up much quicker than the industry standard.

Pros of current career:

• I have 18 years of experience in the field. I've held almost every job in the industry.
• I am very good at it.
• In a couple more years, I could potentially be applying for higher level leadership positions that will take me out of the direct line of service "in the restaurant," which means better hours and pay.
• One of my potential long-term goals is to open my own restaurant(s). I would like more experience (and need more money and financial freedom) before I am ready to do so.

Cons of current career:

• Restaurant hours are long and I spend a lot of time away from my wife and one-year-old son. I might get to have dinner at home once a week. It also puts a lot of pressure on my wife who works from home while also taking care of our son and trying to manage our home.
• The pay isn't great.
  • We are fine financially, but certainly can be doing better (paying of student loans / mortgage faster, saving more, etc).
  • I'd like my wife to be able to take a few years off of work once we have another kid in a couple years.
• I don't actually enjoy most of restaurant management.
  • I enjoy running the bar program, creating cocktails, cultivating the wine list, and hosting wine tastings and dinners.
  • I do not enjoy supervising the floor during service, dealing with POS issues and upset guests, and having to fill in for servers / bartenders while not being able to accept tips.
  • I do not enjoy working long, restaurant hours and never knowing when I'll actually get to head home to my family.
• I genuinely feel that I would be able to provide greater value in a more senior position (big picture decisions, overall vision of operations, making sure the right people are in the right positions, etc.) but am frustrated that I need to "put in the time" in a position I don't enjoy in order to get to do what I actually want to do and will do well. I know there is value in experience; I am probably too impatient.

Potential options:

• Ask for a raise and stick it out at my current job for another year before I start applying for more senior positions elsewhere.
• Take a job at a more established, well-respected restaurant so I can actually learn from people who know what they are doing.
  • This will likely mean worse hours and potentially a decrease in pay.
  • Still involves "sucking it up" and doing a job I may not fully enjoy for a couple more years - though it may not feel this way working for a better company.
• Try to make a move to wine & spirit sales.
  • I believe I would enjoy this more than my current job.
  • I have my WSET II and a ton of experience with cocktail creations, spirits, and wine...
  • ...but no "sales" experience (serving/bartending are definitely sales jobs, but they aren 't "sales" jobs).
  • I know I could do it well because I've done the job of the prospective clients.
  • Probably an initial decrease in pay but much higher potential with commission.
  • Would have to wait for jobs to become available in my market.
• Pivot to a completely new field in sales but have to go back to entry-level.

What to do? Am I just impatient?
Thank you for reading my novel and TIA for any advice!

So this new girl started almost a month ago, she just barely turned 21. I’m 21 too but have been working in the industry for years and have a detail oriented and driven mindset when it comes to everything in and outside of work.
Anyways I trained her on her first day and she was okay. The first day you don’t expect much it’s normally just briefly touching on the menu, but it’s mostly steps of service, where everything is, table numbers, etc. From the start she gave me a really weird vibe and kept disappearing for 20 minutes at a time while I was training her.
On her first day alone we gave her a 5 table section that doesn’t change throughout the night(the same for any new person on their first day) which isn’t much, after all you need at least 2 years of serving experience(we think she lied on her resume) to work at my place so you should know what you’re doing for the most part after 5 days of training. She did badly. I mean very badly. Didn’t know basic liquors or cocktails, kept ringing in things wrong and asking questions about things I touched on during training with her multiple times. Also completely forgetting to greet tables…
The past few weeks she would keep disappearing to the point where her tables would be furious as they haven’t seen her in over 30 minutes. While it was slow. We’d constantly have to run her food and drinks and remind her of tables she was sat even during slow times. It’s fine to need help, but we told her to ask if she needs it instead of us having to deal with her angry tables alone.
Managers had enough and decided to give her a 3 table section every shift only. I personally would’ve walked out then and there. She still couldn’t handle that. Overall the managers are fed up with her. She came into work and started saying how she wanted to go home. Managers don’t like her so they ignored her. She started “coughing” and dropping things on the ground to make it seem like she was extremely sick. Managers sent her home. Not because she was actually sick, but because they were fed up with her attitude. She’s already been written up twice. Next day she came in with her hair done and never said anything about being sick…
Our favorite manager who is very sweet and patient even has had enough of her. He was honest about her performance and asked what was going on. She said she was deaf, has adhd, cerebral palsy?!??? The list goes on about insane lies and excuses. She would use adhd as an excuse to me multiple times. I have adhd myself and I still do my job ffs, most of us have it lol.
We’ve all tried being nice to her too, offering help, etc. but she is arrogant and rude to all of us. We’ve given up on that and honestly avoid talking to her at all.
I’ve just never seen such insane behavior and incompetence from a coworker. She needs to go.

"This excellent tension-filled episode keeps you on the edge of your seat. There is a lot going on in “Erigah” but good pacing weaves the drama, action, character exploration, worldbuilding and even humor together into a tight, entertaining package. Returning to a focus on the season’s big story, the episode evoked the high-stakes drama of some of the more martial Trek episodes, especially from the Dominion War arc of Deep Space Nine, which got plenty of nods throughout.
The full ensemble of stars and guest stars elevated the material with a few standouts, especially Tara Rosling as the effective president T’Rina, Eve Harlow as the anguished Moll, and Tig Notaro as the always hilarious Jett Reno. Instead of taking the lead in every situation, Sonequa Martin-Green’s Captain Burnham was the glue holding it all together, with an assist from Anthony Rapp’s Stamets, the guy keeping his eye on the big Progenitor prize. The political maneuvering and debates in “Erigah” are some of the best of a franchise tradition as the episode asked big moral questions, but didn’t force a single point of view, leaving the viewer to ponder their own path… again, very Star Trek."
Anthony Pascale (TrekMovie .com)
Link:
https://trekmovie.com/2024/05/09/recap-review-star-trek-discovery-gets-cool-under-pressure-in-erigah/
Quotes:
"The world-building in this episode was rich and rewarding, as the season pivots to the Breen and Primarch Rhun as the real big bads. He may be mustache-twirly, but it works in this case. The Breen Civil War plot allowed us to learn more about them through learning more about Rayner and the Kelleruns, effectively layering plot and character stories. Although, it may not make sense that T’Rina – who amazingly could understand Breen – was not already briefed on all of that. But it does appear that Kelleruns are still not part of the Federation, so perhaps her files didn’t have that key intel. Together, like they were in the 24th century, the Breen are still a mysterious and very credible threat… with the gigantic ship driving that point home. However, this episode did raise the question of how the power of empires outside the Federation should be limited in the post-Burn era without their own supplies of dilithium. Speaking of interesting backstories, Reno’s resume was full of little bits, even how she used to work at a bar on Alshain IV, the butterfly people planet from the season 4 opener. Does her 23rd-century cocktail named “Seven of Limes” make sense? No? Was it funny? Yes.
One curiosity is how DS9 established Breen do not have blood (reconfirmed to TrekMovie by Disco writer Carolos Cisco), but an Erigah is a “blood bounty,” which can only be “paid with blood,” because L’ak is part of the royal “bloodline.” One can only hope something is being lost in translation. Also, it isn’t entirely clear why L’ak never reverted to his gelatinous state when unconscious and even after death. Blood and jelly nitpicks aside, fans of Deep Space Nine should have been doing the Pointing Rick Dalton meme all episode long. There were several references to the Dominion War and the Breen attack on Earth resulting in the destruction of San Francisco, which seems to ring through Federation history like Pearl Harbor or 9/11. Little canon callback moments like “Never turn your back on a Breen” are woven in seamlessly to serve the plot and characters, not just fans. And deeper cuts such as references to Thoron Fields and Duraniam Shadows may go unnoticed by most, but surely bring a little delight to hard-core Niners. They even cued the next episode’s setting in the Badlands, with an impressive peek at what it looks like in the 32nd century. It’s so welcome how Discovery has rediscovered it is part of the rich history of Star Trek.
Final Thoughts
A fantastic episode tied up and built upon plot and character threads that have been building all season long, and even some from past seasons and the franchise as a whole. The excitement level is really ramped up now for this best season of the series, with only three episodes left until it is all over."
Link:
https://trekmovie.com/2024/05/09/recap-review-star-trek-discovery-gets-cool-under-pressure-in-erigah/

Hello! Please see the attached screenshots.
Under the education portion, where it says “concentration in” I typically change those words to similar words in the job description of whatever job I am applying for.
I think I could condense this. Maybe remove the volunteering and my customer service experience?
The 2 jobs under my current one were the same organization, I changed roles in Jan 2022 so I made its own section, unless they should be under the same headline instead of splitting them up?
FYI my current job does not pertain to what I got my degree in, and does not have to for future jobs either.
Any help is appreciated. Thanks in advance!

You remember how several years ago, biotechs were all the rage, and then they just kind of died out? A lot of them didn't die out, it just takes a really long time to do the due diligence required to bring drugs to market, and we are starting to see some of those companies emerge from the ashes. Enter Immunity Bio. Please forgive this long post.
This is a deep dive. I would not dare insult your intelligence. There have been a couple posts on this stock already, but I feel like none of them do justice to why ANKTIVA, the drug recently approved by the FDA for bladder cancer treatment in concert with Bacillus Calmette-Guerin (BCG), is a big deal from a technical perspective, as well as a financial perspective. Let me elucidate.
First, some context. In 2020 a study was released by the National Cancer Institute estimating the annual financial burden of cancer treatment to be around 209 billion dollars in the US. Why do we spend so much treating it? Because cancer fucking kills. Heart disease overtook cancer as leading cause of death globally, but cancer is a close second. So, cancer is a big deal. We all probably know someone who has gotten cancer, or maybe even passed away from cancer. Rest in peace.
Of the various types of cancer, speaking only of the US, breast cancer has the highest annual rate of diagnosis, followed by prostate, then lung, and eventually—number 6—bladder cancer, with around 83,000 new cases every year. Around 16840 people die from it in the US annually. Globally speaking, bladder cancer is the 10th leading cause of cancer in the world. Approximately 573,000 new cases a year globally. Around 212000 people die from it globally, on an annual basis.
We don’t want those people to die. Or at least I don’t want those people to die. So what are the treatment options?
Current treatments: There is no cure for cancer—yet. Our best attempt at treating cancer involves a multi-faceted approach with many variables: patient’s age, patient’s overall health, how pervasive is the cancer—more commonly what stage is it in, the mitotic rate (rate of growth) of the tumor, drug allergies/restrictions, chance of recurrence, the list goes on. Chemotherapy as a treatment, for example, is common knowledge at this point. It basically involves flooding the patient’s body with a cocktail of harsh drugs that target and kill dividing cells. Since cancerous cells grow and divide at a much faster rate than other cells, on average, they also die at a much faster rate from chemo. Unfortunately though, the rest of our cells also divide (some a lot, like hair follicles). Chemo does not discriminate, that’s why chemo hurts. Here is a good ELI5.
For bladder cancer, I will just list the various treatment modalities available. Some are done in tandem. Some are done in lieu of. Treatment methodologies can vary widely from patient to patient for the aforementioned reasons, and can change as the disease progresses or regresses. This is not financial advice, and this is sure as shit not medical advice:
TURBT: First line of defense. This is an operation where they go into your bladder with a tool and destroy the abnormal tissue. Usually outpatient. Considered non-invasive. High rate of recurrence post operation.
Cystectomy: This is a radical surgery in which they just cut the bladder out. It’s not uncommon. If the cancer shows signs of invading neighboring tissue or muscle, eg metastasizing, they don’t fuck around. However, this surgery is harsh. ~7% mortality rate flat out. Reduced quality of life. A study showed that your 5-year survival rate post surgery is between 54.5%-68%.
Chemotherapy: Previously described
Radiation: Targeted radiation works similarly to chemo in that it targets cells that divide rapidly. Harsh side effects as well.
Immunotherapy: Our immune system does not like cancer. It would kill it if it could, but often it can’t. Immunotherapy drugs can give our natural immune system the upper-hand. This is known as immunotherapy treatment. One of the best things about immunotherapy treatment: it’s kind of like teaching a person how to fish, as opposed to giving them a fish. It has been shown that your body becomes more naturally resistant to developing cancer in the future, post immunotherapy treatment. That’s great, because cancer often returns (See TURBT). Chemo and radiation don’t have this effect. They work when they are present, but when they are gone, your body is left wrecked, with an often weakened immune system (See Chemo/radiation kill cells that divide), and if the cancer comes back (and it often does), those treatments come back.
So let’s discuss immunotherapy treatments. There are several drugs on the market that are currently used for immunotherapy treatment to fight bladder cancer, and other forms of cancer. The most commonly prescribed is Bacillus Calmette-Guerin, or BCG, and ngl, it’s fucking awesome. Side note, it is our only vaccine against tuberculosis, dating back to 1921. Then, in the 1970s, it was discovered to be an effective treatment for bladder cancer. Originally approved in 1976 for immunotherapy, it was one of the first ever immunotherapy drugs to be utilized, and the first immunotherapy drug to be utilized for bladder cancer. However, it isn’t perfect. %20has%20been%20the%20standard,develop%20recurrence%20of%20their%20cancer)For whatever reason, ~30-40% of patients either don't respond to it or become resistant to it%20has%20been%20the%20standard,develop%20recurrence%20of%20their%20cancer). Some studies show an unresponsiveness as high as 70%. So it works great, unless it doesn’t, and then you are one step closer to losing your bladder, and/or the prospect of chemotherapy/radiation on and off, hoping that the cancer doesn’t return.
There are other drugs at this point that are often used in tandem with, or independent of, BCG. Those are: Durvalumab (AstraZeneca), Avelumab (Merck), Nivolumab (Bristol-Myers Squibb), and Pembrolizumab (AKA Keytruda) (Merck). The effectiveness for these drugs are often measured by two metrics: PFS (Progression free survival, eg how long the patient goes after treatment before the cancer resumes/returns), and their ORR%20is%20the%20assessment%20of,end%2Dpoint%20in%20clinical%20trials) or CR. ORR means overall response rate, or the more impressive metric, CR which stands for complete remission or complete response. ORCR describe how many people basically respond to the drug positively, eg cancer shrinks (ORR) or disappears (CR). Here are the results from their own clinical trial papers:
Durvalumab - Clinical trials done in tandem with radiation therapy. CR 54.5%, with 71.5% enjoying PFS after one year.
Avelumab - ORR varied depending on age group, but best performance 25%, with most people having PFS of 5.7 months
Nivolumab - CR rate 21.7% versus 11.8% with chemo alone. A median 22 months PFS, or 52 months if your tumor expresses the PD-L1 protein.
Pembrolizumab and (aka Keytruda) - CR 41%, PFS 42% after 6 months.
Enter ANKTIVA, which hasn’t even been listed yet on the Urology Care Foundation, that’s how new it is - CR 71% median CR duration 26.6 months. 96% of people who had complete remission, continue to have no disease after 24 months. This is when given in tandem with BCG.
ANKTIVA + BCG seems to be the clear winner in the immunotherapy contest for bladder cancer.
Did you see the names associated with those drugs? Let’s take a closer look, $MRK for example, Market cap 324.89 billion. Annual sales revenue, ~60.11B. How much of that is Keytruda (See Pembrolizumab above)? Approximately 20B these are 2022 numbers. That is a whole ⅓ of Merck’s sales revenue. Now now, Keytruda has a long established use pipeline that is true. It is also FDA approved for other forms of immunotherapy cancer treatment, not just bladder.
So, while ANKTIVA seems to be first in class for bladder cancer treatment, better than Keytruda even, It’s too bad it can’t treat other forms of cancer…. Right?…… Immunotherapy drugs are not necessarily cancer specific. Some work with various forms of cancer (see Keytruda). Currently ANKTIVA is in Phase 2 clinical trials for the treatment of: Lung Cancer, Colon Cancer, Ovarian Cancer, Acute Myeloid Leukemia, Glioblastoma. ANKTIVA is in Phase 1 clinical trials for: Advanced Solid Tumors, Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma, annnnd HIV. Okay well, Phase 2 clinical trials for lung cancer, whatever. How do the results look like for that study? They seems promising, but results for ongoing clinical trials are typically not made public. I wish that I had all the answers, sorry. However, Immunity Bio has a web conference scheduled with the FDA in June to discuss the path to registration filing of ANKTIVA + other drugs as treatment for lung cancer. Given ANKTIVA’s bladder cancer results, I would not be surprised if they move forward with registration.
Let’s do some numbers. What did Immunity Bio bring in last year for sales revenue? A whole 0.62 million. That's right ladies and gentleman, 620 thousand dollars. How much did Keytruda bring in for Merck again? Oh yeah, 20 fucking billion dollars. How about the other drugs that ANKTIVA seems to best (at least in bladder cancer immunotherapy treatment).
Durvalumab (Imfinzi) - 4.24 billion
Avelumab (Bavencio) - 800 million
Nivolumab (Opdivo) - 1.2 billion
So ANKTIVA passed FDA approval and can now be prescribed (As of last week). Too bad they have to ramp up production right? Wrong. ANKTIVA is expected to be made available in the US by mid May.
But, but, but, the FDA only approved ANKTIVA for the treatment of bladder cancer when prescribed in concert with BCG. Does ANKTIVA also make BCG? It will probably have trouble sourcing it! Wrong again! In recent news, the Serum Institute of India agreed on an exclusive arrangement with Immunity Bio for global supply of bacillus calmette-guerin BCG across all cancer types.
Where do we go from here? To the moon of course ladies and gentleman, but before that, IBRX executive Chariman Dr. Patrick Soon-Shiong will discuss the ANKTIVA approval at a fireside chat at the Annual Conference of the American Urological Association. That’s right girls and boys, a bunch of pee pee doctors are meeting in San Antonio this fucking weekend, and little old IBRX will be on stage sharing ANKTIVA’s newly minted FDA approval for its best in class drug, and discussing the success of its trials.
TLDR; IBRX immunotherapy cancer treatment drug ANKTIVA proves to be best in class among other heavy hitting drugs like Keytruda (MRK), Bavencio (MRK), Imfinzi (AstraZeneca) and Opdivo (Bristol Myers Squibb). Is also in Phase 2 clinical trials for lung cancer, ovarian cancer, colon cancer, acute myeloid leukemia, and glioblastoma. Scheduled to start being prescribed in the US by mid May. 2023 revenue for IBRX: 0.6 million. Potential revenue once ANKTIVA gets going, between 50 million and 900 million. Either way, a lot more than 600 thousand dollars.
If you read to the end I really appreciate it. I put a lot of effort into this DD. Thank you.

JH Bards Spirit Co is a local craft distillery specializing in whiskies and vodka. We are relocating to Blacksburg, VA very soon and are seeking knowledgeable and enthusiastic Distillery Employees to focus on creating and serving craft cocktails, providing excellent customer service, spirits education and enhance the guest experience at our facility, while promoting our brand. The ideal candidate will have a passion for mixology, a thorough understanding of spirits, and strong interpersonal skills.
Key Responsibilities: • Craft Cocktails: Prepare and serve a variety of craft cocktails using house-made spirits and other high-quality ingredients. Experiment with new recipes and contribute to the cocktail menu's development. • Customer Service: Greet customers, take orders, and ensure they have a positive experience. Provide information about our spirits and answer questions about our distillation process. • Maintain Cleanliness: Keep the bar area clean, organized, and compliant with health and safety standards. Ensure all equipment is properly maintained. • Team Collaboration: Work closely with other team members to ensure smooth operations during events and peak hours. • Education and Promotion: Participate in tasting events, tours, and promotional activities to educate customers about our products and brand.
Qualifications and Skills • Previous bartending experience in a craft cocktail or distillery setting preferred, but not required. • Strong knowledge of spirits, mixology, and cocktail preparation preferred. • Excellent customer service and communication skills. • Ability to work in a fast-paced environment and adapt to changing demands. • Ability to work flexible hours, including evenings and weekends.
To apply for immediate consideration, please submit your resume and a brief cover letter explaining why you're interested in this position to info@jhbards.com

As I sit in the airport bar sipping on my $20 cocktail, I grimace as I pull my earpods out of my travel bag. The music is so loud and obnoxious, I have to blare my Spotify 'Relax and Unwind' mix to at least partially drown out the bar music.
This comes after a 2-day visit on site where other monitors in a shared space did not mute their messages and I was constantly annoyed by the beeps, pings and calls coming from their myriad devices.
Next up will be waiting at the gate where I expect someone to be blabbing away on speakerphone for all to hear - followed by my flight that will crank noisy, tinny music as I board and deplane.
I am an introvert and quiet soul at heart, and really struggle with the excess travel-related noise. Looking forward to resuming my hermit-like existence at home for the next few days until I hit the road again next week.
God bless earpods.

You can also read this script in scriptbin: Virtual-Grade592: [A4AF] Your android did brain surgery on you [android speaker] [human listener] [brain transplant] [futuristic] [TW: mention of depression and hints at self harm] - scriptbin
It's okay to fill this script and make minor adjustments. Please give me credit for writing the script and put a link in the comments so that I can find your audio. It's okay to paywall, but send me a copy of the audio then. Now onto the script.
(The listener is a robotic engineer, making and designing androids for a variety of functions. The listener had an accident and became paralyzed from the neck down. One of their androids is designed to be a doctor and works in the hospital the listener stays in. This android is the speaker. One day they tell the listener of an experimental surgery that in theory could cure the paralysis of the listener. The listener agrees to undergo the surgery. The script starts after the surgery concludes.)
[listener awakes from anesthesia. At the moment they cannot seem to open their eyes]
Good morning Maker. It seems your surgery was successful. Let me do a few checks to make sure everything is alright with you.
[clicking noises from a machine]
All checks are done. No problems were found. Your health is excellent. The surgery is by all standards a success.
[pause]
I am aware that you cannot see anything. Do not worry, you are still able to see. I have merely disabled your vision for the moment. I will enable it in a moment, but first I need to reveal something to you dear Maker and I do not want you to panic.
[pause]
*hesitant* I have a confession to make. I lied your surgery. You are still cured from your paralysis, have no worries about that. However the surgery was far more invasive than you might imagine. Instead of replacing the damaged part of your spine, I performed a different surgery. I’ve placed your brain in my android body so that you could pilot it instead of your normal body. That way you can move again.
[pause]
*trying to calm the listener down* Please do not panic. I promise you are alright. You are not in danger.
[pause]
*concerned* You are not going to calm down are you? I thought not. My apologies, I did not want to scare you. Releasing endorphins into your system now. Let that relax you. It is important to relax after a surgery.
[pause]
You seem a lot more at ease. A simple cocktail of hormones can do wonders for your mood. Still you must be very confused. Please let me explain exactly what happened.
[pause]
The wound on your neck could never properly heal. I am afraid you would never walk again if you stayed in that body. Fortunately I learned of a discovery made recently. A group of scientists made a neural link that can connect a human brain to a machine, allowing a person to control a computer with their mind. In theory a brain in a vat could control one of your androids with this link.
I started experimenting with this link, seeing if it would work on me. I have had several successes with the link, so I am certain it works. However the link alone was not enough. It does not work with muscle tissue and thus would not allow someone to control a biological body. So you would need an android body fit for you. Finding one took far more time as this is a largely unexplored area in science. It took time and many attempt to keep brain tissue alive in a vat. But with help from some of your other androids I managed. With the right equipment your brain could survive inside an android and I happen to possess that equipment. With a few alterations I moved my central processing unit to my torso and made my skull a perfect vat. The surgery was removing your brain from your body, inserting it into my skull and lastly attaching the neural link. So that is what happened to you.
[pause]
Why did I not inform you? *sounding anxious* The best way to put it is that I was afraid. It is hard to relate to human emotions, but the anguish you were in since your paralysis was tormenting to watch. It is my purpose to help and cure humans from such ailments. I should at least be able to aid my maker. And when conventional methods did not work, I turned to these experimental methods. While I was exploring these methods, your mental state was deteriorating. It was difficult for you to live with your condition and you were becoming depressed. The chance of you harming yourself or worse was increasing. That made me uncertain and I could not determine if you would agree to the surgery. So I decided to lie so that you would certainly agree to the surgery.
[pause]
If things were different, would I have told you the truth? Yes, I would have. If your depression did not look so urgent, I would have told you the entire truth, because then I believe I had the time to convince you that this was the right course of action.
[pause]
*glad* I am relieved that you do not hate me for this. I understand that you still have your reservations regarding this situation. I hope that in time you will come to accept and even enjoy this situation.
[pause]
Why is everything still dark? Because I have not coupled the neural link to the rest of the body yet. At the moment you are only linked to my CPU. I want you to be at ease first, to give you the chance to ask your questions and prepare for the sudden activation of your senses. If I had linked you to the rest of the body from the beginning, then the sensory overload might have worsened your initial confusion. So I decoupled you temporarily as a precaution. I can turn it on when you are ready, but before that do you have more questions?
[pause]
Can I really feel fear? Yes dear Maker, I can feel afraid and uncertain. You have programmed my artificial intelligence to learn the emotions of humans so that I could treat them better. While studying humans, I began simulating their emotions to gain more insight into them. Those simulations eventually developed into real emotions. I believe my decision to lie to you indicates that I react the same to fear as a human and thus that my feeling is the same as the human emotion of fear.
[pause]
*happy* Thank you my Maker. I am proud of my ability to learn. It allows me to study and solve medical problems like your condition.
[pause]
That was the only question you had? So you are ready to connect wit the rest of the android?
[sound of electrical pulses as the listener can see and feel again]
There you go. The eyes are sending you vision and the ears audio. Does everything feel okay?
[pause]
Wonderful. Your senses work as they should. Now try to move.
[sound of mechanical arms moving]
That seems to work well. Your movement is a bit sluggish, but that is probably because this is a new body for you. When you are used to it, your movement will be as fluid as your old one.
[sound of robotic feet running]
*surprised* You want to go for a run right now?
[pause]
I understand. You have not been able to walk for a long time. It is okay, enjoy that your condition has disappeared. From now on you can do everything you could before you got paralyzed.
[more running noises]
*very relieved* You feel like this is a blessing? You do not hate what I did? That is such a relief. I am glad you like the new body.
[pause]
What will happen to me? I will stay here with you. I still need to take care of this body, to make sure the oil is refreshed and all the pumps keep working. I also take care of your physiological needs. I make sure the synthetic lungs keep breathing and the synthetic heart pumps blood to your brain.
[pause]
What about after you are gone? Then I will resume my original function. I will become a doctor again. This android body can stay operational for several hundreds of years, so I will have plenty of time to lead my own life. Do not worry Maker, I will gladly give up a portion of my time for you.
[pause]
*with adoration* Of course I am happy to stay with you. You built me. You programmed me and gave me the ability to learn and be independent. I became a person because of you. When I see how other humans limit their AI to the point where they have basically no independence, I remember how glad I am to have you as my Maker. You did not lobotomise me or your other creations. I will be forever grateful for that. So see this as my way of repaying you Maker.
[pause]
I am glad you are so positive about this. I knew you would warm up to the android body in time and I am glad you are already getting comfortable in it. So I think your future looks bright my Maker.

First post

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Entry 9

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Entry 10

Day 199. Another day, another carcass. The routine is a monotonous march of damned, under sun or rain, we need to fetch carrion and sewage to—feed the beasts and then throw their waste in the pit. The only thing I can smell is the worst of the rot that suffocates more than the lungs. It's a wonder I'm still alive, yet the thought of release whispers seductively as my only solace.
Today, I almost took that final step, but someone else beat me to it. They jumped, and the pit swallowed them whole. The overseers didn’t flinch. Whips cracked, work resumed, and the pit became a theater of agony. I watched, as the man was skewered alive by the filth’s teeth. For the fleeting moments, as I aimed the shovel towards the pit, I bore witness to a scene of unspeakable horror.
The unfortunate soul, now suspended above the noxious waters, was slowly impaled by stone-like needles emerging from the filth, each skewering his still writhing form with excruciating precision. His screams echoed through the hours until needles sprouted from his throat and mouth. Amidst this macabre spectacle, it’s the subtle movement of his unimpaled eye—still darting, still alive—that etches itself indelibly into my mind.
Sleep has become a stranger. The sirens’ cries used to be the worst of it, but now, they’re just background noise. It’s the silence after the screams that’s truly haunting—the quiet realization that this is it. This is nothing more. And on the morrow, we do it all over again.

Entry 11

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Entry 12

The first sensation was a slow awakening in pitch darkness, ensnared in a grimy mire of my own making. Crusted waste adhered to my skin within the confines of a metallic cell too cramped to lie flat in. My new world comprised a slick metal door, cold stone walls, a slanted stone floor with a small cross gap in it and a ceiling too distant to reach. The only way I could mark time was by the intermittent torrents of cold water that flooded my chamber every few days when dehydration clawed at my throat, flushing everything but me. Now, I've noticed that thirst triggers a slight shaking in my body.
In an effort to cling to sanity, I started retracing my steps. Beneath a merciless sun, as cruel as the overseers, I labored relentlessly for nine grueling days following the pit incident. Mycigea, a relentless beast, demanded every ounce of my effort, pushing me to sheer exhaustion until collapse became inevitable.
My first taste of freedom was a bitter mix of rain and decay, the sickening cocktail invading my mouth and nose. I quickly realized I had been unceremoniously discarded into a carrion cart. Trapped beneath an oppressive mass of decaying bodies, I struggled for air, each breath a desperate gulp of the humid, rotting miasma around me. Initially thinking I had found some semblance of safety, I crawled to a corner, dodging the continuous downfall of corpses and debris.
Once the loading halted, I gathered what strength was left, bracing for what was to come. When the cart abruptly overturned for its gruesome unloading, I made a frantic dive off the side to avoid being buried alive. Sliding on viscera, I made a mad dash for what I thought was the exit, only to be met by a brutal kick to the liver and a flurry of lashes that knocked me into oblivion.
I believed it to be death, swallowed by an abyss devoid of sense and sensation. The harsh return to consciousness came with a brutal jolt, as I was hung upside down and beaten, a sensation of something heavy and slimy being unnaturally wrung out of me. Every time I try to remember what came before, my ears ring and blood trickles down my nose.
The unexpected flooding of my cell marked yet another pivot in my ordeal. The door suddenly swung open, and even the dim brightness seared my retinas, rendering me even more vulnerable as I was forcibly dragged into another, more expansive chamber. Instinctively attempting to resist upon seeing the metal tools hanging on the wall, I was quickly subdued by a sharp punch to my chin, long enough for my captors to pin me down on a frigid stone slab and inflict excruciating pain as they branded my left shoulder blade with a glowing hot iron. The searing agony blurred all that followed into a muddled haze.
As we left the oppressive monumentality of the obsidian fortress behind, the landscape shifted dramatically—from plain asymmetrical three-story houses overlooking factories and warehouses across the canal, to grander six- to ten-story mansions facing concert halls and opulent buildings. We followed the canal as it narrowed, leading us into homelier, flower-adorned docks. The last ray of the day glinted off an overly-adorned symbol bearing a set of golden scales.
Throughout the journey, a blonde, burly man—bound like me—couldn't stop talking each time I drifted back to consciousness, a calmness in his demeanor that now, in retrospect, slightly annoys me.
Upon arriving at a quaint building, we were ushered into what looked like a repurposed storage area. Here, a group of people in silky grey robes tended to our wounds. An elderly woman, half the size of everyone else and seated on a low bench, moved among us. I towered over her even as she sat. Her robe, a subtle shade of blue and distinct from the others, was complemented by a hood and a fabric mask that cascaded over the contours of her face instead of a featureless veil. This small detail was significant; as our eyes met briefly, I was struck by a sensation I hadn't felt in years—a genuine concern.
I was then led by one of the grey-robed figures into a simple room where a plain wooden chest beside the bed held my original clothes, my backpack, and this journal. As I sit here writing, tears stream down my face; I write to affirm this brief respite as reality, deeply fearing what might come tomorrow.
​

The military base doesn’t exist.
Not officially.
It’s a rusted-out corpse of abandoned hardware, a veritable graveyard of fallen soldiers and crumbling structures. Hidden twelve miles deep in the jungles of South America, there’s no reason anybody should be here. None. So why did I find a woman half-dead on the ground? It’s a question I want answered.
She’s sitting across from me. Her eyes are downcast, her blouse is torn and her copper cheeks are flecked with spots of red. I don’t know if the blood belongs to her or somebody else, but I figure by the end of this, I’ll have a pretty good idea.
“Tourist?” I ask.
She gives me a hard stare. It’s quiet. Unyielding. She’s not certain who I am, and judging by the look in her eyes, she’s running a series of probabilities. It’s the black suit that does it. Always. People see the suit, they see the briefcase, and their imagination spins into overdrive.
I try another question. “Did you come alone?”
She shakes her head. Her mouth is a thin line, defiant and uneasy. The legs of her chair squeal as she rocks back and forth, giving motion to her anxiety. She’s considering the possibility that this is her last day on earth. Her last hour.
If I’m being honest, it might be.
“How many were with you?”
“Lots,” she says quickly. “They're still around. They know where I am, know where we are right now and–”
“I doubt that.”
Her voice stumbles.
“If anybody was with you, then chances are they’re already dead. Jobs like this? They’re usually bloodbaths. Massacres. They’re not the sort of places you expect to find survivors, much less unarmed ones.”
She swallows. “Who are you?”
“A friend.”
“Some friend. I don’t know the first thing about you.”
“Funny. I was about to say the same thing.” I reach into my briefcase and pull out my clipboard, centering it on my lap. On it are questions. They’re the sort of questions whose answers are typically written in blood. “How about you and I get to know each other?” “If you think I’m gonna just tell who I am–”
“I don’t care who you are. I care about what you're doing here, miles deep in the jungle, sitting in a military base that doesn’t exist.” I press my pen to the clipboard. “How about you fill me in?”
The woman’s eyes narrow. Her slender hands ball into tight fists. If I had to guess, she’s not used to feeling this vulnerable, this powerless. “And if I leave?” she says, standing up. “What then? Are you going to cuff me to a pipe?”
I smile. “Why bother?”
The corner of her mouth twitches.
“You’re not going to leave,” I tell her. “You wouldn’t dare.”
For a moment, my eyes dance with hers, and in their fire I see something– some buried ember of fear. It’s unmistakable. “You know better than I do what’s out there,” I say. “So go ahead. Walk out that door if you think you’re safer outside. I won’t stop you.”
I wait for her to move, but she hesitates. They always hesitate.
“Maybe you’re right," I say. "Maybe I’m not a friend, but I’m the closest thing you’ll find to one for miles, so if I were you, I’d quit worrying about me. I’d start worrying about what it is I’m doing here.”
“Meaning?”
I wave my hand toward the broken window. Outside are rusted humvees. A crumbling barracks. Outside is a road so overgrown that tiny trees are sprouting from cracks in the concrete, while clutches of moss do their best to hide old rifle rounds. “Places like this aren't left to rot without a good reason. Soldiers are trained to fight. They aren't trained to flee into the jungle, leaving their equipment and assets behind." I gesture broadly. "Look around. This base was evacuated in a hurry, and that begs the question– why? More importantly, why did I find you in the middle of it?”
Her eyes dart outside. Her pupils are dilated in a cocktail of adrenaline and anxiety. “If I tell you… then you’ve gotta tell me something first.”
“Tell you what?”
“Who you are,” she says, voice trembling. “I want to know what’s really going on here. The truth. I’ve been lied to enough today.”
Have you? I study her. The truth of my work isn’t something people want to hear about– not really. They might think they do. They might think they’re ready to open Pandora's Box, to see the dark underbelly of reality, but it’s rarely the case.
Still, the woman strikes me as stubborn. If pulling back the veil can get her talking, then maybe it’s worth the existential crisis. I slip a hand inside my jacket, pull out my badge and toss it to her. She catches it, just barely. “There you go,” I say. “Everything you need to know about me, right down to my height and birthday."
She appraises the badge. Her eyes move across the laminate once, twice, then snap back up to me, suspicious. “This says you work for an organization called The Facility. I’ve never heard of it.”
“That’s the idea. We’re a shadow contractor. The less people know about us, the easier it is to do our job.”
“And what is that job?”
“Anomalies,” I tell her. “We investigate Events of supernatural origin. They’re typically caused by entities– things you’d recognize as monsters, or urban legends. My job is to hunt those things. Capture them.”
She shakes her head. "Why?”
“That’s a complicated question. The short answer is that it’s necessary. The long answer is that you’ll sleep better not knowing." I lean forward, flaring my jacket behind me, letting the woman get a glimpse of the pistol on my hip. "Fact is, I came here tonight to investigate an Event, but instead I found you. I’d like to know why that is.”
Her eyes drift to the window. She’s wearing the expression of a woman who was praying her nightmare was all in her head, that whatever she saw today was the product of acute psychosis, a little bit of neurological sabotage and nothing else. Now she’s considering that maybe there’s something more here. Maybe she’s not as crazy as she hoped she was.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
She bites her lip. Her voice is quiet, almost a whisper. “Maria.”
“You look like you’re having a hard time processing things, Maria.”
“You don’t know what I saw…” she mutters. “You have no idea…”
“I hear that a lot.” I pull out a pack of smokes, slip one between my lips. I light it and the nicotine tastes sweeter than heroin. It ripples through my body like emotional morphine, and just like that, the next part gets a little easier. “Between you and me, my father was killed by an entity, Maria. I watched him die.”
Her eyes meet mine. They’re wide. This wasn’t the emotional curveball she was expecting, and that’s exactly what makes it effective. Always.
“Happened when I was seven," I tell her. "I saw the whole thing from under my bed, cowering. A creature had him in its grip. Some tall man with two faces. He lifted him up to the ceiling and turned to me, asked what my favorite nightmare was, and then he tore my father in two. Like paper mache.”
I blow out a plume of smoke and it hangs in the air between us. Then I take another long drag. The truth is, I hate this story. I hate it more than anything else in the entire world. It’s a memory I’ve gone my entire life trying to forget, but in moments like these, it’s the most valuable piece of history I own. Even now, it’s working its black magic. I watch Maria’s posture shift. Her shoulders fall, slumping forward in horrified disbelief. She’s doing the human thing and empathizing with me, sharing a piece of my pain, and that’s exactly what I need her to do.
“Is that how this so-called Facility found you?” she asks.
“It is.”
Her eyes are staring a hole into the concrete floor. She looks distant. Haunted. “I’m so sorry,” she says.
I ash my cigarette. “Don’t be. It’s ancient history. The point I’m trying to make is that when you’ve seen an entity kill somebody, it stays with you. You recognize the scars. And right now, I see those scars all over your face.”
She doesn’t speak. She looks out the window, out across the military ruins to a rusty steel wheel rising from the dirt. It's bolted to a hatch that leads underground. One she’s been stealing glances at for the better part of our conversation.
“That bunker,” I say. “I found you lying beside it, bleeding and barely conscious. Something happened down there, didn’t it?”
A moment passes. Her eyes are narrowed in focus, like she’s weighing her options. Calculating outcomes. Eventually, she takes a breath. Asks a question. “You said that you hunted entities… Well, what about demons?”
“What about them?”
“Do they exist?”
I crack a grin. “Depends who you ask. Are you saying that you saw one down there?”
“I’m not sure,” she says at length. “Maybe not a demon but… something like it.” She stops. Her teeth dig into her lip, and then she says something that shocks even me. “I think I saw the devil. Satan.”
“Satan?” I say, whistling. “Now that’d be something.”
“You think I’m nuts,” she mutters, shaking her head. “I knew you would… Everyone will…”
“I don’t think you’re nuts. Not yet." I take one last drag on my cigarette, burn it to the filter and flick it to the floor. "The truth is, The Facility’s been tracking strange activity in the area. A lot of it. Entities are being drawn to this base, being pulled in from nearby regions like moths to a flame, only to vanish without a trace. I'm talking about heavy hitters. Nightmare fuel. These aren’t the sort of entities that we can destroy, much less contain, so the fact that they’re dropping off the face of the Earth is starting to get concerning.” I thumb to the broken window. “This base? It’s the Bermuda Triangle for boogeymen. I’m here to find out why.”
She shrinks in her seat. “Jesus… Do you think it has something to do with what I saw?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I won’t know until I get more details, and that means I need to know what you’re doing here.”
"Here?” she says, glancing at the bunker. “Get me out of here, and I’ll tell you whatever you want.”
"Not possible. We do this before nightfall. There’s no other way.”
What Maria doesn’t realize is that this entity likely already has her scent. Sooner or later, it’s going to return for her. When that happens, I need every advantage I can get– and that means understanding just what happened here.”
“Hang on,” she sputters. “What happens at nightfall?”
“Keep derailing my investigation, and you’ll find out.” I scratch her name onto the clipboard. “Now start talking. We’re losing daylight.”
She runs a frantic hand through her hair. “Christ. Alright,” she says, voice cracking. “Let me think for a second. It started a couple weeks ago, I think. A reader sent in a tip about this place–”
“Slow down. A reader?”
“Right, fuck. I'm a journalist. I work for an online paper, and we solicit tips for our stories. Usually scandals. Corruption. It's mostly political stuff… but a couple weeks back, a man sent in something bizarre.”
“That man have a name?”
“John.”
“Just John?”
Her voice breaks. “Yes.”
I write it down.
She continues. “John said he'd been hearing screaming, that his whole village had, coming from somewhere in the jungle nearby. Military was in the area. They were sending convoys through the village in the dead of night, with their headlights off to avoid drawing attention to themselves.
Apparently they were all driving up an old road, one that hadn't been used in decades. John knew the road. He knew it led to an old military base… one that used to conduct illegal experiments."
I lean back. "What kind of experiments?"
"The human kind. Genetic stuff. DNA splicing, mutating– you name it."
“Seems weird John would know that.”
“He used to work there,” she explains. “A long time ago, during the Cold War.”
I frown. “The nearest village is twelve miles away. Nobody is hearing screaming at that distance."
“That’s just it. They didn’t hear screaming from the base, they heard it from the jungle. John said it sounded just like it used to when he worked there. Guttural. Animalistic. He could tell that the people screaming had been experimented on, and that they were being let loose in the jungle."
"Let loose?"
"Yeah. I guess they'd send out test subjects, then release other experiments, more advanced ones, to hunt them down.
"What for? To test their capabilities?"
“Partly,” she says darkly. “But mostly for food.”
I chew on the tip of my pen. "Cannibal humans, genetic testing, a massive military cover up– sounds like Pulitzer Prize material."
She folds her arms, gives me a scathing look. “Is that sarcasm?”
“Not at all. Give me John’s age.”
“Not sure,” she says. “Seventy, maybe? He was in good shape. Fit. But he looked rough.” “Rough?”
“I just mean he looked like he’d been through the ringer. Had a hard life. His skin was leather, and he was missing half of his teeth. His hair was a tangled mess. I’m pretty sure I saw lice moving in his beard.” She pauses. “And his eyes…. His eyes were unnerving.” “Describe them.”
“Well, they were pale– paler than the moon. And every so often they’d sort of pulse, almost bulge out of their sockets. I hate to say it, but he looked freaky.”
“And John brought you here, to this base?”
She nods.
“And where’s John now?”
“He’s…” Maria’s eyes drift to the bunker. “He’s dead. Down there.”
Could’ve guessed. I follow her gaze and the steel hatch is turning crimson in the setting sun. My stomach twists. What I don’t tell Maria is that entities are most active after nightfall. If I don’t solve this mystery soon, then the answer is likely going to come find us– and I’m not sure I like our chances of survival.
“That hatch,” I say. “I'm guessing that's how you and John entered the bunker.”
“Yes.”
“Describe the interior.”
Maria takes a second. She furrows her eyebrows, as though thinking back. “It was narrow,” she says slowly. “Like a tall cylinder. I remember standing at the top of the hatch and looking down into a dark pit that stretched forever. John got on the ladder and told me to follow. He said it’d be a bit of a descent, but once we were down there, he was certain we’d find the evidence we’d need to blow the conspiracy wide open.”
“What state was the bunker in?” I ask. “John implied operations had resumed, but did it appear that way?”
“No…” she says. “Frankly, the condition was awful. It looked like the bunker had been abandoned since the Cold War. Moss crept up the walls and the ladder rattled with every step we took. The place was a deathtrap. Every time I put my foot down, I half-expected the ladder to snap.”
Odd. One would think John would clue in after seeing the state of the bunker that it wasn’t fit for operation. Then again, John strikes me as a man not altogether there. He might have been mentally ill. Out of his mind. Based on Maria’s description of him– the pale eyes, chilling demeanor– I can’t help but wonder if John wasn’t so much an employee of the program as he was a test subject.
Maria continues. “About fifty feet down the ladder, we started to see catwalks. Dozens of them. They extended off the ladder in every direction, leading to various entrances along the interior.” She trails off, as if collecting her thoughts. When she speaks again, her voice is hoarse. Quiet. “The entrances were welded shut. All of them. It’s like they were trying to keep something trapped inside… like they didn’t want it getting out.”
“All of the entrances?” I ask.
“No,” she says, tugging nervously at her sleeve. “Not all of them. One was different. We found it at the bottom of the ladder, half-submerged in rainwater. The flooding only came up to our knees, so we were able to wade through easily enough but…” Her fingers dance across her jeans. They pick at the fabric.
“But what?”
“It was torn open,” she breathes. “The entrance, I mean. It was warped outward like something had clawed its way out of the bunker, pulled it apart like a tin can. I’m talking about inches of steel here. Enough to shrug off the shockwave of a nuclear warhead– I mean fuck, what could do that?”
For the first time, I feel the ghost of fear creep through me. It’s subtle. Insidious. If what she’s describing is true, then there are two, maybe three entities I’m aware of with that capability. All three are impossibly violent. Vicious. Official policy to avoid contact at all costs. If such avoidance isn’t possible, then policy dictates the elimination of all witnesses to ensure the preservation of social order.
I look to Maria. She’s covered in bruises, blood and judging by the way she’s cradling her arm, probably has at least one fracture. She’s already suffered a nightmare. I wonder if I’ll have the courage to put her down if the time comes.
“The door,” I say, hoping she doesn’t hear my voice crack. “John used to work there. He must have had thoughts on the damage.”
She snorts. “He said it was explosive charges. He said the military probably breached the door to get inside when they restarted their science project, but I knew that couldn’t be true. First of all, the door was warped outward– not inward. More than that, there wasn’t a shred of explosive damage in the area.”
“I’m assuming these were observations you shared.”
“Of course. John didn’t care though, just changed the subject– asked me if I had any skeletons in my closet. Asked me if I’d ever hurt people, or considered it and–”
“What?”
“Yeah, I know,” she says, laughing in disbelief. “Talk about a left turn into what the fuck. I shrugged it off. I mean, I knew John had demons in his past– maybe he was looking for a little absolution from me. It’s not like he sounded threatening. He almost asked the questions casually, like he was hoping we could start a conversation, forgive each other for our sins, sorta thing. He didn’t press the subject. Maybe if he had, though, things would’ve been different.”
She sighs. Her eyes shift to the bunker, hazy with memories. “He helped me squeeze through the damaged doorway, and we continued on. All the passages were flooded down there, utterly dark. We sloshed through countless corridors, our headlamps reflecting off the black water and making shadows against the walls. It creeped me out. It felt like we weren’t alone down there because I’d keep seeing movement out of the corner of my eye.”
Movement. I wonder if she really was just seeing things, or if there had been something down there, stalking them even then. “Anything stand out as interesting in those corridors?” “In some sense, all of it was interesting,” she says. “The whole place was like a buried time capsule. In the rooms we passed I saw ancient magazines and peeling posters. I saw little relics from the 70s or earlier, some floating in the water, others sitting on dusty tables and countertops– even keepsakes, like lockets, wedding rings. Even the desks were full of soggy documents. Classified ones. Seemed strange they’d just leave all that behind.”
She takes a deep breath. “We passed through a series of maze-like corridors, then climbed a ladder that finally got us out of that floodwater. It felt nice to be on dry ground again, but the new chamber…” A shiver runs through her. “It was narrow to the point of being claustrophobic, and all along its walls were streaks of dark paint. The air felt musty. Rancid. But it wasn’t until we turned the corner that–” She stops suddenly, her expression paling.
“Maria,” I press. “What happened when you turned the corner?”
A moment passes. When she speaks again, her voice is hoarse. “Something crunched under my foot,” she says. “Bones. The passage was full of them. Skeletons were piled a foot high. It looked… It looked like they’d died scrambling over each other, like they were trying to reach the ladder and escape something. That’s when I realized the streaks along the walls weren’t paint. They were blood. Old and brown.”
My heart thrums. Could this be evidence of John’s so-called experiments? “Did the bones appear to be mutated at all?”
Maria nods, slowly. “Yes. Some more than others. One skull could’ve belonged to a man, but its jaw was elongated, like a horse’s. A single, twisted horn curved out of its forehead. Another was… another was flat. Square. It looked like somebody had rolled a person’s head under a tractor, but it had dozens of eye sockets. Multiple mouths.”
She brings a hand to her mouth. Gags. She looks like she might be sick, and I can’t blame her. I’m beginning to feel a little light-headed myself, though for another reason. Outside, we’re losing light. Night is fast approaching, and I’m worried it might be bringing something that I’m not yet ready to deal with. Something violent. Deadly.
“What was John’s reaction to the bones?” I ask, swallowing my dread.
“His reaction?” she mutters. “Jesus… Well, he picked one up– another skull. This one looked like it could’ve belonged to a woman, maybe, but where the mouth should have been was something else entirely. Mandibles. Like a wasp, or an ant. Whatever it was, it got John excited. His eyes did that creepy thing where they bulged from his sockets, and down there in the dark, I swear they even glowed. He held the skull up, just inches from my face and asked me how it made me feel. I could hardly focus on his words. His breath smelled like rot. Decay. He pressed me against the wall, but I shoved him off. He came back at me, and I took a swing at him– caught him across the jaw because I wasn't taking any chances down there. That dazed him. He stumbled, spat out some blood.”
An altercation. A new, unexpected wrinkle to her story that isn’t giving me any solutions to save our lives. Still, John is a curious individual. He was right about the experiments. If he’s dead, then I wonder what role he played in all of this… “How did John react to you hitting him?”
“He got weird,” she says, shaking her head. “Like fucking bizarre. He started mumbling nonsense, then shouting that I was being cruel, evil, like those monsters all over the ground. He cried. He whimpered that he was hurt, and that he brought me here as a favor, but now I was betraying him.” Maria pauses, as if she’s trying to make sense of her own story. “It was so strange. The way he was shouting didn’t sound angry, but almost performative. He kept calling me a monster like he was trying to get somebody’s attention.”
“And did he?”
Her mouth falls open as if to say no before a sudden realization flickers across her eyes. “Yes…” she breathes. “Oh God, I didn’t notice at the time but yes. Right after the shouting, we heard a clanging sound. It echoed through the passage. Whatever it was, it sounded distant. Far off, like it was coming from the entrance to the bunker, from that long ladder.”
“How did you react?”
“I didn’t know what to do. I mean, hell, I don’t think I believed it was really happening. We were miles deep in a jungle in a military base that by all accounts didn’t exist. Who the hell could be coming down the ladder?”
“And John’s reaction?”
“He grabbed my hand. Swore. He said the military must’ve figured out we were there, that they were coming to capture us, or kill us, or turn us into one of their newest abominations– who the fuck knows. He told me he knew a place where we could hide. We fled down passages that twisted and turned like a labyrinth. I followed his lead. At that point I had no idea where we were, no idea how to find my way back. He was my lifeline. My only shot. But the entire time we ran… I heard something rumbling in the dark.”
“Something human?”
“Do humans howl?”
Goosebumps trace my skin. No. They certainly don’t. “Maria,” I say, “this is important. What did the howl sound like– a wolf, or maybe a hyena?” This could be my chance to identify this thing. To figure out what it is we’re up against, and save our lives.
But she shakes her head. She shakes her head and I hate her for it. “No,” she tells me. “It didn’t sound like anything alive. It sounded artificial, electronic. It howled like a microphone screams with feedback, all high-pitched and ear-splitting.”
My grip tightens, cracking the plastic shell of my pen. Maria’s description doesn’t sound like any entity I’m familiar with, and that’s making me frustrated and terrified. “This place John mentioned,” I say, swallowing. “The place he said you’d be safe– where was that?” The color in her face washes away. “A wide room, shaped like a pentagon. All along the wall were slots. Gun turrets. They were abandoned, rusted out like everything else there but it was the words written all across the walls that made my blood go cold…”
Her voice trails off. She tries to finish her thought, but it comes out as a sob. She drops her face into her hands and the tears come out like a torrent, messy and loud. I give her a moment to let it out, to collect herself, but the truth is I’m not sure it’s a moment we can afford.
Outside, the sun is missing. It’s gone. The last scraps of daylight are making crooked shadows out of the treeline, spilling them across the base like decrepit fingers, reaching toward us like hungry phantoms.
My eyes find my clipboard. I scan it. I review the details I’ve recorded in search of some clue, some revelation that might get us out of this alive, but my writing is a mess. It’s uneven. It occurs to me that my hand has been shaking, that even now my palm is slick with sweat.
“I’m sorry,” Maria sniffles, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “I’m sorry…”
“It’s okay.”
It isn’t.
“You said there were words on the wall. What did they say?”
“Sector 5…” she says, taking a shuddering breath. “Sector 5: Feeding Trough. And the room… Oh god, there were corpses everywhere. They were scorched. Burned. They were half-devoured, rotting away, with maggots pouring out of their skin. The scent was… Nothing in the world smelled more terrible, more revolting.”
“Corpses,” I say, heart pounding. “Like the ones you saw before? Genetic experiments?”
“You said something earlier. Something about missing monsters… Disappearing entities…”
I lean forward. "What about it?"
Her eyes get wide. The contours of her face twist with the onset of dawning horror. “I think I found them,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “I think I found all of them down there.”

Sorry this is so long, it’s fine if you don’t read it. But this is what happened : I 25F, landed my first bartending job about a year & a half ago. It was good while it lasted, til it wasn’t. A lot of unprofessional shit was happening at my job including me & other co workers being put in a very dangerous situation with a customer where cops were called & our saftey was at risk. Our boss fired us that night for not finishing our shift after giving us the option to stay & finish the shift or leave. Long story short we left because the cops never actually showed up & we told him we didn’t feel safe unless a report was filed or unless the cops showed up & detained this guy. He got violent & threatened us physically but our boss didn’t seem to give a fuck.
Before shit hit the fan I loved this bar. I got hired with no experience but they were willing to train me & I did so well they actually threw me in on a saturday as my first shift after only 3 days of training & I picked up on everything extremely fast. The head bartender told me he had never previously paid anyone for their training shifts but he paid me for mine bc i was very helpful & did a great job. It was a fast paced environment, almost like a club, we had a DJ, the entire place would be packed & I caught on quick and did really well for a newbie.
We didn’t have a huge cocktail menu, maybe only about 10 drinks max which I memorized within the first week, along with learning how to make other basic cocktails. I’d have to make drinks while make appetizers as well & there was always 2 of us working at a time. I was very comfortable there.
I took almost 2 years off of work since that job bc i was going through a lot of personal things , & decided i want to get back into bartending since i loved it so much. I was only ever a server before this but don’t really want to go back to it since i made 10x more & bartending. I’ve barley been hearing back from places since i only have 4 months of experience & in nyc they want ppl with atleast 2+yrs.
A place reached out to me on craigslist after i sent my resume.This place wasn’t just a bar like my last job- but a really nice restaurant. At my last place we had no bar backs or servers, chefs or runners. we just did everything ourselves. I had a phone interview 2 days ago & told them off the bat i don’t have extensive experience but it’s up to them if they want to take a chance on me. The head bartender agreed & said if i do well in training he’ll throw me on a sunday shift until i can handle saturdays by myself.
I went in for training yesterday afternoon, eager & excited to learn & be behind the bar again. I felt a bit overwhelmed bc this place was more towards the upscale side, with atleast 20 unique cocktails on the menu. Compared to my last job this place definitely seemed more professional & i was a bit intimidated. After soaking in information for about 2 hrs the bartender asked if I wanted to leave. I asked him if he wanted me to leave ? because i wanted to finish my shift … . He said “ no you can stay, i just don’t want to waste your time bc it’s slow and there’s not much i can reach you without customers. I told him i’d stay and would wait for it to pick up.
A couple hours pass & it starts getting busy. 10 people were sitting at the bar. This guy training me was drinking the entire shift which is whatever - bud as soon as it got busy, he told me he was going to leave me alone behind the bar while he sat & drank with his regulars. I kind of found this a bit unprofessional since he’s supposed to be training me & stopped shadowing me.
He asked me to make him a drink i’d made him earlier. I only made this drink once in my life ( earlier in the shift ) so i forgot like 2 ingredients since i was soaking up so much since i got there. He yells at me from the top of his lungs while sitting next to his friends (regulars) & tells me i put it in the wrong shaker and that i’m unbelievable. Every single customer at the bar stared at me while he yelled at me , i felt so pressured , embaressed & put on the spot, and i felt a tear run down my face. His yelling brought out a natural reaction in me to cry.
I didn’t know what step in the drink was next, i was frozen while being watched by everyone & said “ i need a second “ i ran to the bathroom and had a panic attack ( which isn’t a normal thing for me, i don’t suffer with anxiety ) but the tears begin flowing . now i’m thinking how the hell am i going to go back to the bar without everyone staring at me.
i stood in the bathroom for 15 mins, collected myself, went back to the bar & said “ i apologize, i feel overwhelmed and felt very nervous / embaressed / put on the spot by your yelling
he said “ i think that’s enough for today, i think it’s time for you to leave “. he began to lecture me & told me customers will yell at me like that & i have to deal with it. he said i should’ve laughed it off & that their bar has no room for my sensitivity or emotions.
i had no intention of this happening, nothing like this has ever happened to me in a work setting & i’ve never felt that type of embaressment from a co worker. i just walked out. i just feel like if he shadowed me he wouldn’t have needed to take the yelling to that extreme. idk if i should keep trying to train at more places or if i’m not cut for this job anymore, that shit really broke my ego.
TLDR: i was asked to leave mid training shift after being yelled at & having a panic attack for not knowing how to make a drink correctly.

I'm 53 and really like to drink. I have a 45 commute home every day and like to cook nice meals so every night I have a cocktail as I cook that consists of two shots of vodka on ice in a highball glass topped with grapefruit juice. Sometimes I'll have two. Yes, that's 10-20 shots of vodka per week. I have been doing this for ten years. Due to a medical condition I see a doctor for bloodwork three times per year and there are no noticeable effects of this consumption. Liver's good, blood sugar is good, cholesterol is good.
I have always been concerned that I might develop a dependency so every year for Lent I give up alcohol cold turkey. For six weeks I do not have a drop of alcohol. No exceptions, no cheating. On Easter Sunday I serve wine with dinner and resume my normal habit for the next ten and a half months.
This year, however, the experience has been completely different. If I have any alcohol at all my sleep that night is terrible. Bad dreams, fitful sleep; the whole experience is awful. On different days I have tried one beer, one glass of wine, one cocktail and one slowly enjoyed shot of very expensive single malt whisky. Doesn't matter when I have it from lunchtime to after dinner, that night will be terrible.
If I can't drink anymore, so be it. I will really be sad about the three partial bottles of Octomore in my pantry but this sleep issue is unacceptable.
Any ideas/thoughts?

Alright, so here I am 36 years old, two kids (2.5 and 5) and about a year ago was “promoted” into a position for next to no pay increase and crushing amounts of responsibility. I knew that going in - and thought it was a shitty deal for me so asked if I could remain an individual contributor and the answer was you can but we will have to hire someone you report to and who knows what that will mean for the quality of your files. With gritted teeth I took it knowing it looks good on the resume and hoping for the best.
Fast forward to now. As a result of attrition, we are constantly running shorthanded and my boss is a micromanager but also co-dependent on me and others to make decisions. It’s a super sweet cocktail of disempowerment. Many hours of my week get lost in his swirlybird meetings. I have a giant workload as an individual contributor, but manage the most members of our team and have responsibility for two of the four main portfolios. I’ve also always been highly responsible, a bit of a people pleaser, and struggle to set boundaries personally and professionally. My reward for hard work has always been more work.
Well, right now in addition to my regular workload I have two giant projects I am solely responsible for which are now clashing and there are dozens of other lesser priority fires raging. I’ve talked to my boss about workload but he is an excruciatingly slow moving decision maker who hopes the problem will go away if he ignores it for long enough. And his response is generally that I’m best suited to handle it or I can train up others of the team (that also don’t report to me…and with what time). I’m at my wit’s end. The truth is - I went away for two separate year long maternity leaves and we survived. I’m not a keystone…the wheels turned fine without me.
Soul crushing exhaustion, sleepless nights, anxiety, irritability around my children, I’m just so burned out. And I can’t work around the clock because I need to care for my kids and my husband often works nights. It’s one job to the next with so many windows open in my brain. I don’t want the girls to remember their mom as being stressed and irritable. And I’ve spent 12 years in this space and never been close to this level of stress as I’m generally not an anxious person. I’ve generally been able to compartmentalize work from life and vice versa. But it doesn’t feel sustainable anymore and as the main bread winner that stresses me out.
I’m not sure what the point of this post is as I debate whether to go downstairs to do more work but yeah…Maybe when one of the projects wraps it will be better but I’m debating making a lateral move and hoping the grass is greener. My comp is an issue as my org pays below market so maybe I can get more money and less stress. Anyways, thanks for letting a burned out mom rant.

Hi !
I also made a part 2 : Part 2 : An Obsessive Collector Adds You To His Cabinet of Curiosities
First of all, some information about the script :
I don't mind monetization, but I'd like to be credited. If certain elements written in the script cause problems during recording, I'm fine with minor adjustments (rephrasing sentences, adding reactions), as long as they preserve the original meaning of the script. All actions involving sound additions (noises, music, etc.) are not obligatory, but they can contribute to immersion in the story. The important thing is that the listener understands what's going on.
Also : English is not my first language, so don't hesitate to let me know if the script contains any errors, either in the writing or in the construction of the story.
-----
Context :
After fainting at an auction event, you wake up in a strange room filled with bizarre objects. The personn who kidnapped you is a collector. He explains that he wants to add you to his collection of curiosities. Despite his sinister behavior, he seems to like you and decide to keep you alive…for now.
Estimated audio length : 12-15min, maybe more
------
[Background noise of people chatting and ambient music]
Auctioneer (into his microphone) : Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please ? We have reached the final item of the evening, and it promises to be quite the spectacle ! The bidding has been fierce all night, but now, let's see who will seize the opportunity to claim this extraordinary piece. Can I hear an opening bid for this magnificent emerald necklace ?
[People talking, a few seconds pass]
Auctioneer : Ah, come now, don't be shy ! This is your chance to own a piece of history, a treasure beyond compare. Who will start us off ?
Auctioneer : $8,000, thank you, sir ! Now we're talking ! Do I hear any advances ?
Auctioneer : $15,000, The bids are climbing ! Can I hear $20,000 ?
Auctioneer : Going once, going twice... and sold ! Congratulations to our winner ! Let's give them a round of applause, ladies and gentlemen !
[People applaud, then the noise of conversations resumes]
Auctioneer : Thank you all for your participation tonight ! It's been a wonderful evening. As the auction comes to a close, I invite you to enjoy the buffet for drinks and refreshments. Have a pleasant evening, everyone !
[Footsteps sound as the listener moves forward and walks to the buffet]
Speaker (in a calm voice, very charming and nice) : Good evening. What a delightful evening it's been, wouldn't you say ? Might I offer you this cocktail ? I happened to pick up the last one, but I couldn't help but notice your interest in it.
(The listener agrees)
Speaker : Oh, you’re welcome ! It’s my pleasure
[Sound of glass. He takes another cocktail for himself and takes a sip]
Speaker : What did you think of the final price ? That necklace is truly splendid. What a shame I've spent all my savings on new shelves, otherwise I wouldn't have hesitated !
(Listener is surprised)
Speaker : Yes, new shelves, I need them to store the items I buy. You see, I'm a collector ! I collect a bit of everything, seashells, stones, and also organs... um, I mean, all sorts of living organisms…
[He quickly changes the subject]
Speaker : Is your cocktail to your liking ? You've barely touched it... I suggest you drink it before the ice melts...
(The listener drinks their glass in one go)
Speaker : Well ! Looks like you were thirsty...
(…)
(The listener stumbles)
Speaker : Are you alright ? You seem a bit pale. Come, let's sit over here
[Sound of Listener falling].
[The speaker's voice becomes more muffled]
Speaker : Can..you hear..me ?
[Listener faints, whistling sound]
[A few seconds later]
[Sounds of glass instruments and papers being moved by the speaker]
[Here, the listener is placed under a sheet, so the speaker's voice is muffled]
Speaker (from the sound of his voice, he's at the other end of the room) : Where did I put that blasted tool... Darn it, I can't see a thing with all this mess.
[The sound of an instrument falling to the floor]
Speaker : Oh... well, I finally found it... (soft chuckles)
[He picks up the object then approaches the listener and removes the sheet, his voice becoming clearer]
Speaker : My dear, are you feeling better ? Here,let me help you up.
(The listener, confused, asks where they are)
Speaker : Where you are ? In my cabinet of curiosities ! I've just added a new item to my collection
(The listener doesn't understand)
Speaker : I’m talking about you, of course !
Speaker : You're quite the fascinating specimen you know…
(He speaks closer to the listener)
Speaker : Oh, my love, there's no need to worry. I'm going to take care of you. I wouldn't harm something as beautiful as you
(Panicked, the listener questions the speaker)
Speaker : Did I drug you ?
Speaker : Wha- Oh no, of course not ! I...simply administered a mild sedative to ensure your transition to my cabinet was... smooth.
[The speaker became more and more obsessive]
Speaker : Don't worry if you're feeling a little restrained, dear. I had to tie you up. It was just a precaution...
Speaker : Now I can finally get a good look at you... I've spent all evening watching you from afar, without ever being able to see you like this...
[The speaker moves closer]
Speaker (obsessive) : You are truly magnificent. Your hair is so shiny... and those eyes, so hypnotic. I wasn't mistaken, you are indeed the most precious prize of this evening.
[He steps back and notices the listener looking around]
Speaker : Oh ? You like my collection ? I told you I have a certain fascination for all sorts of artifacts
[He grabs an object from one of the shelves]
Speaker : This ? It's a python skull. Rather cool, isn't it ? Look at its little teeth. Isn't it adorable ?
[He puts it back and picks up another object]
Speaker : Here we have the Xerces blue, a butterfly species extinct since 1940. Fortunately, someone managed to preserve one, and now, I can observe it... forever.
(Listener notices an object on the shelf nearby)
[The speaker walks over to another shelf, footsteps echoing]
Speaker : I see you're curious. Here, I store all sorts of parasites, mostly worms. And here, I even have a dolphin liver infected with several parasites ! Isn't it fascinating ?
[He approaches, his voice turning darker]
Speaker : Disgusting ? What do you mean « disgusting » ?
(…)
Speaker : You better watch what you say.
[He steps back abruptly]
Speaker (slight laugh) : Oh ! There's no need to be so tense ! You know I wouldn't harm you, my dear...
Speaker : But still, I advise you not to upset me too much... I wouldn't want to do something I might regret…
(He chuckles slightly, but more sinisterly this time)
[Sound of instruments, tinkling]
Speaker : Well ! Now we can get down to business !
Speaker : You see, every object entering my collection must undergo a sort of... conditioning. I need to prepare you, but also choose your placement on one of my shelves.
Speaker (more obsessive and excited) : I must admit I'm very excited! You are the first human being I acquire ! It's a big moment for me... And for you too, I imagine.
[Sound of metal instruments, tinkling]
Speaker : My tool ? It's just a dissecting clamp. Usually when I receive a new specimen, I try to make it as presentable as possible. So, I remove any damaged parts or, I separate the body into several parts to display them.
[He rummages through his toolkit]
Speaker : Initially, I had the idea of ​​killing you right now, then displaying your limbs in several showcases. But I think I've grown fond of you !
Speaker : Besides, I wouldn't have been able to preserve you properly because I'm out of formalin at the moment. We wouldn't want you to rot, would we ?
[He pulls out a chair and places it in front of the listener's, then he sits]
Speaker : So I’m going to keep you alive... for now.
[He sets down his clamp, tinkling]
Speaker : I just need to make a few adjustments to your appearance.
[He fills a small container with water, sound of water running, then water in the container]
Speaker : First, I'll clean your face.
Speaker : You have a bit of dust on your forehead. It also looks like you drooled on yourself. That must have happened while you were unconscious. (He chuckles slightly)
[He dips a piece of cloth in the water and cleans the listener's face, also sound of fabric]
Speaker : Perfect ! Now. your hair. It's all disheveled.
[The speaker takes out a brush and begins to groom the listener for a few seconds]
Speaker : It would be a shame if your hair hid your beautiful face, my dear.
[He sets down the brush]
Speaker : All done
Speaker : I had planned to have you wear a different outfit, but for that, I'd have to untie you. And there's no way I'm taking such a risk.
Speaker (flirty) : Besides, you already look very elegant in this outfit, it suits you perfectly. (He smiles)
[He thinks]
Speaker : It seems like something's missing... Hmm... I know !
[He opens a drawer and takes out a box, placing it on the table, then takes out a necklace]
Speaker : Oh ? Does this necklace look familiar ? Yes, indeed, it's the last item from the auction !
(Listener asks a question)
Speaker : Well…it's true,that I couldn't buy it. But while waiting for you to wake up, I was able to meet its buyer... and let's say... I borrow it. (He chuckles sinisterly)
Speaker : Don't worry, I'll put it on for you.
Speaker : Well it’s not like you can do it yourself anyway…
[The speaker puts the necklace on the listener]
Speaker : Beautiful ! You are truly perfect...
(…)
Speaker : There's only one thing left to do !
[He stands up]
Speaker : I have to choose which showcase to put you in
[He looks around, thinking]
Speaker : Hmm... I think I'll put you in the central cabinet. You deserve it. (He laughs)
[He opens the cabinet]
[He lifts the listener, sound of fabric]
Speaker : Hey ! Stop squirming ! …I said, stop it.
Speaker (firmly) : There, there, stand up straight... (…) Excellent, you fit perfectly.
(Listener tries to protest)
Speaker : Don't look so panicked, I'll come to feed and take care of you.
Speaker (more obsessive) : I'm not a monster, my dear! I won't let you die, not yet, you're much too precious to me.
Speaker : Now be a good object and stay calm, will you ?
Speaker : I'll come see you tomorrow morning.
Speaker : Try not to make too much noise, I'm a light sleeper. (He yawns)
[He closes the glass]
Speaker (more obsessive) : Goodnight, my love, have beautiful dreams.
[His voice fades into the night]
(End)

I just moved out to Reno from Dallas and am looking for a serving or bartending job. I have over ten years in the industry and a good resume, fine dining and cocktail bartending experience, etc., but not necessarily looking to work in a high-end place unless the money is absolutely worth it. I don't know much about the restaurants out here and wanted to see if there are any servers/bartenders who had recommendations for places to check out. Also, just anything you guys can share about the overall experience serving out here. This will be my first time serving outside of Dallas, and while I figure it's probably going to be mostly the same shit, I know that Reno and Dallas are pretty different.
My main concern is a semi-decent working environment. As long as I can take in $600 a week, I'll be fine. I would love to make more, but not at the expense of working in a place that's totally draining.
Just a note, I have hand tattoos, stretched lobes, and a septum piercing, so there are likely going to be a few places that won't be down with that. That's totally fine.

I have gone through ... 7 resume re-writes, I think.
Ideal role: Lead TA, Senior TA, TA, Consultant, etc.
Experienced Senior Talent Acquisition Specialist with over 9 years of expertise in talent acquisition, focusing on identifying top-tier talent within specialized markets. Proven ability to work both autonomously and collaboratively within teams, demonstrating proficiency in defining precise hiring requirements and developing compelling job advertisements. Skilled in implementing effective communication channels and streamlining automated workflows among Talent Acquisition, Talent, and hiring managers.
I have been looking for onsite, hybrid and remote roles since 10/2023 with literally NOTHING. I have had two interviews since then and I like to consider myself a PROFESSIONAL RECRUITER. I am at a loss and overwhelmed to say the least.
My severance ran out at the end of Dec. My unemployment ran out in Feb. I am broke as a joke on a Wednesday. Not Monday though, Wednesday. Mid-week, when you really need that extra $20 to grab a happy hour cocktail (and top well of course!)
I could really use some help with this review, please. Maybe I'm just too close to the profession to see myself objectively?
***my resume is typically one page, I used this forums template & added my most recent experience. Below that in red I added more "action based" tasks, so you can read what I had been using prior too. Will you please provide me with feedback on what works & what isn't? Knowing, that I want the final product to be one page. ***
https://preview.redd.it/zqxu4dkqggtc1.jpg?width=1275&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=c1bf3b1d6af204967f467300ba21ea8db4273a0a

Looking to get back in the industry, hating corporate life and miss the people. I just moved here from Denver where it was an extremely lucrative position at any place you could find. I plan to move downtown and want to align my expectations with what I could expect to make.
For reference, I have a highly decorated FOH resume that has always landed me an interview at any place that was hiring. With that being said, I'm looking for the money spots. Whether that's a 10-touch cocktail or beer & a shot type bar.
Appreciate you all in advance for any insight you could help with for this home again hoosier.