I think a lot about signals. Signals that show people what groups they belong to. Signals that hide the truth. Everybody uses signals to blend, entice, or trap.
Grandma Pearl died not long after her stroke, and I've been making bad decisions ever since. Maybe my expectations are too high, or I'm just an idiot. Either way, I ran away from the group home to be with people who called themselves my "family." They were the wrong people. They used the words family, brother, sister, and love like lock picks, stealing trust, and taking self-respect.
The only person I remember using the word family correctly was Grandma Pearl. She was a small woman who toured the US as an actress before settling with Granddad above their theatrical rentals shop. I was three when the car accident took Granddad and Mom, so I don't know if they used the word "family" correctly, but I hope they did.
I was never as outgoing as Grandma, but that didn't bother her; she taught me how to watch people. How to see their signals, and how to listen. When she died. I forgot a lot of those lessons for a while.
They called it a "family". The "family" moved product. That product could be goods, drugs, or people.
The uninitiated, like me, were distracted with food and a dry place to sleep, but it didn't take long to see behind the curtain. Things got too intense with the new "family" and I ran.
I ran back to my old neighborhood. The buildings were familiar even if my home was gone. The old theatrical shop had been turned into a microbrewery.
After an appropriate amount of self-pity, thirty minutes, I wandered the alleys, picking up cans or scavenging for bits and pieces that could be recycled, used, or bartered.
I recognized old faces, but I tried to stay out of sight. It was safer that way.
The only place I allowed myself to be seen was the old Lutheran church on the park's far side. Most people who might have known me had aged out of the congregation or died. It was worth the risk because St. Lazarus had a food pantry in the basement and gave out lunches most days, so I wasn't always hungry, which was nice.
I found a dry spot near the library to sleep, which seemed like a stroke of luck until it wasn't.
I had the contentment that came with being in a familiar place. Little bits of comfort let me believe, for a moment, that I wasn't a screw-up and hadn't trusted the wrong people. That moment scurried away when Stick found me.
Stick was a scary asshole. He technically wasn't in charge of the " family," but he made it work. He got things done. I have no idea how old he was. He was all corded muscle and could clock in between twenty and fifty. He looked half-starved and moved like a stalking predator, even with his limp.
His left leg was stiff. The knee didn't bend, and anytime he sat, his left leg would be splayed to the side like a kickstand on a bike. The leg was why he walked with a cane. The cane and how he used it was why we called him Stick.
I don't know why he took the time to track me down. It's not like I was wanted. Maybe it was that I had become property. Property shouldn't just wander off.
Sometimes, you feel a person before you see them. The air is different. When Stick was around, the air felt dead and motionless. I knew I was being watched before I opened my eyes.
Stick was sitting on a milk crate, his bad leg cocked to the side and his forehead resting on his cane. I pushed myself out from beneath the ductwork of the HVAC unit I had been sleeping under and slapped the dirt off my jeans.
"I thought that was you," Stick said as his sharp grin curved up to his unblinking dark eyes.
Stick wanted my discomfort. I'd seen him play the intimidation game too many times. He'd act too friendly, and then when you were good and worried, quick movements, a hand around the back of your neck, and violence would be next. Then he'd act like the whole mind fuck was a big joke, like you were friends, and isn't it great that you can joke around with someone who "really" cared.
It worked, too. If you were the unfortunate focus of Stick's attention, you would be grateful when he smiled and said, "Just a joke, kid. Don't be so sensitive." I'd seen the pattern enough times to know Stick trained people like dogs with his hot and cold game. I didn't like the game, or the fear, so I changed the pattern.
"Hey, Stick, did you come to help pick up cans?" I asked, making sure my smile reached my eyes. I was trying to be pleasant while ignoring the burning nervousness in my gut.
It was still dark out, but I could see Stick's expressions well enough.
Stick tapped his cane on the sidewalk and squinted at me skeptically before answering. "Just checking on my little brother."
We were not related.
Stick liked to call the uninitiated his little brothers or little sisters. He forced intimacy into his language. I didn't argue the point. Interactions went best with Stick when you agreed with everything he said.
"Thanks, man," I complimented, trying to sound genuine and ignorant as I stepped forward and offered him my hand.
Stick didn't move, but I could see that this conversation wasn't going as planned for him, and I forced myself not to react to his confusion. I couldn't break character, or he would know I was playing him.
Stick tapped his cane on the ground twice, grasped my hand, and stood. He watched me. I held his stare, but in an open, naive, guileless way that I had perfected in front of the mirror as grandma gave acting advice while she put her face on.
I once asked Grandma Perl why anyone would practice acting stupid. She pointed her mascara brush at me and, in her ditsiest Minnesota Nice character, said, "It's easier to be forgiven when people think you're a little dumb, don't ya know?" Like with most things, Grandma was right.
Before I understood what had happened, Stick pulled me into his side and slung an arm around my shoulder.
"You don't have a name yet. Everyone gets a name, but they don't get to pick it." He paused and gave me a Cheshire cat grin. "I have a name for you, little brother. You are going to be called Slide." Then he held my chin and forced eye contact." Your name will be Slide because I have never seen anyone slide out of shit faster than you. I can't tell if you do it on purpose or not, and I've been watching. I watch everybody. You do, too. Hell, this might be the first time I've ever heard you talk. So let's celebrate your name, Slide." Stick's smile slipped as he pulled me out of the alley. "We'll go do something special."
I stayed silent, knowing full well what was coming. Being named meant doing something you could never take back. It was public and would put you in prison if the police ever took the time to look for you. It meant severing yourself from your life before and relying entirely on the "family." I had been absent each time naming seemed to be in the cards, but I couldn't duck out this time.
There was only one place to go at this time of night that would have an impact, the Bodega.
The Bodega was a red hole in the wall with a glass door papered over with grocery ads years outdated. Canned salmon two for one seemed to be the dominant theme. Although there were two large windows, one on either side of the door, you could barely see in. The right window was a tapestry of cigarette promotions. The left window displayed the only swath of uncovered glass with a view of the interior. From the outside, the view was of tobacco, lottery scratchers, and Old Lady Imitari.
Old Lady Imitari owned the store. She was a short, dark-haired woman who always wore a long floral tank top. Grandma Pearl loved the old woman but said Imitari looked like an old man's thumb all the years she had known her, and Grandma moved to the neighborhood with Grandad thirty years ago. Imitari was a local legend even then because the Bodega was open twenty hours a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year, and no one else worked in the store. Grandma used to make an extra strong coffee called Barako and chat with Imitari sometimes when work in the shop was slow.
I would sneak out at night and try to catch Imitari sleeping. No matter the time, I never caught her snoozing, and she always saw me peeking at her through the window. I know she saw me because she would uncross her arms and wave her flyswatter at me.
All these memories flicked through my mind as Stick smiled his too-wide smile and pushed me into the Bodega.
Imitari flicked her fly swatter at me in acknowledgment, and her attention returned to the small TV she had nestled beside the cash register, which seemed to be the old woman's only real tether to the world outside her shop.
The inside of the Bodega was just a long hallway with shelves of convenience foods, drinks, home supplies, candy, and cold meds covering every available surface from floor to ceiling. The only break in the tunnel of products was the glass counter at the back corner of the store; Imitari presided over her mini domain by casually ignoring her shoppers. I tried to make eye contact with the old woman again as Stick pushed me to the back of the shop, but after her initial acknowledgment of our entrance, Imitari's eyes stayed focused on her TV.
As casually confident as possible, I walked to the cooler and grabbed an iced tea. "Want a drink," I asked over my shoulder, my voice unusually steady, given the electric current of anxiety flowing through me.
Stick sneered and tapped his cane twice on the ground. His eyes found all the security cameras in the tiny store, a frown creasing his angular features.
I followed his line of sight and finally realized what had bothered him. The cameras were fake. They looked like security cameras, but they weren't. There were no wires or lenses, just rectangles and circles in a security camera shape.
Stick took a deep breath and tapped his cane on the ground again. " There… is … so… much… here… to… see… but… no… one… is… watching," he said with a singsong. Then his sneer turned into a cruel smile.
I knew Stick wanted an audience for what he would force me to do. The fact that the security cameras were fakes meant that whatever was going to happen would now have to be significant. An event that the neighborhood wouldn't be able to ignore. My stomach twisted with the thought.
Stick waggled his eyebrows at me. He had been watching. He had seen my thoughts, and we both knew he had something terrible in mind.
The cane twirled in Stick's hand and then tapped twice on the shop tile.
"I think I want a little bit of this," Stick said, gesturing wildly with his cane, sending a row of soup cans tumbling to the floor. "And a little bit of that," Stick added as another wild gesture sent cups of ramen spinning and knocking glass bottles of hot sauce to the floor.
I stood paralyzed, unable to run. I was trapped with nowhere to duck away to. I didn't want Stick to hurt Old Lady Imitari, and I didn't want Stick to hurt me, either. The truth was, he would hurt both of us no matter what I did. That was just the way Stick was. I'd seen him. I'd seen him show us who he was every day.
Then I realized Imitari hadn't moved. She was watching her TV and chuckling at the sitcom as if nothing had happened.
Stick glanced at me, confused. I almost felt sorry for the sociopath. His night was not going to plan.
Imitari chuckled at her TV again, and a crease formed in the middle of Stick's forehead, letting me know that he was beyond angry. He was calm, dangerous, and vicious. People had been left for dead when Stick got this way.
Stick raised his cane and flipped it so the handle jutted like a pickax. He was going to attack Imitari.
Somehow, I moved. I didn't do much, but when I slid forward and grabbed the back of Stick's shirt, the cane missed Imitari, and the sharp handle punctured the thick glass top of the counter just above a roll of Lotto scratchers.
Old lady Imitari slowly looked up into Stick's eyes and smiled. Her wide, gentle frown was replaced with a look of joy and something else, something primal, something hungry. Her pupils were blown, and I had the uneasy feeling that I was watching someone be served their absolute favorite meal.
Before Stick could pull his cane from the punctured glass, Imitari casually reached forward, grabbed the cane, and pulled the wirey man forward. Small, old, and wrinkled, Imitari stared into Stick's eyes and overpowered him.
Stick fell forward across the counter. He tried to push himself back, but Imitari's hand clamped down on his wrist like a vice.
Bones ground together as Imitari pulled Stick's hand to her mouth, and with a swift, subtle movement, she bit off the tips of Stick's pinky and ring finger like she was sampling a cookie.
I jumped back next to the cooler as a thin spray of blood arched toward me.
Stick screamed and thrashed, but Imitari's small form was static and immovable. Stick was a fly in a trap. No matter how much he struggled, punched, poked, or kicked, he could not break the old woman's hold. Then, slowly, she took another bite.
It was strangely fascinating watching the frail form of this old woman I had known for years take bite after bite out of Stick. This man, whom I thought of as a predator, a hunter, an enforcer, was crying and begging while an old woman, who looked like a wrinkled thumb in a floral top, quietly devoured him.
I was surprised by the lack of blood after the first spray. I'm sure it was Imitari's crushing grip that stanched the flow of blood. The flesh of Stick's arm looked white from the pressure.
Hand over hand, Imitari pulled Stick forward. Bones cracked as she gripped higher on Stick's arm, clamped down with her long leathery fingers, and fed the flesh and bone, one concise bite at a time, into her open smiling maw. It was rhythmical in its simplicity: chomp, crunch, chew, chew, swallow. Over and over, the pattern continued until the begging stopped.
Stick wasn't dead. He gave up. Not struggling, he laid over the glass counter like a rag doll. He watched me glassily as Imitari took bite after bite, and I knew he wasn't there anymore. Whatever made Stick Stick had either curled up and hidden in a dark corner of his mind or had been devoured with his arm.
The old woman seemed displeased that her meal had stopped struggling. She shook him, but he flopped, and his head lulled from side to side. Imitari frowned, let go of Stick's arm, and pushed down on the limp man's back. Blood gushed from the ragged stump, and Imitari lowered her mouth and drank from the wound like she was sipping from a garden hose.
Stick didn't move. He just grew pail, and eventually, his panicked, shallow breaths ended, and the blood stopped flowing.
Then Imitari stood. With a quick tug, she pulled Stick's body over the counter and let it flop to the floor at her feet. Her eyes closed. A contented smile bloomed on her face as the explosive sound of crunching and cracking bones echoed through the small shop.
The deafening sound of crunching stopped, and only the buzzing of the drinks cooler reverberated through the small space. Imitari opened her eyes and watched me, a broad smile still on her lips. At that moment, I realized I could hear the drinks cooler so well because I had crawled into it, wedged between the glass door and the shelves.
Imitari held me with her gaze as cords of pink flesh lowered from the ceiling and efficiently tidied up Stick's mess, lapping up blood and hot sauce, placing cans on shelves, and scooping up cups of ramen with whip-like tendrils. Then, the cords of flesh nudged me forward, and I stood before Old Lady Imitari.
The thing that I had always thought of as a stern old woman handed me Stick's cane. With the same benign smile I remembered from buying red hots from it as a ten-year-old, it waved me away with its flyswatter, and the cords of flesh pushed me out the door onto the sidewalk.

What’s in the closet, Kirsty?
He knew I hid a secret.
I smiled, tried to look confused.
He waited, crossing his arms.
I worried that he'd already seen. He had.
What else could he think about the pile?
His wife’s a cheater. She has another life. Another husband. Children.
He’d never believe the truth: I’m not a cheater; there’s no other life; no other man; I don’t know who the children are who visit me at night.
But I did have a secret. And maybe it’s fair to say another life, even if was smaller and against my will.
I should have destroyed those frames, burned the photos within. Now it looked like I saved them, cherished them. The truth couldn’t be farther. I feared to touch anything to do with… whatever they are…with one exception.
“It started last Halloween,” I said to George, my husband, my real husband.
He stopped packing for a moment, working out the impossibility of this statement. “I’m taking the girls to my parents.” He resumed the tossing of shirts, pants, etc. into our big suitcase.
“It’s true,” I said, but weakly. The children in the picture are at least six and four respectively. They were born six months ago.
“They’re not… my kids,” I said of the boys in the photos. They’re not kids is what I almost said.
George stopped and squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Kirsty,” he said slowly, “there are baby pictures. I saw them.”
“That’s-”
He quickly raised his finger, exasperated, angry, done.
“The first picture is you holding a newborn, and…” He swallowed painfully, his throat gone dry. It always does when he’s upset. “And the father in that picture, with his arm around you, isn’t me.”
When I couldn't deny it, he nodded like he knew all along our marriage would end.
We were happy. We really were. George and I had managed to overcome the typical breakdown that often comes with raising children. Only since last Halloween had distance been made by me.
I should have told him as soon as it started.
“Girls!” he called as I followed him down the stairs to the front hall of our lovely home. We’d scrimped and sacrificed to buy and keep this place, our dream by the lake. He’d been so proud. I couldn’t tell him I wanted to leave the first night sleeping there.
Cara and Ella protested through play, ignoring the adults, continuing to jump on an old box they’d long since flattened. Rays from the western sun placed my daughters into an inspired, hallowed light, and I started to cry. He was going to take my babies away.
George opened the door, intending, I’m sure, to drop the suitcase in the car before returning to physically carry the girls out.
But he hesitated in the doorway.
“George?”
The suitcase fell with a solid thud on the floor. “There’s no way,” he said.
“What?”
“There’s no way,” he said, with emphasis on the last word, “you would have had time for…this…”
Not defining "this" as cheating was progress. “Yes!”
He glared, quieting my desperate enthusiasm. I wasn’t off the hook. “Tell me. The truth.”
“I can’t.”
He reached for the suitcase.
“No, not because I don’t want to,” I protested. “I don’t know what’s happening!” I sat on the carpeted steps and stared through blurred vision at my trembling hands. The shriek I’d filled the house with - “happening!” - had put a halt to the box's obliteration. Cara and Ella hesitated for a few seconds before leaping into action.
Cara, the oldest, six, punched her dad in the buttocks. “You have to be nice!”
Ella, four, sat beside me and patted my trembling hands. “It’s okay, mummy.”
Such lovely daughters. Nothing like the boys in those photos when they were this age.
George grasped Cara's wrists and gently walked her back into the house, using his foot to kick the suitcase from the swing of the front door.
"It's alright, girls," he said with weak resolve. "Go and play."
"No!" Cara shouted. She kicked at her father and he pulled her close into a bearhug. Gradually, the girls calmed and were convinced to return to the box in the front room.
"Kirsty," George said, "you have to tell me." He sat down on the step beside me. "Please." I would do anything to take away the hurt in his eyes. "Please."
"I can't. But… I can write it down. Maybe." I took out my phone. We shared Google Drive. When I made a new document, he reluctantly started his phone. The man was a dream. He watched his screen, and waited patiently for my words to appear.
Without preamble, I returned to the awful moment when it all began: a strange and disturbing dream. Words came like an infection from beneath a torn scab. The wound had been opened. Nothing could stop this now.
Sex with another man has never been a desire of mine. I love George. He loves me.
Plus, the man in my dream was a stranger, and not particularly handsome. He has a plain face set to unwavering boredom and unkempt male pattern baldness. Our dream sex felt obligatory, just something we had to do.
I awoke on the wrong side of midnight. November 1st and I was craving ice cream instead of the girls' gathered candy. The freezer left by the previous homeowners came with unopened ice cream. Freezer burned or not, I wanted some.
After retrieving a spoon from the kitchen, I intended to destroy a brick of neopolitan. He waited in his flannel pajamas, barefoot on the concrete floor. His arms were crossed.
"Cravings?" he said.
I dropped the spoon. It clattered down the basement steps. Before I could run away, he disappeared like someone had erased him from head to foot in one clean sweep.
Had to be a dream. That's what I told myself. The spoon stayed in the basement until daylight. Ghost or nightmare, there was laundry to do the next day.
I crossed the concrete floor fast and only felt safer when I'd closed the door to the more modern laundry room. Never thought builder's grade tiles and track lights would make me feel anything but sad.
His voice caught me sorting.
"Kirsty!"
I dropped the cup of detergent all over the floor.
"Shit."
I came out of the laundry room, figuring George had been looking for me in uncharacteristically rude fashion. He hated speaking between rooms. Shouting throughout the house was highly impolite. It must have been important, I figured.
As soon as I stepped onto the bare concrete, however, deep sadness, the kind that seems to physically leech the strength from your body, dominated the room.
"Hello?" I don't know why I said that. The basement is a low ceilinged rectangle. There are no hiding spots except for the laundry room I'd come from. After a deep breath, I walked briskly to the stairs.
"Any day now," a raspy voice breathed into my ear. I jolted and slipped forward, falling and clipping my chin off a step. It made my teeth click painfully. Nobody there, of course. I ran upstairs and George had gone outside with the girls to play hide and seek.
I wanted to tell him. He looked so happy. It's hard to convey in words the kind of smile he showed me through the window. Imagine contentment mixed with unreserved joy and hope. Yes, it's difficult to picture. So few of us can ever have such a moment. Sort of like finding a natural view completely untouched by humanity. Beyond rare and precious.
I’m rambling now to avoid writing about what followed. The point is I couldn’t tell him. I hoped it’d go away and stop.
But, of course, it didn’t, and things got much worse.
I awoke in a great deal of pain. Having already given birth to children, the feeling was familiar. Despite getting up and gasping, George continued to snore in our bed. He’s a deep sleeper, but a quick and early riser. I’ve never heard him complain about getting out of bed either, especially when there’s an emergency.
I might have woken him up but I was disoriented and confused. Part of me believed I was still pregnant with Ella. It wasn’t until I’d gone all the way to the kitchen to avoid waking up the girls, that my brain caught up: Girls. Plural. Ella was asleep in her bed upstairs.
“Ohhhhhhhh shiiiiiiiiiiit.” I knew the signs of labour. This couldn’t be happening. “Ohhhhhhhhh.”
I was definitely going to wake everyone up if this continued.
My phone was upstairs by my bedside table. We don’t have a landline. I should have called 911. I should have woken up George.
Instead, I went downstairs where I could vocalize pain without disturbing anyone. Such a pathetically passive response. But that’s how I was raised. Keep it down, don't you frown.
His hands seized mine as soon as I descended the last step. Serious and bald without dignity is how to best describe his physical appearance. Cold and cruel is what he is. The lights turned off and, in the perfect darkness of the basement, he was all that I could see.
He produces a red light from his body somehow but his touch is literally frosty.
"Kristy, it's time," he said. No joy there. Just straight facts. Something was coming. I was going to give birth to it. In the dull red glow of his being, the first boy came.
"His name is Hadad," the man said, placing a large, infant boy with a lot of hair and, I swear, a hint of beard, on the bare concrete. Hadad looked like a three month old they use as newborns on TV. He didn't cry. He hardly seemed to breathe as his dark eyes roamed the darkness. His light resembled the man's, a less intense red.
I felt another contraction, and winced.
"She comes next," the man said.
I felt so weak. "Who are you?" I asked him.
At last, he smiled and I wished he hadn't. It made me feel small, insignificant, and beneath his concern. "You know who I am," he said. "I'm your husband."
Pain wracked my entire body. Something didn't feel right. The birth of Cara and Ella had been without difficulty.
"Push," my "husband" ordered. "She is upset with you, and will kill you if you don't get her out now."
"It has to be a nightmare," I told him. Sweat poured in streams down my face. The unborn "she" in question writhed and damaged my insides. I screamed. I couldn't help it.
"Push!"
I obeyed and the second boy spilled onto the bare concrete, coated in blood and dust.
"It's a boy," I said.
The man looked displeased. "The body is male. She is Hebat. No wonder she is angry." Like the other infant, Hebat appeared aware of her surroundings and had far too much motor control for a newborn. The light pouring from her body was dull silver. Her eye sockets were two pits of concentrated despair. I had to look away.
The babies were pressed into my arms.
The man stretched out beside me. "Open your eyes and smile." I resisted. "Do it. Now." What choice did I have? The flash from his cell blinded me. They were all gone by the time my sight recovered. Only the sweat remained as evidence of the ordeal.
It had to have been a hallucination. Some very bad food poisoning maybe. The source could be as simple as an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato. I had been stress eating since we'd moved in. I stood up and took some comfort in a Charles Dickens' reference.
"More of gravy than of grave about you," I said. My words seemed consumed by the dreadful weight of the air. "Whatever you are."
Whatever you are: something bad in any case. At best, I'd hallucinated prolonged and traumatic labour and needed medical attention. Yet, when I limped up the basement stairs, all thoughts of waking George vanished. There on the kitchen island sat a propped frame containing the photograph taken only moments ago.
The man looked happy. Only Hadad appeared in this picture, which meant another one was somewhere. I didn't panic. I worried more about what George would think if he saw the photos. I had to find them all.
Hebat and his father and I were mounted in a dark wood frame by the master bedroom. It'd be the first thing anyone saw if they woke up. I plucked it off the wall and, together with the first photo, tucked it under some blankets in the dresser we'd shoved in the small walk-in closet.
You might not believe this, but I went straight to sleep after. I climbed under the blanket in my sweaty pajamas, shut my eyes, and didn't have enough time to deny what had happened. I was unconscious until morning.
George placed a coffee on my nightstand. That's what I remember. He rubbed my feet while I slowly awoke. The girls were watching TV downstairs, munching on apple slices. There was forty minutes still before we had to seriously consider getting ready to take Cara to school.
George would drop her off on his way to work downtown. He chose his hours and always chose convenience for his wife and kids. Ella and I planned to spend the morning gardening. Then we would nap much of the afternoon away until George and Cara returned. A life so perfect is so very rare.
I didn't want to spoil things with a very convincing nightmare. Besides, I felt fine. Not so good that I wanted to look in the dresser to see if those photos really were there, but not ill. So I remained silent again.
November started fine. Idyllic days and nights filled with laughter and joy and television. Just as I started to believe in the dream we'd made, they came again.
The wail of a child's hunger is a powerful call for a parent. When it's a chorus, even of two, it cannot be ignored. Only I awoke to Hadad and Hebat's cries for their "mother" from the basement.
Half asleep, I drifted into the kitchen and searched for their milk bottles. When no bottles could be found, I remembered they were newborns. Milk swelled in my breasts and made my nipples ache. Just like when Cara or Ella would awaken in the night. It was a relief to feed them.
But what the fuck was I doing?
I was acting like the man in the basement and the devil babies were mine. It'd been less than a week since Halloween and that horrible nightmare illusion. I had already taken on the beleaguered newborn mother role without question.
Their cries intensified and flayed the weak resistance of exhausted reasoning.
Don't wake George. Don't wake my babies, my real babies.
"What took you so long?" the man critized, his voice monotone, the question unrhetorical.
"I… was sleeping. I went to the fridge first." Under his severe gaze, I stopped in the midst of the dark room. Hadad had quieted. Hebat cooed as if laughing at her own joke. I couldn't see them because the lights were off. They liked the dark better. Somehow I knew that about them and him.
"You should sleep down here," he said. "A mother should always be close to her babies."
The statement was nonsense but not altogether wrong. I wanted to be close to my babies, the daughters sleeping in bliss upstairs, away from the evil fermentation in the basement.
"Kirsty," he said. "Are you listening?" His hand touched the small of my back. The gentleness surprised me. I squawked and flinched away. "What’s wrong with you? They're hungry." He pressed on my shoulders until I sat on the cold floor.
They came from the shadows, already walking. I wanted to go, but I knew he wouldn't allow it. He pulled my cat t-shirt off over my head and their fierce mouths suckled, relieving the pressure of excess breast milk quickly. It felt physically good and psychologically alien.
I looked down at them once and immediately regretted it. Their emanated light had intensified to a point where perception of them hurt.
Each time I blinked my eyes were drawn to some isolated part of their bodies. The vision got closer to the point of disgust. Everything is gross if you're close enough. There is no beauty under a microscope. If you think there is then you're not using the right magnification.
Hebat's eye drew me in. At first, I saw the dark sphere, and then the strands of her eyelashes. Her gravity kept pulling until the creatures that live in eyelashes were revealed: Demodex folliculorum. I looked the microscopic horrors up.
The babies had more parasites than any child should. They wanted to show me and could somehow do so.
I asked him about it. "Why are they showing me these worms?"
He smiled, contemptuously as usual. "Trying to impress mother. Neither of them understand your horror and insignificance. You are the ant who knows they're an ant. Lucky you. They think you will be proud of the life their corporeal forms produce and host. Give them a few hours. It will pass."
"Why are you doing this to me?"
"I'm not sure what you mean. We're married. Now, prepare to smile." His cell reappeared and I noted the lack of features; it might have been a singed rectangle of spent firewood. He frowned when I failed to smile. "Smile, Kirsty. These are your children."
I managed to stave off the tears and hold the babies close. The smile was more difficult. In the inevitable aftermath of their sudden disappearance, the frames depicted an exhausted, wrinkly woman smiling painfully. It took a second to recognize myself.
The things in the basement sapped my strength. I looked dehydrated, beleaguered. The scale in the bathroom said I'd dropped six pounds. I'd weighed myself the morning before.
"Whoa, you've lost weight," George noted, thinking I'd be pleased. "This place has been so good for us, eh?'
To produce another smile proved as draining as the previous night. "Y-yes," I stuttered too late for him to ignore.
"Hey," he said, touching my forearm.
I flinched.
"Whoa, you okay? What's wrong?"
I should have told him. "Nothing. Bad sleep. A nightmare. I'll be fine."
A lie is an agreement. George wanted to agree, I think. He wanted life to be fine because he was happy for once. We struggled so hard before we came to Bridal Veil Lake. It was supposed to be our dream.
Guilty if I told him the truth. Guilty because I didn't. I began to resent his happiness, though he had done nothing but be the wonderful man he'd always been.
To Cara and Ella I became a body in motion, No brain left to guide them away from harm or answer their questions about nature and the universe.
"I don't know." That's what I told them often.
So they began to treat me like a kind of butler.
"Can I have some juice, please?"
"Sure, sweetheart."
"Mommy, can I have a snack?"
"Of course." And I'd run off to fetch it.
"Cookies."
"Yes, dear."
When Christmas came, I had two and they induced the same level of joy. Visiting the basement to feed and nurture Hebat and Hadad became a nightly occurrence. I'd learned to awaken, if I could get to sleep at all, and go quietly.
He berated me severely if I missed a night, and there were subtle threats made casually.
"I may have to squash you yet," he said, his tone as deep and cold as always.
"It won't happen again," I promised. "They’re getting big." In fact, they were no longer infants. Both had grown to the approximate age of six or seven in a few months. Still, they never spoke. Their dark eyes watched me as they ate food from the kitchen upstairs, food I'd hidden from my family.
"More meat," the man demanded.
"Of course." And I ran to the freezer and gave them frozen sausages in the package. They never complained or demanded the food be prepared a different way. No objections from my "husband" either.
Hebat tore the styrofoam and plastic wrap away and flattened the row of sausages stuck together between powerful molars. Hadad contented itself with licking them like a popsicle.
I'd stay until the photo. Then they'd release me by vanishing. Always with an exhausted breath, I'd trudge up the stairs and search for the frames and hide them in the same place.
They only smiled in the pictures. At no other time did they express any kind of emotion unless indifference counts.
My own children and husband weren't doing much better. Their concerns about my fatigue and ruminating slowly ceased as I repeated the excuse: I’m just tired. It'll pass.
Of course, I did not know when the nightmare would stop.
"When will it end?" I asked him one night, while Hebat and Hadad exercised like they had a mission.
"What do you mean?" he said.
I was surprised he answered. He usually didn't. "This. This. When can I go back to normal and not come down every night? I'm so very tired."
He frowned and I thought some punishment must be coming. Instead, he looked more confused. "I don't understand. You aren't happy? Your children grow into power and strength and will take their place in the world. They will be great and you - you, of all the tiny things, made that happen. Ask yourself what you want out of life, and see if Hebat and Haddad aren't your answer."
Too many words, all at once, for an exhausted mother. I didn't speak for the rest of the night. The infernal trio vanished, and the latter moments of the ritual I carried out with his challenge in mind.
I want my children to be strong, happy, and safe.
"Juice," Cara demanded the next morning, a Saturday, while she watched cartoons.
"Get it yourself!" I hissed, from tired to angry in a second.
"But I can't," Cara accurately pointed out. She didn't look away from the TV. Looking at me wasn't safe, and she knew it. Her and Ella held hands and sat a little straighter. It broke my heart. What had I done?
George came downstairs, attracted by my shouting. "What’s going on?"
Empathy became sadness, and the constant burden rekindled to anger swiftly. "Just children treating me like a servant."
He smiled. "Ah, yes, and how are the royal princesses this morning?"
His levity irked me. "You would know if you didn't sleep in so much."
The smile vanished from his face, and instead of the fight I seemed to want, he mumbled a quiet apology and joined the girls. They climbed onto him as he wrapped them into a cuddle.
"What are we watching?" George restarted his smile, his calm, for the girls. I hated myself. It had to end. Tonight.
After another dreary day of going through the motions, and the girls and George had fallen asleep, I went to the kitchen and chose the knife I thought sharpest.
"Kirsty," he said, his voice a whisper rising from the depths of the house.
"Coming," I whispered back.
"Mom," said another voice, a girl's, and I knew that Hebat had, at last, found herself and the wholeness of her being had been corrected.
I started to cry. I went downstairs and there she was with her brother and her father. He looked tired but some of the grimness had cracked to allow the first real contentment I've ever seen him express.
"Is that for the cake?" he asked. "We already have one."
I remembered the sharp knife. "Meat," I said. "There’s ham in the freezer."
He nodded, seeming to accept the answer.
"Mom," Hebat said, "Do you think I'm…" She gestured to herself, her face, and her body, and I understood the question, born from doubt and a desire to be validated.
I pulled her close. "You are the most beautiful girl in the whole world." We cried together. Hadad cut into a poorly made, asymmetrical cake by the light of his aura. No one cared that he did so on the floor. I brought out the ham from the fridge and we ate slices with our hands.
"It's almost done," he said. "They’re nearly grown. They are strong, and they are happy. You've done a good job, Kirsty." He watched our children fight to smear icing on each other's faces. "I'm sorry if I was mean. Or cold. I've never done this before." And he meant raising children. "It was the hardest, scariest thing anyone can try. I shouldn't have blamed you for… Hebat… It wasn't your fault."
Before I could pat his hand, he and the kids vanished. Darkness so familiar couldn't extinguish a new fear. I went upstairs and found the last frame. I held my daughter in the photo, my beautiful Hebat. He must have taken the photo without my notice.
I took it upstairs but couldn't bring myself to hide it.
I didn't see that one, George wrote into the document.
I forgot he was watching.
He typed again: Are you saying there is something in the basement?
Yes, I replied.
He stirred in the living room. I hadn't moved from the stairs, but I could tell by his stomping how angry he'd become. All of his negative, violent traits he saved for those in the world who would harm his family. George the Protector was fearsome to behold.
But he had no chance against my other husband.
"Come out! Come out you coward!" George bellowed. At first, nothing happened. The moment before calamity, even when the specific consequences aren't known, is still in slow motion. He carried on shouting. The girls rushed into the hall and didn’t hesitate to investigate.
"No!" I shouted. "Cara! Ella!"
Their feet padded down the steps. A violent commotion followed, screams and raging voices, both deep and childishly shrill.
The most unsettling quiet followed.
I chewed through the fear and the horror tearing me apart and finally moved.
No evidence of violence could be seen from the top of the stairs. The concrete looked bare and dusty and the light revealed nothing more. They were gone, all of them.
"Hebat," I whispered. "Cara? George?"
Him, I thought of, the nameless husband and felt no hint of his presence. He'd always been there. I know that now. It had nothing to do with the house. His absence was felt more than his insidious presence. Yet, I felt no relief. George and the girls were gone. I sat on the floor and cried for all my missing children.
When I finally emerged from the basement, the whole house had been filled with night. Their photos were everywhere. The others were upstairs. I gathered them on the kitchen island. How could I explain any of this to the police?
I needed help. I called my parents. It took twenty minutes before my father picked up.
"Kirsty? What's wrong?"
"Dad," I whimpered. "George is gone. Cara. Ella."
"What? What did you say?"
"They’re gone, dad. George. The girls are gone."
I heard his bed springs protest as he rolled out of bed. My mom said something I couldn't hear, and he shushed her.
"Kirsty," he said, "are you alright? Are you hurt? Are you in danger?"
Why was it so hard to understand? "Dad. George is gone."
"Kirsty, who the hell is George?"
It was my turn to be confused. "He's my- you know him. My husband…"
"Kirsty," he said very slowly, "are you on drugs? Did you take something?"
"No. Are you?"
"Excuse me?"
I hung up.
I have their photos. I have all of their photos. That's what I brought to George's parents before the sun rose. They wouldn't open the door and spoke to me through an intercom.
"George is gone," I said.
"We'll call the police."
"This is your son. These are your granddaughters."
I heard my mother-in-law say, "Who is she?"
"We don't have a son," my father-in-law said. "Go away."
I left.
Back to the house. Our dream sat empty and I live there, but none of the people in my family photos are my family.
I remember but the world never does. My parents think I'm ill and that I used AI to create the family I apparently never had.
How did I buy the house without a job or income? With deep concern for my mental health, they showed me a news story. I had won the lottery the day I turned eighteen.
His influence there, payment for services rendered.
A lie is an agreement.
What had I agreed to? I'm afraid I know the answer: I never wanted a family.
God help me. God help them.
I don't know what to do with these pictures.

I met Luna on a train two years ago. I’d just escaped from a toxic relationship, so romance was the last thing on my mind, but then she sat across from me in the carriage and asked about the book I was reading. She had a copy in her bag and wanted to know if it was any good.
I'd never felt such an instant, effortless connection with anybody before. I took a chance and asked her to dinner, and by the time the waiters cleared away our desserts, I already felt comfortable being vulnerable around her. So we went on a second date. And a third. And next thing I knew, we were planning our second anniversary.
In all that time she never gave off any 'creeper' vibes. Until a few months ago, when I stayed the night over at her place...
She'd gotten up early to use the bathroom. I grabbed her laptop off the side desk so I could catch up on some work e-mails, and the incognito tab was just sitting there. My first thought was: either she's having an affair or she's got a secret fetish.
What I found instead was a Google account with a photo album called ‘Michael’s EX’. In it, there were 427 photos of my former girlfriend turned psycho stalker, Sadie. This included shots of ‘Sadie the stalker’ with her family, screenshots of her passport—the works. On Facebook, Sadie's latest post said Moving to the Philippines, and since then she’d become a social media church mouse, so how did Luna keep her under surveillance? And how did you even get PERSONAL ID from a person halfway across the globe?
Down the hall, I heard the bathroom door swing open. Quickly I closed the laptop and pretended to be asleep until Luna planted a kiss on my lips. “Wakey wakey Bugs.”
I faked a stretch. “Morning Lola."
(At school, the other kids christened me ‘Bugs’ because of my cartoonishly large front teeth; I called Luna ‘Lola’ because of her blonde bangs and heart-shaped face.)
“How about we grab a fry for breakfast?” Her smile didn’t seem genuine, more like she was wearing a mask.
“Crap. I forgot I’m doing overtime today, I’ve gotta get to work.” With that, I shot out of there faster than a bullet train to Tokyo.
Because I didn’t wanna believe the worst about someone I cared so deeply about, I didn’t contact the police (not that anybody could’ve guessed what Luna was up to) and made excuses whenever she asked to meet, delaying the decision whether to end our relationship.
At night, I couldn’t sleep. Every time a hedge rustled outside, I’d run to the window and pull back the curtain only to discover a black cat skulking around the garden. I put this down to my previous relationship leaving me with a mountain of unresolved PTSD.
Sadie the stalker also seemed normal until we moved in together. After that she started picking fights if she caught me talking to another woman, even just distant relatives or childhood friends. The screaming matches went from weekly to nightly, only ever ending when I conceded to her every wish and gave her full access to my phone and social media accounts. I literally needed to grab my clothes into a bag and run away one night, and then I started hearing noises outside my new apartment. And although I never found any evidence, I was pretty sure she’d broken in at one point because the books on my side table were suddenly out of order one day. What hurt the most was Luna knew all this and still acted the way she did.
Right as I reached my lowest point, my close friend Gertrude called and said, “The universe is telling me you could use a sympathetic ear.”
I told her the universe didn’t know the half of it.
I’d met Gertrude—aka my surrogate mother—on a flight to London. Passing over Wales the aircraft hit heavy turbulence, and the grey-haired hippie in the seat next to mine squeezed my hand so tight that my fingers turned blue. After we levelled off, she apologized and said, “So what’s calling you to London?”
“A job.”
A few glasses of wine from the service trolley later, she blurted out, “You know your aura is strikingly similar to my husbands.”
“Uhh, thanks. Where is he now?”
“Oh, he burned to death in a house fire.”
Gertrude’s eyes started welling up. To take her mind off the subject, I said, “I lied earlier. I’m going to London because I fell in love with a Londoner.” I pulled up pictures of Sadie (back in her pre-stalker days) on my phone. “We met in Italy. She looked flustered trying to read a map book so I offered to help. Next thing I knew, we were planning a trip to this place called Orvieto.”
“Michael, I need to know how this story ends. Gimme your number.”
Since then, we’d met two or three times a year.
I laid the whole mess out over pizza. It was the first time since finding the Google account I didn’t feel hidden eyes crawling all over me.
Just as I wrapped up the story, over in the corner booth, a family burst into a chorus of happy birthday. A waiter appeared carrying a chocolate cake, capped by a giant candle that looked more like a flare. Gertrude tensed up.
“So what do you think about all this?” I asked.
She looked back at me and said, “It’s possible your reaction has been a touch on the dramatic side.”
“DRAMATIC??”
“Well consider things from Luna’s point of view. Your last relationship lasted for, what, three years? Maybe she felt threatened.”
“I don’t believe this.” I grabbed a cigarette from my pocket, but Gertrude snatched it away.
“You know how I feel about you poisoning your lungs, Michael.”
“Don’t you start. I got enough of that crap from Luna.”
Gertrude always encouraged me to work through my romantic problems. Ultimately, I decided her love of fairytale romances clouded her judgement and ghosted Luna instead. But I couldn’t escape her shadow. She always felt close. In fact, it got so bad that at a friend’s costume party several weeks later, my eyes kept compulsively scanning the crowd as if she was there in disguise, ready to pounce.
I stood off to the corner until, over the sea of heads, I spotted a beautiful stranger dressed as Jarlath the Goblin King. I took a shot of liquid courage and made a B-line towards her.
Halfway across the crowded room, beer splashed across the front of my Ziggy Stardust outfit.
“I am so sorry,” a female pirate said, patting me dry.
“Don’t worry about it.” Every time I tried circling her, she moved to cut me off.
“I am such a klutz. Why don’t you come into the kitchen so I can clean up this mess?”
I put my hands on her shoulders and steered her out of the way. “It’s fine. Trust me.”
Approaching Jarlath from behind, heart slamming against my chest, I said, “Well this is awkward. One of us is gonna have to change.”
Jennie had bright blue eyes and dimples impossible to miss. Ten minutes into our debate about David Bowie’s greatest album, I said, “You know Absolute Bowie are playing the Half Moon next week. I could take you?”
“Sorry. I’m going with my boyfriend,” she said with a sympathetic smile. From beside the buffet table, the pirate stared daggers in our direction.
“No worries,” I replied, despite the fact I was brimming with jealousy.
The next day, as I jogged off my hangover, a brown-haired lady cut across my path and we both went spinning to the ground.
“Flip, sorry.” I rushed to pull her up by the hands. “I’m like a bloody zombie lately.”
She did a doubletake. “Ziggy, right?”
There was no mistaking those eyes. “Jarlath?”
“Well, Jarlath or Jennie. Eithers fine.”
“Right. Well, sorry again. Enjoy Absolute Bowie.”
Before I could jog away, she said, “Hey, so that guy I was seeing? Turns out he’s a total prick.”
Jennie and I went for coffee. Coffee morphed into drinks. Drinks morphed into a steamy make-out session on my sofa.
But as she covered my neck in soft kisses, my stomach turned. It felt like cheating. So, I put the brakes on things and said, “I can’t do this. I’m really sorry. You’re amazing, but I just got out of a serious relationship…and…it’s just…”
“Hey, don’t worry about it.”
We agreed we’d let our connection blossom in its own time.
Jennie had a playful mystique to her. Within a handful of dates, we’d developed inside jokes and could tell what the other was thinking. But Luna’s imprint was hard to shake, to the extent I almost mixed up the two ladies’ names multiple times.
To detox, I suggested Jennie and I spend a romantic weekend in the Lake District, because after two days of hiking and kayaking my ex would no doubt be a spec in the rearview mirror.
Hours before we set off, however, Luna’s mom called. She wanted to meet and wouldn’t accept any excuses.
“Look, it’s obvious why I’m here,” she said, sitting across from me in Starbucks. “Ever since you and Luna broke up, she’s been acting…different.”
“Different? Different how?”
“I call but she hardly answers. I go over to her place but she’s never there. Now she’s telling me she needs to find herself. Says she’s moving to Australia.”
Her fingers tightened around her cup. “I need to know what happened between you two. And I don’t care if that paints anybody in a bad light. I’m just worried about my daughter is all.”
I told her about the Google account.
“Did you confront her about it?”
“Hell no. I ghosted that crazy bitc—” I cleared my throat. “I mean, I just…stopped seeing her.”
She started crying so loudly customers at nearby tables paused their conversations. I touched her forearm, promised I’d call if I remembered anything else, then set off for my romantic weekend.
But while Jennie and I enjoyed all that fresh air and pub food, a thought nagged at me. Luna adored London, so why move to Australia? It seemed so out of character. Back at our rented cottage, I was so fixated on the thought I needed a smoke, badly.
“What the hell is that?” Jennie demanded, as she stepped onto the front deck.
I glanced at my hands. “Uhh, a cigarette.”
“Michael! Don’t be sarcastic. You know how I feel about those things.”
“…Do I?”
“Uhh, well it’s the same as anybody else. Quit poisoning your lungs and put that thing out.”
“Alright alright, geeze. Sorry Luna.”
“That’s okay.”
A knot formed in my stomach as she went back inside. I’d called Jennie Luna by mistake. And she hadn’t noticed. In fact, her reaction to me smoking was identical to Luna’s—even the snappy way she said the ‘poison your lungs’ line.
I followed Jennie into the lounge, where she’d curled up on an armchair with a Colleen Hoover novel. She was hiding something. What else did she know about Luna? Maybe I could trick her into revealing some details…
From behind, I started massaging her shoulders. “Sorry for being rude before. I know what you said came from a place of love.”
“That’s okay.”
I waited until her eyes drooped shut, then said, “It really is perfect here, huh? Maybe we should stay forever.”
“Wouldn’t that be amazing?”
Her little groans of pleasure, the rhythm of her breathing, it all felt so familiar. I waited until the tension in her neck dissolved, then I pushed my lips against her ear and whispered, “So how about we take this into the bedroom…Lola.”
“Hmm. Sure thing Bugs.”
My hands froze. Jennie jumped up. “Uhh, that felt so good, why’d you stop?”
“What did you just say?”
“What did you just say?”
“I called you Lola,” I replied, my arms frozen in midair. “And you called me bugs.”
“Like the cartoon, right? I thought it’d be a cute nickname. Anyway, I’m tuckered out.” She forced a yawn. “Why don’t we get some sleep?”
As her hand laced with mine, an image of me waking up drugged and gagged and tied to the bedposts flashed before my eyes.
I said, “Sure. I just…need to use the bathroom first.”
The second the door shut behind me, I flew out of the house, climbed in my car, and sped away.
Within seconds my phone started blowing up with calls, followed by texts. Where are you going? Is everything okay?
No, I wanted to reply. I’m onto your sick little game. Whatever it is, I’m onto it.
Luna stalked my stalker, now Jennie somehow knew Luna and I’s nicknames. How? Did all women take turns drawing straws and whoever picked the short one needed to become my girlfriend?
I couldn’t go home. For all I knew, my exes would’ve been there burning effigies of me. I needed a safe place. Somewhere I could lie low until I got all this straightened out.
“Of course you can stay,” Gertrude said over the phone. “I’m out with some friends, but I’ll meet you later. If you hop the side gate there’s a spare key under the kissing gnomes out back.”
Gertrude lived in a detached house in Wembley. It took a bit of foraging to find the gnomes hidden beneath the weeds in the brown, patchy garden.
I needed to shoulder the door open. Inside, a mountain of letters and flyers had piled up on the welcome mat.
Down the hall, a huge archway connected the landing with a lounge, where a bar sat against the far wall, surrounded by upholstered sofas, a low table, and tie dye sheets strung over the filthy carpet. Everything had a real elegant vibe, despite the musty air.
I’d drained two glasses of whiskey before Gertrude arrived.
“Looks like you’ve had a rough evening.”
I said we could talk in the morning.
“Not a chance. You can’t take negative energy to bed. Come on, confession is good for the soul.”
She sat on the sofa and patted the empty seat next to her. So, with a weary sigh, I shared a tale of deranged exes.
“Crazy,” she said.
“I sure can pick ‘em, huh?”
“No, I mean you’re crazy.”
“What?”
“Think about it. What’s more likely: that your ex’s are secretly in collusion, or you’re being paranoid? Look how bloodshot your eyes are. When’s the last time you got a good night’s rest?”
She made a great point; teenagers on the street occasionally shouted ‘Bugs’ or ‘Thumper’ at me. Jennie might’ve come up with the nickname herself. I pinched the bridge of my nose, groaning.
“Look, sleep here tonight. Tomorrow we’ll brainstorm ways you can make it up to Jennie.”
I fumbled through my pockets for a cigarette.
“Really?” Gertrude said. “If you insist on poisoning your lungs, can you at least do it away from my home?”
“Well if I can’t smoke, I’m gonna need a refill.” I shook my empty glass.
On my way toward the bar, a wave of wooziness hit me. My first instinct was to blame it on the alcohol, but there was something else.
It was her reaction to the cigarette. My finger ran through the thick layer of dust along the bar’s countertop. Why was it like the place had been abandoned? Why did Gertrude always pressure me to stay with my psycho girlfriends? And how come she always reached out, as if on cue, whenever my relationships hit problems? It couldn’t be coincidence…
I poured two glasses of whiskey and carried them to the sofa. “So, you’re really against the whole smoking thing, huh?”
“Of course. It’s a filthy habit.”
“Yeah. Plus, there was that mess with your husband. House fire, right?”
“I’d rather not discuss it.”
“Sure, sure.” I ignited the lighter with a roll across my trouser leg.
Gertrude grabbed a cushion and hugged it. “What are you doing?”
“Alright, cut the crap. What the hell’s going on? Have you been sending your friends to date me?”
“What are you talking about?”
I wrestled the cushion from her and held the lighter beneath it. “I want an explanation right now or I’m torching this place.”
This was an empty threat. I wasn’t some pyromaniac—I just wanted answers. Inch by inch, I raised the flame. “Last chance. Why are the women in my life acting weird?”
Gertrude grabbed for the lighter. As I swatted her wrists away, we both got scorched, and for a moment her skin went wild with spasms, a sensation I can only compare to reaching inside a bucket of wet, writhing maggots. My gaze whipped between her face and her hands, which vibrated like plucked guitar strings.
Before I could scream, she yanked me up, clamped a cold, wrinkled palm across my mouth, and forced me against the wall. I thrashed around, unable to move. For a lady old enough to collect a pension, she was crazy strong.
She waited until I ran out of breath, then said, “Michael, please. I’m not going to hurt you. Open your heart and listen.”
What else could I do?
“You were right before. I have been keeping a secret from you. The truth is, I’ve been in love with you since we met. I’d never flown before. And you were so so sweet. You started talking about this other woman, but I knew our energies were perfect for each other. And it’s like I always say, love makes us do crazy things. You can’t begrudge me that can you?”
She looked as if she expected me to respond, so I shook my head.
“But I think we’ve reached a point where our connection is so deep we can be completely transparent with one another.” She took a slow, steady breath. “Michael, all your ex’s, Luna, Sadie, Jennie. They’ve all been…well, me.”
I stared at her, confused.
She sighed. “It’ll be easier if I just show you.”
Out of nowhere her hand wriggled again, then her face tightened, as though the skin was being stretched over the bone. Wrinkles smoothed out and colour bled into her grey hair, turning it brown, and within seconds I found myself face-to-face with Jennie. Even her vintage clothes morphed into a green blouse and white slacks.
“See?” she said in Jennie’s voice, her now blue eyes locked on mine.
I screamed into the soft flesh of her palm.
“Sssh, it’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you. Watch.”
Her entire body jerked and twitched, the muscles spasming as she shifted from Jennie to Luna. “See? Think of these as costumes”—from Luna to Sadie—"the important thing is what’s underneath. And you’ve fallen in love with what’s underneath three times. Now I’m going to let go, but I need you to promise you won’t overreact. Understand?”
On the verge of a panic attack, I nodded furiously.
The second she pulled away I made a break for the exit. The thing posing as Sadie grabbed me and hurled me backwards against the wall.
Like a disappointed teacher, she put her hands on her hips. “I’ve been so patient with you, Michael. So very, very patient.”
She blocked off any hope of escape. I sidestepped around the outer edge of the room, towards the bar.
“All those years moulding you. Trying to grow you into the man I know you can be. I really thought we had it this time. For the record, I wanted to do this the easy way. But drastic times...”
I was so scared I slammed right into the cabinet and yelped. Glass bottles chattered together, and then something wet ran down the back of my shirt. It was whiskey, leaking from the overturned bottle onto the carpeted floor.
Speaking more to herself now, Gertrude said, “I’ll just have to keep you here until you love me as much as I love you. Of course, that means posing as you so nobody gets suspicious, but that’s no trouble. I’ll tell your dad you’re moving to Italy. You always loved Italy.”
Pose as me? She'd been killing my ex's and taking their place, I was just the latest in a long line. She’d keep me as a personal sugar baby if I didn’t escape, but how? She was impossibly strong, and the only thing that seemed to scare her was…
Snatching the bottle, I doused the remaining whiskey all over the carpet and furniture. As I flicked the lighter open, Sadie’s hands shot up.
“Bugs…darling…what are you doing?”
I took three slow, steady breaths. “Breaking up with you, you crazy bitch.”
I tossed the lighter forward. Within seconds flames sprung up all around us, spreading as far as the sofa. Sadie’s shoe caught fire, and as she stamped around, unintentionally fanning the blaze, her body writhed again, starting with the ankles. Fat boils climbed up every inch of exposed skin, milky white and with the consistency of frog spawn, like she’d had a killer allergic reaction to poison ivy.
She dropped to her knees, wailing like a wounded animal. This was my chance.
I made a break for the exit, giving the creature as wide a berth as possible. But as I got one foot planted in the hall something clamped tight around my ankles. My chin hit the floor, then I started sliding backwards.
I twisted onto my back. Where Sadie’s left arm should’ve been, a tentacle-like appendage stretched across the length of the room, a distance of over twenty feet. It reeled me toward her like a fish on a line. Whatever that thing was no longer looked human. It melted like an ice statue, with no bones or connective tissue inside, its lips nose and mouth becoming hideously elongated before dripping off in huge globs like melted candlewax. A fire alarm started wailing as the tentacle dragged me through the flames, scorching my arms and legs.
The loose mass of skin reached out and encased me like a mother bird sheltering its eggs.
“WHY WON’T YOU LOVE ME?” all my ex’s voices screamed at once. Whichever direction I looked, silhouettes of faces rose and fell, as if trying to burst through. Parts of them dripped inside my mouth, disgustingly warm with a bitter taste worse than Vaseline.
I put everything into clawing my way out if there. What was left of the beast had the consistency of wet clay and came apart just as easily. I tore away chunks until there was a hole large enough to squeeze through. Then, I crawled along surrounded by black smoke.
At the far side of the room I risked a glance back and saw a bumpy, uneven hand reaching out of a puddle of ooze. Soon I was crawling over the bristly welcome mat, then fumbling for the door. All I remember after that are paramedics wrestling me into an ambulance…
A specialist officer came to see me at the hospital the next morning. They’d been unable to contact the homeowner, Gertrude Huyton, and through his line of questioning I could tell they hadn’t found her ‘remains’ inside the charred house. Like the wicked witch of the West, my stalker had melted. I told the officer she said I could stay the night, and that I probably started the fire by dropping a cigarette.
“In that case, we’ll keep trying to reach her.” He walked to the curtain surronding my bed and paused. “Oh, and I almost forgot to mention, her cat is missing.”
“Her...cat?”
“Yeah. The little black one. One of the firemen pulled it out of the wreckage. The poor thing had burns over its legs but it ran off before anybody could take it to the vet.”
I swallowed a gulp and thanked him for telling me.
And now I’m still sitting here listening while nurses rush back and forth, terrified any one of them might be Gertrude…

Hey PubTips! Just want to say an upfront thanks to everyone who posts and comments on this subreddit - I've learned so much already!
I'm hoping to submit to a competition in which the prize is feedback from an agent. The competition is being run by Spread The Word and Frog Literary, and you can find it here if you're interested in applying too! (https://www.spreadtheword.org.uk/submissions-call-out-applications-are-open-to-lgbtqia-writers-for-1-2-1-feedback-from-frog-literary-agency/)
In the submission guidelines they ask for a cover letter, and I initially took this as more of a standard cover letter but after feedback from an author friend, they suggested they might be looking for a traditional query. My autistic brain struggles with reading between the lines sometimes, so I emailed them to clarify and the standard query is what they're after.
Just for context, my manuscript isn't completely finished but there's nothing in the guidelines to suggest it needs to be finished to apply. If anyone has any feedback or insight they could offer me, I'd be super grateful! Thank you :)
Dear [Agent],
As you represent [LGBT+ romance author], I believe you would be interested in my LGBT+ contemporary romance, QUESTIONING, which will be complete at 80,000 words. It merges the exploration of a newly discovered sexuality as seen in Kate Davies’ In At The Deep End with the wholesome, diverse found-family cast of Casey McQuiston’s One Last Stop.
Lucy is happy to spend the rest of her life in Harrison’s shadow, but she isn’t content to be confined to their kitchen only making meals for him and his fancy friends. She wants to be a real chef. When she gently brings up the idea of culinary school with Harrison, his temper flares and he kicks her out of their shared flat.
Heartbroken and temporarily homeless, she knows that Harrison will eventually calm down like every other time he’s broken up with her. She reconnects with an old friend who gives her a place to stay and introduces her to Manchester’s thriving queer scene. There she meets Aaliyah, the eccentric artist whose confident and flirty nature stirs feelings in Lucy that are much more than friendship. She has to decide whether to stick with the straight-and-narrow life she’s envisioned for herself since she was sixteen, or take a chance on this side of herself that she didn’t even know existed before now.
As a disabled, bisexual woman living in a society where productivity and heteronormativity are the key metrics of success, I’ve always sought out ways to escape. This has inspired me to create narratives that others can escape into, where queer characters all get their happy endings. Queer joy deserves to be given more space within the literary canon and I want to be part of that.
After taking an online writing course and meeting women from similar backgrounds to me, I realised that being an author might be an achievable dream. In the years since I finished that course, I’ve watched hundreds of YouTube videos, listened to hours of podcasts and read any craft book I’ve been able to get my hands on. I also received a mentorship opportunity with the editor Nicky Lovick, who suggested Frog Literary as a good match for my book.
First 300
The smoke alarm cuts through the quiet of the flat like an air raid siren, interrupting my final rehearsal of the speech I’ve been planning for weeks. I rush across the living room, grabbing a tea towel from the neatly folded pile and frantically wave it under the screaming white box. The noise continues to pierce through me, my short arms useless in the face of the high ceilings. I pull a stack of my cookbooks from the counter and lay them on the floor.
‘Sorry,’ I mutter, stepping onto Marco Pierre White’s face with my bare feet.
With the beeping finally silenced, I have to contend with the source of the smoke. A trickle of grey leaks from the top of the oven, and I send a silent prayer to the universe that my bread is salvageable. I need tonight to go well.
Pulling down the silver handle, a thick cloud billows out from inside, fogging up my glasses and filling the space with the scent of scorched sourdough. I haphazardly wrap the tea towel around my hands and grab the searing hot tin from the oven, the thin material barely enough to keep my hands from suffering the same fate as my poor bread with its charcoal-coloured crust.
I throw the whole thing into the sink, tears pricking at the edges of my eyes, though that could just be from the smoke that’s hanging around the kitchen like I’m in Victorian London rather than 21st Century Manchester. Harrison will be pissed off if he comes back to a smog infested flat, so there’s no time to cry over burned bread. Instead, I crack open the windows to the maximum amount possible on the 27th floor without being a suicide risk and head out to buy a replacement loaf.
When I get home, the flat is back to normal, the neat surfaces and sterile black furniture all looking exactly as it should. I close the window, hoping that heat from the rest of the cooking will ward away the March chill that has seeped in.

TL:DR Husband and I are middle aged and I want to plan ahead and make aging in place modifications before we need them. He wants to wait until/unless they are needed.
I'm 42 and my husband is 54. We have a 9 year old and we're all healthy and moderately active. Hubby and I plan on living in our single family home for the rest of our lives. It has 2.5 bathrooms and 4 bedrooms. The house is 3 floors (including soon to be finished basement).
In the next 10 years we'll be making various updates to the home (finishing the basement, renovating the first floor bathroom, new floor in kitchen and maybe new kitchen cabinets, etc.
I want to start making aging in place modifications as we make updates to the home. Hubby is against this and wants to wait until modifications until we actually need them (grab bars in shower, changing one showetub combo to walk in shower, etc). He thinks my plan is ridiculous and something people just don't do. I think it's smart to plan ahead and it will make the transition smoother as we both age.
I tried looking online for information on when it's a good idea to start making modifications and I can't find anything. Is anyone able to weigh in on this? Am I being silly? Is it uncommon to make these types of modifications before they're needed?

for context; I (19F), my sister(15F), and our parents moved from England to Australia 8 years ago while my brother (24M, same dad and, a different mum from me and my sister) stayed with his girlfriend in the UK. My Brother fell out with his mum when he was young. He visited with his girlfriend about 5 years ago and they just did not get along with my parents. There were always arguments between them, beginning at least a year before this visit, and in the end, my father (who was an alcoholic at the time, a raging drunk, who still has issues controlling his anger but we'll get to that) had a massive yell at them over another one of their many small disagreements. They both said many hurtful things and in the end, my father told them to f off, which they took literally, packed up, and left that night back to England.
There was no contact for about 4 years, apart from occasional small talk between me, my sister, my brother, and his girlfriend, which was still awkward due to their sudden departure and the previous arguments. About a year ago my father started sending messages to my brother trying to catch up, which resulted in some small talk exchanged between them as well.
About 3 months ago, my brother was telling our father about how he lost his IT job and both he and his girlfriend were having health issues that impacted their everyday life(not sure if I'm allowed to get into them). My brother then called my mother out of the blue, which was a shock due to the no contact between them, and asked to speak to both her and our dad. He basically told them that they are coming to Australia as they will have more luck with their health issues here and possibly better job opportunities for my brother, his girlfriend has an online job which she can do anywhere.
They arrived in Australia and stayed in an Airbnb and a hotel for some time, and after struggling to find a place asked my parents if they could sleep on the floor for a bit while they got back on their feet. They bought an air mattress and set up in an area close to the kitchen and the rest of us 4 have our own rooms. (Our parents have been split up for about 5 years but we still all live together due to general convenience in our current financial situation, and we feel better being closer as my father had recent suicide attempts and intense mental health struggles.) During this time, my brother would do Uber delivery and his girlfriend would do her remote job.
For about a month and a half, they stayed and there was very little communication between our parents, and my brother and his girlfriend. Our parents constantly complained to me and my sister about them contributing nothing financially or around the house. They also said that they felt overcrowded and had lost their space. Our father is a tradesman and found a few days that my brother could help him out on building sites to earn some extra cash. During this time my father talked about how his business doesn't have a website and my brother offered to design and construct it for him and my brother says they agreed on the same hourly price as the laboring.
My father told my mother briefly about how my brother was working on the website. He spent many hours a week, and late nights, for three weeks working on the website and then sent my mother the invoice. My mother took this as a shock, and an insult to their hospitality as they had asked my brother and his girlfriend for no financial contribution. My parents then sent a message asking if they could organise a time to chat about them paying rent and giving them a deadline of 4 weeks. They were made aware of the deadline in the text, but this conversation never happened and we are still unaware about the outcome of the payment on the website.
My brother's girlfriend stays up late working on the laptop and my brother goes out delivery driving, sometimes not arriving home until the early morning. Our parents would get up for their early starts and loudly complain about how insulting it is to see them "sleeping all day" while they go out and work hard. This constant complaining both loudly so that they could hear, and privately to me and my sister continued for a few more weeks.
A week ago my father got up for a really early start around 5 am and began slamming doors, throwing pots and pans from the kitchen near to where they were sleeping, and playing the TV on the highest possible volume, in his state of anger he was flipping up the rude finger several times at my brother and his girlfriend while they were asleep, which my brother woke up in the middle of. My brother went to ask my mother if he had done something wrong and he was brushed off. Me and my sister asked our mother why they were being treated like this, to which we got "We're just sick of it", however, there was little communication between anyone about what the real issue was.
They ended up leaving that day as justifiably that wasn't an environment they wanted to be in. They found some house sits, me and my sister are planning to catch up with them frequently unlike last time. Later that day, we received a long message on a group chat with all 6 of us, from my brother stating how our father handled his issues with them poorly and that he needed mental help, our mother then replied on the group chat about how disrespectful it was to send that message to the whole family and removed herself and our father from the group chat. There has been no further communication that me and my sister are aware of.
We just want to know who is the asshole as we don't know how to feel towards both sides when moving forward, and would appreciate an outside perspective or advice
​

Our home was built in 2001 with red oak floors 2" wide. They need to be refinished. It's five rooms plus a hallway. I plan to get three estimates. Had one man here so far to take a look. He asked me to choose between water based or oil. I have no idea. He prefers water based but will do either. Told me water is more expensive but more durable and available in a matte finish that is popular. Experts please share your thoughts with me.

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At the age of 31, I’ve developed terrible anxiety over ants. Never have I even thought about ants until now. I have always been a worrier, will obsess over things and go through phases. Bought my own house 10 months ago, since then I would say my anxiety has increased in general, mostly over house issues or something that may potentially go wrong, but it’s never felt this bad. To the point I hate being in my house, I will walk aimlessly around shops and go to other peoples houses. I work from home but recently I’ve started going into the office more.
A few weeks ago we spotted some ants behind our sofa, we sealed everywhere off and did leave 2 bait stations behind there. Saw the odd ant every now and again and would worry about it for a while. When we first saw the ants, I would cry often, not sleep and not each much. Didn’t see any for a few weeks until last Tuesday. I was tidying the dogs toys and saw some ants under them, I then noticed more under her bed. Complete panic took over, I felt sick and couldn’t eat all day. I noticed where they were coming from so I put a new bait station down, checked it throughout the day and they seemed to be going to it. The next day there was nothing, no ants so I’m guessing it worked, and the gaps have been sealed. But everyday, multiple times a day I’m checking all round downstairs, doesn’t help that downstairs is open plan, so our kitchen is connected to the living room and dining room. I worry that one day I’ll go down and there’s loads of ants in the kitchen. I’ve gone round and put all the foods in Tupperware, I’m cleaning constantly using white vinegar, and mopping the floors with it, also spraying peppermint oil all round the house. I hate having windows and doors open but my fiancé loves having them open. The dog has a habit of not finishing her treats straight away, usually we leave them down until she wants them again but I’ve been picking them up and either throwing them away or putting them in a sealed bag. Now when I go into the office, my fiancé wants to leave some dry food biscuits down for her, I know she’ll probably end up eating them as soon as we leave the house but now I’m thinking I probably won’t go into the office as I’m worried the food will be there all day and ants will come in. We’re getting married in September and I haven’t thought about wedding stuff for weeks because this is taking over my mind.
It’s taking over my life and I have no idea why I feel this way about something so small and harmless, please, does anyone have any tips in how to deal with my feelings?

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Hello, one and all. Been lurking for a while. Thought I'd share my experience thus far. I'm a 45-year-old female (active, healthy weight, tall – BMI around 20) who herniated L4/L5 in early January. I'm, therefore, four months, two weeks post-injury.
It's a mild-ish protrusion pressing on nerves and causing sciatica. I have never had back pain. I'm a Brit. I plan to get over this conservatively and do not intend to have any injections or surgery. Note that I have some trouble lifting my left foot and walking as normal on that side, but everything is functional. I am able to lift my toes and heels, and I have full sensation everywhere.
From my scan, disc height is compromised only a tiny bit (I have juicy discs). I have a very wide and spacious nerve canal. No other issues aside from a transitional disc below (born with more bone than disc at L5/S1, very common, and I'm luckily in the "won't cause pain" camp) and a slight bulging disc above, which isn't pressing on anything. The transitional disc is likely to have led to this injury. But moving house finally pushed me over the edge, lifting things the wrong way.

The first month

The first month was obviously painful. Terrible sleep; sciatica was awful (burning in my left calf and left foot with some right foot tingling), and I was very stiff and leaning forward most mornings. Doing McKenzie cobras in those early days helped massively. And amazingly, I kept up with walking and averaged 15,000 steps daily. It wasn't painful. But I was taking Ibuprofen and paracetamol. I believe a lot of my sciatica has been caused by inflammation.
Back then, I was seeing a physio and doing some basic pelvic tilts, bridges, calf stretches, cat/camels, and – like I mentioned – cobra poses. Otherwise, I would mostly lie on the floor, on my front, resting. Or walking outdoors. It would take me three hours just to pluck up the courage to shower. And I could only stand under the hot water for less than a minute before lying on the floor again. Sitting was impossible. I couldn't use the car. I couldn't sleep on my left side. I would crawl down the stairs each morning after barely any sleep and go straight to the drugs. I couldn't make breakfast or do anything. But as each day wore on, I'd become less stiff and more upright and be able to walk for miles.

In search of a silver bullet

I tried everything in February and March. Acupuncture, physio, McKenzie stuff... They put me on Amitriptyline initially, but I hated it. And so they gave me Gabapentin. This helped with sleep and dialled down the pain significantly (I was on 300mg three times a day). I vaguely remember a crazy day when I walked into my local town, sat, and had cake and tea with an old friend. Still to this day, I can't figure out how! Boy, those drugs worked!
By the end of March, I discovered Egoscue and began posture therapy. I did it religiously for six weeks and even began working with a therapist. But it wasn't helping. And I didn't see any improvements. I also decided to come off the Gabapentin during this time (I would later go back on it, as I was in a lot of pain), as I felt totally off my face and hated it.
Around February, I also discovered Dr Stuart McGill. And read his excellent book, Back Mechanic. I learnt about spine hygiene and loads of other helpful stuff. Gradually, little by little, turning in bed got easier (brace that core) and getting up out of bed and off the toilet became pain-free, too. But I just wasn't seeing massive improvement.

Finding the right approach

That's when I decided to see a Master Clinician under McGill. Wow. It was the best money I had ever spent, and I'd spent more on acupuncture!
He went through my scan, was the only one to tell me about the transitional disc, and asked what I'd been doing thus far. He recommended that I give the posture therapy and the walking a break, just for a few weeks, to see if we could calm the inflammation down. And so I did. I rested. I mostly lay on the floor on my front or back and only moved around the house. No outdoor walking. No McKenzie cobra poses (which I've since discovered do more harm than good long-term and adopt a gentler version McGill recommends and says is just as effective). That was back in early April. And following his advice alone? I saw immediate improvements. In fact, the very next day, I was pain-free for seven hours. I couldn't believe it – just by resting.
I only rested for three weeks, and then I decided to try walking outdoors again. My gosh. The difference after the break! I could barely do ten minutes around the block without pain. It was too much. (I could never walk first thing before either – only later on in the day. But it would usually be fine.) But my back specialist wanted me to try walking three times a day, starting small. So, I persisted. He told me to stop if walking made things worse, though. Thankfully, it's been three weeks since I began walking outdoors again, and I'm making great progress. I can now get up from bed and walk immediately (I had to give it an hour before I ventured out of the house). And I can walk for half an hour, too. Three times a day. I find that a morning walk is crucial. I am stiff and a little sore at first, but it eases. And sets me up for the day. I also enjoy two or three hours of no pain when returning home.

Finally seeing progress

Since early April, the improvements have been gradual but almost daily. They're so small sometimes that you hardly notice them! It's only when you look back that you realise how far you've come!
In the six weeks since I worked with my back specialist, I have seen the constant burning sciatica in my foot and calf mostly disappear. Initially, I had a lot of fuzzing. That has now subsided, and since then, it's gone from fuzzing to cold water feelings and tingling... with occasional burning again (mostly only in the top of my calf), but that goes quickly. Now and again, I'll get a random ten minutes of a burning foot again, but it soon disappears.
A few weeks ago, I started getting new sharp and painful jolts in my left hip. That's apparently blood returning to the nerves. For the last week, I have barely had any foot or calf issues—I mostly have sharp pulling nerve pain on my left kneecap and similar symptoms in my hip. Only in the last month have I occasionally started to get a bruised feeling in my lumbar spine.
The morning stiffness and leaning forward? Gone. I am bolt-upright every morning and feel pretty good, posture-wise. Funny enough, since I quit doing the posture therapy. Go figure!
My glutes are very tight and constantly holding themselves. I'm trying to teach them to relax, but it's tough, as I know they're protecting themselves. I've been using heat to relax them—just a microwaved wheat sack some mornings.
Under a week ago, I came off Gabapentin. And I also quit Ibuprofen about five weeks ago. The only meds I take now are paracetamol – just one dose in the middle of the night to calm my (good) right hip that gets sore from only sleeping on that side.

How far I've come

Here I am, four months and two weeks post-injury. I still can't sit on a soft surface (I use a special sciatica cushion on a dining chair), I can't sit in a vehicle for the same reason, I can't sleep on my left side, and I still have some mild foot drop but am walking better.
On a positive note, the pain symptoms are changing daily, which is apparently a good sign. I am starting to feel some back pain for the first time, too. Centralisation is perhaps occurring. Instead of lying on the floor for several hours before breakfast, I now find better relief in standing and moving around. I can also sit for short spurts on my dining chair first thing in the morning, whereas before, I'd only be able to do that from midday.
I'm sleeping better. Six or seven hours a night. It's a tad broken, but I feel rested. And when I get up in the morning? Whereas before, my left leg and foot would go crazy with fuzzing and burning, now? Nothing. A mild tingling some mornings, but otherwise, fine.
I spend more of my days moving around, standing, walking, and occasionally sitting than "resetting" on the floor. And when I do feel sciatica getting worse, a brief rest on the floor makes the pain go away. It's never 100 per cent pain-free, you understand. It's mildly uncomfortable and feels like it could get worse at any moment, but I'm good.
And I'm finding that if I overdo it, any flare-up I might have is brief and easily overcome. Whereas before, it might've been five days to recover, now it's an hour resting on the floor.
If I stand at my standing desk for too long, my lumbar ache begins. It's not painful. It just feels weird—bruised, almost unstable, like I can feel it stacked. I lie down, reset, and then I'm good to go.

What has really helped

I now know what to do to avoid triggering pain. I can tie my shoes with my foot on a bench and lunge in. I have a shoe horn – a game-changer! I also use a strapped-on ice pack when I need to calm my nerves. Less so these days. And heat on my ass when the glutes feel too tight. I only take paracetamol in the middle of the night to help me sleep. Oh, and I find going to bed with an ice pack on sometimes really helps!
The meds definitely helped in those painful early days; but I need feedback. Once I felt I could, I stopped taking everything.
During this time, I also hired a cleaner (fortnightly) and a gardener. I've not stopped working (I have no choice; I am a freelancer). And I have no kids. So I don't have to commute anywhere. I stay at home and rest, and the only time I leave the house is to walk. I also invested in a new mattress, a game changer (John Ryan Artisan Luxury, if anyone wants to know – I did have a firm mattress before, and discovered it wasn't helping at all. Way too firm. Based on my weight and height, I needed a medium – who knew?) I am very lucky in all of these respects, I know.
The walking really helps – but it was only when I stopped, rested, and allowed by body to heal that I noticed a difference in my symptoms.

Not out the woods yet...

Pain is still an issue. Evenings are the worst. I go to bed around 9pm and lying there brings relief and I have no issue going to sleep. I only wake after about three or four hours due to sleeping on the same side every night. And then easily fall back to sleep, with only a few brief waking moments. I roughly get around six or seven hours a night. And thankfully, sciatica isn't really present at night (maybe a little harmless fuzzing). Just the evenings before bed – that's when it can get intense and the burning in my calf and foot can come back tenfold. Sigh.
Mornings are my best friend now. Pain doesn't usually become an issue until much later in the day. I'll have little episodes. But I can swiftly reset myself and move on. It can get harder to reset the later in the day it becomes, too. Some days are worse than others. The good days are starting to outweigh the bad. When I have an awful day, I do feel disheartened. But then I remember how far I've come, and try and stay strong.
I don't always do my three walks, either. If that evening walk doesn't feel right, I won't do it. I'll rest. I'll ice my back and lie down. I absolutely am trying to avoid drugs. But I have ibuprofen in my cupboard, just in case!

What's next?

I'm nowhere near ready to begin strength training. And I've avoided all physio and stretching of late. I am just doing what my back specialist recommends. Some mild cat/camels to get the blood flowing, walking, resting. I take magnesium, turmeric, vitamins D and B12, omega-3. I try to avoid sugar and alcohol (I don't always succeed on that one). I'm not ready for longer walks yet. And there's no way I could take a bath, sit up in bed, or sit on the sofa.
But I am healing. This has been quite the journey, but I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. I'm excited for the next phase of recovery: rehab! And boy, will I be taking it seriously—for the rest of my life! It's down to us, after all. No one can do it for us.
There are some big life events coming up that I know I'm not ready for. When they get closer, if I'm still not better, I will call my GP and ask for advice. Ibuprofen might be brought out again. Perhaps even something stronger. But if I'm one of the lucky ones, I should be seeing further progress in the coming weeks and months.
I rate my ability to function normally when I can sleep on my left side again, drive my car and when I can sit on the sofa, too! I won't mind if there is some residual pain and weakness. As long as I can function without having the crux of a floor and yoga mat nearby.

Key takeaways

• Sleep is everything. Prioritise sleep. Get a new mattress if you can (make sure you get the right one for you – in my case, medium! Because bad backs don't necessarily need firm surfaces). Lie on your side with a pillow between your knees or on your back with a pillow below your knees.
• Read Back Mechanic by Stuart McGill as soon as possible – learn how to avoid pain triggers.
• Take the meds when you need to. But remember, they are masking a lot of pain. So go easy!
• Drink lots of water. Stay hydrated for your spine.
• Take some supplements but do your research. I take magnesium (muscle), turmeric (anti-inflammatory), vitamins B12 (nerves) and D (bone), and omega-3 (joints and bones).
• Ice when trying to calm the nerves; heat when trying to relax the muscles.
• Try and avoid sugar and alcohol – they cause inflammation.
• Walk when you can. Start gradually. Once in the morning – as soon as you get up; once after lunch and once after dinner. Start at two minutes if you have to. Build to half an hour each time. Once you can do this with little to no pain, try some longer walks. Take long strides, swing your arms from the shoulders, and keep a good neutral posture.
• Listen to your body! Rest when you need to.
• Stay positive. Create fun little rituals throughout your days. Start a new hobby. Keep mentally strong. Call friends and family. Get people to visit you if you can.
• Only do what's essential. Sod the housework! Get food shops delivered. And develop a more relaxed attitude to everything – do you really need to sort the ironing?
• Buy some comfortable loungewear. Game-changer!
• Most of all, time is the biggest healer. These things can take up to two years to settle. The average is apparently six months. Everyone is different.

I am more than happy to answer any questions. I hope this has helped someone. It's certainly helped me to get it all on screen. And I wanted to thank this community for all I've learned this year. I hope you're not in too much pain.

This might be long. And muddled. I feel safer posting here than in twox.
I'm nearly 40, for reference. So is he.
My partner and I have been together for three years. My longest relationship ever. It's not conventional, we live 40minutes by road and on public transport it's 2 buses and an hour and a half. I live with my mother - she's diabetic and it's been difficult to control. I have among other things PTSD and trauma that means I have never been able to work, deal with people or generally adult properly. I've had therapy and things. I've also got mobility issues that are getting worse despite my best efforts and it may not be long before I'm unable to walk any real distance.
Half of the relationship he ended up out of work. He's only been back in work a couple of months. I didn't mind, I'd help him out with money for his bills etc. He hates asking for help with a passion. There are control issues in his family where money will be held over you if it's loaned.
Yesterday he threw a massive unexpected curve ball. He is doubting how long we can exist like this. He's been neglecting me the last few weeks (so he thinks, he's been helping his friends with various things a lot) and between that and me having some flare-ups and not being up to making the bus trips, (because he hasn't got the money for fuel, and won't let me pay for it..) we've not seen each other for a few weeks. I don't mind that he's helping his friends out. Some of them have had horrible experiences with men and he's safe and they can trust him. He says I deserve better. That he's just been leeching for 18months. That he's made me upset more than he should have. (He brought up a time from the first six months we were seeing each other!) That he's too wrapped up in his own stuff and has his head up his arse. I've told him to stop focusing on what he thinks he's done wrong and...stop doing it. Stop beating himself up over things that I have no issue with. He's good at assuming worst case scenario before something has even happened/he's tried. He thinks he's failed at doing all the things he wanted to do better at. Yes he procrastinates horrifically sometimes and I need to start prodding him endlessly to get him to do the thing but I'm just as bad he just doesn't see it.
We've had moments like this before where he's struggled and had a bit of a spiral but never to the point where he's saying "I love you, I don't want to lose you, I don't want to break your heart BUT"
I asked if moving in together was where he wanted to take it. We both know logistically it's difficult. Between us we have five cats and a dog. Might be able to make it three cats and the dog. I don't have family here, they're all 150miles south and while I miss my real home and them, they're all getting older and a house there now costs £300k and this house (my mums) would not sell for anything like enough. He wouldn't want to leave his friends or his mum, most of his extended family are 100 miles away. His current house isn't suitable, and he hates it (tiny open plan over two floors, no garden.) It's ok for an overnight visit but there's no privacy or space there. There are no and will be no children involved. Trying to get onto housing lists will be difficult as he is adequately housed as far as his association is concerned and my area will likely see me as having no legitimate reason for needing housing.
(My dog is...she's a pest. She doesn't understand the concept of two humans in the bed, go away, and if I'm away from home longer than two nights she needs to go to kennels or she misbehaves. Mum gives in to her and dog has learnt how to hit all of mums buttons. I have told my mum repeatedly she needs to not do x/y/z.)
I haven't heard from him since we spoke yesterday.
Ok. I think I'm done. I've got an invite to a birthday picnic this time next week. Hopefully I have some idea about this bit of my life by then..

The title says most of my current situation, but I’ll provide details as I don’t know what is relevant anymore. Feel free to skip to the bottom!
My 18M son has had a number of hurdles to overcome in his life so far.
He was born three weeks early, with a small body (7th percentile) and a big head (90th percentile), which may have contributed to some gross motor delays.
He hated tummy time in his first few months and had bad reflux, which we later learned was likely because he is allergic to eggs AND dairy which he was getting from breastmilk. His stomach likely hurt quite a bit in his first 6M and we were unfortunately slow to diagnose these allergies.
We had a total of 6 Nannies not work out for us, all due to health/careemisc reasons unrelated to our son, resulting in repeated shifts to his routine.
He had a terrible case of double ear-infections that lead to him reverting from nursery to cosleeping for comfort for several months, leading to poor sleep for everyone.
Most recently, it looks like he has a posterior tongue tie, that will be released in the coming weeks.
With all of the above, when our sweet boy qualified for Early Intervention Colorado (for gross motor delays), we were nervous but not entirely surprised. From 9M onwards we met with an OT and PT biweekly who provided advice and exercises that helped us in a number of ways, but during his annual review it came out that he is between 12-15M in all areas, with his weakest area being language development, where he is at the level of a 9M old, (he was 17M at the time).
This lead to a real rabbit-hole of googling and research and all of a sudden red flags starting popping up.
-He doesn’t consistently look when his name is called. -He loves to open and close doors over and over. -He enjoys playing with his peers at daycare, but gets overwhelmed and often seeks out alone time. -He sometimes gets upset and NEEDS to breastfeed to finally calm down. -He is very nervous in new environments and doesn’t seek out new things the way his peers do. -He does not seem to understand what we are saying most of the time and only knows a couple simple instructions that he will acknowledge.
He had always made good eye contact and showed empathy to my wife and I, and so ASD never really came to mind until recently.
We were recommended to take a look at the ASQ-SE, at home where he fell on the border of ‘Monitor’ and ‘Refer’. We’ll be meeting with his doctor for his 18M check up soon, and I plan on requesting that he be screened.
I will always unconditionally love my son and am willing to do anything and everything to help him live a happy normal life. I hope he just has development delays that we’ll look back and laugh on, but I feel like I am no longer able to enjoy parenting as I am scrutinizing and analyzing every single thing about him looking for signs that something is wrong.
How aggressively should I pursue screening at his age? Are there better options available to us than the free State-run Early Intervention Colorado? Is there a best way to prepare for a potential positive diagnosis?
Any shared experiences or advice is appreciated.

Throwaway account with some bits of personal info changed to make it less recognisable, and trigger warning suicidal themes.
Not really spoken to anyone about this so where better than with a bunch of random folk on the internet...
I (28m) live with my partner (29f) and in Jan of 2020 she began to develop germ-focused OCD, obviously, the pandemic and everyone being frightened of germs and personal spaces only fueled it from being something that was mildly affecting her life to making her clean herself and daily items like her phone or wallet like crazy when she came home.
Fast forward 4 years, 3 homes, and 2 cats later and she is at a point where her OCD has "evolved" and now is not only affected by germs but by meat (she's vegetarian) which has meant that I cannot eat any meat when around her as she thinks it has some sort of contaminant that makes people inherently dirty which I was fine with at first but then she is freaked out by our pets after they eat meat, clean themselves and then walk around the house which makes her clean the floors constantly or spray our sofa with disinfectant as that is where they like to sleep, and she won't let them come anywhere near her which is already tough on them as they don't understand what is going on.
After 4 years of having to change my life personally around her OCD and follow a lot of the same compulsions that she does to make sure she's happy and feels comfortable has started to weigh a lot more heavily on me, from having to do things like open doors in our own home as those are dirty to cooking and cleaning as utensils and cleaning stuff has become dirty, not seeing friends at their houses or outdoors as she "can't control" what they do and eat to having to change my diet to make sure I'm not eating contaminated food. For some context, I've been going through my own crap for the last year or so from my company letting all their staff go to losing my dad so it's not been easy and I can't get any help, support or even a hug from her as she's going through her own stuff (quite right as she's going through A LOT)
She knows that she is "making everyone around her miserable" and that has started pushing her to the edge and has begun talking about having suicidal thoughts when everything gets a bit much for her and how everyone would be better off without her, she knows how it will affect everyone around her but has said that she just doesn't see an end in sight and she doesn't see another way to "not feel like this anymore" She went through some therapy but they told her the harsh truth that the only person who can stop feeling this way is her, there isn't any magic pill or procedure that will make it go away, this scares her so much and she doesn't have the drive or capacity to take on even the tiniest aspect of exposure therapy or not cleaning things as it makes her want to peel off her own skin.
I'm just not emotionally together enough myself, I've started looking into therapy but I'm not a big believer in talking your problems away, it just ends up becoming a vent (ironic considering what I'm typing right now) but I'm almost at my wits end with it all, which in turn makes me feel worse as I know it's not necessarily her fault but I don't have anything else to point my frustration and pain towards about it as her OCD isn't a physical thing making her do these things, it's all in her head.
With me turning 30 soon I've been thinking a lot about my life and almost my whole 20s has been dictated by this condition that I don't even have, and we've spoken about having kids (Which I really want) but I just don't see that being possible anytime soon and my job involves traveling around the world a fair bit and sometimes think about just packing it all in to be there 24/7 as when I'm not around she scarcely functions meaning my whole life revolves around caring for her, and it's made me unsure how to live my own life going forward as none of it is how I planned or wanted and it seems to feel like just an extension of her life, like a tool.
Anywho, thanks for reading my little rant, feels like it was all over the place a bit but happy to clarify anything I've made unclear, I'll throw off my disguise and go back to my regularly scheduled redditing but just wanted to get the truth off my chest 😎
Much love and stay safe xx

I'll be moving in to a new apartment and the living room has 4 bookshelf speakers mounted to the wall and all are nicely wired in the walls. I'm thinking of reusing them, or at least the wiring setup but wanted to gauge some opinions from you guys since I don't know much, and just started reading some posts here recently to learn a bit.
Here is a rough top-down view of the living room, with the following things to note:

• The room is mostly enclosed, except for the top right entrance leading out to an open area.
• The living room itself is about 14'x16'.
• The red boxes represent the speakers that were left there by previous owner, which include:
  • Front left and right Bose 161
  • Rear left and right Onkyo SKM-100
  • All 4 are wall mounted about 7-8ft from the floor, near each corner of the room, angled down/towards the viewer (bottom wall)

I realize those speakers are pretty old, but maybe still usable? I'm going to be coming from literally just a 32" TV, so anything will be an upgrade. My main concern is the placement of them being so high (and if they're actually going to sound better than a modern TV).

Goals/expectations for the home theater setup:

• Movies/TV
  • I have an existing Plex setup on an NVIDIA shield that I plan to keep
    • contains some Atmos content; I may opt for more given a capable setup
  • I will be upgrading to an LG C3 77"
  • Casual movie/TV watching experience, for maybe up to 4-5 people on rare occasions. Main genres being:
    • comedy
    • action/adventure
    • thrillehorror
    • YouTube playback
• Video Games
  • Some casual TV couch gaming from a 4k/120 capable PC
    • going to run a fiber optic HDMI cable to get the length I need
  • Main games being multiplayer co-op and single-player
    • examples such as Rocket League and Resident Evil
• Music
  • Compatible with an Amazon Echo for voice control and playback of music through the speakers
  • BlueTooth compatibility for direct playback from my phone would also be nice
    • main genres being rock, metal, rap
  • As long as it sounds decent and can be heard in the open area nearby, good enough for me; not trying to wake the neighbors

Main questions:

1. Are the Bose 161 and Onkyo SKM-100 usable for casual use - or just worth replacing in 2024?
2. Is the height/placement of the Bose and Onkyo problematic? (wall mounted 7-8ft off the floor)
3. What would be a decent center channel to "match" the existing speakers and recommended AVR?

At least for now, I'd prefer to spend less than $1k and try to preserve at least the speakewiring placement already in place. I was thinking of getting a 7.2ch Denon AVR, and plug the Onkyo rears into the surround ports (not surround back). I could also get a center channel, and a sub later down the line.

I have had my kitten for almost a year now and he turned 1 in March. I adopted him when he was 4 months old and I got my resident kitty when he was about 6 weeks old. I was in college when I got my first cat and he was absolutely insane (as all kittens are). He stressed me tf out and I definitely played with him with my fingernails (which I later read is not smart to do) as he now bites me and anyone who comes over to get attention. I have moved many times with my cat and he has lived with other cats that do not particularly like him and has played with small dogs his size. He is half maine coon and is about 15 lbs. Most female cats have not gotten along with him in the past even though he just likes to follow them around and watch them or even boop their nose with his paw out of curiosity and maybe social awkwardness as he was raised in my 1 br apartments.
I recently graduated and had a full time job. I did not feel like I had enough time for him as he is very affectionate and playful. He has always gotten along with other animals and showed a lot of interest in other furry friends. Last summer I had recently moved into my own place after living with my roommate and her 2 female cats and had decided I wanted to get him a friend. I went to the nearest animal shelter just to play with the cats. As soon as I got there the people at the shelter told me about a kitten they wanted me to meet. I told them I didn’t think it would be a good idea and that I didn’t think I had the time for another crazy kitten. Long story short, I fell in love with little him and couldn’t stop looking at the pictures I took of him and picked him up the next day.
When i adopted him they assured me that since my resident cat was so relaxed and the kitten was well socialized I would be fine to introduce them a few hours after I got him settled at my apartment and they’d play all day long and blah blah blah. I got him home, played with him, let him smell my cat under the door and eventually let them into the same room. Immediately my kitten was showing signs of aggression which my resident cat was not even responding to. Most of the time when my kitten is being aggressive (puffy tail, walking sideways, ears back, tail flapping) my resident cat is laying down a few feet away. Also, he was so tiny compared to my cat but eventually they slept together in my bed and on the floor.
My kitten plays rough and I thought since my cat likes to bite me and attack my arms (sometimes he is insanely aggressive and very strong) he would be a perfect wrestle buddy. There have been multiple times where I have had to separate them from rolling around on the ground or one pinning the other to the point where they are screaming. It’s like watching WWE they throw each other and chase each other but it always seems to end with aggression from one of them. My kitten will stalk my cat and chase him up the cat trees, wait for him to get out of the litter box and chase him under the bed, or anytime my cat gets near the couch my kitten will shake his booty and run after my cat until he’s in another room. My cat is very chill and he has distanced himself from me. It was unfair of me to improperly introduce them and allow my kitten to bully my resident cat. I do not want my resident cat to hate me and I want him to be able to cuddle with me without fear of being body slammed. My kitten is very affectionate and sweet and I want to make sure I try everything to make this situation work. After initially separating them, my cat started doing some of the things he used to do again but after letting them spend longer periods of time together, my kitten is doing the same things.
My bf and I have been separating them for a few weeks. We live in an 800 sft apartment and are moving to a space that is twice the size in less than a month. I messed up with the initial introduction and have separated them recently as the issues have gotten worse. I have been feeding them separately and worked them up to feeding with the door open just on different sides where they don’t see one another and only letting them spend time together supervised. We have kept my kitten in the bedroom and bathroom, moving him to the bathroom at night and allowing my cat to be in the bedroom and living room at night. I am unemployed and spending all day at home. Both kittens cry when I leave one room and my kitten has even learned how to jump against the door to open it. I resorted to letting them hang out in the living room, separating their food and water, and separating my kitten when he is aggressive towards my cat. I just read about not free feeding so I will pickup their hard food bowls tomorrow. We also have a spray bottle and have been watching them play and spraying the kitten when he bites or jumps on top of my cat to the point he is trying to flee. We are trying to teach boundaries but my cat will let him bite and swat at him until he screams in pain and just runs away. My cat is a lover not a fighter and my kitten is both.
Lastly, we have urgently been trying to work on these behaviors because we are planning on introducing my bfs dog to our cats when we move. I am confident that my resident cat will get along with her but I am fearful my kitten will not adjust. We are planning on keeping the kitten in a room to himself and my cat in another room. We are getting a baby gate to first introduce her to my cat and eventually face to face meeting. We are planning on starting the reintroduction process over again in the new place for a longer period of time. We are hoping that reintroducing the cats and then my kitten seeing my cat and dog interacting calmly and relax with the aggressive behaviors. I have tried to spend time with them playing separately in their spaces and then playing with them together and half the time leads to the rough playing that stresses my cat out. His dog is laid back but he is unsure how she would react to the kitten biting, scratching, or being rough. I want to give my kitten the best life possible. He is so adorable and has so much energy and love to give. He is smart and understands he is being bad when he’s biting his brother!
If you got this far thank you so much and if you have any advice I would greatly appreciate it!!!