Two Freaks

The talented Bella slips another one in under the wire. Before you choose to be offended, keep in mind that I love wearing cloaks on an average day, referring to myself in the third person, and dressing up in costume for no reason at all. Enjoy!

Two freaks met and fell in love. How many love stories start like that?

Ours did. I ended a short-lived relationship with yet another man who thought he owned me. Had he thought of it, I would have signed a paper signing away the rights to all my thoughts and feelings. He wanted to possess me that much. It drove him crazy that he couldn’t, so he forced the issue. He started trying to destroy my relationships with everyone around me.

That’s why I ran away. I left my hometown, my friends, my job, and my broken heart behind just to be free of him. I stayed under the radar for a year. I never went out with people from my new job. I lived in fear of making new friends. I barely even left my apartment to pick up food and other essentials.

When a year passed without hearing from my ex, I loosened up a little. I decided to celebrate. I didn’t need a big party. After all, I didn’t have anyone to party with. But I wanted to do something that signified moving on and returning to some semblance of a normal life.

I remembered seeing a coffee shop on the corner. I would be close enough to dash home if I lost my nerve. Besides, a cup of hot chocolate always heals my woes. As I pawed through the few items of jewelry that I brought with me, a spiked collar caught my eye. The words “I thought you’d need a new collar now that you’re free” had been carefully written in my best friend’s handwriting along the inside of the soft, supple leather.

My mother remained the only person I trusted enough to have my address. Occasionally, she sent a care package. She included this gift from Edi in the first shipment though I doubt she knew she’d sent such a thing. Wrapped tightly in shimmering gold foil and silver ribbons, she had no clue. Of course, I reached for the shimmering gift first when I cut open the box.

My smile returned as it had when I ripped off the paper and pulled back the box top. I fumbled with the small buckle, as I wrapped it around my neck. The leather seemed to mold to my skin. I found a black baby tee and black jeans with red flowers painted along the hem. A few swift passes of the brush left my hair smooth and shiny. I grabbed my purse and rushed myself out the door before I could change my mind.

When I reached the coffee shop, I almost didn’t go in. A soft glow came from a single candle on each table, but it looked too gloomy to be open. I checked the sign to make sure. Reassured, I stepped toward the door as a tall man with curly dark hair put his hand on the handle. He wore wrinkled black slacks and a black button-down shirt with the top three buttons undone. Dark eyes met mine as he smiled down at me.

“Nice collar.”

Distracted by his smile, I nodded my head and mumbled. “Thank you.”

“You alone?” His eyes looked up and down the street, looking for anyone else.

I glanced over my shoulder. “Um…yes.”

“Sometimes it gets crowded this late. Want to sit together?”

“Umm…”

“My name is Aaron. I promise not to bite you…” He looked deep into my wide eyes as he paused and leaned closer to whisper. “…unless you beg me to.”

I laughed and the tense bubble around me broke a little. “Okay.”

“I’ll buy if you find us a table.” He offered as he held the door open.

“Sounds good.” I started to walk toward the nearest empty table.

He placed a hand on my shoulder gently. As I turned to him, he shook his head. “Sadly, my ESP is broken. You need to tell me what you want.”

A warm blush colored my cheeks as I said. “Hot cocoa.”

 When he joined me with two cups of foam-topped delight, the look on his face aroused my suspicions. “What did you do to my cocoa?”

“Nothing you won’t like. We can switch if you like.” He reached for my cup.

“No. I’ll trust you.” My heart disagreed as my chest tightened, but I slowly brought to cup to my lips.

I sipped gently, allowing the warm liquid to flow over my tongue. He watched me anxiously.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes. It’s different. What’s in it?”

“Raspberry Italian syrup.” He beamed. “It’s their specialty.”

“It’s delicious.” I took a longer sip, closing my eyes as raspberry and chocolate mingled to create a sweet sensation.

“I should probably answer a few more of your questions.” The table shifted as he leaned closer.

I opened my eyes and gazed into his face. “Such as?”

“I don’t normally hit on girls that I see at the coffee shop. I work as an accountant by day, but I love to play the drums at night.”

I couldn’t think of anything interesting to say in reply. Clearly, he felt differently. He encouraged me with questions. I fired a few back at him, discovering that he had talked to me because I was wearing the collar. Otherwise, he said he’d have been afraid to scare me off by being so forward. I even explained why I chose to wear it. I felt comfortable talking to Dylan. I hadn’t felt so free and so close to anyone in over a year. I didn’t want it to end. By the time we finished talking, my neglected cocoa actually had grown cold. I finished it anyway as he held out his hand to walk me home.

Twenty years and two kids later, I still wear my studded collar from time to time. Edi visits us often. After all, without her, we would never have met. My possessive ex did try to reconnect, but my lack of interest finally convinced him to find another victim. My husband still makes me want to talk for hours, loves my studded necklace, and introducing me to new things, freaky or otherwise. He still plays the drums and, sometimes, I sing along.

I’m glad I found the right freak to fall in love with. I’m even more glad that he loves me back.

Bride's Lament

I've been obsessively cleaning this week, so I unearthed another old flash fiction for your reading pleasure. Enjoy.

I rest here, waiting for the blood to fall again. It slips slowly down my fingers from somewhere near the realm of my heart. It drips again, splashing against the whiteness of my wedding dress.

On my wedding day, I should be smiling. Looking across the room at my husband, I see only emptiness. The void lingers until he turns his eyes upon me. I see myself in those eyes. I see the woman he wanted to marry—the adoring wife he thinks I am returning his gaze with my own blood dripping from my fingers. He doesn't see the blood though, just the veil falling back from long golden hair.

He crosses the room and takes me in his arms. He has no need to be gentle anymore. Though he cannot see the blood welling up and pouring from me, he knows that no harm he inflicts will be worse than my surrender to him has been. Luckily, his knowledge is not conscious and he enjoys melding with me as snaps and hooks come undone and leave me, simply me, for him to behold.

He still doesn't see me. Even with no veils or skirts to hide my nakedness, he can't see me. He doesn't recognize the pain behind my eyes as I smile and make all the right sounds and then wait in the dimming light for him to sleep with me cradled in his arms. He is so gentle now, caressing my cheek with his fingers, gazing into my eyes without seeing into their depths.

At last his eyes close. Dark, untamed lashes come together to conceal grey eyes. Now my own dark eyes are free. The teardrops slip down my cheeks. I regret that I will hurt him someday when he learns to see beyond the face I put on for him and them. For a time though, they're all happy, even if I am bleeding away in obscurity.

For this is all I was born to, this marriage where I can finally die without anyone ever having seen that I existed without a man to give me his name.

Screams of the Heart

The submission I was working on for today needs a little more research, consideration, and editing. I discovered this old flash fiction and punched it up for you. What do you think?

The brunette screams. She screams so loud that her very heart will burst. These screams will never penetrate thick strong walls. Her mournful tones shall never reverberate through his ears and make his heart echo the ache of her own. She will never be free. The sun shall never lighten her dark tresses again.

It seems only moments since he last held her. It felt as if his lips still pressed hers. Yet her heart shattered in a single moment from his words, so soft and then so harsh, all in an instant.

"I love you, but the kingdom must never know."

He pushed her away and whistled softly. As she protested, two guards appeared and grabbed her wrists. They wrapped her in a dark cloth and rode with her to this place. She does not know this place. She looks but sees no means of escape. Does it matter? She does not know which direction leads home. No, none of this matters at all. All that matters is that she can still scream.

She can scream and forget to try to understand. She can scream and forget she was ever loved. She can scream into eternity with no one to hear. She can scream and let those screams drown out all else including the sorrowful patter of her heartbeat. Thus she screams as her dark hair falls to cover her face. Thick stone walls cover her screams until blood seeps up from her raw throat and silences her at last.

Grandmother Knows

Those were the sweet summers of our youth. My cousin always sheltered from the summer heat in the shaded home of our grandparents. Images flashing across the tiny screen of an old television expanded our world on hot, muggy days. Unfazed by the sounds of laughter as we wrestled, grandfather lazed in his big chair in the living room. We’d listen to him snore as the afternoon heat finally penetrated the defenses of the house’s thin walls. He often fell asleep with a lit wicker pipe dangling from his mouth, causing grandmother to awaken him.

“Jacob, you’re tryin’ to kill us, ain’t ya?”

“Myrtle, you worry too much. I ain’t burned down this house in all our years…”

“That’s right. ‘Cause I’m always here to wake you up.”

“Well, I admit I need ya as much as I ever did. Come here and give us a kiss.”

Sometimes Joyce and I would creep out into the hallway to watch them. Grandmother never gave him that kiss that we could see. We always thought it was because she knew we were watching. That was one thing you could count on. Grandmother knew everything.

She knew about the candy we snuck in under our loose tops. She knew how we’d fight over who was going to grow up and marry our favorite actor in whatever movie we were watching that day. She knew to fill our bellies with blueberry pancakes and sausage every morning. She knew we’d need plenty of lemonade for our evenings on the porch as we waited for twilight and the chance to chase lightning bugs.

That’s probably why none of us knew what to do when we found the one thing that grandmother didn’t know all about. It was another of those lazy summer days. Joyce and I had finally found a movie where each of us fell for a different character, so we hadn’t fought all day. Our conversation as we slipped lemonade mirrored the stillness of the growing dusk. Our excitement grew as it neared the time to collect lightning bugs. If we collected enough, we could tell stories by their glow before we fell asleep to the gentle sound of the wind in the trees outside the window.

It was as we slowly rose from the porch swing that we realized something was wrong. Somehow standing up made it easier to hear the voices we had only vaguely noticed as we lounged in the last rays of the sun. I looked at Joyce, unable to identify exactly what I was hearing. Her face assured me that she shared my confusion. As I opened my mouth to voice our question, she raised a finger to her lips and shook her head. She took a couple of slow, careful steps toward the open window, leaning in to listen. I followed her lead, leaning in until I could make out the words.

“…forty years?”

“I told you that I didn’t know, woman. I only just found out.”

“But we were married…”

“…a year later. It was one night with her. I’ve devoted my life to you.” Grandfather pleaded.

“I won’t forgive you for this. You know I can’t…” Tears softened my grandmother’s strong voice.

My mouth opened to form a slack oval. Joyce frowned as her brow furrowed. We raced off into the meadow, not to look for fireflies as we had planned but to get away from the sounds of discord echoing from the house. When we finally returned to the house, grandmother sat alone in the living room with her knitting across her lap. She didn’t look up as we tiptoed down the stairs. I know she heard us, but she didn’t want us to see her tears.

A few weeks later, my aunt Christina moved in with my grandparents. Born to a woman who knew grandfather before he met our grandmother, she favored him in appearance. We accepted her into the family, everyone but grandmother. She knew that this woman’s arrival would change our family. At first, Joyce and I thought she changed it for the better.

Aunt Chris knew how to have fun. She laughed and joked with us. She even included us in practical jokes on grandfather. We tried pranking our grandmother once, but rediscovered how much she knows when she chased us through the house with a broom before we got a chance to switch the powdered sugar for flour.

 While Aunt Chris brought a certain sense of carefree abandonment, her levity came at a price. As the summer drew to a close, her disposition changed. Lethargy overtook her. An aroma of stale alcohol accompanied her from room to room. She demanded quiet to sleep off her latest round of drinking. More and more, the television remained dark. Either Aunt Chris would stumble out to turn it off or curse at us until we did.

Grandmother’s anger flared up more often and fell on Joyce and I. Grandfather no longer took his naps on his favorite chair. Instead he sought the solitude of a small copse of trees behind the house. Distracted by her own concerns, grandmother stopped making fresh lemonade. Joyce mixed up the powder a few times, but we found it wanting and stopped trying.

One night, Aunt Chris’s snoring kept me awake, so I tiptoed down the stairs. I figured I could get a few hours of sleep on the couch. As my padded feet neared the lowest stairs, I became aware of the soft sound of hushed voices.

“I know that she is your daughter. That’s why she is staying.” Grandmother hissed.

“But I love having the girls here for the summer, Myrtle.”

“I won’t have them here with her any longer. I’ve already called their mothers.”

“It’s not like she’s going to turn them into alcoholics. Come on…” Grandfather reassured her in a hushed voice.

“I would hope not. My girls are smarter than that.”

As my grandmother defended us, my cheeks burned. A faint hint of whiskey still tinged my breath. Aunt Chris shared her libations with us on more than one occasion that summer. I gave in more often than my cousin. I guess I wasn’t as smart.

That’s just one more thing grandmother didn’t know.

Wrong Direction

Another Thursday offering for your viewing pleasure.

“Matilda’s graduation party awaits.” I rolled my eyes as I reached for the doorknob.

“That’s nice, dear. Have fun.” With eyes still trained on her knitting, my mother waved me out the door.

I sighed and pulled my keys from my pocket. My mother’s constant need to know my exact location and activities could have kept me from feeling obligated to go out on such a terrible night, but her knitting enthralled her. As I opened the door, cold air wafted past me. Rain poured down in sheets that caused the world outside to twist and waver. I hesitated.

“Jane, close the door. It’s cold out there.” My mother still didn’t bother to look up from the scarf forming on her lap.

I stepped out into the chilly night air, pulling the door closed with an unsatisfying thud. Quick footsteps brought me to the edge of the porch as another gust of wind caught the pouring rain and showered it across my face. I raced down the stairs and across the river running down the asphalt driveway.

I barely gave myself time to open the door before squeezing though the opening. Wiping beads of water from my forehead, I turned over the engine and leaned over to reach into the glove box. My hand closed on a leather case. My brow wrinkled.

“I swore I left this unzipped.” I muttered pulling the case free so I could unzip it and pull loose the GPS.

“Turn left onto Spruce Street.” A falsetto British voice directed as I finished entering the address I got from the guidance counselor when I realized Matilda had forgot to give it to me.

I checked to make sure the lights were on and slipped the car into reverse. As I backed away from the house, I glanced at the door. My mother’s silhouette didn’t fill the doorway.  She hadn’t changed her mind and the party still awaited me. I flipped on the windshield wipers.

I practiced my most sincere smile as I navigated through the dreary night. I glanced at the GPS from time to time for reassurance that I approached my destination. Finally I pulled onto a narrow street with tightly packed row houses. The emotionless voice informed me that I had reached my destination.

“This can’t be right.” I reached for the GPS.

As I stared at the rectangle of light, someone rapped lightly on the window. Startled, I dropped the GPS, watching it fall to the floor before turning toward my window. Silhouetted against the streetlights, a familiar figure leaned closer to the window to rap again.

“Jane, we need to talk.” He shouted to be heard over the roar of the engine and the pounding of rain.

“Mr. Johanson?” I rolled down the window just a crack, so he could hear my surprised whisper.

“Is it okay if I get in the car?” Despite the umbrella he held over his head, water soaked him from shoes to mustache.

“Of course.” I flipped on my hazard lights on as he circled in front of the car.

“What are you doing here?” I asked as he scooped the GPS off of the floor and handed it to me. “Were you invited to Matilda’s party?”

“You don’t have to act so surprised. She invited you, didn’t she?” He ran one finger nervously along his mustache as he spoke.

“Yes, but I…”

“You shouldn’t trust girls like that.” He interrupted.

“But we’ve been…”

“Friends for a couple of months now? All of a sudden?” The implication behind his words was clear.

“She said she wanted some new friends for her senior year.” I crossed my arms, leaning away from him.

“I really wish that was true, Jane.” His finger fell away from his mustache, so he could clasp his hands in his lap.

I waited, watching him. Without knowing what he was about to say, my stomach twisted into knots. I shook my head at my own concerns. How bad could it be?

“I overheard Matilda and her friends talking about a movie they saw. The main character was tormented by some of her so-called friends. They thought it would be cool to play that prank on one someone. It was the same day, you asked me for Matilda’s address and told me you’d be invited to her party. I put two and two together…”

“…and got four.” I interrupted.

My stomach deflated as if I had been kicked. My heart beat faster as my hands gripped the steering wheel. My vision blurred as I fought back tears. I pulled gasping breaths into my lungs, willing away the tears.

Mr. Johanson waited patiently for me to calm down before continuing. “That’s why I gave you my address, so I could tell you and send you home.”

“You couldn’t just tell me when I was in your office?”

“You looked so happy. I didn’t know how to tell you. I thought you’d figure it out before I needed to say anything.” He paused to give me a moment to take in his explanation. “I hoped you wouldn’t show up tonight.”

“But I did.” Almost inaudible words found their way out of my mouth.

“You did, but they’ll never know that.” He reached out to pat me on the shoulder.

A smile began to cross my face. “So as far as they know, the joke is on them?”

“Exactly. Go home and get some rest. I’ll see you at graduation.” In one swift motion he opened the car door and his umbrella.

He stepped out of the car, closing the door gently before turning away. I watched him merge with the sheets of rain, becoming a jagged silhouette under the streetlights. A load lifted from my shoulders as I idly hit the hazard button again and shifted the car into gear. I even managed a soft laugh by the time I pulled into my own driveway and chased raindrops across the short distance between the car and the 

porch. As I stepped inside, my mother looked up from her knitting. Her face wrinkled in consternation.

“Matilda called. I told her you were on your way.”

“I decided not to go. We aren’t that close of friends anyway.”

“Hmm.” My mother’s head shook as she offered this observation. Then she shrugged. “It's their loss then. Go dry off. We can watch a movie.”

I nodded and headed for the stairs, mumbling to myself with a slight smile. “The joke really is on them.”

A Cracked Life

One of my readers posted a story prompt and blogger thought it was spam. After many months, I discovered it and decided to take action. This piece should be interesting and witty. Did it meet those goals? You be the judge. Feel free to comment below and invite your friends to follow this blog so one lucky winner can score some free cookies. I need to bake as well as write.

Anxious to cut all ties to his own shame at betraying his vows, my ex-husband paid movers to pack up my possessions and move them to my new apartment. I returned home to find the locks had been changed. A note pinned to the door informed me that my keys would work on my new front door. He even enclosed a map so I wouldn’t get lost.

Shaking my head, I crumpled up the letter and envelope. I clutched the directions in my other hand like a lifeline as I stumbled back to my car. I took a deep breath to calm myself before opening the door. Another deep inhalation calmed me enough to drive to my new home.

As I turned the corner onto my new street, my mouth fell open. The houses that lined this street reflected wealth. Manicured lawns stretch from perfectly edged sidewalks to precisely trimmed bushes. Large porches held wooden chairs and large flags snapped crisply in a light breeze.

I drove slowly, taking in the whole of my new world. The only other people on the street were a few elderly couples chatting on one lawn and another older man walking a tiny dog with more hair than body. My mouth closed into a tight line as I approached the moving truck parked on the right side of the street.

My new home looked as out of place as I knew I would feel here. Unkempt bushes sprawled across the front of the house. The front lawn resembled a wheat field. The movers broke a path through the waving stalks to heft items from the truck to the house with sagging siding and a missing railing leading up to the porch. I followed the broken path, joining them as they placed the last box on the hardwood floor of the living room.

One of them muttered something as he brushed past me. I didn’t register the words. He didn’t seem to mind. The other remained silent as he pressed himself flat against the doorframe to avoid touching me. I smiled wryly at this, amused by the realization that most men would behave this way toward me now.

Trying to keep my mind from following that train of thought, I began shifting and unpacking boxes. The sun sank behind the horizon before I finally took a moment to breath. With most of the boxes unpacked and placed on the meager furniture that my ex sent with my possessions, nothing remained to distract me.

I stumbled to the couch on putty legs, sinking into the flat cushions. From this vantage point, I could see the great expanse of my sparsely decorated living room. The couch and an equally battered chair sat side by side on one side of the coffee table. An end table sat on the opposite end of the couch. No other furniture cluttered the room, so I faced a blank wall.

Mostly blank. A long, jagged crack arced across the beige surface of aged paint and older plaster. As my weary eyes struggled to stay open, the crack frowned at me. It opened up as if to speak, but no words came out. Wearily, I leaned forward to listen better. Still no words reached my ears.

The thoughts in my mind raced faster and faster as the crack widened into a long oval. Images flashed across the opening that made me smile before they made me cry. Framed inside the jagged oval, my fondest memories with my ex husband from our first meeting to our marriage to the last time I remember feeling that he wasn’t lying when he said he loved me.

The oval widened into a circle and new images appeared. Images of where I once thought I would be now. Children I would never have looked at me with my husband’s dark brown eyes. My husband held my hand as we walked on a beach for our thirtieth anniversary. The tears began to flow, smearing the images until the circle shrank to an oval and stretched back into a simple crack on an empty wall.

The thoughts in my mind slowed. Soon the cacophony of thought and emotion died down. I could hear a single sentence flowing from synapse to synapse.

When the past and the present meet, that is where I die. The crack in the wall laughs at the words that flow through my mind.

“My new house is perfect. It’s cracked like me.” I laughed harshly for a moment before tears washed down my face again.

Loving Legacy

Someone asked “Who Is Bella?”  For me, Bella epitomizes the timelessness of what an independent, loving woman could be in multiple existences. I have written her into medieval worlds, modern ones, even the realm of gods and goddesses. Now I offer you a chance to analyze Bella’s potential response to the impending end of her existence in a modern life.

Three weeks. Just three weeks. What can I do with just three weeks?

My head spins. My heart pushes against the walls of my chest until my breath catches. The blood pounding in my ears washes over me like waves crashing on the shore of these last three weeks of my life. I can see the doctor’s lips moving as he consoles me or explains my options, but I hear only the oddly comforting sound of the ocean of death coming to bring me home.

Finally, he realizes. His lips stop moving. He comes around the desk and offers me his arm. I shake my head and stand to go. My mind races faster. I have three weeks. I have twenty-one days. I don’t want to waste a second. I may have just enough time to complete ten more tasks before I die, but what tasks should I choose?

I spend my first day writing down everything I ever wanted to do. I rule out anything that would take more than a couple of days. I won’t learn to paint. A guitar will not know the caress of my fingertips. The world will not have time to be healed by words from my lips. Some of my ideas prove so shallow that I don’t even write them out completely before crossing them off. What am I left with?

Start a chain reaction of acts of love.

Only this goal made it to my final list. I have one simple task left to complete before I die, but how do I do it?

I’ve seen the movies where someone does something nice for someone else and the second person promises to return the favor by doing the same for someone. I’ve even participated in events to promote small acts of kindness. I’ve seen the good that they can do, but that small bit of light in the world wouldn’t leave the legacy that I desire.

As I stare down at the words written by my own trembling hand, I feel tears begin to flow down my cheeks. I should have done more. I should have started sooner. I shouldn’t have waited until the last minute to make a difference. I cross my arms on the desk, letting my head rest on them as my chest heaves around sobs I cannot control.

Wearied by my emotional struggle, I must have fallen asleep at my desk. Upon waking, I brush my hand against my face to find the list clinging to my check. Clutching it in my hand, I stare out the window at a dark sky. In the distance, I see a billboard with a scantily clad woman promising that I can find true happiness inside a blue bottle of perfume.

I stand up slowly, feeling the weakness in my legs as I shuffle toward the window to close the blinds. As the world outside disappears, a thought races through my brain. I shamble back to my desk, flipping on a small green-globed lamp. Under its soft glow, my shaking hands lift the telephone book and flip through the pages. Finding the page I need, I pick up the phone.

Four phone calls later, I realize that I have been standing for a half hour. My legs have locked in place and my hips feel as if someone has stabbed them with an ice pick. I gently lower myself to the chair, rolling it over to my bed, so I can crawl under the covers.

When I wake again, someone has summoned the doctor. He fusses over me, muttering that I shouldn’t be progressing this fast. A thin man with a hint of a mustache stands behind him with a briefcase in hand and a worried look on his face.

“Bella, I’ve told you to take it easy. There is no reason to make your last few weeks more painful.” The doctor picks up a prescription bottle from my bedside table, peering through the orange plastic discerningly at the pain medication he prescribed. “Have you been taking these?”

“I told you I wouldn’t.” I look past him toward the other man. “Mr. Wenzel?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The doctor snorts impatiently before shaking his head and hurrying out the door. I can hear him talking to my home health nurse, but I can’t make out the words. I don’t need to hear them to know his lecture involves me taking my medication by whatever means are necessary.

I turn my attention completely to Mr. Wenzel, who nervously adjusts his tie. “You brought the paperwork I asked for?”

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Ryder said you’d know where to sign.”

I nod, reaching for the papers. Instead of handing them to me, he opens the briefcase to extract them and then sits the briefcase on my lap.

“You can write on this, ma’am.” He offers distractedly as his eyes skim the sheaf of papers in his hands.

“Is there a problem?” My arm wearily sinks to my side.

“No, ma’am. I’m just wondering why you would set up a trust like this.”

“I’m dying. I don’t want other people to waste their lives when they could be leaving a legacy of love.”

“So, this trust essentially loans money to people who are pursuing causes that help other people. Then they pay money back into the trust to be used for the same purpose.”

“That sounds about right. It’s the best I can do on short notice.” I smile at him as I extend my arm again.

He places the papers in front of me. “I hope it does what you want it to do, ma’am. You should read through it and make sure it is what you want.”

I smile weakly. My eyes are already scanning through the heavy language on the first page. A near eternity of reading passes before I finally sign my name to the last page.

“I wish I had done this sooner. I’d like to see if it makes a difference.”

Mr. Wenzel opens his mouth to speak, but dizziness carries me away from the sound of his voice into a troubled sleep. My dreams revolve around the fate of my trust. I will never know if it made a difference.

Moral: Begin building your legacy now so you have a chance to see what the outcome of your actions will be.