The ups and downs of the bus as it rode in the direction of the hospital shifted my body uncomfortably, and I squeezed my eyes shut in a futile attempt to block out the pain.  Instead, however, it amplified and radiated down my leg and up my back in a bright hot flash that sprinkled electricity through my veins. When I glanced up to take in the buzzing scenery of brick and brass, I caught the eyes of an old soul who seemed to gaze at me with a look of understanding, so I offered a kind smile and sighed before closing my eyes as another bump jostled my form. Older than you though you’re older than me, I thought as I grasped at the cold metal rod of my silver cane that gleamed under the rays of the M20’s roof lighting. The next fifty-four minutes passed in a blur of soft, painful grunts and gasps as the look of a pitiful elder bore a hole through my temple. 

Summit Health was beautiful, always is—and I admired the sleek black and shiny modern red that greeted me as I battled the heavy glass door at the entrance, which had to be pulled open by a kind stranger that passed by.  As the shame blanketed my shoulders and seeped beneath my outerwear, then skin, I made my way up to the second floor of the building with wobbling lips and eyes heavy, though I couldn’t tell you if it was from the chronic fatigue, pain, or humiliation (probably a mix of the three).  My misery clack, clack, clacked along the linoleum pine-wood flooring, and alerted all of the patients in the waiting area and the women behind the desks deeper in.  “Ah—Samantha, here to see Dr. Hussain again?” Like a punch to the chest, her words were, They recognize me, and I shook my head. 

“No, not today,” I offered with a painted face. “I’m here to see the Cardiologist today, but I can’t remember his name.” Though her eyebrows kissed the ceiling at yet another change in professionals, she told me it was no problem and checked her computer before assuring me that I was next and to simply wait for the MA to come get me. 

“He’s got good reviews…You’ll be in and out!” She assured me, before pausing and laughing awkwardly. I guess she saw the other appointments I have today.

It was bitter cold. I could hear Jack Frost nipping at my window sill. His icy minions pattering at the glass, chipping at the remaining brain cells I had. It was kind of scary that something so clear and beautiful could be so deadly at the same time. For some it was an obvious mood killer, for me, it was the bringer of mini vacations and sweet hot cocoa. What more could a middle schooler ask for( other than cash obviously).

 I was young at the time, thirteen, and had no knack for danger. I sought to hide somewhere safe and warm, my home. My square small room with one television and an electronic system to feed me the comfort I needed during the snow storm. I was contemptuous, for there was no way the storm could touch me. My mom’s television was on to the usual news channel with the stiff man in the small suit. I always wanted to call and tell him that is armpits looked like they were leaking. The anchor man reported about how the oncoming snow blocked up all the major bridges and highways, warning people to just wait it out till it dies. There was no saying when it would end. So we did. In between commercials of Ed, Edd And Eddy, and Ben 10. I took a brief glance outside. For at least an hour could only see pure white neverending flashes. The snow looked as if it had a cleansing effect, as it covered everything in its frozen dust. 

  But as quickly as Jack Frost knocked at my window, he left, and the beauty that I saw was now just a mess. Buried cars, covered trash cans, and piercing icicles on the edge of houses created a terrible hazard. All I wanted to do was look and nothing else, I didn’t want to do anything else. However, that’s not what my mom had in plan for me. Previously I had asked for money and she finally grew tired of becoming my only source of income. “It finally stopped snowing” she exclaimed, “ how about you shovel sidewalks for money instead.”  I laughed in a super cocky way not fully aware she wasn’t joking. I just got a cold statue warming stare confirming her seriousness. 

Me? Leave my sanctuary to go into the wasted danger zone that held bitter coldness and slippery terrain that not even a master of skill could maneuver at this time. I wasn’t given much of a choice in this matter to be honest. I felt random shivers and I hadn’t even left my house yet. I was scared and grumpy that my own mother would put me closer to a snowy grave. This is not how I want to go! I thought. So in order to protect my innocence I wrapped myself in a never-ending of clothes. Scarf after scarf, Coat after coat, sock after sock. Each layer added an additional set of warmth but even created more doubt in my head. My own body had become stiff and hard to walk but I didn’t care since I was determined to beat the cold. My mission was simple to memorize… find snowy blocks, ask to shovel at a reasonable price, and come home. After all the times I replayed it in my head it still felt like the plan would fall apart halfway through. As I started to walk out the door I almost forgot the one important object of my plan, the stupid shovel. I went upstairs to my aunts building to ask for her shovel. She told me to look in the closet in the back, and there it was. As I touched the cold plastic I noticed how warned down it looked, however that made me trust it more. It was like the shovel itself was more prepared than I was from seeing and resolving countless struggles. I needed a simple tool but instead I got a strong parnther I could rely on: automatically I felt better as I went towards icy doom. 

The white beauty of the storms after effects  no longer held the same look, now I saw gray and dullness. The slush from tire tracks and wandering winds that blew cold air onto my face had left a discerning taste in my mouth. My eyes twitched from left to right as I noticed people struggling to get to their cars. I heard multiple curse words as people tripped and almost tripped. I myself had started to get trouble maintaining balance when walking. The soft crunch of the snow was immediately replaced with a sticky-like surface that kept my feet super close to the floor. I was starting to get anxious again as I got further and further from my home, my sanctuary.  Then my hands felt a familiar presence, Mr. shovel was still here, and he was my friend today. Therefore i trekked onward in the hope of a new source of income. 

House by the house I went. The big idea that seemed like the easiest job soon became a dull drag. The shovel I used seemed heavier and heavier after each scoop of white snow. As I bent my legs, the shovel tipped me to one side, closer to the ground, but only for a second: then I would reverse my step and swing the haul into the other side. My fingers were numb and I had started to see my own reflection in my breath, but I kept repeating the same process over and over until the job was done. My plastic partner however gave no expression or sign that it was ready to break. At this point, I would have given up and gone on, but doing this work, the work with my shovel and I seemed less like work and more like a goal I was striving for.

 Finally, the day was over, the payout was not that huge but at least I actually tried a new idea for once and wasn’t scared.  However it began to get really dark, I thought it was just the sun setting but it was actually the clouds that had begun to cover whatever was left of the sun. Apparently, the winter storm was not over and Jack Frost had not gone back to hiding. I gripped the shovel tighter than I had usually done and started running as if my life depended on it because quite frankly I had watched too many horror movies and had become quite dramatic. My left and right vision had started to become blurry all around me,  the gray void became clear and hollow. I felt like I was in the middle of a cyclone of terror and ice. My legs started to stiffen, my arms became like dead weights even sooner. Maybe even worse because at least you would feel the deadweights, I felt like I was losing pieces of my body. It was like a puzzle being torn apart and put back in the box: incomplete. My shoes were soggier than a swamp, colder than an ice tray. All that risen courage from before seemed to be disappearing, I walked slower and slower starting to become that anxious at-home boy from before. 

But then, I remembered. I was still holding on to something that brought me back into perspective, into reality. It was my anchor, it held my newfound strength and resolve. It showed me that the world out there is dangerous but also filled with chances. It can make money or make other opportunities. It was just a shovel but it was also not. It was more. The shovel showed me my bravery and that there will be harsh consequences for my humanity in the future but I have to keep moving forward, if I stay in the past I’ll miss my chance for greatness and if I stay still I’ll be stuck in a storm of self-doubt. So I got up, carried my aunt’s smelly old shovel, and kept walking till I was home and drank three cups of hot cocoa.

“So what do you want to do?”

I do my best to hold in a sigh. I’d figured we’d eventually get to that question, but had hoped that we’d somehow sidestep the topic. I stared up the ceiling with my hands clasped over my chest, uninterested in meeting my brother’s gaze. I could feel its intensity though, as he looked down on me from his swivel chair.

“Kid, did you hear me?” He asked.

“Yeah.” is all I manage, but he’d obviously want more than just that.

“Look I’m not saying you have to like to dedicate your life to anything right now, but could you at least start thinking about it?”

He doesn’t know it, but I’m always thinking about it. It’s odd because you’d think that I’d actually have an idea with how much I think about it, but it doesn’t feel that simple. It’s difficult because there are things I love, whether it be cooking or reading, and I know that there are careers that I can chase that’ll allow me to do those things, but what if that ruins my love of those things? What if I’m not able to keep up with those in my field? Will I really still enjoy them if I make them what I do for a living? But I don’t want to do something I hate either. I don’t say any of that to him though.

We could hear the harsh pitter patter of rain hitting the window of his room. I looked out, finding some comfort in the fact that the weather seemed to feel as jumbled as I do. 

“What are you thinking about?” He sat down next to me, legs crossed.

“How easy medieval people had it.”

He laughed.

I sat up so I could better explain myself. “I mean think about it! Like you know with the apprenticeships and being able to have someone to guide you or whatever for however many years. That’s literally so much less stressful don’t you think?”

“They still have apprenticeships.” 

“Yeah but it’s not the same. I don’t know…”

“So you want guidance?” He at last said, smoothing out his shirt.

“I guess so, I just…I don’t know where to start exactly.”

It felt a bit good to say it. Just thinking about the future can feel so heavy so finally admitting that felt like I’d at last pushed off the weight that had made itself home on my mind. I smiled to myself at the image of my brain sighing in relief.

He got up to head to the door, seemingly content with where we’d landed. “Alright, I’ll help you look into it, but you’ve gotta do some heavy lifting too. Do your research and settle on something soon, ok? Doesn’t have to be set in stone but try.”

“I will.” 

In mid November of 2021, I planned a trip to visit family in North Carolina for a few days. Going alone also meant I would be going through the airport alone. Laguardia airport is not the largest airport in NYC but as the days leading up to my flight passed my anxiety grew more and more. What if  I get lost? What if the plane lands at the wrong airport? What if something bad happens?

I have traveled to really exciting places before, but with other people. So on the short ride to the airport I tried to remember what we did and in what order we did it. Check in, check in luggage, go through TSA, find your gate, wait, scan your ticket, and find your seat. That was exactly what I did – or what I tried to do. 

Once I got in line to check in my luggage, my heart began to beat faster and faster. What if my luggage weighed too much? Should I have packed less clothes? I watched as my luggage stood on the large silver scale and focused my eyes on the reader. Once I got the clear I instantly felt my body cool down and I walked to the TSA line. It felt as if I was the only one lost. Everyone knew exactly where they were going and what they had to do. A family of three was in front of me and they seemed to be doing things correctly, so I copied them. I had my plane pass and ID in hand and went on the same line as them. The father had to have picked up on it pretty quickly, because he gave me a sly smile as if saying, ‘it’s okay you got this’. Thankfully the TSA did not give me any issues and I followed the large crowd toward the gates. 

There was about an hour left until the plane would be boarded. The seating area got crowded as time passed. It surprised me how many people were also going to Raleigh, NC on the same exact day. I began to wonder what kind of plane we’d be on. To my surprise it was a super small one with rows that had two seats on each side of the plane. I slowly walked down the aisle all the way to the rear of the plane, afraid I would skip my seat and cause a traffic jam. Once I sat down I became less tense as I realized the most stressful part was over. It was time to enjoy the short flight.

My burn is incandescent, blue against the skin of those who venture under my glow. I see many things with my light. The dirty—sometimes clean, doesn’t last long— half bathroom with no windows is my home. I share my home with others, but reside above all occupants. Beneath me, Sink, Mirror, and Toilet. They have their jobs, I have mine, but theirs does not take place without my presence. 

There is also Ornate Hand Soap Dispenser, who has seen more that any of us. I ask her about Blonde Hair Far, Blonde Hair Close, and Blonde Hair Closest, who occasionally venture beneath my light. Why are they not tethered to the wall, like us? What do they see when they roam outside of my domain? “You’re an object,” Ornate Hand Soap Dispenser tries to tell me, “Our purpose is for their use and that’s it.” I don’t get it, but it seems that Toilet has accepted his fate. 

Sometimes there’s also Brown Hair Close, who comes to my domain and uses Sink and Ornate Hand Soap Dispenser before making a hasty exit. “He needs to learn to keep it in his pants,” Ornate Hand Soap Dispenser mutters, but I have no idea what she means by that either. 

One day Blonde Hair Close comes in. She doesn’t use my light, but she does use Toilet in a strange manner, being lower than Blonde Hair Far. She looks up and I can see her face. She dispenses water, like Sink. I question Ornate Hand Soap Dispenser, who mutters something about there being a new Blond Hair Far. 

The burn of my light goes out a few weeks later, proven when Blonde Hair Far wiggles Switch. Switch has been here as long as me, and I often ask him about our connection, but he doesn’t like to answer me. Blonde Hair Far comes in and takes Ornate Hand Dispenser, who wishes the rest of us luck. I am scared. Without my light, and without Ornate Hand Dispenser’s wisdom, the half bathroom is kind of eerie. I become worried when Blonde Hairs stop coming in completely. Is it because of me, because I cannot make light? 

Switch notices that I am anxious and speaks up, “It’s not you. The power is off. And them? They’re not going to come back. But there will be more, don’t worry.” Switch turns out to be right. Soon half bathroom is cleaned by new wanderers (Skull Cap Giants, Bare Brown Head), and I am illuminated again by Box Braid Black, who refers to me as Beautiful Victorian Flush-Mount.

Ani came back from school one day. The house was quiet, she liked it better this way. She preferred the silence over her parent’s loud screaming. She ate leftover pizza from yesterday and took it to her room, where she picked up a book to read while eating. She was going to get her homework done later, she told herself, but she could never put down this book no matter how many times she’s read it. She just couldn’t keep her mind away from the sword-wielding heroine with fiery hair. 

Her parents arrived home together, she could tell because she heard their screaming before they even entered the house. She planned on staying in her room for the rest of the night. Maybe sneak into the kitchen once both her parents had gone to bed. She heard their argument turn to her.  Ani knew she wasn’t liked, by either of them. She’s been told that their marriage was ruined when they had her, that they would be much happier if she wasn’t there. It looked like they were finally going to do something about it. 

Ani heard their footsteps approaching. She quickly locked the door and got away from it. Her heart began raising and her breathing got heavy. They were screaming at her to open the door. The doorknob shook as badly as her hands. Then they started pounding on it. She knew they would knock it down soon. She looked around her room and her eyes landed on the window. Without a second thought, she climbed through and ran. Ran until the screaming of her parents could no longer be heard. Ran until her legs burned. She ran until suddenly she was falling. The world blurred around her and she felt her body go cold and wet. Then she fell into blackness. 

Ani finally woke up. She looked around and saw long trees with vibrant green leaves. She felt warm, despite feeling cold just-well however much time passed since then. She could see a figure approaching from behind the trees. It was a girl, with long red hair and two braids tied to the back of her head. She was wearing silver armor and a sword on her back. A sword? She must still be unconscious because here in front of her was Gwenn Clementina. The heroin from her favorite fantasy series ever. 

“Oh, you’re awake! Good, well come on” Gwenn said as she started walking back into the forest, stopping once she realized Ani wasn’t following. Gwenn walked back to her and held her hand out in front of her. “Don’t you want to come, Ani?” She did, she really did. So Ani held her hand and let herself be pulled by Gwenn. She never thought about home, never thought about her parents. She would never know that she was in the newspaper the next day, warning people that the rail on a cliffside broke, and it was the tragic ending of a girl named Ani.

“You’re not a brand, you’re a person…” I whisper to myself.

A recitation proved useless, despite its truth.   

Sat atop my navy covered mattress, shirtless, hunched over where the mounds of my vertebrae are visible. Staring blankly at the post button after months of waiting to capture that “perfect” series of photos. Finally I’ve done it, but I can’t bring myself to post it as I’m overly attentive to critique, the unproductive kind. The kind that I’ve carefully implanted in the minds of an otherwise indifferent audience. 

Suppose I can’t bring myself to understand that no one actually cares. Suppose my fear of judgment has clouded my own. And suppose social media has detached me from people more than quarantine has.

I click back. Save draft.

“Man, what the hell. I thought I was over this.” With a defeated motion I lay to my side from my curled position, now forming a “me” shaped crater in the bed and staring at myself in the mirror. 

For the past month I’ve happily indulged in sharing who I am with the world and not adhering to my comedy niche, or brand, or content schedule or feeling like I owe anything to anyone. For once, I allowed myself to just be me. Posting video game clips, my favorite poems, scenes of my favorite TV shows. Anything that wasn’t some stupid skit or joke or whatever. 

I lost about 543 followers in the past three weeks of being “off-brand.” It’s okay I guess; it shouldn’t hurt as much as I allow it to. 

A young woman had reached out last night as I’d been going to bed. Tapping at my screen I look at the message requests and see hers, it reads: “Hii I just wanna say I really love ur content!! :)))” 

I responded, “Thank you, you’re very kind.” A part of me doubts she was telling the truth because it’d been about a month of no funnies… but I appreciated that little spark of validation.

Perhaps, people like her are the ones that matter. I checked my followers list and she showed up, not leaving after I have been showing up as myself lately.

“What the hell…” Mustering the courage, I am prepared to lose more followers. “I don’t owe these people anything. I am me, that’s my brand.” 

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Post.

The dreaded Sundays. I mean Sundays were already awful, to begin with since it was the end of a wonderful weekend and the start of another mundane week. Sundays felt like the world was stopping and the only thing humming was silence. That’s the best way to put it. I particularly hated Sundays because they were hair oiling days on top of the endless amount of homework, I had to do that made it dreadful as is. Hair oiling is a rite of passage for South Asian girls. My mom would warm her hands with coconut oil and lather up my hair. I hated the feeling because it made me look weighed down and greasy. My scalp would feel hot, I don’t know whether it was the fact that I didn’t want my hair to be oiled or the actual oil making me heated. She would work in the oil and nag at me about an endless number of things. That added to the torture. I would try my hardest trying to scrub the oil out in the shower by shampooing over and over. Emulsifying the shampoo and working a lather. No matter how much I tried to wash it out it remained.

I wish more memories of things remained the way the awful ones do. Traditions are funny because no matter how much you hate them, you don’t know whether to pass them down or not. I hated my mother oiling my hair then, but I would give anything to keep that around forever. Almost as long as that oil still remains in my hair to this day.

Every day reality gets worse, bodies dropping like leaves in autumn. Human rights disappearing like a snowman in a heatwave. The future is as on fire as California during the summer. Yet I’m supposed to ignore the things happening around me and keep on going. Ignore the people dying around me, just like I ignore the fear in my heart. Yes, I do live in a “safe state” so safe that an “active shooter incident” happened less than a year ago at my college. Where I used to go to avoid the turmoil at home, and in my brain. 

Walking into rooms automatically in survival mode, mapping out escape plans in every space. Walk around with a knife in my boobs, and a scream in my throat. While remembering to never scream for help cause no one is coming to my rescue. Having to scream fire, because the loss of property is more important than the loss of human life. Walking into classrooms and automatically thinking about all the ways I could escape. Questions gather up at the back of my mind, all while a smile plays its role on my face. How far am I to the emergency staircase? If I jumped from that window could I survive the fall? What can I throw at the shooter? How far is the nearest hospital? Is it even worth it to try to survive? How can I let the police know that I am not the shooter, just one more victim? 

I’m scared of a thread that is yet to come. Not going out on days when the weather calls for it because I’m scared of what could happen to me. Scared of what people will do in the name of a god whose name they don’t even really know, praying from a book they have never actually read. Using the teachings set to be interpreted by biased men with agendas filled with hatred. 

My sister keeps on sending me pictures of the baby she just had and the thoughts in my head and the fear in my heart have only gotten worse ever since. A 10-month-old black baby living in America. I’m terrified of the thoughts that pop into my head because of the things happening around me. I am terrified of what people will do to him because of the color of his skin. So many questions in my head all without an answer and I want an answer. I want someone to give me the answers. Is he gonna die at the age of 12 like Tamir E. Rice for holding a toy gun or will it be at 16 like Angelo Crooms all because his music was too loud and he could not hear the police officer. Will he be killed at a later date? Will he even get to turn 18 and live to be anxious about what college he got into? Will he get to go to prom and make mistakes with the person he loves? Will he turn 21 and have his 1st official drink with his dad? Will he be able to have a family of his own? Will he take control of the family business? Will he take after his dad or his mom? I can barely sleep at night, I lay awake thinking of all the ways he could die. All the ways I could die. 

People are constantly asking me why I say that I don’t want to be a mother. Well, I don’t want to be a mom because I could not send my child to school to be murdered. I couldn’t help them get ready every morning just to hope that they come back to me alive and without the trauma of being shot at in a place they were supposed to be safe. I couldn’t go to work every morning and wondered if I’m going to make it back to them or if they were going to lose me. I can’t have a kid just for me to lose them. I can’t have a child just to watch them lose their innocence. I can’t have a child to watch them be a victim. I refused to bring another victim into the world. I refused to give the news another face to put on their headlines, another name to be forgotten like words in the wind. 

Sacred

My first time was behind a dumpster in an alley.

 It was a chilly, cloudy evening in Los Angeles, and my friends had convinced me to go out with them: I wasn’t doing anything, after all. On went my denim jacket, ratty sneakers, and wooly sweater, to the tinney bar down the road. 

“Those? Why don’t you put on something nice?” I recall her, Sadie, saying. Her cheeks were flushed, rosy, and her inky black tresses were flat ironed into a middle part, unlike her normal waves. I didn’t know at what point she started acting differently, but I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. I knew her before she started drinking, after all. 

“Because,” I said. “I’m not going to show off.” 

She ruffled my hair, urging me to hurry, stepping outside to where our other friends were waiting – another guy and girl duo – Calvin and Claudia, twins. I’d only drunk with them in their backyard, and they seemed pretty tame, so I thought it was okay.

They were having a great time, somehow chatting up the barista through the bumping music and bustle of people while I sat alongside them, a brandy cola in front of me slowly disappearing through my straw. Taking in the sweet, syrupy smell of Coke, my eyes lingered on the antique surroundings, the rustic walls, and blurring, horizontal lines on the old television. I supposed the place was meant to be vintage. I didn’t realize how badly I was slouching until Claudia’s voice caught my attention.

“What’s got you down?”

“Yeah, you haven’t said much since we left.” Calvin added.

“Lotta classwork is all,” I waved her off. An understatement, since I was failing two courses at the time.  

“Then kick back an’ relax, no?” He chuckled, lifting his beer bottle as if to cheer me on. I gave a smile to the two, but in hindsight, I was far too exhausted to be in a boisterous environment as I was. Sadie had been in her own little world, sipping a gifted cocktail from a flirty stranger, which left a space between me, Cal and Claud. 

Then, as if out of nowhere, the feeling of someone close raised the hairs on my neck. Bleached, yellowy hair and amber eyes turned toward me, settling in the vacant bar chair, next to my friends and I. 

“How goes it?” His voice was low. There was a southern accent to him, but I couldn’t pinpoint where from. 

“…Fine.” I answered, after a moment of silence. He waited ever so patiently for his drink, his few free fingers hooking the edge of the bar in anticipation, while the other palm rested in his pocket. The bartender brought out a shot of vodka and he tapped his fingers on the table, tossing the bitter liquid back into his throat. His eyes were back on me as soon as they left.

I sunk into myself, my stomach beginning to churn. 

Something about him was off. Something in my gut told me to go home. Something, something – and I didn’t listen.