Misha and the Purple Moon Prophecy

By Tanya Koller

I welcome you, my apprentice wizard, to the tale of Misha and the Purple Moon Prophecy. A tale that will take you not only on a journey to another dimension where wizards, dragons, shape shifters and other mystical beings roam the medieval lands of Zauruktah, but on a much more ambitious journey through your own personal awakening to higher consciousness. Open your mind and heart to the wisdom of the wizards shared in this tale, and shed the shackles that have kept you hostage to your own limiting beliefs about who you are and what you are capable of. We are all powerful wizards at the core of our being, and the time has now come for you to experience the full extent of your own greatness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tanya Koller
• Release date: Jul 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9780995960404

Book preview

Copyright © 2023 by Tanya Koller

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-8747-8 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-8749-2 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-8748-5 (eBook)

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1 - Misha

Chapter 2 - The Cabin

Chapter 3 - The Endless Cave

Chapter 4 - The Maleficus Vesper

Chapter 5 - Theodore

Chapter 6 - The Battle Bear

Chapter 7 - The Panther

Chapter 8 - Into the Forest

Chapter 9 - Gustave’s Story

Chapter 10 - Makamapee Mountain

Chapter 11 - Tristan

Chapter 12 - The One Great Truth

Chapter 13 - The Scars We Bear

Chapter 14 - The Final Battle

Chapter 15 - The Purple Moon

Chapter 16 - Home

Note to reader:

Acknowledgments

When I think of all the people that I am grateful for, my daughter Natasha is the first to come to mind. Thank you Monkey, for being the inspiration behind my determined efforts to raise my personal standards to the highest possible level. Being a good mother to you has been the most important endeavor of my life. I knew I had to become the best version of myself in order to honor the faith you put in me when your precious little soul chose me as your momma. Thank you for always cracking me up with your crazy antics, and for being the wild, strong and free-spirited woman that you are today. You are my everything.

It is with immense gratitude that I thank both my mother Huguette and my sister Sonia. Thank you for being such inspiring, beautiful and unique expressions of what it looks like to be strong, wise and kind leaders. Thank you for making your way through this life with such integrity and compassion, that all those who cross your path, benefit from even the shortest of encounters. Thank you for the hard work that you do, and for the grace in which you do it.

To my dear friends…where would I be without you? Your love, support and faith in me has helped me rise above my own self-limiting beliefs. Your friendship has carried me through this thing called life in more ways than I can say. Thank you Luch, Heather, Little Buddy, Raseeka, France, Rosa Maria, Pauly and all my other lovely friends. Your friendship brings me so much joy that I cannot imagine my life without each and every one of you.

I offer my heartfelt gratitude to Heather, Natasha and Little Buddy for reading my manuscript and giving me honest feedback. Thank you to Nirmala Nataraj, Pat Verducci, Dianne St-Germain, Sigrid MacDonald and Barbara Avon for all your editorial expertise.

Finally, I would like to thank all the people who have crossed my path throughout my lifetime. I’ve learned a lot from our encounters, and I appreciate the gift that is you.

"Identifying oneself as such…limits oneself as much.

Strive to be no one thing, in order to be every single thing."

Zuladar

Chapter 1

Misha

"OH MY GOD!! How am I ever gonna get out of this?!"

I’m completely surrounded, bullets are whizzing by my head, and I’m being attacked from all sides.

Dammit… I’m running out of ammo!

I have no choice…I have to make a run for it! I shout as I weave and dodge the highly skilled assassins hellbent on killing me. Yet, despite my best efforts, I don’t even make it half way down the block before I’m shot down.

My heart is racing a hundred miles an hour as I watch the small group of men who are about to finish me off — quickly surround me.

I ain’t going down like this!

I manage to drag myself up on my feet… face my assailants, and fire off the last of my remaining ammo…

But it doesn’t take me long to realize that it’s no use fighting, I’m completely outnumbered. There’s nothing I can do…there’s no escape.

Nooooooooo!!!!

I die.

This sucks! I screech in frustration, throwing my game controller down. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Jake gloating smugly at me. I turn to look at him. Although we’re in the basement, the long, horizontal windows allow the sun to shine right into his eyes, making them look electric blue. He pushes an unruly lock of dark hair out of his face and gives me a crooked grin—the same annoying expression he always gives me when he beats me at video games. My heart skips a beat. He’s just so damn cute—there’s no way I can stay mad at him, I think to myself, admiring his high, model cheekbones and his hair; which always looks messy and perfect, as if he’d planned it that way rather than just rolling out of bed and looking instantly adorable. As always, I feel a flush of pride knowing that Jake Forester chose me, plain jane Misha Patrevsky, even though he could have any girl he lays his eyes on.

I’m quickly taken out of my love-soaked reverie by the cutting sound of Jake’s laughter. I’m the master of deadly weaponry, Misha—the ultimate assassin. Stop acting like a sore loser and accept it!

Even though I’m less than impressed, I playfully stick my tongue out at him and scoot closer to him on the couch, attempting to be flirtatious and sexy. More like a master of joystick fighting! I exclaim, ruffling his hair.

He doesn’t take the bait. He simply shrugs his shoulders and shoves another fistful of chips into his mouth, leaving crumbs all over the couch. I wince, thinking of what my mom is going to say when she comes home to this mess.

It’s as if mom and I are telepathically linked. When I look down at my cell phone, I see that I’ve received a text message from her: Don’t 4get to bring those docs 2 the lab. 4got them this morn and need for vry impt mtg. Call me.

I roll my eyes and toss the phone on the couch. Mom has been working long hours at the lab on some cutting-edge technology project—a machine she calls AVRLE, or Authentic Virtual Reality Life Experience. I’m not entirely sure what it’s about, but it’s the only thing she ever talks about on the rare days that we actually spend time together when she tears herself away from her lab.

It’ll revolutionize the way doctors treat comatose patients, she always says. When she told Jake and me that her machine stimulates brain functions through virtual reality, it actually sounded kind of cool.

You mean, like video games? Jake had asked.

I had almost laughed when he asked that question, because it seemed like such a far-fetched association, but surprisingly, she nodded. Yes, actually, it’s very similar. In fact, the idea that AVRLE operates on, is that like video games, every possibility we can imagine already exists, and it’s the choices that we make—both around our thoughts and our actions—that elicit the pre-determined response we get from AVRLE. AVRLE engages with people’s consciousness and nervous system by creating a very complex virtual world for them to live in, allowing them the opportunity to have a similar experience to a regular, normal life in a physical body even though they are in a coma. We believe that this enables the patient to maintain a higher level of brain function while unconscious, and hopefully, it may even help to facilitate and expedite a full recovery.

Jake laughed. Pretty awesome stuff, Dr. P. Playing video games while you’re unconscious? That sounds like my idea of a good time! You’re a real technomancer!

She jokingly rolled her eyes. Although I’ll be the first to admit I’m not the biggest fan of video games—considering you and Misha are in the basement playing them for hours on end—they’re a good metaphor for what AVRLE was designed to do. The idea is that the machine ensures that vital areas of the brain stay switched on and engaged. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that we get a patent on the technology very soon.

Despite my curiosity, I yawned. Sounds like an awful lot of work to keep a vegetable alive, I’d quipped, glancing at Jake to see if I’d impressed him with my wit. He had given me a delighted smirk, which made my heart soar. Admittedly, I felt a twinge of guilt when I saw the expression of disappointment on my mother’s face. I knew she loved talking about her work, and it really was fascinating…but I was tired of Jake always calling me a momma’s girl.

Part of me feels bad about ignoring my mom’s text, but I’m having a perfectly comfortable Thursday afternoon with Jake. Quality bonding with the boy I love.

I can just pretend that I didn’t get my mom’s messages if she ends up screaming at me. No big deal.

Wanna play again? Jake asks, giving me a nudge that’s a little too hard.

Ouch! I say, rubbing my arm. Hey, watch it!

He rolls his eyes. You’re such a crybaby, Misha. Come on, what’s the matter? Don’t want to risk losing again? He gives me a devilish wink, but I’m too annoyed to be swayed by his charm.

We’ve been playing Guerrilla Executioner since we woke up, Jake. It’s almost 2 p.m., I say. Why don’t we go out?

Jake snorts and takes a swig from the soda bottle on the antique coffee table my mom bought while on a trip to Italy many years ago. I wince when I notice he isn’t using a coaster, but I don’t dare upset him by saying anything. He slouches deeper into the couch and gives me a cursory glare before swiping more of his perfect hair away from his intense blue eyes. I’m fine where I am, thanks, he says icily, turning his full attention back to the new 4K ultra HD TV I finally convinced my mom to buy.

I sigh and inwardly groan. Sometimes Jake has these mysterious mood swings, moving from a smart-assed (but still sexy) jerk to a cool and distant brooder within a matter of moments. In the last six months, I’ve grown increasingly patient with these sudden shifts, figuring that unconditional love means accepting every part of him.

Of course, he’s never used the word love with me, so why do I even care?

As soon as the thought comes up, I feel guilty and push it away. I know that Jake’s parents died in a tragic car accident five years ago and that he was immediately sent to live with his aunt and uncle who had been estranged from his parents for years. Sure, five years may seem like a long time, but I understand, from experience, that dramatic losses can impact a person deeply—mess with their ability to open up…to trust…to love. It would certainly explain Jake’s inability to get close to people. He’s probably afraid of losing anyone he lets in.

He just needs a little more time—a little more time to figure out that I’m the real deal, that he can trust me, that I would never leave him…that we’re perfect together.

Just as I feel my heart begin to melt, Jake turns on a dime and shoots me a sardonic grin. Actually, I like the idea of going out…after one more game. I’m pretty hungry and pizza sounds like a good idea, he says as he pats his stomach.

And without even taking his eyes off the TV screen, he chuckles and adds, But not for you, babe…your waistline called and said it wants its old jean size back!

And just like that, I feel my heart drop into my stomach. Huh? My mouth is open in a grimace of surprise and hurt. I’m not exactly a supermodel, but I’m no more than maybe ten or fifteen pounds heavier than my ideal weight. I can feel tears stinging my eyelids, threatening to fall, but I swallow hard, determined not to let myself cry in front of him.

He widens his eyes and gives me an innocent look. Hey, babe, I’m only trying to watch out for you. Heart disease and high cholesterol are silent killers you know. He hits a few buttons on his game controller; he’s powering up with new weapons, ready to play another round.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve tried to ignore Jake’s snide remarks—ranging from insensitive comments about my not being the sharpest tool in the shed, to increasingly cruel jabs over my weight.

I think I tolerate it because Jake is the only person who seems to understand my desire to experience something more out of life than just doing what I’m supposed to. I had met him only a few months before high school ended, and he was everything I’d ever wanted: handsome, witty, smooth, and a complete rebel who didn’t care what anyone thought about him. He might not have been book smart, but he sure was a master when it came to video games. And so much of what he said made sense to me, because it wasn’t based on just theories, but on valuable life lessons. Unlike so many of the people I’d grown up with—rich kids with severe entitlement syndrome—Jake was tough, street smart, and therefore, far more credible than most people I knew. He wasn’t exactly deep or philosophical, but after I announced my decision not to go to college, his words were exactly what I needed to hear: You’re not a kid no more, do whatever you want…you don’t need anyone’s approval.

I had felt so supported at the time, and that was only about six months ago. But recently, I’d begun to doubt everything I’d been so sure about. How had things changed so drastically?

His voice interjects my jumbled thoughts.

Chillax, babe. Why don’t you play another game and get your mind off things? He pats the couch next to him, inviting me to sit down.

I can’t believe it. Is he really still trying to convince me to play a game, even though he just told me I was fat a couple minutes ago?

I don’t think so, I say, trying to keep the sharpness out of my voice in order to appear unfazed by his insensitive comment.

Whatsa matter? Are the hot video game chicks too much for you? He shoots me another devilish grin.

Damn that handsome face! Why can’t I just walk away from you?

I refuse to be jealous of a video-game vixen conceived of and brought to life by some socially inept computer geek, I coldly say.

Touché, babe! Jake says, grinning. "But seriously—there are girls out there who actually care about how they look."

And once again, I feel myself dwindling to a tiny speck, like I’ve been decimated by one of the vaporizing guns in Jake’s video game. Why are you even with me? I ask quietly.

Instead of rising from the couch to comfort me, he gives me an unreadable look and says, Because you’re the only girl I’ve ever met who isn’t half-bad at playing video games. Are you gonna sulk all day or are you gonna go to the next level with me? He holds out my game controller to me. I can sense a hint of a threat in his voice.

I sigh, defeated. I figure that it can’t hurt to play another game. Besides, if I say no, he’ll probably end up leaving—and then I’ll be all by myself, which will just end up making me feel worse.

Misery loves company, after all…

Okay Jake, bring it on. We settle into our usual spots on the chip-covered couch and prepare to do battle. I’m fired up and determined to win this time. I have to regain my honor, and it looks like winning is the only way to do so.

He pumps the air with his fist. I knew you wouldn’t let me down, babe. That’s why I like you so much.

I wince. There it is again—that word, like. I don’t know why it still bothers me.

I settle onto the plush couch and tentatively cuddle up against Jake. I’m relieved that he doesn’t push me away as we settle back into another round of Guerrilla Executioner.

Things could certainly be worse, I think to myself as I take in his scent—a heady mixture of sweat and day-old cologne.

As the body count on the screen multiplies, I feel myself drift into a dreamy state. I think about the first time Jake and I met. He didn’t go to my school, but I’d seen him at various high-school parties in the last year or so. I thought he was gorgeous right from the start—but then again, most girls did. I never mustered the nerve to actually talk to him, not just because he constantly had girls hanging off of him, but also because I could tell that most of my friends thought he was bad news.

That guy is a total player, my friend Tanvi, whose family moved here from India 5 years ago, had hissed in my ear when she caught me stealing yet another glance at him from across the room one night. Seriously, Mish, whatever you’re thinking—don’t.

I wasn’t thinking anything! I had retorted, almost embarrassed that my admiration for Jake had been that obvious. But secretly, I was taken aback by Tanvi’s warning. Was Jake really the heartbreaker everyone believed him to be? In truth, I’d always been well-liked but not exactly a boy magnet, so I had chalked up my growing obsession with Jake to a harmless crush. There was no chance we’d be exchanging words or anything else with each other anytime soon.

But he surprised me one night at a lake party after a rugby match between my school and our rival. It was a more relaxed night than usual, with small handfuls of kids clustered around in quiet conversation. I was looking for the friends I’d come with and I couldn’t seem to find them. Unbelievably, Jake sauntered right over to me.

It was a storybook moment…except, I think my mouth was hanging open in astonishment and I couldn’t actually bring myself to say anything.

Hey, you’re Misha, right? he asked, in that deep, sexy voice I’d come to love so much.

Um, yeah, I responded, awkwardly.

I just wanted to tell you that you have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen, he said with perfect sincerity.

I was totally dumbfounded. I don’t think anyone had ever told me I was pretty. I’d gotten cute a handful of times. Mostly, I was nice, reliable, easy to talk to, a cool girl. But pretty?

Thanks…uh…, I mumbled, not knowing what else to say.

Wanna skip pebbles on the water together? Jake suggested. It seemed like a childish activity, but it was also strangely romantic—not the kind of thing a street smart 19-year-old guy would normally suggest. I was absolutely sold.

Since then, Jake has been my first love. Even though no one in my life is crazy about the amount of time we’ve been spending together, especially my mom, I don’t care. Yes, Jake can be cruel and petty, but he also makes me laugh harder than anyone else. And even though he seems to prefer his video games to me lately, he has been the only person in my life who seems to really understand me.

Just as we’re getting into the thick of the battle, the home phone rings. Jake pauses the game, but I can clearly see that he’s annoyed. He takes his video games very seriously, especially when he’s winning.

Hello? I say after picking up the phone.

Unsurprisingly, it’s my mom. Crap! I exclaim to myself. She usually calls my cell, so I gather that she’s probably been trying to get in touch for a while now.

Misha—how’s your day coming along? You didn’t pick up your cell phone, so I thought I’d call the home phone. Have you finished folding the laundry and cleaning up a bit? I hope you’re not wasting your time on the Internet or playing video games.

As always, she expects the worst of me. Mom…I’m old enough to decide what I want to do with my time. I don’t need you breathing down my neck and criticizing everything I do! I exclaim, wincing as I hear the whiny tone in my voice. I glance at Jake, who has an amused let’s see where this is gonna lead expression on his face.

Or everything you don’t do, Mom wryly says. I can just imagine the look on her face: somber, disappointed, wondering how she ended up with such an underachiever for a daughter.

Before I can respond with a sarcastic comeback, she says, Listen, I need you to do me a favor, Misha. It’s important. I left some documents on my desk this morning, and I need them in time for the board meeting at 4 p.m.

I try to play dumb. What board meeting? What does any of this have to do with me?

Jake chuckles to himself. He hates how bossy my mom can be, and he always appreciates seeing me stand up for myself. You’re a grown woman, Misha, he always says. You don’t have to take your mom’s bossy attitude.

Yeah, I’m a grown woman, damn it! I feel a surge of energy in my body.

You’re always calling me irresponsible, Mom, but it sounds pretty irresponsible of you to forget your documents at home. Why do I have to come in and save the day when you make a mistake? Aren’t you always the one nagging me about accountability and telling me I can’t expect others to bail me out all the time? I can hear the volume in my voice get dangerously close to the tipping point at which my mom will completely snap at me.

Jake raises an eyebrow and nods his head, like I’ve done something worthy of his respect. You tell her, Misha! he mouths.

My mother’s voice gets eerily calm. Misha, I am not going to repeat myself. Bring the documents to my office immediately.

I can’t help but feel totally invested in this pointless argument, so I start to protest, even though I know that I’m crossing the line, which means my mom will probably do something drastic—like take away my cell phone or video-game console…or maybe even my motorcycle. I take another look at Jake, who is clearly loving every second of my defiance. I must admit… it feels good to be a bad-ass.

Jake cocks his head and gives me a look, as if to say, What’s it gonna be? He impatiently pats the couch next to him and whispers loudly enough for me to hear, Do you wanna play mama’s girl or go another round with me?

I can feel the fire rising from my belly to my throat. Inside, is all my pent-up anger at the people who have second-guessed me or put me down—my dad, my mom, my friends, and even Jake. I can feel the heat of my hurt and frustration, of my growing hopelessness; of the sense that I have been wronged and the world only sees a punching bag, not the person I truly am. And maybe it’s not the best thing to let out, but I can feel that inferno getting bigger and bigger, like a volcano that’s about to blow its top. I can’t hold back any longer, I’m just so sick and tired of being told what to do.

I begin screaming into the phone.

Where do you get off telling me what to do? I’m an adult! I’m 18 freaking years old for crying out loud! I’m not just some stupid baby you can talk down to! It’s no wonder dad left you!

Jake’s eyes are wider than I have ever seen them, which lets me know that I’ve gone way over the line. My head is spinning and I’m charged with adrenaline, but I’m also shocked by the force of my own words. I don’t think I’ve mentioned Dad since I was about 12 years old, when he walked out on us.

The silence on the other end of the line is almost deafening. Uh-oh, I’ve really done it now—she’s gonna kill me! I think to myself.

But when she finally speaks, her voice is calm, which scares me even more than if she were to shout at me. With an air of detachment and heavy Russian accent, she simply says, I work day and night in order to provide you with a life I could have only wished for at your age. You may be 18 freaking years old Misha, but you act like a child. You still live in my house, eat the food that I buy, wear the clothes that I pay for—and all you do is sit around all day with that loser boyfriend of yours.

The anger comes flooding back. Sorry for being such a disappointment, I say, my voice dripping with bitter sarcasm. It must suck to not have a perfect little robot to show off to your genius friends. Jake rolls his eyes, confirming the lameness of my comeback. Apparently, the video game isn’t the only battle I’m losing here today.

"Misha, if you want me to allow your weekend trip to the cabin with your friends, you’ll bring me my documents now." Her voice is still calm, but it is also decisive. I can hear the anger simmering beneath her words. I know that she’s reached her limit, and that she’s dead serious about ruining my weekend with my friends. Although I haven’t talked with most of them since I started going out with Jake, going up to my family’s cabin in the woods every summer has been an annual tradition since we were kids. Given that I’m eager to reconnect with them and prove that my decision not to go to college is working out for me just fine, I’m definitely not about to cancel, and especially not with an excuse like my mom said I’m not allowed.

I suck in my breath and feel my shoulders dropping. Fine, I say tightly, knowing there’s no point in arguing. I’ll be there in 20 minutes. Before she can say anything, I hang up the phone.

Jake stares at me in disbelief. Are you really going to let her treat you like a three-year-old? I thought you were better than that. He shakes his head in disdain and turns back to the video game.

It’s not like I have a choice, I say defensively, crossing my arms across my chest. If I said no, she was gonna keep me from having my annual summer weekend party at the cabin.

Priorities, Mish, he says, as if he is the most responsible 19-year-old in the world. Even as his eyes begin to glaze over, his forehead creases with consternation as he gets deeper into the game. And if you think I’m gonna drive you, think again! I’m already on the tenth level, and there’s no way I’m leaving until I get to mastery.

And without even bothering to look at me, he adds, Oh, and pick me up a pizza on your way back, will ya babe?

I stare at him for a moment, not knowing how to respond, before I flounce out of the room in a huff.

What’s that saying, Misha? You teach people how to treat you. I angrily think to myself.

I snort derisively to myself. Apparently, I’ve done a bang-up job. My mother treats me like a baby and my boyfriend treats me like a doormat.

Come on, Jake! It’s pouring rain out, I really need a ride. I shout as I make my way down the hall to my mom’s office.

Sorry babe, it ain’t happening…I’m on fire here…no doubt I’ll get to mastery level today. He shouts back.

I can feel the blood boil in my veins as I storm into my mom’s office to get her documents. The angry, loud voice in my head is drowning out the sounds of gunshots and Jake swearing at the screen in the room next door.

I shout out to Jake, JAKE…IF YOU DON’T GIVE ME A RIDE…WELL…YOU CAN JUST LEAVE… and before I can stop myself, I add… FOR GOOD!

My heart sinks when within seconds, Jake responds, Not a problem babe, I’ll be gone by the time you get back.

What the hell just happened? I think to myself in shock.

A fresh wave of anger, sadness and frustration washes over me, threatening to launch me into a full-out panic attack. And as much as a part of me would love to indulge in a prolonged session of self-pity, the reality is that I just don’t have time. Not if I want to go to the cabin with my friends as planned.

I’ll win him back. I reassuringly think to myself.

As I angrily grab the manila folder on my mom’s desk and head out the door, I take several deep breaths, which puts me in a calmer state within moments. It’s a technique I picked up years ago, when I was seeing a therapist. It was partly to make sense of the nightmares about my dad that had taken over my previously peaceful dreamscape with a vengeance. Nighttime was filled with horrible recurring scenes of my father looming above me like a monster out of a storybook, fuming about how stupid, ugly, and worthless I was. Although my dad had left my mom and me when I was 12, I couldn’t seem to shake the memories of the things he used to say to me—and in my nightmares, they were exaggerated to the worst degree possible.

In that period, at around the age of 13 or 14, it felt like I was trudging through my waking life in a haze of anxiety and fear, wondering what I could do to keep myself small and inconspicuous so that I’d never have to deal with the possibility of failure, which my dad had always told me was inevitable. I couldn’t really talk about it with my mom, and as clueless as she seemed to be, she was worried enough about the dark circles under my eyes that she got me to see a shrink twice a week.

Dr. Bedwei was actually a really nice woman. She was a short and stocky woman in her early 40’s who always dressed impeccably in gorgeous colorful African fabrics from her native country of Ghana. She often wore a big scarf which held her beautiful black hair high in a pile on top of her head. She had an air of sophistication about her, and as kind and gentle as she was, one could sense that she was not a woman to mess with, lest you end up on the receiving end of one of her long endless sermons.

Dr. Bedwei was perhaps the only person I could really talk to about my parents’ breakup and the damage my dad had wreaked. My mother had become an obsessed workaholic, and I was terrorized by a cloud of insecurity and pain (not to mention, horrible dreams) that I couldn’t seem to shake off.

We were definitely better off without my dad—a brilliant scientist, just like mom, who also happened to be a heartless brute who took every possible opportunity he could to make both of us feel like we were about three inches tall. There was no room for weakness in our family, I can’t count how many times I’d been told to just, suck it up buttercup.

I think both of us were relieved when he left, but all the same, it felt like he’d left a curse in his wake. Life didn’t seem to get better for Mom and me—the void that Dad had left behind just filled up with other demons.

As I make my way down to the garage, I sigh to myself. I shouldn’t have been so mean to my mom over the phone. She doesn’t really understand me or the torment I’ve had to live through in the past several years, but it isn’t like she escaped Dad’s wrath either.

But she let him treat us like crap! She allowed him to install wall to wall egg shell carpeting throughout the house. It was like living in a house with hidden IEDs everywhere.

Even though my mom is a workaholic, she’s actually very kind and loving, it’s just that I hate when she tells me what to do. I mean, come on already, I’m my own person for Christ’s sake.

As I shove my helmet over my unkempt hair, hop onto my motorcycle and drive out into the pouring rain, thoughts of Jake so easily walking out on me, along with painful memories of my dad cause another hot wave of resentment to wash over me. My mind quickly gets caught up in the dramatic story I’m telling myself about Jake, my dad, and my whole screwed up life in general. This new burst of anger makes me feel even more agitated and anxious. Although the open space and cold air whooshing past my body bring me a much needed sense of breathing space, I’m still so livid that the only sense of relief I get is from hitting the gas and roaring off down the road.

Suddenly, I feel free. I feel as if, despite the fact that I’m so angry, sad, and confused, I have something that I can control. This sense of power grows in equal proportion to my speedometer.

As I dodge and swerve through traffic, I feel completely invigorated. I’m invincible, as far as I’m concerned. I flick my wrist and open her up even more. Everything in my peripheral vision starts to blur. My focus is purely set on what’s right in front of me. I’m riding this speed demon straight through my tunnel vision…

Then, suddenly…everything around me sputters and the whole world slows to a crawl. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the crunch of metal and the screech of brakes. My entire body feels like it’s been doused with a bucket of ice water, as the scene slowly unfolds all around me.

I’m literally frozen in fear, there’s nothing I can do…there’s no escape…

My entire life flashes before my eyes—then everything suddenly fades to absolute blackness.

**

When I come to, I seem to be in a room with no discernible shape or dimension. I’m completely engulfed in total nothingness, not even a pinprick of light or something to let me know I’m in a familiar place.

My mind struggles to make sense of it all. I try to shake my head, but I can’t even feel myself. I’m completely disoriented, and feel overwhelmingly vulnerable.

A flurry of questions come rushing in, which is a mild relief. At the very least, I seem to have my wits about me, even though my sense of time and space appears to have mysteriously vanished.

I try to shrug it off, in order to force myself to concentrate and focus my attention on what’s around me. I’m looking all around me but can’t see a single thing. A wave of panic washes over me as I contemplate the seriousness of my situation. I feel an urgent need to see something…anything at all! At this point, the smallest glimmer of light would give me the biggest glimmer of hope.

I desperately try to rub my eyes, but again, I can’t seem to move any part of my body. The frustration and anger start to build.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I struggle to retrieve the last memory of what happened immediately before this. I was with Jake…we were playing video games…we had a fight…I was supposed to take some documents to my mom…she was angry with me.

Everything else after that is a blank. It’s as though someone had rifled through the file cabinets of my memory and pulled out an entire drawer that held all the missing information I was struggling to assemble.

I have no idea what happened to me. Maybe someone is playing a trick on me, but it’s beyond my understanding of how such a trick could involve robbing me of my memory, my senses, and the palpable experience of time and space.

My previous fear is quickly taken over by heaping amounts of self-pity and defeat. I don’t know what’s going on, I don’t have the capacity to cry out for help, and it’s starting to feel like I’m going to be stuck in this hell forever.

I summon to mind Dr. Bedwei’s comforting smile and try to take several deep breaths. I attempt to silence the chaos in my mind, but there are so many loud simultaneous thoughts screaming to be heard. The confusion and mental mayhem make it impossible for me to hear anything outside the circus inside my head. I try again, this time sending soothing thoughts to myself, trying to quell the full-fledged riot that’s taking place within me. After what seems like an eternity, I finally manage to quiet the thoughts enough to see if I can hear something beyond the voices in my head.

I listen intently, straining my ears. I’m dumbfounded by the fact that I can’t hear a single freaking thing. I can’t even hear the recognizable sound of silence, that familiar hum that reveals itself when every other distraction has fallen away.

Is it that there truly is no sound at all in this place, or is it that my ears are simply not capable of hearing anything? My mind struggles once again to make sense of this non-sense. I recall hearing my mom say that smell is the most effective trigger of memory; perhaps I can remember where I am or how I got here if I manage to sniff out a clue. Once again, for what seems like the millionth time, I focus my mind and turn my attention away from the onslaught of fearful thoughts. I will myself to smell any scent that might be lingering in my immediate vicinity. I take a long, deep, conscious breath through my nose, inhaling as deeply as possible…but there’s nothing! Not even the familiar sensation of air filtering through my nostrils and filling my lungs.

Not only can I not smell anything…I don’t even feel my own breath.

Suddenly, I realize that a part of my mind is trying desperately to push a nagging thought down into its depths. I feel my mind panic as this unwelcome thought claws its way to the surface, evading every blockade. Although I seem to be caught in the grip of pure terror, I don’t actually feel any of the physical sensations that usually accompany such a state.

I can’t feel my heart racing or pounding against my chest, nor the icy cold waterfall of fear rushing through my veins. I don’t even feel the rapid, shallow breathing that would usually lead me to hyperventilate at a time like this.

I have no senses.

No vision, no hearing, no smell, no sensation, and, I’m assuming, no ability to taste.

And then, there it is—the inexplicable but unavoidable truth… I have no body.

No body to feel anything with.

No body to interact with the world around me—if there’s even still a world around me at all anymore.

Is this real? Am I imagining it?

My next thought sends my mind into a dizzying frenzy…

Am I dead?!

A shockwave of primal fear detonates through the entirety of my being. It’s a pure and crippling fear of the unknown, a paralyzing fear of being stuck in this mysterious purgatory forever, a full-blown debilitating fear of my complete inability to either foresee what’s next, prevent it, or defend myself against it. I’ve never experienced such an all-encompassing fear before. It completely blots out all possibility of comfort or hope, and I can feel it pushing the very boundaries of what I consider to be my sanity.

My mind is eventually pushed past its already fragile limits, and before I’m aware of it, I expel a soul-wrenching cry. Every fiber of my being screams out in protest at the absurd reality I