The Rightful Wrongdoer

By Kika Salgo

"The Rightful Wrongdoer" takes readers back to the 1950's in America, a time when who you loved and how you loved was harshly judged and scrutinized. Living in this world, Tessa finds herself immensely attracted to a female coworker. Now, she must summon up the courage to explore a lesbian relationship that she knows is dangerous, and one that she believes her father will find shockingly wrong.

Not only is Tessa struggling with accepting her identity, she is also having to face her new reality after her mother's death. Throughout this captivating story, Tessa must fight her sadness over the loss of her mother and come to terms with her romantic urges that are taboo in this era.

Tessa lives with her father who is also mourning the death of his wife. As he tries to piece together his own life, battling alcoholism and work pressure, he gets entangled in his own affair with a young local florist. As the story progresses, Tessa and her father ultimately recognize that these shared human qualities bond them closer together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667840079

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The Rightful Wrongdoer

©2022 Kika Salgo

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

print ISBN: 978-1-66784-006-2

ebook ISBN: 978-1-66784-007-9

Contents

Chapter 1. Estranged from Common Love in Secrets Known

Chapter 2. Indecent

Chapter 3. Friends of Foe

Chapter 4. Trials of the Lobster

Chapter 5. Sonar

Chapter 6. Tears of Two Departed Souls Alike

Chapter 7. A Dream, a Shard, a Chore

Chapter 8. The Broom and I

Chapter 9. Revlon

Chapter 10. Barbara

Chapter 11. Lemon Cookies

Chapter 12. Vices

Chapter 13. Always

Chapter 14. Broken Bells

Chapter 15. To Eat a Chocolate Croissant

Chapter 16. An Abode for Me

Chapter 17. Worthy of a Chocolate Perhaps

Chapter 18. A Paper By Looking Glass

Chapter 19. Stellar Performance

Chapter 20. Betty

Chapter 21. Little Red Riding Hood

Chapter 22. Wouldn’t It Be Nice?

Chapter 23. Grandma’s Dress

Chapter 24. The Flowers

Chapter 25. Child’s Play

Chapter 26. Let’s go Stargazing

Chapter 27. Of Secrets Told and Lies Unfurled

Chapter 28. Must Have Forgotten

Chapter 29. For Truth of Insanity

Chapter 30. A Seed of Cherries

Chapter 31. Sinful

Chapter 32. Halite

Chapter 33. Simply Pencils Erred in Wrongful Placement

Chapter 34. Stormy Weather

Chapter 35. When All Rains Down

Chapter One

Estranged from Common Love

in Secrets Known

I give up trying to claim you, and, likewise, you would give up too if you ever got the chance. To quit is a privilege given to the silent few who swear secrecy and live their lives as such. I try to love in such that way, but the burden of my half-truths is worth giving up for the risk of true love. How do you live with your burdens?

You could say I have superpowers, the ability to see through walls and book covers, painting a perceived mindset for others; the ability to spread my fairy dust thin atop another’s blanket, and that’s what they are, abilities. My powers are neither power nor strength, just abilities for better or worse. I prefer an optimistic outlook but others beg to disagree. If a sin is what they call me, then so be it, sin is what I am. Though pride is not of what I have, it is what will come. Surely, it will come.

I paint my eyes along your face, my gaze piercing through your skin like a torpedo in water, but your heart isn’t there when you don’t stare back. It beats slowly, carefully, waiting for the right time to confess unsure love. I know you want so bad to show me, I think at least. I think you think that too about me. Maybe we could find a way to love, to take this risk.

The cup in my hand tilts slightly as I peer farther into the depths of your face. The deeper I stare, the faster my chest pumps blood throughout my lips. Your eyelashes are flawless by the way, not that you needed to know, though I believe they could reach to the moon and back. That was weird, I know. Still, the upward curve of your pink nose gives music to my life, and your speech gives rhythm to your melodic melody. Your songs ripple through your ocean blue eye, and, in this moment, I can think of no ocean deeper. They pierce into my own, slicing my skin, as I think about how silly it is for me to believe I will ever have you to claim mine. For now, you probably belong to any man worthy of your love; you probably don’t even like me or any girl for that matter.

Still, I can’t help but picture you without your conscious mannerisms, framing your face and kindling your sleek blond hair. It falls back effortlessly into a messy, but put together bun on the back of your neck. I reach up to touch my own, placing a stray curl behind my ear. Papa calls my hair a bird’s nest, but I prefer to think of it as the surrounding tree, though, for church, it must be tied tight in a low bun, each strand giving meager life to the next. Isn’t it amazing how one can love another so seemingly different than oneself and yet, feel the other person’s feelings as their own even if they don’t exist? I do, and if I try hard enough, maybe you can too. My coffee cup tilts a bit more, as my hand is growing tired of holding it up, but I ignore it while my eyes are fixed on you. When you look back, however, it is neither me nor my heart you notice. Instead, your gaze is fixed on my outstretched arm.

Your coffee’s spilling, you say and turn back to your conversation. It is at that moment I turn my head to find a steady flow of brown liquid staining the office carpet on an old building’s floor. It must be over a hundred years old by now, though it hasn’t changed much from its roots of an office building. My job is that of receptionist and I have little intention to quit any time soon, for marriage seems not of my interests. Don’t get me wrong, I love the idea, but my picture of my marriage is of two wrongs, not one; with you, I could do much more than settle, I could soar. You are so beautiful, so lovely in your mannerisms, my god, how I wish I could hear your voice, gaze upon your gorgeous face from the moment I wake, to the moment my eyes find restful closure. That, however, will never happen, not now at least, so I shake away those thoughts. Honestly, I don’t quite know what it is that draws me near; you are not particularly ordinary, nor exceptional, though your face, the way you speak, how you move through space, it’s flawless.

With my focus now solely on the spill, I turn my hand upright, allowing the remainder of the coffee to settle in my cup. I lift it slowly so as to not spill anymore and place it gently on the desk beside me. With my free hand, I grab a tissue, bend down, and begin to clean the carpet. My hand scrapes back and forth in a rough frustration, a frustration ever growing, for I realize the coffee has become an uncleanable stain; so I’ll leave it be for now. Still kneeling on the floor, I throw the thin napkin in the bin beneath my desk and watch as the coffee from the ground forms a new puddle across the bottoms of the small container. I give up; honestly, you know I try, I really do, but I now see I must realize how silly I am to validate indecency, for it is a horrid thing, truly. Perhaps, maybe?

The hour continues, though feels like hours in comparison to the unappealing shift I work. Certainly when I work alongside you suspense is an unwanted presence in my fragile emotional stance; the cover of my book of life is fraying at the edges, revealing pages and pages of unread fantasy, and that’s what I do. I fantasize. Boring as this job is, I can still find it in myself to take refuge in my fantasies, usually over a good book or a bland cup of coffee. A receptionist has little to do when patients are few and far between.

Polio’s disappearing, slowly, but enough to place my mind in my thoughts, enough to lend me boredom, away from the chaos that once was so prevalent. Years ago, though the memory is far from gone, Mama was struck with the debilitating disease, respiratory, and I had watched her fade away with it. At first it was just a headache, just a cold, you know, nothing to worry about, and we had thought as such. Though, in the following days it became clear that her condition was not improving and we were forced to give her up to the hospital. They had told us, Papa and I, she would not make it through the night and so we stayed by her side for hours; each minute shining new hope she would make it out. She did, in fact, make it through, still time made little change to her prognosis. Sadly, the day after admission, it was decided that she could no longer breathe on her own and the iron lung was the only place fit to care for her, and so they did. Her frail, weak body was placed in a monster of a machine with simply a mirror to view the world around her. Upset is not quite the right word to describe myself when she finally slept. She was my sun, moon, stars, sky, and the only person I had ever confessed my feelings to. She was the only person who knew I was estranged from common love, the only one who I could trust, and it was her who lost her life. I had lost myself when she passed, for she was the only part of me that understood, not Papa. Papa would never understand my suffering, instead looking to his own way of logic and blame himself for his mistake of having me, because that’s what I am, a mistake. Never did I tell him and never will I do so. I wouldn’t want to burden him too.

It’s been a long hour, still, the coffee stain seeps prominent on the dark yellow carpet, though I don’t have the energy to clean it anymore, so I find myself staring at the ground, hoping it will perchance fade. I know it won’t though, and eventually I will need to bleach it; besides, I could use the exercise. Slowly, I find it in myself to turn my gaze from the floor and place my hands on the table, scooting my chair back, and standing up. Smoothing the wrinkles out of my skirt, I take a deep breath, exhaling sinful thoughts and vanishing oxygen. To the right of me stands the doorway, looming over our workspace, echoing forgotten memories of breathless iron lungs humming their iron songs.

Each time I venture into this hallway, I remember her voice and her own song. She had so much life, so much; such energy could fuel a plane. She was so vibrant, such a radiant artist, both in life and in death; she is still present though, I feel her presence.

I take my hand to my head with great discomfort, as such thoughts circulate, pulling a curl straight and watching it bounce back again. It shakes slightly, tickling my cheek and then my ear, as I place it behind. With my head held heavy, I begin my journey to the broom closet to get the much needed bleach. The office carpet stops at the edge of the doorway, leaving a bare tile floor at the other side. I step through the threshold, sure to step softly as there are, in fact, few people sleeping in the rooms beside me and I wouldn’t want my white heels to wake them. Quite rare it is, actually, for people to be here at all, certainly to sleep in the room idling in my current workspace. Since polio subsided, the hospital has had significantly fewer patients. My hands brush along the wall as I walk briskly towards the end of the corridor. The tips of my fingers are growing numb from the bumps in the wall, but it’s alright. It’s a nice feeling to know there’s something there if I fall, for the language of instability is the same in both mental and physical forms. This floor brings back so many memories of past misfortunes, each one grinding into the soles of my shoes like potholes on a busy street; but I try my best to conceal them by walking faster.

I no longer care how loud my feet are, for my mind is now set, and concentrated on finding the end of this seemingly never-ending tunnel. The hospital is quite large in size and has many long corridors and hallways. This one, for instance, is one. And, for me, is a path less taken than that of the one leading to the hospital entrance. This way is for much sicker patients, patients like my mother, though I am a peaceful onlooker, for death is a painful uncertainty. I look up to find the door is but a few feet away, so I keep my gaze straight in front of myself. The soles of my shoes grow louder with each step they take, sounding down the hallway, and making their way back to me, and then, they stop, though their sound still rings throughout my head, pounding behind my eyes. With my right hand, I smooth my hair back into place, taking a lone curl behind my ear. Thereafter, reaching out towards the doorknob, turning it slowly so nothing falls out; the door creaks quite loud when I open it. On the top shelf is the bleach and other related miscellany forgotten. I grab it along with a box of tissues and a towel, closing the door and making my way back to my desk, dropping the tissues on the floor beside me.

Now flustered, though always flustered, I crouch onto my knees, bent tightly over the stain, scrubbing viciously. It’s coming out but slow in process, still I have time; for today’s not too busy, and I have few calls to tend to. Besides, cleaning is a great distraction from my complicated train of thoughtless thoughts. My hands move back and forth, creating their own rhythm to my broken melody, and I start to hum along, quietly though. I don’t have much of a voice, and to be heard would be an unwanted embarrassment.

There are ten people in this office space, each with their own respective desk. Yours is in front of Suzan’s, which is next to mine on my left. The others are irrelevant as it seems the only people I talk to are you and Suzan, though you show little interest in getting to know me. That’s understandable. What do I have to offer? Suzan and I are a bit closer, though we are still only colleagues and rarely venture out of the workspace together for more than a coffee. She doesn’t catch my eyes like you do, and even if she did, it would never work out, for she has a husband. She has children. Her face is plain, brown eyes, brown, shoulder-length hair, neither slender nor plump. Your eyes are blue and unique with contrasting blond hair. It falls at your waist when you take it down, flowing in the light wind of the large room. We speak usually about men together, the three of us, rather Suzan does; she asks when we will find the one daily, as I have yet to find one likable, though I try. Each time, you answer the same. You tell her that guys just aren’t your type and then look at me; perhaps offer a smile my way. I’m flattered by the way.

After some time, be it ten, maybe fifteen minutes, the stain grows to be but a smudge of brown liquid and my arms are getting tired from scrubbing. With short relief, I lift the towel off the ground, placing it on the chair beside me. Grabbing the desk with my right hand, placing my left on my thighs, I pull myself from the ground to stand in front of my unfinished paperwork and unread newspapers. I pick up one, as it’s recent and I haven’t gotten a chance yet to glance upon it.

The title is stated boldly on the front: Two women found kissing in a public lavatory. My heart sinks upon reading the first few lines of the article, as it seems they were prosecuted, prosecuted for the mere act of loving one another. My eyes go wide as my mind goes numb, a feeling then spreads to the rest of my body, pouring through my arms and past my fingers, flowing across my table with such force, the wind stirs in front of me. Thus, I fold the paper neatly in my hands, crouching slowly to place it in the wet trash bin beside me. It is there the stain lies, and seeing as I am in no state of mind to work, it seems only fitting that I continue my mindless attempt at conquering the stained carpet. Once more, I push against the ground; however, this time, I make sure to tear a hole where the stain once was, for I wonder, is it truly so wrong to be loved? So many papers there are, so many articles, each detailing the same consequences for assumed violations of proper love, and it ails me so. Truly it’s an infestation to my chest; to think it could be me. To think it could be us.

My goodness, Tessa, you’re still fighting that stain you spilled? Twenty minutes, Tes. Twenty minutes of scraping this filthy ground? Your knees must be black by now, why, this is the deepest cleaning it’s gotten in thirty years; honestly I worry about you sometimes. Is everything okay at home, your father doing well? I look up slowly to see Suzan’s head peeking out from the top of the low standing dividers between our desks. Her gaze set directly at my hands along the damp carpet. I blink my eyes slightly to regain sight of reality and process the words directed at me.

Oh! Yeah, yes. I guess he’s alright, I mean he’s okay as okay can really be, I pause my hands for a moment as I continue in a mellow speech, Still pressing my marriage though. I don’t, I don’t know really. To be completely honest, I don’t think I’ll ever know. I let out a light sigh, releasing air I’ve kept in for a while now. Suzan’s eyes just stare blankly in my direction, confused as to what to say next. Pessimist would be a nice word to describe myself; unstable in my disorganized life. Suzan, however, Suzan finds the best in people, a counterweight to my negativity. You are the mediator, neither flustered nor calm, though precise in every action, correct in every bold word spoken. She looks at me, this time opening her mouth to speak.

It’s just a matter of finding the right man, you know, no one interested me like John did, and now, we are happily married. It just takes time, Tessa, give it time. She smiles slightly at my growing frown of deep chagrin.

How much time does time itself possess?

My thoughts now turn to the world for my arguments of pleas and guilty begging. Why am I a burden to you? Let me be seen as one of you, as a human, not an animal to be toyed with and thrown from one man’s hunger to the next. Let me not be victimized by you, as it is not in my capacity to understand the nature of your love, nor to expect a blue-eyed man rather than my blue-eyed love. I love, truly, I do, and I love in a way foreign to you, though I am not angry, just hidden. You can see me, still I hide in your shadows and churches, hidden not from all seeing eyes, but instead from blind minds. Maybe you can one day see the world through my eyes, through the eyes of a rightful wrongdoer, for wrong can only do so wrong when possessed by intention rather than fate. It’s beautiful, by the way, my perception of us, your people, not that you needed to know. This is my fate, this way of sight, an ever increasing yearning for validation that I am not crazy; however, I must believe that there is validation for those of insanity, that it’s surely okay to be proclaimed less than sane. Is it? Every single person who walks your terrain, we are all insane to punish one another when another is the same self. Every single person here, we pretend to know our way when, in fact, life is a guessing game built with the intent of entertainment for oneself, for it is fun to watch us struggle. To thrive would be to bore and life must not be as such, for one’s life mustn’t be in vain. Therefore, we struggle. We all struggle, yet no one knows, because it is a secret, our secret. Every single person holds it yet still keeps it to themselves, for it is wrong to be uncertain in this silly game of life for which we all claim mine. Still, it seems you’ve dealt me faulty cards. Perhaps if I had known, perhaps if one had told me, I would never have had to face this narrow tunnel. Let me go now, as I would hold no grudge. Sadly, thoughts do little to brighten my mood and once again my thoughts are for the girl with ocean eyes. I guess your eyes are always crying, as this is a new expression for me. I’ll get over it.

Thoughts move like oceans through my head as my eyes pour out their rivers, but I make no sound, for rapids were meant to crash into edges, and it seems as though I lack barriers. I take my hand to my lap squeezing my black dress to clean off my sweat, and then move it to my face to wipe my thin stream of hardening tears off my face, but they too leave a stain. They stay on my face like corn syrup, spreading slowly, but never leaving, and I guess they never will, for I am forever stained by this fate-inflicted burden of sexuality. Sexuality such as my own is not ideal when idealistic standards are set by privileged people, therefore I cry. When my tears run dry, my hands sweat their own rivers, flowing along their own path of shameless shame, rather shame that mustn’t be but is.

My gaze brings me back to the now drying stain on the carpet, but I can barely see it through the still bodies of water collected behind my eyelids. It’s silly, really, how one can be so distraught by their own thoughts. Honestly, you could be sitting alone, thinking little of your troubles, neither caring nor regarding the fact they are even there, when your brain slips, plummeting at an appalling rate toward unreachable depths. It is there your troubles grow into a plethora of puddles, drowning all prior lack of thinking, and spilling into your placid state of self-worth. To get out is then left to you and you alone, for no one is able to care when they don’t know your burdens because your mouth is sewn shut, and words won’t sound through a closed mouth. Eventually, you will find your way out, though you know it won’t be long before you fall once more. A cycle it is, a repeating cycle; relentless, rampaging, unjust, inevitable.

This dress, it was your grandmother’s, my mother’s. It was her favorite. She would wear it to church every Sunday and when you get older, you will wear it too. This dress holds memories, Tessa, memories of her. It still has remnants of the scent of her cooking. It was so good. I wish you could have tried it, but she’s gone now and has been gone since I was as old as you are now, so I’m giving this to you, to remind you to be in your child’s life for as long as you can. When you have granted me grandkids, they will know you by the smell of your cooking too. Be good. That day was the day I learned the meaning of womanhood; to bear a child through heterosexual intercourse. It was a lesson from Papa I have yet to forget. I was fifteen at the time of this lecture and hadn’t yet thought of boys nor understood the meaning of being with one.

Throughout elementary school, it was my belief that love was love, regardless who received it. Love is still love, but I now understand its purpose. In middle school, the girls in my class, they spoke about boys, and I joined in on their conversations, for I thought they were speaking thoughts of friends and nothing more. I had a friend, his name was Jack, and we were close. Jack and I, we were inseparable. We ate lunch together every day, skipped rope in the school yard, wrote poems for one another. I remember distinctly his way with art, how he would paint me flowers for my birthday and my portrait multiple times. Each portrait would exaggerate my features, abstract my figure; would be quite pretty when finished, quite flattering.

When I turned fourteen, Jack gifted me a kiss on the cheek, and I took it willingly because that’s what friends did, nothing more than friends. I thought he was being dramatic, so I brushed it off and giggled, but Jack kissed me a second time, this time, a light peck on the lips. We both turned dark red, though I was purple, and my cheeks were warm, for it never occurred to me that Jack felt more than friend about myself. I just sat there, sitting on the empty hallway bench, staring at my feet for a few minutes as he tried to apologize, but I shook my head and walked away, as I realized I much fancied Jessica instead, and that thought hurt. Jack just wasn’t the same after that.

Papa has long since forgotten the dress, and so have I; however, I still keep it in the bottom of my thoughts, the bottom of a brown chest of wood. Perhaps it remains hidden by the caged devil on my left shoulder, as my angel had drowned far too long ago for years to count, nor century or millennia. Thus I lack morality. After a while, I suppose I’ve learned to live with my demons, to become my demons because acceptance is far better than denial. After all, denial is but a figment of one’s imagination, as it is, in itself, an unwanted secret. I see how you look at me, when I’m not watching, Piper, I know that look. You’re a bad liar. Perhaps not. Though, if not me then who else?

So many articles in the paper, so many detailing love, my love, as though parasites were the foundation for human’s love. Love such as mine mustn’t be seen as human, thus humans are proclaimed a dangerous risk, a prosperous species. Media tell of such species, spilling known secrets to the listening eyes of eager readers, as though the sound of sick love will raise the status of those telling. But only anger can result from selfish pleasure, selfish greed, self-proclaimed power.

A vigorous tap on my tender shoulder wakes me from my thoughtful slumber. And I jump slightly upon impact of the unexpected collision between Suzan’s finger and myself, as I had been daydreaming for what I now realize was quite a long time.

Chapter Two

Indecent

T essa! behind me a welcoming voice calls out my name, so I turn to face it. Once again Suzan’s head is peaking over the thin air separating my space from hers. Optimistic as she is, her hair always manages to be as distraught as my thoughts are, as though she can tell my daily mood. I swear that woman doesn’t own a decent comb or brush. The day is over, it’s time to go. TESSA! I snap my head around quickly to face her, allowing my hair to fall from its bun whipping into my face, causing my eyes to water. Together, we stare blankly at each other, stunned by Suzan’s lack of silence and my ability to make the quiet sound so loud. Honestly, I don’t know what to feel anymore; confusion fits, though I don’t think confusion would be an appropriate applicant to my melancholy aura.

Thoughts consumed me today, thoughts consume me every day, though Suzan had managed to scare them off, and, at that, I laugh. I laugh until contagion controls my laughter, placing a small grin on Suzan’s face as she tries to hold back her giggles. Eventually, however, the laughter manages to conquer any sane consciousness we may have had, until tears are pouring down our faces. This time, the tears pour like fizzy soda down my cheeks, tickling my face and streaming their sweet, sticky sugar into my skin. Suzan falls back into her chair, drowning in hysteria, while I, already sitting in my chair, fall forward, doubled over with laughter, this laughter only made stronger by the fact that my hairpins are flying from my head, crashing down onto my desk. You listen with confusion to our howls, eventually joining into whatever game we are playing. I look up, only for a second, revealing puffy red eyes and a swollen face as I struggle to catch my breath, though you begin to laugh as well and, soon, we are the last ones left, left nearly unconscious by a deafening silence of grand hysteria.

Out of breath, I struggle to stand up, my legs wobbling underneath me, as I push myself out of my chair. With my left hand, I grab my hair tie, carefully placing my hair back into a semi-neat, twisted bun on the bottom of my head. My hands shake as I twist my hair around itself tying a messy bow on top of the bun itself, taking time to place hairpins along the fly-aways that managed to escape my grasp. As I begin to find myself again, you walk from your own desk, making your way to the side of mine, blocking my way out. It is there that you stand, waiting for me to speak to me, but your words never come, or maybe they did; I honestly couldn’t tell, for I have lost myself in the beauty that you encapsulate with such eloquence, so I nod my head in agreement to whatever proposal you have made, finding myself trapped in the cage that is an after-work coffee break with you and Suzan. After a few steps, I turn back, as I had forgotten to take my purse from its spot on the back of my chair.

You lead the way out of the office, hiding the tears that you are still wiping off your own face, confidently placing one foot in front of the other, loudly tapping your quite high heels along the floor. Personally, I think you have no shame, and for that, I envy you. Such confidence in your stride will do you well, Piper, it will do you so well to love yourself, or is it my love that blinds me? What a strange question to ponder, though lacking sincerity in statement.

Would I see you for your flaws if I let go of sinful red roses, would I watch you for your struggle? Perhaps you have secrets, and, likewise, we all do, thus indeed your shame is real and it is greed that pulls me closer, greed to find perfection in such sincere privacy as your own. Perhaps you would like to keep it that way, though my selfish manner would bluntly object to secrets. Then again, we all have secrets, we all have our own struggles, our flaws. Open my eyes to satisfy my greed, Piper, let us share a conversation.

Your hair, curled into a blue bow tied atop your head, flows behind you painting the room a golden blond, a light contrast to my curly bird’s nest sitting at my shoulders. Suzan walks next to me, babbling as usual about her day, a calming distraction to my own anxious mind. We walk together, making our way to the exit leading to the front desk, stopping at the doorway to turn off the lights. You pause there for a second, turning around to face me, You should keep your hair down more often, I like it. You look down, smiling slightly, watching your feet as your cheeks turn red. I catch your color on my own face, sharing what I think to be a passionate moment with you. And I smile back, making sure to radiate my joy across my face; however, your face turns to fear and you turn around quickly, leading Suzan and me out of the room. Confused, my footing slows as I ask myself what I had done so wrong to displease you. No longer will I smile in your direction, though you may catch me staring.

Miscellaneous. We are all random, each and every one of us, for we are but chemical compounds of this world’s subconscious. And I have questions. Have we all had sight before vision, words before language, touch before feelings, flavors before taste, smell before scent, and if so, how did we lose it all? Was it for power? Though power comes before control and control is not of my abilities, though I have many. My thoughts travel fast through my mind as my emotions continue to spill rapidly. Why has it come to this point where I am a mistake, a burden, an ant, a fly casting its shadow on a smooth white wall? Why must I sit in shame for my sinless sins? I am, after all, merely human, miscellaneous, yet every human is as such. I often wonder about my place in the unforgiving world, because I don’t belong. Perhaps in an alternate universe, I could be wanted, though that universe seems awfully far away. Is it selfish to have temptation?

Miscellaneous. That word sounds fresh in my mind and old in my mouth, for reality is that of unwanted pleasure. It could be paradise if I make it as such, though I have no desire to change myself. Perhaps, I should; I could if necessary, though my transformation would be far from permanent. I have tried, actually, multiple times in the past, and each has proven impossible to maintain. Miscellaneous. I cry sometimes about that word. I cry sometimes about many things, as crying pours my pain away, yet my hands are always there to soak it up. I cry in private about myself, miscellaneous, because I am as such. I am myself, and, myself is myself, broken, cracked, rotting from the inside out, a ticking time bomb waiting to explode with unwanted words and tears of unfiltered love. Myself is me and I am not enough. I try to be. I try so hard inside. No one ever will see the struggle they know so well.

In this moment, however, my timer begins to slow and my focus is solely placed on the mission ahead. Did you ever manage to finish that sweater? you ask, a sudden spark of conversation. You stand beside me as we walk down this empty street, but it seems as though I could leave at any moment without causing so much as a few questions hours later.

What sweater? Suzan begins, her eyes as slits as she continues forwards in deep confusion.

The one you started a few days ago, you know, you pause, smiling, the grey one—

They’re all grey. I glance at my feet before glancing back up to you, resting my salty eyes against the tender air surrounding. Suzan loves knitting, and will bring it often to the office with her; never have I seen her finish but a single project actually. And I smile at such a thought, as here lies yet another sweater forgotten. She opens her mouth a little, but finds not the words.

I thought— but stop. The one you were making me? The lighter grey. You press your eyes against her blunt gaze, as her cheeks grow rosy red, your hands held staunch atop your own bag, Fine. Keep your secrets then. But Suzan ignores you entirely, turning her attention to me.

You doing anything at all interesting, Tes? The air seems to stop upon her question, and I turn my gaze once more towards the ground below.

I? No, I bite my lip, I guess not–

Figures, she chuckles. "No boys