(This short story was written by my 4-year-old daughter for Grandparent’s Day.)

Once upon a time, there was Eva, Mommy & Grandma.
They were driving in their car to the beach.
Then they were parked at the beach.
They got out of their car and went swimming.
Then they played on the swings
Then they all went home and got out of their car.

Then Eva, Mommy and Grandma went into the house.
They caught their eye on something.
They walked close and it walked further away again.
It was a shadow that looked like a big monster!
Mommy and Grandma were scared but Eva wasn’t scared because she was brave.
Eva took her Moo-Moo, put on her purple cape and zoomed out there.
Moo-Moo took a bucket of ice cream and dumped it on the shadow’s head!
Then Eva flew out of the house and got help.
She picked some flowers and found a hummingbird.
The hummingbird sucked up all the flowers and grabbed the shadow, picked him up with her feet, flew outside and threw him to the desert!
Then the hummingbird took back the flowers and flew into her house.
Eva, Mommy and Grandma were saved and lived happily ever after.

THE END

My little girl wrote her very first short fiction today at pre-school. It’s better than most stories I wrote in college.

A Train One
by E., age 3

Well once upon a time this train brought mail to everyone. And then when he was done doing that he went home. And then when he went home he played with his friends. He played with his friends some more and more. And then when he was done doing that he took a nap.

THE END

“Tell me my story,” I said as we were leaving the store.

The cold night air greeted us as we stepped out of the brightly lit store and into the parking lot. There was no moon in the sky and it had become incredibly dark since we had started shopping.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Tell me a story, about me,” I said. “It’s a writing exercise, for the website. Tell me a story about my life.”

“I don’t get it,” she said, taking my hand as we entered the parking lot. “Why would I do this?”

“So I can get another perspective about myself. It will help me figure out how to better write about myself and events in my life if I can get an idea of how someone else sees my life.”

She crinkled her nose at this. “I’m not good at telling stories,” she told me.

I looked around in the dark for my car, but it was nowhere in sight. I led her by the hand towards the far end of the lot.

“You don’t have to be good at it, just do your best.”

“I’m not the storyteller here. You know I can’t even tell a joke.”

“I’m not asking you to tell a joke. Wait… are you saying my life is a joke now?”

“No, you know that’s not what I’m saying, goofball,” she said. “You can tell me a joke and I could immediately repeat it back to you and it wouldn’t be funny at all. It wouldn’t even be the same joke.”

“Well, try anyway. I’m not going to judge you.” I tried to sound reassuring.

“Um, okay.” She shrugged her shoulders and sighed. “There’s this guy, Jim, and he was born in Oklahoma but he’s not an oakie. He moved around a lot when he was a kid and ended up in Washington. Then he moved to California, and he went to school at—”

“I’m not asking you to write my obituary,” I interrupted. “Just tell the story.”

She stopped walking. “Look, I told you I’m not good at this!”

“It’s okay, you’re doing fine, just go ahead.”

“If I’m doing fine then don’t tell me how to do it. You’re making me self-conscious.” She turned and began walking again. “Where the hell did you park?”

I looked around the row of cars. Nothing looked familiar—I didn’t recognize the surroundings at all.

“I’m not sure,” I said, peering around in the dark. “I could have sworn I parked somewhere around here. Weren’t you looking?”

“No, I wasn’t paying attention. I was putting on my jacket while we were walking over to the store.”

“Oh.” I looked back towards the store. “Maybe it’s back over there.”

We began walking back the way we came.

“Look,” I continued, “nobody is going to grade you on it. Just tell me a story, my story. The story of my life, as you see it.” I gently squeezed her hand and pulled her closer as we walked. “I want to know what you think because I value your perspective, sweetie. It means a lot to me.”

She sighed again and smiled. “Fine,” she said, reaching over to hug my arm with her other hand. “There’s this guy who is not such a bad guy. The best guy in the world, actually. The best guy a girl could ever hope for.”

“I’m looking for a perspective I don’t already have of myself,” I said, grinning.

“Very funny.” She stopped walking and let go of my hand. “Wait a second,” she said, looking around. “Where the hell are we?”

We had walked several more rows of cars and were now standing in the middle of the parking lot. I couldn’t see my car anywhere. “I could have sworn I parked somewhere over here,” I said.

“You said that before.” She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head. “You don’t have any idea where you parked, do you?”

I furrowed my brow and looked past her. “Let’s try over there, I remember walking past that truck… I think.” I began walking towards the back of the lot, confused and lost.

She walked slowly, looking at the ground in thought. “I’m not sure how to tell this story thing,” she said. “I know it sounded like a news article before, but that’s because I don’t really know what you’re looking for.”

“I’m not looking for Pulitzer material. Just tell it however you want.”

“I could tell it much better if I wasn’t so cold. Where is the damn car?”

“There it is!” I pointed down to the end of the row where I could see the familiar taillights of the Buick. “See, I told you I knew where it was.”

As we got closer it became apparent that the car was a Buick, but it wasn’t my Buick. I turned left and started down the next row, feeling stupid.

“Okay,” she said, following after me. “I’ve got your story for you. There was this moron who parked his car somewhere and immediately forgot where he left it, then he froze and starved to death in the middle of nowhere while his wife took a cab home and changed all the locks.”

We finally found the car after several more minutes of wandering around aimlessly. On the ride home, once she was warm and comfortable, she began to tell me my story.

She told me the story of a boy raised in a difficult environment, always getting into trouble and constantly at risk of going to jail, who moved away when he was old enough and started an entirely new life in a new city. “The boy totally reinvented himself,” she said, “and he grew into a young man who had a new chance to become someone responsible. He was very smart and learned a lot about computers, and now he has a great job. And it’s all because he met this really great woman who saw that he was a total mess and straightened him out and he would be absolutely lost without her.”

“You got that right,” I said.

“Don’t you forget it.”

“See, was that so hard? That was fine.”

We drove on for a few more miles.

I asked, “Is that the end?”

“It’s only the beginning,” she replied. “The best is yet to come.”

The devil came up behind me and poked me in the back.

“Ow,” I said.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “I was trying to scare you.”

“What do you want, you ol’ devil?” I asked him, not too politely.

“I wish to make you an offer,” he said. “I am prepared to give you that which every man desires.”

I furrowed my brow at him. “And what would that be?” I asked.

His razor-sharp teeth glinted in the sunlight as he smiled.

“I will give you immense riches,” said the devil. “All the gold an elephant can carry. A sparkling red ruby for every grain of sand in the Sahara. Rivers of satin and pearls.

“I will make you famous, known the world over and admired by all. Women will want lay with you, men will want to be you, children will model their lives from yours. The old will see you and remember times when life was grand.

“You will inspire the world to turn. The moon and the stars in the sky will all shine by your command alone. You will be immortal.

“All this will be yours, now and forever, until there is no more world to possess.”

I sat down on the ground, giving overdue attention to an errant shoelace that had gone too long untied. “I see” was my reply as the rabbit went around the tree back through the hole. I squinted up at his tall frame and noticed that his silhouette in front of the afternoon sun looked like a large black gash that had been sliced deep into the universe.

“And what must I give you in return for all these things?” I asked.

“You must surrender your love,” he said. His knobby finger pointed over towards the long-haired girl kneeling in the garden, her fingers dancing a waltz in the soft earth.

“Abandon her, and all that you desire will be yours.”

The tired bones in my back creaked in protest as I stood up to look the devil in the eye. His breath was hot against my face.

“You, sir, are a dumb ol’ devil,” I said. “I am already the richest man in the world because I have her.

“The weight of my love for her would break the back of a dozen elephants. The volume of my love would flood the rivers and fill the oceans to overflow. Rubies and pearls and precious gems are dull and lifeless when held aloft beside the luster of her beauty.

“Those who look upon us feel envy for the love we share. When I am with her, I am the most powerful man in the world, strong enough to rival Ceasar, Napoleon, Alexander. Passion is my sword and it cuts deep into the heart of all things.

“The moon and the stars in the sky seemingly exist for her alone, suspended above as if only to illuminate her eyes and give them sparkle to shine.

“I am truly immortal, for I shall live forever in her heart. I am hers, now and for all time, until the world spins its last twirl into the sun.

“You see… All that I desire is already mine to hold.”

And with that, I socked the devil square on the nose. He fell backwards into a garbage can, sending it sprawling across the sidewalk with a loud clatter. A large bag popped free from the can and burst open into his arms.

“Ow,” he said, not too politely. A broken eggshell from the morning’s breakfast began a slow march down the front of his suit and rested peacefully in his lap. Somewhere nearby a dog began to bark.

     ”You can see him now.”
     The doctor led them down the long, bright corridor, through several sets of doors, into the ICU and finally to room number three.
     ”He’s still a bit groggy,” said the doctor, “so try and keep it brief.”
     The three young men strutted into the room and up to the bed.
     ”Hey, Ben,” said Donny, “how ya doing?”
     ”Hi, Ben,” said Joe.
     ”You look like shit, Ben,” said Carl.
     Donny turned on him. “Shut the fuck up, Carl,” he said, “he just got out of a heart transplant.”
     ”Yeah,” said Joe, also turning on him. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
     ”Hey,” said Carl, “don’t get all pissed at me.”
     ”Well watch your goddamn mouth.”
     ”Hey, fuck you Joe. He does look like shit.”
     ”I feel like shit,” said a weak voice behind them.
     They turned back to Ben. He was smiling up at them, his eyes half-open. His lips were chapped and he was pale.
     ”You look it, little brother,” said Carl.
     ”It’s good to see you guys,” said Ben. His voice was cracked and strained, and the tubes in his nose wiggled when he spoke. “How’s Mom?”
     Donny bent down and put his hand on Ben’s arm. “She’s fine now that you’re okay,” he said. “She’s at the clinic. They wouldn’t let her leave because she’s not looking so good lately. Otherwise she would have come.”
     ”She doesn’t look good?”
     ”She feels fine,” said Donny. “I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.”
     ”How’s the new ticker?” asked Joe.
     Ben blinked slowly a few times. “The doc says it’ll be a few weeks before they know if my body rejects it. They want to monitor me. But they think it’ll be fine.”
     ”Well,” said Carl, “at least you don’t have that shit on your genitals any more.”
     Donny turned and stared up at him. “What the fuck are you babbling about now?”
     ”His thing,” said Carl, “that thing he had. Genital infection or something.”
     ”Congenital,” said Donny. “It was a congenital heart defect, you asshole.”
     ”Yeah, that,” said Carl.
     Joe punched him on the arm. “Moron,” he said.
     ”Hey!” said Carl, rubbing his arm. “What am I, a goddamn doctor now? How’m I supposed to know what it’s called?”
     Donny looked back down at the bed. Ben’s eyes were closed. “You sleeping?” he asked quietly.
     Ben’s eyes opened slightly and he licked his lips. “No,” he said, “not any more.”
     ”Carl was on TV,” said Joe.
     ”Yeah,” said Carl, “I was at the Emmys and they got me on camera and everything.”
     ”He looked like an idiot,” said Donny.
     Ben smiled and his eyelids drooped a bit.
     ”I did not,” said Carl. “Anyway, this guy I work with, he got me tickets to the Emmys and I hung around afterwards. I got to talk to some famous people. And I got an autograph.” He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and held it up. Something was scrawled on it in blue ink, and there was an orange stain on it that looked like spaghetti sauce.
     ”Whose name is that?” asked Donny, peering up at the paper.
     Carl looked at it intently. “I forget his name,” he said. “It’s kind of hard to read, too.”
     ”Well, who was he?”
     Carl scratched his head. “Well,” he said, “he was that guy in Robocop.”
     ”You mean Peter Weller?” asked Joe.
     ”No, not him. It was the bad guy. The guy who shoots Peter Weller’s hand off.”
     Donny and Joe looked at each other then back at Carl. “I have no idea who you’re talking about,” said Donny.
     ”Well,” said Carl, “he’s not real tall, and he’s kinda balding with squinty eyes, and a pointy nose.”
     ”Sounds like a leprechaun,” said Donny.
     ”Hey, was he that guy in Leprechaun?” asked Joe.
     ”What? No!” said Carl. “Haven’t you seen Robocop?”
     ”I haven’t seen Robocop in years,” said Joe.
     ”Me neither,” said Donny.
     Ben coughed. “Ow, shit,” he said.
     ”You okay?” asked Donny.
     ”That hurts. It feels like I got kicked in the chest by a horse.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The tube in his nose wiggled slightly.
     ”Try not to talk.” Donny turned back to Carl. “What else has he been in?”
     ”Well,” said Carl, “you know that guy that was in The Crow? The bad guy?”
     ”Yeah,” said Donny, “he was also a bad guy in Robin Hood.”
     ”No, no,” said Joe, “that was the dude from Die Hard.”
     ”Not that guy, the other guy. The guy he kills.”
     ”Kevin Costner?”
     ”Did Kevin Costner get killed in Robin Hood, dumbass? No, it was the other guy.”
     ”You guys are both wrong,” said Carl. “He wasn’t in Robin Hood.”
     ”The bad dude from The Crow was too in Robin Hood,” said Donny.
     ”No, he wasn’t.”
     ”It doesn’t matter,” said Joe, “because at least we know who you’re talking about now.”
     ”Yeah,” said Carl, “but it wasn’t that guy. The guy I met just looks like that guy.”
     ”Well who was it then?”
     ”He was the bad guy in Robocop. I can’t believe you guys don’t remember Robocop.”
     ”Well get over it,” said Donny, “because we don’t remember.”
     ”He must have been in something else,” said Joe.
     ”He was in lots of stuff,” said Carl.
     ”Like what?”
     ”Hmm.” Carl looked at the garbled signature and scratched his head again. “You know the guy that’s on Millenium?”
     ”You mean the dude who was the robot in Aliens?” asked Joe.
     ”Yeah, that guy.”
     ”Yeah,” said Donny. “So that’s him?”
     ”No,” said Carl, “but he looks just like him.”
     ”This is not helping,” said Joe.
     ”Wait a minute,” said Donny. “You said he looked just like the dude from The Crow.”
     ”Yeah, so?”
     ”So, how could he look just like both of them? They look nothing alike!”
     ”What else has he been in?” asked Joe.
     ”Look,” said Carl, “you’re just going to have to watch Robocop again. I don’t remember his name.”
     ”You talked to him and you don’t know his name?”
     ”No, I don’t know his goddamn name!”
     Donny and Joe and Carl all glared at each other.
     An unfamiliar, muffled voice from behind them said, “His name is Kurtwood Smith.”
     They all turned to look at Ben. His eyes were closed and he was breathing softly.
     ”What did he say?” asked Joe.
     ”What did you say, bro?” Donny gently shook Ben’s arm. “What was that?”
     But Ben was sound asleep.

*          *          *

     Two days later, Ben was moved out of ICU and into a private room where he stayed for the next three weeks. He was looking and feeling better, and the doctors believed that his body was accepting his new heart. They told him that it was important he take it easy and try to stay relaxed, that the slightest excitement could cause his new heart to fibrillate erratically. They said he was young and strong and he was recovering quickly. He would be fine as long as he took it easy. He was going to be monitored for two more days and then he would be going home.
     He was sitting upright watching TV when Donny came into the room to tell him that their mother was dead.
     She had died at the clinic that morning. Donny said that it came suddenly, and without pain. He wasn’t surprised — the doctors had told all of them two months prior that the chemotherapy wasn’t working and that the cancer had spread from her lungs to her liver and kidneys.
     The funeral would take place in a week.
     He gave Ben a hug and left.

*          *          *

     A few days later Ben was at home. He was sitting on the couch, nursing a beer, even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to. He wasn’t supposed to do anything. Lay off the booze, the doctors had told him, lay off the booze or it’ll kill you. No booze, no fatty foods, no sex for a few months. They might as well have told him not to live for a while.
     He got up and went into the kitchen to take his medication. His scar was itching him terribly. And the more he scratched at it, the more it itched. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be doing that, either — the doctors had told him to lay off the scar until it fully healed. But it itched like something was under it, like he had to scratch down to the bone to relieve it.
     That night in bed he couldn’t sleep. The itching was awful. He had smothered the scar in skin lotion (the doctors had told him not to do that) and it still itched. After three or four hours of tossing and turning, he finally fell asleep. He scratched at the scar in his sleep, in his dreams; it was uncontrollable.

*          *          *

     The next morning, the scar spoke to him.
     He was standing in front of the mirror, looking at his bloodshot eyes, when he heard the unfamiliar, muffled voice.
     ”Good morning.”
     He froze. Was someone in the house? It sounded close. Then he heard it again.
     ”Good morning.” The voice was coming from behind him… no, it wasn’t behind him, it was beneath him. He looked down and saw nothing. He looked under the sink. Nobody.
     He heard the voice again, and his scar tickled him. “Hello?”
     He hesitated for a moment, then opened his shirt.
     In the mirror, he could see the full length of the surgery scar. It ran down the center of his chest, from two inches under his throat almost down to his navel. He saw that it was open. The folds of skin where the incision had been were slightly peeled back, as if they were lips or the opening of a giant clam, and his first thought was that it looked like a vagina. He felt like he was going to vomit.
     Then the vagina in his chest quivered slightly, formed the words “what is the matter” and he threw up into the sink.

*          *          *

     Ben sat on the cold linoleum floor and held his head in his hands.
     ”This can’t be happening,” he said aloud.
     He looked down at his chest. A thin trickle of pinkish liquid was oozing from the scar and dribbling down his stomach. He stood up and turned on the water in the sink.
     ”I need some more sleep,” he muttered.
     He took the washcloth off the towel rack and ran it under the hot water. Then he dabbed at his stomach until the pink liquid was gone. He turned off the water, dropped the washcloth into the sink, and looked up at his reflection in the mirror.
     The scar formed a crescent-moon smile and asked if he was feeling okay.
     Ben just stared into the mirror, his mouth open, his eyes transfixed.
     ”Stop talking to me!” Ben threw his fist into the mirror and it shattered.

*          *          *

     The scar talked non-stop for two hours. It asked Ben how he felt, what time was it, could he please rub a little more lotion on it. It told him that he needed to bandage his hand, that it was time to eat breakfast, that he was eating too fast, that he needed to chew his food more; it told him he was slouching. It criticized him for leaving his dishes in the sink, unwashed. It asked for more lotion. It promised to tell him all the secrets of the universe if it would just rub on a little more lotion.
     Ben covered his ears and stomped around the house, singing aloud. He switched on the stereo and turned the volume up to its highest setting. He jumped up and down and screamed. But still he heard the scar’s voice.
     ”I don’t know why you’re so upset, I’m only trying to help you know it’s not like you don’t need a little help, I mean look at you you’re a mess, you haven’t had a shower in two days, and if you would just rub a little more lotion on me you’d see that I’m not so bad and maybe we’d get along fine, and where do you keep the lotion anyways?”
     Finally Ben could stand it no longer and he got the lotion. He squirted the white aloe vera into the palm of his hand and hesitated. The scar was oozing again, and it was bright pink. He didn’t want to touch it.
     ”Come on, come on, what are you waiting for, that’s the lotion right?”
     Ben touched his palm to the scar it and writhed against his hand. He worked the lotion into the folds of the skin, all the while trying not to gag as the scar sucked at him. It moaned and squirmed and let out a sigh of relief.
     Ben pulled his hand away. It was now covered in pink ooze.
     ”Thanks, buddy,” said the scar.

*          *          *

     The situation presented itself again and again over the next few days. Ben would wake to the sound of the scar talking or singing. Usually it was begging for lotion and promising to tell Ben the secrets of the universe. It would demand that he take his medication and have a good breakfast, then it would reprimand him about his eating habits. Ben hardly ever spoke back to it, and when he did it was to scream for it to shut up. That seemed to only aggravate the scar and it would beg for more lotion.
     On Sunday morning the scar woke Ben and reminded him that it was the day of his mother’s funeral.
     Ben took a shower, shaved, lotioned the scar and got dressed in his only suit. He pleaded with the scar to be silent during the services. He promised the scar lots of lotion if he would only behave, and the scar happily agreed.
     The service was quick and quiet. Ben’s family was small — just him and his brothers — and they didn’t have too many family friends. The minister was a very somber man and he spoke eloquently, and everyone cried. Even the scar shed a pink, oozing tear.
     After the service, they all went out to dinner. There was a brief argument among Joe and Carl as to which restaurant (Joe wanted Chinese food, Carl wanted a burger, Ben didn’t care), and it was Donny who finally suggested Italian. Donny was the oldest, and the meanest, and everyone always took his suggestions.
     They all talked on and on about their mother, how happy she was and how she didn’t suffer at the end, and they did their best to convince themselves of this as they ate. Ben didn’t talk or eat. He sat staring at his plate, unmoving and unnoticed.
     ”Mom would have liked the service,” said Joe. “Not too many people, not too lavish, not a lot of flowers.”
     ”She was simple, very simple,” said Carl.
     ”She liked it that way.”
     ”Simple.”
     ”Yeah.”
     ”Both of you jerkoffs are jerkoffs, you know that?” Donny glared at them from across the table. “She wasn’t simple, she was poor. Her treatments and Ben’s operation saw to that. And she had no friends. Otherwise the funeral would have been bigger.”
     They bantered and quibbled for an hour while Ben stared at his plate. His chest was on fire, he wanted to scratch it and stab it and rub it with lotion. He wanted to get up from the table and run out of the restaurant, screaming, clutching at his chest, at his scar, at anything.
     The waitress cleared the table and brought them drinks, and Ben stared at his drink while the other three carried on their conversation.
     ”Eric Clapton was the greatest guitarist that ever lived.”
     ”Is, Joe.”
     ”What?”
     ”Is,” said Donny. “Not was. The dude isn’t dead yet.”
     ”Oh,” said Joe. “Well, then he is the greatest.”
     ”I don’t know how you can say that,” said Carl.
     ”I can say that because it’s true.”
     Carl snorted. “It isn’t. And I’ll tell you why. He’s totally unoriginal.”
     ”The fuck he is!” shouted Joe.
     ”Look,” continued Carl, “everything the dude has ever done was copied from someone else. He borrows from Deep Purple, Hendrix, the Yardbirds…”
     ”Wait a minute,” said Donny, “Clapton was in the fucking Yardbirds.”
     ”What?” Carl scratched his head. “He was not.”
     ”Yes, he most certainly was.”
     ”See!” said Joe.
     ”No, no, no,” said Carl. “You’re thinking of Cream or Traffic.”
     ”No,” said Donny, “I’m thinking of the fucking Yardbirds. And Clapton wasn’t even in Traffic.”
     ”But he wasn’t in the fucking Yardbirds, either,” said Carl. “That was Jimmy Page!”
     ”Jimmy Page was not in the Yardbirds,” said Joe.
     ”Shut the fuck up, Joe,” shouted Donny. “As if you would know shit from shit.”
     ”I know the guitarist for Led Zeppelin was not in the fucking Yardbirds!” Joe shouted back.
     ”He most certainly was!” shouted Carl.
     ”He was not!”
     Donny and Joe and Carl all glared at each other across the table.
     ”Both of them were in the Yardbirds,” said the scar.
     Everyone turned to look at Ben. Ben hadn’t been listening; he was still looking sullenly at his drink. He glanced up to see that all eyes were on him. “What? What’s up with you guys?”
     ”What do you mean, both of them?” asked Carl.
     Ben blinked. “What did I say?”
     ”You said they were both in the Yardbirds.”
     ”How would you know, Ben?” asked Donny. “You don’t even like rock music.”
     ”Yeah,” said Joe, “I thought you were into that country western shit.”
     Ben got up from the table. “I’m not feeling too good, guys,” he said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” He turned and bolted from the restaurant, pounding on his chest as he ran.

*          *          *

     He argued with the scar in the taxi on the way to the hospital. The scar had only been trying to help, and anyway it was sick of listening to them bicker about who was in what band according to whom. “They’re dolts,” it said. “I’m pretty sure you’re adopted.”
     The taxi driver kept eyeing Ben suspiciously in the rearview mirror. When they got to the hospital, Ben tipped him five bucks and apologized for arguing with himself in his cab.
     In the waiting room, Ben filled out eleven forms and read a Highlights magazine. The scar whispered apologies and pleaded and asked for lotion, just a little bit, and would Ben please go ask the nice nurse if she has some behind her counter. Ben ignored it completely.
     A pretty intern stood in the doorway and called his name. She led him into a cold room, gave him a tiny robe and left. He took off his clothes and put on the robe. There was nowhere to sit but on a cold metal slab that looked like an operating table. Another twenty minutes went by. The scar was silent, probably sulking, and that was fine with Ben.
     The doctor came in, the same doctor that had assisted in the surgery. He was reading Ben’s chart thoughtfully. “Good to see you again, Ben,” he said without looking up. “How are you feeling?”
     ”I feel okay, I guess.” He shifted uncomfortably on the table. “But I think there’s a problem with… the stitches.”
     The doctor looked up. “Really? What sort of problem? You haven’t been bothering the area, have you?”
     Ben shook his head. “No, but you see, the area has sort of been bothering me.” He reached around behind his back and untied the robe, letting it slip down on to the table.
     The doctor gasped and took a step back. “Good god!”

*          *          *

     Ben was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the drugs to kick in. After the doctor regained his composure, he had leaned into Ben for a good half-hour with a lecture about what it meant to take care of a surgical entry wound and a new heart. He bandaged Ben’s chest, drew some blood and prescribed him an armful of medicines. Ben had painkillers, antibiotics, antidepressants, immunosuppressants, vitamins, and god-knows what else. He took them home and happily ingested a handful according to the instructions on the labels and went to bed.
     He was almost asleep when the itching began. At first he thought he’d be able to tolerate it, but it got progressively worse as the night went on. Finally he could no longer stand it and tore the bandages from his chest.
     The scar gasped and coughed and sputtered. It begged for lotion. Ben got out of bed and retrieved the lotion from the bathroom.
     Groans of pleasure radiated from the scar as Ben rubbed the lotion into the layers of skin. “Thank you,” cried the scar, “that really hits the spot.”
     ”I didn’t do it for you, I did it for me. You itch really bad.”
     ”Sorry,” said the scar. “I don’t do it on purpose.”
     Ben went into the kitchen, got a beer from the refrigerator and sat down at the table.
     The scar proceeded to talk. It talked for an hour, then another, and another while Ben drank beer after beer. He tried not to listen but the scar’s voice was penetrating his drunken fog, and after a while it became obvious to Ben that he could not escape what the scar had to say.
     The scar made good on its promise and spoke of the secrets of the universe. It spoke of God and Heaven, of the nature of man, of the past and the future. It revealed how the Great Pyramids were made, and who made them; it spoke of the proof of alien existence; it revealed who really killed John F. Kennedy and John Lennon. It spoke of visions and prophecies and the end of the world. A great flood would come, followed by famine and disease, then a holy war that would annihilate all but a small handful of people on the planet. It said who would be spared and what kind of world would be rebuilt from the ashes.
     Ben was finishing his last beer and twirling the metal cap on the table with disinterest. He took a long pull at the bottle.
     ”You want to talk to your mother?”
     Ben stopped in mid-swallow. He set the beer on the table and looked down at his bosom. “What did you say?”
     ”I asked if you wanted to talk to your mother,” said the scar. “I can let you speak to her through me.”
     Ben quickly stood up from the table, sending the chair sprawling across the floor behind him. “That does it!” he shouted at his chest.
     ”What did I say?” asked the scar innocently.
     ”Just shut up! I don’t want to hear another word!”
     ”I’m only trying to help–”
     ”Not another word!”

*          *          *

     All three of them had rushed over after the phone call. Ben had sounded sick, panicked. They knew he wasn’t well — they had seen it at dinner, and now he was raving like a madman over the telephone. Something about his tits being possessed by the devil.
     Donny was first through the door. “Now what, exactly, is the problem here, Ben?”
     ”I’m sick, man. Real sick.” Ben was sitting on the kitchen floor with his arms folded across his chest and his back against the refrigerator. Donny sat down on his heels and looked into his eyes.
     ”Yeah,” he said, “you don’t look good.”
     ”He looks like shit,” said Carl.
     Donny turned and glared up at him. “Shut the fuck up, Carl!”
     ”Yeah, shut up Carl,” said Joe.
     ”Well, he does! It’s not my fault!”
     ”I feel like shit, too,” groaned Ben. “It won’t leave me alone and I think I’m dying.”
     ”What won’t leave you alone, Ben?” asked Donny. “What’s the matter with you?”
     Ben uncrossed his arms.
     Donny fell over. “Jesus fucking Christ!”
     ”God damn,” said Joe.
     ”That’s really gross,” said Carl.
     ”Hi guys,” said the scar.

*          *          *

     The doctor came out to greet them. They all stood up and took off their caps.
     ”How is he, doc?” asked Donny.
     ”He’s going to be fine,” said the doctor. “His heart is okay, but he’s totally reopened the skin where we performed the surgery. We’ve sutured him again, and I think we’ve got a handle on the infection. We had to give him a heavy sedative in order to get him bandaged — he kept clawing at his chest and at the orderlies. He’s also in restraints.”
     ”Can we see him?”
     ”Not right now. He’ll have to stay sedated and restrained until his infection clears up.” The doctor coughed nervously. “Now don’t be alarmed, but we’ve asked a specialist from the psychiatric ward to look at his case. He’s extremely delusional and aggressive. He may have to stay here for a while. It’s the best thing for him right now.”
     ”Oh, man,” said Donny.
     ”God damn,” said Joe.
     ”I told you he looked shitty,” said Carl.
     ”Shut the fuck up, Carl!”

*          *          *

     Ben’s eyes slowly opened. He blinked a few times and tried to sit up, but his arms wouldn’t move. Neither would his legs. He tried to lift his head to see what was holding him and was suddenly jolted by dizziness and nausea. He dropped his head back on the pillow and sighed.
     The pain in his chest was subsiding. He couldn’t feel the scar; the folds of skin were no longer thrashing and contorting under his shirt, trying to speak. He could tell that they had closed him up again, bandaged him, and that the medicine was healing him. Soon his chest would be completely healed and the scar would be silent.
     He sighed with relief and realized that he was incredibly thirsty. How long had he been asleep? He couldn’t remember.
     Ben tried to move his arms again. Something was strapped to his wrists and attached to the bed. Restraints. Now he remembered — he had been struggling in terror and they felt it necessary to tie him up. They had fastened the restraints too tight and his wrists were starting to ache.
     And something in his left arm was pinching him. Or rather, it was stinging or scratching him. It must be the IV, he thought. He wondered why it hurt so much, why it itched like that. His arm was really starting to itch bad now, like something was under it.
     Like he had to scratch down to the bone to relieve it.
 

Lauren stood behind him for a few seconds, waiting for acknowledgement.

“Which one of these pots do you like better for the kitchen window?” she asked, finally. “The yellow one or the green one? I’m not sure about the color.”

“Uh-huh,” he answered, trying not to lose his train of thought.

“It’s not a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question, Charlie. Please turn around.”

Charlie turned slightly in his chair and took his eyes off the screen. “What?”

“The pots?” She wiggled the pots in her hands.

He looked at the pots. “Yes, those are pots.”

“The color, dummy.”

He looked at the pots again. “That one is yellow,” he said, “and that one is green.”

“I know what colors they are!” Lauren shouted. “I’m asking you which one you like better for the kitchen!”

“I don’t know, pick whichever one you like best,” he shouted back.

“I’m not asking which one I like! I already know which one I like! I’m asking which one you like!” She let out a sigh in exasperation.

“Fine then,” Charlie said, studying the pots for a moment. “Um… I like the green one.”

Lauren furrowed her brow and glared at him. “But the green one doesn’t go with the oven.”

“Then why the hell did you ask me!” he shouted, waving his arms wildly. “If you like the yellow one, use the yellow one!”

“But I don’t want to use the yellow one if you don’t like it!”

“I like it fine,” he said. “The question wasn’t ‘which one of these do you not hate,’ it was ‘which one of these do you like best.’ I like them both. I like the green one best, but the yellow one is fine, too.”

“But you said you like the green,” she said, thrusting the green pot at him.

“I don’t care either way, yellow is fine.”

She was still glaring at him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he said, “I’m sure. Yellow. I love the yellow.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, I want your honest opinion.”

“I mean it,” he said, trying to contain himself. “The more I look at the yellow one, the more I like it. It’s a nice yellow.”

“You like the yellow?”

“Yes!”

“You really like it?”

“My god, yes!” Charlie bellowed. “I love it! I have never seen such a yellow! I can die a happy man now that I have seen that pot! Please put it in the kitchen!” With an exasperated sigh, he turned his attention back to the computer and began typing again.

“Really?” Lauren held up the yellow pot and looked at it. Then she held up the green pot and looked at that one. “I don’t know,” she said. “I think I like the green one.”

She turned and walked out of the room.

Five minutes later, some of her words filtered through to Charlie’s brain. He stopped typing and looked towards the door. “What did you just say?” he shouted down the hall.

“What?” came the reply from the kitchen.

“What was that you just said about the oven?”

“I didn’t just say anything.”

“No,” Charlie said, “I mean when you were in here. What was that you said about putting the pots in the oven?”

A moment later, Lauren came into the room. “What the hell are you babbling about?”

“You were just in here,” said Charlie, “and you said something about putting those pots in the oven. What are you trying to do? Burn the house down?”

Lauren’s eyebrows crunched together as she scowled at him. “What is the matter with you?” she said. “I never said anything of the kind.”

“Yes you did,” said Charlie.

“I most certainly did not.”

“You did!” he shouted, waving his hands in the air. “You stood right there, holding some goddamned pots, and you said something about how they are supposed to go in the oven!”

Lauren put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips together. “Charlie,” she said slowly, “if you had been paying attention at all you would know that I didn’t say that. What I said was that the green pot didn’t match the color of the paint on the oven in the kitchen where the pot is going.”

Charlie scratched his head. “Oh,” he said. “That’s different.”

“Yes, dammit, it is.”

“Well, then, I’m sorry.”

Charlie turned back to his computer and began typing furiously.

“That’s the problem, right there,” Lauren said, pointing at the keyboard. “That stupid thing. You’re always on the computer. Your mind just disappears into the cosmos. When you’re on the computer you’re cosmic, Charlie.” She tapped her foot impatiently behind him. “You pay more attention to that stupid computer than you do to me.”

“No, no,” he said, not taking his eyes from the screen. “That’s not true.”

“It is too!”

“It isn’t,” he said. “Just last week we went somewhere together.”

Lauren folded her arms. “Really? Where?”

“Um,” said Charlie through the clackity-clack of his typing, “we went to that thing, you know. Downtown.”

“No, I don’t know. Enlighten me.”

“That thing downtown. Dammit, Lauren, you know what I’m talking about. Don’t do this to me.”

She shook her head. “You can’t concentrate on this conversation while you type, can you?”

“Sure I can.”

“Then where did we go?”

Charlie’s typing slowed down a bit. “Er, it was that store place. The one with the food.”

Lauren’s mouth fell open. “The supermarket?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Charlie,” she said, “the supermarket is not a date. If you were paying attention to the conversation, you would know that. See, this is what I’m talking about.”

Charlie continued typing, his eyes intently fixed straight ahead.

“Get off the computer and talk to me.”

“Yes, dear,” he droned. Clickety, clack, clack.

“Charlie, I mean it. Get off the computer.”

“Okay, okay,” he replied, and then continued typing.

Lauren stormed out of the room.

Three minutes later, all the electricity in the house went dead.

Charlie sat in disbelief, staring straight ahead and the monitor in front of him. He waited a full two minutes for the power to come back on before he concluded that it wouldn’t come on just because he wanted it to, and that maybe he should see what was wrong.

Stumbling around the house in the dark was not something Charlie was used to. His eyes were bad enough from staring at the screen all day, and in the dark he was like a mole, bumping into damn near everything he owned before he finally made it out the front door.

Lauren was outside the old Victorian house, standing in front of the fuse box, pulling out the glass tubes one-by-one and smashing them onto the ground.

“What the hell are you doing!” shouted Charlie.

“Saving our marriage!” shouted Lauren.

She began jumping up and down on the shattered fuses, grinding the glass bits into the cement.

“Jesus, Lauren,” said Charlie. “If you wanted me to get off the computer, all you had to do was say so.”

Most often, the images were cloudy and abstract, the colors faded, the shapes distorted. It was if he was seeing everything through a warped dome of smoked glass, the light refracting around the edges. But not this time.

The girl was lying in bed with her covers pulled up to her chin, trying to hide her body beneath the thick blankets. She was curled up in the foetal position, as if to keep herself warm or safe. Her eyes were open wide, never blinking. The soft shine of sweat was visible on her cheeks.

The girl was observing herself through his eyes.

In the doorway stood the large man. Quickly studying the face, he could see that the similarities between the man and the girl… the same high brow, the same pointed jaw, and their eyes were identical, except the eyes of the large man were not blazing with fear like the eyes of the small girl.

A father and his daughter.

But it was easy to see that there was something amiss in the thread. The look the father gave to his daughter was not loving or kind. It was angry. And it was hungry.

He hated this already. He knew what this was about to become, and he stood there helplessly, watching the father step into the room and close the door behind him. The light from the hallway was immediately stifled and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim moonlight and focus on the silhouette of the advancing father.

As the silhouette passed, he could smell the mixture of cologne and alcohol. He was amazed at how clear the smells were, burning his nostrils and making him want to choke. It was hardly ever this pronounced. The only time there was ever this much detail was when the events had happened before, perhaps several times.

This was more than a mere nightmare.

This was the past presenting itself anew.

Just like the dream, her thoughts were his. He shared her terror. It coursed through him like blood.

The full force of her anguish was upon him now.

Silently, he watched.

Almost instantly the sheets were torn from the bed, exposing the small child and presenting her soft legs up to the man. He grabbed her shoulders and held her down. A quick glance of warning was enough to silence the scream building up within her throat. Bringing his left knee forward, he spread her thin legs apart and pushed his body down between them. He tightened the grip on her shoulder with his left hand and unzipped his pants with his right, harshly removing his stiff member and forcing it towards her.

“You remembered not to wear them panties,” he panted into her face. “That’s good, jes like I told ye.”

Silently, she sobbed.

God almighty, how much longer would he have to endure this? It was excruciating, being trapped there, feeling her fear and her pain, unable to help or assist in any way. He knew nothing could happen if he put forth the effort. Nightmares were shorter and more bearable when he tried not to resist them.

And he could tell this one would be over soon.

With each pulsation of the father’s pelvis, the room seemed to shake with a violent shock, as if a small grenade had gone off nearby. His groans grew louder and louder; not because he was raising his voice, but as if the sound was being amplified and echoed throughout a tiny canyon.

A final grunt, a hurried shudder, and he was finished.

He stood up from the bed, zipped his pants, and surveyed the damage. The small girl was motionless except for the tears which slowly made their trek down the sides of her face. Sperm and blood oozed from between her legs and onto the sheets beneath her. She lay there, sprawled out as if she had just been hit by a large truck.

Which is more or less what had happened, but much worse.

Just as the man turned his large frame toward the door, there was a sudden jolt and a tearing sound as everything pulled itself inward. The colors and shapes swirled and danced and disappeared, as if being rapidly sucked down an enormous drain.

And with a loud crack, it was all gone.