I’M SANE, 

I killed a priest once.

It was a necessity. I didn’t enjoy it if that’s what you’re thinking. I was quite traumatized, I’ll have you know. But it had to be done. To save humanity. He wasn’t human. I know how that sounds. I’m not explaining things the way I should. The way most people would. I know that. My brain, is an untethered balloon, that insists on making decisions despite my resistance. That’s the
problem. I lack certain...social cues. Always have. For as long as I can remember. I’m not sure if it’s something I was born with or something instilled in me by the foster system. That’s who raised me. Taxpayer dollars aimed at keeping orphaned children in a makeshift prison until the unremarkable age of eighteen, at which point we’re released. Dumped. Abandoned. Lacking any
and all skills required for polite society. I was lucky, in a sense. I was never adopted. I hear that’s worse. At least within the confines of the foster building, I knew what to expect. I knew not to ask for more. I could keep to myself. Survive as a shadow. Too many other kids coming and going. Ones with broken hearts and angry minds. Too many of them to pay me any mind. Shadows are lonely, but they’re not abused. I didn’t fall asleep with bruises. No father figure crept into my room at night, with wicked thoughts and roaming hands. I heard stories of the ones who got adopted. Some were returned. Their souls more tainted than before. I was glad to be a shadow. Besides, I
had Zal.

It doesn’t matter that only I could see her. She was and still is REAL.

But let’s start at the beginning. I wasn’t always an orphan. I had a loving mother. A doting father. They were taken from me. I was too young then to fight back. I hadn’t found my mother’s strength. Or my father’s resistance. My mother had a commanding presence. An energy that felt palpable. I remember her eyes the most. Captivating. As if they could see inside my soul. Dissect my every thought before I had a chance to formulate them. She smelled of apricots gently kissed by the sun, sweet and lingering. She died when I was only three years old. Too young to form memories. Or so they said. And yet...she lives in my mind, as if she always had a home there. As if she birthed an extension of herself. A guaranteed place to relocate after death. I can still feel her arms enveloping me. Her hair falling over my face. Cocooning me. It was the only time I felt safe as a child. In my mother’s arms. Nothing else mattered. Time stood still. Perhaps that’s what memory does when it’s stained by sorrow. Perhaps her untimely death caused such trauma in my young body that my mind became determined to hold on. To her. To her smile. To her love. A mother is a shield. A filter that denies the entry of fear. At least my mother was. I was spoiled by that shield. Lulled into a false sense of security. Believing the world was good. Kind. Holy in its own way. That fear and sorrow only existed in fairytales. I was wrong. When she died, I realized I was trapped in one of those tales. One where injustice ran amok. One where the world was painted in hues of gray. My mother’s death changed me, but it changed my father even more. He was never the same. He tried. I could see him trying. But his soul was battered. Torn. Ripped apart. Jagged pieces piercing his soft insides, clawing at the parts that let him belly laugh. The parts that let him sing in the car. Dance. Paint. Part of him was buried the day my mother’s casket was lowered into the ground. He clutched on to me. As if a breeze could carry me away as well. He trembled, desperate to put on a brave face. To show his daughter that all was not lost. Yet his heart betrayed him. It yearned for her. It called out to her in the dark of night. In dreams that made him run to me, covered in sweat, checking to make sure I was still in bed. Breathing. Alive. I dreamt of her too. Dreams so real I could smell her on my sheets when the sun rose. I could hear her humming even as I woke. The same song. Always that same song. The one imprinted on me in her womb, when she swayed and I floated. When safety was everything. When her humming fell in sync with the beats of her heart. It’s strange. The things that remain. The things remembered. The things that whisper to us in the dark. My father forgot those things. The good things. The things that sounded like songs and smelled of sun-kissed apricots. My father was haunted. Forever fighting a battle with the same ending. A battle where he watches his wife, his other half, destroyed by unseen forces. A battle where his only path is one of escape. One where he holds me to his chest, so tightly, that he fears he may consume me. In this dream he’s running, panting, sobbing. Then he wakes. Same as before. Covered in sweat. I don’t know what caused the change in him. Perhaps it was his grief. Or his loneliness. Perhaps something crawled inside him and took the
place my mother used to reside. It spoke to him. Demanding. Unrelenting. Persistent.

It told him to kill.

As the years passed, my father became obsessed with vengeance. A pursuit that consumed him. Always muttering about the unseen world. The one he blamed for my mother’s demise. The one he swore he’d tear apart. A world he wasn’t born to. He worked, only to pay for necessities. Food. Clothing. The bare basics. He trusted no one. Over time, his rage grew. As if each passing season fed it. Nurtured it. Making it unbearable to live in the present. I didn’t know what he was doing. Not at first. Not for a long time. Even when I did, I couldn’t understand it. I was too young. I couldn’t make sense of it. A parent’s influence shapes our core. Our very being. The part of us that develops a moral compass. The part of us that brings the world into focus. Shows us the parts we’re supposed to pay heed to. So I remained silent as his obsession grew. I stood steadfast as he spiraled. Nodding when I should’ve been screaming. Comforting him when I should’ve been shaking him. I’ve always wondered how our lives would be different had I been older when my mother died. I could’ve been a confidante for my father. A source of truth. A beacon of light in his darkening world. Perhaps I could’ve stopped what he was doing. But I was just a child. I didn’t know how to save him. Or them. The first one he brought home is the one I remember most. Perhaps because I sensed the fear in him, in my father. A man who used to be my anchor. A man who could stop the tremors of an earthquake if I asked him to. Seeing his fear is what stays with me. Knowing he had doubts with that first one. That he wasn’t sure. He waited. He watched. He tried to talk himself out of it. But in the end, he killed her. He thought I was asleep. Safe in my bed. But something had woken
me. Tension in the air. Energy is palpable. I could taste it. Smell it. I sensed the woman’s hope of escaping. Of returning to her ordinary life. To her doldrum days that she took for granted. Her resignation to her fate when the knife pushed deeper in. I felt the air shift as her body grew limp. As my father sobbed. Begging the Heavens for forgiveness. Praying for answers. I don’t know what I felt after that. It’s like my mind built a wall. A wall I couldn’t see over it. Whatever it is I’m blocking, whatever I can’t remember...it refuses to abandon me. It hides in places I cannot reach. Whispering. Always whispering. That night, the Heavens answered my father’s prayers. He was shown something that emboldened him. His sobbing turned to awe. As if someone had pulled back the curtain and showed him the mechanisms of life. The wizard who pulls the strings. It was the proof he needed to continue. I wish I had seen it too, but it wasn’t my time.

My father was sure with the others. Each kill becoming easier. Each kill giving him confidence. He gained strength from their last breath.


He’d bring them to our home in the dead of night. When he thought I was in a deep sleep. The kind of sleep only available to children, where sounds and clamor have no effect. I never told him I was awake. Aware. Lying in my bed, trying not to listen. But it’s like their fear snuck into my mind. Infected my thoughts. I’d try to push them out. To pretend it wasn’t happening. But I’d always fail. The only thing that would comfort me were the thoughts of my mother. She’d come, each time, almost like she’d been beckoned. I’d see her in a dreamlike state. The rest of the world falling away. She was always smiling. As if to ease my growing dread. As if she’d returned to assure me. To keep me from panicking. It was always just a moment. Fleeting. No matter how
hard I tried to make her stay. How much I pleaded with her. Clung to her. Desperate for just one more embrace. She would vanish. Evaporating in my arms. Disappearing into the void. A silent apparition floating between realms. In these dreamlike nights, she never spoke. But I always knew what she wanted to convey. I longed for those nights because she only came when the world was asleep. As if the world had to be muted for her to slip between the realms to find me.

She broke that rule once. Only once.

I heard her whisper. It tore through the muted void. It wasn’t a dream. I was awake. I stopped the beating of my heart. I slowed the flow of blood in my veins. So that I could focus. My ears at attention. Hoping. I almost convinced myself I’d imagined it. But then her smell. The tell-tale sign of her presence. I heard her after my father proclaimed he was doing God’s work. When he trepidatiously sat me down, the morning after a kill, to explain that the world is not what it seems. That what we’ve been taught about reality is nothing but a hologram. That there are forces at play. Forces that aim to punish humanity for our arrogance. Our lack of humility. That other realms and places exist. Places that only some people can see. Special people. He spun a tale of monsters with human faces. Powers unlike anything I could ever imagine. Beings, not of this world, who killed my mother because she was special. Like me. I always liked it when he compared me to her. I wanted to look like her. Hum like her. Carry her strength. But I felt so different. So ordinary. As if her blood throbbed with something unearthly. Something that made her glow. My father continued his story. Explaining that he narrowly escaped with me, when they came. That my mother fought with everything she had. That she tried to save me. That her last words were my name on her lips. That she had been betrayed by her own kind…and that she hadn’t been their target. I was.

She sacrificed herself for me.

His words echoed in my mind. Over and over again. Pushing out everything else. I struggled to breathe. My stomach in knots, my heart screaming in my ears…a thunderous sound. He kept speaking. Desperate to make me understand. To reach me. But I heard nothing. The room was sucked into a vacuum. A void. Deafening. I tried to steady my breathing. To focus. But my body betrayed me. Urging me. Begging me to run. Sweat blinding me. Adrenaline shook my frame. Vomit rising. Then, just as quickly as the tale began, it ended. My father looked at me. Anticipating. Waiting for a reaction. For questions. For anything. But I offered nothing. Frozen. Staring but not seeing. He kissed my forehead and left. The look of concern etched into his face. I remained on my bed. My hands folded. My tears stinging. That’s when I heard it. Clear as day. My mother’s voice: “they’re coming for you”, in her tongue. The language my father didn’t speak. The language of her people, of her realm. I used to understand it. Now I only speak it in my dreams, my subconscious refusing to forget. Her words were urgent. A warning. She tried to save me, even from beyond.

I didn’t tell my father what I’d heard. I still don’t know why.

The killing continued. Erratic in timing. My father would take long breaks. Life would almost seem normal again. At times, we’d even laugh. Those are the times I cherish. Times I return to when the darkness takes my breath. When I struggle to inhale. I think of those happy times. His eyes sparkling. His jaw, practically unhinged, from something that tickled his fancy. His large frame shaking, belly bouncing. But the joy was always fleeting. Just as I would lull myself into a state of comfort, convincing myself it had all been a nightmare…he’d return to the killing. As though it drew him in. A Pied Piper. A Siren from the depths. His heavy boots causing the floorboards to creak. The muffled pleading. The gagged begging. The sound of a struggle as his next victim was dragged across the floor. Through the kitchen. Into the cellar. My father never spoke to them. He didn’t look at them. Not until the end, when life had drained from them. Their bodies empty shells. Only then did he look. Waiting for the turn, as he called it. A moment he had witnessed that first time, when the Heavens had heard his pleas. When it had showed him the true monster, writhing inside. By morning, everything was back in its rightful place. Never a drop of blood. Or a tuft of hair. No scratches on walls. I caught myself scanning the house each time. Terrified that I’d find something. Anything. But no. It was like magic. Like it never happened. Like their holograms were simply unplugged.

I never checked the cellar. That was my father’s only rule.

There are moments in life that get seared into our conscience. They live there. Proliferating. Like a cancer. Infecting the healthy cells around it. Those moments end up defining us. My first such moment was my mother’s words of warning from beyond. The words I repeated in my mind for years. The moment that made me question everything I’d known. My second moment happened at age ten. By then, I had learned to compartmentalize. I was able to dissociate my father from what he did at night. I learned to hum when I heard noises. Look away when strangers were dragged in. I was able to sleep at night again. Life was decent, considering. My father and I had each other and that’s all that mattered. Around that time, my body having grown, my mind more mature…my father started training me. He swore that some day I would continue his legacy. I would take over. I would keep fighting. He told me that fear was my biggest nemesis. That THEY would sense it and use it to control me. He showed me ways of identifying them. Separating them from humans, no matter how sweet their words. Human faces that betray the rot beneath. I listened raptly but the pit in my stomach grew. To this day, I wonder if it was a foreshadowing. A part of me that knew what was coming. I miss those days with my father. He was loving and attentive. He told me fantastical tales to teach me. To open my eyes. Ones that made me feel closer to my mother. As if the words were hers and he merely repeated them. Memories would erupt as if they were my own. I relished those days.

Then it all got ripped away.

It was morning. Peaceful. Googoosh, an iconic Iranian singer, was crooning in the background. My father was singing along, dancing, frying eggs. My feet swung rhythmically in my chair. The sun gently warming my back. A sudden scream shattered the moment. I froze. My father did the same. He looked at me, comfortingly, then turned the music up. Placed the eggs on my plate and opened the cellar door. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. My compartmentalization shot to Hell. He disappeared down the stairs, the door slamming shut behind him. I closed my eyes and hummed. Googoosh kept singing but I wasn’t there to hear her. My father had saved this last one for me. To prove to me that djinn are real. To show me what he saw after they took their last breath. To show me the monster that lives inside them. He wanted to show me the turn.

He never got his chance. I never saw it.

Seconds later, my breath still held, our front door SMASHED open! SWAT members, guns raised, swarmed our kitchen. Another scream! It must’ve been me. My mouth was hanging open. My lungs emptied. Everything happened so quickly. My brain couldn’t compute. Strangers filled our home. Loud voices screaming commands. Then I saw my father. The armed men dragged him, his feet scraping the floor. He fought them, but his eyes were on me. He was yelling something but I couldn’t hear. As though his voice had been stolen. He reached for me as they dragged him by. But the men wouldn’t allow it. Pulling him harder. He receded. Desperate with each step to reach me. To tell me something. Something important. Something that haunts me. Why didn’t I run to him? Beg them to let him speak? Even if it were just for a moment. So that I could’ve heard him. But I didn’t move. I was planted. My breath held. My feet heavy. I could only stare at the smashed door. Pieces of wood littering the hallway. The door he had walked through a thousand times. The same door the men dragged him out through that day. My father was jailed. Then a lengthy court trial. Then he was institutionalized. They said he wasn’t fit for prison. That he was delusional. A paranoid schizophrenic. He tried to tell them about DJINN. How they can manipulate and shape shift. How they can control our minds. But they jeered and mocked. They viewed him as inferior. His skin wasn’t white. His eyes were coal. His beliefs ran opposite theirs. Despite all that, he tried to reason with them. For me. To see me again. To protect me. He wasted his breath on these blind men who saw holograms and believed them to be real. He begged for me. His only child. His flesh and blood. They refused him. They broke him. Eventually he went silent. He stopped speaking. I’m not sure if their drugs stole his voice, or if he chose to mute himself when he realized that his words were screamed in vain.

I didn’t know that would be the last time I’d see my father. Alive.

So I sat. Frozen. Heavy-footed. My eggs growing cold, inedible. My fugue-state was only broken when someone infringed on my personal space. A woman I’d never seen before. A woman who spoke too close. A woman who lacked the optical capability of proper distancing. She had kneeled in front of me. Her pale blue eyes level with mine. She spoke. I could see her mouth moving but I couldn’t understand her words. So I focused on her lips, dry, and stained with something coral. I could smell her breath. It smelled familiar. Something mixed with cinnamon or cardamom. I’d smelled it before. But I couldn’t place it. She was explaining something in great detail. I looked past her, at the empty doorframe. Waiting for my father to return. Waiting for the strangers to leave so we could go back to our eggs and Googoosh. The training routine. The stories. The bonding. My stomach growled. It felt sour. Pitted. Anxious.

When I vomited, I made sure to do so on her shoes.

The woman pushed herself away, appalled. Her face contorted, disgusted. She stalked off. One of the SWAT men stood guard. He didn’t look at me. I didn’t exist to him. He was a humanoid pawn, following orders. When the woman returned, her placid expression had resumed, plastered with a smile. It looked unholy. Unnatural. An expression I’m sure she practiced in the mirror. She took my hand and led me to my room. I stopped in the doorway. Refusing to enter. I knew it would be the last time I’d see it. This room that was mine. This room that had memories etched into every corner. Where my mother soothed me and my father shared his tales of glory. This room filled with trinkets he’d made himself. Toys and talismans and other objects meant to protect me. They failed to serve their purpose. My mother murdered, my father institutionalized, and I was banished to a lowly place fraught with corruption. Fucking useless talisman! I knew our home wasn’t safe from their clutches either. They would take it. They would sell it and give the money to the victims’ families. They’d boast about it to their own kin, insisting they had taken a monster off the streets. That they had made the public safe again. They’d forget to mention me. His child. The one who was left behind. The one who was orphaned. They would leave me penniless. A byproduct of the “system”. The woman kept talking. Attempting to explain my situation. My options. Failing to admit that I had no rights. I was a minor. With immigrant parents. She struck me as someone uncomfortable with silence. She was constantly moving. Doing. She packed clothes for me. She held up stuffed animals to see which I wanted to bring. I couldn’t make sense of any of it. I hadn’t asked for this. I didn’t want it. But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

Until I heard a familiar voice. Zal.

Zal’s distinctive voice, thick with butter, always broke through. In my dreams. In my waking life. When I was scared. When I was frozen. Like now. Zal was my rock as a child. Psychiatrists would argue she was my imaginary friend. One I conjured when fear had gripped my life. But she swore she was my Guardian Angel. Sent to Earth to protect me. To guide me. To set me on my fated path. She showed up the first time at my mother’s funeral. My father clung to me, lost in thought, when she appeared. I don’t remember how. But suddenly, there she stood. Facing me. I think. I only saw a hazy figure. A suggestion of possible wings. No discerning features. No face. “I’m here to protect you”, she said with ease. Her words placed squarely in my mind. I thought she was the Angel of Death, Azrael. Sent to carry my mother’s soul to Heaven. I asked my father if she could take us too. I wanted to be with my mother. With him. He looked at me, with bloodshot eyes, confusion taking hold. “Who, my love?” His voice barely above a whisper. “The Angel” I said, pointing. He turned his head. He looked. But he couldn’t see her. “I’m here for you” she declared. “Your father’s time is up. He is not The Chosen One. You are.” I buried my face in his shoulder. It was too much. I was too young to understand. She stayed close those early days. Whispering in my ear. Suggesting. Warning me of things to come.

She was the first to tell me of djinn. Even before my father.

She told me how they were created from smokeless fire. How God loved them. Bestowed gifts upon them. How it all changed when Man was birthed. Out of clay. Man, with their foolish foibles. Their short-sighted desires and their penchant for greed. How djinn tried to win back God’s affection only to be punished for their hubris. How they were cast from Earth’s plane, forced to live in caves, ruins and other abandoned places. Their world parallel ours but lacking Nature’s beauty. No flowers. No birds. No rivers and streams. Zal told me of the powers djinn kept, despite their exile. How they could shape-shift, taking on any form, any essence. How they could influence the thoughts of man, making them puppets to their whims. How they could feel love, pain, jealousy. How they could manipulate. They were tribal and proud, adhering to a set of ancient traditions they refused to forsake. She told me how important it was for humans to humble themselves, lest a djinn take objection. The stories of djinn were always my favorite. They felt familiar. Comforting. As if I’d heard them before. As if they existed in the fabric of my being. She was the one who taught me about destiny and the fated path.

She was the one who tried to warn me about my father’s inevitable downfall.

Zal’s voice pulled me from my reverie, “she’s taking you away”, she said. Still standing in my bedroom door frame, I whipped my head in her direction. She was lounging on my bed, her wings tucked neatly beneath her. The woman kept droning on, completely unaware of my hazy ally. If Zal is a figment of my imagination…how did I create her? Explain that to me. At such a young age, nonetheless. She’s fully formed with ideas, opinions, and a personality. She tells me truths that always come to pass. Truths that cannot be denied. Apologies, I digress. Zal groaned, impatient. The woman kept talking and packing, packing and talking. I felt better with Zal there. I felt less alone. Less scared. I had to remind myself to think my thoughts in the presence of others or they’d assume I was speaking to them. Or worse, to myself. I preferred it when we were alone together. Zal and I. Then I could speak freely. But not then. Not in front of that strange packing woman. Zal sat up, “she’s from Child Protective Services.” The woman was almost done. I inched away, my eyes trained on Zal. She floated off the bed, her wings beating gently. “She’ll take you to foster care. That’s not a good place to be.” She landed near me. I could feel her energy, a trillion molecules buzzing in unison. She leaned in close: “Run Leila.” So I did. The stairs seemed to last forever. My legs were slow, trapped in a dream, running through quicksand. The woman called for someone and gave chase. Zal was at the door, “turn right not left.” Just as I reached the exit, inches from freedom…thick arms grabbed me and lifted me off the ground. Time slowed. My feet flailed in the air. My screams caught in my throat. My fingers clawed at everything and nothing. The woman caught up, panting. Zal whispered: “Don’t swallow the pills.” That’s the last thing I heard before my head lulled and my vision went black.

I had no idea the Hell that was waiting for me.

I came in and out of consciousness. Seeing the world in snippets. I was securely seat-belted in the back of the woman’s vehicle. The gentle motion of the car encouraging a catatonic state. My body has always tried to protect me by shutting down. Forcing my eyes closed. Trying to make me forget. I fought the urge to sleep, I really did. But I was too weak. Too tired. When I awoke, the woman was gone. There was a brutish man staring at me. He was in uniform. His arms crossed. His frown creases deepening. He looked like a giant from a bygone era. He cleared his throat to indicate that I had woken. I peeked around the room. Clinical and cold. There was another lady, different from the CPS woman, sitting behind a desk. She was the kind who cakes on makeup in hopes of looking much younger than her years. My mother never wore makeup. She didn’t have to. She was a natural beauty. I would see strangers staring at her wherever we went. Men would stumble over themselves to open doors for her. Woman would scoff in jealousy. The makeup lady finally looked up at me, with indifference. “Leila Hashemi, my name is Mrs. Crawshaw.” The brute just stared. She droned on but my mind was elsewhere. I wondered where Zal was. If she truly was my Guardian Angel, as she claimed, why wasn’t she there with me? When I needed her most. The brute barely blinked. It could’ve been disturbing but something about him felt protective. Safe even. The lady finished speaking. She stared at me, impatiently. Then indicated my bag and the door. “Pick a bed in the dorms.” With that, she waved me off. I heaved my bag over my shoulder, teetering under its weight. When we were out of the room I finally heard the brute speak, “I am Marek.” He had a thick accent. Someplace Eastern European. He took my belongings, carrying them with ease. “Come.” I followed because I had nowhere else to go.

The dorms looked like barracks.

The beds are sardined inside, one on top of another. Boys, girls, all ages. It didn’t matter. The walls hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in ages. The sheets and pillows, all tattered and worn. Not quite white. Certainly-not-cream. Sallow-beige perhaps. Semantics. I already hated it there. It was the type of place movie villains could reference when they blamed their bad behavior on their upbringing. It was a place where basic needs were met. Nothing more. No fun. No education. No love. I missed my dad. I would’ve given anything to hear his voice telling me he’s on his way. That he would save me from that place. That it was all a mistake. A bad dream I could wake from. Tears filled my eyes. I blinked them away. Places like that feed on vulnerability. I refused to let them break me. I just had to survive. Grow up. Leave that place and figure out how to save my dad. He didn’t belong in the looney bin. He was a brilliant man. When he first arrived in America, he came with nothing. Forced to flee his own country. Forced to leave his culture, his home, his dignity. In America, he worked tirelessly, rose the ranks and ultimately earned enough to start his own business. Small at first but he expanded. Bought our house. Our cars. Everything was happy till my mother was killed. He said she was “betrayed by her own kind”. Something I should’ve asked him about. Something I need to understand. Another something that’s been stolen from me. She spoke a language he didn’t know. A culture he wasn’t a part of. She had a magic that he lacked. That most people lack. She didn’t work yet money always found her. Just enough for what she needed. She didn’t own a credit card. She never carried cash. She’d find a hundred dollar bill in the parking lot of the grocery store. Someone would pay for her lunch at a restaurant. She’d be the 100th customer at a shop, all her items free. She told me once that money is energy. It can be procured. She told me that I, like her, could make it find me. That I’m special. Different. Marek cleared his throat.

He indicated we had arrived at the bed I would be sleeping on for years to come.

He placed my bag on an empty cot. The top bunk. I wanted to tell him that I had nightmares at times. Horrible visions that sent me running, half-asleep, into my parents’ bedroom. Nightmares that felt so real I would wake with bruises. A top bunk wouldn’t be conducive to nighttime marathons. But I stayed quiet. It was too early to rock the boat. Marek turned to leave, but stopped himself. “You will be okay little one. Just watch. Listen. Don’t take the pills.” He placed a granola bar on my bag and left. Shocked, I stared at the back of his head as he strode away. Chills had run up my spine. He had repeated Zal’s words, verbatim. The others begin streaming in. Others, like me, who had been banished there. Forgotten. Who had made their alliances. Who knew the rules. Who eyed me suspiciously. The new girl. The outsider. I shrank, trying to make myself small, hoping to be ignored. No such luck. Not in a place like that. A Lord Of The Flies place. A place where you eat or get eaten. Three teenage girls strolled in, confident and brash. The leader of the pack, a girl with danger in her eyes, gave me the once-over. “Fresh meat.” Her minions snickered. I was their entertainment for the night. They walked up to me, the smell of cafeteria still lingering in their hair, “How old are you, Bangs?” That was quick. I had a nickname already. I noticed I was the only one with thick cut bangs that covered my eyebrows. I stayed quiet. I felt sick. “Oh, I think this one is mute.” Her puppets nodded, determined to hang on her every word. The leader was the only one who spoke. It was very cliché. She stepped inches from my face. “You mute? Or stupid?” She flicked my bangs out of my eyes. I winced, but tried to stay brave. “Ten” I squeaked, barely audibly. She clapped her hands together, a sinister sneer on her lips. She was excited to have a new plaything to torture. Her lemmings closed in. They knew the drill. One kept an eye on the door, the other was in charge of me. In case I planned to fight back. I had no such plans. The leader pulled my bag down from the cot. The granola bar Marek had given me was pocketed. Then she unzipped my duffle. The packing woman had jammed in as many clothes as she could. My stuffed bunny barely fit inside. Then, this vile and broken teen, pulled out my only prized possession: a picture of my mother and father, beaming at the camera. I knew I shouldn’t have reacted. It was a fleeting twitch in my eyes but she caught it. She gleefully held the picture above my head. “Does someone miss their mommy and daddy?” I reached for it. That was my second mistake. She held it higher, daring me to grab for it. I could feel the tears forming. Tears full of rage. I tried my best to keep them at bay. But they had waited all day, ready to burst forth. “Awww, the little baby’s gonna cry”. The leader relished her power over me. Her minions cackled. Hot tears broke free. My legs felt weak. “I’m just gonna keep this safe till you have something I want. Then you can trade for it. Got it Bangs?” I stared at her, hatred rising. I wanted to punch her smug face. I wanted to rip my picture out of her hands. To make her bleed. I did none of those things. “ZAL!!!” I screamed in my mind, hoping she’d show up. Her wings beating powerfully, swooping me up to take me away. No such luck. I was alone. Bored, the teen strumpets strode off, leaving me shaken. I got a taste of what my life would be there. One nightmare bleeding into another. I’d live as a chewed-up piece of gum on the bottom of Life’s tattered shoe. No chance at happiness No chance at joy. Perhaps it was my hungry stomach, grumbling from a day without food. Perhaps I’d had one too many buttons pushed…

Something in me snapped.

I charged at the leader and leapt on her back. A scream, ancient and full of anguish, escaped my throat. She fell forward on all fours. I heard my picture frame shatter on the ground. I punched and ripped and tore anything I could get my hands on. Frantic. Unrelenting. Primal. The scream, a continuous soundtrack to my violence. Then I was yanked off her so abruptly that my scream was swallowed by my throat. Her henchmen held each of my arms as I flailed and kicked, trying to bite them. She rose up. Slow and deliberate. She turned to face me. Her hair a mess. Her lip busted. But she smiled, blood glistening on her teeth, with a look I’ll never forget. Her punches landed much harder than mine. Years of fighting had made her stronger than me. I only felt the first few before I fell unconscious. When I woke up, I was bandaged and lying in a hospital bed. Machines beeped steadily nearby. My body ached. My head throbbed. My vision blurry and my eyelids swollen. Marek watched me from a chair in the corner. “That was not smart.” He said, with a strange sense of pride in his voice. “She will come for you now. All the time.” My father used to tell me the only way to tame a bully is to beat them before they have a chance to beat you. He was wrong. “I told Mrs. Crawshaw you need to be in other unit. But these things take time. You must be careful. This girl, Ashley, she is trouble.” He had genuine concern in his voice. So the leader had a name. Ashley. A milk-toast name, if you ask me. A nurse walked in carrying my dinner. Marek stood, taking his hat in hand. The nurse was too busy to notice him. She smiled at me. “Hope you’re hungry. A little birdie told me you haven’t eaten all day so I brought you some extra.” She placed my tray nearby. I wondered if she thought Marek was attractive. I could see how others would. He was a giant in height. That was the first thing I noticed. Strong jawline. Big hands. Piercing blue eyes. The nurse helped me sit up. Perhaps she was into women. Perhaps his good looks held no sway over her.

It made me wonder what I was attracted to.

I’d never had a crush before. Granted, I was young. But even so, my classmates would gush about their crushes on each other or a teacher or a swim coach or some random Hollywood star whose good looks are manufactured. But not me. None of it appealed to me. As if my mind was full of other things. Things that crowded out my thoughts and prioritized ideas that took precedence. I noticed my peers would only gush over the opposite sex. I always found that odd. I can tell when someone is attractive, but it’s always been in a clinical or curious sort of way. Both sexes. No distinction. Perhaps my brain hadn’t made up its mind at that point. Perhaps I had been too busy training with my father. Worrying that he’d get hurt on one of his nightly excursions. Perhaps it’s not meant for some people. The swooning and gushing and flirting. It seems exhausting. My train of thought was derailed by Marek’s voice. “Eat. You need strength.” The nurse is gone. I don’t know when she left. Marek stood then, pulling his coat on. “I come visit tomorrow. Da?” Then he, gingerly, placed something on my chest and turned to go. I looked down. It was my picture. The one that was stolen. The one whose frame had shattered upon impact. The only one left of my parents. Marek saved it for me. I was so happy I could’ve cried again. But I refrained. I had learned my lesson. Tears equal weakness. “Marek.” My voice sounded weak. My lips were dry. He faced me at the door. “Thank you” I said, clutching the photo to my chest. He tipped his hat and walked out. I could tell Marek was attractive. But only in the most paternal way possible. I closed my eyes. The day had caught up to me.

“Sorry I’m late.” Zal.

I opened my eyes to find her hazy figure lounging in a chair, feet propped on the edge of the bed. “Are you gonna eat that?” Zal was always talking about food. She said hunger didn’t exist in Heaven but she missed masticating. I grabbed my sandwich, plain white, un-toasted bread, turkey, cheese and what I could only assume was mayo. My stomach growled in anticipation. The same stomach that would traditionally sour at the site of that paltry dish. For a kid that age, my palette was quite refined. I’m not sure if my mother influenced my father’s cooking or the other way around but I was raised with herbs and spices and complicated dishes that supplied a day’s nutrients. I’ve never been enticed by frozen nuggets, or overcooked pasta drowned in butter. Ketchup is a blunt instrument used to mask the artificial flavor of mass-produced garbage. My eggs were cooked with ghee, cumin, coriander and a mineral-rich salt that was plucked from the Sea of Cortez. There were stews made with the finest cuts of meat, herbs and vegetables, handpicked from our garden. Dishes that featured truffles with an oaky depth, radishes pickled in an earthy brine, roots that were pulled, delicately sheared, and divinely fragrant. But that day I was famished. So I scarfed down a meal that my parents would’ve derided. “What kind of Guardian Angel are you anyway? Aren’t you supposed to stop bad things BEFORE they happen?” I was livid but that wasn’t clear because my mouth was full of semi-stale bread, room-temp turkey and what I hoped was mayo. Zal reached for the other half of my sandwich. I promptly slapped her hand away. She crossed hazy her arms petulantly. “I had some business to attend to.” She muttered flippantly. I stared at her waiting for more. A better excuse. Something that would soothe me rather than enrage me. But no explanation was given. “I could’ve died!” My voice was full of venom. She nodded, solemnly. “Taqdir” she finally said. Resolutely. Yet again, I waited for an explanation. She waited too but I’m still not sure what for. I was too angry for semantics. “Why didn’t you warn me about my father?!” All my pain was directed at her, lounging so calmly, as my life wasn’t circling the drain of misery. “Taqdir.” She said again. I threw an apple at her, hoping to make contact with her skull. It flew right through her mist-like body. If she had a face, I imagined she was rolling her eyes. I was forced to relent. “What is take-deer??” I spat the question with disdain. I could feel her look of disgust. “Taqdir, you Americanized mongrel. Have you forgotten everything? Taqdir is destiny. Fate. It was your father’s destiny to be apprehended. Institutionalized. It was your fate to stand up to that miscreant and have her beat you senseless. There are Universal puzzle pieces that are predetermined. Your free-will sets each in motion until it finds its rightful place.” She never doubted her own words.

“You will do great things Leila Hashemi. But first, you must suffer.”

A day later, I was released. Marek walked me back the dorms. Dead man walking. My fate, or Taqdir, already sealed. I arrived at my cot with my face bruised and my right eye swollen shut. Wounded animals, in the wild, whose peripheral vision has been damaged, will become prey. My head felt like it was in a vice. My knuckles raw from punching. I could feel eyes on me. Ones that were in awe of my bravery. Or stupidity. Ones that had questions. Ones that considered which of my items they’d steal when I was murdered by a teen harlot. I kept my head down. I had to think of a way to survive. But first I needed to protect what was mine. I cut a small hole in the side of my mattress with the knife I had stolen from the hospital. Marek was supposed to check me for weapons. He didn’t. Making sure there were no prying eyes, I slid my photo deep inside my cot, amongst the foam and springs. Now she couldn’t destroy my one cherished item. The only thing that still mattered to me. I hadn’t realized she had cut my bunny’s head off and tucked it under my pillow, until I crawled into bed. It was a warning. Ashley was out for blood that day. Had I been home and my bunny maimed…I would’ve shed exuberant tears, crawling into my father’s embrace. But there, in the seventh circle of Hell, the bunny meant nothing. I stared at the peeling paint on the ceiling, clutching the knife tightly in my hand. A bell rang. Lights out. We were cast into darkness.

“They’re coming.” Zal said, floating beside my bunk, her wings beating gently, her feet dangling above the ground.

Fairy to reattach it. You cried when it was thrown away, Tupperware and all.” I repeated her story with the same intonation and delivery as Zal. Ashley’s eyes were saucers. Her entire concept of reality crumbling. She, and only she, knew that story. That’s why Zal had picked it. Ashley stared at me, unsteady on her feet. Her cronies inched further away. Zal’s final decree put the nail in the coffin. I repeated it like a trained auteur. “This feud ends now. If I catch you, or anyone else, giving me so much as a side-eye, I will put a curse on you the likes of which you could never imagine. It will cause a world of pain. Suffering on a molecular level. Endless. Mythological. You will be the Sisyphus of your time. Am I clear?” Ashley mumbled incomprehensibly as she stumbled over her disciples to get away from me. I wanted to cheer. I wanted to celebrate. But instead, I kept a somber eye on her, glaring until she disappeared from view. That little display saved me for years in a place where violence is a bargaining tool. Word traveled fast and everyone kept their distance. Marek noticed but said nothing. There was only one hiccup, almost a year after that fateful night. Ashley had started doubting my promise. My sworn curse. One day at the cafeteria, desperate for her power back, she knocked my food tray out of my hands. The entire place fell silent. Watching. Collective breath held. I stood my ground. I waited. Because Zal told me to. Ashley, seeing no reaction or curse from me, was emboldened. As she stepped up to unleash a year’s pent-up rage, she failed to see the puddle of spilt milk that had gathered when my tray was knocked out of my hands. She slipped, tripped, and landed on her face with such force that her two front teeth cracked in half and cut through her tongue. Deep enough to sever it completely. The entire room erupted in chaos. Fear abounded. The others ran screaming. It became a story of legends. When retold, even years after my release, it would always end with whispers of black magic. Witchy powers that were called upon to smash a bully’s face and cut her tongue. Some swore they saw a strange smoke spewing from my hands. As for Ashley, she was never the same. Her front teeth remained missing and even though they managed to reattach her tongue, she developed a speech impediment so severe that she chose never to speak again.

Since that day, I’ve marveled at the concept of Taqdir and its poetic way of exacting justice. I’ve never looked at teeth and milk the same.

I spent eight years of my life in that place. I survived only because I had Marek, who became the father-figure I so desperately craved. Zal showed up less and less as time passed. I started to wonder if she ever existed at all. I don’t remember much about her. She was a figment of a scared little girl’s broken imagination. But Marek was there. He was my constant, always keeping a protective eye. He reminded me of my mother at times. Full of fables and folklore, allegories meant to teach children about life. I didn’t realize how much of an effect they had on me until I aged out of the foster system. Marek’s stories had taught me about resilience, inner strength, and persistence. He hadn’t allowed me to wallow or feel sorry for myself. I learned to face the world with a keen eye, a steady voice and a sixth sense for dishonesty. He brought me books, introduced me to art and music and exposed me to an education far beyond my years. While I still don’t have a diploma, my pedagogy was more extensive than most collegiate level training. He, like my mother, believed in energy, alchemy and a universal magic that belongs to all of us.

I find myself still searching for him, unwilling to accept that he never existed.

Weeks after I “graduated” from the foster system, I returned to tell Marek that I had found a job and even a friend. I knew he’d be ecstatic in his own stoic way. I waited in Mrs. Crawshaw’s office, desperate to give him a hug. He used to wrap me in his big arms and squeeze me like a bear. I missed my Marek. Crawshaw’s office hadn’t changed a bit. I doubt it ever will. She wasn’t surprised to see me. Lots of kids return for advice or help. They’re supposed to provide a Pathway Plan to help kids integrate into society. But most don’t bother unless they’re prompted. “Miss Hashemi, what can I do you for?” She always spoke with her eyes glued to her phone. She had gained weight over the years and slowed down significantly. But her know-it-all attitude remained. I doubt that’ll ever change either. She settled at her desk and kicked off her shoes. “I just wanted to see Marek. I want to tell him my good news” I proclaimed. Marek and I were almost always together. He’s the only friend I had. “Marek…Marek…” she muttered as she typed on her computer keyboard. “Last name?” I looked at her confused. “Um, I don’t know. But there’s only one Marek. I won’t bug him, I just wanted to catch-up.” I wasn’t really in the mood for this amnesia game she was playing. She’s eccentric enough without trying to be funny. She checked her screen, then looked at me bewildered. “Leila, there’s no one here by the name of Marek.” She waited. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “I…don’t understand what you’re doing. Can you just page him please?” I asked impatiently. I didn’t come to dawdle in her office. Crawshaw gave me a look that sent shivers down my spine. The universal look given to lunatics. The look the courts had given my father before he was institutionalized. She leaned forward, “Honey, there’s no Marek here. In the last two decades that I’ve worked here, no one by that name has ever stepped foot in this building.” A lump caught in my throat. I wanted to scream for Marek. Make him appear to chastise her cruelty. Instead, I walked out. I’d find him on my own. But nothing was as I remembered it. Even Marek’s small office, the one where I shared my feelings, where he gave me an education, where he’d tell his stories…was gone. At some point they had turned it into a janitor’s closet. I wasn’t sure what was happening but I swore I’d get to the bottom of it.

Marek had to exist…because the alternative was terrifying.

What I had planned to tell Marek was that after weeks of looking, I had finally found a job at a local coffee shop. One of those granola places where the patrons are ashamed of their wealth. A place where the cool kids hang out. I was surprised I got hired, to be honest. But it was the perfect place for me. I could be a wallflower, hearing and observing without being judged. Because to them, I was an extension of the furniture. A non-person. I never got a GED, so employers assumed I was stupid, or slow. It limited my options dramatically. A woman who worked at the cafe interviewed and hired me on the spot. Before I met the manager. Her name was Cecile. She was beautiful, confident, and very French. She was the kind of person who could sell fire to the Devil and he’d be glad to part with his gold. I always wondered what life was like for people like her. Thriving in a world where most people need a life jacket. She took to me right away. It made me wonder if I were the only applicant. It didn’t matter either way. I was thrilled to have a job. My first job. As an adult. To finally start my life on my own terms. The foster system had provided temporary housing, part of the Pathway Plan, to integrate us back into society smoothly. I surprised Crawshaw when I asked about it. Apparently I was the only person, in the time she’d worked there, who had actually read the bylaws and knew their rights. Something Marek had taught me to do. So she resigned herself to getting me set up. Temporarily. It was up to me to find a job and more permanent housing after that. My life was finally falling into place. Or so I thought.

I planned to visit my father at the Institution. Soon.

I was nervous. It had been eight years since I’d seen him. I was a child then. So different from the person I’d become. I was terrified of how he had, undoubtedly, changed. If any part of him that I recognized still existed. I wanted to get acclimated before I saw him. I wanted him to know that I was doing okay. That I had a job and a place to live and maybe even some friends. I wanted him to be proud. But mostly, I wanted answers. My entire childhood was a mystery. I could only discover so much on my own. I needed his help. I needed help in general. My formative teen years had been spent in a sort of isolation. No friends. No exposure to pop culture. No experience in any department that required social interaction. What I’m saying is, I was a virgin. Most people have no idea what it’s like to walk around day in and day out with lust-fueled thoughts that seep into every aspect of one’s life. Especially for bisexuals. Something I finally discovered about myself. There’s no reprieve. Everyone is a potential mate. The tall landscaper who wears tight T-shirts.

The traffic cop with shiny hair. The neighbor who insists on leaving her shades open when she undresses. It’s a constant, nagging need. An itch that won’t relent. But the concept of virginity seems like an archaic notion conceived in a gothic nunnery where hymans were sacrificed to a Sun God. I had built it up so much in my head that I knew I’d be destined for disappointment. Most people lose their virginity at a sensible age. When their peers are doing the same. The longer you wait, the weirder it becomes. By my age, most people don’t expect to meet a virgin unless they’re one of those religious freaks who want to save the awkward first time for their wedding night. They know nothing of their partner’s sexual predilections yet they say, ‘I do’. I find it distasteful at best. What if Joe Schmo can’t bust a nut unless he’s wearing a diaper? What if Suzy Homemaker can only come if she’s being choked? Aren’t these important facts to know before committing to a lifelong mate? I digress. The point is, I was horny but awkward so every time I interacted with anyone remotely attractive, I would feel like a bride Mormon on her wedding night…preparing to fuck through a hole in a sheet. That desperation is palpable and off-putting. I was hyper aware of that, even then. So I pushed my desires deep down in hopes of delaying the sexual outburst that would surely explode at the most inopportune time. All that to say, I wasn’t ready to visit my dad yet.

Then…I fell in love.

It was almost closing time at Coffee Crave. I was cleaning up, exhausted from the day, letting my thoughts run amok. The door burst open and in she walked. She seemed lost. Her face swollen, mascara running…I couldn’t take my eyes off her. You know how in the movies, reality slows to a crawl when the protagonist falls in love? That’s what happened to me. My breath caught in my throat. It felt like someone stopped the hands of time. She turned, faced me, and stared straight into my soul. I realized I was gawking at her, mouth ajar, pit-sweat forming. I snapped myself out of my reverie. “Sorry, are you still open?” She managed, her voice hoarse. I nodded, probably far too many times. “Oh good! I’m dying for a latte.” She stepped to the counter and plopped her oversized purse down. My heart was racing, my hands clammy. I had to remind myself not to vomit. That tends to happen when I’m nervous. Or scared. Or excited. Any big emotions really. Most functioning humans have a sympathetic nervous system that floods their brain with the appropriate chemicals when faced with a fight-or-flight scenario. Not mine. I’m presented with a sudden bout of narcolepsy or an acute desire to empty my small intestine. I’m not sure what my brain thinks is the evolutionary benefit of that. So as I forced the contents of my stomach to remain intact, I asked: “what kind of latte?” Except she was pretty so the question was screamed at a volume too loud to seem normal. She stared at me, stunned, which made me sweat more. Adrenaline rushed to my genitals, for some odd reason, which is the wrong pathway to survival. My brain is definitely faulty. If a tiger were chasing me, my body would either fall asleep, vomit, or make a feeble attempt at some sort of sexual happenstance. “Sorry” I managed, “I’m not sure why I screamed that.” She smiled. She was even more beautiful when she smiled. “Surprise me.” I would’ve given a kidney rather than make a decision like that. Deciding what she may like. What her palette would approve of. What I could choose for a total stranger to enjoy. A stranger I had already fallen madly in love with. The pressure mounted. ADHD paralysis took hold. My feet remained planted. I stared at her without blinking, my arms hanging stiffly at my sides. She waited. Unsure what was happening. The seconds felt like hours. After what seemed like an eternity, I managed to yell “I HAVE ADHD I CAN’T DECIDE!” She smiled again. Amused by my social inequities. “You’re cute.” She said. My knees lost their function causing my body to fold in on itself. A strange sort of moistened paper-doll-effect. “How about an almond milk, vanilla latte?” Her voice was soothing and gentle. This was the part of the movie where a montage shows how absolutely compatible we were. How meant for each other we were. We ended up chatting for hours that night. Her name was Sophie. I would still pay money to drink her bath water.

We lived together for more than two years.

As friends. To my chagrin. She was dating an absolute human douche-nugget. His name was Alex. His family came from the type of wealth that buys politicians. He had never been held accountable. Never been told, ‘no’. He was arrogant and beautiful and I hated him. I still do. He treated Sophie with complacency, gaslighting her every decision. I don’t understand how she put up with him. He never deserved her. He always made her cry. That’s why her makeup was running that first night we met. Whenever they’d fight, we’d drink together, bonding over how shitty men are. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I’d never even kissed one before. In a moment of panic, I made up a whole story about losing my virginity, on a rainy Tuesday, to a guy named Oliver Theodore Banks. Oli, my nickname for him, wanted to become a gamer when he grew up. But his parents were both psychiatrists who psychoanalyzed him relentlessly, breaking down every facet of his self-identity. He felt he had no other option but to run away. He ended up joining one of those traveling State fair troupes to find himself again…to discover what he really wanted in life. It was tragic and I missed him but also men suck so good riddance. I have no idea if she believed a word of it. I’m not a good liar. When I try, I always end up adding far too many quaint details that deviate from the plot. Then I panic that someday I’ll get quizzed on them so I run them through my head ad nauseam for weeks on end, until it feels real. I wish I could stop doing that. I hate it. One time we got super wasted and I confessed everything. Down to admitting I was still a virgin. I thought she’d be furious about the lie. But not my Sophie. She smiled her beautiful smile and brushed my hair behind my ear. She said it was a shame I’d never had sex and that everyone deserves an orgasm. She said she would help me out. I got so excited I nearly puked. Instead I ran to the bathroom and took a whore’s bath in the sink. By the time I got out, she was passed out. I’m okay to wait. She truly is my soulmate. She just doesn’t know it yet. You think I sound like a stalker. That’s not my intention. Things that come out of my mouth sound normal in my head. But not quite so when I hear them out loud. You can think what you want, Sophie and I are meant for each other.

There’s something I’d like to confess.

Hear me out, then judge me accordingly. I’ve seen shadows moving, heard whispers in empty rooms and gotten flashes of others’ secrets since I was a child. I pretended it wasn’t happening but deep down I couldn’t deny it. It’s how I knew Sophie was for me. As soon as I locked eyes with her, a lifetime together flashed in my mind. I could see our friendship blossoming into more. I don’t know how to explain what it is, but this talent has shown me things that came to pass more often than not. Perhaps I am crazy. Like my dad. I’m not sure how it started for him but I know how it ended for him and I don’t intend to follow in his footsteps. I’ve already had most of my life dictated, programmed, and manufactured by the foster system. I want to live a normal life. I want to be happy. These are the thoughts that occupy my mind. Constantly. In a never-ending loop. Back to my story. I was frying eggs when my phone rang. Sophie was almost out the door for her weekly Narcotics Anonymous meeting. She used to be a model. She got hooked on cocaine and nearly died. Alex, the human waste receptacle, took credit for getting her clean. Maybe that’s why she stayed with him. She felt indebted to him. He saved her. Her knight in shining armor. I made a mental note to save Sophie somehow, someday. Then I answered the phone. There was a pause on the other end. I added salt to the eggs, already annoyed with the caller. “Hello?” I repeated. More impatiently. “Miss Hashemi?” The caller’s voice was steady and strong. He could easily pass for a radio host. “Speaking.” I snapped. “My name is Detective Chen. I work for the Moore County Police Dept.” I put the spatula down. I’m not a fan of police. To some people they bring a sense of comfort and safety. Those people are Caucasian. “Yes?” I said nervously. That was one of those moments I wished I had Marek with me. His calm demeanor always soothed me, like he had all the answers in the world. My thoughts were interrupted, “I need you to come down to the morgue to identify your father’s body.”

The last thing I was cognizant of was my head hitting the kitchen linoleum.

I woke to the smell of something burning. There was smoke, wafting in the apartment. I sat up with a start but Sophie eased me back in her lap. She held an ice pack to my head, her eyes full of concern. “We should take you to the hospital”, she urged. I couldn’t speak. My tongue felt coated and thick in my mouth. I looked towards the pan, trying to remember if I turned it off. Sophie, intuitive as always, followed my gaze. “I was almost out the door when I smelled smoke. I came running out here to find the eggs on fire and you flat on the ground. Couple minutes longer…” She stopped, calming herself. “You could’ve died Lei. What happened?” I loved it when she doted on me. I wanted to stay in her lap forever. But then I remembered the call. “My phone.” My voice sounded different, as though my trachea was being squeezed. My cell must’ve skidded across the floor when I fainted. She got up to reach for it and handed it to me with an utterly empathetic frown. The screen was cracked. Small pieces of broken glass crumbling to the floor. I had three missed calls and a couple of texts. My eyes couldn’t seem to adjust. I squinted at the screen. A migraine was on the horizon. “Want me to read them to you?” She was perpetually leaning into kindness. It was how people like Alex, the human shit-bucket, took advantage of her. I made a note to toughen her up. She read out loud. “Miss Hashemi, it seems we lost contact. Kindly call or text me back at your convenience. I can have a unit pick you up if you’d rather not drive. This is a sensitive matter. I’m sorry for your loss. -Detective Chen.” Sophie looked at me, confusion gripping her face. Then the puzzle pieces fell into place. She immediately gasped, covering her mouth. “Your father?” She squeaked. I nodded because that’s all I could muster. I should’ve gone to see him. I had gotten caught up making excuses. Always one thing or another. Now he was gone. I would never have the chance. I would never hear his voice again. Sophie was at a loss. She missed her NA meeting to stay with me. But then she didn’t know what to say. Frankly, I didn’t know what I needed to hear. So we both stayed silent. Thinking. I kept having a looming feeling pushing in from the outskirts. A deep sorrow that crawled into my body, clawing at the tender bits. It pushed the breath out of my lungs. It seized my throat, climbing its way up my spine, leaving a trail of shredded flesh. I hadn’t realized how much I was shaking until Sophie wrapped her arms around me.

The morgue was cold and sterile, with antiseptic air that stung the nostrils.

The body bag was zipped open. The one containing my father. But I was too scared to look. So I remained standing, my eyes squeezed tight, wishing I were someplace else. “Well? Is this your father or not?” The coroner was a peculiar man, clearly more comfortable with the dead than the living. He shifted his weight, impatiently. Small dots of dandruff littered his shoulders, and his eyebrows sported the same. His hair was thinning and his skin was greasy. He hadn’t bothered wiping his mouth, post-lunch, so something cheesy still clung on. I had a sudden deep seated desire to punch him in the face. But Detective Chen would’ve surely frowned on that. I was surprised when I first saw Chen. I’m not sure what I had imagined but he wasn’t it. He was tall, muscular, with a strong jawline and deep set eyes that conveyed a certain knowing. Men in positions of power traditionally have that knowing look. An air of authority. It’s a confidence that speaks to a different privilege. One where they know they won’t be questioned, but rather obeyed. It’s sexy in a violent way. With Sophie, I fantasized about gently kissing every inch of her body. With Chen, I imagined him tearing my hair from the scalp. The coroner looked like he may explode so I finally peeled my eyes open. No matter how many memories of my father I had catalogued in my mind, that is the image that will stick. Once a man of substance, full of vigor and vitality…he had become a shell, empty and lifeless. Tears flooded my eyes. I refused to let them fall. “How did he die?” I asked because I needed to know everything. The coroner lit up, “He was stabbed by another -.” Chen cleared his throat, effectively shutting this troll of a man up. I had to brace myself, I knew my skull couldn’t handle another fainting spell. “It’s still an active investigation but I’ll answer your questions as soon as I get clearance.” Chen was always calm. His strength was the only thing keeping me from screaming. He reminded me of Marek in a way. But something was off. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Not at that point at least. He gently led me out, leaving the oaf to tend to the dead. The sun was blinding. I squinted, barely able to keep my eyes open. “I’ll be in touch in the next few days.” He said, then paused, taking me in. “I should tell you, I was one of the detectives on your father’s case. I thought you should know. Full disclosure and all.” We stood there in silence for a beat. Well, that explained that sour feeling I had. The unexplained something that made he hate him from the start. I was numb. My brain wouldn’t stop buzzing. “I can drive you home if you’d like.” I shook my head, fantasizing about pushing him into oncoming traffic. He hesitated but left. The sun shone, the birds sang, but I was reeling. My world had stopped so I stood there, for an eternity, until a bird shat on my shoulder.

I didn’t know how many more knockdowns I could handle.

I sprinted to work because I underestimated the distance from the morgue. But also because my boss was a misogynistic cretin. His name was Tod and he was the type who lingers. Always hanging in the periphery. Always listening and watching. Not with me, I didn’t exist in his world. He lingered, mouth-breathing, around Cecile because she was beautiful and cool. Tod had had it out for me since day one. He wasn’t the one who hired me. Cecile had. He would have turned me away without an interview. He liked to surround himself with pretty, young women. I was a stain on his visual palette. When Cecile wasn’t working he went out of his way to make my day Hell. Ridiculous demands. Annoying requests. Repetitive assignments. He was trying to make me quit. That way he wasn’t the bad guy in Cecile’s eyes. I found, early on, that if I stood real still with a dazed and faraway look in my eyes, he would stop talking and eventually lose interest. He must’ve assumed I was a simpleton. Uneducated. Unrefined. He thought himself a maverick. When I arrived at Coffee Crave, he was outside. Waiting. A smug look of defiance plastered on his face. I was five minutes late. I was out of breath, sweaty, and disheveled. He was lapping it up. “Nice of you to join us.” His voice was laced with pompous sarcasm. “I…” I couldn’t get another word out before he started accosting me. “What the hell is that on your shirt?” The bird shit. Damn it. “Your attire is a reflection of this business! I can fire you like that!” He snapped his fingers inches from my face. I would’ve recoiled, but I had already adopted the slack-jawed look I save for him, so I had to stay in character. “Don’t be such a shit Ted.” Cecile was lounging by the door, lighting up her thousandth cigarette. Her thick accent was one of her many charms. I loved that she refused to get Tod’s name right. He Tried to correct at some point but gave up when he realized his attempts were futile. She made smoking look so cool that I bought a pack when I first started working there. I gave it up after the first puff. It sent me into a coughing fit so violent that popped the blood vessels in my eyes. I realized smoking wasn’t for me. Tod spun on his heels, an annoying smile on display, the one he had perfected for Cecile. “She’s late again.” He said, impetuously, hoping for her sympathy. She responded by blowing smoke in his direction, staring at him with an apathetic look of disdain. A look only the French have perfected. After a couple awkward beats, he got the hint and waddled inside. Cecile gave me a once-over. She narrowed her eyes at the fowl shit stain. “Iz dat, how you say, sex juice?” She raised her eyebrows, impressed by my afternoon rendezvous. I arrived out of breath, sweaty and disheveled. In her world, that equated to a quickie with a stranger. “Bird shit.” I corrected. “Ah oui! C’est bonne chance ma petite haricot vert!” I had a remote idea what she said. Marek had taught me French but it didn’t quite stick. Nonetheless, I nodded enthusiastically. She had that effect on people. Strangers would try to please her. Be in her company. Buy her expensive gifts. She was beautiful, yes, but there was something evocative about her. The cool factor. It can’t be taught. There was a line of customers happy to wait for her as she dawdled outside. If I were the one keeping them, there’d be an uprising. I’d get pelted with eggs. So I rushed inside and started frothing milk.

Bird-shit-luck be damned. I died that night.

Let me explain. Towards the end of my shift, images of my father still spinning in my head, I had a severe fall. A small pool of water had congregated on the floor. The line was long. The customers impatient. I was rushing. One quick turn, my foot slipped, my balance disrupted, and I was airborne. My feet got a view of the ceiling. My hands grasping at ghosts. My forehead kissed the counter with such force that I was unconscious before I hugged the floor. I’ve always been accident-prone, but as of late the incidence rate is suspect. I’m being conspired against. I’m sure of it. Tod was more than happy to send me home. Traditionally, I’d brush it off. Swallow the pain. Stymie the blood with a dirty dishtowel. But after the day I had, I needed peace, serenity….opioids. I trudged home to find a full-blown rager…strangers, loud music, alcohol. Sophie came running when she saw me. She yelled something that was muted by the volume of the music. Then she noticed my bloody forehead, her face pulled into a pained grimace. “What’s going on??” I emoted. My head on the verge of exploding. Before she could answer, Alex, the human balloon knot, stumbled over. Drunk. Slurring. “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!” He declared at an obnoxious volume. Before I could sneer, he poured a shot down my throat. Heat filled my cavity. My vision started swimming. I am, what you’d call, a featherweight. The whiff of alcohol makes me drunk. Sophie stared at me, wide-eyed. She was familiar with my odd alcohol affliction. She pulled me away, leading me to my room. “Get cleaned up, I’ll check on you in a bit”. She whispered, breathy, in my ear. I gladly obliged.

I don’t know if it was the head injury, the forced alcohol, or my new orphan title…but something encouraged me to swallow a handful of zolpidem and slip into a bath.

I didn’t mean to die. That wasn’t my intention. The Universe obviously had other plans for me, so I was unceremoniously resurrected. Sophie must’ve kept her word and checked on me. I woke up in my bed. Naked. My head filled with strife and a thousand questions. Did she see me naked? How did she get me out of the tub? Dear God in Heaven did she ask Alex, the human shit stain, to CARRY ME TO BED??! Shame painted my entire body crimson. Then the smell. I begged my eyes to focus. To uncover the source of the odious offense. A sound interrupted my investigation. “A ‘thank you’ would suffice”. A familiar voice. Perched on my dresser, filthy wings tucked neatly. An androgynous woman with a Cheshire smile. I stifled a scream as I clutched the sheets to my bosom. A wet spatter answered my earlier inquiry. It was vomit. The smell. Now it was on my chin and shoulder. I shuddered but kept my eyes trained on the weirdo making herself at home in my room. “Who the fuck are you?” I tried my best to sound confident but the quiver in my voice gave me away. She stood. Wings spread majestically. “I’m your Guardian Angel dummy. You didn’t think I’d let you die, did you?” I looked around my room. There was only one immature dingle-berry who would pull a prank like this. “Did Alex put you up to this?” I was sure I already knew the answer. She cocked her head, confused. “You’re running out of time.” My head was throbbing. The smell of vomit threatening to induce another session. I wasn’t not in the mood for any of her shenanigans. “Ok cute. Get the fuck out.” I stood, the stained sheets clinging to my body. She stared, unblinking. “What the fuck, cosplay Tilda Swinton! Get the fuck out of my room!” Her wings beat gently. “You wound me,” she muttered. How did she get them to flap like that? Did she rig the wings to her back? These convention nerds were getting out of hand with their outfits. Alex, the human pestilence, had some interesting friends but this one took the cake. I back-stepped to my bathroom, dragging the sheet along. “Be gone by the time I’m out of this bathroom!” With that, I slammed the door. My therapist would’ve been proud…setting boundaries and shit. The bathtub was still full of water. A trail of soiled bath mats indicated that my naked body was DRAGGED to bed. I resorted to a quick sink scrub. I didn’t recognize my reflection. I looked like The Elephant man, face contorted and swollen. “Jesus Christ.” I said as I leaned in closer. Outside the door I heard, “I know that guy. A bit hoity-toity if you ask me.” What the fuck was she still doing in my room? I wrapped a towel tightly as I ripped the door open. “What is your problem??” She was lying on my bed, reading my dream journal. I jammed on whatever clothes I could find. “They’re coming for you Leila. You have to train.” I actively ignored her. If she wasn’t leaving then I would. She sat up, desperate for attention. “Your father wasn’t crazy. He was killing djinn.” I froze. No one knew that’s what he called them. No one knew the secrets my father used to whisper in my ear. The delusions he thought were real. “I was there the day they took him. Don’t you remember? I told you to run right not left.” My breath hitched. I leaned against the wall, not trusting gravity. Flashes of that day slammed into me. I vaguely remembered a childhood friend, one only I could see. One made of haze and smoke. One I have since convinced myself didn’t exist. And yet…how did this stranger know my secrets? “Alexa, does mixing zolpidem with alcohol cause hallucinations?” The robot voice sprang to life. “According to Wikipedia, combining…” Lady Tyler Durden rolled her eyes. “Shut up Alexa.” Then…she put her thoughts in my head. Words I didn’t hear out loud but were spoken with clarity INSIDE my mind. “I am Zal. Your Guardian Angel. You are Leila Hashemi. The Chosen One. You are humanity’s only salvation.”

I’ve spent my whole life trying to claw my way out from under my father’s shadow. So I ran.

I didn’t have a destination in mind when I escaped my own apartment. But I found myself running into my psychiatrist’s office. We didn’t have a scheduled session. Her secretary told me I could wait in the lobby. If she had a moment between patients, she would come speak with me. I paced the lobby. Everything was beige and bullshit. Abstract art, ones that looked like a child with seizures painted them, hung on every wall. A large, thirsty plant, stared at me from the corner where it had been banished. Eventually, the door opened and Dr. Welch motioned me in. I always liked Dr. Welch. She was fair and kind. She cared about her patients. I think I used to hold a special place in her heart because I was so young when we started our sessions. She was a trauma expert. The kind who made her reputation treating adults with troubled pasts. No one could get through to me like she did. I owed her so much. She leaned against her desk, motioning for me to sit. “This is unlike you Leila. Is everything okay?” She always watched, analyzed, and interpreted every micro expression of her patients. She could see that I was wound up, panicked, scared. I blurted out my grievances in a stream-of-consciousness sort of way. “I’m having hallucinations. I don’t know if they’re from the head injuries or from my father being killed.” It was my turn to watch Dr. Welch as she scanned her vast knowledge for the perfect response. But this time it was different. She was sad for me. I could see it in her eyes. But mostly I could feel it. I could feel her sorrow, in my body. “He’s dead?” She asked. I nodded. “My god Leila, I’m so sorry. No wonder your mind is playing tricks on you. This is severe. Something that triggers a lifetime of childhood trauma. I have patients for the next few hours, but I want you to come back tonight. An emergency session.” I nodded. She scribbled on her prescription pad. “I want you to take these tonight, no excuses. Pick them up now before the pharmacy closes.” I stood, but I had no intention of coming back. Not that night. There were too many unanswered questions I had to get to the bottom of. “My secretary will set you up with a time.” Before I left, she hugged me. In all the years I had been her patient, she had never had any physical contact with me. I melted in her arms.

Zal was waiting for me at the pharmacy.

I kept grasping for straws of sanity. For things to make sense. Things that were logical. Yet here she was, in a place only I knew I was headed. Waiting for me. Her wings, majestic in size, were on display yet no one seemed to notice. I was losing my mind. All my childhood oddities, the ones I thought I had put to rest, were rearing their ugly heads. The whispers. The shadows no one else could see. The words of another I’d hear in my own mind. Was it her all along? This creature I conjured as a child when I had no one else. Was it some sort of survival technique unique to kids? These imaginary friends who seem to run rampant only to disappear when childhood ends. But if that was the case, WHY WAS MINE HERE NOW??? All I ever wanted was a normal life. That wasn’t possible when a winged creature was hanging around putting crazy thoughts in my head. So I was going to take these pills prescribed to me. I was going to find Marek. I was going to piece together the mysteries of my childhood. Then I was going to move on with my life. I was going to live the sort of life everyone deserves! Zal grabbed my hand and put it on an old man’s arm. “Tell me what you see.” As soon as my skin touched his, fuzzy images bombarded my mind. Flashes of this man’s life. But they came too fast. Too unclear. The old man, appalled by my lack of boundaries, yanked his arm away. “Unhand me, you Siren! You, generation full of rot, with your TikTaks and your Bitecoins! When I was your age, I respected my elders. I should have a good mind to box your ears…” His tirade continued even as I left the pharmacy. The bag of pills secure in my hand. Zal floated beside me. “You have the gift inside you but it’s been denied too long. You have to train Leila.” I picked up my speed, unwilling to give in to the imaginary creature who refused to relent. She was unfazed. Keeping pace. Minutes later, I was sprinting, she was floating, and the sky opened up. Rain dumped in buckets. I arrived home, soaked, angry and hopeless, only to find Zal sitting next to a shirtless Alex, the human shit-bag. Why was he always at OUR apartment? Freeloading. He gave me a nod, arrogantly man-spread on my couch. But he wasn’t my focus. I stared daggers at Zal as I popped open the pill bottles. Zal shook her head. “Don’t take the pills.” I shook out a few in my hand. “They’ll numb your senses Leila. I won’t be able to help you.” I maintained eye contact as I swallowed them, sucking water straight from the kitchen tap to force them down. Then I retired to my room, victorious. The pills combined with the gentle sound of raindrops, tapping on the windowsill, lulled me into a deep sleep. I woke with a start. It was the middle of the night. The world was still. My thoughts weren’t racing for once. I liked this that feeling. I turned the TV on in my room. Background noise has always helped me think. Luckily, I told Dr. Welch’s secretary that I couldn’t make it to the emergency session. Otherwise, Welch would’ve had police doing a wellness check on me. I began researching everything I could find about my father’s crimes and his trial. The TV blabbered on, the news anchors mindlessly reading from the teleprompters. I found details of the crimes that didn’t add up. Timelines that didn’t sync. As I deep dove, a breaking news story pulled my attention. A young couple stood at a podium pleading for the safe return of their five-year old son, Timothy Hawlson. A cute little boy with soulful eyes. Apparently he had disappeared three days prior, and hadn’t been seen since. His mother, voice cracking, bared her soul. Begging for her son. It tugged at my heart. My father’s words returning to me: “she fought with everything she had to save you.” My pity party was cut short when the power went out. The lights, the TV, the sounds all disappeared. I looked out my window expecting to see the same for the whole neighborhood. But only mine were gone. I must’ve popped a circuit breaker. I tried my door but it was locked. I couldn’t turn the knob. Which was especially strange because my door didn’t have a lock. “Sophie?” Nothing. “I’m locked in my room Soph!” Silence. Eerie silence. As if sound had been sucked out. The absence of sound is very different from a quiet room. Suddenly, a noise! Inhuman. Growling. I backed away. The lights flickered. The doors shook. Threatening shadows were closing in! A scratch on my arm! Then another! I screamed! I got knocked down. The growling grew louder. “ Zal?” Was she right all along? Were there forces out there coming for me? “ZAL?!” My father had warned me of evil forces that consume the good in people. Forces that control minds. “ZAL COME BACK! I’M SORRY!” Something grabbed at me, pulling me, taking my breath. I crawled to the bathroom and slammed the door. The handle shook violently. Something wanted in. I followed my instincts and shoved two fingers down my throat. Remnants of my lunch combined with the pills came spewing out. Violently painting the porcelain toilet bowl. I breathed heavy. The lights popped back on. The shaking of the handle stopped. The growling subsided. For a moment I thought I was safe. Then, a rustle from behind the shower curtain. Something stirred. Something had made it in. My body trembled. My thoughts raced. I tore the curtain aside to find Zal. Lying in the tub. Her wings tucked neatly. “Just in time little one. They found you.”

The only person who has ever called me “little one”…was Marek.

I stared at Zal. She always knew exactly what I was thinking. “You couldn’t see me then. You were too young. Too scared. I was a hazy shadow to you. Featureless. Unreal. So I took a form that you could see. One that would make you feel safe.” My expression made my confusion clear. I didn’t understand what she was saying. So in front of my eyes, plain as day, Zal, my winged Guardian Angel, shape-shifted into Marek, my childhood mentor! In his accented voice, that had soothed me so many times throughout the years, Marek said: “I was with you every step of the way Leila. I’ve taught you all that you can learn from books. Now you must venture out and continue where your father left off. It has been decreed.” Per usual, my brain chose to shut down as a defense mechanism. My final thought, before my head cracked the rim of the bathtub, was how many times a human skull can withstand blunt force trauma before permanent damage is imminent. Everything I’ve ever known has been a lie. Fabricated. Manufactured. Fed to me in spoonfuls of deceit. My father spoke of holograms. Of false realities created to keep us distracted. Make us forget. Keep us subdued. Keep us in line. If that is true, that other realities exist. That other realms abound. Then I have wasted my life. I have bowed to the make-believe world curated for my consumption. I have denied the magic that flows in my veins. My father spoke of djinn, creatures with powers beyond our imagination. Creatures he tried to expose to me before he was taken away. He swore djinn had come for me but killed my mother instead. He swore vengeance. I used to fear the look in his eyes when he was beckoned. When his Calling pulled at him. A Pied Piper drawing my father away. Now I understand. Now, I get that same look in my eyes.

I must follow in my father’s footsteps. It has been decreed.

I woke to Zal, gently blowing on my head…and every bruise, every bump, every ache…was gone! Miraculously healed. My thoughts had never been clearer. All those experiences I had as a child. The oddities that were ridiculed or disbelieved. The knowings. The predictions. They all happened. They were real. They were trying to guide me. Put me on my path. But we’re conditioned by society to fit in. To fall in line. To never deviate. Zal was solemn. “You’ve left me no choice. Our time has run out.” With that, she palmed my face and generated such warmth in her hand that I feared my skin would blister. She pulled the magic of the cosmos and pushed Universal truth into my being. In seconds, she had opened my mind and drained the societal rot. Drained the lies we have all been force-fed for eons. She awakened me. I could see the code. The matrix. The actual truth. Zal withdrew her hand, leaving me gasping, as though I had surfaced from the depths. “There. It’s done.”

When I started this tale, I told you I killed a priest. Now I’ll tell you why.

Zal led me to a small church on the outskirts of town. We settled outside. Waiting. She busied herself sharpening a stick, and as she did, she talked about my mother. The woman who lives inside me. The one I dream of constantly. The one who was unfairly taken from me. The one I will avenge. Zal told me my mother was a powerful Jinnyah, a tribe of female djinn, known for their beauty and their cunning. Zal talked about her powers, her culture, her language. She told me my mother was untouchable in her realm. Or so they thought. My mother fell in love with my father, a human. A man who was intelligent and loving. Brave yet gentle. A man with qualities all djinn respected. But because he was human, their love was forbidden. My mother was warned to leave him. To find love amongst her own kind. But my mother has always followed her heart. So she and my father ran off together. They each left their worlds behind to find a common home. One where they’d be free from judgement and persecution. They were happy. They were in love. But they knew their union was prohibited. So when my mother became pregnant, she knew they’d come for me. My mother hid her pregnancy as long as she could. But rumors began to spread. Rumors of a half-breed child, an abomination. A child gifted with the powers of djinn yet cursed with the fallibilities of humans. A decree was announced: the half-breed child must be destroyed or the veil between worlds would shatter. Chaos would reign supreme. And so he came. An Ifrit, sent by the tribe council to set the wrong things right. He hadn’t expected my mother to fight. Djinn follow rules. They adhere to order. He thought my mother, ashamed of her act of treason, would hand me over. He was wrong. She fought to her last breath. Willing to sacrifice everything for her child. My human father, no match for a djinn, escaped with me while he could. Zal explained that this was all Taqdir. Mandated. Maktub. Fated. I was born to finish an Apocalyptic War that’s been brewing since the dawn of time.

My name is Leila Hashemi…and I am The Chosen One.

As dusk blanketed the night sky, Zal and I slipped inside. The parishioners had long gone. The church was quiet. Serene. I knew my task but fear had gripped my conscience. We snuck past the pews, the alter, the stained glass windows. Paintings of framed Saints hung on every wall. Each more dour-looking than the next. Their eyes, judging with impunity, stare through one’s soul. We crept down the stairs to the sanctuary. The door hung slightly ajar. My hands shook so violently that I had to stop to steady them. Zal turned to me, “what are you waiting for?” The priest wouldn’t hear her, but he could’ve heard me, so I remained silent. I chose charades as a means of conveying my message. My hands flailed and emoted. “Are you having a seizure?’ Zal asked, nonplussed. I waved my hands, and started over. Then I held up a finger to indicate the first word. Zal took a seat on her folded wings, amused by this game. I indicated my hands shaking and then pointed to my heart. “You plan to rip the priest’s heart out with your bare hands?” She asked, impressed. I shook my head vehemently and tried again. “You have cold hands but a warm heart?” I feared she may be taking this too lightly. “You know you can just think your thoughts, right?” I hung my head. I’m an idiot. “Yes, you are.” She confirmed. “Now can we get on with it, please?” Shaking hands be damned, the plan had been hatched and happening. I busted into the sanctuary where the priest, a man in his sixties, a man with a kind face, was organizing files into a box. He yelped. My grand entrance having startled him. “Oh dearie me, child. You gave me half a fright.” His eyes crinkled when he spoke and something about him reminded me of Christmas. “Are you lost dear?” I was at a loss for words, too frightened to speak. Zal stepped into my line of vision. “Use the stick.” I stared at her. “WHAT STICK??” I thought the words. Zal’s shoulders drooped. Clearly disappointed. “The one I spent half an hour sharpening for you.” I shook my head. I hadn’t brought that stick. I thought she was just busying her hands with it while she told me my mother’s story. “Find something else then” she warned. The priest stepped closer. “Was there something you needed child?” His concern was evident. I was sweaty, hyperventilating. I looked like a drug addict. “I can’t do this!” I screamed out loud. “Can’t do what?” He had ventured closer yet. “If he touches you, he will know who you are Leila Hashemi. You must kill him.” I shook my head again, and backed towards the door. I’m not like my father. I can’t kill. No matter what he is. I couldn’t do it. An image of Detective Chen popped into my mind then, serving as a warning. “Then touch him, see for yourself.” Zal was getting impatient. But I still hesitated. The priest approached. “I’ll walk you out. You can return in the morning if you’d like.” As he neared me, Zal placed my hand on his, and a flurry of images SLAMMED into my mind! The priest leading a small boy into the woods. His hand on the boy’s shoulder, guiding him deeper in. The priest picking up a rock, his fingers curling around the jagged edges. The boy turns, and I see his face. It’s the little boy from the news! Timothy Hawlson! The missing five-year old boy whose mother was pleading for his safe return. The priest smashes the rock down on the boy’s skull. Over and over again. Animalistic. Raw. Blood spattering. The priest turns and looks at me in the vision, his face covered in blood, his eyes black. He smiles a sinister smile that makes me shiver. I yanked my hand off his, tripping over my own feet to put distance between us. I gasped for air. The taste of vomit filled my mouth. “Miss?” He feigned concern. This thing. This monster.

Zal spoke the words that changed everything: “This is the djinn who killed your mother.”

Rage, the likes of which I’d never felt before, boiled in me. I popped to my feet and ran at the priest . An ancient scream escaped me. One that’s been buried for generations. He shuddered, backing away. In his haste, he tripped over one of the boxes littering the floor. He fell back and smashed his skull on the edge of his mahogany desk. The sound was sickening. As someone who tends to pass out and knock my skull against hard surfaces, I felt his pain. He crumbled in a heap. Blood from his head wound seeped on to the carpeted floor. Zal, pleased as punch, pointed at the sky, “You, always working in mysterious ways.” I stood, frozen. It all felt like a strange dream. Flashes of my own life crowded my thoughts. I couldn’t think straight. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how I’d gotten there. Then he moaned. The priest hadn’t died. “Spoke too soon. Finish him.” Zal is always so calm. So resolute. Meanwhile, I couldn’t budge. I couldn’t breathe. The few minutes after that are still a blur. I thought I saw the priest sit up. His face contorted into anger. I thought I saw him grasp for me. But I’m still not sure. I think I ripped an electrical chord out of the socket. Wound it around his neck and pulled tight. He struggled. Clawing. Kicking weakly. Trying to save his own life. “It takes three to five minutes of oxygen deprivation before a brain is considered clinically deceased.” Zal speaks in absolutes. I don’t know how long I’d been strangling him at that point. I hadn’t kept track. A sound outside the room made me freeze. My hands inadvertently relaxed my grip. My eyes shot to Zal who shrugged, unconcerned. I waited, held my breath, strained to hear. Silence returned. Finally. I breathed a sigh of relief. The relief was short-lived. The priest, resurrected, gasped for air. “Told you.” Zal wasn’t helping this situation. I panicked and yanked the chord so tight that his trachea collapsed. It was a sick, wet crunch. “NOW, he’s dead.” Zal looked satisfied. I shimmed myself away. Vomit rose yet again. I swallowed it. To no avail. It shot out of my mouth, spraying myself, the carpet, and the priest. “Well that was dumb.” I wished Zal would turn back into Marek. He was always far more comforting than she is. “Alright, strip your clothes off.” I thought my small intestine had been emptied but I wasn’t sure. So I stayed still, wondering why she wanted me naked at a time like this. I had forgotten she could hear my thoughts. “Because you puked, next to a guy you killed. Even cops can figure that one out.” My eyes were saucers at that point. “Guy?? I thought you said he’s a djinn!” She stood, waiting impatiently. “Tomato, tomahto.” I sucked in deep breaths. My head was spinning. I wished I had seen the turn my father saw after his first kill. But I was too panicked to look, the reality of the situation having hit me like a ton of bricks. “Oh god, I’m going to rot in jail, or in Hell. As a virgin!” I muttered. She rolled her eyes. “So dramatic. Just get up. We have to burn this church to the ground.” It just kept getting worse. “WHY DO WE HAVE TO BURN THE CHURCH TO THE GROUND??” I complained. Zal rubbed her temples, and spoke to me as though I’m inbred. “There is a dead body, with a chord wrapped around its throat. There is vomit on said corpse. Vomit has DNA. DNA is something that can be traced to find the killer of said dead body. Fire makes the body, the chord and the DNA go away.” That made sense. I started ripping my clothes off. I wished I had worn anything other than the laundry-day underwear I had chosen that morning, a statement look only Mormons find chic. Zal retrieved a flask from her coat. She doused the floor, the files, the priest. She savored the last sip. Before I could even finish undressing, she lit a match and tossed it on the priest. The alcohol ignited the ember immediately. The amber flames cast a dancing glow on Zal’s smiling face. I began to suspect then that she may be a pyromaniac. The flames erupted, fed by the veritable kindling in the sanctuary room. I ran. I sprinted past the framed Saints who looked displeased by this turn of events. My tits flopped in my unsupportive bra. Almost out the door, I realized what had made the noise earlier. A little old lady, rosary dangling in her hand, was kneeling at a pew. Her eyes closed, she was praying in religious ecstasy. I decked her square in the jaw, knocking her out cold. Then I dragged the feeble octogenarian out of the burning inferno that once stood tall as a church. Soot stained, half-naked, and coughing my lungs out, I collapsed on the churchyard grass. The octogenarian lay beside me, unharmed. Except for the possible broken jaw. But at least she was alive! Zal casually floated over and stared at me in anticipation. I returned her stare, panting like a pregnant hyena. She had to spell out the obvious:

“RUN.”

I let the hot water cascade over my head. It was so soothing. But I wished I had a tub large enough to submerge myself. Reenact the safety of the womb. Floating. Carefree. Zal was talking but I kept replaying the church scene in my mind. The feel of the chord in my hands. The smell of the fire. I thought I’d feel relieved. But I felt reviled. A knock on the door made me jump. “You okay Lei?” It was Sophie, talking through the door. She’d been especially worried lately because I’d been more reclusive than I normally am. Zal indicated Sophie. “She’s loyal. She’ll stick with you till -“ she was cutoff before she could finish. -“Don’t you have to be at work babe?” Sophie was always looking out. SHIT! I’d lost track of time. ADHD is an interesting thing. I cannot focus for the life of me unless adrenaline is involved. When rushing or panicked my focus becomes so hyper-focused that everything else feels like it’s stuck in slow-motion. Meanwhile, I’m Speedy Gonzalez, tearing through steps at Mach speed. I got dried, dressed and delivered to the front door of Coffee Craze in the time it would take most people to put on a coat. I was surprised to find it relatively quiet. Usually there’d be a line, caffeine-addicted people waiting for their hit. Cecile was reading a book, sipping an espresso. “Bonjour ma chère.” She looked up from her book, utterly surprised. “Your head. No bump. Nothing. C’est magique!” She marveled at the place where a deep gash had formed only days prior. Before I could throw an apron on, Tod had lumbered out from the back. He walked past us, motioning for me to follow. I stepped outside to find Zal staring at a squirrel. The small woodland creature on its hind legs, chattering away. From an outside perspective, it looked like the two were engaged in deep conversation. “You’re fired.” Tod took great pleasure in telling me as much. I couldn’t lose that job. It was the only thing keeping me sane back then. The doldrum repetition where I could get lost in my thoughts. Plus, without an income, I wouldn’t be able to pay rent. “Why??” I tried not to sound too desperate but I failed. “Because you’re late. Again.” I wasn’t. I know I wasn’t. I walked in seconds after my shift began. He leaned in closer, relishing his power, and whispered cruelly: “But most importantly. I don’t like you.” He sneered, holding his hand out for my apron. Zal’s voice broke the tension. “Touch him, use his secrets against him.” So I grabbed Tod’s arm and images slammed into my field of vision again. Tod setting up cameras around the cafe. Putting some in the bathroom and toilet. He pats down his erection. Holy shit! He’d been watching us piss and shit at work?? The adrenaline flooded my senses. He yanked his arm away. Perturbed. “Don’t make a scene Hashemi. Just hand me the apron and walk away.” Tod is a smug pompous creep. But now I owned him. “Good, then I guess I can tell the police about your little toilet-cam fetish.” Tod’s face went ashen. Fear gripped his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He stammered. “He saves it to his iCloud. Tell him cops can retrieve that data even if erased.” Zal can be savage. Now it was my turn to relish. I leaned in real close. “Cops can retrieve data off the cloud. Even if it’s cleared.” Tod broke into a sweat so quickly I had to stifle my laughter. “So here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna give both Cecile and I a raise.” He shifted uncomfortably. “But, um, I’m not in charge of raises. The owner -“ I put my hand up indicating he should silence himself. “Figure it out Barney. Plus, and this is an important point, you will remain in the back office when I or Cecile are working. If I so much as get a whiff of your cheap cologne, I’ll have the cops here in seconds. But I’ll also give Cecile’s very large boyfriend a breakdown of ALL your perversions. You’ll have a broken face AND you’ll get arrested.” Tod was a mess. Sweating, blanched and looking like he may faint. I dropped the apron at his feet and strolled inside. Zal slow-clapped. “There’s a new sheriff in town.” The toilet cameras were easy to find once I knew where to look for them. I don’t know what kind of magic Zal pushed into my head but I was enjoying every second of it. I could get used to the peek-behind-the-velvet-curtain of-reality business. I realized I was now untouchable at work. So I made myself a latte and joined Cecile and her book. When the door opened, I assumed it was Tod slinking to the back room as was our agreement. “Miss Hashemi.” I looked up. Standing in the doorway was a handsome man dressed in a chic, dark blue, suit. Detective Chen.

It occurred to me that if he asked my whereabouts the night before, I’d need Tod and Coffee Crave as an alibi.

Cecile responded immediately. “Oh la la. Qui est-ce?” I stood. I’m still not sure why. Chen had already assessed the entire place. Layout. Rooms. Exits. “Is there a place we can speak privately?”

He was always so stoic I wondered if he’s physically capable of smiling. Cecile had no intention of moving. She hadn’t taken her eyes off him. “Bonjour monsieur. My name is Cecile.” I’d never seen her act that way. It was usually the other way around. Chen gave her a respectful nod. “Detective Chen.” Cecile actually blushed. “Enchanté”. I indicated the back office. Tod’s office. He hadn’t returned. I wasn’t not sure where he’d gone but it was better to chat without him spying and recording. Chen pulled a chair for me as if we were in his office. The confidence was both irritating and utterly erotic. I did as I was told. He placed something on the desk then scrutinized every nuance of my expressions. As soon as I saw what he’d brought, my heart screeched to a halt. My hand automatically reached for my ears. On the desk was one of my stud earrings. One with a specific talisman meant to protect me. A gift from my father before he was taken. The matching one remained in one lobe. Chen had the other. I tried not to panic but keen detective eyes are trained to see through the façade. He must’ve noticed my earrings at the morgue. I screamed for Zal in my mind. “Where were you last night, between the hours of six and nine pm?” He never beat around the bush. My mouth was so dry I could barely speak. Zal was nowhere to be found. Where does she go? “I was here. Working. Why?” I tried to keep my voice level. Calm. Chen gave me that parental look that indicates he knew I was full of shit. Or maybe I was imagining that. I wasn’t on the schedule but that was something I’d have to change. “This was found in a churchyard. Near a church that was burnt down.” I feigned surprise. “Oh no.” I managed. “At first the fire department thought it was a case of arson. Then they found a body. Strange thing is, the cause of death was strangulation.” He spoke but focused on my reactions. I nodded, my thoughts racing. Before Chen could continue his line of questioning, Tod walked in. The look on his face was priceless. Had I seen it under any other circumstances I would’ve enjoyed every second of it. But not then. Chen stood. Tod was shitting himself. He thought his perversions had been outed. “Is this your office?” Tod nodded, gulping down his fear. “I’m Detective Chen.” Tod went weak in the knees. He shot me a look. He thought I’d broken the deal we’d made. “I just need to confirm that Leila was working here last night between the hours of six and nine pm?” Tod, confused and defensive, nodded before he even understood the question, desperate to be out of the hot seat. “That’s all I need for now. Thank you. If you remember anything pertinent, call me.” He left his card on the desk and walked out, with me hot on his heels. As he left the cafe, I purposely shook his hand, waiting for a peek at his secrets. I focused. I got nothing. No images. No visions. How was that possible?

There was something strange about Chen. I made a mental note to find out what.

Had I lost my abilities? I had to test it to be sure. When I touched Cecile, I got images of her love life. Her affair with a married man. Images of her past, in Paris, selling drugs. I chocked it up to her youth. I even tested my abilities with a customer. A mama’s boy. He was odd but harmless. He would die a virgin. Something I hoped wouldn’t be my fate as well. But I digress. At home, I managed to touch Alex, the human waste receptacle, assuming I’d get flashes of frat boy annoyance and white boy privilege. But no. I clearly saw that waste of breath cheating on my sweet Sophie. Some box blonde harlot with fake tits. I knew Sophie was too good for him. I had to tell her. I feared it would break her, make her slip back into drugs. But she had a right to know. What I hadn’t considered, when I was desperate to be Sophie’s Knight in Shining Armor, was that outing Alex, the human toilet plunger, meant I had made a dangerous enemy. I already had Tod out for blood. Chen was sniffing around trying to prove that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Now Alex joined that list. While I tried to help Sophie heal, Alex was using his money and powerful contacts to dig up any sort of dirt he could find on me. Zal kept warning me that I was losing focus. That time was running out. But I didn’t listen. I didn’t want to. My life was finally exciting. I had a Calling. A purpose. I had extraordinary gifts that would one day save humanity. Imagine that, little old me, a Messiah. The Chosen One. Most importantly, I had Sophie all to myself. I wanted to enjoy every minute of it. The more of my gifts I showed her, the more enthralled with me she became. I have to admit, I became…obsessed. I spent my days trying to impress her. I became sloppy. Blinded. I ignored Zal, pushing her away, refusing to listen. I didn’t need her anymore. Or so I thought. My powers grew stronger each day. I could sense djinn. Feel their presence.

I killed two more on my own. Without Zal’s guidance. I was untouchable.

A throat clears. “Miss Hashemi, I want to confirm that you just admitted, on camera, that you’ve killed two others? Two, after the priest?” I look up. They’re staring at me with that look again. The one my father had grown accustomed to. I wonder if he felt the way I feel now. Trapped. Agitated. Trying to convince these automatons that there’s a whole world out there they cannot see. Realms they have ignored, completely unaware. Realms that birthed my mother. Realms my father had seen, despite being human. My father was caught, taken to trial, and then transferred here. That’s not how I ended up here, at the same Institution. They said I wasn’t competent to stand trial. Now this Review Board judges my every word, my every expression, my every intonation. I keep repeating myself to them. “You’re all still hung up on the deaths. I don’t know how else to explain to you that they weren’t human. They were dangerous creatures. Djinn. They killed actual humans.” They look at each other and jot down notes. I can tell they don’t believe me. “I could help you find others. I can show you.” I hate that I have to waste my time explaining anything to these small-minded morons. I don’t know why they insist on keeping me handcuffed. It’s not like I’m going to jump across this table and strangle them. I don’t kill humans. I never have. Are they afraid of me? Perhaps that’s why they won’t let me touch their skin. Perhaps they know more than they’re letting on. Perhaps they’re denying the truth to make me think I’m crazy. Then they pump me full of drugs to keep me complacent. To break my link with Zal. I wish I hadn’t pushed Zal away. I know now what a mistake that was. She’d know what to do. What I should tell them. She always did. But she hasn’t returned. The bespectacled psychiatrist speaks up, his voice infused with disdain. I sniff the air, trying to determine if he’s a djinn. It would explain a lot. “Miss Hashemi, you claim the ones you murdered had killed others. Yet, the priest, the one you claimed killed the missing boy, Timothy Hawlson…turned out to be false. Isn’t that true?” Zal had warned me that djinn will try to confuse you. Control your mind. I can’t let them. “I saw the priest smashing the boy’s skull with a rock. There’s no way he survived it. So no, I don’t believe my statement to be false.” I maintain my confidence. The psychiatrist slides a file over to me. It’s tough opening anything when my hands are shackled. I sigh, annoyed. But eventually I manage. He looks at me over his glasses, speaking slowly. “Timothy Hawlson was missing for five days. He had wandered off and gotten lost. He survived by drinking water from a stream and eating berries he found in the woods. When police found him, he was dehydrated and scared but alive and well.” I wonder if they’re all djinn. Sitting up there, smug. Using their power and influence to keep hunters like me and my father locked up. So they can continue their world domination. The pictures in the file show a young boy, in the hospital, his lips cracked and dry, his sunken eyes staring at camera. These pictures are supposed to convince me that Timothy Hawlson is alive. They could’ve staged these photos before the priest killed him. This could be a look-alike boy. Frankly, it could be a djinn, who shape-shifted to confuse me. They must think I’m an idiot. I defiantly push the file back at them. “You can’t manipulate me with your lies! That boy is dead and I killed the monster responsible for it!” I hate that they got a rise out of me. But I’m tired of explaining myself. I just have to focus. Remember to focus Leila. Get my abilities back. I’ll make them rue the day they crossed me. They stand to leave. Their minds made up. This session is over.

I make a note to hunt these djinn when I get released.

It won’t be an easy feat. They inject me now with God knows what when they realized I was spitting out their drugs. Their desperation stinks. I can sense they fear my powers. I have to remember to stay focused. Time is running out. I’ll find my way back to Zal again. I need her. I’ll redeem my family legacy. I’ll even pop my cherry. I’ve waited long enough. These foul creatures tell me no one has called for me. No one has tried to visit. More lies! I’m sure Sophie is waiting for me on the outside. We’ll be together. You’ll see.

They don’t know who they’re dealing with. I’m The Chosen One. Only I can save humanity. And someday…I will.

The End.