Life and Death often meet in Waffle House parking lots. Contrary to popular belief, it's not easy being an ageless inevitable entity and sometimes hash browns are in order. Also, they're twins. It's good to catch up every now and then. Sometimes they swap stories. They always know the same people, they each meet them once.
     Life likes to know how each persons story ends. All of the little details. Every person matters to life, no matter who they were in their time on earth.
     Death likes to know how each person's story starts. the exact circumstances if possible. The contrast is what's interesting to them. More frequently than anyone knows, no one starts and ends their journey in the same place.
     No one sees them as they sit at the bar, but two plates of hash browns and two cups of coffee will find their way to the end of the counter.
     It's nice, this time together, it reminds them they aren't so alone.

      It was done. Despite the journey. Despite the warnings of danger. The Prince won the battle with the dragon. It's corpse lay broken, bloody and charred in the ruins of the thorn bushes surrounding the castle. Climbing the winding stairs of the tower, he imagined the look of gratitude and adoration that would be on the Princesses face.
      There was a wooden and iron door at the top of the stairs, it opened without a sound. The vaulted chamber beyond was dim, the light from the fire below barely coming through a small window. The only furniture in the room was a large bed with gauzy curtains hanging to the floor. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust. The Prince left footprints as he approached the bed, dust fell in a cloud as he pulled back one of the hangings to look at the Princess.
     Even protected as she was she could not escape the dust. His fingers left a trail as he gently stroked her cheek, caressed his thumb over her lips and down her neck. Even asleep she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Her skin was so soft and her hair was starkly black in the dimness of the room.
     He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips.
     The Princess sighed and opened her eyes. She smiled sweetly, lifting a hand and gently tracing the Princes features. The Prince smiled in return, closed his eyes and leaned in for another kiss.
     Without a sound, without warning, he was hurled from the bed and thrown against the ancient wooden door. His head hit with a resounding thud. He struggled to his feet, preparing to battle whatever new entity would keep him from his prize when he was shoved down and held in place.
     Coughing he looked up and screamed.
     It was his Princess, squatting beside him, head tilted to the side like a bird.
     Her eyes. There was nothing human in her eyes; There was nothing of gratitude or adoration, more like cold detachment. He couldn't look away, terror made him week.
     "I know you," she whispered in his ear, coming closer. Her voice was clear and lovely. He flinched back but there was no where to go.
     She wrapped one cold, delicate hand around his throat and squeezed. As he fell into the void he heard her whisper,  "You walked with me once upon a dream."
     

Merchant of Venice Character Study

Lancelot from The Merchant of Venice

The Merchant of Venice, otherwise called The Jew of Venice, is more than a romantic comedy. It explains the population’s prejudices toward Jews during Shakespeare’s time. The people of Shakespeare’s England were especially superstitious towards Jews. They were accused of such things as poisoning wells and stealing babies, and their strange customs did not endear them to the population. In that age Jews were viewed as a necessary evil because they often took on the least alluring occupations such as moneylenders. Christians found this occupation to be shameful and against their own moral code, and so the Jews were persecuted and punished for what society demanded of them. This is most evident in the character, Lancelot, and his role is particularly evident in three specific scenes: Act Two, Scene Two; Act Two, Scene Three; and Act Three, Scene Five.

As the audience is introduced we find out Lancelot, a Christian, has no respect for his master, Shylock, who is a Jew and a moneylender. The first words out of Lancelot’s mouth are full of censure for his master and he is debating whether or not to leave his service. In keeping with his title of “clown” he makes fun of his situation in it’s traditional sense, as well the lesser known role of speaking inconvenient truths. For example, the period Londoner’s view of Jews. Lancelot says that the Jew “is the very Devil incarnate” (2.2.21) and that “he is a Jew if he serve the Jew any longer” (2.2.100).

He leaves Shylock’s service and goes to work for Bassanio, the down and out Italian merchant. In Lancelot’s opinion, and the common opinion of the time, it would be better to serve a poor Christian than a rich Jew.

Lancelot’s disdain goes only so far as Shylock it seems, for in the following scene the audience sees how the clown has formed a friendship with Jessica, Shylock’s beautiful daughter. In Scene Three of Act Two, Shakespeare wrote a touching encounter between Jessica and Lancelot. Here, it is made apparent that the clown and the Jewess were friends in mischief, referring to Lancelot a “merry devil” (2.3.2). Neither one cares very much for Shylock’s melancholy attitude toward society and his place in it. In this scene, Lancelot is telling Jessica goodbye and he is moved to tears at the thought of not seeing her again. He calls her the “most beautiful pagan, [the] most sweet Jew” (2.3.10-11), illustrating that her beauty makes it easy for her to fit in with the Christian society.

Jessica’s beauty does not save her from eternal damnation, as Lancelot makes clear in Act Three, Scene Five of the play. Lancelot and Jessica sit in Portia’s garden passing the time, and although Lancelot’s words appear to be in jest, they betray an underlying message.

Though Jessica has run away from her father to be with her husband, Lorenzo, and has converted to Christianity, Lancelot claims that “ the sins of the father are to be laid upon the children…for I truly think you are damned.” (3.5.1-5). Lancelot, the embodiment of the common man, makes it clear, though in jest, that nothing can save Jessica’s soul. She was born a Jew and will always be so, with all of the stigma and prejudice attached to it.

All of Lancelot’s prejudices are conveyed to the audience through the guise of comedy. He is, after all, the clown, and his purpose is to make the audience laugh. Yet his sentiments are clear: he believes a pretty Jewess can be accepted in society but only for friendship. The world will frown behind her back for being the wife of a wealthy merchant. The Jews were necessary in the economy of the time; however, that doesn’t mean they have to be treated with respect, or as educated men worthy of respect such as Antonio or Graziano.

All of the age old discriminations toward a particular group of people are present in Lancelot. His belief that they are damned and that they are demons reflects the popular attitude towards this group of people at the time. His interpretation of these beliefs is what makes his character funny, poignant, and vital to the play.

Not With a Bang

Maggie stared at the industrial ceiling tiles. The ambient sound of chatter and soft soled shoes lured her into a state of unconscious that she fought wearily. She wanted to get out of here. She wanted to get away from the smell of antiseptic and Clorox. She wanted a fresh cup of strong coffee. She wanted her bed and her dogs. She wanted to go home. She didn't dare.

There had been no word. Her Dad, still speaking with the doctor a few paces down the hall, looked haggard. His blue eyes were red with crying and the lines were pronounced around his eyes. The nurses had stopped their come and go from Papa's room. That was good, she thought. He'd be able to rest now. She wanted suddenly, and with a pain that made her choke, to be little again. She wanted to go back to that princess room that her parents had picked just for her. She wanted her Dad to read her a book and Papa to tuck her in. She didn't want to be in the hospital waiting for Papa to die.

"Hey," a male voice brought her out of her gloomy thoughts. "I brought you coffee." Her little brother, Kevin. So much younger than her, only a senior in high school. He didn't deserve to have his father die, he deserved so much more time with their Papa. 

"Thanks," she said and put on her brave face. The coffee was bitter and weak. Kevin never could get it exactly right. "It tastes good." He smiled slightly and sipped his coke. He tried to laugh a little, but it came out garbled and wet. "It'll stunt your growth." 

Maggie reached over and gently cuffed him over the head. It was an old joke and a silly one. Maggie had been tall all her life and now she towered over her brother and parents. Only Papa had ever come close to her in height. Though, lately, he hadn't had the strength to sit up never mind stand. 

Another memory surfaced. A banquet for a charity her parents sponsored. Of course there was dancing, of course she towered over the other boys. Papa found her in the ballroom hallway, the little bit of makeup they had allowed her for the night running down her face as she cried silent tears. 

"This will never do," he said in his academic voice. "The prettiest girl at the dance cannot be allowed to hide in the hallway." He had dried her tears with his handkerchief and led her onto the dance floor. "Stand up straight, Maggie" he admonished her. "You have been blessed with height, don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise." 

A nurse came rushing by, pulling Maggie out of the memory. She glanced down the hall. Her dad and the doctor were still talking. What more could there be to say? She thought angrily. The diagnosis had been grim for months. Over the past few days Papa had steadily declined. What more could there be to say. Papa was dying. Papa was dying and he didn't need to be in the hospital. Maggie wanted him to be at home. He needed to be at home with their dogs and his special temperpedic pillow. They could put on The Golden Girls, even if he slept through all of it, and he would be comfortable and they would be together. There wouldn't be any antiseptic smell, or ambient beeping from heart monitors. 

"Do you remember coming home, Kevin?" She asked suddenly. He looked at her strangely but answered the question. "No," he whispered, then clearing his throat continued. "I was so young when I was adopted, apparently it's not surprising. You guys, my family, you guys are all I remember." He took a sip of coke and Maggie watched as one tear then another slid down his face. Reaching over, she wiped at the tear with her thumb. She looked down into her coffee cup, rolling the styrofoam between her hands to warm them. 

"What about you," he asked. "Do you remember before?" 

Fluorescent lights, another kind of industrial cleaning smell. Her seat just as hard as her present one, but her feet miles off the floor. Exactly three crayons, that was all they had allowed. It had frustrated her, how could she possibly draw the pictures in her head with three colors? Two men came in and spoke with the lady at the desk in front of her, both with golden hair. She was stunned. Maybe they were princes, she thought. Like in the stories. They were laughing with the woman. She stopped coloring to stare at them and looked away quickly when she was noticed. The man with dark eyes whispered to the other man and sat down next to her. The man with blue eyes continued to speak with the lady behind the desk.

"That's a pretty picture you're drawing." She looked down at he landscape, nothing but blue sky, green grass and the bright yellow sun. She shook her head sullenly. "Not enough colors." She mumbled. 

The man with dark eyes tutted. "That won't do," he said and reaching into his sports coat he pulled out a big pack of crayons. She stared enraptured by the shades of green, blue and red, gingerly taking the box from the man with the dark eyes. 

"Thank you," she whispered unable to take her gaze away from the yellow and green box in her hand. The man chuckled and she looked up at him. He held out his hand and she stared at it, unsure what to do, slowly she put her small hand in his. Gently he squeezed and went down on his knees on the floor so he looked her in the eye. "Miss Maggie," he whispered. "You are the sweetest, prettiest little girl. Would you like to come and stay with us?" He gestured to the man with the blue eyes. He had stopped talking to the woman behind the desk and they were looking at her now. The other mans eyes were turning pink and he had tears on his cheeks. 

Maggie looked at the man with dark eyes, how they twinkled with mischief and fun. "Yes I would," She whispered.

"No," she whispered, coming back from the memory. Her throat painfully clogged with tears too close to the surface. "They are all I remember." 

Dad finally stopped talking with the doctor and moved slowly toward them. Kevin jumped up and Maggie followed. As soon as they were close enough they were gathered in, holding onto one another. Maggie took comfort in the cedar smell of her Dad's cologne, wanting to weep because she knew it was her Papa's favorite. Still holding onto each other they sat on the sofa.

"Can he come home," Kevin asked tearfully, taking her question from her. They looked at their Dad, the air heavy with expectation. Maggie knew the answer before he opened his mouth. She knew by the hopeless look in his eyes and the tightness of his jaw. 

Kevin saw it too and let a strangled sob escape before he jumped up and began pacing the hall. Attempting and failing to keep the tears at bay. Maggie sat with her dad, holding his hand, tears running down both of their faces.  

"I'm going to sit with him," she whispered. She moved slowly toward the door, her dad holding onto her hand until the last minute. Someone had brought a lamp so that there was a soft orange glow in the room instead of harsh institutional light. Maggie pulled the armchair up to the side of the bed and gently took Papa's hand. With his warm brown eyes closed he seems deflated somehow. The force of his personality hidden behind his lids smudged blue with exhaustion. He seemed so frail. 

      The ambient sound of the hospital was muted in his room. Here only the heart monitor broke the oppressive quiet. She tried to take deep measured breaths to keep from thinking. Painfully, she swallowed and laughed ruefully. "I'm sorry I didn't bring my phone in," she whispered. "Or we could listen to some Bossa Nova." 

Tears were silently falling down her face. She gently ran her thumb back and forth across his hand and the thick veins that bisected it. She became aware of her Dad and Kevin coming into the room. Kevin moved to the other side of the bed and took Papas other hand while Dad pulled the other chair up to the foot of the bed. 

Once everyone settled she realized that Papa was worrying at her hand and she looked up. He was gazing at her from half lidded eyes, a faint smile on his face. 

"Hey pretty girl," he rasped, coughing and she hurriedly reached for the nearby cup to get him some water. Dad stood up and moved to the head of the bed, smoothing Papa's hair back. "How are you feeling? Do you need anything?" He asked. `A weak smile. "No, just sleep. I'm so tired." Dad gave him a pained smile and made himself busy straightening pillows. Papa smiled when he saw Kevin and ran his finger up and down his cheek. 

      Everyone smiled and made small talk as though the world wasn't being shifted on its access, as though they weren't all standing at the precipice of before and after. It was the strangest thing, but there was something comforting about resting in that delusion. In believing that it was just another hospital visit, and that as soon as the doctor gave the go ahead they would wheel Papa out to the car. Him joking about the service like the hospital were a four star resort and the rest of the family rolling eyes at his corny jokes. Despite the surroundings, Maggie found herself getting sleepy, across from her Kevin's head was resting on his chest. Her blinks became longer and longer. Maybe she'd put her head down, just for a minute. The last thing she heard before sleep claimed her was the quite murmuring of her parents, and Papa whispering, "You are the sweetest, prettiest little girl." 

She was cold but what woke Maggie was the quiet. There was no sound, no beeping of the heart monitor, and her Papa's hand was limp. Sitting up, she found that it was morning, weak yellow light shone through the large window. She looked around and saw Dad standing with the doctor, holding a sobbing Kevin. Maggie stood shakily, slowly moving back from the bed. She thought someone was saying her name, but she couldn't hear anything over the roaring silence. She pressed her hands to her mouth, shaking her head in denial. Refusing to let the tears come. She needed to be strong, Dad and Kevin needed her to be strong, and if she started sobbing now she'd never stop.

She tried breathing deeply to calm down, one after the other she tried to catch her breath but someone had sucked all of the air out of the room. Faintly, from far away, she heard her name again. She was sobbing now, her grief and panic taking over her body. She couldn't breath. Arms surrounded her and she screamed. She wailed. Everything that was happening, everything that she wanted for Papa came crushing down on her chest. Her ribs puncturing her lungs, her heart exploding. Why she kept living in those moments was a mystery she'd never know.

     Later Dad and Kevin would tell her that Papa had dozed off early in the morning; still holding onto her and her brother. His heartbeat had slowed, the doctor was brought in, the beeps of his heart had moved further and further apart. Dad said that the doctor called time of death just before she woke up. "It's like you felt him leave," he whispered in her ear when she calmed. "Baby girl, don't be sad. Papa always knew just when to go."  

Mara’s Story, OR; I wrote this as an assignment in college. The story is my reaction to reading a book called Living Dead Girl.

              Mara went to the coat closet and pulled out her leather blazer. She had hoped that her best friend and sometimes roommate, David, wouldn’t notice and would continue playing video games on her PS3. She had almost made it out the door, keys in hand when he stepped into the family room doorway.

    “Where are you going?”

    “Out with friends.”

    “Mind if I tag along?”

    “Jesus, David it’s just drinks with some friends. You’ll be bored stiff without Court TV to amuse you.” She laughed shrilly. “Just stay here.” “No,” he replied. “It could be fun, besides it’s been ages since I went drinking on River Street.” He walked down the hall and grabbed his heavy duster and the keys to his car.

The entire twenty minute ride from the marshes to Savannah proper, Mara was sweating bullets. David would know, as he always did, that she was up to something, especially if she left the bar as soon as they arrived.

    They found a place to park in a lot by the entrance to River Street and slowly made their way through the heat to Wet Willies.

               The air was so close, so hot and damp she could have held it in her hand. There was no escape from the Savannah heat. It hid between the buildings and narrow allies. The live oaks smothered with Spanish moss turned the squares into incubators. Above them, the normally heavy traffic on Bull Street could hardly be heard. Even the diehard drinkers were absent from River Street, trying to escape the heat.

              When they entered Wet Willies, she found that everyone was inside the bar enjoying the air conditioning. It was while standing in the throng of people that she knew what to do. She pulled David down so that his ear was by her mouth.

              “I’m going to the powder room,” she said. “I’ll be right back.” He looked at her deeply, worry in his eyes, before nodding and making his way to the bar. She made her way back to the restrooms, but once in the corridor she went for the service exit, passed through the kitchen and came out in the night air below Bull Street.

               She climbed the steps up to the street proper and made her way down Bull Street, past Haitian square, toward the warehouses used for the cargo ships.

              As she walked she realized how inappropriately dressed she was for a summer night in the south. She wore too high boots and tight black jeans, a black leather jacket and a black shirt. She was feeling the heat. She felt sweat trickle down her back and her cheek.

              She reached an intersection and looked both ways before crossing the deserted street. Upon reaching the other side she looked around again, peering into the shadows, looking to see if she was being followed. Satisfied that she was alone, she walked back into the middle of the street, took a deep breath then broke into a dead run toward an abandoned warehouse. When she reached the sidewalk she leapt up and grabbed onto the wall eight feet off of the ground.

              Using the tips of her fingers and toes she climbed the next four stories with ease. There was a guard rail on the roof and she hung on to it, scanning, making sure she was alone before she swung herself up. The roof of this building was typical for a warehouse. Flat, with abandoned crates and cinderblocks scattered here and there. At each corner huge security lights guarded the roof, but they were dark for now.

              In the darkness a shape was moving towards her. She didn’t see it at first, she was moving toward the little shed that held the access door when a deep bass voice called her name.

              “Mara.”

              With a spin that was almost too fast for the human eye, Mara was facing the shadow, pistol pointed unwaveringly in its direction, conjured from inside her leather jacket.

              “How did you find me?” she asked into the darkness.

              At that moment two lights switched on, illuminating the source of the voice. David stood in his black duster ten feet away from her. He was huge in the shadows, adding to his bulk was his coloring, he was very dark; his black brown hair was pulled back into a short ponytail, a few strands had escaped to frame his amazing cheekbones and bottomless brown eyes.

              His brown eyes slowly met her electric blue in the shadows. He smiled a small smile. “I can always find you Mara. I knew you weren’t planning on staying at the bar.” He said gently, taking a couple of steps forward. Slowly he lifted one bronze skinned arm and pressed down on the barrel of her pistol, gently forcing her to lower it.

              They stood there in silence for a moment, only a couple of feet apart. Mara had her arms dangling by her sides, pistol held loosely in her hand. Her appearance one of defeat but her body vibrated with tension, ready for anything. She was caught in the warm depths David’s eyes. They were filled with so much compassion and warmth. She could not let herself stare too long into his eyes. She might change her mind if she did.

              “David,” she began helplessly.

               “Don’t let him take this part of you Mara, don’t kill him.”             

                “I have to do something!”

                “But you can’t kill him! He may have done unspeakable things to you, to dozens of girls after you and before you, but only you have survived, you lived. If you do this there is no turning back, it will haunt you forever, don’t give him that. Do not give him your soul.”

Mara looked him in the eye, tears glimmering so dangerously near the surface, but he knew she wouldn’t cry. Mara never cried.

                “I am not going to kill him. He has another girl. I’m doing what I always do, I’m rescuing her. Then, while I’m taking her to the safe house I’ll call the police.” She looked away from him as she finished. “Just the way I always have.”

                “Bull shit.” David spat. “I know you better than I know anyone, Mara. Hear me. Nothing you do will make your captivity not have happened. You will not feel better when it is done. He may be a monster, but if you take a life, no matter how evil, you will be scarred. Mara,” He said trying to get through to her. “You can be happy without doing this.”

                Mara stared at him. He was and had always been her best friend, even though he was seven years older than her. He was the one who had rescued her, this giant of a man. He knew what had been done to her. He had been walking down a side street one beautiful spring day, everything green and in Technicolor bloom. She remembered those colors so vividly. Her captor had kept her in the dark basement with no light. That day she had scraped enough paint off of the windows to see outside. By some act of fate David had been walking down that street when he saw her, he was able to get help to rescue her. 

              “He already owns a part of me. He stole it from me. He owes me, and I will get him back.” The last was said with all of the anger in her being, it was there to see on her face, and it frightened David. It was a rash anger, and he knew he had to stop her. If she acted on her anger Mara would die tonight.

                Mara saw the muscle tense in his leg. He was going to rush her, tackle her, anything to keep her from going into that warehouse. She stepped quickly to the side, striking first, hitting him over the head with the butt of her pistol and knocking him unconscious.

                He would have a hell of a headache when he came to, but her mission would be done. Quietly, she made her way down the stairs.

                Her acute senses led her to the middle of the third floor; she could hear rattling and muffled screams. Her heart started beating in triple time, her breath became short, her palms began to sweat and her hands began to shake. She put her pistol inside her jacket only to pull it back out; she was in front of the prison door.

                She turned the latch slowly, of course it was unlocked, and light from the hall spilled into the store room. A man, naked, on his knees behind a young girl. Her bloody wrists shackled to the wall. His oily smile, “Mara,” his soft voice, His taunting “Want to join?” But she couldn’t move, just like when she was young, she was paralyzed, her gun slipped out of her slick palm. “Tut, what have you here?” He was too close, and he kept moving closer, but he was using the young girl as a shield. She was so young, younger than Mara had been, and Mara couldn’t move, she couldn’t pick up her weapon to help this girl.

“Did you think to catch me, Mara?” he continued in his too soft too sweet voice. “Did you think you could stop me?” He jerked the girl in his arms. “Did you want to save her?”

              In her periphery Mara could see the black butcher paper covering the windows. It would have been completely dark with the door closed. She could see the young girl’s pallet in the corner. There were no blankets, and no clothes anywhere. He kept her naked in the darkness.

              “Have you come back to me, Mara?” she heard him ask now. “You were always tougher than any of my other girls.” He smiled as he said that, running a hand up and down the young girl’s bare side, causing her to whimper. Mara tried very hard not to throw up. She had been tough. It had delighted him that he could abuse her in any fashion and she would recover in time for him to come back the next night.

              She stood there in numb horror, staring at this man who had haunted her in one form or another for most of her life. She had thought she was free the day David rescued her, but she had still been in a prison of her own making. Her need for revenge had kept this monster alive and in her life for far longer that he should have. She realized that she had never really lived her life. All of her being had been dedicated to finding and destroying this monster.

              As she stared into his soulless grey eyes, she felt a kind of peace settle over her. Everything she had trained for came back and she felt her muscles unlock, become loose again. She gauged the distance between them, looked to see if he had any weapons hidden near him or on him. She could rush him, she saw, grab the girl away from him, and get her out the door. Then they could both be free.

              On the rooftop, David regained consciousness. At first he felt that it would have been better if he hadn’t woken up. He had a pain behind his right eye that felt like a nail was making a home there. Then he remembered where he was and jumped to his feet. He saw the open doorway to the stairs and went down them as quietly and quickly as he could. He couldn’t hear anything, not even his footsteps. It was like walking through cotton. Instead he listened for Mara. His “Mara-detector” their parents had teased, even as children he had known where to find her. This instinct took him to the third floor. It was black in the hallways, and again he ignored one of his senses, listening only to the hum of his blood that told him he was getting closer.

              He saw her in a halo of light. The only light on the entire floor was outside of a nondescript store room. However as he came nearer, he heard a voice that was both oily and sweet at the same time. He couldn’t make out the words but the tone was mocking. He came ever nearer and saw that Mara didn’t have her gun in hand. He slowly drew his, never making a sound. He couldn’t think what Mara had planned, usually he could but right now the space her mind filled with his was blank. He stood deep in the shadows watching.

              Sense she didn’t have her gun, David worried that she would rush the monster; try to kill him with her hands. As he pondered what she would do he noticed a kind of calm come over her, relaxing her shoulders. Before he could think what it meant, he saw a flash of silver. The monster had a knife. G-d knows where it came from, or what he was going to do with it. Whether he was going to slit the girl’s throat or throw it at Mara, but David couldn’t let him do either. He moved closer to the room and lined up his target and fired.

              Mara heard the click of the trigger a hundredth of a second before the gun was fired. She saw the monster fall back, blood already pooling beneath his shoulder. The girl was ramrod stiff, white as a sheet for another hundredth of a second before collapsing into sobs. Mara caught her before she hit the floor and gathered her into her lap. David checked the monster’s pulse as Mara attempted to comfort the girl. “He’s alive but barely.” David said. Mara said nothing to that, only continued to rock the girl, stroke her hair, trying to give her some reassurance.

              “Mara,” David said, getting her attention. “Prison will be the worse than death for him.” She looked into David’s beautiful brown eyes and felt so warm, so safe. “I know,” she whispered and pulled out her cell phone to call the police.

              The police had their questions and they wanted answers now, but David being one of them convinced the coppers that she would be better able to answer questions at the station. She was glad in an abstract way that she didn’t have to deal with people. She didn’t even have to move. David picked her up and carried her out of the warehouse, back down to River Street, into his car, and back to his house on the Bull River. She was feeling about five in the early morning light. Especially as he picked her up out of the car and put her in front of the fire pit on the deck overlooking the water. The tide was just coming in; she could feel the deck slowly rising with the water.

              “Here,” he said handing her a glass of red wine.

              She lifted the glass and inhaled the sweet scent. “Cabernet Savinaun?” He smiled down at her. “It’s your favorite.”  He had beer in his hand. “Besides you never did get that drink last night.” She took a sip and held the glass to the light, seeing how the sun shone through the ruby liquid. They spent some time in a comfortable silence before Mara spoke up again.

              “I don’t suppose you’d let me take a shower?” David laughed at that.

              “No, I like my water bill just where it is thanks. Every time you come over and spend an hour in the bath it goes up about fifty dollars.” Mara smiled wanly.

              “Why do you put up with me?” she asked seriously. David answered her question in kind. “My grandfather used to say that when you saved someone’s life it made you responsible for them.” He looked over at her. “You were always like a little sister to me, but after I found you…” He sighed. “You think you have lived bent on revenge.” He shook his head and took a sip of his drink.

              Mara was confused. “Why would you feel the need for revenge?”

              Why would he feel the need for revenge? David didn’t answer for so long that she must have thought he was ignoring her question. In truth he was astonished. Astonished that he could have spent all of his life nearly overwhelmed by what he felt for her and she could never have noticed. At times he thought it must be written on his face. He was in agony when, at ten years old, she disappeared. It had made him become a cop, so that he could have access to her case, so he would be better able to find her. And he had, partly it was his connection to her, it had taken him down an untried path that day, one close to the original search site. He had found her, he had carried her out of that place, bruised and bloodied. But not broken. At fourteen, she had captured his heart; she was the strongest person he had ever known. And he needed to avenge her. He needed for the monster to be punished for this crime.

                “I wasn’t going to kill him.” He looked at her disbelievingly. “I wasn’t. I felt this power inside me, this light, and I knew I was OK. Because I could walk through that door and save that girl I knew that what you said was true. I could find peace and live my life, even if he went to prison, even if he was still alive. I had decided he no longer had power over me.”

                David had to look away for fear she would see the tears in his eyes. His happiness for her threatened to overwhelm him, this was what he had always wanted for her. That she would find peace with her captivity, and be able to make a new life for herself.

                He took a deep breath and looked around. “Hey,” he said suddenly. “Remember when you were little and we would go swimming in the river?” She looked up startled and out at the river, reminiscing. “Yeah, you taught me to swim.” “Let’s go for a swim now.” He said standing up and holding out his hand for her. She looked at him disbelievingly. “Right Now?” “Yeah now, this way you can have a bath and not run up my water bill.” He pulled her up and started down to the end of the dock.

                “Come on,” he said pulling off his shoes and socks. His enthusiasm was contagious and Mara laughed as she sat next to him and unzipped her boots. Then they both stood and leapt.

They jumped in the river. Giddy and laughing they took a breath and swam to the bottom. There was a whole world beneath the water. Crabs scuttled under rocks as they approached. Bugs skimped the surface and weeds moved with the current.

              Suddenly she surfaced and David pulled her close, finger to his lips. On the other side of the bank dolphins were playing, the babies following the parents in the search for eels in the muddy bank.

              Mara was filled with joy at the sight, and she was grateful to David for showing it to her. Smiling, she turned to thank him and was shocked by the way he was looking at her. “Mara,” He whispered, tears glimmering in his eyes. Glimmering because it had been so long sense he had seen any happiness in her face. She turned to a statue as he moved closer, his lips brushing hers. “I love you.” He whispered before deepening the kiss. She knew then that she had always loved him, long before she had been captured; ever sense she was a little girl. She welcomed the feeling, the way it filled her and gave her a marvelous sense of belongin. It was wondrous. She pulled back, resting her forehead against his.

              “I love you, too.”

A Letter to my Forty Year Old Self

Dear Allison,
   
Do you remember in high school, when your counselor said that sixteen year old Allison had to think

about what forty year old Allison would want? It seems to me that's a particularly stupid piece of

advise for a teenager. What sixteen year old thinks that far ahead? Do you think about us at sixteen?

Would she be happy with where you are not?

     I have so many questions for you, questions more than anything. Are you happy? Or have you

only settled? Please don't tell me you settled. Content is not the same as happy. I'm scared that one

day I'll wake up from content and wonder what the hell happened.

     So, my hopes for you. I hope that you are in an amazing, beautiful, romantic relationship. I hope

you are surrounded by family, and dogs, of course! I hope that you travel, and often. I hope you are

happy and that you are at peace.
                             
                                                  Love,
 
                                                   your Twenty Nine Year Old Self

A Letter to my Sixteen Year Old Self

Dear Allison
   
     Don't listen to them. They will tell you to be practical, to envision what your older self would want or need.

Let me tell you something; she will be bitter and cynical just like them. Do what makes you

happy. Don't be stupid, don't do something harmful or illegal. Follow your dreams. It may never be

too late, but don't waste these years, don't waste your time like that.

     Also, you are so much better at essay writing than you give yourself credit. Don't compare

yourself to others. Just because you don't worship Ginsberg or think The Catcher in the Rye is the

best novel in the world doesn't mean that you are bad at English. If you need help ask for it, don't be

afraid of other peoples reaction. It doesn't have to be perfect the first time and you don't have to have

your homework done before you get home.

     Flash cards are your friend, stick with French and voice lessons. If it gives you joy don't stop.
                                             
                                                        Be Brave.
                                                                  Love
                                                                      your 29 year old self