Something isn't quite right
Swarming busy bodies with smiling faces
But I smell the fumes of death
Seeping out into the air with every breath
In a place supposed to be a refuge
I'm in my worst nightmare
In a place proclaiming belonging
I feel so alone
It is eerie and no one can sense it but me
Nothing but shadows running the play
Ignoring the cries for help standing in their way
Getting lost in the sea of people, I blend into the tour
Led by a captivating guide and all her allure
She proudly directs our attention through the window
"Look at the smiling children
They're so happy - they want to relive these moments forever
So they stay here"
Squinting out the window in disbelief
I see tiny apparitions on the playground
A gray, translucent little girl pumping her legs on the swing
The same, repetitive tune she sings
A barely-visible, lanky boy on the monkey bars
His outstretch arms accentuating his scars
Are my eyes deceiving me?
This cannot be
I look around and no one is phased
Am I the only one not in a daze?
I run away, fast
Away from this delusion of hell
Down the hall, around the corner, and through the door
Trying to escape through the stairwell
Suddenly I am stopped by a teenage boy
Whispering in desperation
Hiding underneath the stairs
Greasy, black hair obstructing his deep eyes
Help, his face pleads
As he speaks and tells his story, his hair and nails grow long before my eyes
Even his toenails grow like a time-lapse video
And puncture his worn-out, stretched-out socks
Sobbing, his voice becomes higher-pitched
Small breasts begin to develop
The dirt and grime fades away
She is glowing
But then she glitches back and forth to her old reality
Stuck in between two worlds
Heart racing and panting, I close my eyes
I see all of her memories, all of her pain
My heart sinks through my gut as she reveals what happened
She never came to be
She would not have been accepted
Welcomed only by the gun
I open my eyes, though I cannot see clearly through the tears
Still, I know she is gone
She just wanted someone to listen
About the Creator
Amy Carlsen
Seattle-based writer born and raised in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Left the field of engineering sales to pursue vocation in full-time ministry. Married to her college sweetheart, Tory, and loves being a mom to her Kindergartener, Cole.


Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.