Typically, I went through the same schedule every day. I woke up at 8:05 every morning and when I did, my mind was always clouded with my nightmares from the previous night. I immediately wrote them down on a bright blue post-it note on my nightstand so that I would be able to remember them and relive them the next night.

Then, I sluggishly walked into my bathroom and hopped up onto the sink. I slathered my toothbrush with the multicolored toothpaste that I could only find in the kid’s section of Walgreens and brushed my teeth for a maximum of thirty seconds. I slipped on a navy sweater, my Ugg slippers, and went out of my apartment. 

Once I left my apartment, I went down three flights of stairs and walked over to Jorge’s Cafe, the bagel place around the block that always had elevator music playing in the background. It was quaint, charming, and one of the only places in Boston you could find the true liberal college students with berets and oversized jeans.

No matter what I was feeling, I always, and I mean always ordered a sesame bagel with scallion cream cheese and an iced chai latte that I added loads of liquid sugar to. Frequently, the owner of the shop, Jorge, observed me while he cleaned out the toaster that was always malfunctioning and made the conscious decision to lecture me on the many consequences of sugar, blatantly patronizing me. “Don’t you care about what you put into your body? That’s how you get cancer, Clare''. I usually shrugged and ignored him, fearful of more human interaction than I already had endured that morning. I went out the door, found a table at the dog park near the cafe—even in the winter—and ate my breakfast there, watching the dogs playfully tackle each other. 

I had always wanted to get a dog, but I knew that I did not have the ability to be a pet owner. I once bought a cactus in March, and it wasn’t until November that I discovered that it had died when my mother pointed it out while she was helping prepare Thanksgiving dinner for us and saw it in the kitchen. I had completely forgotten about the cactus even though it had been right next to my fridge. It was inevitable that I would not be able to keep a dog alive. 

After entering my apartment following my morning walk, I changed into my work clothes. I usually changed into my scrubs once I got to the hospital, so I stuffed them into my purse on my way out. I then filled up a reusable water bottle with water and some lemon slices, put my phone in my purse, and left. 

Once I entered the hospital through the creaky door that no one could be bothered to oil, I faked a smile towards the receptionists and nurses and walked to my office. 

That day, I heard a woman wailing in the bathroom down the hall. Whatever conscience I had was tempted to go confront and comfort her, but I chose to ignore her and let things work out naturally. I contemplated whether I was a bad person but decided against it. I had never worked hard in my life to become a better person. No one ever had.

After working from 8:45 until 1:15, I enjoyed my 40-minute lunch break. My morning routine never allowed for me to pack myself a lunch, and the hospital food was notorious for being viciously unforgiving to those with weak stomachs like mine, so I never ate there.

That day, I ate at the pho restaurant nearby. It was interminable and ample, a nightmare for agoraphobes, but perfect for me. Eating only took me about ten minutes, so to spend the rest of my break, I always read a book, always paperback. That day, I had brought The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka. Twenty minutes later, I took my book and got ready to leave. 

“Do you like it? The book, I mean.” The frequent Korean male customer had just asked me a question and I was frantic. 

Without turning around and looking at him, I nippily replied, “Yeah” and attempted to smoothly walk out of the restaurant, avoiding all eye contact. 

I could imagine his pitiful smirk and I screamed on the inside. On my way out, I saw the other two customers covering their ears for some reason. 

            Six days later, I woke up groggy in a hospital bed, while a lucid nurse looked out the window and then down at her stomach. She was fairly plump and stout, but something was most certainly off about her. I spotted a strawberry donut with rainbow sprinkles in the garbage. Was it hers? Was it mine?

            “Ah, Ms. Gardner. You’re finally up. How do you feel? Do you want some water?”

            “Where am I?”

            “You’re at Boston Medical Hospital, honey.”

            “What happened?”
            “I’m afraid we’re still trying to figure that out. Maybe you can help fill in some missing gaps in the story. The receptionist said that today at 9:15 AM, you walked into the hospital in your scrubs, ready for work, and then simply fainted outside of your office. You were found unconscious by a nurse two minutes after you fainted. Then you were brought here.”

            My mind drew a blank. I asked the nurse what was wrong with me, and she explained to me that there was nothing physically wrong except for some bruises caused by my fall. I then asked if I was free to go. She hesitantly replied affirmatively but advised me to stay in the hospital for a little longer. 

            I promptly got up from the bed, grabbed my purse which was on the depressingly bland, black side table in the hospital room and left.

            I immediately went back to my apartment, took a shower, and then booked first-class flight tickets. The flight was to leave in one hour. I emailed the hospital that I would be taking a trip to my hometown for two weeks because my sister had blown her brains out the night before and I had to go prepare the funeral. After packing my belongings, I took one final look around at my apartment, particularly the shower for sentimental purposes, and then left, unaware if I would ever come back.

When I got to my car, I noticed a trivial, capless, translucent bottle with what looked like a letter. After promptly picking up the bottle, I removed the letter. 

After wiping the slimy residue of the bottle off the letter onto my sleeve, I read the letter: What’s wrong with you Clare? You have a twisted mind. Your only purpose is to serve the Devil faithfully and loyally as his accomplice. You’ve killed, and you will kill again.

What was going on? Who was messing with me? Suddenly, an incandescent light shined right in my face yet I couldn’t place the source. To avoid blindness, I gently closed my eyes and pondered what to do. I knew I had to act fast. I felt around for my car key in my purse and then had to feel around for the car door handle as I was still unsure whether it was safe to open my eyes.

After successfully getting into my car, I sensed that the light had been eradicated. I opened my eyes and much to my dismay, it was not gone. However, it had diminished to a less severe degree of brightness.

However, this time the light seemed sanguine and optimistic.

While I did embrace this new vigor, I was soon brought back to reality after feeling the familiar crinkle of the letter in my hand.

            This metamorphosis of light made me think about Andrew. Andrew was my lover; my brother; my other. He had been an angelic being. He had smelled of rosemary and the rain-soaked leaves of a forest ridden with darkness. His hair, an autumn reddish-brown; his eyes, a dusky, more pervasive brown. His beauty flowed into every aspect of his being, smooth like honey.

            But Andrew had been different. Andrew was irrevocably beguiling not because of his outer beauty, but because of his inner darkness: his abhorrent, malicious behavior. Being with Andrew for every day, minute, and second of the nine months I was fortunate enough to spend with him, I grasped his existence with as much gratitude as I could. As I came to know him, I came to know him.

            He was like an apple. Beautifully golden and shiny on the outside, an apple is inviting and almost begs to be bitten into and uncovered so that it can be viewed in all its glory. But the crunchy, milky white meat of the apple is deceptive and a mirage. It hides all of its truths, convictions, and all of its identity. 

The seeds of Andrew’s apple, all idiosyncratic and special in shape, showed all of the apple’s offerings. One seed was a pathway to a safe haven where one is greeted with sickling sweetness and the shrills of a warbling. Another seed was a rainy, hollowed out, weeping willow that embraced the malignant and the unhinged. And with Andrew, all and none of the seeds were up for grabs. It was overwhelming for me to choose which seed I vied, and which seed I over patronized so I couldn’t choose any. When I was with Andrew, it was up to him.

Andrew and me. I and Andrew. We were inseparable, both psychologically and physically. A strong bond, we were two birds on a wire, or more realistically, two birds attached by a wire, stuck in a vat of human warmth, a womb. We had little room to breathe or move around, and the limited space forced us to develop as one. When it came time, I tried to pick the seed that I believed would be best in the long run. However, this seed meant that I moved on not with him, but as him. I never forgave myself.

The letter and its contents instilled a renowned sense of perturbation. However, I realized that I would have to ignore it for the time being if I had any desire of making my flight.

I immediately put my foot on the pedal and drove, as fast as I could, to the Boston Logan International Airport.

Inside the airport, I had no idea what to do. Luckily, I found a Delta worker who seemed helpful. I walked up to her calmly and noticed her name tag: Carol.

“Hi. I’m sorry to disturb you. I have a flight I have to get to and I have no idea where to go. You see, I have never been to an airport before.” I was out of breath after exclaiming my dilemma, which—after I heard myself—I realized sounded quite pathetic.

“Can I see your boarding pass?” she stolidly replied.

I pulled it out and thrusted it at her. I managed to make out a faint smile.

She eventually snatched the boarding pass out of my hand and passively said, “I can check you in right here. It will only take a second.” I was extremely relieved. However, I began to feel guilty about criticizing Carol and her appearance. 

What if she had been born with rheumatoid arthritis and it hurt for her to move too quickly, which is why she took so long to take out her glasses? Or what if she had just found out her son had been accepted to his dream college, but her and her husband could not cover the cost of tuition? 

I played out all the possible scenarios in my head but could still not accept that I was in the wrong. I had innocently approached her in a polite and kind manner. I made her aware that the whole airport experience was very new and confusing to me, but she acted as if she did not hear me. She treated me like the chunky meatloaf that mothers spent all day making for their family. Even though it was vile and practically inedible, no one complained, and everyone ate it…because they had to.

I wasn’t trying to act hypersensitive or whiny. I just thought that I was entitled to a little deference. I could only imagine this sick woman’s way of life. She had certainly done this before: agitating helpless others just to satisfy her whims. And after a long, tough day at work gaslighting and scrutinizing them, she drove her ragged, red Honda to the motel down the street where people from the airport were typically given a room and food voucher when their flight was moved or canceled. 

While most rooms were usually reserved, Carol bribed the motel owner with free airplane biscuits and let her coquettish cackle fill the desolate motel room she received while smoking a pack of Marlboro cigarettes.

She could only smoke them here because her husband had a terrible case of emphysema and could not be around any smoke. His paranoia was so fundamental that he did not even allow any cooking that involved an oven, toaster, or microwave. She probably told herself that she was being considerate by not smoking inside the house. But I wasn’t fooled. 

This woman, a monstrosity of evil, was using this motel room as an excuse to stay away from her husband. She was an odious woman who pushed away normality and benevolence just for the thrill of it.

As I walked away from Carol towards my airplane gate, my criticism of her continued to waft in the air like the scent of a dead man whose body was in rigor mortis. Putrid and repugnant; incandescent; beautifully perfect. 

However, like a dead body, it was soon eradicated from the air and from my mind.

The plane ride was mundane. Uneventful at best. An insipid baby sat behind me the entire flight, retching, and coughing while his pathetic mother remained attentive to his needs. Disheveled and stained with lethargy and resentment, she seemed seconds away from relinquishing all the self-control she retained by breaking the airplane window with her peach-kissed baby’s head and tossing herself out. I felt somewhat sympathetic for the baby, but even more for the mother. Why should she be subjected to slaving away to protect and improve a life that is not her own? On the way out of the plane, I was tempted to give her some words of encouragement; of hatred towards the baby. Other than that, the flight was fine. 

After I picked up my luggage that had so obviously been manhandled and treated without care, I found a taxi to take me to my modest cottage in the country. On the plane, I had realized that I would live here for the rest of my life, in exile and in solitude.

Staring out of the window of the taxi, I saw the urban landscape crawling with thousands of vicious beings transform into the placid lakes and forests that lacked vibrance but retained a surplus of intrigue and unsettling passivity. Soon enough, my cottage appeared in my eyesight. The taximan brought my bags over to the front door and I thanked him with a measly five-dollar tip—all that I had left. 

I walked up to the door, fiddled around with the key that I was masterfully able to retrieve from the front zipper of my suitcase, and opened it. To my amazement, Andrew was sitting on the couch, lighting the balsam fir candle on the table in front. 

I nearly collapsed. For a few minutes, neither of us said or did anything.

Even though I was at a loss of words, I hoped that Andrew did not mistake that for dismay or disappointment. I just had so many questions. Why was he here? Even more importantly, how was he here? How was he alive? Andrew, however, also remained mute and somewhat inert. I decided not to interrogate or smother him. Instead, I went up to my bedroom, unpacked my suitcases, and then walked down to the kitchen to see if I could prepare some dinner. I was able to scrounge up some pasta with canned tomato sauce. After preparing the dinner, I walked back into the living room and told Andrew, “Dinner’s ready.” He promptly arrived at the dinner table with the candle he had lit. Once he placed it exactly in the middle of the table, he took his fork and began to eat. “Thanks,” he said in a softened, less bitter tone than he had been exacting earlier.

So, during dinner I stared into the flame of the candle that Andrew had lit. Painted with colors of orange soda and the sand of St. Tropez at the top with a neurotic, perturbing blue at the bottom. The flame of a candle: a bright light of hope and uniformity. I saw my past and my present in the crystal ball of this fire-ridden wave. I could even see my future: Andrew irrevocably looking down at his feet at the dinner table each night while I stared out the window with a wavering twinkle in my eye.

But as I looked closer at the flame, the sanguine twinkle twitched and metamorphosed into a burdensome shadow that murdered all traces of the brightness that preceded it.

It’s just the most fascinating thing, a flame. It draws you in with its brightness and promise of betterment and perpetual bliss, making sure to clasp on tight. Yet, no matter how hard you attempt to push it away, it doesn’t let go.