Daniel Marsh’s arm bent around the two white sheets of paper on his desk. Halfway through filling the bubble on his answer sheet, he heard the hushed voice of Nicky Smith to his left, followed by a swift kick to his sneakers: “Let me copy, four-eyes.”

Nick Smith was the menace most kids in Mrs. Jensen’s 5^th grade class tried to stay away from. Big and fat, he towered over them like a wolf among dogs. His greasy red hair and freckles stood out fiercely as they had on the first day of school when an unfortunate kid made the mistake of calling him a Stupid Ginger. Nick knocked out a loose tooth and then some. The boy got a two-week vacation, and no one mentioned his hair again.

The ticking watch neatly wrapped around his wrist said class was about to end soon, but the sight of Big Nick was enough to make those few minutes eternal. Two thoughts broke into Daniel’s mind. The first was that he could let Nick copy off of him, but if caught, they would both fail and get yelled at by the nice Mrs. Jensen. But Daniel had always been scared to cheat, or to be called out for cheating. He knew the word itself meant something as bad for adults as it did for kids, and he hated everything to do with it. Sometimes on his mommy’s TV shows, some lady would cry when they found out their boyfriend was cheating, and his mother would gasp or cry as well. Daniel hadn’t really understood why until his mother explained that it was like lying. Like telling a very big lie. This was still confusing, but given his mother’s emphasis on it, he’d try to avoid what cheating meant.

Eyes on your paper, Mrs. Jensen had once yelled from her desk while making eye contact with Daniel during a test. Her large blue eyes wide and vigilant. But he hadn’t been cheating. He couldn’t help needing a second to-

“Let me copy,” Nick whispered again with the controlled demeanor of a hardened but experienced criminal. His big arms stayed idle at his desk while his left leg bounced up and down. Mrs. Jensen threw a glance at him and he immediately looked down, putting on his thinking face. Eyebrows drawn together, he made counting gestures to make it seem as if he were just about to solve a long division problem by counting his fingers. Mrs. Jensen sighed.

Daniel pushed his sliding glasses back to the top of his nose, feeling sweat swell up under his favorite Spider-Man shirt. Nick was mean. A bitch, really. He had more than once pushed Daniel aside on the playground when Daniel didn’t move out of his way. But sometimes he found himself obsessing about a time he happened to be pushed on wet grass covered with autumn rain, yet when he got home, he lied to his mother saying he had simply slipped. By pure bad luck, the archaic Mrs. Jensen had rearranged the seats that very same day, with both Daniel and Nick sitting on the last row in that less decorated far-left corner of the room she usually reserved for misfits.

All Daniel had to do was move the left flap of the makeshift cardboard wall sideways, and he would have gotten off nice and easy. Class was ending soon, so there wouldn’t be much to copy anyway. But he didn’t. Instead, Daniel wanted a little payback. To strike back for all those times Nick had stolen food directly from his lunch trays, or when he stabbed his friend’s soccer ball with a pencil because they accidentally kicked it near him, or when he punched Daniel in the stomach so hard he could barely breathe, all because he didn’t want to give him his spare dollar to use at the vending machine. So, he kept working. Quietly. Surely if he failed yet another test, Mrs. Jensen would notice how big of an idiot Nick really was and keep him away from any school. Growing in panic, Nick tried to kick Daniel’s feet, despite their desks being only a foot apart. Daniel leaned his feet to his right in avoidance. Nick’s feet managed to only rattle the metal book rack under the seat.

“Quiet,” Mrs. Jensen said, then returned to scrolling Facebook on her computer.

“I’m gonna get you, asshole.”

Daniel eventually finished his test, having dozed off for most of the questions and just hoping to get the day over with. Daniel’s anxiety boiled as he watched the clock above Mrs. Jensen’s desk, desperately tapping his fingernails on his wooden desk until the familiar chime of the bell was heard over the old school speakers. He leapt from his seat to grab his backpack and leave before catching a glimpse of Nick. His fat fingers were stretched across his red scalp before he put his hands back down on his desk, defeated. He watched as Nick’s frown dissolved into the cold, deadpan expression that followed him across the classroom like a hawk spotting its next meal from miles away. A middle finger, eyebrows drawn together in anger, or squinted eyes would have been less terrifying to see than the total lack of expression.

“Alright, those of you who didn’t finish,” Mrs. Jensen said, looking around the emptying room. “Turn in what you have and have a good day.”

The bus ride home wasn’t too exciting, with the same kids minding their business, usually on their phones watching who knows what, and the same hollering kids at the back. Daniel got off the corner of Bridgemeadows Lane and walked home, where his mother was glued to her 60-inch Samsung TV from her prized Devon & Claire reclining leather sofa. Daniel ran to her and kissed her cheek.

“Food’s on the counter,” she said without taking her glance off the new episode of “Grey’s Anatomy”. Daniel served himself a platter of fried chicken and fries and sat next to his mother.

“So how was school, honey?”

“It was alright,” Daniel answered nonchalantly. And where there would have been a creeping silence between them, the carefully rehearsed voice of Dr. Meredith Gray satisfied his mother’s curiosity. The morbid scene continued as the sun’s rays dimmed and the beige-colored walls began turning orange. He got bored of his mother’s adult shows, so he went to his room.

Daniel’s father arrived, kissed his wife, and went on his phone for half an hour before getting up and demanding they all have dinner together. The chicken was reheated but soggy. The crispness was gone and was replaced with what Daniel could only think of as the food sweat the microwave seemed to give whatever food you put in its square mouth. Daniel’s mother pulled a cold diet coke out of the Smart Fridge in what she would later boast to her overweight friends as the decision I made to start eating healthier, while Daniel walked to the pantry for a capri sun. He sat and ate while his parents talked. The office is where he heard most analogies come from. Derek from work posted some pictures of his first child. John got promoted. Meredith had been in a car crash, but it wasn’t her fault so she was going to win some big money.

As long as he ate his veggies every so often, he was fine. As long as he followed the rules, he would be fine. Put effort in school, eat your vegetables, and do your chores. They weren’t difficult at all. Actually, they were easy. No one expected anything of a child, yet contradicting said notion, everyone expected children to grow up to build marvels and be the achievement of every family. But there was something about being small in a world of giants. Yes, he knew that other adults saw him as a child and that they would be concerned if he were to get lost at the mall. But when he was happy or sad, he couldn’t help but notice his mother sometimes regarded him with the same importance someone gives a buzzing fly (don’t make a storm in a teacup, Danny). No one really notices kids (don’t mind him, he’s got a chip on his shoulder), no one really sees them (Danny, don’t make a fuss while I’m watching TV), fending on their own until they become adults and have grown-up thoughts like numbers and love. Just smile and nod, just smile and nod and you can go back to your room.

***

Later, the lights from the Star Eyes Crystal Desk Light lamp atop her peachy brown mahogany nightstand were still bright, yet her husband’s snores were as loud and room-encompassing as the pipe organs from church. Mrs. Marsh, distracted from her night internet scrolling, got up and decided to go talk to Danny. It had been a hot minute since the last time she had read him a bedtime story, much less tucked him in. Maybe she would kiss him goodnight. Maybe she would ask him how he was really doing at school so he could remind her of how easy kids have it. Free and without the responsibility of adults. But standing there in her nightgown and slippers, she saw the door sealed shut with only darkness peeking through its corners. He must have already gone to sleep.

Unmoving, the door appeared still and dead before her. She conjured up the times when Daniel had rushed to her room crying because of a nightmare, fearful of the dangers in the dark. His first steps. His first day of school. His first crush. All rushed in at once. She cherished these moments and went back to them whenever she could spare the time, but something about that shut door reminded her that there would be more. His first heartbreak, his first disappointment with himself and a million other things she knew were coming. The day when their connection would be broken beyond repair, like a snapping tether. And she felt an incomparable fear beyond her, scared of It. The things you don’t tell kids about and the things adults don’t want to think about. Real, physical things that had not manifested but were given shape by the unrestrained imagination that had limped and staggered all the way from childhood.

These thoughts made her feel uneasy, as if she hadn’t loved him more than herself or given him the stability her own childhood had lacked. She didn’t like feeling this way. In fact, she hated it. She pulled out her phone and scrolled the bad thoughts away. Sensing that last bit of emotion numbed out of consciousness as she walked back to bed. I’ll kiss him goodnight tomorrow, I still have the time…

***

Daniel dozed off, and the thought of the day’s events floated further and further from his mind. Like a deer oblivious to the stalking lion hiding amongst the tall grass, Daniel could not have possibly predicted the brewing storm. And it was not his fault, because as far as he could know or tell, Nick would probably just have forgotten it by the next day. But he had not. Had Daniel looked up at him before the bell rang, he would not have seen the face of a child but of the inherited rage of a man who has been made a fool of, and if the son of Arthur Smith had been taught something, it was to never be taken a fool of. Nick knew the purple lashings he’d get from his father when report cards came back. There had been but one-time little Nick had brought back an A on his report card and proudly shown it.

Daddy look! His freckled little exclaimed as he held it with his little stubby hands. For approval, his approval. Arthur Smith, highly sedated before and after the bitching his boss Todd gave him for almost stabbing him with the forklift, took one glance and sent him away. What? You think you’re hot shit just because you did good in school? Your old man didn’t finish school and still gives you a roof to sleep under. You think you’re fucking better than me? He didn’t remember much after that. Nick got off just fine usually if he managed to fly off his radar, but he had messed up. He knew he would have to be given another lesson. Instead, Nick Smith turned and rolled uncomfortably around his fuzzy couch in the living room, stained and patched. Beer cans and soda bottles littered the floor, save for the path from the door to the couch. He lied there for who knows how long, terribly anxious like a cornered rat. Fingernails scratching, peeling the skin on his arms. Bleeding. I’m gonna kill you, you little shit. I’m going to fucking kill you.

***

Daniel hid in the bathroom instead of going to lunch the next day, hiding in the toilet stalls, hungry but safe. During recess, he stayed close to the other kids in the playground, begging his friends if they could play cops and robbers instead of hide and seek, so he wouldn’t have to hide somewhere by himself. After the bell rang, a hundred little people all began walking back to class. Daniel quickly bent over to tie his shoes and when he looked up, he noticed no one had stopped to wait for him. He hurriedly caught up and his friend Steven finally noticed him.

“Hey Danny, come on.”

“Sorry, I was tying my shoe.” Looking back to the spot where he’d done so, he noticed there was still a kid on the swing. Nick. Watching him.

“I think Big Nick is out to get me,” he said, trying to be discreet. “Has he done anything to you before?”

“Big Nick?” Steven looked back carelessly and saw him. “Not really. I’ve never really had an encounter like you or the others have. Just do whatever he says and you’ll be fine. He’s the reason I always carry an extra dollar on me; that fat fuck loves his vending machine. Also you don’t want to end up like Nate.”

“The blonde kid that always picked his nose?”

“Yeah, I think it was two years ago-ish that he brought some fancy Lunchables instead of his usual PB & J. So then, then Big Nick was like, ‘hey, gimme that,’ and Nate was like, ‘no, it’s mine’ and ate it while calling Nick fat. Dude, he was smiling and was looking right at him and kept threatening to raise his hand and call the teachers. Big Nick was so hungry he just took them from him because, y’know, he’s big. And you wanna know what Nate did?”

“W-what?” Asked Daniel with morbid curiosity.

“He actually told on Nick. The teachers didn’t do anything because they never do, but I saw it happen and because there weren’t any teachers around they couldn’t tell for sure. Then, in the middle of the cafeteria, Nick waited until no one was looking and sucker punched him in the balls so hard he just stayed there. I saw him just crying there and there were some people around him but we didn’t know what to do, so we got a teacher who took him to the nurse. I heard it was pretty bad. Jack told me that one of his balls fell off, and Chandler said they changed him to a special needs’ classroom.”

Daniel’s jaw dropped in disbelief and horror, at the presented telling. Which was true as far as Steven himself believed. But there were two details he was not aware of and would not be made aware of. The first was that although little Nate had indeed moved to another classroom, it was simply a regular classroom because Nate had not really lost a testicle. The second, and more important detail, was that the teachers knew who it was that committed the act but were more perplexed by the consequences of what could happen if they acted. The decision was made fearing what would happen if they sent Nick on suspension again regarding his safety under his father. Principal Bruce Turner, at the behest of his coworkers, opted to instead change Nate to a different classroom to satisfy the parents’ complaints, withholding the fact that they had avoided Nick’s suspension. We took care of it, Principal Turner had calmly reassured Nate’s mother. Although Nate and Nick seldom crossed paths, there were nonetheless brief instances where they “accidentally” rubbed shoulders and Nick would make lunging motions at Nate, who would quickly flinch away. But this time, Nate knew it was best not to tell.

***

Daniel couldn’t believe his ears. Steven didn’t really understand Daniel’s petrified reaction, but he didn’t think it was the right time to ask. Daniel, meanwhile, kept thinking to himself about whether or not that was really bad. Was what he had done really worse than mocking him to his face? “Welp, break an arm, Danny.”

He could, of course, keep avoiding the boy, but deep down he knew he was against someone with experience. An experienced asshole with the precise lack of cognitive thought that often leads dumb boys like Nick to do things without thinking. The vibrant greens of the outdoor playground were soon replaced by the bitter yellow-lighted halls that sometimes gave him headaches. He kept walking to his classroom and found his seat. A nice safe distance away from Nick. Hiding in the bathroom during lunch made his hunger churn deep in his stomach like a bath drain that swirled round and round, draining anything into its dark void. He got home a little lightheaded, but a few home-made cheeseburgers took care of that.

He began to grow more and more anxious. Bolting upright, straight as an arrow when someone tapped his shoulder during class or whenever a lingering silence was broken near him. At home he relaxed, dissolving like butter in oil across his bed as he watched cartoons. That was until dinner, when his mother had put on a movie Daniel did not recognize, where a bunch of men in suits talked business with funny accents. At a certain point in the movie, it appeared that one of them snitched to the police. A few minutes later, that man was dead. Face down and pale, blood-pool dead. Daniel went to bed horrified, going into the attic by himself in search of the nightlight he’d used when he was younger and stuck it in the power socket right next to his bed. Its faint white light invisible to anyone outside the room.

His mother, knowing better, knew nothing. She chalked up his anxious behavior to be the aftermath of watching a scary movie he wasn’t supposed to and went back to her phone. He looked around the school yard like a (rat) criminal that had just talked to the police about something they were not supposed to and would be (taken care of) greased when the guards, or in this case, the half-blind Mrs. Blevins, were not paying attention. His misery didn’t end until day he couldn’t control his hunger anymore, noticing that Mrs. Jensen was never in the cafeteria during Taco-Tuesdays or Stuffed-Pizza-Crust-Thursdays. Maybe he could talk to her about Nick before he was able to do anything. Maybe she would actually be able to do something, Daniel thought in a moment of desperate hope.

But Nick seemed to have just forgotten about him. After all, why hadn’t he been got like Nick said he would be? The end of the school year was near, and though there were only a few classes left, there was ample time for something to happen.

Daniel went to the bathroom as soon as lunch was called. He hid for about 5 good minutes, looking at the small spiderman watch on his wrist until he looked around the school halls and walked back to his classroom. Despite the noise made from other classrooms and the discord from the cafeteria, Daniel experienced the uncanny. The halls, once so full of life, were empty. The white paint of the walls now decrepit beige. Clanking noises came from the dust-filled air vents that made it seem as if the school itself was alive, and Daniel was listening to its old, but steady heartbeat. Squealing weakly like a dog that had lived too long. Hearing the creaky noise of the door, Mrs. Jensen looked up from her phone. The buzzing of the dim yellow lights, which had been white when first installed, and the brown mold spots on the corners of the ceiling tiles gave the classroom a strange atmosphere. Decrepit, exhausted. Mrs. Jensen sat in front of the small piles of math tests and last night’s math study guides she had to grade, with a rough, discombobulated pile of already graded book reports. The blatant cheating of some of these kids was startling. A few days ago, she made her students put makeshift cardboard “walls” on top of their desks because what else could she do. If it was necessary, she would make eye contact and shake her head at the eyes that peeked over their little walls to inform them she knew what they were doing, then they would go back to looking at their own paper. But she didn’t believe they did it out of malice; they still had a few more years before they turned into little monsters. She was startled at seeing scrawny little Danny in here when he should be at lunch. “Danny?”

“Mrs. Jensen, Nick tried to cheat off my test.”

She knew they’d try to cheat on this too, and it’s not like she didn’t know who the usual culprits were: Jenna Martinez, Daisy Clavin, Stephanie Bowers, Christian Morgan, and the little Nicky Smith. He was not small by any means, he was well-built for someone who should be in middle school instead of 5^th grade with enough meat around his bones that she wished she could get her own children to eat as well as he did. Nick had been held back from graduating and would be again if he didn’t get his act together by the end of the already-ending semester. It was not often she dwelled on him, the boy being particularly apathetic and tame compared to the other boys at school.

Once she heard from the other teachers that a few years back when Arthur Smith was fired from his construction job on the same day little Nick had an altercation with another first grader, that the boy came back after suspension with marks and bruises like an overripe tomato, under a hoodie and long pants, of course. Always ahead of child services those sneaky bastards were, and with CPS announcing their visit ahead of time, it always gave the parents time to prepare and act like their home wasn’t a total dump. There had been too many parent-teacher conferences to remember, but half the teachers at Jordan Elementary had had an encounter with the infamous Arthur Smith in person, and the other half had been told enough anecdotes to know that they should avoid him whenever possible.

“Oh my, well thank you for telling me, Danny. I’ll be sure to have a word with him.” Daniel, unsatisfied, muttered something under his breath, looking away for a second. “What’s that, Danny?”

“He’s crazy,” he said, holding back tears. “He’s always mean and he hates me and my friends.”

“It’s ‘my friends and I,’ Danny, but look. Nicky is just a little troubled; he has it rough at home and just needs a little patience, okay? I’m going to need you to be a little patient with him.” Mrs. Jensen said condescendingly.

“Can’t you make him go away? I can’t stand him and he’s always so mean.”

 “No. He’s a part of this class as much as you and everyone else. Now, are you trying to tell me that you think he cheated or that he is bothering you?”

“B-both Mrs. Jensen.” Daniel took a second to breathe before continuing. “He kept looking at me and whispered that I should let him copy and then he kicked me under the seat and I’m scared he’s gonna get me.”

Mrs. Jensen sighed and resumed her posture on her desk. “Okay, I’m gonna look into it, but no one is going to get you, okay? Are you sure he’s not just trying to play with you?

“YES!”

“Don’t raise your voice,” she responded quickly, frustrated. “That’s NOT a way to talk to a teacher.”

“Sorry Mrs. Jensen.” Daniel murmured, his face beginning to turn red.

“You know a lot of kids play rough when they’re really just trying to make friends. Maybe he’s just lonely and keeps trying to draw your attention, but he doesn’t know how. Did you ever think about that?”

“No,” he answered. Defeated.

“Now I can’t just ‘make him go away.’ I’m a teacher; I have to look out for all of you,” she said while pointing at the two dozen empty seats.

“But please-”

This had not been the first time one of the kids had said something about Nick; at least two other kids had come up to Mrs. Jensen prior to Danny. The last time was a few weeks earlier. In the morning after an arts and crafts session, little Maddy started crying because she said Nick had apparently painted his name over hers in a now-dry flower painting. Yes, she was a good kid, but Mrs. Jensen didn’t want to rule out the possibility that Nick could also be a keen prodigy himself. After all, tragedy creates art, and little Nicky had been through just so much.

“Danny! I’m going to need you to go back to lunch or else I could get in trouble for having kept you here. But you can’t just expect me to change him. There are going to be things in this world that you just won’t be able to do anything about. Sometimes you just have to accept that sometimes there are obstacles in life, and you have to do the best you can in spite of that. I know you’re a nice kid Danny, so be nice. Okay?”

“Yes, Mrs. Jensen,” said Daniel as he looked down and walked away into the cold hallway. At this point the tears came, warmth sliding off his cheeks into the once vibrant white and blue tiles, now all covered in an ugly shade of brown. The halls were empty and quiet, as though they were missing something, like a movie without music. The only sound Daniel could hear was that of his footsteps echoing through the confining halls, and the ticking clocks hung high. Suddenly a thought, initially fictitious, grabbed hold of him like a python slowly wrapping itself around a squirming, yet very much alive and helpless, rat. What if he finds out? Daniel looked sideways, then backwards. Safe. Although yes, he was alone save for a lingering thought. No, a premonition, that he soon wouldn’t be alone.

***

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Class went on as usual, and Mrs. Jensen kept grading papers, then tests. It wasn’t until then that her suspicions were confirmed. Although Daniel would not find out, Mrs. Jensen did have the talk with Nick about his mostly blank paper, save for a decorative question mark, telling him he needed to apply himself because he was on track to end up like his father. The hillbilly of Scottsville. We’ll cross that bridge when we get there, she had been telling herself regarding what to do about Nick.

***

Inevitably, he had brought a book with him to spend the time easier since almost no one interrupted his time in the bathroom. He decided he would sit instead with his back relaxed on the wall in the corner of the bathroom between the stalls and the handwashing stations, watching the door. He flipped through the pages past the cover with vague interest. The door creaked open slowly. Meditated. Heavy steps announced themselves before a large silhouette burrowed inside. The door closed, or was closed, gently. Daniel looked up from his book expecting an awkward stare from some dumb third grader, when his eyes met Nick’s. His fat belly bulging over his brown leather belt and blue jeans. His striped-red shirt a more crude, crimson color than his flowing hair.

“You told on me.”

“What? No, I didn’t.” His heart pumped through his chest, desperately hoping Nick would just turn around, satisfied, and walk away.

“Yes you did, and you know what else? You made me fail; it’s your fault. They’re planning on holding me back again because of you,” he added, pointing. His fat body seemed to cover the path to the door, giving him less and less room to breathe. “You think you’re better than me because you got better grades than me? Is that it? Do you think you’re fucking better than me?” He stepped closer.

“No-no-no. Nick. Buddy. We’re friends, right? I didn’t mean to say anything. I mean, I didn’t say anything.” He hoped to God that someone, anyone, would walk through that door. But all he could see before him was Big Nick slowly walking towards him, his red hair shining under the blinking, fading lights. Nick closed his fist around Daniel’s shirt and picked him up as though he weighed the same as a feather. Violently throwing him to the stalls. His head hit the stall door. As his glasses flew off his head, the strict lines that bordered the objects around him turned to blended pastel colors. Blurry. Fuzzy.

Daniel punched and kicked the air. He could barely make out Nick holding his arms but could feel that he was now sitting on top of him. The weight almost crushed his stomach. Breathing was difficult, and moving was near impossible.

“I’m gonna show you not to mess with me, you understand? If I say you gotta do something, you do it, and if I say you gotta let me copy, you’re going to let me. Now what are you going to do next time I need to copy off of you?”

“Yes! Yes I’ll say yes! Jesus, “he cried. Between the shallow breaths, he could tell something was wrong. That something worse than this was coming. “Do whatever you want but get off me you fat fuck.”

Nick turned him face-down, holding Daniel’s right arm above his back. He kept screaming at him to stop, with his other arm under Nick’s thick knee, writhing and twitching. Fingernails scratched the ground desperately. His legs tried to get a footing but were useless against the immense weight, which he would never be able to push off.

Nick slowly put more and more of his weight above the already stretched arm until Daniel felt like something was about to break. Until it did. Pain forcefully closed Daniel’s eyes: it seemed as though the lights above them had a long, blissful blink, as if to look away. The sound was like snapping a pencil in half. A deep radiating pain ran through, back and forth, back, and forth. Nick got up and stepped back, observed the horrific U shape of Daniel’s disfigured arm, and was satisfied. Daniel looked back at his arm, and although he knew something was wrong, he didn’t know exactly what was happening to him. He could feel it as much as he could hear Nick get up, walk out, and quietly close the door behind him.

First it was a numbing dizziness, then it was too painful to move. He just laid there, finding every breath that made his lungs expand pierce his mind. It didn’t hurt like stubbing his pinky or hitting his elbow. It hurt worse, so much worse. Without realizing it, he was already crying. He didn’t want to scream and he did not want to be found, not like this. He tried crawling with his arm, but the pulling motion felt like moving with a knife on his back. Using his chin and legs to move, he pathetically got a few centimeters closer to the door, but every movement paralyzed him. His arm might as well have been cut off because he could not move it. Wait, no. He could move it, but the pain remained dull and relentless.

It took twenty long minutes before a teacher, Mrs. Blevins, was told off by a student who heard muffled cries behind the boys’ restroom. Nick was gone by then, eating an ice cream sandwich he had bought with Steven’s spare dollar. Mrs. Blevins jerked back gasping loudly at the sight of Danny. His arm bent behind his back. Broken.

Rafael is an aspiring undergraduate from the University of Houston, currently studying as an English Major in the Creative Writing Concentration since 2023. Coming from a bilingual background, Rafael is an experienced independent researcher with avid interest in untold stories that cross cultural lines.

The sun had started to dawn in the East. Its youthful rays spread across the wide swath of the barren plains and dusty dunes. The streams of light baked the ground underfoot into fine silica that seemed to flow every which way with the gentle breeze of the winds. Out of the sands, sun-baked stones seemed to pierce from underneath the surface creating the rugged terrain laid bare before the world. The wasteland of dust seemed endless in its appearance from one horizon to another. The ground gave off emanations of heat only visible in the distance. In the scorched landscape, only the dust and hard rock existed; alone in a soundless world of their own. For this wasteland of evermore expansion, with its looming sun and its everlasting gaze; will continue long after the feuds of man and their ambitions have faded into the dust.

Out of the confines of the dust arose a lone rider on the back of a weary mare. The solitary man steered the mare nonchalantly forward, staring off into the expanse, looking for something. The rays of the sun seemed to sear the man’s skin a deep red, but this did not bother his search. He scanned the horizon constantly; vigilant of anything that would justify his venture into this wasteland, while his frail mare lugged him continually forward. The wind scooped up pockets of loose silica and tossed the dust up into the man’s face. He could feel it; those loose particles floating around him and landing softly upon the skin. A humbling of the spirit; a return of man to the place from which he once sprung. The breeze carried a coarse grit that would scrap man of his worldly vestiges, and at once reveal what eternally lay at his heart. Those deep tendrils of that original sin pierce deep into the once pure heart, leaving only a fallible deluded creature spawned in sin to surely one day die. The revelatory nature of man’s eternal destiny; the unconscious march toward his birthplace that follows all men. An ever-present cradle and grave preordained in man’s destiny.

The mark of his authority lay upon his hip, along with his Colt Single Action revolver that hung in his holster on his dominant side. The mark, carried by many a man in his profession, had taken him across the territories in pursuit of those boundless individuals yet tamed by the ever-present march of civilization. The weapon; a ubiquitous tool for those wandering the territories. Though the bore of this revolver had not seen more than a hundred slugs go down its narrow passage, nor did the weapon’s finish see any real wear. Almost untested, the forged metal lines had not seen the true possibility of wear that comes with an experienced ranger.

The eternal wanderer himself reeked a foul odor of dried sweat from the arduous journey. His greasy hair maintained a matted condition with several knots, and the beard upon his face had grown wild. His linen clothes had darkened from the sweat and dust. Gone were the pomp and proper, and in its place, man had revealed himself to the emptiness of the open plane. The baseness of man on display.

He had descended into the empty planes on the promise of profit. A bounty of somewhat high acclaim and ever more worldly currency. He had appeared out of the desert, what felt like years ago at this point, to be greeted by a sign inscribed with the title “Goodsprings.” A modest plot of land with a few interspersed rickety wooden shacks. The pine siding on each of the buildings had started peeling itself off the frames of the houses, as the shafts of the nail shanks had slowly been eroded by rust. The dust had coated the windows in a thin film; obscuring the interior of each building from the rider as he passed.

The hollow echo of silence bounded across the township. He roamed in silence until he came upon the town’s steeple and heard the faint murmuring of hymns. He stood at the base of the steps of the white Chapel. He did not dare to step inside the pure building, for he feared he would be struck down by some ethereal force for his tainted heart.

As he waited for the session to end, he took long drags on a rustic cigarette he had just lit. The smoke bellowed out and ash slowly blew from the tip while leaning against a baluster at the bottom of the stairs. The hymns stopped, the doors opened, and a flood poured out from the conclave. The passing people side-eyed him but did not bother to speak to the foreign one. As they shuffled out, the wanderer proceeded to call out to the amorphous blob, asking for the town’s sheriff. A disheveled wrinkled old-timer separated from the mass to meet face-to-face with the wanderer.

“What can I do for you?” he croaked with slight apprehension.

“Have you seen this man?” He held out a folded poster with a lightly sketched picture of a man. The sketch of another wanderer, just as devoid as the last. The ghostly image of a face, skin clinging to the bone, of eyes sunken into the skull. A gaunt illustration of somewhat questionable validity, to only yield the basest of assumptions from these exaggerated features.

“I ain’t ever seen a man like this,” he had stopped for a second. “A few nights ago though, someone whipped the shit out of old Austin over a hand of blackjack. He rode off into the night before anyone had the balls to try to catch him.”

“Do you know which way he went?” the loner bellowed out under the taste of smoke.

The old-timer waved for the blunt youth to follow. As the two walked slowly across town, he shot a question into the silence, “What’s your name?”

“What does it matter?” he blurted out with a slight smile.

“I guess it doesn’t matter much, but it would make things go easier…let’s stop at my house for a drink, you look thirsty.” They had stopped in front of a two-story shack with a precarious hanging balcony. The lacquer paint had eroded, exposing the veins of the wooden siding. The sheriff ran behind the building to a lowly well with the loner’s leather water bladder. He had returned with two full bladders, along with a hunk of hard tack. He broke the giant piece of hard tack in half and handed him one piece along with his water bladder.

“Thank you…I’m sorry. I guess when you’re on the road forever, you forget the normalities. The name is Judas.” He grasped the leather bladder with one weathered hand and poured the cloudy water onto his face. A baptism in hospitality, for which the dust of the desert evermore wiped from man, but never fully erased. The looming event hung above his head, ever-present and never forgotten. The dust awaits all, born out of the first sin, and he could not forget his place concerning the needed action of justice and the end where true judgment is cast.

“It’s all right, living in this world makes a person think twice about everything. I mean, who the hell left you with a name like Judas?” He smiled at the thought, as they both chewed on their pieces of hardtack.

“I think my parents believed I was destined for infamy or some sort of fame,” he chuckled as the aged man smiled. The sheriff waited for a second then responded, “What did this fella do anyway.”

“John Martin? He tried robbing a bank back in Oklahoma, but things didn’t go to plan. He ended up shooting dead two bank tellers when they got in his way. He walked away with nothing.”

“Christ, something is wrong with people,” the sheriff remarked honestly. The statement hung in the air for the time being. They sat for a few minutes taking swigs from their leather water bladders when a young deputy approached and exchanged a few hushed words with the Sheriff. The sheriff proceeded to point the loner back on a road into the desert, and with that, he departed into the scorched wasteland.

Over time, the remembrance of water heightened thirst and the continual wandering became a purposeless stumble. As the heart gave way to doubt, Judas spotted a solitary shack over the horizon. The dilapidated shack was made from scraps of spare lumber and faced outward to the downtrodden road. It leaned slightly with the warp of the wooden frame as the wood’s moisture had been deprived by the desert. The sunken windows, covered in a residual layer of dust, made a lifeless structure of the solitary building.

Judas plodded down the road to the front of the shack and dismounted his mare by the narrow path up to the house. Once he had dismounted, he peered down into a shallow ditch by the entrance to the path. There lay two lifeless bodies in the cradle of each other’s arm: an older man in coveralls and a white undershirt with a young brunette woman in a cloth dress. A bullet for each of them; that was their prize for living. The loner could not feel anything; only the hardening of his heart, for which he could only look on in slight disturbance. They died in each other’s arms, only to be consumed by the dust.

He trod closer to the house, as the dust-filled door was thrown open and a familiar bald man walked out. The sketch of the pale white man was somewhat accurate, as Judas had started to observe his many distinctive features. The eyes reflected a hollowness; a feature that Judas would not take his own eyes away from. A human without reservation, like a dog with rabies.

“Watcha want boy?” he grumbled under his unkempt beard. He wore his revolver openly on the front of his torso for convenient reach, but he did not seem phased by the randomness of the encounter.

“You John Martin?” Judas spoke as the man inched his hand closer to his weapon. With danger present, Judas reached for his revolver but did not draw. “I want to bring you in alive.” He added into the silence of the confrontation, as they stared at each other over the drumming of the heart.

“Ain’t going. Why keep on living if you can’t do what you want,” he mumbled slightly. For a moment, there were two poised against each other, and then there was one. Two shots rang out from both guns, but only one shot rang true. Judas, seeing that his adversary lay upon the wooden boards, shakingly lowered his weapon, and reholstered it. He stumbled over to the corpse to find a piece of lead lodged below his right eye socket, devastating the structure of his face. After seeing his creation, Judas could not but sit on the steps to the doorway. Nausea slowly crept into his knees and his arms continually sat heavily upon his knees. He could only sit and think about what he left home for. He finally lifted himself to drag the body of the villain to his horse. As Judas strapped him to the but of his horse, he peered into the ditch once more. He knew then why he left home. Once more, he retreated back into the desert as his nerves slowly began to settle and his eyes became a little dimmer.

Leonidas Alexandris is a Greek American who grew up in Andover, Massachusetts. He is a senior at the College Of the Holy Cross, pursuing a double major in English and Political Science. He is a relatively new writer and has not been published in anything yet.