Chapter 22: Chapter Twenty-One - "Fin"

I always believed in Darwinism and the natural selection for things and for how they evolve. Or at least I did when I first heard about it in school. But now, after all I've seen, being here, and going back to Black Catz, I don't know anymore. I don't know if natural selection knows how to naturally select at all, or if it naturally selects whatsoever. You see, if Darwinism was real and if his beliefs were true, I would understand why I would never be able to love and have a family—because of all my fucked up thoughts now, and how war and killings have changed me—and I get how some stupid people die before they are able to procreate, thankfully, but what about all those other millions of careless, heartless, stupid, fools who still get to recreate happily, like my mother and the Queen and so on; and how they then go on and give life to other mildness, obeying, drones like themselves. How could Darwin ever explain such a thing? How could he explain that? I mean, wasn't his theory supposed to kill off the bad before it could reproduce itself into more bad?

So why hasn't it here? How have we gotten this bad?

How have we gone hundreds of centuries after his discovery, only to get worse by the year, by the decade? Shouldn't that surely disproof his belief?

If each decade has only gotten worse since Charles Darwin first came up with Darwinism, doesn't the fog in the sky and the animals still alive eat up and fade-out, hiding, hiding-out, censoring, covering, ignoring all that is Darwinism?

Take for example, this story that we're in: how the fuck did we get this bad to the point of being in a store where robots sell you overpriced dresses that have overtaken the importance of necessities like food and water? How has Darwinism allowed these being to keep on existing? Therefore, keep on recreating the same bad habit; the same dumb habit?

"So the summer dress?" says the Queen, making it known to myself that I had answered for myself without wanting to actually answer for myself.

"You know—it is not all going to be fun and games," says my mother.

"Fun and games?" I answer back, actually taken a back she could actually call what we're about to get sent to go do as "fun and games".

"You know—Black Catz is still going to need some maintenance," announces the Queen. "You all will be running the organization for us, but you're running it—remember that."

"Which one do you like, sweetie?" asks my mother, to Úshka, denouncing what I once thought of them and putting in a new label...a daughter-like label.

The question in itself is loaded: there are many dresses, there are many dresses we can all choose from, that we can choose to dress in; there are many faces too, but it's up to us on the one we want to wear—and how we feel daily—and that chooses our daily dress for us to show to the world. Those are probably other dresses, however—the dresses that mask themselves even what you don't want to be masked.

Like my voice for example, the dress chooses me, instead of me choosing the dress, as a "summer it is" flies out of my mouth like the dresses did without me ever calling for them, or announcing a gesture to get them to approach me.

So the computer takes our measurements after we're done choosing—as you know, I go with a summer dress (brunch, as was the other name), and Úshka went for a fall, fighter dress, a more gothic-eighteenth-century-like look than the approach I had taken, woven, chosen.

Afterwards, one of the robots ordered me into a dressing room and another ordered Úshka into another dressing room.

The rooms were lit, all the way, with beaming lights—the glowing, laser-like type.

Once we got into the dressing rooms, I couldn't look at myself because of the absence of mirrors, so I threw on the dress to get this "fashion show" going...to get this wardrobe mix-up on the move so that my mother and the Queen could get their time to choose for me, as they have so many times before.

I could hear Úshka moving and changing a bit slower than I was. Perhaps, unlike me, she was showing how she felt inside, on the outside; unlike me—she wasn't taking whatever was thrown her way since arriving to West Wall; or maybe she's simply not so excited to go outside and show her dress, and therefore, have to cross back to East Wall.

*********************

A thing that comes to mind right now, suddenly, was this one time when things started to heat up near the West Wall where you cross to East Wall—it is never as bad as East Wall, but a tad dangerous—a friend of my grandmothers gave her a sticker to place on the rear view window of our car. She said it would keep us safe. I believe I was six at the time.

So my grandmother placed it on the car. We—or she, rather—drove an 85' Chevy at the time. And the sticker went right on the back of that. Tainting its purity.

Because I later found out, although I don't know if my grandmother ever did, that that lady, and that sticker, did not intend us well. At all.

I believe I only came to realize that now—as I have with a lot of things—that other people don't always intend the best as protagonist, heroes, or principles do on TV, or movies, or books, or in fairy-tale lands that we see and read about. This thought came because I remember one time, which didn't really play out as spotty at first, something shattered my grandmother's driver window. Something cracked it, shattered it completely, one night when we were driving back home from visiting my uncle and dropping off things at the East Wall checkpoint. There's a visiting center where people can do that.

I believe, even if my grandmother didn't live to confirm that belief, that that lady gave us that sticker to try to take us out...rather than keep us in. And that night, when we were coming back home, someone was out, someone placed by this lady, ready take us out. They were out there, where we were, for blood.

The sticker said Catz...

And how many concussions did I suffer in soccer to barely acquire this puzzle piece to place in this fucked-up puzzle?

We were the fools for placing that sticker on our car. And that mystery take-out guest was also the fool for not taking us out.

Because I'm returning.

But I can't be a total fool as we were when my grandmother was still around.

Unless I want to see her soon.

*****************

It all went smoothly: the dress picking, our "get-up," and our "new put-together."

Back at the Queen's building, the only thing left for us to do is say our farewells.

The time I didn't spend with Moritz' parents is now here.

I wish my grandmother was here too.

We say what we need to say to the Queen when we can—and if I could—I would try to avoid the parents. But I can't.

Therefore, before take-off, the Queen gives us her Main Lobby. A giant space ready for any-sized party. No party was too large for this place.

That's one thing about these two Walls: when I've been in them, when I've experienced what I thought was going to be the worst that could happen to me, it never felt as bad as I thought it would feel when it did happen.

Perhaps, therefore, that is the only reason I'm still here, having gone through all that's come my way via Black Catz.

My mind has come to accept one thing:

The bad, ugly, worse, will come, but it too shall pass, just as fast, just as swiftly, and just as surprising, as it came.

I must hold on and ride it out if I want to be a true Cowboy.

The main lobby already has a few festive materials placed in decorative positions, picked out precisely to tailor the occasion and message desired by Queen West Wall.

I try to watch Úshka and how she looks at my mother. I try to see if she'll miss her. I can't expect anything but that she will miss her because she is someone she is somewhat used to if she showed up with her to the hospital when Moritz left us. Right?

"You going to be alright?" she asks her—Úshka, towards my mother.

But maybe she should be asking me. Or maybe my mother should be being a mother right now and should be asking me. But I don't blame her. She's doing what she's gotten used to all these years without me: holding on to another girl, another soul, to fill the void she made the day she ran away from me, the day she left me with my grandmother.

I don't complain about that, however...staying with my grandmother.

My mother grab's Úshka's hands and hides them in-between, tucked in, her palms.

"Yeah, I think I'll be fine if you're with her," my mother replies. I assume it's me she refers to when she says "her". "I know it's what is meant to happen. She'll realize that."

Realize what, I think. Realize what? That I'm supposed to go back to Black Catz?

The lobby this time, unlike last night's farewell, has more of a dark, remorseful theme to it. The ambience finds that feeling out as soon as you touch, or step foot in, any part of the surrounding areas that are the lobby, that are waiting for the people that are supposed to receive only daunting, horrid, horrible news. Not news like last night. Although, if you're asking me: for me, last night's news was nothing but bad news; so yeah, it is kind of the same as last night, you could say—or I should say.

I take a seat. There are no lips waiting for me.

I take a seat in an empty space of the room holding two ottomans. I use one of them for my bum.

The rest, even more, feels nice on my legs. I haven't been awake for long but the tiredness is already starting to come over me. But most of it is mental. It's all this shit I've seen that's got me feeling this fucked up, this tired. Or else, if I would have never come, I would have never felt this tired.

It's my grandmother, and her leaving, that have me wanting to go into my bed—my forever resting place.

And then, to think of fighting more, of having to protect more people, of having to wear the vests...it all just seems more heavy, more dreading. I don't know if I'm ready.

Úshka seems ready. I just don't know if I'm ready.

I am definitely not ready for Moritz' parents.

But I have to do this.

This is the first step to being a leader. That's what my mother told me last night. In a blur, I remember her telling me that. No joke. I wish I was fucking with you. But nope. This is my real "mother".

Subsequently, that leaves me here—waiting.

*********************

You know, like the cars being driven by the West Wall members with their girl Alexa robots inside, the East Wall also had their own robots in buildings and cars and what, not, but they never used them. Mainly—they never used it—because it wasn't like that of the West Wall. Since all the money went to those lazy fucks—as my grandmother would say—their tech isn't as "high" as you'd like to imagine. You see, in the East Wall, where I'm going, like in Black Catz, the "Alexa" there—although it was called, or is called Alejandra—does not help you in any way because it's not meant to help...it's meant to look nice. As the bootleg version of Alexa, Alejandra only helps with a "thoughts and prayers" statement.

Ask it about the weather: thoughts and prayers.

Ask it about your daily schedule: thoughts and prayers.

That's what the East Wall people live with: a giant, monumental, fuck you, in the form of thoughts and prayers.

But maybe that's how both sides live, really.

Was this my "thoughts and prayers" moments with Moritz' parents?

*********************

As that "thoughts and prayers" moment passes, I realize that maybe it is that: my thoughts and prayers moment with these parents, these people that cared for me like their own daughter, allowing me in their house, giving me food when I was hungry—which wasn't that much because my grandmother always kept me well-fed, but always offered me anything I wanted or needed. And that's too much to bear right now. That's too much to want to tell them this bad news they don't deserve to be hearing.

Alexa can you help with this.

No—that is the obvious answer.

Alexa can't help with real shit. She can't dig deep to root out the human problem in the soul affecting somebody because she doesn't' have a soul to help, or that would help, her root out any problem. She doesn't know how to find a soul—that is how Alexa really works.

What is all we're offered if it's nothing we need. And what is the good of not having things we need around us if—in fact as I just mentioned—you don't need them?

There isn't a reason. There's just a reason for the Party: to have ears in every wall; to be the fly on the wall...every-fucking-where.

If the Party would have had ears in our walls, if it would have had eyes and a mind, they would have known all this, the whole plan, the whole cookie and pancake and whatever-fucking analogy you want to give this, this story, this "adventure" as the Queen would say. Maybe then, if they would have seen it, if I would have seen it, if my grandmother would have seen it, then maybe, and only then, would I not have to talk to Moritz' parents right now; maybe then I would not have to face them and deliver the only news—I would assume, them being parents—any person would want to receive—and I, the last person that would want to give it to them.

The summer dress I'm wearing is not meant for this occasion. And Úshka and I look like Easter eggs in a bad place, or out of place, in plain sight as Easter eggs shouldn't be, in this area, in this party place, in this palace.

I fix the bottom of my dress to not bother me down under my legs. The curls created with the dress fitting a bit too big for my tiny body cause me to pull back my dress more than I'd like and then place it under my legs to sit on it, to prevent it from showing too many curls—curls I wasn't gifted with, curls I don't have; unless you're looking at my hair—here, with me, there are no other curls to look at.

Anywhere, a curl of hope is what I look for. Úshka is off with my mother. People come in and out and the servants give the Queen her plan for the day. Never-the-less, none of these people--yet—are the people I await: those that brought Moritz into this life; and here I am, that which took him out; that which ruined a miracle.

Because that's all life is: a fucked-up miracle.

Who—between my mother, the Queen, Úshka, Zero, the Catz, the Party Heads—is chasing who?

I'm clearly the true leader of nothing. I'm just a pond placed to lead for someone. And in this case, I'm leading the Catz for the Queen.

Unfortunately, why I'm here, it also wasn't Moritz that could have lead me. I wanted him to at times. His sweetness and kindness would have made him the husband I could have seen myself with—he would have made a great husband for anyone, not just myself.

But now, because of me, because of foolish, clumsy, butterfingers me, fast-triggered me, he's nowhere, he's waiting, like I am, but for something different. He's waiting for peace—peace I couldn't give him.

I need that peace. Although I won't find it doing this with his parents, giving them the bad news, showing my face to give them the bad news. I still need some peace. How will I find that peace? Well, that's for you and I both to figure out. If you decide to stay with me that long.

Soon, I'll be back at Black Catz.

That place will be unlike this holy palace, this Holy-Queenly grail.

To shine out and shine-in is not the purpose of being here, neither is to say farewell. It's just to obey my mind, even though it won't stop it from torturing me.

They say the only way to get over death is to live more; to live more freely. So is that what the Queen and my mother and Úshka are trying to do by sending me to Black Catz? That would be improbable.

It's only up to me to find somewhere, somehow, that peace I need.

Was the Queen the one exercising her despot; were the Catz; is the Party; who is the despot seed sprouting all this evilness?

I wish Úshka would come back to me before Moritz' parents show. But she doesn't. She's too deep into my mother at the moment, with their eyes locked, their conversation flowering, and flowing—easily—and their hands still locked.

*********************

I'm made aware of my forced, unescapable meeting by the tone I so deeply looked to avoid:

"Why?" was the first scream.

It came to me fast, and loud.

It came to me piercing deep into my ear, into my frontal lobe, traveling down to my heart, making it drop to its very core, down to my stomach.

"Why did you make him do this?" came the second scream, making me feel just as guilty as the first, with just the same amount of remorse.

I knew the identity but the inner-me did not want to face that identity.

I didn't have a choice but to turn, and when I did, there was the face I so desperately did not want to witness just yet:

Eyes creased lower than the last time I had seen them, their bags hanging almost at the lip; her eyes even more dense, deeper, and illegible than our late dinner; and her hand gestures non-existent anymore, along with what looked like her intention to live.

And the father is the same; both of them are: with their un-intentions for anymore intentions; both of their skin may be light, but you can tell the shine and light from their eyes has gone long ago, no longer representing and glowing like the skin they—along with Moritz—were born with.

The questioning in the form of screaming continued as I noticed what had changed on them. In the moment they were, and in the moment I was looking, was the moment my adrenaline kicked in and warped everything down to super, slow speed.

Moritz' mother was flinging hands up, slowly, in my eyes.

Moritz' father was shrugging his shoulders, shaking his head, in slow motion.

Úshka, at this moment, is still with my mother. Both of them are blind to what we have done, and what we have to face—better yet, they don't have to face it so they don't care, but it's what I have to face.

It's like we're all part of this Vatican-like place, working towards a larger picture, in a larger organism, at a job we don't want to accomplish; it's like we're all diseased, poisoned, vitiated without really knowing we are—like a true sick person.

Hell—who is to say we're all not sicker than the sick after all we've done and seen?

You can't put back a puzzle if the pieces have changed shape.

But that sounds like I've given up. And I surely can't do that: not with Moritz' parents still waiting for answers.

In the moment—in the moment of Moritz' parents still letting me have it, and rightly so—I mimic Úshka and my mother, and I go for Moritz' mother's gestures, her movable signs, feelings, and I grab them, cupping them in-between my palms, then pushing her towards me, or I push myself towards her, until I'm the one keeping her steady, until I'm the one keeping her standing—like I couldn't do for her son:

"I'm so sorry," I say, wanting to pet her hair but not petting her hair because she's not a fucking pet to pet—especially in a moment like this, especially at this time. "I tried all I could," I then say, lying to myself and her, and his father; lying to everyone that was there; and most importantly: lying to the one other person I love and couldn't save...Moritz.

If anything—I am the pet; I have been this whole time; I've been the one that's been answering to calls, been answering to demands; I'm the one being pulled by a political-collar that's wrapped itself in the hands of the Queen and my mother.

When I'm barely getting control of the situation, a couple of the Queens servant soldiers walk into the "party area" with a fucking body bag—a fucking body bag.

What would make them think right now was the perfect moment to appear with the body these people did not want to see?

"No! scream's Mr. Stone. That's Moritz' last name. I say "is" because even though he's dead, his last name and first name and whole name don't go away, they'll stick with me until nobody can remember his family's history. Luckily. And finally, since seeing him again for the first time since crossing over to East Wall at Black Catz, I was okay with saying Moritz' name again. Maybe it's his absent presence that brings this unusual comfort?

"The queen sends him," says one of the soldiers, dropping off Moritz like he was just a delivery order made in a hurry.

These people don't understand life anymore. The scale of a human soul is no longer scaled—because it's no longer valued.

"Our son," bends Mr. Stone towards the bag, not wanting to reveal what was underneath it just yet. "Oh, my son!" he yells again.

The waling of him will haunt me forever. Both of their waling, I know that much by now.

Howls like this weren't heard so much in East Wall. But that's probably because they're used to scenes like this—unfortunately...and sadly.

Looking down at the bag, I forced myself to not open it. I wanted to, however: I wanted to open it and see Moritz one last time before I crossed back to East Wall. But then I thought about how he'd look. And if that was how I wanted to remember him for the last time The answer came fast, swift, and suddenly, like his disappearance: no. I'd rather remember Moritz for who he was, how he looked, how he loved. I don't want to see how those East fools left him, how they took him away from us—myself, his parents, his friends, everyone he helped and loved and made laugh.

"Why did he have to follow you. I always knew you were nothing but bad news," then says Mrs. Stone. The last name doesn't have that drag on me anymore. Just like Mrs. Stone's truth didn't bother me anymore. Probably, only, and just only, because there was nothing to prove to her anymore. I had already done the unforgivable, the erasable, un-recognizable. Mrs. Stone, along with Mr. Stone, will always see me as their son's murder; like the boy's parents of whom I also took back at my uncle's store.

A gentle voice pushes and shoots its way through the crying and eructation. I wouldn't expect a gentle voice—or the gentle voice to make it—but I give them respect for trying.

I don't' know if Mr. and Mrs. Stone would like me anymore if their son was standing here today. I was never one-hundred-percent in their eyes.

And maybe, really, I've never been one-hundred-percent in anybody's eyes—not even my grandmothers.

Maybe Moritz didn't even like me for one-hundred-percent me.

Here's why I think that:

*********************

About four years ago, when I did meet Moritz, the first thing he told me was "nice smile".

Now, for anyone, that would be a great compliment. But for me—for me that was always more of a default, a fault, it wasn't a compliment, or a good answer, for me. It was simply another answer to look into, to attempt to find the hole in. Because for me, why was my smile the only thing that was nice? Why couldn't other things be nice?

I saw this non-existent-hole in Moritz' answer because to me, a "perfect smile" only means a perfect "man-made-personal feature." This is because my smile is not "God-given," it is not "born with," as those hair adverts suggest or say. Nope. My smile was created by my grandmother. It was gifted to me by her and by the local orthodontist three years before I met Moritz...and three years before it all crumbled to rubble.

Which, in all, makes me think one thing: did Moritz ever like me; would he have ever like me if I wouldn't have already been wearing my fake smile? I think not. I don't think Moritz would ever be here, and neither would his parents, if I didn't have a "nice smile".

It would be different, of course, if my straight, perfect smile was natural, if I was born with it like my grandmother and mother, and as their ancestors would be born with their features due to the mountains and foods they were surrounded with. And the empty hands they were born with as well.

But my face greeting is fake. My white greeting-cards are man-made. Subsequently, and for that reason, make me think this could have all been avoided if I would have only accepted my realness.

*********************

Hence, my only reaction at the moment—when the tears slowly stop to flow because they've become dry and can't flow anymore, and the words stop to shout and start to talk—it is to smile; to smile right at Mr. and Mrs. Stone, at Moritz' parents, to give them the giant, wide white image that first wrangled their son to me, and now, without my intention, wrangled him into a body bag.

My eyes, sparged, as Mr. and Mrs. Stones, blink frequently, our hands, cupped in each other, clasp harder than before, gripping down on every finger—and if it were any harder, you would be able to hear our bones break and crack, like the shackles they have become in here.

"It was never my intention for him to cross," I say. But that doesn't' matter, my intention is not the same as my purpose or my actions—the actions I could have taken. I should have done something.

Mrs. Stone is the first one to put herself together, slowly. Then came Mr. Stone. But not before Mrs. Stone's words:

"You could have ended it when you knew you were leaving the West Wall for Uni East," she said.

But how did she know I had even gotten accepted?

"Yeah—I know you got in," she says.

Uni East was just an option because they had one of the best art programs—those that are still available, at least.

But I knew my grandmother had something up her sleeve. I just never knew what it was. So East Uni was never truly on the list. It was on the bucket list. That was the only list it was on.

"Why didn't you just leave him then? You already had the intention by applying. You knew we would never let our Moritz go anywhere but Uni Westvard. Both I and his father are Ivy league grads. I always knew you were far from Ivy," she then said. In her own right. I didn't need respect from her at the moment.

Perhaps I'm not Ivy. I actually am not. My name is not Ivy. I'm not made of Ivy. But sure as hell have I fought and had to survive like I was made of Ivory or I was hunting for Ivory. But that's neither in this down party or the net that will come when Úshka and I reach Black Catz. But where is Úshka?

*********************

There she is. Still with my mother. There she is pretending I'm not telling parents I killed their son.

Úshka: where are you; why aren't you with me? I hear this questioning happening in my head like whimpers, like cries, like stutters running out of breath, reaching out with their least amount of strength that anyone could find reaching back, calling back. I should know by now—and anyone reaching out for her—that Úshka wouldn't be coming soon, and that nobody would be reaching out at this moment. Almost like those Ivy league schools never reached out to me. Even when I applied. Not for me. But for Moritz. I only applied to try and stay with him. To see if faith, and life, actually wanted us to be together.

But his parents don't need to know that now. It's no point. I never got a point.

They can think whatever they want. Moritz and I will never be together.

Life has shown me that much.

"Why" asks Mr. Stone. His voice rang angrier—the angriest I've ever heard it.

"He had a full scholarship to play at Uni Westvard. He just hadn't told you yet. He was waiting for you. Like a fool. Like the fool I had told him he was being."

Fuck me - fuck me - fuck me. Fuck. Me.

All the hard work he put in, all the hours in practice, for that fucking scholarship! And he got it! He did get it, rightfully, and deservedly so! But what happened? I happened! That's what! I got in his fucking way and ruined all of that hard work.

People are right about life: some people have good luck, and others have bad luck.

I just never thought the bad luck in someone's life would come in the form of myself.

"I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't know, you stupid bitch!"

Okay! I guess bitch was a word commonly associated with me, I know see.

"How could you not know? Oh, that's right! Because you never cared!" shouted Mr. Stone.

"If only you would have asked him."

"If only you would have thought about anyone but yourself!"

Uni's or getting into them, or getting scholarships to get into them, were never important or of care to Party members or servants because they're born with one side of the hand already drawn: either the lucky one or the unlucky one. But to Moritz, and to myself, and to every other youth still fighting for their future—even though, no matter how hard I fought, my future is already decided but whatever—it is extremely important to try and gain a free-ride to study whatever it is you want to study; so you don't have to end up like the Catz, or like my mother, or like myself.

Behind Mrs. Stone—and Mr. Stone indeed—the birds still flew with life they didn't know they were missing.

I saw one bird fly apart from its pack and settle onto the top tip of a light post. With the sun barely going down, nearly, the lights weren't on yet. So the bird could still enjoy all its non-static-electrocution of the pole.

How I wished I could be that bird. Or any bird, really. How I wished to simply fly away from this place, from this situation.

But I won't bore you with that common and simple cliché, analogy, metaphor, or comparison.

"I didn't even know I was crossing myself."

"How did you not know?"

"My grandmother just sent me to help my uncle. But she didn't' give me a fair warning until the week before."

"And you couldn't just tell our boy not to worry? You couldn't call him back? We knew something was up when he told us you weren't answering. We just didn't think it'd be the last time we'd see him."

"What do you mean?"

"He left the moment you disappeared to the East."

"But I told him I'd be back."

"Yeah, but you never answered."

"Answered what? I had already told him."

Mr. And Mrs. Stone look at each other.

"You're pregnant, Ludy," Mrs. Stone first says.

"What?"

"He told us he gave you an Electro Test and it came out positive. So he worried even more."

"What do you mean?"

Let me catch you up before you freak:

An Electro Test is a new type of pregnancy test invented a few decades ago. And it allows anyone—anyone with the reach and fingerprint of the test—to test the expecting person without the expecting person ever finding out.

Somehow, this test, this device, was programed to scan your body, your insides. So it takes up everything it sees, then sending a shockwave through your body, it tests for any movements, unfamiliar objects in the way, or bodies—as a child would do and create even as a simple starting seed.

"He used it on you once you told him you had missed your period."

"But I always miss it."

"That doesn't matter. What does matter is that you're still carrying part of our boy in you. And we can't let you take him. Please don't take him again," Mrs. Stone begins to cry out to me, reaching out for me...and her only remaining memory of Moritz.

But how can this life still be alive? Surely it can't be.

"It can't be."

"What is that sweetie?" asks Mrs. stone, not hearing what I first said.

"It surely can't be alive," I mutter to myself, holding my stomach, releasing the Stones' hands, no longer caring about—or carrying—anything or anyone but the being inside of me; looking away and forgetting Úshka and my mother and my grandmother and Moritz...only thinking about myself—a little too late—but finally thinking of myself. It surely couldn't have taken this—this much—to finally get my brain straight...to finally get my brain thinking for itself and only at the things it should be thinking about...surely it didn't take all of this, this one being, to mute my mind the way I always wanted to mute it, and to make my gut roar loudest, the way it should...to make my gut beat, my heart flutter, and my soul grow.

"What?" says Mr. Stone, in a worried tone.

"Can you repeat that?"

"She said it can't be alive, Olivia."

"No," comes forward Mrs. Stone, taking my hand away from me and retaining it back for herself.

I pull it back, now having discovered my full force of strength...and stretch.

This is a party of two fighting now, after all.

The kicking is not felt. But with all being said, something is felt; something inside me, something different; like my beats are really two now; like I can't be so careless; like I have a new drive and ambition I had never felt before.

"Don't take him back."

"Please don't take him back. He's all we have."

"What?"

"He's all we have."

"I heard what you said! But how do you know it's a boy?"

"Moritz used a Gender Electro."

"Oh."

News flash: a Gender Electro, well, if you remember what a regular Elector did, then you can probably guess what a Gender Electro does. Especially now, with Mrs. Stone's news-flash-breaking reveal.

"Please don't take him."

I shake my head, my arms in an axiom shape, and turn around, lifting one hand over my forehead like a headache was the only thing on my mind, cursing me, causing me to feel dizzy, like I'm ready to fall and never wake up. But you and I both know I can't do that anymore. You and I both know, now, that I simply have one reason to keep on living any further, to keep going one more step.

And that reason...is right under me, kicking and moving below my chin. And I will take every kick...on the chin.

My hands drop to already cradle what I can.

"He can't be alive," I say again. "How can you be alive?" I then ask it. "How?"

"Please don't take him, Mr. Stone begs, bending down and almost taking ahold of my stomach.

That's my boy, I say, to myself, looking down at my stomach, wondering how it all happened...how I never poised the question to myself, and how I was so careless as to not notice—using now, because of my foolishness, these three words I had never heard used in the household I was raised in, made me feel what Mr. and Mrs. Stone felt: doubt.

He can't be a boy. He can't.

"This can't be happening," I say to—well, I have no idea anymore who I'm talking to.

Mother? Are you there? No, you're not. You've never been there. You only go to what I love. But now there is a new love in me. We don't need you anymore.

"Sit, sit," says Mr. Stone, taking my hand, realizing I was sweating out my whole body liquid and was about to drop like a sack of potatoes—or, more or less, like Moritz, his son.

"We can convince your mother and the Queen not to take you," Mrs. Stone sells me, like a customer who was inexperienced at bargaining...or bartering.

"We know what they want to do," says Mr. Stone. "They called us and informed us before we came."

"If you brought him back like this," Mrs. Stone begins with her pity-pitch, looking down at the bag holding Moritz. "You can at least let us keep him," she then says, looking down at my stomach.

"Excuse me?" I say, a-shook, surprised, insulted. "What are you saying?"

"You know what she's saying."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" I ask, wanting her to give me an answer she probably was not going to give me.

"I can raise him like you can't. I'll give him a good life here, away from all that violence."

"Just stay until you give birth. Then we can take him off your hands."

"Take him off my hands?"

What is he? A pet? An object that is only going to bother me?

"I'm sorry, but I can't do this right now," I say, clamping on my medulla, my side gages, my thinking caps, and I straddle over to a side by myself, in a non-tootle (and toddle) way—in face, the least tootle (and toddle)-way.

Úshka and my mother turn to me. It is Úshka I think that caught my first sign of discomfort.

In the hallow ceilings, the skies wait to darken up like the area inside the roof covered away from the sky; the sky doesn't' need to see us to dismantle darkness.

Under me, under my palms, a movement happens. But how? To survive everything I've been through? To think a man is coming into my life, a man after Moritz left mine—Moritz being the only man I used to have in my life—to stay with me forever, until our souls rest in the darkness of the sky.

Mr. Stone walks over.

"We just want to help with him," he says, piercing his eyes downward, to where my palms rested over my newly-visible bump—if only barely, but visible.

"You can't help him like I can help him. I'm his fucking mother!" I let out.

Both of them—both Mr. and Mrs. Stone jump back, their eyes wide open, staring right at me, testing my decision, waiting for my pupils to move.

"What's going on, sweetie?" my mother asks.

Sweetie? Since when the fuck does she call me sweetie?

"Is everything okay?" then asks Úshka.

"No! Nothing is okay!" I scream, separating myself even more from the group, the Queen still away in another room—luckily—my hands still over my stomach, they no longer know how to move to any other site of my body.

The mother's curse?

It seems as if my life is merely a driver-less, uncontrollable wagon, and every day simply gets harder, with more weight being cramped onto it.

"What happened?" asks my mother.

"How do you not know?" asks Mrs. Stone. "Oh, of course, you're just as careless as her."

"Come on, darling, don't be like that. She meant to say that Ludy is pregnant."

My mother drops to the floor as fast as I once dropped when I first heard the news, but with more weight on her to cause a bigger impact, a bigger bruise—although, with this news, I'm not sure she's going to need the drop to feel the hit of the occasion, the situation, the place she dragged me to.

"What?" says Úshka. "What do you mean? She's pregnant. Ludy? You're pregnant?"

I don't know what to say. I don't know how to make this announcement—if it was that, even.

My fingers shoot to my lips, with one palm still over my stomach. It will probably remain there until it can't anymore.

My mother is being helped up by a few servants that now rush to us.

Great: we attracted servants. We attracted especially what I did not want to attract.

Then, as I really didn't want to happen, the Queen is notified.

I hear the Wall entering digits and doing what every Alexa Wall does whenever they're calling their owners to notify them about something.

I didn't need to know what the notification was for this occasion because I was the notification.

"No. Not her," I whisper under my tongue, under my breath, for nobody but me to hear. "Please—not her."

But it is her. The Queen re-appears after the selection of dresses in her trundle-strut and glances her way at us, flinging and flashing her diamonds and riches with every step, with every trundle.

"What's happening" she inspects, in her usual confident, self-imposed, and self-obsessed, tone.

"Nothing, nothing," I want to say, with a dram of nothing in knowledge. Nothing, nothing.

But it's far from nothing.

Mr. And Mrs. Stone both look at each other in fear, like the Queen was too, like myself, the last person they wanted to see. Probably because they, like myself, know that the Queen will not grant their plans, that she will destroy their hope, and will give them the answer they don't want to hear: no—no, you can't take the child; no you can't play parent with the child; no, this is not your child; and probably, maybe, why don't you worry about your own child.

"Hello? I asked—what is happening?" the Queen repeated, annoyed she hadn't been heard the first time.

We were all boggled in fear though. Our shock ran through us like a lightning bolt. It was fast and fierce. It was not hurtling, or haunting. But it was on its way. And there was no stopping it now.

"My lady," kneeled Mrs. Stone. "Ludivina here, is pregnant with my son's son, and since you all took my soon away from us, we would beg so highly if we could then take this new reincarnation of our baby to raise and keep as our own, for Mr. Stone and I believe East Wall is not such place for a child, and is definitely not suitable for one."

Yet other kids live and breathe and are born every day in East Wall, I think. And nobody seems to bat an eye as to whether their safety is being taken care of. Which, as my eyes have seen, it is not.

It amuses me that we discuss this new being about to be—not even having planted a toe on Earth—as someone already here, religious and all, ramping on through his or her pious list or scroll; but they are not here; there is no pious from them; and if anybody knows him, it is me.

A sense of fervor—in the form of agony, anxiousness, unawareness—spikes from heel to scalp; it travels fast too; it travels so sharply that it makes me wonder if he can feel it too; that's right—he. He is all I am, after all, at the current second, and will be in the next minute, hour, day, month, years—he is the only hope left until I'm buried and good.

"This can't be, can it, Ludy?" is what the Queen says as I'm having a personal, familiar, meltdown. "You are not in a shape to take care of anyone but the Black Catz. We'll have to dispose of him. Don't worry. I have the perfect doctor onboard, in the office. He'll see you tonight."

"What? Get rid of him?"

That's only going to happen over my dead body—one where he won't be inside anymore...and one I've been seeing since I was taken from my uncle's and put into that Jaguar.

"Please, don't do this," says my mother.

And then Mr. and Mrs. Stone follow.

"We can figure out another way. Maybe it's not so bad if they do keep him."

"Yes, we'll keep him."

"We'll treat him as one of our own, because he is."

"You fool."

"I won't let you do this."

"Don't worry, Ludy, just stay quiet."

"My Queen, let me have a quick word with you," my mother utters, attempting to drag the Queen elsewhere to help protect our new blood.

"It's not a question. You can't keep the baby."

"Let's talk about it."

"Please, Queen. Let her have it and we'll keep it."

"Don't take him like you took our boy."

"I didn't take anybody. If Ludy wouldn't have been so careless, he'd still be alive. And maybe, she also wouldn't have gotten pregnant."

"Oh, come on, it's not her fault," replies Úshka, trying to intervene even though she wasn't even family.

"Oh, yes it was!"

"Are you saying it was the Queens fault?" asked a servant, with the noose ready around his hand, to use on any one of us—anyone that dare disrespect the Queen.

"You'll have to get rid of it," says the Queen.

"Please let us keep him."

"Don't let us go home with just our boy in a body bag."

"You know what they say? With every death comes a life."

Mr. Stone nods in an egregious state-of-mind, but also agreeing, with his wife, Mrs. Stone.

"Why didn't he tell me?" I ask myself.

"He didn't want you to know until he was able to bring you back. He didn't think the stress or any feeling you'd get was worth it," says Mrs. Stone.

"Yeah—he wanted to bring you up."

"Can we all slow down here," says the Queen.

"Can we talk?" asks my mother, at the Queen.

Let them go. Not him.

*************************

Do you ever feel as if you make it past a certain point in life, you might make it farther?

Like if this reincarnation—as Mr. and Mrs. Stone say—is real, then maybe it works for everyone, and nobody can escape it.

I think maybe if I am part of it, I still haven't escaped it.

Like sometimes I see people's death certificates that match my birth certificate and think that an anniversary means another marker point for me.

So were my markers left back in East Wall? Or will they return?

***************************

Moritz didn't make it past and back like I did. So does that mean I made it past my date?

"Listen, lady. You're going to my doctor tonight and you're getting fixed. We'll postpone your crossover date for the morning to fix this."

"Fix this?"

"That's right. It was a mistake. But you can still lead the Black Catz, dammit."

"Maybe let's talk it over," says Úshka.

"Yeah," agrees my mother. "Let's think before we act."

"We're not thinking about anything. She's getting rid of the baby...yes or yes. There is no 'ifs'."

"But he's all we've had to look forward to," the Stones couple replies under a pouring, sobbing storm.

"And he's all we have."

"Yeah—you took our son already."

Peeved, the Queen replies:

"I've already said—I didn't take anybody."

"Well, you sent him over. Or it was your fault that he did cross over."

"I didn't send him over. He went on his own wishes."

"Oh, so it is my fault?"

"Of course."

"I guess I can't argue," I say.

"Just let us keep him, dammit," Mr. Stone stomps down. "You took our fucking so already. Isn't that enough, huh? Isn't that fucking enough?"

"Calm down, Oliver. You'll burst an artery. Keep your blood pressure down."

"Don't tell me to calm down! They took our fucking boy!"

And just like that, Mr. Stone drops.

So many people dropping lately. But the look on him was different than when I dropped. There's more lost, illegible-ness to it.

"Oliver!" screams Mrs. Stone, dropping with him.

"Oh, God," says the Queen. Not worried. Just peeved, aggravated—peeved that she had to use more of her time and resources for this.

I can't be the cause of this. But I can.

"Oliver!" repeats Mrs. Stone.

"Call a doctor!" my mother screams.

The servant looks at the Queen.

"I guess so," she pouts down, in agreement, with both rolling eyes and shoulders—the Queen.

The servant stays frozen in place.

The Queen rolls her eyes once more:

"Well—call the doctor, you fool!" she demands, her arms coming up, almost as if she's about to inflict physical pain for her delayed demand at action.

The servant, shook, awoke back, from his nap, his daydream, his doze-off, and then went-off, to find the doctor.

"The doctor is getting nowhere near me."

"He's dying. Hurry up!"

"Oh, calm down, lady! I've sent for my doctor already."

"I just want you to know. I'm not letting him near me."

"Can we just get him here first and then argue? Your mom will talk to the Queen."

"Hurry! He's dying."

"Nobody is talking to me. I don't need no talking to. You're losing that baby, young lady."

"Hold on, Oliver. Hold on!"

"Oh, honey," coughed out Mr. stone. "I'm feeling cold. I think I see Moritz."

"I know he's my grandson, but how much and how hard would it be to lose a son you don't know. I have some sleeping pills that will help you get over it and wake up when it's over."

"Excuse me? Are you serious?"

"What?"

"You want me to give him up?"

I look down at my belly, which I could now see growing. Not that it had literally grown in these seconds. But now that I know what I know, my stomach doesn't look the same. Hell—my life doesn't feel the same; because it isn't. As I've said before: it is not my life.

"You can't keep him in East Wall. Your assignment is too large."

"Screw the assignment! This is my child!"

"I know! I know. But see the bigger picture, will you?

"The bigger picture? You mean there's a bigger picture than having a kid? Oh yeah—of course you'd say that. I don't know why I'd even ask you. Or why I'm even surprised.

"Oh, come on. Don't be like that."

"You mean don't have feelings; don't love my child like you didn't love me?"

"You don't mean that."

"Show me I shouldn't mean it. Don't let me lose him."

Now I sound like Moritz's parents.

"I'm just saying that kids can ruin your plans sometimes," my mother replies.

The reply makes me laugh. As I'm guessing it do for you, as well.

"Yeah—I bet you know a lot about that," I say.

My mother turns her eyes away from me as so I do not see the truth in them which has been hidden since I met her:

"You're right," she nods, aggreeing.

"We can't get rid of him," Mrs. Stone says.

"I know. We won't," agrees my mother.

"Excuse me?" explains the Queen. "Oh, yes, we, are!" she dictates.

"You know—if you advertise for one of our pharma drugs in abortion, we'll give it to you for free," says the Queen. "All you have to say is 'sponsored by Asantra.' What do you say, kid?"

"The abortion is not happing. Tell your doctor," says my mother. "And your sponsors."

"Can you two shut up and help my husband!" screams Mrs. Stone, with a sense of vindication, bravery, trying to scream out of her wit for her husband's own grip.

But what matters?

You reading this: you'll never know.

"Mam! He's coming!" a servant rushes back screaming. This one wasn't the last confused one. The one that didn't take the first cue from the Queen. The one that wasn't up-to-date with the Queen's codes.

Mr. Stone, holding on—tightly—to Mrs. Stone, begins to treble. His feet spasm up and side-to-side while his eyes remain white, with Mrs. Stone still holding on—hoping he was doing the same.

"Where is he?"

"He's coming."

"Oh, stop your blabbering, lady. He'll be fine. I have the best of the best."

"Here he is!"

"Where is he?" rushes the doctor, briefcase in hand.

"Well can't you see him?"

"Right here."

"Right."

"Move, move, give him room!"

Mrs. Stone tells Oliver he'll be fine and that she will be right beside him.

"I'm staying right here," she whispers into his ear.

Mr. Stone attempts to look at her but can't because of the pain, his eyes trying to support what they can.

There was the heart. There was the attack. Both of them struggling, both of them handing on, hanging on, and handling God.

If I would lose him too, then I would lose two men in Mrs. Stone's life. That would mean that I am her Reaper.

But who is mine, is the question that should be on my mind.

Yet, it isn't.

The only question on my mind is: who is God; where does he take them; why does he take them; why has he done this to the people of East Wall; why has he done this to Moritz, to my grandmother, to the Catz, to myself, to everyone—why has He done it?

There is no answer.

There is a doctor. There is Mr. Stone.

The doctor works on Mr. Stone. He hangs down.

In the doctor's hand, his briefcase hits the floor at the same time that his knees do.

"Breath, Mr. Stone!" he shouts, into Mr. Stone's ears. "Breath!" he says again, thinking Mr. Stone's age might have prevented him from hearing the first time as there for, he would need to repeat it...so he does: "Breath!" he says again.

"He can hear you, fucking dummy! Just help him!" shouts the Queen, sitting herself down on a recliner brought out by a servant.

A recliner was never asked for.

But when a tired expression is placed on the Queens face, then a recliner should be found—if you don't want your head out of place, out of its neck-line.

With a quick tear, the doctor rips apart Mr. Stone's button-up to reveal his hairy chest—one which Moritz got.

"This is going to hurt. Are you ready?"

"Just do it!" Mrs. Stone says, pushing the doctor and holding onto Mr. Stone.

It sounded like a clap.

When the pen hit Mr. Stone's chest, it sounded like clap. That's how hard the doctor punctured the Epee Pen into Mr. Stones heart—maybe not his heart, but his cheat.

Who knew a wrestler clapped outside the ring?

It shouldn't be a surprise though: we saw them at the hospital, and the mansion, and the University Medical Center.

Get me to the doctor, doctor.

Is it me that needs the help, or is my stomach, or my brain, I don't know, but I know Mr. Stone will make it; now it's up to me to convince the Queen to help me and my next generation do the same.

Let me take him out to the ballpark—even if that ballpark will be an empty desert plain, or a patchy part of land by Black Catz, or even if the ballpark will just be the backyard of Black Catz that doubles as a shooting range.

Just let me take him out, doctor.

Let me take him out Queen.

Let me take him out.

Let us go out. Together.

"Hand me the wipes," the doctor says to Mrs. Stone, pointing at his open, spread out bag that was pushed by Mrs. Stone's knee to a further place than the one in which he had placed it.

*************************

Some mornings, on the bad mornings, I want to murder people. I want to get up and just hit the first one I see.

Such type of thoughts only come to me after I've witness another rhetorical action by my accompanying human race.

But my baby won't be that person. He doesn't know how to act stupid yet.

He doesn't know how to be a dumb human yet.

He's not one of those guys always posting about himself just to look better. Or like those online girls that make it seem like their life is perfect just because they have a ring, and a partner, and small humans to dictate.

We haven't gotten to that step yet.

And if I can prevent it, I'll never let him get to that step: the stupid human step; the I-don't-rule-my-own-life-so-I'll-follow-the-normal-forms-of-convention step; the I'm-just-as-original-as-the-next-poster step—he will never get to that step because I'll never let him get to that step.

*************************

I probably don't mean all that. It could be this situation. It could be the stir of the moment. It could be these people—the Queen, my mother, the servants, the doctor—all wanting to separate me from the only thing that matters in my life now.

If my grandmother was here, I'm sure I'd have her support.

I know I would have Moritz' support. If his parents are right, then I would have definitely had his support.

"Hold on," repeats the doctor, wiping down Mr. Stones chest in the area where the needle went in, needing-ly.

A bubble of blood oozed out, then dripped onto the patch, drying instantly.

"How are you feeling sir? Can you hear me? Can you respond?"

"Oliver?" Mrs. Stone checks-up, in a high, melancholic pitch.

Party Pen, read the instrument used to help Mr. Stone back from his heart-attack slumber, or heart burn, or whatever the hell it was.

Under the patch, the doctor was holding a sticker:

Survived the Cry, this Party-piece read.

It was like we're all still kids. That's how we're treated by the Party. With the sticker, the doctor will assume Mr. Stone's mental thought is that of an elementary school kids and therefore will forget about the pen and the poke and hurt, with a fucking sticker.

All this—that type of mindset—is what gets the Queen to say things like "the Doctor will fix your baby."

The doctor will fix no such baby.

Mr. Stone moved more, and his eyes began to look again—like really, really look, with their pupils searching for figures and all, non-dilated, ready in one place to do one job: observe.

I shall observe.

We shall observe.

Observe the Queen and my mother and Úshka.

It's now me and him.

Úshka, reaching at my vest, reminds me she's still here. It's not only myself that notices the importance transferred from her to him.

"Come over here," she asks, assuming Mr. Stone was too much for me to take.

But I'm afraid she's too late for that.

"I'm okay here."

A few pats on the back get Mr. Stone up and running, and the doctor begins to pack and accepts the thanks from Mrs. Stone and all before the Queen stops him.

"Where are you going so soon."

"He seems to be better."

"Oliver—how are you feeling?" asks Mrs. Stone, to Mr. Stone.

Mr. Stone gets up, stretches his back—or more like holds his back and hacks if he's good to go—and then he takes a breath:

"I think I'm going to be fine. But I almost saw Moritz."

"What?" Mrs. Stone asks.

"I saw him, Olivia. He looks beautiful—our boy. He was peaceful. He was lying under a tree reading a book."

The thought of Moritz doing that—the father of him—made a tear jerk out of my eye, forcefully.

Moritz was still with me. He was still in my heart. And in the smaller heart below my heart. There was no stopping that. He would always be with me.

He will always be with us.

"Of course he was reading," I say, because that's one thing that attracted me to Moritz more than his liking of soccer, which nobody on West Wall liked: his reading; his interest in literature; his love for words. Perhaps he loved words so much because he knew it was the way to anybody's heart. He knew words ruled the world.

It's just unlucky that the world has taken to such harsh words to use for the world. It is harsh that no good words are being used to recreate a good world, as perhaps our ancestors which left us those words behind intended in their dying effort to make a better way to communicate what we feel rather than injecting the pain of what we feel into each other in different wars simply created for all the wrong reasons, sent with all the wrong men, and filled with all the wrong purposes and outcomes.

"But how are you feeling?" asks Mrs. Stone. "I'm glad you saw Moritz. But how do you feel?"

"I'm much better now, after seeing him in peace."

"Yeah, yeah," proclaimed the Queen, exaggeratingly.

"I'm glad I could help sir," said the doctor, no face on face to show the expressions he felt on having helped a man from dying and also helping him see his dead son, and how his dead son was in peace.

"But we need you for another job."

"No. Don't do it." said Mr. Stone.

"Please," begged Mrs. Stone.

"Oh, shut up you old fools," said the Queen. "She can't handle another soul. And what makes you think you can?"

*******************************

The Queen—look at her: wanting to be God, acting like God, determining if MY child can live.

She—the Queen—whispers something into the doctor's ear while side-eyeing Úshka, my mother, and myself—and him, because he's obviously always with me now—and then she points at me, making everything so obvious.

The Stones cover me. Perhaps, taking after their son.

They had finally excepted me all too late.

They only accept me because they want him.

They accept me because they want me to live long enough to give him to them, and then they won't care about me anymore, they won't accept me, they won't care if the Queen wants her doctor to have me sent off.

*****************************

Things change when you no longer can do anything for people. You become less important. That's the same on East Wall and on West Wall. And I'm sure it's the same for South Wall and North Wall, even if they are in different continents.

When you spot these signs from people, you know it's time to run—or should know, at least. The problem is: some people don't like to run, even when they know a certain situation is wrong for them. People like to stay with what hurts them. Then they deny it when it begins to hurt them in the first place. You can never please anybody. But yourself is important enough. And then those that come from you can follow with what you feel.

That's why it's my job now to not let the Queen dispose of him just because she doesn't think she'll have use for him, or that she won't have any things to tell him to do, or just because she can't see a job for him just yet. Because deep in me, although not knowing me or the Queen or the World, is my baby, begging not to treat him like my mother did treat me.

"We just need some time alone," says my mother, to the Queen, suggesting she knew better than her.

"No, we don't," says the Queen. To none of my surprise.

"Think about it," says Úshka. "We can gain another soldier on East Wall."

"Pff!" the Queen exclaims. "Little soldier? East Wall won't be up long enough for him to see a thirteenth birthday. What makes you think that we can just wait for this little fellow to be born, or for you to raise him, or what makes you think that I want to wait for you two to fall in love."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, whatever. Doctor, how long will it take you?"

"Will what take me?"

"You know—to get that little sucker out of there."

The Queen gives my stomach a look, after hooking the doctor's eyes and swerving them over to me, guiding them to the answer to her riddle.

"Oh." explains the doctor. "I see. Well—how far along are you, sweetie?" he asks.

Sweetie? What the fuck does he know.

"She doesn't know. She didn't even know she was expecting," says Mrs. Stone.

"Ha! And here she is wanting to keep it!" says the Queen, pompously.

"I can't just let you take my daughter's son like that. You know that."

"Mam—is everything alright?"

"Yes—should I stay to do this operation or not?"

"Yes! I've said it once, twice, three times, four times—how many times do I need to tell you to kill that baby!"

*******************************

Over us, baby streamers dropped down.

"Oh, look, my Alexa thinks we're having a baby shower. She must have sensed the wrong feelings from us." says the Queen.

"The scanning of heatwaves is off these days."

Balloons then dropped and confetti did too, making the scene quite awkward.

My takes never get taken. Shots do get taken. So that my life won't be taken. Because this Queen will take a life. Even if it is a saving life.

Everything is a party for the Party. Such things can't be the same for myself. It's harder to think of party as the lifestyle when your life has never been everything but a Party.

Come take this, I think.

"You can get it done before midnight, can't you?"

"The abortion, mam?"

"What did you say?"

"I mean—Queen. So sorry."

"It's okay. I'll just kill you when you fix her-up."

"Pardon, Queen?"

"Oh, I'm only joking. Don't go pissing your pants now."

"Yes. Yes. I knew that."

"Oh, did you?"

The seriousness, and the tactfulness, of the Queen, was now back.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me," she said, stepping forward.

"I don't know what you mean, Queen?"

"You heard me: you think this is a joke? You think I didn't just spare your life just that last second? Oh, what? You're the boss of me now?"

Her heel stepped forward once more, almost crushing the man's moccasins. The doctor's, I mean. Because that is what doctors like to be called, right? That is why they spend so much time in school: to later brag about the title you forgot to mention when you did mention them in your mention.

"No-mam," said the scared doctor.

"Oh, well, it is."

The servants burst out laughing. But not before the Queen.

My mother and Úshka follow. Perhaps, because they were once servants.

"Brighten up! All of you! Today—we are killing this baby!"

"No, Queen!" Mr. Stone pleaded.

Then came Mrs. Stone...

"Please -- thy Queen."

"Yas, Queen?"

One servant then answered, noticing the Queen was tapping his shoulder.

"What is it that you're here for?"

"To please you, thy Queen?"

"Exactly. So do as I say before I have off with your head."

Rendering into the wall -- or so I wished -- I back up, transforming myself away from the people, trying to make the air my dress code, my dress. But no plans such work in times like this. When thy Queen decides on something -- at least since I've been here, I do have noticed -- she settles on it and gets it done.

With no plan in mind, that besides the one the Queen has given him, the doctor steps forward. It is him that shall take my baby now if I such allow him to do so. There is no plan to allow, however. I hope thy word-grabber, the reader, shall know that by now.

Up in the air, or our heads, the banners and balloons and confetti still float in the oxygen-less ceilings bought up by the Queen and the Party to make everything stick up there, to never allow it to touch solid ground.

"I got all this for you and now you won't accept it?" the Queen investigates with me, viewing how I was stepping back, viewing how my feet were placing themselves back one at a time, slowly.

In all the sudden, with no gesture beforehand, and before I could react, the army of my mother, Úshka, and the Queen all stepped forward, towards me. Mr. and Mrs. Stone stayed behind, their eyes caught like a wildfire traveling too fast to be put out -- except their eyes were not digging into a jungle, or forest -- they were digging, trailing, towards me, on the rope-of-life, with no stop in sight.

"What are you all doing?" I gasp out, barely. The air in my lungs comes out punctured. Not literally, but mentally. Each breath becomes harder to catch.

In the mind-set of killing, my mother's lips drip like a hanged man, or women, caught up too late, thought of too late, made off too late; thy Queen, myself, this baby, we're all thought of too late; it is you now that leads the way.

My mother grabs my hands, finally.

There are dreams she pops in her head during the day that are then hard to take out.

"Just give it up like I gave you up. It's not that hard," she says, intently, her eyes looking nowhere but into the dark, deep pits of my pupils.

I wish my baby could talk already.

I wish he was up and kicking and talking. That way, he could tell us what he wants us to do.

But would it even matter?

I mean: I've spent my whole time here simply listening to the Queen and my mother, so what makes me think anything would change when my baby is born?

If you think about it: your parents probably spent your whole babyhood (if that's what your life as a baby is called -- or your "years as a baby") screaming and hoping for you to talk so they could just know what was wrong with you when you did break out in crying fits; yet, when you get older, and when you can talk, when that baby has grown, parents then spend their whole life telling that baby what to do instead of listening to the words coming out of their baby's mouth, as they once wished they would.

So really: would my baby talking matter?

Would animals talking matter if we're a race that likes to give orders, rather than receive them?

Not that I expected it, but Úshka then approached my mother, using her as the vehicle to me:

"If she agrees, how bad can it be?"

That thought about babies and them talking and us listening is chiefly relatable at the moment. Look at me: I'm the grown, adult baby not being listened to, even though I've expressed -- a numerous amount of times -- what is in my heart, what is in my mind, and what I want for my life and my son's life.

Here I am, wanting to say what my baby feels -- does he feel it if it feels it; is that fair to say as a mother? -- and I can't say what I, or he, wants to say.

"Sit, sit," says the doctor.

*************************************

The argument with the Queen and servant is forgotten.

When the doctor takes my hand, it is cold. Like deaths touch, the doctor reminds me nothing lasts, and that even the life I carry will be snatched from me.

"Don't worry. I've got some great drugs that will knock you out cold and put you in a fancy, ol' dream."

"No -- I don't want that," I say.

"What do you mean? All my patients want that?"

"I'm not all your patients."

"But you can be. Oh, please don't make my job hard. If you don't take these, you'll die of the pain. I'm not sure if you will. But probably."

"Please don't take him," Mrs. Stone cries.

"We'll pay you whatever you want -- whatever is left in our life savings," begs Mr. Stone.

"It's not your money, old fools. It's the bother he will cause," says the Queen.

"We'll take care of it," says my mother.

"Yes, I'll help her," agrees Úshka, knowing she's stuck with me and Black Catz.

I don't fully take a seat because I'm fogged at the decision making at the moment.

"No." I run off to the side, like a little girl not getting her way.

The celebrations are already in the air. But I never screamed...

...action!

******************************************

Action does take, my Queen, as she proceeds to follow me.

"You are not saying what will be done," she says, fisting a grab until my arm was in the middle of it, in-between it.

"I tell you what is done," she saya -- the Queen -- jerking me back.

My light -- although not-so-light anymore because of him -- body jolts back, not dropping to astonishing surprise.

"I won't let you take him."

I try to break free.

The servant, my mother, Úshka, the Stones -- they're all watching and they don't know what to do. Hands jump up over their mouths, over a few mouths, and their feet twist tighter, in a nervous-stance, both together.

A grapple breaks out. A fist, in a fight.

I don't want to fight. And if I fight with the Queen, I will end up dead.

Thus, yourself and myself should began to say our farewells.

"You won't fucking take him," I scream, swinging one hand at the Queen's face, my nails -- what is left of them -- grabbing onto the Queen's face, tearing bits of her skin right off her face, decorating -- in splashes -- the floor below us with a royal, dark-type of red.

Figures over my eyes make it fuzzy to see. Like stars when you've been punched -- except I haven't been punched or anything. I'm the one doing the punching, in fact.

"My Queen!" screams one of the servants.

The Queen takes a step back.

A shutter of wind rushes into the room.

Behind the queen, I see a stone crash through the window; a stone no bigger than a bird.

Are we being attacked or saved; or neither?

Take into consideration my weak, fable, dehydrated body which is ready to hit the ground.

With that, my weak arms find a way to stay raised, and I cover the first swing that lashes back at me.

The Queen punches down onto my arms in the form of an "x".

The door behind closes, and we're left with a handful of servants.

A handful which don't seem like a load to take on.

It's three capable people, against five.

The Stone's don't stand a chance unless I put up the fight for them; and I'll try, but it's not me calling the shots: it's my body who makes the choices; it has been my body since the first fight; or the adrenaline.

"Who do you think you are?"

"Let's all settle down and talk about it."

But the servant doesn't know how wrong he is.

Nobody knows how wrong we are until Úshka lets one know.

Right in the middle of her forehead, she stuck her hand knife:

"Come on!" Úshka says, looking at my mother; she gives her that code-look of you-know-what-to do.

Tell me what to do.

"Ah!" screams the Queen.

But it's not me making her scream.

In bunches, my mother has gotten a hold of her hair.

And the Stones are holding her arms down -- well, they're holding what they can because the Queen is kicking back.

The Queen's dress begins to snap with her limbs wanting to stretch further out than what the dress was made to stretch.

"Let me go!"

"Hurry"

*********************************

It's funny how people say "you'll have this feeling when you have a child" -- this feeling of responsibility, like you know what to do. And I think it's funny because there is a feeling you have when you know you're having a child, and it is an "Oh shit I'm having a child moment"; it's a freak-out; and that's why -- and only why -- you know what to do. It's that reason; but you don't have a epiphany or anything; you just freak out; maybe you're different and other mom's and parents are different -- even the non-specifying moms, those non-identifying moms-- but for me it's this: it's oh fuck; oh shit; what; how am I going to do this; I can't do this; oh fuck; how? Shit!

Those are the only feelings I have.

*********************************

We're all stuck like a grain of rice in the slots of a fork.

Being stuck is like being cheated on. You ever been cheated on? I have. And I've also been the cheater. Not that I'm proud of it. But I'm also not going to act like the victim when I've been the perpetrator -- and perhaps, a perpetrator -- that deserved every cheating she received.

But the only reason I'm bringing this up is because of the way we feel when the cheating happens; or at least the way I felt: hopeless.

It was the first time I didn't know what to say. And I think that was because of the way I felt: how I knew I probably deserved whatever I was getting.

What I did think afterwards, after a few days went by and I had time to cool down, was how comical it all was; how each person always has their own excuse; hand how each excuse always sounds ridiculous for the person not telling it.

I remember my partners excuse for his cheating -- it was a boy before Moritz that's not worth mentions (happened in Middle School) -- was that his "blast from the past" was the one that hit up his mobile.

That's right: blast from the past.

That was the adjective he used to justify his cheating. As if a blast from the past was this cursed thing that suddenly crept up on you and could not be controlled -- like a disease running through your blood ready to act upon you.

*********************************

I don't want to use any other excuse for what I've done, what I've caused -- my grandmother, Moritz, Zero, Oso, etc -- for my time here, and whatever time I'll have left in West and East Wall and then in Black Catz; I don't want my son to be born with a mother that simply makes excuses.

That's right: excuses.

And that's right: he's going to be born, no matter what I have to do.

Still in the not-letting-shit-happen-to-my-bab-crazy-mother-mode-I-had-now-turned-into, I grabbed the Queen like my mother was grabbing the Queen, and I jerked my hand back -- that hand which was grappling the Queen -- as far as I could, stretching my tiny, thin arm as far as it could go without injuring any other part of myself -- especially that part which is now most important.

The wrestling didn't' just continue on the exterior of my body, for he was making his presence known, reminding me not to give up on him like he has not given up on me, this whole way, through all the fights, through every bullet and hit and roll and tumble.

The Queen can't get ahold of me like I can get ahold of myself. It's that much I can do for my kid as the others around me try to destroy and vanish him before he can even touch solid ground; before the doctor can spank his bum to confirm he's arrived alive and well; and before I can even teach him right from wrong.

I don't give up, and blood splashes from both ends: the Queen's end and my end.

In front of me, I have the Queen. Behind the Queen, the Stones are helping. And next to the Stones, my mother pulls on, with my hand doing the other handy-work (literally grabbing). During this, we all failed to notice the servants separating from us instead of helping the Queen like they usually do. We didn't notice this because we were obviously too busy not helping the Queen and doing what we were trying to do. Because of that, the servants had time to call upon reinforcements.

Through their palm, each servant is injected with a walkie-talkie at the point of their youthful initiation from one family member to the next. And the servant that had been accompanying the Queen this whole time was no different. He too, had the slit on his wrist with the portable walk-through system waiting for commands.

Once the commands did go, the servants began to come. I only notice it because one snuck up behind me, knocking the sense straight into me.

"Ludy!" I heard Úshka scream.

But before any of us could do anything, they were around us, surrounding us, like ants with a discarded piece of candy or bubble gum -- or anything sweet for that matter.

Sour and sweet don't mix.

One servant got ahold of me, while another punched my stomach.

Was this the operation the Queen had in mind?

The Queen -- of course, the Queen -- was still bent down, recovering from her family attack.

"There on to us!" scram my mother, noticing more servants squeezing in from every angle, from every door -- big or small -- like a stampede trying to get through a vast land at whatever cost.

My breath runs out from the bodies trampling over me, covering me.

I can only see, to my side and my right and my front, and I look, and what I see are what I think I'll see: my mother being grabbed, Úshka being grabbed, Mr. Stone being grabbed, Mrs. Stone being grabbed -- we were all being taken away from the Queen.

It was different for the doctor, however, who had managed to escort himself off to the side for a side-showing, his bags no longer with him, having stayed behind in the scene, and the escape.

"Hit her stomach some more!" he yelled, instructing the servants on me to help him finish the job the Queen had yelled for him to do.

Therefore, another blow came.

It hit me harder than most. Probably because I was expecting it.

With my hands stretched out, shackled in servant-hands, I have no choice but to take the blows; he has no choice but to take them too.

We need to do something before they kill him, before the Queen shakes everything off and recuperates.

And I did do something. I pulled the pistol I had forgotten about under my vest from many fights ago, and I lifted it straight in the direction of the Queen, of the Patron of all these servants...of the Patron of all Patrons.

I only have a few seconds to pull the trigger.

And unlike last time, unlike in my uncle's store, I slide my finger where I wanted it to go, and I take advantage of this second where the servants have no control of this arm I've managed to pull free.

A kick comes from my stomach.

I'll always be protecting you, I whisper to the voice below.

Then, I make sure my aim is right, because this time...

...I mean to cancel the Patrón.