Tobias Wade

The enthusiasm was deafening. 

A wound that my mother says is a blessing in disguise, but I don’t see it.

“It’s hard to tell what we’re going to need… until we need it. Take care now.” 

“You must never ask God and for anything. You must only thank him for what he has already done.” 

“He’s going to hurt you, Mahjouba. You wouldn’t be the first either. Get out, or this may be the last card you ever receive.” 

It isn’t the mundane type of secret either: Dad isn’t hiding any affairs, Mom doesn’t drink herself to sleep, and my sister doesn’t sneak boys or drugs up to her room. They do, however, all have their own demons, and they keep them hidden from the rest of the world.

When I was about to die, my life didn’t flash before my eyes.

“Come on, man. It’s just a game. So what’s the deal?”

Some flowers only grow from corpses. She must have thought it was symbolic, but it was disgusting to me.

All those years my mother used to drag me down to the church, she never once told me that God isn’t the one who listens to the midnight prayers.

You’d be amazed at how many people have died in the most innocuous places.

“No motels. No inns, no beds no breakfasts — nobody stays here.”

“He’s dead,” she said, standing up. “Can I call this in to the police, or is that too much of an inconvenience for you too?”

“Just do it already. You’ve been here long enough,” she said.

All the video feeds showed men in suits fanning out through the power plant, most armed with long machetes still stained with blood. There’s nowhere left for me to go.

I don’t know how many people had looked into the pit before they ran, but I’m sure enough of us knew that the the red glow wasn’t really sliding like I thought at first.

May God have mercy on our souls.

Death is not a place, or a person. It’s all there is.