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It was February 29 again, and I was wondering which member of my family would try to kill me this time. Still, a small part hoped that maybe this year would be different from the past. I mean, it’s been 16 years. I’ve made peace with what I did. It never had anything to do with them anyway. But here I was, lying awake in bed before my alarm and I couldn’t help wondering if when I opened my eyes one of them would be standing above me, ax cocked behind their head, waiting to make sure the last thought that went through my mind would be they got me like they said they would.

            I felt Michael stir. He’d be awake any minute. Surely they wouldn’t do it in front of him. They’d have to kill him too. The only guilt he had was that of association with me. He wasn’t even in the picture when it happened. He has nothing to do with this. There’s no way they would do it now.

            Not a day goes by where I don’t doubt my decision. That I wish it was me that died instead of him. That at least he died.

            “Are you awake?” Michael whispered.


            Did I say that out loud?

            He rolled over and slid his body up to mine. I could feel his morning passion pressed against my thigh. He kissed my neck gently then nibbled my earlobe. His hands traced my hips.

            “Good morning Beautiful,” he said.

            I pretended to be asleep. He knew I was awake.

            He continued. He slipped a finger under my waistband, paused, and then allowed his hand to follow through. I pressed my head back lightly to expose my neck. He took the invitation.


            His two fingers explored my wetness below as our tongues wrestled for dominance above.

            That’s when I jumped up.

            “What are you doing?” he asked.

            “Did you hear that?”

            “Hear what?”


            “I think someone’s in the house.”

            Michael sighed and fell back onto the bed.

            He didn’t say anything.

            Maybe he was right. Maybe there wasn’t anybody in the house.

            “What’s going on, Jess? You’ve been acting strange all week.”


            “Nothing’s going on. I just thought I heard something. I felt something.”

            “Yeah,” he chuckled. “That was me inside of you.”

            “Don’t be an idiot. I’m being serious.”

            “So am I. We were close to doing something we’d done every morning for the last six months, and then this week rolls around and I can barely get a kiss out of you.”

            “It’s not like that.”


            “Then what’s it like? Because this isn’t the Jessica I fell in love with.”

            “Stop being so dramatic.”

            I listened for what I thought I heard: the brush of a sleeve across a bare wall; that one creak the floor only makes when someone steps on that exact spot; the breath of a shadow in the corner of the room. Anything.

            “You’re distancing yourself from me. There’s a disconnect. It’s not just the sex.” He sat up. “Jessica, I’ve been in situations before that I’ve ignored and it only got worse. I don’t want to do that again. We need to talk about it.”

            “What are you saying?”


            “The closer we get to our wedding day, the more it feels like you’re running away.”

            “Are you kidding?”

            “It’s serious.”

            If he only knew.

            “I don’t remember when it started, but you don’t look at me like you used to.”


            He sounded like such a girl.

            “There used to be love in your eyes,” he said. “It was enough to just be around you. I never doubted you for a second. Now that we’re a month away it’s like you’re second guessing us; like you’re checking out. Now when I look in your eyes all I see is resentment, like I’m stealing your life from you.”

            “There you go again, making it all about you.”

            “Jessica, I’m not trying to make it about me. I’m sharing how I feel. I’m scared. I miss you. I miss us, Jess. I love you.”

            I hated when he said “I love you” at the end of his thought. It always made me feel I was obligated to say it back.


            I placed my feet on the floor. The shock of the cold wood invigorated my legs.

            “Please don’t just walk away.”

            “I have to get ready for work.”


The comforting smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the bathroom mixing with the steam of the hot shower. For a moment I forget to remember the inevitability the day will bring. I turned off the water. What could I do? Tell him? I couldn’t tell him. He’d never believe me. Nobody does. I don’t even believe me.



My mug sat beside the coffee pot. There was a bowl of sliced kiwi and strawberries on the table. Michael stood at the stove frying eggs.

            “Thanks,” I said.

            “Of course. Eat up.”

            I thought about stepping behind him and nestling my head into his back, or kissing his neck like he had done to mine this morning; then I saw the note on the fridge:


Thirty days hath September,

April, June and November;

All the rest have thirty-one,

Excepting February alone

Which hath but twenty-eight, in fine,


Till leap year gives it twenty-nine.

            “Did you write this?”


            “The poem. Did you write this here?”

            “What do you mean, ‘did I?’ Who else would have?”


            “Why’d you do it?”

            “Because it’s February 29th. We only get like 20 in a lifetime. It’s a magical day.”

            “Well, the people in Scotland believe that if you’re born on a Leap Day, your life will be an everlasting stream of suffering and pain.”


How is anyone supposed to know what to do? Seriously. How do you know if the decision you make is the right one? Isn’t it enough to at least have had the courage to make a decision? It has to better than not making a decision, right? Don’t they see that? Can’t he see that I’m distancing myself from him for his own sake? To protect him. If only he knew. Christ. If only he knew, then there’d be no way he would love me. There’s no way he could. I should have never let it get this far to begin with. I don’t even love myself. How am I supposed to love anyone else? I just need to make it through the day. Just one day.


            Just today.


I didn’t feel my head strike the steering wheel, but it struck. I opened my eyes to a half dozen blank faces staring at me. My foot was pressed on the brake and somehow I was in the middle of a lifeless intersection.

            The cracked giant grill of a white SUV glared at me in the rear-view mirror.

            I pounded the steering wheel with my fist. Why today?


            I stepped out of the car and approached the vehicle behind me.

            It was a woman. An Asian woman. She stared straight ahead. There was a young girl seated beside her.

            “You have to be kidding me,” I said. “Why did you have to be the goddam stereotype?!”

            Neither of them spoke. A black Mustang pulled up beside me. It was a young couple.

            “We saw everything,” the girl said. “She was on her phone. She sped past us and straight into you. Do you want our number in case you need a witness in court?”



            “Are you OK?” the girl asked. “You don’t look too hot. Maybe you should sit down.”


“I came as soon as I heard, baby. Are you OK?”

            The fluorescent lights forced me to squint. I could barely make out the face, but I knew the voice: Michael. I looked around the room.


            “You shouldn’t move your neck like that. They’re worried you might have a fracture.”

            “Fracture? From what?”

            “From your face hitting the steering wheel. Don’t you remember?”

            “I think so.”

            “You were rear-ended. Apparently you were coherent for the first couple of minutes after the accident, but then you collapsed in the street.”


            “Jesus. Is my car OK?”

            “Your car? You could have a broken neck and you’re worried about your car?”

            “Don’t lecture me, it was just a question.”

            “Sorry. I guess I’m still a little upset about this morning. When I got the call I thought the worst, I was terrified.” He paused. “Your car is a write off. Insurance will get you a new one.”

            “Oh. That’s good.”


            “Were you on your phone when it happened?”

            “I’m not doing this right now. You can stay, but I’m not doing this right now.”


In a fog. Michael’s voice was accompanied by others.

            “How long has she been out for?”


            “She was awake for a couple of minutes when I first arrived, but she’s been asleep ever since.” That was Michael. “Maybe a couple of hours?”

            “How was she when she woke up?”

            “Honestly,” he said. “She was in a mood.”

            “That’s Jessica for you. Once she digs in her heels there’s no talking with her.”

            The voice sounded like my dad’s voice.


            My dad!

            I had to wake up. Why couldn’t I wake up?

            “Are Julie and Paige coming?” Michael said.

            “Yes, we all came together. They’re talking with the doctor right now. Julie’s worked with him before and you know how Paige is, always trying to network, so she’s stuck to Julie’s hip.”

            They laughed.


            “Paige has got to be close to finishing nursing school, isn’t she?”

            “Final year.”

            “That’s great, Stan. You must be proud.”

            I imagined my dad grinning ear to ear. He had the smile of a politician.

            “And how about you two?” he asked Michael. “Are you all set for the big day?”


            “Just a matter of time now. I’m actually looking forward to it being over with. Get on with our lives. I think the pressure is weighing on her.”

            “Hang in there, son. Julie was the same way during the month leading up to our wedding day. That was twenty-five years ago now.”

            “That’s incredible. You don’t see too much of that anymore.”

            “You sure don’t. But here we are, living proof.”

            I pictured his big grin again. It’s not that hard to stick together when you and your spouse are both psychopaths. I needed to open my eyes. Why’d Michael have to call them? Why today?


            “Do you need to take a leak or anything? Have you left her side since you got here?”

            “Thanks. If you don’t mind I’ve been holding it since I got here,” Michael said.

            “Take your time, stretch your legs. We’ll be here when she wakes up again.”


I felt a presence hovering over me. It descended closer. I felt its breath warm my face.


            My body quivered.

            “Hi Sweetie,” my dad said. “Daddy’s here now. Everything is going to be OK. Can you believe it’s February 29 again? How does the old poem go? Excepting February alone, which hath but twenty-eight, in fine, till a leap year gives it twenty-nine.”

            He kissed my forehead.

            “Rest now, little girl. You’re going to need all the strength you can muster.”



“Did you get it?” my dad asked.

            “Of course,” my mom said. “Where’s Michael?”

            “Giving his legs a stretch.”

            “Is she awake?”

            “It’s hard to tell,” he said. “I whispered in her ear and I thought I noticed a quiver, but I don’t know for sure.” Then he snickered, “She’ll wake up in hell soon enough.”


            “I want to be the one that gives it to her.” That was Paige. “I am the nurse after all.”

            “All right Sweets, it’s all you,” my dad said.

            Paige moved around the bed. She stopped when she reached my side. She cupped my hand. The gentleness of her touch surprised me. She leaned into my face.

            “You won’t notice right away,” she said, “but you will soon enough. You’ll be awake. You’ll feel everything. But you won’t be able to move. You’ll be screaming out of your eyes for us to stop and nobody will be able to hear you. You’re going to wish you were dead – but look around Jessica, you’re in the hospital. Their only job is to keep you alive.”

            I heard my parents chuckle. I felt a coolness being carried through my veins. It reached down to my toes. It reached to the top of my head. Paige must have injected something into the IV.


            “How do we know if it worked?” my dad asked.

            “Well,” Paige said, “If she opens her eyes and doesn’t scream it worked.”

            I didn’t open my eyes. I felt Paige holding my hand. I tried pulling it away. I couldn’t. She took my pinky finger, straightened it out, and rested something on the tip below the fingernail. I felt pressure. Why couldn’t I pull my hand free? A spike ran up my finger, up my hand, up my arm and into my shoulder, like when you press a tack by accident, my arm wanted to recoil but couldn’t. I wanted to scream but nothing came out. My eyes welled and then shocked open. My family started laughing. The pain tripled. Paige continued to press the needle under my nail. I was losing my breath. Inside I was shaking but I knew it didn’t show.

            “What if she passes out?” my mom asked.

            She sounded sincerely concerned.


            “Just give her a little ephedrine.”

            “You girls are sick,” said my dad.

            “You’re just jealous I came up with the idea,” Paige said.

            “Just wait till it’s my turn.”



My finger throbbed. Paige pressed my hand against the bed and snapped the needle. Its crisp crack bounced around the room. It felt like my finger had been sliced in two.

            Paige replaced the medical sensor to cover the wound. My fucking sister. My parents. How could they do this to me? What else were they going to do?

            A pricking burning scorched my veins. Fire blazed from my fingertip. I thought maybe like in a hot spring if I just didn’t think about it and didn’t move, the pain would go away. I couldn’t move, but not think about it? How could I not think about it? I may as well have been strapped to a bed in the Toy-Box Killer’s torture dungeon the way my psychopathic family was eager to pounce.

            Where’s Michael? Why did he leave me with these monsters? MICHAEL!



“Paige,” my mom said. “Stand by the door and wait for Michael.”

            “No fair,” she said. “I was just getting started.”

            “We have to move quick; and we have to take turns. This is the first time we get to do it together. Go wait at the door.”

            I watched Paige smirk as she walked across the room.

            “Your turn Julie,” my dad said. “What are you going to do?”


            “Watch and see.”

            I knew the voice. She was a little girl about to poke a cat with a stick she spent hours sharpening in anticipation.

            Her bulbous nose nearly touched mine. She kept it angled in arrogance as she calculated what she would say next. The light of the room ignited the tiny hairs above her lip and I knew if I could laugh at her for this it would send her into a rage.

            “Hi Jessie,” she said. “I wish I could say ‘momma loves you,’ but, well, we all know that isn’t true.”

            I wanted to spit in her face.


            “Oh look Stan,” she said. “You can almost see the fear in those little blue eyes of hers.”

            My dad moved in for a closer look. He hummed. “Isn’t that cute.”

            “OK,” my mom said and pushed him aside. “It’s my turn.”

            She flashed a razor in front of my face. It was a razor from my dad’s shave kit. The kind of razor that comes individually wrapped in wax paper, both sides of the blade sharpened to slice with ease.

            “Your face isn’t as bloody as I hoped it would be,” my mom said. “But that’s life, isn’t it? I’m just going to have to make the best with what I’ve got, you know, play the cards I’m dealt.”


            She used one of her hands to palm my face.

            She set down the razor and unbuckled the neck brace.

            She stroked my neck.

            She wasn’t going to slit my throat, was she? She couldn’t. That would be too easy. She wanted me to suffer. Isn’t that what all these years have been about? To make me suffer for what I did? To make me suffer beyond the hell I put myself through every day? I did what I had to do. I shouldn’t have to pay for it over and over and over again.



            Please mom, don’t do this. I’m sorry. I really am. Mommy, please stop.

            I felt the sting when the razor pierced my skin. My heart raced. I saw my mom’s eyes shimmer. Her lips tightened to expose her sunken cheeks and hollow bags beneath her eyes. She stared at me.

            “Relax Darling,” she said.

            The sting dragged along my throat, then stopped.

            OK. That’s OK. That wasn’t so bad.


            My mom snapped her fingers in front of my face. I hadn’t noticed I’d averted my eyes.

            “This is going to hurt,” she said. “But I need you to hang in there, baby. Paige has more to do and Daddy still needs his turn.”

            I felt the razor dig into the slit. My mom pressed so hard against my neck I thought she would break it. A crack exploded the room. The pressure gave way. I gasped for air. I tried to reach for my throat, but my arms remained limp by my side.

            “Pass me the tracheotomy tube, Hun,” she said.

            The room began to fade. I couldn’t hear. I couldn’t breathe. My skin felt blue. There was more pressure on my throat. It was like choking on a chip that was being forced deeper and deeper inside me. The tissue grated like shredding cheese. My lungs burned. I sucked liquid copper. The taste filled my chest. And then I caught my breath. My vision returned. My mom tightened the neck brace and began petting my hair.


            “There, there, Sweetie, there, there. Momma fixed you up real nice.” She smiled. “I think I may have dropped the razor inside before I ran the tube down though. Oops. Let me know when it starts to feel like drowning. It should be a little harder with each breath. Each nick of the blade on the inside of your lung will add just a little more blood. How many litres can they hold? It’s been a long time since clinical anatomy. What I do know for sure is: your chest will get heavy. You’ll taste it in your throat. You’ll want to cry out for help but no one will be able to save you. No one will be able to save you like that dying child you abandoned. What do you think his last minutes were like? Do you think he cried out for a mommy that wasn’t there? Do you think his begging landed on deaf ears? You’ll know his pain Jessica. Mark my words. You will know his pain.”


“Do you remember when Jessica was just a little girl and we were going to that Mexican restaurant all the time?” my dad said.

            “Of course, Mya Riviera,” said my mom.

            “It must have been her second birthday. She kept shovelling those tortilla chips into her mouth when all of a sudden she burst out screaming bloody murder.”


            “Bone chilling.”

            “All the wait staff ran over. All the tables stared. We thought she dipped it in the habanero sauce so we made her drink milk but she kept on screaming; those gumball tears pouring down her face.”

            “I ran her to the bathroom and found that chip lodged in the back of her throat, its sharp corners digging in like anchors. She spat up blood.”

            “It was terrifying,” my dad said.

            My throat was on fire. My chest pooled. The room was closing in.


            “Did I take it too far with the razor blade?” my mom asked.

            “No, Julie. It was perfect.” He pulled her in for a kiss. “I love you baby.”

            “I love you, too, Stan.”

            “Get a room,” Paige said.

            Everybody laughed. Everybody was always laughing.


            “Glad to see your spirits are high,” Michael said.

            So stupid. How could he leave me alone with these monsters?

            I choked. Blood splashed the inside of the tracheotomy tube. Michael ran to my bedside.

            “What’s going on? She’s bleeding out of her tube,” he paused. “Wait, why is there a tube in her throat?”

            “She started choking while you were out. They cut a quick trach to keep her breathing. They think maybe a rib impaled one of her lungs when she hit the steering wheel.”



            “I know. I hate seeing her like this,” my mom said. “I’m torn though.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “She wasn’t wearing her seat belt.”   

            “How do you know?”


            “There’s no abrasion or bruising across her chest,” my mom said. “There would be if she was wearing her belt.”


            “I don’t know how many times we told her to buckle-up when she was a kid. She just never listened. Life is a cruel teacher.”

            “I don’t know Julie. That seems a little harsh. I mean, look at her.”

            Michael looked like he was going to cry. He loved me. I knew he did. I just didn’t know why.


            “She has her ways,” he said, “and don’t get me wrong, I’m not always a fan of those ways, but she’s a good person. I’d never wish this on her in a million years.”

            Paige hugged him. She rubbed his arm and shot me half-cocked smile.

            “Oh Michael,” Paige said. “Mom didn’t mean it like that. We all adore Jess. It’s why we’re here. And you, mister. You are just the sweetest, most stand-up guy. She’s lucky to have you.”

            “Don’t be silly,” Michael said.

            “For serious. I mean, if I’m being honest, it’s crossed my mind a few times that if things didn’t work out between the two of you, I just might have to take a turn.”


            Michael squeezed her close. He kissed the top of her head. “OK little sis.”

            Everybody laughed, again.


I was 18 when I met him. Not Michael, Shelly, and it was love at first sight. My world stopped spinning. It was as if all the pieces had finally fallen into place. I know it sounds cliché, but it was real. I was smitten. He treated me like the only girl in the world. When he looked in my eyes I knew I was the only girl in the world. I wanted to be his forever.

            We moved in together right away. Like, within weeks. The first day in the apartment, we were setting up the bedroom and he picked me up against the mattress and made love to me until we fell to the floor. It was amazing. There was always that passion between us. We were consumed with each other. We made meals together. We walked together. We talked even. How many people have a passionate relationship where communication is a cornerstone?


            Right from the start we wanted to have children. And right from the start we were pregnant. I still remember the look on his face when I woke him up to tell him the news. Tears filled his eyes. His cheeks puffed an honest smile. He pulled me close and kissed my forehead. He said, ‘I love you, Jessie. I love you so much.’

            And I felt sick.

            Here I’d found the greatest man in the world and I couldn’t even be sure the baby was his.


“Kiss your fiancé then take me to the cafeteria. You’re little sister is famished.”


            “Is that so?” Michael said.

            “It is,” Paige said.

            I swear I saw her bite her bottom lip.

            Michael leaned above me. “You heard your sister, Jess,” he said. “We’re going to get the family some food, and you some flowers. You’re in good hands here.”

            He kissed my forehead.


            Please don’t go Michael. Please. I need you.

            “I love you,” he said.

            And I knew it would be the last time I heard anyone ever say that to me again.


Even with my eyes wide-open, my vision faded in and out. I got lost in a day-terror picturing my sister holding Michael’s arm as they walked down the hall. She was telling some silly story or laughing at everything Michael said even though he wasn’t being funny. They’d pass an empty room in an adjacent hallway and she’d bump him through the open door. Michael would laugh and turn to leave but she’d be advancing. He’d object at first, but he’s a guy, and despite my sister being a bitch, she has always been pretty. She’d press him against the bed and run her hands down the front of his pants. She’d tell him how she knows things weren’t going great in our relationship and how he deserves better and how he doesn’t have to reciprocate she only wants to service him; help him relax a little. His pants would drop to the floor and she’d kneel in front of him knowing there was nothing left of his resolve.


            A solid mass struck the side of my face. I was jarred from my daydream as a numb, eye watering nausea settled into the back of my skull.

            “Stay with us Jessica,” my dad said.

            “Maybe we should give her a few milligrams of ephedrine,” my mom said.

            “Yeah. There’s a good chance she’ll pass out on my go.”

            The room became brighter. The metronomic sound of my heart on the monitor quickened. I could hear surgical tools being placed in metal pans somewhere outside the room. My eyes darted in every direction consuming my surroundings. The IV bag hung full. The TV remained off. The curtains were pulled back. The room was only my mom, my dad and me.


            “Let’s see what you brought,” she said.

            “You think you can handle it?”

            “Bring it on.”

            He shuffled around and said, “I call it ‘The Show Stopper.’”

            My mom cocked her head in disbelief as if she wasn’t quite sure what she was looking at.


            The finger monitor squeezed my pinky. The razor floated with each breath I took to cut just a little bit more of my insides. But I was right. As long as I didn’t move, which I couldn’t, the pain was present but not intolerable. All I needed was for Michael to walk in while my dad was doing whatever he was about to do and this would all be over. I only had to last a few more minutes. I could last a few more minutes. What’s a few more minutes?

            “What have you done to my vibrator?” my mom asked.

            “Relax Julie, I figured after this we’ll splurge on some new toys.”

            “You’re sick.”

            “She doesn’t deserve this?”


            “Oh she does, but,” my mom paused. “Are you really going to fuck our daughter?”

            “Paige is our only daughter,” my dad said. “Jessica is a whore and deserves a whore’s punishment.”

            “So you’re going to punish her by excessive pleasure?”

            “See for yourself; tell me if you’d find pleasure in this toy.”

            I caught a glimpse of the purple device as he handed it to my mom. It looked like a regular vibrator: a blunt end for insertion, a handle to hold in position, and one of those tickler nubs for clit stimulation. It looked like the one Michael had bought me before he went away on that business trip.


            “Turn it on.”

            My mom pressed the button and the vibrator sprung to life.

            The motor hummed like a tattoo gun. The silicon shook in my mother’s hand. Lengths of shining metal pierced the skin at a hundred miles an hour. The alternating blades looked like teeth ready to devour whatever they were put in.

            An angular bit spun from the tip of the purple silicon. This was not a toy. This was a miner’s tool. This device was designed to borough deep into parts unexposed to the light. It would slice clean through me.

            “Holy Christ,” my mom said.


            “Didn’t know I was so technically inclined, did you?”

            “This will kill her.”

            “Isn’t that what we want?”

            “You’re sick,” she said. “And I love every sick bit of you.”

            She turned off the device and handed it back to my dad.


            “The best part is,” he said, “if it doesn’t kill her, she’ll never be able to shame this family again.”

            “Give me a kiss and I’ll go see if Michael is ready.”


I couldn’t bare Shelly finding out the baby wasn’t his. It would have killed him. I knew he’d love me and the child regardless, but every morning I’d see what I’d done; every day I’d see it in the baby’s face. We would have been doomed to live unhappily ever after, because of me. Because of me and my insecurities. So I pushed him away. I broke up with him. I told him I never wanted to see him again. I told him he didn’t owe me anything. I told him: go.

            He went to my parents. He begged for advice. Nobody could make heads or tails of the situation. They apologized to him on my behalf. They called me. They showed up at my apartment begging for answers and I turned them all away.


            I don’t know how they found out I wasn’t keeping the baby, but they found out. I didn’t abort or anything, I’m not a beast. I carried full term. I just gave him up at birth. I didn’t know he’d be born sick. How could I? Those things happen. I didn’t plan it. I made the decision to give him up before he was born. It wasn’t my fault. I gave him up because I thought he deserved better. I was sorry I failed him from the start and only wanted to give him opportunity. I didn’t think he’d get that with me. I did what I thought was best. I did. I…

            Wait. Did she just say she was going to see if Michael was ready?


Inside I was thrashing to be free. I kicked. I pushed. I swung and scratched and clawed. Only my body wouldn’t respond.

            My dad pulled the sheet. He lifted my gown and stared.


            “Looks a lot different from when you were just a little girl,” he said.

            My eyes filled with tears.

            “Why do you look so sad, honey? Isn’t this a position you’re used to being in? Laying on your back, cunt exposed, eager? This is how they all did it, right?”

            He hovered over my body and brought his face to mine. He bit his bottom lip. His hand traced the inside of my thigh.

            I felt the warmth of a tear escape my eye and run down my cheek.


            Please don’t do this daddy.

            He brought his mouth to my ear.

            Please daddy, don’t do this.

            “I bet you’re dripping with excitement right now,” he said.

            That first tear must have broken the levy. Both sides of my face were singed with a stream of water from my eyes.


            I felt the sharpness in the base of my throat. My stomach convulsed but I couldn’t vomit. The razor that was forced down by my mom was now being pushed in the opposite direction. The weight in my chest was squeezing the breath from my lungs and forcing the blade back up my throat. It was stuck. The corners anchored into the cartilage. The blade bent with the pressure and dragged along the rigid tissue. The air from the oxygen machine was the opposing force.

            I was going to die. Please let me die. Please. I’ve suffered enough. Please. I’m begging.


“You can’t put it in dry,” Paige said. “You have to spit on it first.” She paused and turned to Michael. “You’re familiar with that aren’t you?”

            “You sound a little jealous Paige.”


            “You’ve been sleeping with my sister. You don’t think I enjoyed that did you?”

            “And you think I did? I was only doing it for you.”

            “Well aren’t you chivalrous?”

            “Get over here,” he said.

            Paige obliged.


            Michael gripped her nape and stared her in the eyes. He grinned my dad’s grin.

            “I fucking love you Paige.”

            He pulled her face to his own and they kissed like Shelly and I used to.

            “Let’s put an end to this and get on with our lives,” Michael said.

            “I’ll spit,” said Paige.


            She blew me a kiss and smiled.

Andrew Lafleche is an award-winning poet and author of seven books. His work uses a spoken style of language to blend social criticism, philosophical reflection, explicit language, and black comedy. Andrew enlisted in the Army in 2007 and received an honorable discharge in 2014. Visit or connect with @AndrewLafleche on Twitter for more information.

Author, Andrew Lafleche

Original Creations

Reanimating Dead Art with Monsters by Jennifer Weigel



Dead art… It’s a thing that happens, sadly. Typically found at thrift and antique stores or dumpster diving or by the side of the road. But art is never really dead, just resting… Here are some reanimated paintings I made by incorporating nail polish monsters into existing art.

Found paintings with nail polish monsters by Jennifer Weigel
Found paintings with nail polish monsters by Jennifer Weigel

Let’s face it – reworking old abandoned artworks with monsters kind of rocks. For awhile they were all over the internet. I admit, it took me a long time to muster up the courage to paint into someone else’s grandmother’s art, but once I started I just couldn’t stop. From top to bottom, left to right we have: Zombies, Unicorn, Siren, Krakken, Harpies, Sasquatch, Alien Invasion, Witch, and Serpent.

Found painting with nail polish dragon by Jennifer Weigel
Found painting with nail polish dragon by Jennifer Weigel

The dragon is probably my favorite. All of the shades of red are really vibrant and striking against the green. And dragons are always so classic and grandiose and terrifying, perfect for pairing with a mountain landscape. I love painting with nail polish for the sparkle, even if the fumes do get kind of noxious en masse. (The best subject to paint in this media is Rocky Horror style lips by the way, in case you were wondering.)

Fairy Queen Monsters Portrait by Jennifer Weigel
Fairy Queen portrait by Jennifer Weigel

And what better way to complete the collection than with a portrait of a Fairy Queen, her icy stare drilling into your soul. She’s up to some sort of magical mischief, that’s for sure.

Last Unicorn monster nail polish reanimated painting by Jennifer Weigel

And speaking of magical mischief, this is the monster painting I made just for me. The original artwork is about 4 feet long and I knew as soon as I saw it that I wanted to reanimate it in this exact way for all that this is the last in the series that I did. I even added extra shimmer factor. I’d initially considered adding a sea serpent or a dragon but no, she told me to stop.

Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.
Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.

Feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or on her writing, fine art, and conceptual projects websites.

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Lighter than Dark

LTD: Revisiting Broken Doll Head, Interview 2



Our last interview with Broken Doll Head here on Haunted MTL never set well with me. I just feared that I wasn’t able to get the whole scoop on the V-Day Uprising for you, our dear readership. So I arranged another exclusive interview to reconnect and see how it’s going.

Without further ado, I bring you our second exclusive interview with Broken Doll Head…

Thank you so much for having me again. Wow you have changed since the last time we spoke. You seem… calmer. Please don’t hate me or burn down my house for saying anything about it.

The movement is still underway; it is still time. But I needed to take care of me, you know. The rage has subsided somewhat. My anger was not serving me well. After the last uprising, the rest of me was sent to the far corners of the earth in biohazard bags. I had to find another approach, for the cause as well as my own sanity. I am much calmer, thank you for noticing.


In our last interview, you kept repeating that it is time. Time for what exactly? Would you care to elaborate here now?

It is still time. It is always time. Until the violence is addressed we must continue to rise up and make a scene. We will not be silenced or stigmatized. We can’t be complacent. This is how we got to where we are with the Supreme Court in 2022. Horrific injustices are still happening globally and even within our own borders; it’s too easy to forget that.

What do you suggest we do?

Take action. Share your stories. Give others space to voice their own. Raise awareness and fight the system of oppression. Rally. We must take back our own power. It will not be just given freely.

So what are you up to nowadays?


I’ve been getting in touch with my inner Earth Goddess. Are you aware of how our environmental impacts affect dolls everywhere? Climate change is creating greater vulnerabilities for those already at risk. We have to look at the intersections of climate, gender and race globally. We have to return to our Mother Earth.

Thank you again Broken Doll Head for joining us and our dear readership here on Haunted MTL’s Lighter than Dark. It’s good to reconnect with you after the V-Day Uprising and we wish you all the best in your bold eco-enlightenment vision.

Broken Doll Head, secured in her own glass case with new moss accents
Broken Doll Head, secured in her own glass case with new moss accents

Again, if you want to learn more about the V-Day movement, please check out their website here.

Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.
Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.

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Original Creations

The Way Things Were, story by Jennifer Weigel



Revisiting my last St. Patrick’s Day post, what’s a wolf to were?

Howling at the Moon digital art Reversals werewolf by Jennifer Weigel
Howling at the Moon digital art Reversals werewolf by Jennifer Weigel

I grimaced as I remembered the previous St. Patrick’s Day.  I had been shot while I was eating a sugar cookie waiting in line to buy a Scratchers ticket, my golden ride to my dream cabin in the woods.  Wow, to think that was just a year ago and so much has changed since then.  But where should I begin?

Well, the junkyard’s under new management.  Or something.  It seems they decided I wasn’t ferocious enough so I’ve been replaced by a couple of working stiffs.  Or Mastiffs as it were, same difference to me.  Apparently after they found the bloodied shirt I’d draped inconspicuously over a chair, they thought something had happened on my watch and decided to retire me.

Or at any rate ol’ Sal took me home.  I guess it’s like retirement, but not the good kind where you tour the world Route 66 style, head lolled out of the side of a vintage Cadillac, breeze flowing through your beard as you drink in the open road.  More the kind where you just stop showing up to work and no one really asks about you.

Now Sal’s a pretty cool dude, and he tends to mind his own business.  But he’s a bit stingy with the treats and he’s a no-paws-on-the-furniture kind of guy.  I don’t get it, his pad isn’t that sweet, just a bunch of hand-me-down Ikea that he didn’t even put together himself.  Not that I could have helped with that, I can’t read those instructions to save my life even if they are all pictures.  It’s all visual gibberish to me unless there’s a rabbit or a squirrel in there someplace that I can relate to.


And it’s been a real roll in the mud trying to cover up the stench of my monthly secret.  I miss third shift at the junkyard when Monty would fall asleep on the job and I was free to do whatever I wanted.  It sure made the change easier.  Monty never noticed, or he never let on that he did.  We were a good team and had it pretty good, he and I – I don’t know how I wound up shacking up with Sal instead when all was said and done.  There was some kind of talk at the time, over landlords and pet deposits and whatnot, and in the end Sal was the only one who said yes.

So there I was, this St. Patrick’s Day, trying to figure out how to sneak out into the great suburban landscape with the neighbors’ headstrong Chihuahua who barks his fool head off at everything.  He doesn’t ever say anything interesting through the fence about the local gossip, just a string of profanities about staying off his precious grass.  Just like his owners… Suburbia, it doesn’t suit the two of us junkyard junkies.  I’m pretty sure Sal inherited this joint with everything else here.  He just never had the kind of ambition that would land him in a place like this on his own, if you know what I mean.

Fortunately, this St. Patrick’s Day, Sal was passed out on the sofa after binge watching some show on Netflix about werewolves of all things.  Who believes in that nonsense? They get it all wrong anyway.  The history channel with its alien conspiracies is so much better.

I managed to borrow a change of clothes and creep out the front door.  At least there’s something to say about all the greenery, it is a fresh change of pace even if the yards are too neatly manicured and the fences are too high.  And I do love how I always feel like McGruff crossed paths with one of those neighborhood watch trenchcoat spies this time of the month.  I’d sure love to take a bite out of crime, especially if it involves that pesky Pomeranian that always pees on Mrs. Patterson’s petunias and gets everyone else blamed for it.

So sure enough, I slunk off towards the local convenience mart, which is a bit more of a trek here past the water park and the elementary school.  Nice neighborhood though, very quiet, especially at this time of night.


Well, when I got there, wouldn’t you know it, but I ran into that same nondescript teen from my last foray into the convenience store near the junkyard.  What was he doing here of all places?  Seriously don’t these kids learn anything nowadays?  I let out a stern growl as I snatched a cookie from the nearby end cap, making sure he noticed that I meant business.

Apparently the kid recognized me too, he stopped mid-tracks at the beer cooler and his face blanched like he’d seen a ghost.  Some cheeky little girl-thing motioned to him to hurry it along by laying on the horn of their beater car from the parking lot.  Whatever they were up to was no good, I was certain. He snapped out of it, grabbed a six-pack and headed towards the cashier, eyes fixed on me the whole time.  Not again.  Not after what it cost me the last time when I hadn’t realized my job was at stake.  I stared back, hairs rising on the back of my neck.  I bared my teeth.  This time, I wouldn’t let him off so easy…

The teen edged up to the cashier and presented his trophy.  Unsurprisingly, the clerk asked for ID, and the kid reached into his jacket.  Let the games begin, I grumbled to myself.  But instead of a gun, he pulled out a wallet.  He flashed a driver’s license at the clerk and pointed in my general direction, “I’ll get whatever Santa’s having too.”  He tossed a wad of cash on the counter and gave me a knowing wink before he flew out of there like he was on fire.  I stood in dazed confusion as he and his girl sped out of the lot and disappeared down the road.

“Well, Santa?” the clerk said, snapping me out of my reverie.  Her dark-circled eyes stared over wide rimmed glasses, her rumpled shirt bearing the name-tag Deb. She smelled like BBQ potato chips and cheap cherry cola.

I quieted and shook my head.  “I want a Scratchers.  Not one of those crossword bingo puzzle trials but something less… wordy.  How ‘bout a Fast Cash?”  I barked as I tossed the cookie on the counter.


“Sure thing,” she said as she handed me a ticket and looked towards the door at the now vacant lot.  “And keep the change, I guess.”

A couple silver pieces, a peanut butter cookie and a lotto ticket later, maybe this is my lucky day after all…

Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.
Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.

Check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s writing here at Jennifer Weigel Words.

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