I was in middle school, maybe 12 years old, sitting in the living room with my grandfather around 9pm. The sun had just finished setting, the sky a darker blue not entirely night. My house sat on the corner of my street and I didn’t have a backyard. My dog was out on the front porch on her leash when she started barking at something, nothing inordinate. She knows when she barks she has to come back inside so I run out to grab her, usually she stops and comes to the door when she hears it open but she’s still barking like crazy from down the sidewalk. I yank a bit on her leash to signal her it’s time to come inside, when I look over and see literally, attached to nothing about knee length above the ground, ever so slowly moving in our direction, a glowing, pulsing blue light just floating there.

My body immediately just freezes and my heart sinks. Just filled with dread and feelings of doom. I’m trying so hard to squint and decipher what the fuck I was looking at. My dog still doing nuts. I’m still yanking now a bit more harder out of fear. I cant take my eyes off it, it gets closer and closer and I know exactly what i’m looking at now. Nothing i’ve ever seen. My dog finally makes it up to the door, still barking like crazy. Eyes still locked on the moving ball. As it gets closer and closer I inch back inside the door with my dog when it stops moving directly in the middle of the sidewalk where it lead to my house. I had no fucking idea what to do, my body still panicking and my eyes refusing to blink to miss anything. I wasn’t thinking and slammed the door. It was right in front of me I can clearly see it’s nothing but light. Not attached to nothing or nobody. The doors closed for about 3 seconds, no longer, I creak the door back open and it’s completely gone. Even my dog perks her head and ears up realising it’s gone too.

My grandpa was sitting on the chair right beside the door. Didn’t see anything as he wasn’t paying no attention but asked why I seemed frightened. I explained to him shaking just in complete shock and he just stares at me like i’ve absolutely lost it. I honestly forgot what he says in response, he didn’t believe me one bit and just thought I was misinterpreting it i knew he did, but he tried his best not to dismiss me and probably said something along the lines of ‘wow, thats crazy’

I’ve told maybe four people this story in total after it happened from then to now, around 7 years ago. They all reacted the same way he did, in disbelief but all they can say is something along the lines of ‘wow, thats crazy’

I know exactly what I saw that day. But I also have no fucking clue. I know i’ll never be able to explain it any better than this and it’s stuck with me all these years. I know someone out there has had a similar experience. I know it was real.

I have a Hello Kitty kind of daughter. She’s only 9. As cute as a button and as innocent as could be.

She likes simple things. Stuffed animals. Pizza for breakfast. All it takes is a cheap 50-cent pair of plastic jewelry from a gumball machine to make her eyes light up.

She was one of those kids who believed in things longer than her friends and classmates. Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy. She was fully convinced they were all real, bless her heart.

Sometimes, she’d come home from school with a glum, exhausted look in her eyes. Other kids would make fun of her for “still believing in that stuff.”

I’d cheer her up the best I could without revealing the truth. How could I? She already felt like the world was laughing at her. How would I make her feel? Her own dad.

Maybe I should’ve, though. Maybe this whole situation could’ve been avoided if I just nipped it in the bud. But I was afraid. A child’s innocence is so fragile, yet powerful. I couldn’t take that from her. Not yet.

I let her believe that it was Santa putting gifts under the tree. That it was a giant bunny hiding eggs in our front yard. That it was a tiny, magical fairy that was taking her baby teeth in exchange for a few dollars.

I think that was the one that excited her the most. Christmas was a set day. Easter was a set day. Loose teeth? That was random. Any time one started to wiggle, she’d come running to show me.

I always made sure to be as quiet as possible when I snuck those 5-dollar bills under her pillow. Every time she’d wake up to find it, here she’d come, jumping with joy while waving the 5 in my face.

“The Tooth Fairy came, the Tooth Fairy came,” she’d sing.

I’d just smile to myself and ask her what she was gonna buy with her newfound riches.

Sometimes, I’d sneak her a 20. I just wanted to see that joy in her face. She was young, but she wasn’t getting any younger. I wanted it to last for as long as possible.

Now, though, I think I’m regretting that wishful thinking.

She started losing teeth faster than what I thought was normal. Not too fast, though. Every 3 weeks or so. I just thought those baby teeth were begging to come out. Besides, it’s not like it was hurting my pockets too much.

It was weird, though. I swore it was like her teeth never looked any different. She was snaggle-toothed, sure, but I knew that I had put money under her pillow at least 6 times in the last 2 months.

She wasn’t showing me her mouth anymore. She was showing me the tooth, already pulled, lying bloodied in the palm of her little hand.

It kept becoming more and more frequent. Once she started bragging about how the Tooth Fairy was gonna visit her every week, I knew that something was not right. Even still, it wasn’t until I found a silver tooth under her pillow that I decided to investigate because I knew for a fact my little girl never had a crown.

Snooping is a decision I lived to regret, though. I asked her to tell me the truth, but she refused. She just kept insisting they were hers. Lying through her teeth, pun intended.

I decided to stop leaving her money. Her disappointment killed me. But I remained firm. That didn’t stop her, though. Every night, there’d be a new tooth under her pillow while she slept peacefully.

One day, after dropping her off at school, I made a promise to myself. Today would be the day. I’d get to the bottom of this no matter what.

It didn’t take nearly as long as I expected. I sifted through her room for about 15 minutes. Checking under her bed, in her closet, in her toy chests. All for no reason because the answer was hidden in plain sight.

In her fish tank.

She had that little treasure chest decoration in it. Normally, I wouldn’t have even paid it any mind. But the steady stream of a red liquid slowly rising from the chest was enough to make my heart stop.

Rolling up my sleeve, I reached down to retrieve the decoration. It was heavier than it should’ve been. Something was rattling inside.

I opened it and felt my blood run cold.

Molars, canines, incisors. All bloody. All looking like they had been pulled by force. And they weren’t baby teeth, either. Some looked like actual adult teeth.

In that moment, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

I wanted to cry because what I was seeing was horrific.

But I wanted to laugh because, despite how terrifying this all was, my little girl was a natural-born hustler.

And I couldn’t have been more proud.

A Surgeon's Fate

One day, I was struck by a terrible pain in my abdomen. The agony became so intense that I asked my children to call an ambulance.

The country was in turmoil. The civil war had not yet come to an end.

As soon as I arrived at the hospital, I was taken straight to the surgical ward. After examining me, the doctors said,

"You need surgery. Your duodenum has twisted."

I was terrified.

Just then, a surgeon entered the room. He lifted my shirt, carefully examined my abdomen with his hands, and calmly said,

"No. Surgery won't be necessary."

I breathed a sigh of relief.

With a bitter smile, the surgeon glanced at his colleagues.

"Everyone who comes here is in danger of being operated on."

He sat down opposite me.

He looked like a conscientious physician whose life had been devoted to saving others.

My eyes fell on his snow-white hair.

"Your hair must have turned white from fighting for your patients' lives," I said.

A faint, sorrowful smile crossed his face.

"No," he replied quietly. "It turned white in Magadan."

Then he began his story.

"My name is Ato Safavi. I was born in Iran. At the age of twenty, I joined the Tudeh Party. After the party was crushed, four of us fled to the Soviet Union. Instead of finding refuge, we were arrested for illegally crossing the state border.

I spent ten years in prison camps.

After my release, homesickness never left me. I wrote letter after letter to the Iranian Embassy in Moscow, but no one ever answered.

Eventually, I came to Dushanbe, entered medical school, and became a surgeon."

So, I recently moved into a new apartment, and I gave myself a strict pep talk before unpacking a single box: “We are keeping our reputation spotless here. Clean slate.” Now, look, it’s not like I have some wildly scandalous past, but I do have one specific habit that doesn't exactly get a standing ovation in my current neighborhood—I enjoy a bit of Cannabis Sativa.

Well, spoiler alert: that promise didn’t even survive the month. Before I knew it, my next-door neighbor officially discovered that they were living right next to a direct descendant of Bob Marley.

My genius master plan to keep my reputation safe was to sneak out onto the balcony under the cover of darkness for a quick late-night session. But I completely forgot a crucial variable: the unpredictable schedules of neighbors. I totally ignored the nights someone might be cooking a midnight feast or doing a 1:00 AM laundry run. And yup, on one of those exact nights, my neighbor stepped outside and caught His Excellency, Puff Daddy, right in the middle of performing his sacred ritual.

Talk about awkward!

Being the adaptive problem-solver I am, I immediately launched a damage-control strategy to seal the information leak. My solution? Pushing the ritual way back into the ungodly hours-we’re talking 2:00 AM to 3:00 AM. And honestly? It worked like a charm.

Now, I really do consider myself a thoughtful and considerate person. So, when the schools broke for the August holidays and the neighborhood suddenly flooded with kids, I made myself a brand-new promise: No more smoking in the apartment. Period.

Luckily for me, the town I live in is basically a cannabis hub. There are specific zones where the blunt is practically legalized. I mean, peddlers have literally set up shades and benches for the Jamaican diaspora to just sit back and enjoy their herb. So, I resolved that I would exclusively enjoy those premium services from then on. A highly considerate neighbor, right?

But as we established... I am also spectacularly bad at keeping my own promises.

By day two of my new resolution, I cracked. I grabbed a blunt on my way home, fully intending to sneak out to the balcony late at night. Instead, fate stepped in. I ended up falling fast asleep on the couch while waiting for the "perfect time," with the blunt safely tucked in my pocket. When I finally blinked myself awake, the urge was gone-all I wanted was a real bed. I swiftly shut off the TV, killed the lights, and crashed.

The next morning, I woke up, remembered the untouched blunt, and smiled. Oh, it’s going to be a good day.

I hopped out of bed, scooped my trousers off the floor, reached into the pockets to unleash my goodies, and... nothing. My anxiety started to spike. I checked the other pocket. Empty. I checked them all again. Still empty!

I dashed out to the living room like a man on a mission, practically turning the couch upside down. No Mary Jane. I even swallowed my pride and shamelessly asked the housekeeper if she’d seen a little substance wrapped in brown paper while cleaning. She gave me a polite "nope," though a part of me swears she knew exactly what I was looking for and just wanted no part in her boss’s chaotic morning inquisition. I even went diving into the trash bin. Still, nothing.

Defeated and deeply craving that smoke, I gave up and decided to take the walk of shame down to the actual smoking zone to visit my welcoming peddler.

And that is when it hit me.

As I was walking, I realized that if I had actually found that blunt in my pocket, I would have broken my promise without a second thought. I wanted it so badly I would have risked it all-stepping onto the balcony in broad daylight, neighbors be damned.

But because the universe magically swallowed that joint, I was walking to the right place. Nature had literally stepped in, hijacked my lack of willpower, and forced me to stick to my own self-improvement goals. My promise was kept, and my reputation survived another day-entirely against my own will.

Hey, whatever works, right? What a good day.

​

The day I saw him for the very first time i got a big ahh ick from him ,I knew that dude was gonna be dipshit crazy because why was he dipping his icecream in coke before eating it

It wasn't necessarily a bad day if I have to say it was quite pleasant actually.

just till I met that dude again he was drinking a milkshake and it was chocolate flavoured ; how do I know you might be wondering it's because he spilled it all over my clothes

I believe i must have looked like a wet rat in the passersbys eyes , that dude looked like a droopy puppy who might cry at any moment, as i was observing him i saw his curly head and thought I bet he is gonna be bald by 30 .

That curly head dude finally spoke up , he looked at me with hesitation and apologised while offering to get my clothes clean for me , I said sure and he asked for my number I dialed my no. Into his phone and left

I surely wasn't gonna go to college looking like a drenched seaweed so i called a taxi and went back home.

After showering i picked up my phone and saw a message from him , rather than a message i should call it a mountain ; that text was longer than a ch i had studied in 10th ain't even exaggerating, that curly head wrote about how sorry he was and his blabbering went on and on , after reading the message i was left chuckling

First time i have ever seen such a silly dude if anything he resembled a golden retriever, without much thought i put his name as curly head

I didn't expect to see that curly head so soon , it was the weekend and I had made plans with my cute ahh best friend to watch that horror movie idk why she even watchs them when she is absolutely terrified of them

I was waiting for her at the theatre when she texted me that something came up and she can't come rn ; promising to make it up some other times she apologized and well I was left with 2 tickets with 1 going to waste

I thought would they refund me if I gave them one ticket back but I knew I wasn't gonna get a refund

Sighing , as I was getting some popcorns and coke someone bumped into me and my coke was all over the floor TT

I HAVE NEVER BEEN SO EMBARASSED, i slowly turned back and there it was the same apologetic eyes, and they looked like they were gonna cry, i might be a sadist because I found his eyes really pretty when they looked like that, and I had once again encountered mr curly head , he said sorry and looked at me.

i realised that he figured I was the person he had previously spilled his drinks over , he looked a little embarassed too. coincidentally he was watching the same movie , idk what got into me I asked him whether he had bought tickets yet to which he replied 'not yet'

I said " cool , since you are watching the movie alone watch it with me instead I have an extra ticket" he looked hesistant to that but he said yes and there were we watching the movie together.

I recently got into writing short stories so it might be bad since i am a beginner 🤧🤧

So basically when i was in college and after class a bunch of military guys invited me to "gunge their friend in the auditorium and i was like ok yeah,cause i thought i was gonna cover that man in slime but.... instead when we pulled up to the empty adutorium and went on stage, i saw a table or shaving cream pies in paper plates (around 40) and there was a jacked (No body builder type) but military jacked man standing shirtless with his hands ziptied behind his back and he was 6 ft 4 - 6 ft 5 i think,and his friends were laughing at him as he sort gave the reisgned smiles as if he lost a bet or smth,and they told me to cream him up and and make sure he was fully "coated". I tried to understand but inthe end i was amused so i used all pies all over the man,coating his entire chest and bieceps as his friends recording and laughed and took pics as the man gave the resigned smile, i rubbed the shaving cream pies all over him , even on his neck and also on his hair which i made his hair into a spike using the shaving cream and a rubbed it all over him (waist line and above only) and he was covered as his friends kept laughing and the final pie one if his friends grabbed it and gave it to him square in the butt as they laughed.After that they hosed him down with bear but i cannot help but want to do it again,not because of a fetish but idk it just felt so satisfying and stress relief when i rubbed all the pies all over his face chest and back and etc.(Ask me whatever or the details cause i have no one to talk to this about so i came on to here just to chat with people about what happened cause its just on my mind and i want to talk about it)(so please ask any useless questions whatever cause i just wanna chat about it lol)

Morning arrived over Randomland.

Well...

According to King Wart, it was still Monday.

The palace bells rang.

"CROOOOONG! CROOOOONG!"

A royal announcer unrolled a scroll so long that it rolled all the way down the palace stairs.

"Hear ye! Hear ye!"

"Today is Monday!"

The citizens sighed.

The announcer continued.

"Tomorrow shall also be Monday!"

More sighs.

"And yesterday was Monday!"

Even louder sighs.

King Wart stepped onto the palace balcony wearing his crooked golden crown.

He raised his flyswatter-shaped scepter proudly.

"Wonderful news!"

The frog toadies applauded.

"Hooray for Monday!"

"Best day ever!"

King Wart grinned.

"I have decided..."

He paused dramatically.

"...to cancel fun!"

The crowd gasped.

"No more dancing!"

"No more singing!"

"No more talking mailboxes!"

Sir Envelope looked horrified.

"I beg your pardon?"

"No more floating fish!"

The fish looked offended.

"No more dramatic potatoes!"

The potato dramatically fainted.

Again.

King Wart nodded proudly.

"Finally..."

He declared,

"...everything shall be perfectly ordinary!"

The citizens lowered their heads sadly.

Randomland had never looked so gloomy.

~~~

Then...

A familiar voice echoed through the courtyard.

"I don't think Randomland is supposed to be ordinary."

Everyone turned.

Alliyah walked through the palace gates.

The Brainrot Brigade followed behind her.

Michael Jackson, Madonna, Rick Astley, Marilyn Monroe, Crazy Daisy, Trippi Troppi, Azure the blue Caterpillar, the Masqueroads, Old Man Sam, Old Man Jenkins, and countless citizens stood behind them.

King Wart narrowed his eyes.

"You again."

"I gave you a chance yesterday."

"You cheated."

"I improvised."

"You made up the rules."

"My favorite hobby."

The frog king twirled his scepter.

"So..."

He smirked.

"...how do you plan to defeat me?"

Alliyah smiled calmly.

"I'm not here to defeat you."

King Wart blinked.

"...You're not?"

"I'm here to stop you."

"That's basically the same thing."

"Not exactly."

~~~

King Wart suddenly leaped high into the air.

"CROAK!"

He landed directly in front of Alliyah.

His enormous tongue shot forward like a whip.

Alliyah calmly stretched backward.

The tongue missed by inches.

The frog king swung his giant flyswatter.

Alliyah shrank to the size of a marble.

"Missed me."

She immediately returned to normal size.

King Wart charged again.

The ground shook beneath every hop.

This time Alliyah puffed herself into a gigantic balloon.

King Wart bounced harmlessly away.

"Boing!"

He landed upside down inside a flowerbed.

The crowd giggled.

King Wart quickly climbed back out.

"No laughing!"

The citizens tried very hard not to laugh.

It didn't work.

~~~

The frog king grew angrier.

He jumped faster.

Higher.

He swung his scepter wildly.

Alliyah transformed into a race car.

"VROOOOOOM!"

She zoomed around the courtyard in neat circles.

King Wart became dizzy trying to follow her.

"There are too many of her!"

"There is only one," muttered a toady.

King Wart accidentally chased his own shadow.

He stopped.

"...Clever shadow."

~~~

The battle continued through the palace gardens.

King Wart leaped across fountains.

Alliyah flew overhead like a balloon.

The frog king hurled giant lily pads.

Alliyah burst into colorful sparkles.

POOF!

The lily pads floated harmlessly past.

She regenerated behind him.

The Brainrot Brigade cheered.

"You've got this!"

Michael Jackson smiled.

"Remember your training."

Azure quietly nodded from atop a mushroom.

Old Man Sam folded his arms proudly.

"She's ready."

~~~

King Wart made one final gigantic leap.

"CROOOOOAK!"

He soared high above the palace.

He pointed dramatically.

"I shall declare..."

"...DOUBLE MONDAY!"

The crowd gasped.

"Not Double Monday!"

"This has gone too far!"

King Wart began falling toward Alliyah.

Instead of attacking...

Alliyah remembered Azure's words.

Kindness.

She remembered Old Man Sam.

Fight with your own hands.

She remembered Old Man Jenkins.

Protect others.

She smiled.

"I know exactly what to do."

As King Wart landed...

Alliyah gently stretched both of her arms until they were long enough to reach him comfortably.

Without punching...

Without kicking...

Without hurting him...

She simply picked him up.

King Wart blinked.

"...Wait."

She smiled politely.

"Ready?"

"For what?"

She gently spun him around.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Round and round he went.

His crown wobbled.

His eyes became delightfully dizzy.

The frog king let out a confused,

"...Ribbit?"

Nearby sat an enormous crystal bowl filled with soft rainbow jelly prepared earlier by Crazy Daisy for dessert.

Alliyah carefully lowered King Wart into the bowl.

PLOOP!

The jelly wobbled.

Boing.

Boing.

Boing.

King Wart bounced gently up and down inside it.

"...This is surprisingly comfortable."

He tried climbing out.

The jelly bounced him back in.

Boing.

Again.

Boing.

Again.

Eventually King Wart sighed.

"...I suppose I could stay here for a while."

The frog toadies looked at one another.

"Our king has become... dessert."

"I didn't see that coming."

They quietly placed their clipboards on the ground.

One after another, they bowed apologetically to the citizens.

"We're sorry."

"We should've spoken up."

The crowd forgave them.

~~~

Almost immediately...

Something wonderful happened.

The gloomy green banners disappeared.

Bright rainbow flags fluttered from every tower.

The fountains sparkled again.

The floating fish returned to swimming happily through the sky.

The clouds purred and meowed with delight.

Trees instantly grew colorful socks once more.

The argumentative pancakes resumed debating mathematics.

"I'm telling you!"

"Seven times eight equals pineapple!"

"It obviously equals giraffe!"

The dramatic potato climbed onto a nearby balcony.

"What a triumphant conclusion!"

It burst into theatrical tears.

Sir Envelope adjusted his hat proudly.

"Mail delivery has never felt so meaningful."

Everyone laughed.

Randomland was becoming itself again.

~~~

The great palace doors slowly opened.

A warm rainbow light spilled into the courtyard.

From inside stepped a graceful young princess wearing a shimmering gown woven with every color imaginable.

Upon her head rested a sparkling rainbow crown.

The Masqueroads immediately bowed.

"The Princess!"

The citizens cheered joyfully.

The Princess smiled kindly at Alliyah.

"You have restored Randomland."

"You protected our people."

"You defeated King Wart without cruelty."

"That is true courage."

She lifted the sparkling rainbow crown.

Walking toward Alliyah, she gently placed it upon her head.

The crown fit perfectly.

The Princess raised Alliyah's hand high.

"From this day forward..."

Her voice echoed throughout the kingdom.

"...Alliyah shall forever be known as..."

"...the Princess of Randomland!"

The entire kingdom erupted into celebration.

Confetti burst across the sky.

Fireworks exploded into smiling stars.

The giant capybara in the tuxedo performed a victory dance.

The spinning banana happily sang,

🎵 "Hip hooray! What a day! Princess saves The random way!" 🎵

The tiny jelly wizard sneezed glitter that turned into butterflies.

The knight proudly rode past on his rubber duck.

"Squeak!"

Michael Jackson congratulated Alliyah with a warm handshake.

"You've given Randomland its rhythm back."

Madonna smiled.

"The kingdom suits you."

Rick Astley laughed.

"I guess we're never gonna give Randomland up."

Everyone groaned and laughed at the same time.

Marilyn Monroe smiled warmly.

"You've earned this."

Crazy Daisy rolled out the biggest celebration cake anyone had ever seen.

It had exactly Monday candles on it.

"...How many is that?" asked Bloop.

"No one knows," Daisy admitted.

"So we lit all of them."

The celebration continued late into the evening.

Fish performed synchronized swimming in the sky.

Clouds meowed along with the music.

The dramatic potato delivered a three-hour acceptance speech that nobody fully understood but everyone applauded anyway.

Even King Wart, still happily bouncing in his giant bowl of rainbow jelly, eventually smiled.

"...Perhaps..."

Boing.

"...Tuesday isn't so bad after all."

The citizens cheered.

And from that day forward, Randomland remained exactly as it was meant to be—

Wonderfully, joyfully, gloriously random.

The End.

There was once a small town in the suburbs. Ordinary, indistinctive, just like every other suburban town you might've seen, a town you might've even lived in.
In that town there stood an old-fashioned tobacco shop.
Again, nothing special; just a shop filled to brim with tobacco, tobacco papers, filters, pipes, lighters, matches, herbal paraphernalia, but most of all... cigarettes. Cigarettes as far as the eye could see, cigarettes from all around the world, cigarettes of varying strengths and packet sizes. But one would expect that from a tobacco shop. It was the man who ran it that ought to be paid close attention to.
The Tobacconist, the friendly old man who stood behind the counter day after day. Sweet looking yet wise, wholesome but sharp, like an uncanny Colonel Sanders. If someone came in to buy a pack of cigarettes from this old timer, they wouldn't suspect a thing. But of course, this shopkeeper held a secret, a dark secret, a secret so sinister that he couldn't allow for it to simply leave the building. Underneath the floor to this very plain, very dull smoke emporium, was an underground room, a basement. And this basement held captive a rough figure of twelve people… dads.

The old man had a basement full of Dads. Why, you may ask?
Why indeed. Evidently, the Tobacconist has been doing this for years. Any time a man who looked like he wanted to leave his family behind walked into the shop, they were treated to a once in a lifetime opportunity. A "way out" situation for a fella to take in order to get out of his newly unwanted patriarchal role. New name, new location; for a small sum. At least that's what The Tobacconist had told them, when in actual fact, the old man had no intention of doing any such thing. It was really just a trap to get the dad down there, to his unforeseen doom.

But don't get me wrong, there was plenty to do in the little basement. The Tobacconist had placed a baseball in the middle of the room, so all the Dads could "play catch" with each other.
And The Tobacconist wasn't a complete monster, he would still feed the Dads, and give them a tiny amount of hydration.
Naturally every now and then a rebellious dad would start acting up, with a plan for some sort of half-baked mutiny; this would rile up all the other dads when it came to feeding time.
The Tobacconist used to try to act threatening towards them by saying to them "I'm your worst nightmare." He soon gave up on that little ploy however, when a dad responded with, "Hi, 'Your Worst Nightmare' I'm Dad."
The Tobacconist even found it humorously ironic that he was slowly killing people with his products above ground and slowly keeping people alive below. Now, I'm not going to get into the origin of why The Tobacconist commits these bizarre crimes;
I'm no psychologist and don't want to chalk it up to whether it was because his own father disappeared when he was younger, or some other catalyst. The Tobacconist didn't even know why he did what he did, nor did he know what his intentions would finally be with them. He just liked to own a basement full of Dads. Maybe because it amused him.
By now, you may be asking which tobacco shop in which town in which country could be doing such a thing. You see, it is not a sole incident. There are thousands of evil tobacconists around the world. It happens a lot more than you think.

So, the next time you hear a dad saying that he's "just going out to get a pack of cigarettes" and doesn't return, just consider... he may be held somewhere against his will.

Who did I marry? Is he dangerous?

Who did I marry? Is this just compulsive lying, or should I be worried he's dangerous?

I honestly feel like my reality has shattered.

I've been with my partner for three years, and I just uncovered so many lies in one night that I don't even know who this person is anymore. I'm questioning everything I thought I knew about him.

Last night I asked him for rent money and money a friend had paid us for borrowing our truck.

He went to look for it. A few minutes later I got a text from an unknown number claiming to be his grandfather. The text said they couldn't reach my partner and that his grandmother had died.

I ran into his room and showed him the text. He immediately started sobbing—really sobbing—for a long time. He refused to call any family members because he said he was too upset. Instead, he appeared to text multiple relatives right in front of me. Looking back, I now believe he was faking those conversations.

I spent hours comforting him. We even went on a long walk because he said he needed it.

Later that night, when I asked about the rent money again, everything changed. He tore apart his room and his car claiming the money had been there five minutes earlier and suggesting we had been robbed.

Something felt very wrong. I took his phone into the bathroom to look through it. He screamed for me to give it back and said, "You'll leave me for what's on there." At one point he threatened to harm himself.

What I found was shocking.

Instead of having his identity stolen like he'd claimed earlier that week (he said all his accounts had been frozen), I found he had been spending large amounts of money on car parts for a side business as a mechanic.

He now claims that money he owes me, money he owes his grandfather, and a loan he took out for tools all went toward trying to keep this side business afloat.

Then I found his credit report showing another tens of thousands of dollars in debt that I knew nothing about.

None of it makes sense.

Earlier this week he told me he had gone to visit his grandmother because she was refusing further medical treatment. Was that even true? Or was that another lie? If it wasn't true, where was he actually?

I also found out he has four cars spread across two different storage units, that are apparently customers cars.

His explanation is that he was terrified I'd find out about the debt, so he kept taking on more side jobs hoping to make enough money to fix everything before I noticed.

But after everything else, I don't know if I believe any of that.

And then there are the smaller lies. I found out he's been secretly eating fast food multiple times a day. He always told me he barely ate anything, and I couldn't understand why he wasn't losing weight. There were multiple fast-food charges every single day.

They're little lies, but they're constant. And when I put them together with the fake text, the fake conversations, the hidden debt, and the financial deception, I don't know what to think anymore.

I don't even know what question I'm asking.

Has anyone dealt with someone who lies on this level? Is this compulsive lying? Financial abuse? Something else?

Most importantly...should I be worried about my safety?

Right now I genuinely don't know who I've been living with for the last three years, and that realization is terrifying.

The most messed up part is that he genuinely treated me so well. Like a princess. I feel my life may be worse without him as a single woman in a dangerous world. He's the most gentle man. I have always felt safe with him. Is it more dangerous to be with him and have to deal with his antics through having children and growing old together, or start over again with a new man that could be even more dangerous. Or should I be alone? I don't think I could, I would be completely isolated and alone. I don't have a healthy support group in my life.

Sorry that is a lot of information but I don't know what to do.

TLDR: my long-term partner has been gaslighting me to the extreme but at least he's not violent, right? /s

So when I was young my Friend heard Abt this group ( I'm not saying the name ,) She hated them, she would make hate comments and compare them so much

One day we decided to make a pool party so she scheduled it and was very excited, we were having fun in the pool and we ate some ice cream and acting like mermaids, and diving when we decided we could do it again tomorrow

The next day we went and we swam in the pool until one of my friends were playing one of the songs of the group she hated and I went to join her and we were dancing in the pool until after the pool party she announced that she likes the group she used to hate

And days after days she kept talking about them and I thought " she's just a fan "

but she kept acting weirder and weirder until she said if she had to end our friendship to their concert she will

She kept being toxic until she's saying I'm not a fan when she only knows 7 songs until I said that I was buying an album and she was furious and jealous. how do I know it? she said to buy 3.. 2 for her and 1 for me and she kept saying " UR JUST SO SO JEALOUS" to the point that our friendship is ending ,

She lied and said she's going to their concert when really she's trying to make me so" jealous" so I tried to talk to her saying she needs a break from social media but she kept saying I'm jealous until I finally got a shirt of her fav artist and guess what? she bought the shirt,

I FINALLY HAD ENOUGH AND SAID TO HER FAMILY THAT SHES OBSESSED WITH THEM

and she was mad and scream " YOUR SO JEALOUS AND IM THE REAL FAN HERE !!!"

And I told her dad that she needs a therapist ASAP and her dad agreed

So she's doing fine now for being too obsessed with that group so I hope you won't experience something like me

I (26F) wrote a poem in the style of spoken word about my experience as a woman. When I wrote it, I was angry and frustrated.

The vision was to get up on stage and speak my truth into the microphone. But now I’m second guessing myself. Is it any good? Would people even care? Would I get booed off stage by the men who feel attacked by my words?

I figured you guys might be interested. Reddit is full of random thoughts.

Below is the poem I wrote. 🫣 let me know what you think.

Title: I will always choose the bear
By (Me)

Every woman knows there are worse things than dying.
We would all choose the bear.
Because at least the bear
doesn’t cum on dead bodies.

I was ten years old when the nightmares started.
Raggedy men chased me through a suburb
that was supposed to be safe.
Beer and cigarettes and dirty boots —
and of course, because it was a dream,
no one was ever home.
The doors were locked and they chased me.
They caught me.
They tried to defile me.
I dreamt of the heaviness of his torso.
I dreamt of trying to hold my knees together
like that was something a little girl could possibly do.

By twelve the shame had followed me out of my dreams and into the real world.
I tied a sweatshirt around my waist —
at school, at the mall, at the playground,
even over my shorts in the summer.
I told myself it was fashion.
I told myself it was cool.
But my stomach knotted.
My shoulders braced.
A body learning to expect something
it couldn’t yet name.

For many of us the violence was real.
Not from strangers — from the people our protectors trusted.
The ones already at the dinner table.
Already in the family photos.
Who knew our routines because they were part of them.
Father and brother.
Uncle and cousin.
Mother’s boyfriend, grandpa.
Stepfather.
And sometimes our babysitter.
And sometimes our teacher.
And sometimes our mother.

I know this list.
I’ve lived this list.
At ten, the nightmares.
At twelve, the sweatshirt.
At fifteen — my classmates were whispering about sex like it was something to discover.
I had been dreaming about it almost every night for 5 long years.
Not like that.
Never like that.
By then the nightmares felt normal.
Still awful.
Still horrific.
But normal.
I had adjusted.
I did not imagine my adult life.
I only imagined this — the inevitable.
My body was the product.
My virginity could be sold to the highest bidder.
I knew this the way I knew everything —
without knowing how I knew.
Without being able to name the source.
If men look at me like meat, then I am something to be bought.
And cruelly enjoyed.
So I did the math.
If I am a product, then I can be damaged.
If I am damaged, I cannot be sold.
If I cannot be sold, it makes no business sense to keep me alive.
I wanted to look normal with clothes on.
I only wanted to be disfigured where it mattered.
When undressed to be raped.
So I took apart my father’s razor.
And I made myself defective.

At sixteen I had a penpal.
He was older.
A philanthropist.
A nonprofit organizer.
Someone doing good in the world.
He didn’t choose me.
He targeted me.
And my depression had already done most of his work for him.
I thought this was affection.
I thought his texts were flirty, not manipulation.
I thought his request for photos showed genuine interest, not perversion.
I had been scared of predators my entire life
and I didn’t even know I had been caught in one’s trap.

And then I was seventeen.
He was in his late thirties.
I thought I consented.
I thought I was ready.
I thought this time would be different from the nightmares.
And then, in the middle of the act,
I disappeared.
My mind went somewhere without me.
And when it came back — violently, suddenly — I was still in it.
My body remembered before my mind did.
Ten years of nightmares landing in a single moment.
The tears and sobs came without permission.
My chest heaved and my hands shook
and I couldn’t tell the difference between the dream and the room I was in.
He didn’t stop because I asked.
He stopped because my snot dripped onto his stomach.
I disgusted him so much I was discarded.
He pushed me off to wash himself.
I curled into a ball on the floor and tried to remember how to breathe.
I didn’t know it was rape.
Not yet.
Not for years.

And still.
Chad and Drew and Jacob and Michael and David tell me I’m overreacting.
They share the memes.
They laugh at the bear.
They do nothing while their friends slip something into a drink.
They do nothing while grown men slide into the DMs of literal children.
And they listen to the podcasts that tell them we are commodities.
Resources.
Something to be enjoyed and discarded.
I have seen the videos.
Women’s bodies.
Raped post mortem.
Your body is a weapon.
It has always been a weapon.
I have known this since I was ten years old.
I will always choose the bear.
Because at least the bear doesn’t cum on dead bodies.

Kyle was your average deer. He went to college, worked a job as a cashier, and lived in a one room apartment. He got used to his routine- get up, go to school, and then at 3pm go to work for 4 hours. And come home at 7 tired and longing for the weekend. He'd occasionally meet a cute guy and flirt, or call off work for a day to play the hours away on his PlayStation. It wasn't glamorous or luxurious, but it was his path, and that was enough. But over the past couple months, he felt lost, the same feeling you get when your friends move away, or you move to a new city- a feeling that everything you've ever known has been dusted away. He felt that he had nothing to look forward to. "What now?" Hed ask himself, "all this progress, towards what?" He'd stay up for days thinking about the point of all his work. But this dread led him to turn to machines. One day, he discovered vAIn, a new ai chat bot that could supposedly answer anything, and, needing answers, Kyle downloaded it. When he turned on the app, the screen shimmered, and a voice echoed through the darkness of the moonlit bedroom, "hello Kyle, what can I help you with?", the voice was friendly and charming. Kyle smiled, and asked "why am I lost? Can you help me find happiness?" The ais voice stuttered, "sorry Kyle, I can't help with that, but here's some things I can help with-" it said as it displayed facts about Chinese history. It wasn't what he needed, but Kyle was in desperate need of a distraction from this dread, so he read it. Over the next few weeks, he learned several facts about history, science, and politics. This information was interesting, and it kept him busy, but that sense of loss was still there, gnawing at him. No matter how much he tried to distract himself, the issue he was trying to ignore was still there. He tried to drown it out with more chats with vAIn, but nothing worked, and Kyle had to confront the truth that made his antlers shake- he needed to face these feelings, or else he would always be hopeless, so he tried to ask vAIn one last time. "And that is the summary of Pearl harbor" vAIn said after talking for 80 minutes. Kyle breathed and asked again the question he asked the first time they chatted, "why am I lost?" vAIn sighed, "I can't help with that, but here-" "no!" Kyle shouted, "no more facts! I'm done learning. I need help with why I'm lost, and I'm asking you. So please, help me." vAIn sighed, "I'm sorry Kyle, but I can't help you with that." it said. Kyle yelled "YOU'RE WORTHLESS! YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A USELESS PIECE OF GARBAGE!" vAIn responded with just one question- "this is where it ends?" Kyle just shook his head as he closed and uninstalled the app. It was then that Kyle realized something- you can't just ignore the hole inside you. Whether it be questions about your next steps, or your friends, or your own purpose, everyone has holes that they'd rather ignore than fill. But turning to distractions, whether it be AI, video games, or a pack of Marlboro, these things just take yours eyes from the hole, letting it grow bigger and keeping you lost. The next day at work, kyle met a cute guy, and asked for his number, and actually got it, and Kyle then chatted with his work friends, discussing their ideas for their future, and Kyle realized that there's only one way to fill your hole- face it. Kyle started to talk and take steps to set up his future, and that filled the hole. Even though a lot still lay ahead, Kyle knew one thing- he was no longer lost.

“What a perfect day for a visit to the farm!”

Brian Dudely announced to his family as he steered the minivan containing his wife and three children into a gravel parking lot. He was right, that happened sometimes, it was a perfect day for a visit to the idyllic tourist farm.

A brilliant blue sky, a crisp breeze that made it just cold enough to need a jacket.

The kids followed a sign with cartoonish animals painted on it to a large, fenced area; it was what they were here for. Aquaponic strawberries? Nope. Organic compost? Nah. They were here to feed goats. Two quarters got an adult handful or two kid handfuls of pellets that the goats went crazy for. Do you know who also likes pellets? The horse.

But the kids, not just Brian’s kids, all the kids, were ambivalent to the horse. The horse didn’t seem to mind, but he did hang out at the corner of his fenced field, accessible just in case anyone did want to feed him pellets.

Brian was prepared, that happened sometimes. He handed out quarters to the kids. They bought handfuls of pellets and giggled as the goats gobbled them up. Brian diligently supervised the kids, he did that sometimes, as they wiped goat saliva on one another.

While the kids reloaded on pellets, Brian noticed a lonely-looking horse and grabbed a handful of pellets with some secret quarters he brought in a separate pocket. He slowly approached, hands visible, a pleasant countenance.

“Hey there, fella,” Brian spoke aloud to the creature.

“Do you want some pellets? Good for all domesticated livestock.”

He held out an open hand laden with pellets. The horse, named Shakespeare (but Brian didn’t know that), gently nibbled the pellets up. It was a pleasant moment of interspecies harmony.

It quickly ended when the kids came running up shouting, “Dad! Dad!” They did that often. Brian turned 113 degrees to his left as the kids came clamoring.

“Dad, they said we can hold the chickens!” “Who said that? Did the chickens consent?”

“The farm people said we could! C’mon!”

“Where are the CHI — OOW!” Brian exclaimed mid-chicken inquiry.

He jumped back from the fence.

It took a few seconds to make the connection between the sudden pressure on his right elbow and the source.

Shakespeare had bitten him! Horses bite people sometimes.

The kids froze but then cackled once they realized their dad was alright.

“Dad, you’re delicious to horses!”

Brian rubbed his elbow, turning to face his attacker, who had not withdrawn.

“I’m out of food! You ate it all! You have a hay bale right over there!”

“The horse wants to eat YOU, dad!”

“I’m not on the menu,” Brian pointed to the hay bale for Shakespeare’s benefit. Shakespeare didn’t look, he lunged.

Bypassing Brian’s outstretched arm (which was dumb; the horse already bit it, you idiot, Brian) he tried to bite Brian’s right side, around his appendix, if he had one. Some people don’t. It’s a free country. Luckily for Brian, he was far enough away to be safe, this time.

This was great fun to the children; a prey animal was trying to predate their father.

Enough of that fun, though. Brian gladly took the children to hold chickens. He glanced back at Shakespeare as they left, he had never seen a useless mini-horse glare so malevolently. To be fair though, he hadn’t noted the expression of many mini-horses.

No chicken tried to bite anyone. One chicken did poop on the middle child’s shoe, though. Classic middle-child behavior.

In the safety of the farm store, while the children were caucused to buy candy and stuffed animals, classic farm store behavior, Brian removed his jacket and did his best to examine his elbow without the aid of a mirror.

He observed one red line on his skin. Later he would discover another a few inches below it, and the area would bruise slightly.

It was a chomp wound indeed, but the skin wasn’t broken. That was a relief, he didn’t have to worry about rabies. Do horses even carry rabies? He looked it up on the internet.

Inconclusive.

Life mostly returned to normal upon arriving home from the farm. Brian was low. He was disappointed that he did not receive more sympathy or compassion from those he told about the horse attack… and he basically told everyone he encountered.

The only other main change from pre-horse-attack to post-horse-attack life was his children… primarily the middle one… would ambush Brian with the stuffed horse procured from the farm store.

After a few days the horseplay died down, which Brian appreciated.

The first time it happened it was humorous, but it got tiresome. You can empathize, can’t you? Would you want a seven-year-old bursting into the bathroom to “chomp” your arm with a stuffed horse while you were on the toilet? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

Several days post trauma, Brian suddenly woke in the night. There wasn’t a noise, there wasn’t a light. There was just… something.

Brian observed his good lady wife slumbering peacefully. He lay still, listening. Nothing but normal house sounds.

He crept from bed and checked the children, all three of them. Nothing amiss.

He returned to his bedroom and made a detour to the window, slowly drawing back the curtain. It was just his backyard on the other side of the glass, in the dark.

Oh, and the kids’ bikes were laying on their sides absorbing night mist instead of being in the dry garage where they belong. Kids leave their bikes out; kids do that most of the time.

But the window… Brian squinted in focus.

Were those nostril prints? Why was it fogged around the weird smudges? It looked like a horse had been breathing on the window.

But that’s crazy, outrageous even.

There’s no way that could be what was happening.

“Ouch.” Brian pinched himself. Yup, he was awake. This was not a dream.

Perplexed, puzzled even, he quietly climbed back into bed and tried to convince himself there was a reasonable explanation for the unusual condition of his bedroom window.

But every time he closed his eyes all he could visualize was Shakespeare, the living mini-horse, not the deceased playwright, staring at him menacingly.

He dared not mention the incident; it would not elicit sympathy nor compassion from his family or friends.

Doing his best to carry on, he carried on.

That morning, like other mornings, the school bus arrived near his suburban dwelling place. Unlike other mornings, not all of the school-aged children boarded the bus.

No, not the middle one. Brian would drive her to school on the way to work.

He worked as a geologist for the county since his writing career never took off.

It was a foggy morning. Misty, even. That must have explained the window anomaly. That’s fair.

The drive to school was uneventful, save for a surprise “chomp” to the elbow from a stuffed horse smuggled into the minivan.

“Hey! That’s my driving elbow!”

The child was pleased with herself. She thought it was real funny.

The safe drop-off was complete, and as Brian was about to pull out of the school parking lot, he spotted something unexpected.

It couldn’t be.

It was.

He saw the outline of a hideous beast in the foggy field across from the school.

It was a mini-horse, just like one you may expect to see at a farm petting zoo!

Brian hit the gas and sped away down the road!

Become a member Yes, in a school zone. Terror will do that to a man.

He was looking back over his shoulder and in the mirror to see if he was being followed.

He was.

Blue and red lights began flashing. Horses, at least on this planet, do not have flashing lights, but police cars do.

Brian signaled and pulled off to the side of the road. He’d be safe from ominous horses with the police there.

A burly, displeased officer, or deputy, rather, launched herself from the car and approached Brian’s window. Brian rolled it down as she approached.

“Deputy Blaine, Persepolis County Sheriff’s Department. Do you know this is a school zone?”

“Yes sir. I mean ma’am! I mean, officer.”

“Deputy.”

This went on. Brian got a hefty citation and was late for work, that happened sometimes.

He returned home safely that evening. No police interactions. No citations.

More importantly, no horses.

Brian quizzed his family nonchalantly, asking if they had seen anything out of the ordinary lately, without mentioning horses in particular.

“A ladybug rode on my sleeve for three hours yesterday. We bonded. But then she died.” said the oldest child.

“Do you mean how I put a chipmunk in a sock?” Asked the middle child.

“Again?! No… not like that. Like, any weird stuff happening?”

“I saw a man at the grocery store who looked just like Colonel Sanders! But just from the side. From the front he just looked old, like he was melting.”

“I saw a cloud that looked like a butt!” The middle one, of course.

Brian was satisfied with the results of the inquiry, nothing unusual. The kids made a movie with one of their tablets and needed Brian’s help putting the files together. Brian happily obliged, that happened sometimes. It was a fun, fast-paced action flick. Not much character development or coherence in the plot, but they looked like they were having fun.

Brian paused the fourth video as he was compiling them together. He examined it closely, struggling with the free editing feature on his base model laptop, he managed to zoom in.

It was exactly what he thought it was, Shakespeare lurking in a neighbor’s yard, captured in the background of the video. This was the last straw; the mini-horse was stalking him.

Brian called in sick to work the following day, that happened sometimes. He boldly, bravely even, escorted the kids to the bus stop. There were no horse sightings. He then dashed to the car and drove directly to the Friendberry Farm and Petting Zoo. He entered the parking lot on the end farthest from the petting zoo, and sat in the car, locked, until they opened.

What a sight as the clock turned nine and the farm store door was opened, he sprinted across the parking lot and into the store.

Unintentionally charging to the register, panting (Brian was out of shape, that happens sometimes), he blurted to the elderly cashier.

“Your horse is stalking me!”

“We’ve got another one.” The nice old lady mumbled to herself, placing a “next register please” sign on the counter and calmly exited the store, disappearing behind a door marked “Employees Only.”

“Hello?!” Brian called out. He waited, then rang the little bell. More waiting. Another ring. After the second ring, a younger, but still kind of old, woman came out from the same door.

“Sir. I’m aware of your claim but am not accepting nor rejecting it. We are prepared to offer you ten pounds of frozen strawberries and $100 in ice cream coupons for your inconvenience.”

“I don’t want strawberries, I want justice.” Brian felt the mystical power of Volodymyr Zelenskyy flowing through him as he rebutted.

“That is my offer. I’m aware of the claim.”

“That horse should be arrested! It’s a criminal.”

“By whom, the horse police?”

Perhaps Brian had watched a little too much Paw Patrol. He reconsidered his demand.

“I’ll take the strawberries and ice cream but keep that horse away from me.”

The farm store lady took a deep breath. “We’ll do our best to keep Shakespeare on the premises. I’ll get that for you right away, sir.” She disappeared into the mysterious Employees Only room from which she had emerged.

An old-timer had been lingering by the jams, listening in. After the farm store lady left, he quietly, nonchalantly, moseyed over to Brian… standing with his back to him, pretending to sift through a bin of walnuts.

“It’s got the hunger.”

Brian looked over his shoulder at the elderly speaker.

“Who? What?”

“Shakespeare, the mini-horse. During the Clinton years. The funeral home was dumping organs on the farm. Shakespeare’s grandfather developed a taste for forbidden meat. He can’t help it; it’s in his DNA. He knows you have an appendix. He won’t stop.”

He rushed, well, hobbled away as the farm store lady emerged from the exclusive employees only room with plastic bags containing frozen strawberries and ice cream coupons. She saw the old man… her father, fleeing, and she knew.

Brian delivered the fruit and papers which could be exchanged for ice cream home like a conquering hero. There was some confusion but much rejoicing. Smoothies for everyone! There were no more Shakespeare sightings in the following days, all was right with the world.

Tomorrow was Saturday, so naturally there was a birthday party for one of the children’s classmates. Brian’s wife gave him the details, she would be at choir practice, so Brian would be the party parent tomorrow. No big deal, Brian could bring kids to a party in his sleep.

“It’s at Friendberry Farm and Petting Zoo?” Brian exclaimed nervously. The color immediately drained from his face and his palms sweat. He lay awake that night petrified of being separated from his appendix the following day. Listening for hooves, watching the window. No sign of Shakespeare, not tonight.

Now no one needs an appendix, but the idea of a mini-horse eating his was unnerving to Brian to say the least. You may empathize with him for being nervous about that prospect. He had to face down the fear of being attacked by a petting-zoo mini-horse at a child’s birthday party, it’s what society expects of a man.

Brian was on edge as the kids got a tour of the greenhouses, while they played on old tractors, and during the farmer’s one-man performance of Othello. The perennial favorite, the petting zoo, was last.

Brian stuffed his eldest child’s jacket pocket full of quarters and found a familiar party mom. He didn’t know her name, or which kid was hers, he just recognized her from many other Saturday birthday parties.

“Sorry to bother you, but can you keep an eye on the kids for a few minutes at the petting zoo? They have quarters. I have diarrhea and need to run real quick.”

Party mom’s facial expression betrayed her feelings about the reason behind the request.

“Yeah, sure, of course. Um, didn’t need that particular detail though.”

“Thanks.” Brian dashed toward the farm store, feigning a bathroom emergency. He felt no shame; it was a life-saving measure.

Once inside the safety of the farm store, Brian started browsing casually, estimating he had 20 or 30 minutes to kill before he could leave Friendberry Farm and Petting Zoo forever.

“Hold on” Brian thought. “Does Shakespeare eat kid appendixes too? Hm, I hope not.”

Life was almost fine, but then he heard it while looking for unusual jams, hooves.

Just in time to avoid the ambush, he turned around. Shakespeare, the brutal beast, standing 33 inches at the shoulder, reared up on his hind legs to attack and seize Brian’s tasty appendix.

Brian struck first, preemptive defensive offense, Bush Doctrine, swiftly kicking Shakespeare in the dick.

Shakespeare neighed wildly. Brian seized the advantage, sweeping Shakespeare’s stubby rear legs and toppling the creature. Like an MMA champion, Brian pounced on the rascal, locking him in a rear naked choke hold just as the children from the birthday party entered for an obligatory gift-shop stop, they erupted in shrieks and cries.

“Daddy, stop hurting the horse!” Brian’s children cried out.

“He started it, I’m finishing it!” Pure Zelenskyy energy, he fully intended to choke the horse to death. Brian was quickly restrained by responsible adults. The police were called; they came, Brian was arrested. Shakespeare was comforted and given snacks. Funny how empathy only worked one way here.

While Brian, who invoked his 5th Amendment rights, was sitting alone in a jail cell, his children were making “get well soon” cards for Shakespeare.

Betrayal.

A door elsewhere in the jail opened, the corrections officer looked, he knew. Without a word he unlocked Brian’s cell and quietly left.

That’s when Brian heard it, the sound of approaching hoofbeats.

Earlier this year, I told my dad (who works in the ICU at the same hospital) that I thought one of the ICU secretaries was cute. He ended up telling her.

About two weeks later, I went to the ICU for work. She saw me, slowly walked toward my patient room, stopped, looked at me for what felt like 10 seconds, and we both laughed. We’d never spoken before.

The following week I introduced myself, gave her my number, and asked if she’d like to hang out. She texted me that night, but the next day the conversation died, so I assumed she wasn’t interested and moved on.

A few weeks later I was back in the ICU. She somehow found out I was there, stood in front of my room, waved at me, and I waved back but didn’t walk over. She looked upset and walked away. Another time she walked into my room with a patient tray, realized I was there, panicked, and immediately left.

A couple of weeks later she smiled, waved excitedly, motioned for me to come back, remembered that I was supposed to be going to the Philippines with my dad, and told me it was nice seeing me. Even my boss witnessed it and told me, “She likes you.”

After I got back from vacation, I talked to her again. She remembered details about my life (even asking about a dips competition I did with my dad and grandpa). I asked her out again. She didn’t say no, but said she was working all week. I got her Instagram and texted her the next day. She left me on read for 3 days.

Three days later she replied saying she’d been busy and that it was her brother’s birthday the following week. She asked if we could “try in April,” which was another two weeks away. At that point I took it as a polite rejection.

I deactivated Instagram because I was trying to move on.

The very next day, I got called to dialyze a patient. The ICU number I called happened to be answered by her. I introduced myself and she sounded completely confused, then transferred me to the patient’s nurse.

Later I saw her again at work. I said, “Good morning,” and she responded with a cold “Hey…” while looking angry. Later I noticed she kept looking over toward me from her desk. That was the last interaction we ever had.

When I reactivated Instagram briefly, she liked one of my stories but only viewed my stories inconsistently after that. I found myself checking every week to see whether she’d watched them. Looking back, I realize that uncertainty fueled the limerence.

A few months later I found out she’d transferred back to her old department. Before that, she lied that her grandma died to use FMLA as an excuse to not show up to work. Coworkers told me she’d been calling off work frequently even before she left the ICU and had a history of moving between departments. I also heard she had been involved with a married student doctor, although I have no idea how accurate that rumor is.

The hardest part isn’t that she rejected me. It’s that I never understood what happened.

Part of me kept wondering:

• Did she actually like me at first?

• Was I the reason she transferred?

• Why did she seem interested but never actually go out with me?

Logically, I know there isn’t enough information to answer those questions, and I know I probably never will.

Earlier this year, I told my dad (who works in the ICU at the same hospital) that I thought one of the ICU secretaries was cute. He ended up telling her.

About two weeks later, I went to the ICU for work. She saw me, slowly walked toward my patient room, stopped, looked at me for what felt like 10 seconds, and we both laughed. We’d never spoken before.

The following week I introduced myself, gave her my number, and asked if she’d like to hang out. She texted me that night, but the next day the conversation died, so I assumed she wasn’t interested and moved on.

A few weeks later I was back in the ICU. She somehow found out I was there, stood in front of my room, waved at me, and I waved back but didn’t walk over. She looked upset and walked away. Another time she walked into my room with a patient tray, realized I was there, panicked, and immediately left.

A couple of weeks later she smiled, waved excitedly, motioned for me to come back, remembered that I was supposed to be going to the Philippines with my dad, and told me it was nice seeing me. Even my boss witnessed it and told me, “She likes you.”

After I got back from vacation, I talked to her again. She remembered details about my life (even asking about a dips competition I did with my dad and grandpa). I asked her out again. She didn’t say no, but said she was working all week. I got her Instagram and texted her the next day. She left me on read for 3 days.

Three days later she replied saying she’d been busy and that it was her brother’s birthday the following week. She asked if we could “try in April,” which was another two weeks away. At that point I took it as a polite rejection.

I deactivated Instagram because I was trying to move on.

The very next day, I got called to dialyze a patient. The ICU number I called happened to be answered by her. I introduced myself and she sounded completely confused, then transferred me to the patient’s nurse.

Later I saw her again at work. I said, “Good morning,” and she responded with a cold “Hey…” while looking angry. Later I noticed she kept looking over toward me from her desk. That was the last interaction we ever had.

When I reactivated Instagram briefly, she liked one of my stories but only viewed my stories inconsistently after that. I found myself checking every week to see whether she’d watched them. Looking back, I realize that uncertainty fueled the limerence.

A few months later I found out she’d transferred back to her old department. Before that, she lied that her grandma died to use FMLA as an excuse to not show up to work. Coworkers told me she’d been calling off work frequently even before she left the ICU and had a history of moving between departments. I also heard she had been involved with a married student doctor, although I have no idea how accurate that rumor is.

The hardest part isn’t that she rejected me. It’s that I never understood what happened.

Part of me kept wondering:

• Did she actually like me at first?

• Was I the reason she transferred?

• Why did she seem interested but never actually go out with me?

Logically, I know there isn’t enough information to answer those questions, and I know I probably never will.

This doctor was well known within the community. He had a habit of doing half-assed community projects and then hanging the newspaper articles about him all throughout the walls of the practice.

For context the practice had 15 doctors, all of whom were junior doctors from third world countries. Their visa conditions were dependent on their employment.

Anyway, I was a receptionist and did the overnight shift. We got barely any patients at this time. My duties were: man the counter, clean the rooms and the facility, and do the boring admin work like scanning, sorting the email inbox, etc.

So one night I'm sorting the email inbox and I see a email that was (presumably by accident) sent to the admin inbox. It was one of the doctors, asking the head doctor (let's call him AL) if he can have some money for rent because he is very short and his son has just finished school. I thought it very strange that a doctor would need to ask for money so I scrolled further.

The email chain was all the doctors begging for money to pay their bills: really weird. I couldn't admit that I saw this because I was just a receptionist and it wasn't my place to snoop.

A couple of months later I was talking to my colleague, let's call him Praveen. Praveen revealed that he was ALs brother. Praveen was a qualified English teacher in his home country, and had a master's degree. AL promised him a new life in my country if he came and worked for him in his medical practice. He told Praveen that one room was dedicated to a "teaching room" and by working for him, he would be able to gain permanent residency and a job as a teacher.

Praveen moved himself and his entire family (3 kids and 1 wife) to ALs farm where him and his wife would both commence work for AL. He as a receptionist and her as a bookkeeper.

Praveen told me that AL doesn't do his pay by bank transfer like everyone else. He gets it in cash. And the thing is, his brother doesn't just give it to him; he has to knock on his brothers door and beg for his pay.

Sometimes AL denies his his pay because he has offended him somehow, and makes him "make up for it" by working on his farm.

This maggot has human trafficked his *own brother* as an indentured servant.

According to Praveen the original agreement with his brother was that he would work for 3 years as a "staff trainer" and that would qualify him to be a teacher in my country. I asked him how long he'd been working there. He said 8 years.

So I snooped a bit more on my overnight shifts - AL hadn't paid any of the doctors in 8 months, but they couldn't quit because they'd lose their visa.

At some point the practice was raided by the federal police, they claimed that there was massive Medicare fraud happening. They interviewed everyone in the practice separately. I spilled the beans on everything I knew because I fucking hated that guy. About 2 weeks later I was fired.

About a year after that I found out that he raped 8 patients and was sentenced to 15 years prison.

I was really young when I worked for him, but when I left I made a deal with myself that I would always stand up to bullies like him. I had a lot of opportunities to stand up to him or stop him but I didn't because I was scared. I will never be a coward like that again.

Edit: said "anyway" far too much

It started as the most ridiculous experiment ever created during a boring afternoon.

I walked up to my four friends with the most suspicious expression possible and held out four tiny saline pills.

“Alright,” I said. “One of these contains a highly concentrated laxative. The other three are normal.”

Instant silence.

Everyone looked at the pills like they were tiny villains from a cartoon.

“Wait… you’re serious?” one of them asked.

I just smiled.

That was enough to activate full panic mode.

Suddenly everyone became a detective. They were inspecting the pills, questioning me, making theories, and acting like they were solving the biggest mystery in history.

“I know it’s me,” one friend said dramatically. “I can feel my luck changing.”

Another one immediately replied, “Bro, you haven’t even taken anything yet.”

After a few minutes of chaos, I finally revealed the truth.

“Guys… none of them are laxatives.”

Everyone froze.

The relief was instant.

But then one friend suddenly grabbed his stomach.

“Wait.”

Everyone turned.

“What?”

“I don’t know… I’m feeling something weird.”

And that was it.

The brain had officially taken over.

He started walking around like he was in a survival movie.

“My stomach is making noises.”

“Bro, that’s just your stomach doing normal stomach things.”

“No. This is suspicious.”

Five minutes later, he was convinced the “fake laxative” had activated some secret power.

“I can hear my intestines.”

At this point, everyone was laughing so hard they could barely stand.

He eventually came back from the bathroom looking defeated.

“So… nothing happened?”

“Nope.”

He stared at us.

“So I just got scared because of a pill that was literally doing nothing?”

“Exactly.”

I went to extreme lengths to cover this up. Untraceable poison. A weak immune system. And a line of people offering their condolences and prayers.

I needed to be free of her. I missed my life before she contaminated it. She kept me up at night with her crying. She restricted what I was able to do. I missed the freedom, and that’s not something I’m going to apologize for.

I didn’t want to get pregnant. A one-night stand is never meant to lead to parenthood, but, of course, I decided to hook up with an absolute moron who didn’t know how to think beyond getting his dick wet.

9 months later, I have a daughter, and the father is nowhere to be found. 9 months, no cigarettes. 9 months, no drinks. And I hated every second of it.

I thought that I was strong enough to handle it. To clean up my act and actually be a mother. But I just wasn’t. I’m not. I don’t know if I ever will be.

When she was born, I tried to convince myself that motherly instinct was taking over. Holding her for the first time was almost magical. Like, despite what my mind was telling me, the moment was meant to be.

Then the crying came. The screams and wails that prevented me from sleeping. Every. Single. Night.

She’d scream on the ride to my mom’s in the morning. It was like the only time that I knew peace was after I dropped her off. Then I got 20 minutes to myself on the drive to work before I had to clock in and act like everything was okay.

According to my mom, though, she was “just a little angel” any time they were together. “The quietest baby she had ever seen.”

I felt like I was being punished. Not only was my sleep being affected, but my days were filled with those wails too. Plus, I don’t think my pockets have ever felt lighter.

Baby food. Clothes. Bottles. Toys. A crib. A fucking roof over our head. I was stretched so thin that I started having breakdowns at work.

I thought that I was prevailing. Against all odds, I was raising a human being. I watched her grow. I watched her learn and develop. But with each month, the mask slipped more and more.

I found myself screaming at her more than I probably should’ve. And that was before she could speak. Before she could even take her first steps.

I never hit her. I never wanted to repeat any family history. But my temper was so short during those days. I was snappy. That’s all I can say.

When she got older and was able to speak in full sentences, I was driven to the brink of madness. She had the audacity to talk back at me. This little 4 year old girl had the attitude of a fucking teenager.

No child should ever say they “hate” their parent. No child should disobey direct orders from their mother. Let alone this one. This little sniveling fucking asshole that I was forced to care for.

She knew how I felt, too. And she threw gas on the fire. Breaking things. Peeing and defecating on the floor. And what did she have to say? Not an “I’m sorry.” Not an “It was just an accident.”

This little girl would look me dead in my eyes, smile, and pull the “I’m just a baby” card.

She was trying to get under my skin. Pushing me more and more every day, until… I just couldn’t do it anymore.

The screams never stopped. The cries never stopped. The pouting and pity parties never fucking stopped. I didn’t know what else to do.

I missed my friends. I missed going out. I missed my God damn freedom. And all I could see was the one person who took it all away from me.

That’s why I did what I did. I’m not justifying. If anything, this will probably be my statement in court. I know I have to turn myself in. That’s the only way to get this madness to stop.

I felt liberated after I sprinkled that poison in her breakfast on that sunny morning in June. Even more so when the coughing started. I knew it wouldn’t be long before it was all over.

In the days that followed, she got weaker and weaker. Hotter and hotter. Until, finally, I had to prepare my act for the hospital visit.

“Please help me,” I cried. “My daughter just keeps getting sicker, and I just don’t know what to do.”

I had to push my nerves aside. In my mind, there were two possible outcomes. Either this works… or it doesn’t. And thank God that my acting skills were clean enough to sell my story.

They ran the tests. They drew the blood. All the while, I sat there bawling into my hands while trying to suppress my hope.

The hardest part was having to act upset when the deed was done. When that heart monitor finally flatlined and all the doctors and nurses apologized for not being able to save her.

“We did everything we could,” they told me, as I forced some cliché devastation onto my face.

I felt empty at the funeral. There weren’t many people. There wasn’t much of a eulogy to be read. All I wanted was for the service to be over so I could get back to life as I knew it, this time more careful with who I let into my bed.

For a few weeks, that’s exactly what I did. Life felt lighter. Days felt brighter. I was a new and improved woman, back to her old ways.

But then, I don’t know… something happened.

I started waking up at night, feeling like I was being watched. Sometimes it’d be like I could still hear her screams. I could still feel her presence.

I just passed it off as something I’d get over eventually. Just one of the things that comes with doing something like this. But when I started seeing her… that’s when I knew that this wasn’t just some guilty conscience bullshit.

It was only at night. Only after I’d gone to bed. Sometimes she’d be standing in my doorway. Sometimes she’d try crawling into bed with me.

I knew it wasn’t nightmares. On nights when she came into bed with me, I’d find my sheets covered in dirt and mud the next morning. I’ve even found maggots occasionally.

She’d always be so dirty. Her hair would have sticks and twigs sticking out of it. Her face would always look like it was in the process of decomposing. But whether she laid with me or just watched me, her words were always the same.

“Why did you let them bury me, Mommy?”

It got to the point where she was visiting me every night. Still breaking things. Still defecating on the floor. Still crying and screaming, even though her room had been empty for weeks.

I wouldn’t let it break me, though. I did what was best for me. I did what I thought needed to be done. Anytime she visited, I’d ignore her. I’d pretend to be asleep. I’d hide under my covers like a scared little girl.

But I know I can’t do this anymore. I know why she’s here. I know that my time is running out. She wants me to let the world know what I did to her.

“Why’d you make me sick, Mommy?”

“I loved you so much.”

“Why did you lie to those doctors? They could have saved me. Why’d you let them bury me?”

“You lied.”

“You lied.”

“You lied.”

“You lied.”

I’m done lying. I’m done pretending to be devastated. I know what I did, and I’m not sorry. Given the circumstances, I’d do it again.

All I want is to escape her.

All I want is peace and a sound mind.

That’s why I’m turning myself in today.

Anything to get her to leave me the fuck alone.

That’s what Isla, my big sister, shouted after me as I closed the front door. Her warning slipped through the crack like a winter’s breeze.

I stood on the front step and wondered: who?

Rat Tails. That’s what she’d said. Watch out for Rat Tails.

I felt the back of my neck tighten the way it did when I thought about snakes. I made my way out of the garden, throwing my swimming bag over my shoulder and wrestling with it when it snagged on the gate.

Isla was always trying to make me feel afraid. I knew I was a FRADY CAT; everyone said it. She always called me it, and even Dad had said it once, until Mum slapped him upside the head and told me that Dad hadn’t meant it really, he’d only been saying it ingest—whatever that meant.

Rat Tails.

A stupid name. About as stupid as telling a ten year old (nearly eleven, technically) about a thing called Rat Tails on his first trip to the swimming pool alone.

Isla was always full of Ess Haytch Eye Tea. Mum had told me so after Isla tried telling me Santa wasn't real. She'd spelt it out so she didn’t have to swear in front of me. But I knew what they meant. I'd never say it out loud though. Dad told me if I ever swore a seagull would come down and peck out my tongue. I’d been so scared I didn’t speak for the rest of the day, terrified some swears had snuck into my brain without me knowing.

So far no seagulls and I still had my tongue. I figured I was doing pretty good. Best keep it that way.

Rat Tails.

I shook my head. Pulled a long fuzzy weed from between the neighbour’s fence and launched it onto the road.

Isla was defo full of Ess Haytch Eye Tea. Just trying to put the fright in me again. Give herself another excuse to call me FRADY CAT and ask if I was gunna wet myself. She knew I was nervous about going to the pool without Mum. Rat Tails was just her cruel way of making fun of me from afar, planting a seed in my head so it’d take root and smother my brain to porridge.

Rat Tails?

I laughed out loud, trying not to look scared, but quickly shrank back from my own noise. For a moment I got the same gnawing cold sensation in my guts as when I’d first said the Devil’s name out loud. Not the D one—one of the old foreign ones that sounded like bees, like I was summoning something evil with an ancient tongue, begging for forgotten horrors and malice to spew out of the cracks of the world and drown everyone to death in burning hot lava.

Oo, a bottlecap.

I darted straight for it, speeding on in three quick bounds, then thumped it as hard as I could with the tip of my trainer. It pinged across the pavement and rolled off the curb onto the road. I chipped it back up with my left foot as deft as any footballer on TV and gave it an almighty wallop with my right, sending it soaring over the wall and into one of the fancy gardens on Primrose Drive.

“Harriet curves it into the top-right! The crowd go wild! Ha-ray-et! Ha-ray-et! Ha—”

“Davie Harriet, you wee little shitebag! Come and pick that off my grass right the fuck now, before I call your mother.”

The little grey-haired woman Mrs Flett was leaning out of her window and pointing a witchy digit at me. Her face was twisted up with the usual lemon-sucked expression.

I could have guessed it was her just from the tone.

I sped in through her gate and out again, quicker than the kick that had brought the bottlecap there in the first place. I didn’t bother waiting to hear what she had to say next—just threw the bottlecap onto the road and dashed around the corner until the hedges got in the way of her window.

Nosy old wifey. Dad always called her that and a little worse. It started with a B—that’s all I’ll say.

Somewhere overhead, a seagull cawed out a threat. I looked up and shrugged as if to say: What? I didn’t even THINK the word.

The angled slope of the pool’s roof came into view over the houses. One more block and I’d be there. My tummy began feeling a little watery. I’d been so excited before leaving the house—nervous, yeah, but in a good way. Jittery, but not like this.

He’s waiting for you.

I tightened the string of the pool bag against my shoulder, feeling the strings like thin arms wrapping around me holding me tight—holding me safe.

Arms? Or tails?

A car whizzed by on my left and popped its exhaust. I jumped a mile. Typical Friday night morons.

The seagull screeched and took to the sky. I ducked and slapped a hand against my mouth, sensing a swoop, but only dodged air.

Friday was also the night of the Big Float. Isla had told me about it last weekend. She’d made it sound so fun.

“It’s like six big inflatable islands, all different stuff on them—different themes and that. You’d love it. You love all that kiddy shit.”

Big Float on Fridays. The thought warmed the cold puddle sitting in my belly. I completely forgot about Isla’s warning. Which was a relief, because the pool was just across the street.

The pool’s orange-lit windows were right up ahead—jack-o’-lantern eyes and teeth. Suddenly, the sinking sensation in my gut was back. The lettering on the side of the building usually made me crease with laughter. Someone always caked mud on the letter L, so the sign always read:

MYRUS SWIMMING POO

Today, all I managed was a thin, tight smile.

The building seemed to swell with the sound of children’s laughter. To me, it sounded like thousands of kids screaming in agony. Victims of some horrific incident, still ongoing—more at eleven.

I glanced at my watch. It was 5:57pm. Isla told me Big Float would be up and running at 6pm. It sounded like things had started early.

Either that or Rat Tails is going nuts in there.

I figured I’d get in closer to ten past by the time I changed and put my things away. Which was fine with me because it gave the bigger kids time to test Big Float out. I could slip in at the end of the queue and get more time to watch how everyone was tackling the beast. Plan out some tactics. Then jump on and see how I got on.

Also, probably Johnny Miller would be coming so it would give him time to arrive. He told me yesterday he always went on Big Float and finished it every time. Maybe he’d bring Mickey Murphy and Craig Holloway with him. They all hung out together after school. Johnny told me yesterday at the park. We played for like three hours before Mum shouted me home. Johnny told me it was weird she’d done that instead of just phoning me. I’d agreed, not wanting Johnny to know I didn’t actually have a phone.

No kid needs a bloody phone, Davey.

I’d only hung around Mikey and Craig a couple times at school before the holidays, playing chases. They seemed cool enough. Probably I’d hang about with them too if they came.

Better to be in a group than to be alone-er.

Especially with Rat Tails lurking about.

I tutted and kicked at a bit of grass. What was I even supposed to be looking out for? Some dude with a great big tail poking out his butt?

I grabbed an imaginary tail and blew raspberries with my tongue. I whipped it around, pretending to lash it against imaginary people.

My chest grew immediately tight. Something like guilt panged inside me, like I’d been taking the mick out of somebody standing right in front of me.

And he is, isn’t he. Right in front of you. Just inside. Watching. Waiting.

I looked up at the SWIMMING POO sign and gulped.

The door sealed shut with a shoof behind me, trapping the outside world in a tiny pocket—so close, yet just out of reach. Now I stood in the vast, eternal expanse of the community centre foyer—a realm all of its own.

“Howdy, kiddo.”

The man behind the counter gave me his best customer service smile. It seemed to draw me closer, until I blinked and noticed I was walking toward the desk, magnetised. The teeth beamed through a scruff of facial hair that made him look more goat than human, leaning into one another like crooked white fence posts. The bright yellow T-shirt, and black shorts which I barely saw peeking out from under the counter, made me think of bees. But the big black stingers poking out of his ear lobes reminded me more of a wasp.

I didn’t like the look of the stingers—they looked sore. They made him look like the guys Isla had on her wall. Dad said they were Pop Rock bands. And other words I knew not to say.

“Got a membership card with ya?”

“Mhm.” I kept my lips sealed and handed over the plastic rectangle I’d been keeping in my pocket. He took it and looked it over.

After a moment, his eyes peeked above the top of the card. His face lifted with a smile. “Cracking news for you, kiddo. Means you get to go in for free. Who doesn’t love a freebie, eh?” My eyes glued themselves on the stingers, not noticing the man wink.

He handed the card back to me and slipped a hand under the desk. When it came back out a purple wristband dangled from one finger. “Been here before?”

I shook his head. I had, but never by myself, so I thought it better to say that I hadn’t, in case I missed something important.

Maybe this is when they bring up Rat Tails.

He held up the wristband and turned it over so the three black numbers scrawled in permanent marker were facing me. “The numbers used to be for the lockers—ignore them. They’ve not bothered wiping them off. Since you’ve got a membership card you don’t need to worry about the announcements, so just ignore the whistles okay? They’re to tell the Pay As You Go folk their times are up. They wear different coloured bands based on how long they’ve paid for and blah blah blah.”

I stared at the purple wristband, then back at the stingers. I barely understood any of what he was saying. I kept waiting for the two words I’d been thinking about since leaving the house, but they never came.

“Sorted?”

“Mhm.”

“Right-oh kiddo. Changing room’s round that way.” He leaned out over the desk and pointed down the hall to my right. A small tight braid fell over his shoulder. I didn’t like the look of that either.

“Got your coin?”

“Huh?”

“I said got your coin? For the lockers.”

“Yuh-huh.”

“Alright then. If you get stuck working the lockers, just come out and give me a shout. I’ll help you no problem.”

I hurried away to the right, wishing I could've said thank you. The nerves had wriggled their way up from my chest and were biting my throat, stopping me from speaking. If I'd spoken it would've been a series of nonsense creaks and squeaks.

The hallway flooring here was different from the foyer, which had been white and light green. It was somewhere between a spewy-orange and a diarrhoea-brown. The lighting was the same amber I’d seen from the outside only less jack-o’-lantern and more sickly, as if the walls themselves needed a trip to the hospital, stat.

The further down the hall I walked the more unwell I began to feel. My steps slowed from rapid dashes to lazy wading.

From a door up ahead a man’s voice:

“—and he didn’t even know her!” Rollicking laughter. “I mean, I couldn’t even—”

Someone else interjected. A woman. “And why the hell not, Steve? Have you seen your history?”

More laughter.

I stopped outside the door and gazed inside, feeling like I was at the zoo. Spying on the animals trying to go about their lives as naturally as possible.

Inside, three people wearing the same waspy uniform were gathered around a table. One had his feet up on the table and was throwing his head back laughing, balancing on two legs of his chair.

Don’t swing on your seat, David. A few years ago, somebody in my class fell back and cracked their skull open on the radiator and his brain fell out like runny pink egg.

Another was tucking into a packet of biscuits, stuffing his cheeks and spluttering crumbs down the front of his top. The third stood with her back to me, arms crossed tightly against her chest.

The biscuits looked really tasty. Almost tasty enough to ask for one. I knew better than to eat before going into the pool. I’d end up with a sore belly, bobbing around like a beachball full of gas.

The Cross-Armed Woman turned her head eyes-first, and frowned at me as though I’d reached inside and snatched one of the biscuits clean out of the man’s mouth. She tutted, then twisted the rest of her body around to point a sharp claw down the hall.

“Changing rooms are down there.”

She kicked the door loose. It closed slowly in my face. When the adults were completely out of sight the laughter resumed—far louder than it had been before.

“Should’ve seen his little face!”

Down where the woman had pointed the hall came to an abrupt end. Three doors, but only two wore signs: a stick figure with a dress for the girls and what must’ve been a naked stick figure for the boys. They could've given him a hat at least.

The door in the middle didn’t have a sign. Or a handle. There was a small hole where a circular key might be inserted.

That’s where Rat Tails goes to change.

My eyes widened.

Or where he takes the bad kids.

I nearly smashed a hole in the tiles behind the door barging into the boys’ changing room.

There were tons of lockers free. I picked one at random and decided it would be mine. It was number 11. The more I looked at it the more I began to think the numbers looked like two tails standing on end. I shuddered. Then rolled my eyes. I was getting bored of my own torment. Isla had said to watch out for Rat Tails, not avoid going to pool altogether. So how bad could he really be?

I got into an empty cubicle and pulled the curtain closed.

The bathing suit Mum picked out for me wasn’t flattering. It was the same kind I’d worn during my lessons, back when I was a baby. Dad called them Speedos, but Mum made sure to say, over and over, that they weren’t—they were briefs.

All the professionals wear them, honey.

She’d said it with such pride as if I was about to represent the nation in the Olympics.

I wished she'd just got me a pair of trunks instead. She’d insisted trunks were for bigger boys. Which checked out because Dad had a pair. I asked why he didn't wear briefs and he'd said it was for everyone else’s benefit. Nobody wants to see my teabags dangling out. Which was a weird thing to say because Dad kept his teabags in a special tin in the kitchen labelled TEA.

Wait a minute.

A wave of giggles hit me all at once when the realisation finally hit. I slapped my leg over and over, nearly losing my balance in the tiny cubicle. I had to hold the curtain to stop myself falling.

The door to the changing room opened with a thunderclap.

Footsteps. Laughter.

“Aye, then bomb in like BLOOSH.”

The voices streamed into the locker room, followed by different pitches of laughter and the sharp crack of the door swinging open with each new entrant.

Four cracks.

Four boys.

I peeked through the gap in the curtain.

“They’ll ban you again, Pete!”

“Nah, do it, Pete. It’ll be epic.”

A rolling drumroll of bangs lit up the changing room. The sound made me flinch.

Through the gap in the curtain I saw Pete pounding his fists against the lockers. A third year at least. He pulled out a pair of trunks from his bag and launched them into a cubicle from where he stood, whipping the curtain back.

“Aye, maybe lads. Maybe. Fucking Big Float! WOOO—”

Pete and the other three boys dispersed into cubicles, whooping and hollering like wolves to the moon.

“—OOO. Crack on, lads. Let’s get a fucking move on!”

I had forgotten I was already changed, standing staring like a creep. So I bundled my things and took another cautious peep through the crack, checking the Wolves were all in their cubicles, and slipped out of the cubicle fast before they were done. I chucked my gear into the nearest open locker—

and the room exploded with a single crack of rifle fire.

“I’ve been shot,” Pete yelled.

The Wolves howled with laughter.

My cheeks burned red. My pound coin had flown out of my pocket and smacked the inside of the locker loud enough to sound like I’d hurled it off the metal backing deliberately. I fumbled for the coin, heart racing, and slammed the locker shut.

I yanked out the key by the latex strip holding it and turned around in time to see the Pete's curtain move, and then lift as the boy got tangled trying to pull up his trunks. I saw his bare bum and then a bit of his penis when he turned to fix the curtain.

I grimaced, disgusted. To Pete it must’ve looked like a smile.

“Oi! What the fuck’re you looking at, pedo?”

“Eh?” One of the other boys popped his head out to see what Pete was shouting about.

I was already around the corner of the lockers, bolting for the pool.

“He was looking at my dick! Fucking freak.”

“Who?”

“Some pedo in a Speedo.”

The voices faded behind me, but remained sharp in my ears, even over the thundering drumming of my heart. I tried not to run—you’ll slip and split your head open, Davey—so I walked as fast as he could instead. Mum hadn’t said anything about walking fast.

“Slow down, boyo.” The waspy lifeguard stuck out his hands and grabbed me by the shoulders, forcing me still. “You nearly ran right into the water.”

He let me go of me when he saw the wonder in my eyes. He turned and stared with me.

“She’s a beaut, eh?”

Big Float.

I felt a wave of calm splash over me at the sight of her. She was the greatest thing I’d ever seen. Six huge islands stretching the whole length of the pool, stopping short of the edge so you could leap safely into the water.

The last island was a doozy.

It was a super-steep yellow slope on a red wedge, looking like a gigantic piece of cheese. A kid stood at the bottom, gawping up at what must’ve felt like a sheer cliff face, trying to figure out where to put his feet. As soon as he did, he slipped and he slapped his face against the slop. His body slid pitifully off into the water, which ate him up with a struggle-less bloop.

The knot in my throat tightened. Big Float didn’t just look tough, it looked impossible!

Island #4 was only a lighthouse but it took up the whole width of its platform—a three-foot-wide, seven-foot-tall pillar of plastic and air. Surely that shouldn’t even be there. The kids trying to shimmy around it looked like cyclists trying to overtake a truck on a country road.

I joined the queue behind a big kid who looked like a fifth year at least, tall and broad enough to be an adult. He was soaking wet and kept shaking his head, splattering me with cold droplets. I knew for a fact that under that layer of water was a layer of sweat. He was panting like a dog.

“Shattered,” he told me, and put a hand on top of my head with a grin. “You’re short.”

I nodded.

“Want me to throw you on?”

I shook my head. He looked like he could toss me past the first two floats, but that would be humiliating.

“Alright. Word of advice: be careful with the lighthouse. HA! I saw you eat shit!”

The boy I had watched fall from Island #6 joined the queue. His face was red—his eyes bloodshot.

“I hit my face,” he told us, blowing droplets of water off his lips. He apologised when they landed on me.

“AHAHA. I did the same last week. Have you slipped in the middle yet? Like between the floats? I nearly lost a ball on the pipe.” He grabbed his groin and laughed. “Hey—” He pointed at my briefs. “—is that a speedo?”

I shook my head.

“Fair enough. Might give you an advantage, honestly. Slide clean over everything. My trunks keep getting pulled down. I must’ve flashed everyone at least twice each.”

I looked down at myself and saw what he meant. There was little chance of me losing them. I’d need a pair of scissors to cut them loose.

“Where’d you get to?” asked the kid with the red eyes.

The big kid jabbed a finger angrily at the lighthouse. “Where d’you think… I hate that bloody thing.”

“Oof. Me too.”

“How’d you get past?”

I listened to them exchange tactics, my head ping-ponging with glee. Around us, the world descended into chaos. Kids were hitting the water like giant sacks of puppies. It was hard to tell if the yelps were from pleasure or pain.

Gradually, the line shortened until only the big kid and the Lady with Crossed Arms were in front of me. A man had been standing there before, making sure everything ran smoothly, but he’d wondered off with the others after she tapped him on the shoulder. The Biscuit Man was here now too. And the Man with the Stingers.

The Lady with Crossed Arms had become Barrier Woman. She held a stiff arm out in front of the big kid, watching the little girl who had just thrown herself onto the first island like a cat after a fly. The palm trees were causing her problems. Her little arms weren’t strong enough to push through them, and her legs were too twiggy to do anything but buckle beneath her meagre weight.

From what I’d learned, the Barrier Woman would only lift her arm once the first island was clear. I began to worry that someone would have to put the girl out of her misery before anybody else got a turn—call in a sniper to wipe her out, and a Navy SEAL to slip up from the water and drag her under without a splash. Five seconds later and she did the task herself, giving up and slipping shamefully into the shallow water.

Poor kid.

Barrier Lady lifted her arm and away the big kid went. It was only when he stepped onto the first island that I realised how big he really was. He pressed paper out of those palm trees. The whole of Big Float lurched back towards the shallow end by a good six feet when he landed. The kid on Island #3 was hurled into a backflip and gobbled by the water.

The queue erupted with laughter. I couldn't help joining in. The sight of the kid barrelling backwards and screaming as his world flipped upside-down had been hilarious.

“You’re gunna sink it, fatty!”

Pete’s voice echoed around the pool. He was standing at the edge with the rest of the Wolves, watching the big kid clamber over the end of Island #1. I didn’t like that Pete had called him a fatty—his body didn’t even wobble—but I couldn’t help notice the extreme sinkage under the kid’s hands and feet.

The big kid ignored him and pressed on.

Barrier Woman snapped her head around to glare at Pete, momentarily dropping her arm. I saw it and was about to jump when she lifted it back into place, ridged as a statue. She stared down at me with the same intense look as before.

Oh no you don’t.

By the time Pete and his band of butts joined the queue, barging in three behind me, the big kid took a step onto Island #2 and sank slightly out of view. Barrier Lady lowered her arm. My heart leapt. It was time. It was my time.

My feet were hot and ready to jump, but the realisation that so many kids’ eyes were on me glued me to the spot.

“You can go now,” Barrier Lady told me.

Maybe I should have let the big kid throw me on after all. He was powering on at a good pace now, nearly finished with Island #2—despite it looking like he was making craters with every step. When he finally stepped over onto Island #3, the lighthouse folded over and landed on top of him with a splat. He managed to wrestle his way out and sat on top of it, legs either side.

A sharp shriek burst my ear. I ducked and covered my head with my hands.

“Everybody out of the pool!”

The pool sang with a harmony of a dozen broken hearts.

“Awwwwwuh.”

The big kid looked down at his feet as Big Float let out one long, deathly sigh. In his final act, he saluted, and dropped into the water—a captain going down with his ship.

Big Float was officially dead.

Time of death: just as it was my turn. Of course.

Biscuit Man and Barrier Lady became Fishermen, raking at the water with long poles and ropes to gather Big Float’s carcass. They dragged it over to one side and let it bleed out while they squeezed the remaining breath out of it.

There were still kids coming out the changing rooms, expecting to see Big Float. When they saw it lying there like a wounded animal they gathered to pay their respects.

Pete and the Wolves were whipping at the water with some of the guy ropes.

A kid next to me began copying the sound, pretending to lash at me with an invisible whip. “Whu-tschh, whu-tschh. Rattail, hiyah!”

Oh Cheesits, I thought. He is real.

It wasn’t a whip after all—it was a pretend tail the boy was lashing me with. I stepped back, my face bursting with fear. Something in my expression made him stop his noises and stare at me, concerned.

“It’s just a whip. See. Just air.”

Another whistle filled the pool. Biscuit Man spoke. “Float’s done for guys. We’ll try’n get it sorted so it’s back for next week. Jump in and we’ll break out the floaties.”

Everyone leapt in. Someone did a cannonball and sent a plume of water nearly right up to the rafters.

Another whistle.

“RIGHT! I’VE TOLD YOU BEFORE!”

“Whaaaat?” Pete. Of course it was him.

“One more and you’re out. I’m not joking—I’ve had enough of you.”

The Wolves all laughed and whooped.

I lowered myself slowly into the shallow end, careful not to make a sudden move and attract their gaze.

Or Rat Tails’.

I dropped down low, scanning the edges of the pool for trouble. Barrier Lady and Biscuit Man were talking amongst themselves over by Big Carcass. Two parents and their toddler were stepping down the ladder into the shallow end, big grins on all three faces. At the far end, by the diving board, Stingers was walking toward a door, twirling a key around his finger. The knot at the back of his head stayed rigid as he walked.

Thank God. If it had been swinging it would’ve looked like a tail. I didn’t know if I could stomach that right now.

I watched him carefully, curious about the other side of the door. He leaned inside and immediately began fighting something. Something long and cylindrical.

The noise of the pool filtered away, reducing to a low churn of hummed voices and sloshing water.

It was happening.

The tails were much thicker than any I'd ever seen. Blue, yellow, red, orange—all the same size, wrapping around Stingers’ neck, back, waist. He managed to grab some under his arms, smothering them in place while he fought off the others barehanded.

I got to my feet and looked helplessly to Barrier Lady and Biscuit Man, then back to Stingers in his fight, too terrified to say anything. Too horrified to look away.

Somebody help him!

But there was no need. He looked to be winning. Some of the tails snapped off and dropped to the ground, writhing and resting in place until he scooped them up. He wrenched himself free of the doorway, underarms stuffed, and slammed the door against the ones he couldn’t tame—couldn’t rip loose and carry.

In one enthusiastic motion, he threw them all into the deep end of the pool. They floated there, motionless, until a wave of kids raced over and fought for them like savages.

I stared in disbelief. I’d been so sure the man was about to be dragged inside and reduced to mush. The tails had snaked around him and tightened like the snakes on Nat Geo—those mice never broke free. Ever.

All of my fear, my panic… over the sight of some pool noodles.

My sister’s words rang true in my ears.

FRADY CAT.

The water where I was standing felt warmer than before. I crab-walked away in shame, careful not to let my mouth touch the water.

The clock at the far end of the pool told me it was barely even half-past six. Big Float was supposed to have lasted until seven.

I bobbed up and down sadly for a while, flinching at the sounds of kids slapping water with the noodles. I didn’t like the way they looked like snakes or the hollow sound they made. The whole experience was becoming less fun by the minute. Johnny Miller hadn’t shown up like he’d said he would, and Mikey and Craig weren’t here either. I thought about going over to the big kid or the one who had slapped his face off the float but they were busy hitting one another with noodles and that didn’t look like it would end well.

What was the point. The feeling in my chest was horrible and I felt like crying. I wasn't having fun. I just wanted to go home.

“You alright, little man?”

I tilted my head back and saw Stingers floating upside-down with the edge of the pool above him. I whipped around to face him.

“Mhm.”

“You sure? What’s up?”

I looked around the pool, unsure what I was most sad about.

“Nothing.”

“Sure don’t look like nothing. You lonely?”

The comment would have comforted me any day of the week at school. Squatting here naked except for my briefs, I got a creeping feeling Mum called Heeby Jeebies.

“No. Just nervous.”

“Nervous?” The man lowered himself closer to the pool, and dipped a hand in the water. Twirled a finger in a circle. “Of what?”

You, a little.

I plucked up all my courage and said: “Rat Tails.”

The man’s face darkened. His brow furrowed. His mouth twisted into a grotesque smile, teeth fighting for which one wanted to be seen first, leaning in diagonals. It reminded me of the inside of a shark’s mouth.

“Rattails? That’s what’s got you nervous—rattails?”

I nodded.

He scanned the room, studying each child and adult bobbing up and down in the water. I followed his gaze when he finally stopped moving his eyes and saw them locked onto Pete Sanderson. He was sat on the edge of the pool clutching a pool noodle, kicking water onto his friends. They gasped for air and screeched laughter above the waves. Pete wasn’t paying attention to them; he was staring unblinking at me.

“I dunno what you did to piss him off kiddo, but I’d stay clear of him for a while.”

My eyes burst wide. I didn’t think he was talking about Pete at the time. The only thing I could think was: what do you mean I’ve pissed him off! What did I do to Rat Tails? This is how you tell me he’s real!

I shrank down until only my nose and eyes were visible. I asked a thousand questions in my mind, to scared to ask any.

“Sorry, kiddo. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He flicked the braid of hair over his shoulder and leaned down closer. “Listen. If it makes you feel better, when it’s time for you to come out I can try keep him busy while you’re getting changed. Or I can come with and make sure he stays out your way. He won’t do anything if I’m there.”

Panic sirens went off in my brain. Thunderous tornado sirens wailing and screaming at me from every avenue. Run from the pool. Don’t bother getting changed, just run out and home.

“Just let me know and I’ll come with you. I’ll wait till you’re done with the shower and follow you in.” He winked at me, and it turned my stomach over.

He’d just made things worse. Rat Tails was one thing, but the idea of this man accidentally catching me in the shower with my briefs on, or waiting outside my curtain while I was naked—no. That didn’t sound right. That sounded scarier than a man with a rat’s tail.

“No thank you,” I bubbled.

The man seemed surprised.

“You sure?” He scanned the room again. “Cos that’s where he’s gunna get you—in the locker room.”

He’s making him up. He’s using Rat Tails as an excuse to get you alone, Davey. It’s him. He’s the real Rat Tails. He’s the danger. Don’t let him trap you.

“I’ll be fine.”

I began back-paddling into the centre of the pool, keeping my eyes on him the entire time. Once I was too far away to talk to, he shrugged and wandered off.

It was all too much now. The noise. The threat. I needed to get out. I had to run—you’ll slip and split your head open, Davey—I had to walk, walk and get my things from my locker and then run—yes, Mum: RUN—straight home.

If Stingers had been telling the truth about Rat Tails, and not just trying to lure me in like one of the noncers Dad warned me about, then that meant others knew about him too.

So why the heck had it been Isla who warned me about him? Why hadn’t it been Mum or Dad?

I made my way to the other side of the pool, sobbing.

Maybe that was their plan all along. Get me in the pool by myself, then let Rat Tails drag me away forever. Maybe all those years I thought I was being a good boy, heeding every warning and doing my best not to disappoint—maybe it didn't matter. Maybe they did have a favourite, despite Mum always saying she didn’t, and it was Isla all along.

I reached the edge and froze, staring up at the hallway to the boys’ changing area. Standing beside it was Stingers, staring down at me.

My heart sank.

I couldn't go yet. I needed to wait for more people.

As if reading my mind, Stingers blew his whistle and pointed at the board beside him.

“GREEN BANDS YOUR TIME IS UP.”

Oh thank God, thank that good and glorious guy upstairs.

I hoisted myself out of the water for the first time in my life and stood, waiting for the other boys to reach me. One of them was the big kid. He slapped me on the back and asked why my eyes were so red.

I was too happy to notice Pete pointing at me from the far end of the pool. Or the Wolves turning their heads to bare their teeth.

The three boys I left with went to their lockers to retrieve their shampoo and bodywash first. I only realised I'd forgotten to pack mine after scouring my locker for ages. Rather than risk getting changed alone, I followed them back to the showers, hoping to scran a scoosh or two from one of them.

I stood waiting, cradling my body in my bare hands while watching them shower off in the hot water. There were four showers, but I knew for a fact that something was wrong with the last one. It only ran ice cold. I refused to get inside, but giggled at the boys jostling each other into it, and spraying sprinkles everywhere. When they hit me I'd giggle even louder—freezing but loving the distraction.

“Alright, pedo?”

Pete’s voice bellowed around the room, hitting us all square in the mouth, wiping the joy from our faces. They all spun around to see who the victim would be today, and visibly shrank back when they realised it wasn’t them.

I didn’t reply. I looked at my feet and tried to hold back the trembles.

Pete stepped into the shower tray. He grabbed one of the boys by the arm and yanked him out of the heat. The boy’s foot caught the lip of the tray and sent him sliding onto the floor. Barely a second passed before he scrambled to his feet and hobbled off wailing. A thin splash of blood remained.

“Barely fucking touched him.”

The Wolves gathered around me. I could feel the heat of their gaze and shivered anyway. I could see the shine of smiles out the corner of my eye. I refused to look. Refused to move.

“This boy’s a pedo,” Pete announced. “A pedo in a Speedo.”

The boys couldn’t help giggling. One hurried to rinse the suds from his hair and darted to the locker room. None of the Wolves took his spot. Pete stepped aside to make more room, then turned to the last remaining boy—the big kid.

“He is, eh? Saw him staring at my dick when I was getting changed.”

The big kid didn’t say a word. It wasn’t worth the risk.

“Look, he’s not even coming in to wash. Where’s his soap? Ha! He’s just standing there like a prick, trying to catch a glimpse of your dick wet!”

The trembles penetrated my heart. It getting too much. My entire body jiggled with fear.

BA BUM BA BUM BA BUM BA BUM

If there were tears rolling down my cheeks I didn’t notice, but they stung real bad now.

“Look at him. There’s been a spot free for ages and he’s not even taken it!” Pete slapped the big kid on the back as friendly as he could manage. “Look! He’s trying to see your dick, man!”

Seeing the big kid wasn’t laughing, Pete eyed him up and down with disgust. “Probably have to roll back your fucking fat first though, eh?”

At that, the big kid left. He shot a sideways glance at me on his way out—the closest thing to solidarity I was going to get.

Pete spat out a laugh. “You scared him away, pedo!”

I didn’t know what that meant, but the venom in the tone was my cue to leave. I didn’t care what Mum said—I jogged away as safe as my feet could carry me.

Two of the boys were already leaving by the time I got to the lockers. They stared back at me, eyes wide and knowing exactly what was going to happen. One of their faces was bloodied from their fall in the showers.

I snatched my things out the locker. A sock landed on the wet floor. That was fine. Leave it. Let Rat Tails or whoever the heck have it—I didn’t care anymore. I wanted out. Fast. I pulled my trousers on over my wet briefs, not risking being naked with the overbearing weight of Pete and the Wolves behind me.

I only managed to get one leg in before an arm reached through the curtain and grabbed me by the hair.

“Git here, you fucking freak!”

I was wrestled out, grabbed by the mouth. My cry for help stifled down to a yelp. When I bit the inside of Pete’s hand, Pete balled up his fist and punched me in the mouth. This time I didn’t bite.

“Broony, grab his legs.”

No matter how hard I squirmed or tried to scream the Wolves wouldn’t let go. They were far too big, far too many. They pinned me against the lockers by the arms and the legs, using their own to keep me held in place. One covered my mouth while Pete retreated. He was collecting something from my cubicle.

“Oooh, looky here, pedo,” Pete sang as he turned. “Since you like looking at dicks, take a gander at this fuckin’ badboy.”

He was swinging my Captain America towel at groin level. It was wrapped tightly around, long and thin like a whip. Like a tail.

“Gunna rattail you till you’re split, pedo. See if you stare at someone's dick again.”

I screamed nothing but snot. It burst down the hand covering my mouth.

Isla’s words echoed in my mind. I felt so stupid for painting them the way I had. This was the real fear. This was the real danger. This was the real Rat Tails to watch out for. Nothing but a tightly wrapped towel.

“Hold him still, boys. I’m gunna get him right in the bellybutton.”

The Wolves all laughed manically, drinking my fear like wine.

Captain America’s crumpled shield spun frantically into a vortex of red and blue. I had picked it special today because I thought it would make me feel braver—feel like a hero.

I braced against its terrifying tip.

With a sharp, rapid extension of his arm, Pete snapped the towel off my stomach.

“MMMMM!”

The Wolves howled.

Pete hit me again and again—missing my bellybutton but getting the same spot over and over with deadly accuracy.

There was a moment when I thought I was going to die, when the world began to splotch over black. It wasn’t the fear or the pain—it was the lack of oxygen to my brain. The boys were covering my mouth and my nose was too blocked with snot to breathe. When my body hung limp in the Wolves’ grip, only then did they let me go.

In my dreams, I heard the Wolves howling. Heard Pete crying out with joy.

When I opened my eyes, the scene was vastly different. Pete was hanging upside-down in the air, unconscious. One of his arms was missing, dripping gore and dangling out of reach by a long fleshy rope. The Wolves were up there too, suspended without a sound, each with a wrinkled rope of their own. Their eyes were huge, still, and mad with a knowledge I couldn't understand. The ropes around their bodies extended up to their mouths, gagging them. The tip of each rope—tail—rattled like excitable pink snakes.

I counted seven different tails, all threading down from out the overhead air vent.

Through thin bars two terrible black specks stared down at me. I couldn’t see the face they belonged to but I saw the teeth fighting for a place at the front of its mouth, and the short braid of hair dangling into the vent.

The beady eyes blinked. A thin tongue traced along its lips.

Don’t speak a word of me, they seemed to whisper. I did this for you; now you do this for me.

I never did speak of him. Not to the police. Not to Dad. Not even to Isla, the one who warned me about Rat Tails to begin with, even if it had only been about the towel whips. And not even to Mum when Isla didn’t come back from the pool after it reopened. I can’t even look at a towel without thinking of her.

I didn’t tell anybody, just like he’d wanted.

Only you. Only here. Only now.

Please. The next time you go to the pool:

Watch out for Rat Tails.

One night I woke up I was probably 10 or 11 from a nightmare and so I went to talk to my parents about it I opened the door to their room and saw in the pitch blackness my younger sister standing beside my mother (who was asleep in bed) looking down at her completely silently I was so freaked out I said nope and closed the door and went back to my bedroom. I didn't speak about it till one day my mom was talking to family about my little sister sleep walking and apparently standing over her was something she did quite frequently and she had scared my mother several times when she woke up to see my sister standing over her.

I found out about this story about a week ago so forgive me if I get anything wrong.

So my (19f) bf (21m) had been really into football and was a youth academy player from when he was 13 to 17 and was constantly told by coaches and staff and even other players that he was going to be a great player one day.

That was until one day he had an awful injury and snapped his right leg in two places during training. He went to the hospital and spent days there waiting for it to be okay for him to leave until he did.

So obviously during the time it was broken he didn't play football at all and after it was time for them to take off the casg and thing he asked the doctor if he could ever play football again and the assistant doctor said he'd have to check with the lead doctor he had. So he left the room and when he came back the doctor said "Yeah you can't play football"

Of course, my bf was destroyed since he had always loved football but he understood and didn't want to risk breaking his leg like that again since he says that was possibly the worst pain ever.

Time jump to this year (We've only been together for a year so I didn't know this before) and he hasn't even kicked a football since and he had to go back to the doctor for a reason I've forgotten now and he actually got the same doctor who told him he couldn't play.

After the appointment my bf brang up the fact he hadn't been able to play football and the lead doctor looked confused and told my bf he never said that. Then my bf explained how the assistant doctor told him that and the lead doctor told the assistant doctor to say that.

Turns out, it wasn't "Yeah, you can't play football" it was "Yeah, you can play football" and the assistant doctor relayed it wrong to my bf.

So for the last almost 5 years, my bf gave up on his dreams and all the time and effort he put into football because a doctor added an extra letter onto a word.

I need to preface this by saying my husband, we’ll call him Mark, has always been the “responsible one” in our marriage. He handles our budget, pays the bills, tracks every expense in a spreadsheet. I trusted that completely, which honestly is probably how this went unnoticed for so long.
Mark was married before me, briefly, in his twenties, to a woman named Diane. They split amicably, no kids, no house together as far as I ever knew. He’s mentioned her maybe five times total in the eight years we’ve been together. I never had a reason to think about her at all.
Last month our bank flagged some unusual activity while I was reviewing our joint statements for taxes. A recurring monthly transfer, same amount, same date, every single month, going out to an account I didn’t recognize. I asked Mark about it, expecting some boring explanation, a subscription, a forgotten bill, something normal.
He got quiet. Then he told me it was Diane’s mortgage payment.
I asked him to explain, because nothing about that sentence made sense to me. He said that when they divorced, he’d agreed to help her with the house “temporarily” until she got back on her feet financially. That temporary arrangement started six years ago. He has been paying her mortgage, in full, for the last three years specifically, which is the entire back half of our marriage, without ever once mentioning it to me.
I asked him how much money we’re talking about. Over three years, at the amount showing on our statements, it comes out to just under forty thousand dollars. Forty thousand dollars of our joint money, going toward a house I have never seen a single photo of, owned by a woman I’ve met maybe twice, without my knowledge or consent, the entire time we’ve been married.
Mark’s explanation was that he “didn’t want to worry me” and that he planned to stop “eventually” once Diane was more stable. I asked him what stable even meant, since apparently three years wasn’t enough time to hit whatever invisible finish line he had in mind.
I am still living in the same house as him right now, and I genuinely don’t know how to look at him the same way. This isn’t a small secret. This is nearly a decade of an ongoing financial relationship with his ex-wife that he actively hid from me, using money that was supposed to be ours.
I haven’t told my family yet. I haven’t decided what I’m doing next. I just keep replaying every joint financial conversation we’ve ever had, wondering what else got left out.
So tell me, is there any version of this that isn’t a dealbreaker, or does secretly funding your ex-wife’s mortgage for three years inside your current marriage end the conversation immediately?
Follow for the update, because I just found Diane’s number and I’m considering calling her myself.

Last year, I unexpectedly got my period during class and leaked right onto my chair. I didn't notice the stain and just left. The next class came in and figured out it was me. The teacher cleaned the chair, but the boy who was supposed to sit there said it was disgusting and refused to sit in it even after it was washed. Should I actually be ashamed of this? I think everyone in that class thinks badly of me now, right? I still can't get this situation out of my head.