Deep inside Monique’s soul, it rained napalm.

  She stared at this atrocity masquerading as the boy she liked. Spray a chain with rainbows and call it justice. The thing standing before her wore Kellan’s face with a grotesque, unnerving precision. If it was some form of shapeshifter, she would have expected that it wore the skin like a hastily assembled, cheap skin suit stretched over a scaffolding of intent. But this was not the case. At least going by what it had told her.

  She frantically tried to understand it, this thing in front of her, searching for a known quantity, a myth, a foe she could label and, perhaps, defeat. Which was a very short list, given that mythology had never been an interest of hers, besides that short phase where she’d been into ancient Egypt.

  But this thing defied categorization. It was not a traditional threat, no identifiable monster of folklore or legend. Not a god demanding worship, a demon seeking a soul-pact. It was not some eldritch horror from beyond the stars, dripping with incomprehensible geometries and maddening whispers.

  It was infinitely worse than all of them combined.

  It was the status quo.

  At least that’s what she had understood from its little spiel.

  This simulacrum was the physical manifestation of institutions, the bureaucratic (boogey)men made flesh. It was the whisper of clean offices where morally bankrupt decisions were rubber-stamped. It was the collective, suffocating voice of Everything As It Is, the ingrained complacency and violence that maintained the current order. If you kill one you’re a murderer, if you kill a million, you’re not optimal but the best we have got. Don’t let perfect be the enemy of good.

  Monique felt her bones creak. She clenched her fists tighter. Just about to break her own skin with her fingernails.

  The stifling, thoughtless, soulless authority that claimed absolute, unwavering neutrality. A neutrality that was, in fact, the most insidious form of aggression. It’s a perfectly neutral, unbiased machine of endless murder.

  Spit in my face and tell me its raining, and when its not raining, its always been this way. It was the crushing engine of systemic balance, relentlessly, systematically crushing people, under the utterly indifferent weight of Everything As It Is. And now, it wore the face of the one boy she had allowed herself to care about. Alright that one is maybe a bit too far. You care about Connor and Dad and … Shane.

  Fuck. Shane. All of this was his fault and

  Pay attention!

  The true horror was not the skin-suit, but the ideology it represented, staring back at her with Kellan's familiar, yet utterly empty, eyes.

  Monique felt exhausted. She signed.

  Quietly she said, “I - I’m sorry my existence is offensive to you.”

  There was no trace of sarcasm in her tone. No practiced smirk, No layer of irony to separate her from a painful world.

  She hadn't expected it to feel so heavy, so irrevocably final, yet simultaneously so freeing.

  She had almost expected some snarky comment, but her companions had deserted her for the moment.

  The thing wearing Kellan blinked, its corporate standard expression of wounded understanding momentarily freezing. The subtle, ceaseless tremor of life that usually vibrated just beneath the surface stilled completely, rendering the body unnaturally still. People, Animals, Things especially Kellan do not stop moving completely. Unless they are dead.

  Her mind raced. This world has been conditioned to treat anything that doesn’t conform as not merely an inconvenience, but an active, existential threat. To abandon all things that suggest a different way could be possible.

  This mechanism is subtle, woven into the very fabric of existence. It is the silent, perpetual function of a system that views difference, deviation, and dissent as malignancies that must be excised for the greater ‘health’ of the whole. Or rather than such active exclusionary violence, any difference is simply subsumed and incorporated turned into another focus group and marketed to. Sorry, we can’t help.

  The system rarely resorts to outright, loud brutality anymore. That is inefficient and draws unwanted attention. Besides, it’s the twenty first century and we are above such things. At least at home. Instead, it smiles benignly, its voice measured and polite, as it subtly but inexorably asks you to die. Otherwise, you have to bear the exhaustion of constantly justifying your right to exist. Do all that in a world that wasn't built for you. That is increasingly built not even for other people but for no one at all. Co-opt your own self-doubt and become the most effective enforcer of its will. You make yourself disappear, not in murder but as a necessary, self-inflicted sacrifice for peace. Aren’t you a good person, sacrificing so much for others? Ignore the fact that neither you nor they want any of this, just die. If you can’t die, then be happy, and if you can’t be happy at least be quiet. You wouldn’t want to bother people, right?

  Get out of my head! She screamed in her mind.

  Also, this not just a metaphor, it, literally murders people, causes suffering unimaginable and tells you that you should be grateful it’s not happening to you, instead of demanding it doesn’t happen at all. She completed her earlier thoughts.

  She frowned, the intrusion into her steam of thought not exactly welcome.

  Fuck. This. She thought.

  Deep inside of her, they stirred.

  Shuyet whispered, soft and trembling with an absolute, lethal fury that transcended the human

  They picked the wrong fucking girl to issue ultimatums to.

  The not-Kellan stood perfectly still, processing the unexpected response.

  And then it spoke:

  “You should know- resistance hurts.”

  Monique stared back.

  Then, just above a whisper, she replied “Good.”

  Monique stood up. Rising from the scarred, moss-covered stone bench where she had been resting. Was the moss there before? What was the bench made from?

  The air remained still, the scent of damp earth and distant sulfur unchanged.

  It was just her. She needed no props or special effects to justify her presence.

  The entity wearing Kellan’s face, that hideous mockery of the man she loved, stilled completely, its perfect, chillingly familiar posture freezing in place. Probably not exactly what it had expected. It was control and lie, and her simple existence was a threat to its reality.

  “What do you want?” The voice of her boyfriend asked, its voice carefully neutral as always.

  She took one deliberate step forward, her voice steady and sharp, “I want the thing that was allegedly promised to everyone since their birth.”

  Her eyes locked onto the entity, refusing to entertain even a shadow of fear.

  “Human rights. You know: Life. Liberty. The pursuit of happiness.” She paused “I want the illusion you give everyone to be real.”

  Every syllable of her speech was imbued with an absolute, uncompromising, steel-plated conviction. One that she hadn’t been aware of previously. She didn’t know that she cared that much.

  It is only when one listens to their heart, that one learns their measure, Ib declared.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Weren’t you advocating that we join this thing earlier? Monique challenged.

  I was wrong. Ib simply stated.

  The entity standing before her, the imitation that wore the guise of Kellan, the not-Kellan, stared back. It’s borrowed features were devoid of expression. There was no easy, winning smile that usually existed on his face. No trace of the familiar charm and easygoing menace (?) that characterized Kellan.

  “We cannot allow that.”

  She didn’t flinch. “I know.”

  The silent, burning rain of napalm in her soul intensified, a constant, agonizing drizzle against the dry, shattered landscape of her inner world. She took a step forward, and poked it in the chest, and pocked Kellan in the chest. She felt a small zap.

  “Fucking watch me.” She hissed into the ear. “I don’t need permission to do shit”

  The illusion shattered, not with a gentle crack, but a deafening, reality-rending psychic scream. It was the sound of a carefully constructed lie violently disassembled, echoing in the hollow chambers of his mind.

  Are you calling him stupid? Also never go on a rant like that when I can’t interrupt, that was boring as hell. Shut said.

  Kellan’s body shook violently, a strobe-light shudder that ripped across his physical form. His face was the center of existential malfunction, shimmering and strobing between the recognizable, terrified frames of himself and a horrifying, smear. This smear was not a void, but an overabundance, a chaotic collage of eyes that didn't belong to any single being, fragments of forgotten scripts, arcane formulas and request sheets etched onto flesh, and the worn-out, desperate pleas of countless souls woven into his very structure. It was the raw, screaming static of the masses beneath the system, momentarily wearing his identity thin, revealing the impossible construct beneath.

  He staggered, his hands flying to his head, trying to press the shattered pieces of his composure back into place, but the internal pressure was too great. The air around him seemed to thicken, tasting of ozone and fear. For one prolonged, agonizing moment, he was not Kellan, but a vessel, a temporary shell housing a monstrous truth. The illusion’s demise had been fatal to his certainty.

  Then.

  It was gone. It ceased as abruptly as it began. Kellan was whole again, slumped against the cold wet ground, trembling. The chaos retreated, pulling the horrific smear and the screaming collage of eyes back behind the thin, fragile scrim of reality.

  Something, somewhere, somehow broke. And what remained was just Monique. And Kellan. Collapsed, coughing.

  She rushed to his side, he blinked up at her, dazed and disoriented, like a deep-sea diver surfacing too quickly. His eyes, were wide and glassy. "Did I… say something embarrassing?" he mumbled, confused his voice hoarse, like he had just woken up. "Feel like I blacked out for a minute. How did I get here?"

  She let out a long, shaky exhale. "Yeah. Good question. You said Something like that," she managed, her voice thick. "But it’s okay. You’re back. You're back."

  Monique didn't speak of the entity. She didn't try to explain the terrifying things he had uttered, the crushing nihilism that was the things entire reason for existing.

  Instead of explanations or questions, she simply tightened her arms around him, pulling him close until his head rested against her shoulder, his breathing evening out into a slow, steady rhythm. She just held him.

  Doesn't this contradict what was said earlier?

  Her arms wrapped around Kellan with a desperate, crushing intensity, a silent, primal need to physically prove to herself that he was solid again. This wasn't a trick of the light, or a phantom limb sensation, or the cold, calculated performance of an insidious Pattern. This was real.

  She pressed her face into the familiar curve of his neck, inhaling the scent of him, a mix of old spice – as in aged aromatics, smoke from a grass fire, and the clean, metallic tang of tension.

  The subtle tremor running through her own body mirrored the faint, steady drumming of his heart beneath her ear. It was the music of survival, of a soul returned.

  Could you be anymore dramatic? Shut suggested

  Shut up. Im trying to cope.

  Just Kellan.

  He was here, imperfectly, wonderfully present. Just some guy.

  Human.

  …Probably.

  Hers. Not as property, or a prize won, or a guarantee, but as the one constant in a universe determined to redefine chaos. He leaned heavily into her, his breath warm against her collarbone.

  His fingers curled lightly at her back, not gripping, just there, a hesitant connection. He mumbled into her shoulder, the words thick with lingering sleep and a deeper honesty, “Did I tell you what I wanted to yet?”

  His voice was small. Tired. Mostly.

  Completely unmasked.

  Monique blinked slowly, her throat tightening against a sudden, unexpected flood of emotion.

  “No,” she said softly. “Not really, no.”

  Kellan pulled back just enough to look at her, searching her face. His eyes were their normal, human color. Although there was something lurking inside that she had always felt pulled to. Or maybe that was just what attraction was like. There was no cosmic, metaphysical current humming behind them. Probably. Hopefully. Maybe. Just that vulnerable, terrified-of-being-rejected boy expression she had only ever seen once before, right after she had punched and before she kissed him.

  “I want to stay,” he whispered.

  Not I want to fight with you.Not I want to be useful.Not even I love you.

  Just:

  “I want to stay.”

  He swallowed. “Even if I don’t always understand. Even if I say the wrong thing. Even if it gets bad.”

  His hands were shaking a little now. He paused “Especially if I say the wrong thing. “

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Really Momo, I want to stay,” he whispered.

  Ask him if he’s a werewolf.

  Shut up, Shadow. I swear to everything.

  Monique barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The theatricality of the moment, the way Kellan seemed to be poised for a tragedy that hadn't even been written yet, grated on her frayed nerves. She gripped her hands into fists – also she had definitely broken her skin earlier which sucked- inside her pockets, forcing the unfamiliar tremor back down into the bedrock of her composure.

  She looked at him.

  She really looked at him. Stripped away the layer of their usual, comfortable antagonism and saw the man beneath.

  All the smugness, the way he would lean against a doorway, like a fucking asshole, with a perfectly calculated smirk, like a fucking asshole. All the cocky flirtation, the quick, practiced ease with which he charmed everyone around him, LIKE A FUCKING ASSHOLE. All of that wasn’t just facets of his personality, the easy-going nature of a man born lucky. They were shields. They were his armor, intricate and polished, worn daily to keep the world, and specifically her, at a safe, superficial distance. Touch his body, not his heart or whatever.

  Possibly because of his mothers early death, JB suggested.

  But right now, he wasn’t wearing any of it. His eyes were wide, clear, and absolutely unguarded. The man standing before her was exposed, his chest bare to her judgment.

  I bet you think about his bare chest a lot

  For fucks sake.

  And he was asking, not for her forgiveness

  But for permission to simply exist beside her. To occupy the same space, to weather the inevitable storms with her, instead of retreating to the safety of his solitude.

  Its so romantic! JB said excited.

  Its so manipulative. Her shadow declared soberly.

  The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. She answered, the words simple, yet solid as bedrock, without a single wasted syllable:

  “Then don’t. Not like forever but… for the foreseeable future. ”

  It was simple. Soft. Solid. Not dramatic. There were no soaring violins or swelling declarations of love. Not poetic. There was no metaphor or flowery language to soften the brutal truth of the situation.

  But devastatingly real. It was the truth bereft of all ornamentation, a complete, unreserved surrender to the shared reality of their connection.

  The kind of real that finally quieted the incessant noise of the soul, the constant internal chatter of fear, doubt, and self-preservation.

  Kellan nodded slowly, a profound, visible relief blooming behind his eyes. And then, they just sat there, allowing the world to settle around them like dust motes descending onto a polished floor. The grand, cosmic theater of their recent trials, the clamor of conflict, the impossible choices, it all receded, muted, replaced by the mundane, profound rhythm of an ordinary Saturday afternoon.

  The expectation, the desperate, cinematic hope for some kind of grand supernatural finale, vanished.

  No magic. No blinding light to signify the shifting of the cosmic balance.

  No whispering voices from the void. The terrifying, seductive promises of the past, the insidious attempts to claim her mind and destiny, were absent.

  All that remained was the here and now. The simple, solid reality of the park bench, worn smooth by countless lives and seasons. Even if it was only placed here two weeks ago by the cheapest company possible and with at least one city council member taking their cut. The comforting weight of his head resting on her shoulder, a silent, physical testament to trust.

  And silence.

  It wasn't the awkward, uncomfortable kind that demanded to be filled with nervous chatter or forced laughter. It was the earned kind. It was the deep, resonant calm after a heart-wrenching confession, a laying bare of the soul that left no room for lies or facades. It was the brutal, precious quiet that marked the process of coming back from the edge of becoming something you never asked to be, a weapon, a deity, a martyr.

  Drama queen.

  Kellan's thumb brushed tentatively against her hand, a feather-light touch, a fragile question mark of affection and allowance. After everything, he still sought her permission, unsure if the closeness he craved was deserved or tolerated. She didn't flinch. She didn't withdraw. She didn't stop him.

  She didn’t say anything else. There were no grand pronouncements left to make, no philosophies to debate, no excuses to offer. The vocabulary of their shared history had been exhausted and purified. She didn’t need to.

  She was Monique Duvall.

  Really could have used a middle name there.

  She was whole, in the true sense of the word, all the broken pieces acknowledged and integrated. She was Imperfect, bearing the scars that told the true story of her resilience. She was Tired, bone-deep, from the fight, and granting herself the grace of that exhaustion. And yet, she was Divine, in the simple, breathtaking miracle of her sheer existence. Completely, irrevocably, Herself.

  And in that precise moment, nestled on a mundane park bench with the man she loved breathing softly beside her, that reality, the plain, uncomplicated truth of her identity, was finally, miraculously, enough.

  And he was asleep.

  Ugh.