Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to Vertigo, which is a faction of DC comics, and to Neil Gaiman. They are being used for non-profit entertainment purposes only. All other characters and this story belong to me.

Who are all these people, these nameless faces in the streets? Where have their lives led them? Have they gone anywhere at all or is this nowhere land the only place they've seen?

Do they know the seven?

****

Casimir

"My mother says that fourteen is a hard age for a boy. She doesn't know anything."

Something in a store window catches his attention and he pulls away from the tight knot of his friends to investigate. It glitters in the store's artificial light, its glow passing through the grimy, unwashed glass. The radiance seeps though but not a clear image. From this angle, it could be anything; a dragon scale, a feather from an angel's wing, a book...

"Hey Cas," one of his friends yells.

Casimir turns, his too-long light brown hair covering his hazel eyes and forming a thin veil over his olive shaded skin. With long fingers, he brushes the hair away. "What?" he demands, his voice too loud, too on-the-edge. People begin to stare.

His friend shifts slightly, trying to stay in the intimate huddle of the group, afraid to leave its safe boundaries. "Ain't ya comin'?"

"I'll be along in a bit," Casimir states and turns back to the window. The forms of his friends become faceless shadows in the dirty glass as they pass him by, still packed together like frightened animals.

His reflection seems to shift. It stretches out, becoming taller and leaner. The hair darkens, turning the color of rancid water, and the hazel eyes dim, growing gray and hard. Slowly, the reflection reaches for him, the skin dark with underlying shades of olive. "Casimir," it whispers in a low voice, dark with anger. "Casimir, my son. Come to me, boy."

Stunned, Casimir backs away from the store window, unable to take his eyes off the image of his father. "Father?" he mutters in disbelief.

"Son," the reflection replies, still grabbing for him. "Come with me."

The phantom fingers clutch at empty air, straining to touch the boy who keeps backing away from it as though it were a ghoul. For Casimir never knew his father. The man died two months before he was born, leaving his poor mother to fend for herself and her unborn child.

"No. You're not real," Casimir exclaims. He vaguely remembers the stories about his father. Tales of a violent, angry man who was cruel to everything he touched. A man who beat his wife, even when she was pregnant with his son.

A frown passes over the wavering face of the apparition. "I will not have you speak to me in such a manner, boy."

The object behind the glass glows, casting an odd light on the ghost of Casimir's father. Reflection becomes reality as the large hands reach out to snatch the boy.

Panicked, Casimir turns and runs, fleeing the dirty glass reflection and the city's open street. He disappears into back alleys and corners, down roads he never knew existed until he finds himself in a large garden where statues tower above him.

"Welcome Casimir Lawrence. I have been expecting you for quite sometime," a voice greets him, a calm voice, scratchy with disuse but still gentle.

The boy slowly faces the voice, hands halfway held up, ready to fight if need be, and his legs tense with expectation. He breathes a sigh of relief when he catches sight of the voice's owner. "You frightened me there for a minute."

The man just bows his head slightly, as though he were looking at Casimir. But the gray hood covers the space where his eyes should be, and Casimir knows, he just knows, that the man is blind. The robe drapes loosely about his tall, lanky form, making him look like a monk. A thin, silver chain winds around his right wrist, connecting him forever to the heavy, leather bound book in his arms. His skin is lighter than Casimir's but it is not white pale or sickly looking.

The man lifts his head, the black voids in his face pointed in the direction of one of the huge, stone statues. "Do you know where you are, Casimir?"

"No, not really," he admits while staring up at the ornamentation.

A peculiar line of statues catches his eye. A stone facsimile of the man before him occupies the first spot. Next to him is a young woman with hair that drifts lazily and wildly upon her shoulders. She is dressed in a flowing skirt and an ankh necklace hangs around her neck. Casimir feels his heart twist just looking at her. Two men follow her statue, maybe three. The first is rake thin, clothed in an elegant robe. The other one is burly and his back faces them. Beyond him is a creature neither male nor female but the perfect pinnacle of the two, beautiful but deadly. A short, squat, naked woman follows the androgynous creature, her thin lips in a tight grimace on her round face. Last in line, is a girl, her eyes crazy and her hair short. Fishnet stockings cover her bare legs, a short top barely hits her mid-waist, and an open brown jacket falls around her thin shoulders.

"You are in my garden," the robed man says.

Casimir points a finger at the statues, forgetting for a moment that the man is blind. "Who are they? The statues?"

The man nods once and slowly walks toward the large figures. "That is my family, Casimir."

"Oh."

Silence descends around them and Casimir runs a hand through his hair, feeling the stickiness left by the heavy gel he used that morning. With careful, silent steps, the man walks around the garden, looking for something. The robe drags on the ground, hanging in the dirt of the path.

"Why am I here?"

"Why are any of you here, Casimir? That is not my department."

Annoyed, Casimir snaps, "Then what is your department?"

The chain binding the man to the book seems to clank as though the wind had blown it. "The past, present, and future. I know no reasons for things, however." He pauses, seeming to consider the boy. "Do you wish to know why you are here?"

"Yes."

The man nods. "I thought as much. You need only to ask, Casimir Lawrence. Come with me." He begins to walk, picking various paths as he goes. Casimir follows him unquestioningly until they arrive at another large, stone statue.

Startled, Casimir gasps when he sees the larger then life representation of his father looking down at him. "I don't understand," he cries, turning to face the man in the gray robe.

"Your father," he tries to explain, gesturing with his left hand towards the stone.

"I know that but...Why is it here?"

The silver manacle rubs against the leather of the book, making a low scratching sound. "It is to be taken as a warning."

"A warning of what?"

"You are a child, now, Casimir. Barely more than a boy, setting your foot out in the larger world. Surely, you have noticed things already, though. Like your friends." The man sits down on a marble bench.

Casimir sits on the other end, his gaze still locked on the statue of his father, which is made of black, obsidian-like stone. "My friends? I don't get it."

"You do. Think. How are you different?" In the man's arms, the book seems to moan, a low unearthly voice. It pulls at Casimir's fingers, making him want to reach out and open the leather cover, read every word, learn everything there is.

"Well, I guess, I mean..." he takes in a breath and then everything seems to click. His friends. The pack. The way they bunch together, staying as close as possible to one another for support. They want to seem tough and in control but their actions defy their souls, making them seem like what they are, hypocrites, wannabes. Except for him.

I never had any friends. Not for the longest time, Casimir thinks. And why was that, huh? Because I was so strange. Because I wandered away by myself. I wasn't afraid of the things the other kids were and I didn't care what people said, thought, did. Then the group wanted me. Not because they wanted to be friends with me but because they wanted someone who was what they wanted to be. I am their image. I am what they pretend to be. Free. Independent. In control.

Next to him, the blind man nods and gets up from his seat. "Do you see now?"

Casimir opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. He knows what he wants to say, what he wants to do, but raw instincts don't seem to guide very well. So he thinks upon it a minute. "I know what makes me different, but I don't see what that has to do with my father's statue being in your garden, Destiny."

If Destiny could smile, then he did. A flickering, fleeting smile that barely touched his lips before being blown away by a gentle wind. "You have remembered my name."

"I don't know why I couldn't before."

"Your eyes were not open then, Casimir." Destiny pauses, shifting the weight of the immense book in his arms just a little. "Your father had what you have. Remember his life; remember what he did with it. That is your warning, Casimir Lawrence. That is all I am allowed to say."

The boy nods, his hazel eyes catching in the pale light and turning just a tad more gold. "Thank you for the warning, Destiny. I'll keep it with me. Which path do I take to go home?"

The man points toward a twisty path, thick with brambles and vines. As the boy walks down it, away from the garden of Destiny and back into the real world, Destiny says, "I hope you heed it." However, his words are lost in the gap and Casimir does not hear them.

****

Ira and Irene

"It's strange to be so linked to a person that you feel their pain, almost hear their thoughts, know what they're feeling. It's kinda scary at times."

The girl laughs and points at a side street. "It's that way. I know it is," she says, looking at her brother.

"Last time you said that, Irene, we got so lost. It wasn't even funny and everyone was furious with us," Ira recalls, keeping his eyes on the road.

Irene scowls slightly and then brushes locks of curly, dark brown hair off her face. "That wasn't my fault. The directions were wrong. It's that way, Ira."

The nineteen-year-old glances at his twin sister, looking into her dark green eyes a minute, searching them for the truth. "Okay," he admits at last, "we'll go that way."

"Told ya."

As the car turns down the dark road, its headlights illuminating bent over trees and dying bushes, Irene leans forward in her seat, staring out at the countryside. Moonlight flickers in through the windows, casting pale fingers on the faces of the twins. A shiver goes through both of them.

Ira shifts his weight, looking ahead with a kind of stark fear in his eyes. Something's going to happen. It's in the air. He knows that Irene senses it, too, because of the way her eyes dart around, trying to catch a clear outline of anything but the road.

"Ira," she starts, her breath catching in her throat, even as she does.

Eyes still on the road, he inquires, "What? What's wrong?"

His sister shivers, her body twitching slightly as she runs a thin hand through her wild mass of dark hair. "I don't know. Something isn't right."

"I know."

Suddenly, the wind kicks up, blowing thick clouds over the moon, blocking out the reassuring light. Then a ribbon of blue white electricity strikes the ground, followed but the sharp snap of thunder. Rain begins to fall, forming a sheet of water over the road, practically blocking out Ira's view of anything on the other side of the windshield.

"Ira?" Irene's voice shakes, trembling with fear.

He shallows, forcing himself to remain clam, to stay in control. For her sake. "Hmmm?"

She presses her hand against the glass, eyes straining to see through the rain. Any other time he'd be telling her not to touch the glass, not to leave fingerprints and smears on it. Now they sit silently, the only sounds are the beating of the rain and the swoosh swoosh of the wiper blades.

"What, Irene?" he finally demands, green eyes settling on his sister's ashen face for just a moment before turning back to gaze at the road.

Fog starts to form on the window and she wipes it away with the pads of her fingers. "What does Death look like, Ira?"

"Death?" Eyes wide, he looks over at Irene, feeling her worry seep into his own bones as he does.

The twins look at each other for a moment that seems to freeze and last for an eternity. In the instant that they connect, everything flashes in front of their eyes. A million different things. Some they had forgotten, others remembered and cherished forever. The memories mix and fuse and lock together, refusing to come apart.

But the moment is broken by Irene's scream as she catches a glimpse out the windshield and sees the woman standing in the middle of the road.

Ira's hands are clenched white around the steering wheel as he tries to avoid the unmoving form. He forces the car to one side but it's going too fast and it slides when it hits the wet road. All he can see is a giant tree looming up in front of them and the tires have locked and the car just keeps sliding. He can hear Irene screaming...

There is the sound of shattering glass. It sounds like a million billion wind chimes all being chimed at once. Then there is the crunch of metal and the groaning of the tree the car hits. It all melds into a cacophony that shrieks in his ears like a banshee's cry.

"Ira Thompson?" a voice asks. A young voice that reminds him very much of his sister's.

"Irene?" he mutters, trying to open his eyes. He reaches out for his sister but her presence isn't there. "Irene."

Cold fingers wrap around his. "Open your eyes, Ira."

Slowly and with a tremendous effort, he manages to get his eyes to open. The airbag hangs in the air in front of him like a giant, puffy marshmallow. The air has the smell of blood and he looks over at the passenger side.

The dashboard has been pushed back, rushing in to strike the frail body of his sister. Irene is crumpled in her seat, slack like a rag doll. Blood is all over her, trickling out of the side of her mouth, dripping from the cuts on her face, arms, and head. It's all Ira can do to keep himself from sobbing at the site of her.

"Irene?" he asks, taking her hand, squeezing it. There is no life in it. It is cold, limp. Frantically, he reaches for her throat, desperately checking for a pulse. There isn't one. "Irene?"

"Ira Thompson," the voice says again. "Ira, get out of the car."

But he is beyond listening to it. His mind has been sucked into the black void that had been his sister. It is so quiet now. He feels empty. There isn't even any pain radiating from her. It's over. It's all over. Inside, he begins to howl.

The cold hands tug on his shirt, trying to get him out of the car, attempting to pull him through the open window. Rain spatters against his skin, burning him with the iciness.

"Ira," his sister starts, her voice just a tad bit shaky. "Ira, please get out of the car."

"Irene?" he asks, face turning towards the window, gazing out through the pelting rain.

Her fingers fumble with the door handle. "I'm here, Ira. Get out of the car."

Like a zombie, he opens the car door, undoes his seat belt, and stumbles out. His legs give way and he crumples to the wet, muddy ground. However, he can see her standing over him, pale and phantom like. A girl stands next to her. The girl has black hair, frizzy from the rain, black eyes that seem to pierce even the coldest souls, skin as white as the moon, and a smile, a kind smile.

Ira reaches up for his sister, a small smile touching his dry lips. He doesn't even notice the pain in his body. It hasn't touched him yet. The only thing he knows is that Irene is standing above him, looking so sad. "Irene, it's okay. I'm okay," he assures her, wanting to see her smile.

She shakes her head slowly, almost as if it pains her to do so. "Ira." But she stops and starts to cry.

The girl leans down next to him, her eyes bright against the pale backdrop of her skin. "Hiya," she says.

Startled, Ira mutters, "Hello."

"Do you know who I am?" the girl inquires. The rain has plastered her hair down and he thinks that she should be cold because she's only wearing black jeans and a black tank top.

"No. I...How's Irene?"

Irene shares a look with the girl who just shrugs. Then she turns back to him. "She's mine, Ira."

The ground feels like pudding under him, it feels like he's just sinking into it, getting lost in a wave of chocolate. "What?"

The voice comes again, soft like the whisper of a summer wind. "She's mine, Ira."

And he can see Irene's eyes flashing in the darkness, green and teary, sad eyes. Then he remembers the limp, rag doll body in the passenger seat of his car. Dead. His sister is dead. He shakes his head "no" violently.

One of Death's cold hands lifts his head and then he's starring into her eyes. "I'm sorry, Ira," she whispers and, had he not known who she was, he would have fallen in love with her right then and there.

Instead, he pushes her away, a scream forming on his lips. "No! I don't believe you. You're not taking her."

"Calm down, Ira," Irene tells him, taking a step closer. The bottoms of her blue jeans are covered in mud and her red sweater clings to her thin body, letting the sharp curve of her ribs show through.

And he's reminded of the struggle they just went through to keep her alive, to keep her from killing herself. The battle against the eating disorder and how the doctors finally said they thought it was all uphill from here. All uphill. That meant she would have gotten better, would have been okay again, just in time to be a bridesmaid at their older sister's weeding. Now she's dead.

"I won't calm down. We already fought Death for you, Irene. I won't give you up easily," Ira swears and twists his fingers into the tight, dark brown curls on his head.

Death sits on the ground next to him, her eyes dark and a contemplative look on her face. "I have to take her now, Ira. You have to let her go. I can't take her unless you let go."

"Is this some kind of damned therapy?"

"No." There is slight laughter in her voice. "No, I don't do that kind of thing. Your connection with your sister is too strong. I can't just take her from you, you have to let her go."

There's a pounding in his head, like the beat of the ocean's waves against a beach. "I'm not letting her go."

"Ira, I'm dead!" Irene bellows, fighting to make her voice audible over the roaring wind. "I'm dead. Let me go. You can't protect me anymore."

He looks at her, betrayal in his green eyes. All he sees is his face reflected back at him in her eyes. It looks so empty, so lost. When she closes her eyes and looks away, he feels like he's been dropped in a black hole. The pain gnaws at his heart, tearing him open inside. "It's not that easy."

"It never is, Ira. At least you get to say goodbye," Death reports, her hand setting on his shoulder.

Angrily, he jerks away, ready to shout at her, make her understand about just what it means to be a twin, to share your life with somebody who's so close to you, so connected to you. Ira doesn't get the chance because he feels the void in his head fill as Irene takes his hand in her own.

It reminds him of that moment in the car, the instant he and his sister fused into one, except that it's more than just that. This time he hears Irene, he listens to every word she says about life, death, and the in-between points and about how twins can never really be separated. Never. She says she'll always be with him, in his heart, in his head, just waiting for him to come to her for advice, for compassion. Then she tells him to let her go because she doesn't want to be a phantom chained to the earth when she could be an angel in heaven.

When it's over, Ira can feel the tears streaming down his cheeks, mixing with the bitter cold rain. And Irene is standing next to Death, her eyes on him, dark green covered with a film of pain, reminding him that they're still connected. "You see, Ira," she whispers. "You see."

"I see," he admits, letting his eyes fall to the ground. There's the sound of mighty wings flapping against the wind and then it's silent, so quiet that he can hear the clouds marching in the sky. And, when he finally looks up, Irene is gone.

****

Shireen

"Don't you hate it when people keep telling you about how you'll never amount to anything and they keep saying it and saying it. So that, after a while, you even start to believe it."

As she finishes arranging the rows of magazines in the shelf, she can hear her manager calling for her. Another day in the grind, in the hopeless, useless, nowhere, dead-end job her uncle got for her three years ago. Christ, three years. Has it really been that long?

"Shireen?" the voice calls for her again, loud, demanding. And she, to her utter disappointment, runs to it.

The manager is standing in the middle of the stockroom, hands on hips, cruel royal blue eyes boring holes into her head. He's dressed in one of his "power suits" with a flashy, fashionable tie of green and yellow stripes hanging around his neck, clashing with the gray of the suit. The thinning black hair on his head has been brushed over the bald spot. Too much time yelling and giving orders has given his round face a perpetual red tone. His eyes narrow when he spots Shireen enter the room.

"Finally," he squeaks, voice raspy. "I've been calling you for a while."

"I...I know bu...but I was st...stocking the shelves," she sputters out, cursing the stammer that has cast a cloud over every day of her life.

Again, his eyes narrow and beads of sweat glisten on his forehead betraying his exhaustion and ill health. "No excuse, Shireen. We've been over and over this. You call when I come. You don't finish stocking the shelves. I don't care if there's sudden rush on Golf magazine and you have people willing to pay triple the price, if I call you stop whatever you're doing and come here. Got it?"

She shallows and runs a hand through her auburn bangs. Strands of hair block her cerulean eyes as they come loose from the ponytail. Clearing her throat and then swallowing again, she looks at her manager and says, "I un...under...understand, sir."

"Good." He casts a quick glance at the clipboard that's held in one of his sweaty hands. "A new shipment of Thirteen came in. I need you to take inventory and then get it on the racks. Can you do that, Shireen, or shall I find someone to replace you?"

A pause hangs in the air as Shireen considers his words. Oh how she would love to get out of here, to leave this dead-end job and see what the rest of the world has to offer. When she was little she dreamed of exploring the ruins in Egypt and India. That was before she realized that a girl with a stammer would get nowhere in life, could get nowhere in life, because who would want her. She had been lucky to even get this job. After all, it had only been because of her uncle that she had a job at all.

Taking a breath, she answers, "N..no, that's all right. I...I c...can get it."

The manager glares at her, squinting his eyes again, and taking a good long look at her. Then he grunts and checks something off on the clipboard. "Okay," he says, the anger slowly receding from his thickish voice, "get to work, Shireen."

She nods and walks out the door that leads to the loading docks. The stockboy smiles at her when she opens the door and stands inside the frame, eyes dropped to the floor.

"Heya Shireen," he greets her as he lifts the heavy boxes and places them on the conveyer belt that will take them into the stock room.

"Hello," she manages, casting a quick glance at him. The harsh light of the noonday sun casts his dark blond hair in a circlet of gold and glimmers off the sweat that lingers on his body. She looks away quickly.

He wipes a hand over his brow, pausing for a minute, and glances at her. "Whatcha need, Shireen?"

Shireen takes a breath, praying, pleading for her stammer to not interfere just this once and toys with a strand of her hair. "I have to t...take inventory on t...the n...new sh...shipment of Thirteen." A blush creeps over her pale skin at the sound of the horrid stutter.

"Okay. I'll get it for you," he assures her, a smile on his dark face.

"Thank you," she mutters as he lifts a box and carries it inside for her.

He sets the box on the ground, wipes his brow again, and looks her in the eye. "There you go. If you need anything else, Shireen, just ask."

She shallows and kneels next to the box, her trusty pocketknife already open and ready to cut through the tape that runs down the middle seam like a flowing transparent river. "Thanks," she repeats, allowing her gaze to linger on his gray green eyes.

The stockboy nods at her once, then turns, and disappears out the door that leads to the loading dock. Her gaze follows him until the door slams shut. Then she sighs and cuts through the tape on the box.

Taking out the checklist that lies on the top, she begins to do the inventory. After awhile, her eyes begin to feel heavy. Surely, it would be okay if I just closed them for a little while, she thinks and rests her head on an unopened box near her.

When she opens her eyes, all she can see are glittering halls that sparkle in the flickering light that streams through the stained glass windows. "Wow," she whispers under her breath and starts to walk down the long hall, eyes studying every intricate detail and craving.

Eventually, she finds herself in front of a door with no way to go but in. Glancing around, she pushes the door open and steps in a throne room. The room is huge, seeming to stretch out forever in every direction. A giant, obsidian looking throne sits in the middle, on a small dais. The walls are pale purple and giant stained glass windows rise like fairy tale castles from the floor.

"Welcome, Shireen Macmillan," a voice says and then a man appears from behind the black throne. His hair is wild and black, his eyes like two stars glittering in the void of space, and his skin is deathly white. A black cloak hangs around him, opening when he walks, to reveal black jeans and a black T-shirt.

Suddenly, there's a giant lump in Shireen's throat that she can't seem to speak around. She shallows. "Hello," she murmurs.

The man glides over to her. "Do you know where you are or why you are here?"

"No, sir. I don't."

He nods, a stately nod that seems to take in his entire, rake thin, body. Then he glides back to his throne and sits down. He motions with his hand for her to come near. "Are you happy?" he inquires when she is standing in front of the dais his throne sits on.

Her eyes fall to the polished marble floor.

"Shireen," he says and the sound of her name on his lips seems like a reprimand as his cold, thin fingers lift her chin up, making her look at him. "Are you happy?"

"No," she tells him, her voice shaking and tears hanging at the corners of her cerulean eyes.

Again, he nods and then his fingers release he chin. She can feel his eyes on her as she stands there, a frightened little nothing in his shimmering world. This is the kind of life she always dreamed of, living in a beautiful castle, exploring the ancient mystical places that people have forgotten, forsaken, and destroyed over the years. Involuntarily, her fingers curl around the crucifix that hangs at her throat.

She looks up, fear suddenly evaporating in the chill of his eyes. "Why?" she asks.

His fingers are knitted together in his lap, long, lustrous, white, bone thin, fingers. She wonders what it would be like to hold his hand. "I am the Dream King, Shireen. Why?" He laughs. "Why do I need a reason? I could make you happy if you wished to be."

One of her hands pushes auburn hair put of her eyes. "I'm in your castle, then?"

"Yes. At the heart of the Dreaming."

"Is that what you call your land?" she questions, cerulean eyes staring at his face, at the sharp angles and the endless black eyes.

The Dream King nods. "Why aren't you happy?"

Shireen tilts her head to the side. "I don't want to be stuck in my job at the magazine store. It was a good job for me three years ago and I'm grateful that my uncle for it for me, really I am, but I want something more. I want to go see the world, explore the ancient places, the ruins. Haven't you ever wanted to just get out and see the world?"

"This is my world but I know what you mean. Why don't you quit?"

"Because of my stammer. Who would want a girl with a stammer? Nobody that's who. If my uncle didn't have ties I wouldn't even have gotten the job I have now. I can't go to college, I couldn't stand to have people laughing at me all the time," she admits, her eyes sinking back to the floor.

There is silence from the Dream King. A deep, all enveloping silence. When Shireen looks up again, he is smiling, a small smile, barely noticeable and his eyes seem to sparkle. "Do you realize," he starts, "that you have not stammered once since you have been here?

"But, sir, this is a dream."

He shakes his head. "No. This is simply another way to see things, Shireen. Dreams mean much more than people give them credit for."

Uncomfortable, she looks around at the high stained glass window again. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Do not be sorry. Do not ever be sorry, Shireen. That is the first sign to people that they can walk all over you. If you want something, then do it. It's your life." He gets up from the throne and starts down the dais to stand in front of her again, his lean body towering over her. His hand settles on her shoulder. "Do you understand?"

Taking a breath, she looks up at him, her eyes catching his again, and then she does understand. Life is so short. Merely a hand span or a breath. That's all it lasts and then it's gone. So fast. And some people are so scared to do anything with their life. They just suffer.

Smiling, she answers, "Yes, I do understand, Dream King. I just have to change my life myself, don't I?"

"That is the only way," he whispers and gives her a light kiss on her cheek. His lips are cold like ice but she doesn't mind.

Then her breath catches in her throat. "But what about my stammer?"

His finger taps her head. "Remember. Another way to look at things." Then the pale purple walls seem to turn into fog and waft away, leaving only the obsidian throne and the figure of the Dream King, looming over her, his eyes full of light and gentleness.

However, before Shireen can say anything, even before she can thank him, he disappears. When she opens her eyes, her manager is standing over her a frown on his red face and his eyes in a sharp glare.

Fear grips her heart for a moment, sheer terror, but then the words of the Dream King echo through her head. "Another way to look at things. It's your life." So instead she smiles and even laughs.

"What are you laughing at? Why aren't you doing the inventory?" her manager screams at her.

"Sir," she says, her voice shaking just a little. "I don't want to work here anymore."

Her boss stutters slightly, his eyes getting wide with shock. "What do you mean? No one else would hire you."

"I...I'll find something to do. I'll go somewhere. But...but I'm not nothing and I won't stay here and be treated like it." With that, Shireen tosses the inventory papers on the floor, strips off her apron uniform, and walks out the door to the loading dock.

The stockboy glances over at her as he hears the door open. A smile lights up his dark face. "Hello Shireen."

Quickly, she walks over to him and kisses him on the lips. Then she pulls away and jumps off the loading dock unto the street below. She doesn't even look back as she walks away.

****

Adriana

"Nobody ever accused me of being nice. I'm a mean, nasty bitch and I know it. But that's the only way to succeed in this world if you're a woman; you have to be a bitch."

She hears the door open and springs up, smoothing her golden blond hair and twisting her lips, full and covered with red lipstick, into a smile. Weariness clings to her like a down quilt, muffling the sharp lines about her personality, softening them in the light from the bright halogen bulbs. But the day is almost over. She just has to get through a little more, take a few more careful business steps before getting to rest the weekend away.

"Adriana," a voice says from the doorway and she lifts her eyes to greet him.

Hesitantly, she rises, pushing the padded, black leather desk chair away from her as she does. She takes a few steps toward him, hand extended. "Michael," she acknowledges him with a slight nod.

He takes her hand and kisses it, watching a storm front move over the flawless depths of her slightly slanted, almond colored eyes. "Charmed, m'dear, as always," he comments when she pulls her hand away.

The once honey-coated voice has taken on the air of vinegar as she pulls away and retreats to the safety of her desk. "Sit down, Michael."

A smirk lingers on his face as he pulls the office chair dangerously close to the desk, leaning in to gaze at the fine chiseled features of her face. "How have you been?" he inquires, fingers flitting over the items on her maple desktop, rolling the pencils, ripping off clean Post-its and affixing them to blank files. He watches her face contort and go pale as he turns her perfect world upside down and a sadistic smile tugs the corners of his lips upward.

"Stop it, Michael!" she screams, standing up, the chair thrown back by the force of it.

"Why, what's wrong, darling?" he asks, faking confusion.

Her fingers work at her forehead, stretching the skin up and out, her manicured nails leaving red marks on her ashen skin. A small moan escapes her lips as her hand bumps against the steel frame of her glasses. "You know perfectly well what's wrong," she rasps through her clenched teeth.

His face is expressionless. "No, I don't."

"Stop playing these games with me, Michael!" Adriana cries, her hands falling from her face and balling into tight fists that hang like deadweight, bumping against her legs and the smart, pleated cream skirt. In moments, she is at his side, her eyes bright with ire.

"I was just teasing you," he mumbles as her shadow hovers over him. Fury leaks through her small frame, sending sparks through the air that cause the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up. "Really. I'm sorry," Michael squeaks, his hand making a worried path through the thick swatch of dark hair on his head.

Her eyes narrow, the space between her eyebrows creasing, her features twisted by the rage that runs like hot blades of fire through her blood. "Get out, Michael," she whispers, locking her knees in place, holding her body back.

He gets up, black suit crinkled with worry like the lines on an old woman's face. Sweat trickles down his face, forming puddles in the hollow of his collarbone. Strands of dark hair cling to his face, sticky with perspiration, and his nostrils flare as he fights to get air and slow his racing heart. "I'm sorry," he mutters as he backs out the door, steel gray eyes latched unto her face, afraid to turn his back on the woman he once knew like the back of his hand, once loved. "I'm sorry, Adriana."

The door closes behind him. Michael leans against it, feeling the coldness of the wood seep into his back, icing down some of the fear in his muscles. From inside the office he can hear dull screams, sobbing, and a lot of crashings as things are being thrown around.

The secretary looks up at him, her black eyes beady and sharp. "What did you do to her, Michael?"

"Nothing," he stammers, still gasping for breath as he hurries down the hall.

Inside her office, Adriana feels the tears course down her face, cutting a trail through the jungle of make-up and concealer. Her hands clutch and tear at the desk chair and her screams echo back to her off the pale blue walls.

Blue for relaxation she reminds herself. Blue for goddamned relaxation.

Still crying, she sinks to her knees on the floor and glances up at the desk and the chair where Michael had sat. Why? Why had he done it? He knew. He knew better then anyone else what that little stunt would do to her, how it would set her off. Bastard. Why did he do it?

Adriana's hands work over her hair, pulling it free from the tight professional bun so that it falls in soft waves against her angular chin. Flinging the wire rim glasses off her face, she runs her hand over her eyes and stares at the clumps of black eyeliner that stain her fingers. A slight moan escapes her throat as she runs her thumb over her fingertips, spreading the black around like ink on a typist's hands.

The moan begins to work into a sort of keening wail as she rocks back and forth on her heels, eyes locked onto the unorganized mess that is her desk. The wail still floating free, and almost unnoticed, from her lips, she stands and makes her way to the clutter. Her hands shake as she wills herself to put the pencils back in their racks, checking each one to make sure the company name is out. Then she peels the clean Post-its off the blank files, depositing each one in the garbage can as she does. Steadily, she wipes down the chair Michael had sat in, riding it of hair, rubbing the antibacterial cleanser into the soft leather.

Wail softening into a whispery moan, she goes and washes her hands in the bathroom sink. The water is good and warm, almost hot enough to remove the top layer of skin from her fingers, and the soup is rough, gritty, cleaning dirt and germs from the crevices in her palms, digging the eyeliner from the intricate swirls that are her fingerprints. Then she stands, shock still, posture perfect, and watches as the dirt and the eyeliner are sucked down the drain in a perfect counterclockwise circle.

Transfixed by the image of herself in the mirror, large eyes puffy and red, surrounded by rings of eyeliner that make her look like a raccoon, red lipstick smeared down her cheek, blush smudged beyond repair, she doesn't hear the door to her office open. She runs more water and busily begins cleaning the make-up from her face, trying to reassure herself that she'll be going home soon and no one will care how she looks. But her hands shake as she rinses out the washcloth, sending all the color chasing the eyeliner down the drain.

She smoothes her hair down, tucking it behind her ears and walks out of the bathroom, muttering to herself about sadistic ex-boyfriends.

"Hello," a deep male voice says and Adriana, much to her disgust, screams in fear.

The large man gets up from the chair, advancing on her, his ham hock hands reaching for her. "No, no, dear. I don't mean any harm." The sight of the hands, giant, bone crushing hands, paralyzes Adriana, her mouth hanging slack and open, her eyes going blank and glassy. Her uncle had hands like that.

A whimper escapes her mouth as he stands in front of her, his eyes a dark gold, almost orange color, and his hair, long light red hair, is tied in a ponytail. Nevertheless, all she can see are the hands. The giant hands that are just like her uncles....

"Adriana," he whispers into her ear. "I'm not your uncle and I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to talk." He touches her quivering lips with his finger, quieting her, restoring her order.

The pieces of her brain snap back together and she quickly takes a step away from the physical contact, her hands brushing dirt off the cream business jacket. "Who are you?" she inquires as she briskly retreats to her desk and the relative safety it offers.

He tilts his head to the side, eyes gleaming at her, and then settles his massive form into one of the chairs. "You know me."

Her hand sweeps across the desk in frustration, knocking against her wire glasses. But, she thinks, I threw them across the room. I know I did. Unsettled, she puts them on and stares out at him. "Who sent you?"

"I came on my own business, Adriana. We need to have another talk."

"Talk?" she mutters, the lights blinking rapidly in her mind, reminding her of how tired the little ordeal with Michael really made her.

He nods. "Don't you remember our talk years ago. I think you were sixteen. It was just before you ran away from home."

Adriana can feel the blood rush out of her face as she recalls the day she left her uncle's house and the strange conversation she had with one of the field hands who worked at the next farm over. "I remember you. You said I was a special case. You said you'd stopped working with people like me years ago but..."

"You were a special case," he finishes with a sigh. "Yes. I thought all you needed was a little reminder."

"Do you want a drink?"

"No thank you. Not necessary."

Feeling sixteen again, she leans forward, elbows propped on the desk, head held in her hands, staring at him in wide-eyed wonder. "You changed my life that day. What can I do for you?"

Destruction laughs, a smile twinkling in his dark eyes, spilling over onto her. "No, no, darling girl. I'm going to help you again."

She draws back. "I'm fine, now."

"Oh, so that little scene with Michael was fine? The no-touching thing is fine? The I-can't-have-anything-out-of-place thing is fine?" he questions, his fingers tapping the leather armrest.

"I didn't say I was perfect."

He leans forward, examining her. "No one's perfect. But you don't even try to help yourself."

Anger flows through her veins again. "I'm doing the best I bloody well can. I don't like therapists, they look at me like I deserved it. I don't like men, they look at me like I still deserve it. Women look at me like they hate me for everything I've accomplished. I'm a bitch. I'm a cold bitch but I've survived."

Sighing, he knots his fingers together. "You're dying inside. I helped you before because your uncle was destroying you. I'm back because you're destroying yourself."

"There's nothing I can do about it," she tells him, tears forming in her eyes.

"There's always something you can do."

"What?" Her head drops down to stare at the polished desk, the high shine that dances with her reflection.

His shadow falls over her, blissfully cooling off the rage in her bones, bringing her closer to acceptance. The fingers of his hand linger on her head, stroking the hair to comfort her. "Stop trying so hard to be perfect, Adriana. You're in control now. No one's going to punish you if something's out of place. That's the first step. There will be others after that. Therapy. Trusting people. But for now just stop trying so hard, okay?" He lifts her chin so that she has to look at him.

For the second time today, tears stride down her cheeks, some drift into her mouth, where her tongue recoils at the bitterness of the salt. However, she nods. Through her hysteria and her desire to jerk back from his gentle touch, she nods. "Okay."

"Good girl," he whispers and frees her from his grasp. Her head falls into her hands where she begins to sob freely for the first time. Unnoticed, Destruction slips out the door to her office, closing it silently behind him and whistling a tune as he ambles down the hall.

****

Miliora and Ewan

"I don't like him, y'know. He's one of those people. Always putting other things first. I don't need him and I don't like him. So why do I love him so much?"

With a grumble, she pulls the black locks of hair off her neck, twisting the strands into an intricate braid. "Why does it have to be so hot?"

"It's summer, `Lor." His voice floats out to her from his studio.

Miliora strides over to the door, leaning her body against it and watching him as he paints. He has such beautiful hands, she thinks as she watches him in awe. But jealousy glitters in her cool black eyes as well. The time he spends with his paintings, with the art dealers, with the potential buyers. All the time that is wasted for nothing. All the time he could be spending with her.

"Ewan?" she starts, not daring to cross the threshold and enter his studio, his inner sanctuary, the one place where she can't touch him no matter how hard she tries.

A brush stroke of blue flows from one corner to the other. "Hmmm?" he asks, barely noticing her at all.

There's a pleading tone in her voice that she hates but she hasn't been able to figure out how to make it go away. Her mother had it and her grandmother before her. It's a family curse, one of many. She swipes a hand down her face, feeling the tightness of the young, smooth skin. Her biggest fear is that one day she will be old, as old as her grandmother, and her hair will be the same shade of silver and her skin will also look like yellow buckskin, creased with the lines of time. "Aren't you done?" she whispers, wanting to destroy the words as they tumble, thoughtlessly, from her mouth.

He turns to look at her then, his slate blue eyes cutting through her like a Ginsu knife and--oh gods--she wants to runs her fingers through the thick mahogany hair, bury her face in it and feel like she's going to drown because it's all around her and the only thing she can breathe in is his scent. The thick, heady scent of vanilla candles and oil paints. "`Lor," he says, not wanting to sound cross but it always sounds that way when she's interrupted his work.

"You never spend any time with me. It's all about those," she explains quickly, frantic to soften the blow of his words, as her hand jabs at the various paintings on the easels.

"You know I love you," Ewan reasons, pulling out the one card in his deck that has never failed him. The one word that can stop Miliora dead in her tracks, make her mouth hang open in complete shock. She has such problems with that word; love. It brings back bad memories for her, memories of people who said it only to get what they wanted. It freezes her up and while he hates to do that, sometimes it's necessary.

Her head drops and she presses the palms of her hands against her skull, trying to make the frightened voice that says run away, run away shut up because this is Ewan and he wouldn't hurt her. "Why do we always come back to that?" she snaps, surprising even herself.

Ewan realizes that there will be no more time for painting today. It makes him a little upset because there is a deadline for these, and it's catching up to him pretty quickly but...How can he leave her like that? So, he rinses the brush out in the water, watching the blue swirl slowly off the bristles. "Want to talk about this?" he inquires as he cleans off the palate, puts the brushes away.

"All you ever want to do is talk?" she mutters, angrily.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Miliora makes an angry sound deep in her throat and pushes off the doorframe. Sometimes she just can't stand him. It's like talking to a brick wall and he can be so blind. But she loves him. She loves him so much that she has to try and make it work because if it doesn't work then that's all there is and she'll have to say good-bye to love forever.

Wiping his hands off with the towel he keeps around his waist for that particular reason, Ewan shuts the lights in his studio off and goes after her. Every once in a while, he starts to wonder why he bothers with her. She makes every step so hard, blocking him at every turn with demands. And, yes, those demands are simple things, like asking him to spend time with her, be with her, but they drag at him, bind him like chains. He loves her. He really does but sometimes the whole relationship thing just becomes too much for his soul. Some part of him wants to be free to just create, to wander the world painting what he wants, doing what he likes, but that wouldn't be fair to Miliora.

"`Lor, I'm sorry." Casually, he leans against the `fridge, thumbs hooked in the belt loops on his jeans, looking at her as she bustles around the kitchen, making tea.

She moves like a robot, pouring water into the teapot, placing it on the stove, and setting a tea bag in the cup he gave her. Moreover, she hears his words but she doesn't respond because she's heard these words before. Do they mean anything to him? she wonders. Do I mean anything to him?

He sighs, pushing his hair back in frustration. "`Lor, I said I was sorry."

"I know you did."

"Then what's wrong?"

Black eyes turn on him, two pieces of shadow in the cloud of yellow smoke skin. "You always say you're sorry. You say it so much, Ewan. I'm starting to think that it doesn't mean anything, that it never has."

"That's not fair..." he starts but Miliora holds a hand up to her lips, shushing him.

"Stop. Just this once, Ewan, stop before you say something you'll regret later." In the background, the kettle begins to whistle and she walks towards it.

The slate blue eyes narrow as he watches her, wanting to say something, anything, because he can feel the static in the air, he can hear the subtle, sharp snap that tells him it's all over. He doesn't want it to be over. But, as he frantically searches his mind for the right thing to say, he comes to the conclusion that is has to be over because...Because neither one of them can stand to do this anymore, to push this dead horse around. His heart is weary.

Tired, he whispers, "So, that's it." And it isn't a question because that kind of thing can't be a question. It just is.

Miliora turns to him, mouth open ready to agree when there's a flash of light and the lingering smell of dried flowers.

"Another pair of lovebirds having a spat. Tell me pretties, does it hurt to know that love just isn't enough to go on anymore?" the newcomer says and Miliora can't tell if it's a man or a woman because it's so much of both and so little of both all at the same time.

The strange figure arches its eyebrow and takes a long drag on the cigarette, blowing the smoke out of its nose in one long breath. Its hair is black, shot through with tiny rivers of silver that gleam like far-off stars, and short, slicked back. Its skin is the color of milk, creamy, smooth white, and it glistens with beauty. Golden eyes, a shade or two darker than Miliora's skin, focus on the two young people in the kitchen, they hold secrets and hopes but they also hold more than that. They hold desire.

Ewan swallows loudly, his eyes staring steadily at the androgynous thing before them in its tight black pants and leather jacket. "Who are you?" he whispers into the air, voice shaking because he's afraid of this man-woman thing standing in front of him, the thing with its liquid fire eyes and sultry voice.

It just laughs, the cigarette burning brightly. "You know who I am. I burn in your hearts, I show in your eyes. I am Desire and you can feel my fingernails sunk into your souls if you'll just take the time to look."

Miliora looks slightly ill. Her hands grasp tightly to the countertop, turning white with the force. "What do you want?" she manages to spit out through the lump of dread that sticks in her throat.

"Oh, I don't want anything. My job is to make other people want. Tell me, Miliora, what do you want?" Desire places one hand on its hip, gold eyes locking onto the shaking figure of the young Asian woman.

"I...I don't want this. I'm tired of being the runner up to his paintings. I think he loves them more than he does me."

Desire nods, a sharp, quick nod, as a slow, almost painful to look at, smile crosses its pale face. "What do you want, Ewan?"

He shifts his weight, trying to get away from the thing in his kitchen with the golden eyes, the thing that seems to be able to pull his heart out of his chest just by saying his name. "Painting is my work. But...sometimes, I want to be free. I don't want to be tied down here, to this life, to `Lor. It gets to be too much and I just want to pack up and go see the world. But I won't do that. I'd never do that to her. I love her."

"I know you do." Desire's voice is so faint, like the wings of a butterfly, that it can barely be heard.

"Are you saying I hold you back?" Miliora demands.

"No. I'm saying I hold myself back because of you, because I don't want to hurt you.

"But you do hurt me. You hurt me every day when you turn to those blasted paintings."

"Do you want me to stop working? Do you want us to starve?"

"I want you to show me you love me. Words just aren't enough some times!"

In the midst of their argument, Desire smiles. It can taste their hearts, feel the conflicting emotions escalating into something that could either destroy them or bring them together until the end of time. If it wanted to, Desire could sway the balance, topple the cards to go whichever way it chooses. For today, Desire says out of it, content to feel the pain, the anger, and the love blossom from the two people in front of it.

Miliora screams in frustration and turns away from Ewan, her slim shoulders shaking. "You want to be free, Ewan? Then go be free. Go!"

Desire exhales the smoke quickly and feels the glass castle of emotions topple, shattering into a million pieces that are blown away by gentle gusts of wind. Regret eats at its heart, but just a little and it is soon vanquished, because it could have saved this relationship had it chosen to. "But what's the fun in choosing all the time. They hurt themselves even more when it's their choice," Desire mutters to itself, taking another drag from its cigarette.

Startled, Ewan takes a step back, his hand threading itself through his thick hair. The scent of oil paint lingers heavily in the air. It makes Miliora want to gag. "Do you mean that?" And his voice is more than just sorrow. It is relief, it is bewilderment. It is hope.

"Look," she starts, turning to face him, tears already drying from her eyes and cheeks, "we're not good for each other anymore."

"Were we ever?" he inquires.

She shakes her head slowly. "No, I don't think we were. You want a loose commitment and I want something stronger, something to make me believe that love is forever. That can't be worked out, Ewan. That's a fatal flaw."

"I know."

Desire tilts its head and looks at the two with its strange, golden eyes. It had expected the break-up to drive these two to Despair's realm, to leave them sobbing and screaming in the night, eventually to be forsaken by Dream and passed over to Delirium. Yet, they are agreeing. They are both ready for it be over. Miliora sees that some things can't last forever even if you want them to and that love doesn't always mean you're going to get hurt in the end. And Ewan? Ewan realizes what he can't have, what he can't commit to, maybe forever, maybe for just right now. Angered by the odd turn of events, Desire grinds the cigarette under its heel and disappears.

The two young people don't even notice its departure as they continue to talk the night away, deciding who will get this and who will have that. In the morning, when the sun has risen and things can be seen clearer, they know how right they were, and Ewan works on his paintings while Miliora drives away. Never looking back.

****

Gareth

"When you're a born loser there's nothing you can do to make the world seem better. You just ride the waves until it's over. And you're always hoping for it to be over damn quick."

He wants to slam his fist through the television and wipe that smug grin off George Clooney's ugly face. But he doesn't dare because he's just too scared to move, too afraid of what might happen to his hand if it goes smashing through the glass.

So, instead, Gareth pulls out a beer and takes a long swig of it. It's warm and tastes like something rotten and putrid and it's all he can do to keep himself from retching the instant he pulls it into his mouth. Nevertheless, he swallows it, making a face at the taste, and then takes another drink.

He wants to get plastered, dead drunk, numb. Maybe then he won't feel like such a loser. Maybe then it will all be okay.

The words of his ex-girlfriend, Zoe, echo through his head. "For you it will never be okay. You've got some kind of weird complex, Gareth. For you it will never be okay." Then she had turned on her heel, that lovely platinum hair swinging over her shoulders, and walked out the door, slamming it behind her, bringing his world tumbling down.

"I don't have a complex," he mutters, staring down through the mouth hole in the beer bottle, watching the currents in the amber liquid as they crash against the sides and roll back onto one another.

Just like life, he thinks morosely. The tides are always coming back at you. No sooner do you catch your breath then they're back again, beating on you, filling you with their foul water, drowning you. And all you can do is ride the waves. Ride the waves until the end of time and pray that is all ends quickly and painlessly.

George Clooney smiles again on the television, his teeth gleaming white in the camera lights as he plays the part of Doug Ross trying to woo Nurse Hathaway on that show that Zoe watched religiously. Gareth thinks it's called ER but he can't be sure.

He was never one to watch the TV Even when he was a kid, he didn't really like it. Because in the middle of cartoons there was always the news. You had to watch out for the news. It was depressing, disturbing. The images, the words, all true, all frightening. Every syllable like some monster in the closet watching to lunge forward and grab you and drag you into the darkness and keep you there forever.

Forever.

With a slight grimace, he takes another swallow of the beer. The urge to throw up rushes over him again and he can feel the bile rise into his throat. Panicked, he rinses it down with another drink and ends up sputtering, coughing the liquid out of his windpipe and back where it belongs. He spits it onto the carpet and watches a stain form in the white plush.

His hand works through his hair, the too black, dyed strands sticky with oil. How long has it been since he washed it? He can't remember. He doesn't care.

Something flickers against his memory. The image of his parents. His father the discharged army general and his mother the typical homemaker, except for the fact that she wasn't good at any of the household tasks. Her hair, once fiery red, is tinged with silver that gleams in the light as she tries to polish the table and his father, back straight, brown hair cut just so, stands and watches her, a displeased look on his face.

Father was displeased with everything. It seemed that he had never been happy, never known contentment. At least that was what his expression conveyed. Discharged because the army felt he was too old, too hard, too commanding, he gave himself the job of making sure the rest of his family felt his pain.

Greedy, selfish man, Gareth thinks and throws the first beer bottle at the wall, listening to the dull crash of glass, before picking up another.

Nothing was good enough for the old man. Not when Gareth brought home all A's on his report card, not when Judy, Gareth's sister, got the lead in her ballet recital. Instead of smiling at his children the man had said, "Those classes they teach nowadays are too easy. You shouldn't be able to slack off and still get an A. And what kind of sport is ballet, Judy? It isn't one. All it'll get you is broken toes and crushed arches. Best to get out of it now while you still can."

A smile flits over Gareth's face as he thinks of his mother. She had a gentle touch, a way with words that would made anyone think of a world class writer. Yet, she had never found the courage to put pen to paper and partake of her ambition, her gift. Raised by parents who had immigrated to the states just before her birth, her voice was accent tinged, a beautiful, flowing Scottish lilt that he and his sister loved to listen to. "Now, don' ye wee bairns worry none. Yuir father loves ye. He's just too stubborn ta say so."

Mother had been the safe harbor. She had soothed away all her children's fears with the touch of her hand and a song or a story. Judy had grown up to look just like her, long red hair, smooth cheekbones, and glittering green eyes. Like mother like daughter. Judy had none of their father's distemperment.

However, everyone called Gareth his father's son. It was said that the boy lived in a world where only what he did was any good and that no one else could meet the criteria.

That hadn't been true. For Gareth saw fault in everyone's actions and it was usually his own that received the worst belittlement. As the years went on, he slacked off increasingly until his father threatened to pull him out of school if he didn't shape up.

In fear, Gareth had "shaped" up, becoming one of the best students in his business school, graduating with honors. Even that hadn't been enough for dear, ol' daddy. Convinced that the business world was going to end up being the biggest mistake of Gareth's life, he constantly hounded his son, asking when he was going to go back to school and get a "sensible" degree.

The old man had died two years ago. Gareth had never been happier in his entire life than he was at the moment he saw the maple coffin lowered into the grave and the dirt poured over it. His mother's weeping brought an air of grief to the whole thing, crying the tears that neither Gareth nor Judy could bring themselves to.

Swishing the beer around in the bottle again, Gareth feels an overwhelming urge to vomit and, dropping the glass, he sprints off to the bathroom.

When the last of his dinner has filled the toilet, he flushes it and starts to wash his mouth out at the sink. A pale face flutters behind the glass when he looks up at the mirror. Thinking it a hallucination caused by the drinking, Gareth starts to rub water on his cheeks.

"Gareth," a scratchy voice whispers.

He looks up to find himself starring into a pair of eyes the color of tarnished gold. "What the hell?!" he cries, stepping back quickly and nearly tripping over the wastebasket.

The woman doesn't laugh or suppress a chuckle. She just looks at him with those tarnished gold eyes and runs a little hook down her round, white face, cutting away strips of her skin. Matted, black hair is fixed into a loose bun on her head and one, black eyebrow makes its way across her forehead. She is naked, her obese, little body completely uncovered for all to look upon. Her teeth are slightly pointed, like little fangs.

"Who are you?" Gareth asks as he takes an unsteady seat on the toilet, sea green eyes focused on her.

"You know who I am," she tells him and her voice makes him shiver. It pulls at something in his heart, his soul, like a hook.

Distraught, he shakes his head. "No. No, I'm afraid I don't."

Her eyes latch onto his, those eerie eyes that look flat and lifeless, he can see suicide in those eyes. Then she steps through the glass, her pudgy leg just parts the molecules, spans the distance between here and there. "You are mine, Gareth," she proclaims, one fat hand reaching towards him.

"I never thought Death would look like you," he admits, shaking his head as his fingers run channels in his hair.

"I am not Death."

Gareth tilts his head to the side, running a hand over the stubble on his chin. "No, I suppose you aren't. Right then." He narrows his eyes. "Who are you?"

Again, she uses the small hook on her ring to cut a ribbon of her skin away. The blood flows down her skin resembling a can of red paint on marble. She holds the ring out so he can see it, so that the tiny hook is visible, and then she twists it hard.

With a gasp, Gareth clutches his chest, feeling a deep stabbing pain echo through him, like the twisting of a tiny hook in his heart. "I know you."

She nods. "You are mine."

"Haven't I always been?" he asks when the pain dwindles away to the dull throbbing he has become quite used to. The slight ache that assures him that he is alive, that keeps him up at night crying his eyes out, gazing fondly at the switchblade knife on his nightstand but knowing that he will never have the strength to use it.

Suicide's for cowards, his father always said.

The hook seems to sink in a little more, just like his father's words, burrowing down to touch the heart of him, the soul of him. Breaking him. Crushing him. Scarring him. "Despair," he hisses through his teeth, voice broken and flat.

Despair says nothing. She just stands there watching the man on the toilet seat. He holds his head in his hands, fingers pulling at the dyed black hair, scraping against the scalp. He is almost completely hers. Just a little more. However, Despair is patient and could wait for eons if she had to.

"Do you see me now?" Gareth demands of the sky, his face turning upwards, gazing through the discolored ceiling. "Do you, Father? Do you see who waits by my side, whose hook is in my heart now?" Tears drip into his mouth and he spits them out like he did the foul tasting beer.

"Gareth, doesn't it hurt?"

Sea green eyes flutter closed. "It has always hurt."

She digs a chunk out of her lip. "It doesn't have to hurt anymore. You can make it go away. The hook, the dreams, the silent weeping. The pain."

"No one wants me."

"I want you."

"But you have me."

If Despair could smile, she does. And if Despair did smile it would look like what dances on her lips right now, a cold, chilly thing that makes Gareth recoil when he catches a glimpse of it and oh, it hurts. "I know."

Her whisper fills his ears, bending and twirling like the hook on her ring, ripping away his denial to expose the truth underneath. Daddy. Daddy's in the hospital. What's wrong? What's wrong? Momma, why's there so much blood in the bathroom. Momma? Judy? Judy, what happened?

Gareth stutters, his hands rolling the fabric of his jeans into tight little balls. "Father?"

Slowly, she nods and turns her head. Three red marks linger on her skin, drops of blood in a snowfield. "He was mine, Gareth. You are mine."

"Judy? Mom?" he chokes out, afraid of the answer, scared to find out that what is his awaits them.

"Not mine. Just you now, Gareth. Just you. Doesn't it hurt?"

His eyes slide closed and one of the hooks barbs catches. "Yes."

"Don't you want to make it all go away?"

"Yes," he mutters, looking down at the white tiles. Zoe picked them out. She said his taste in colors was drab, depressing. That black wasn't a suitable color for a bathroom. But Gareth had known that white stains. White is stained black with blood.

Carefully, Despair walks over to him in short, halting steps. Her touch is cold and clammy like the hand of a cadaver as she slips the knife into his hand. Gareth watches as she steps back into the mirror, walking right though the fogged up glass. The word "mine" lingers in the air.

Scarlet roses blooming in the pale moonlight.

****

Lincoln

"I'm goin' be a butterfly when I grow up. I'm goin' fly 'n the big, blue sky an'... an' then no one will evah find me."

The floor is cold today. It isn't always cold. No, some days, like when Mommy was baking cookies or pork chops, it's warm. But, as Lincoln runs her fingers over the pink tiles, she notices that it is cold.

Lincoln looks around the kitchen, searching for her mother. The tiny beads that have been braided into her black hair clack against each other as she turns her head this way and that. She chews on her knuckle, liking the way her skin feels under her teeth. It feels like nothing else in the world, like clouds, all soft but rubbery, too.

Attention shifting from one thing to another, her gaze focuses on her hand, on the dark skin that seems to gleam in the sunlight that spills through the curtains Mommy had strung the windows with. Soft, smooth skin. Beautiful skin. Lincoln wraps her fingers around her wrist, feeling the bones under the skin, the meat. She wonders if her bones are black, too.

Mommy never answers questions like that. Her face just gets all hard and blank, like she's thinking about something she doesn't like, then she sighs and rubs her temples. But she never answers. Maybe Mommy doesn't have an answer. Maybe there isn't one.

"Lincoln," her mother says, standing in the kitchen doorway, her shadow falling over the little girl kneeling on the tile floor. "Child, are you goin' sit there all day?"

The girl lifts her head, looking up at her mother. Sometimes Mommy looks like a giant. A beautiful dark goddess like in the picture books Daddy reads to her at night. The ones about how the sun got into the sky when it was really in a box and about how there used to be mighty gods and goddess before the Christ people came. Daddy also reads to her about the wars between the tribes, the wars that locked their people away into slavery. A slavery they have yet to break fully.

Lincoln scrunches her face up, thinking. "Maybe," she says and scratches her cheek.

Mommy rolls her dark eyes and smoothes down some of her hair. "Don't you want t go out with Mommy later?"

"Later," the girl answers her, confusion on her small face. Then her hands wander to touch the fabric of her dress, stare at the multicolored flowers as they dance and play across the field of dark blue. "It's hot out."

"It's summer," Mommy tells her as she gets a Coke out of the `fridge.

A gust of cool air rushes across Lincoln's skin as the refrigerator door is closed. "Open it again."

The woman kneels down next to her daughter, staring into the endless dark brown that are set a little too far apart. She pulls away from the eyes, not liking what she sees hiding behind the film of fantasy, not wanting to see the lurking truth. "It costs too much to leave that door open. Don't touch it, okay?"

Lincoln nods and runs her fingers over the tiles on the floor again. Maybe those flowers will come out and play with the flowers on her dress. Maybe all the flowers, no matter what color they are, will all come out and play together. Innocently, she smiles. Mommy rests her hand on Lincoln's head for a minute before she disappears back to her room, the only sound the soft swish of her summer dress.

A bug, all black with a shiny shell, crawls across the floor. Curious, Lincoln pokes it with her fingernail. "What are you doin'? Don't near the `fridge. Momma said."

The bug continues its slow crawl across the floor, avoiding the jabbing nail.

"I'm goin' be a goddess when I grow up, Mr. Bug. I'm goin' be a goddess an' you're goin' to come to the big party I have an'...an' I'll make sure you're important," she calls after the bug as it slips down a crack in the cupboard.

The soft cry of her baby sister drifts in from the back room and if she's real quiet she can hear Mommy singing softly. The baby. Lincoln doesn't really like the baby. It can't do anything and she can't play with it. "Your sister's not a doll. Don't play with her," Mommy told her and Daddy did, too, only he said, "Little goddesses don't touch the new goddess until the father god and mother goddess tell them to, okay?"

And Lincoln has said okay and promised she won't touch the baby even though she didn't understand about the weird spot in its head and about how it could stop breathing if it laid the wrong way. All she knows is that Mommy and Daddy have told her not to and that's enough to her.

As she turns around, she catches the reflection of a girl in the over door. "Are you lost-ed?" Lincoln inquires, facing the girl.

The girl looks at her, squinting her eyes. Strange eyes. Mismatched colors like little Davie down the street. The girl has one blue eye and one green one. And her hair, blond with little streaks of green and red, spills down her shoulders. Her skin is pale, not the white of the girls next door but the white of the roses, all washed out of color.

"I didn't mean to come here," the girl mutters to herself, not really noticing Lincoln at all.

"Are you lost-ed?" Lincoln repeats and she likes this funny girl with the leotard that looks like the little net Daddy uses to move the fish from one bowl to another.

The girl's eyes swivel and see her. "Oh. Oh, there you are. I think...I might have been looking for you. Was I looking for you?"

Not sure what to say, Lincoln just shrugs and smiles, then runs her fingers over the tiles again. "Can you make all the flowers play together?"

"Maybe....But...I think I've forgotten."

"My name's Lincoln an' when I grow up, I'm goin' to be a goddess an' a butterfly." She points at the crack in the cupboard. "I told Mr. Bug so don't bother wit' him."

The girl tilts her head, taking the child in. "Both at the same time?"

Lincoln nods. "What's your name?"

"Which one?"

"What does your mommy call you?"

"I don't have one."

"Oh." Lincoln looks down at her hands, at the shiny, glittering skin. "Do you have a daddy."

"No. But I have brothers and sisters," the girl answers and twines her fingers through her hair and then higher into the air.

Pointing a finger towards the back room Lincoln replies, "I have a baby sister. I can't touch her yet. What do your brothers an' sisters call you."

The girl stops twirling her fingers above her head and starts tapping her feet on the floor. "Del. And the last time I consulted the cheery tree it told me I was going to be a kangaroo when I grow up."

"A kangaroo?" Lincoln asks, confused. She's never seen a kangaroo. Even when they went to the zoo there weren't any kangaroos.

"Uh huh, a kangaroo," Del says, running her white fingers over the tiles. "Was I looking for you, Lincoln?"

The child shakes her head. "I don't know. Were you callin' my name? That's what Mommy does."

Del swishes her hair over her face until it's not her face anymore and then she stops. It feels like the face of someone she knew a long time ago. "Is this my face?" she questions Lincoln, brushing the hair off her cheeks.

"I don't think so. Who's face is it?"

"I think it was me a long time ago you know back when the earth wasn't really the earth and there were all these crystal planets and people called me by a different name that was the same. You know?" And her face is all bunched up like the fabric Mommy buys from the store to make dresses.

Lincoln nods and pulls on one of her beads. "I know."

Fascinated, Del leans in to look at the braids. "Did you do that?"

"No. Mommy did."

"Would your Mommy make my hair like that?"

Another bug makes its slow way across the floor and Lincoln puts a finger over her lips. "Don't scare him away."

Del nods and then they both poke at the bug with their fingertips. The bug curls into a little gray ball and sits in the middle of the pink tile, waiting. "I don't like it," Del says and flicks the bug away.

"It's wrong to kill," Lincoln declares, a small pout pulling the corners of her lips down. "I don't know if I like you anymore. Goddess don't like people who kill things."

"I wasn't looking for a goddess. I was looking for a little girl with chocolate skin who wants to come live with me by the sundial. I was looking for someone with deep, endless eyes that see only the truth and that can't tolerate the things that are so bad about life. The little girl I'm looking for wants all her flowers to play together and be happy," Del reasons as she stands up and looks down at the child kneeling on the floor. Then she closes her green eye so that only the blue one with the silver flecks is looking at Lincoln. "Oh, there you are. I didn't see you."

Lincoln smiles at her for a moment and then the world goes around and around. "Is your floor cold?"

****

All these people with their blank expressions, their eyes that see only what they want to. Do they know about the phantom creatures, the ones older than gods, that flutter through their lives, toy with them like they were little dolls? Do they know the seven?