Unleashed by Moossa Casseem, death wish coffee

I take you back to the night over a year ago when a pack of wolves rushed at me from a forest of data on my computer screen. I shot up, knocking over my chair, my immediate response being one of shock and fear. But I would soon recognise the event to have been a timely intervention from my unconscious, a warning to heed of wolves circling.

I had recently returned from visiting several sites in my capacity as Chief Investigator for a clinical trial, and been absorbed in reviewing data on the efficacy of the drug concerned, a nootropic with the potential to transform users into the most complete individuals cognitively: supremely perceptive, alert and flexible.

I was both exhausted and exhilarated that night. While part of me longed to abandon all thought and effort and simply sink into a deep sleep, I would have pried my eyes open with matchsticks, if necessary, captivated as I was by the trial results, which included numerous participant reports of feeling intensely powerful.

Morning came with the rumbling sound of a refuse truck and the crashing of bins, the last thing I was aware of before slumping to sleep at my desk. I had a dream that the trial data was a symphonic score, and I was conducting an orchestra, creating music that was the most rousing and triumphant ever, when harsh, dissonant trills took over, and I awoke to the din of my phone disrupting the coda in my dream. The Principal Investigator at one of the research sites was calling, concerned that a newspaper was planning to publish a report alleging multiple incidents of serious rage reactions in the drug trial. We agreed that she would investigate the source of this story, and I would ask our media lawyer to caution the newspaper editor.

A thrum of trepidation clung to me as I turned on the radio, and someone said,

‘You better be ready. They are coming for you. You either fight or you die, that’s the truth.’

I opened a file I worked on during the night. A series of doodles and incoherent phrases was all I could find. My computer had been hacked!

*

In a hotel lobby, a growing crowd was jostling a group of us into a tight cluster. It was the day of the Society for Cognitive Enhancement conference, where I was to present a paper on New-generation Nootropics and Human Evolution. One of my colleagues was performing a frantic attempt to loosen his shirt-collar, while Blake, his lanky frame augmented as he grasped his raised head in his hands, stared at the ceiling; until he looked down his nose at me and spoke. Unscrambling the cacophony of voices, I decoded his utterance, a question about whether I was ready to ‘spill the beans.’

As my friend, Blake was privy to aspects of the drug trial that no one else was, outside the study. We had also discussed self-experimenting with the nootropic, which we referred to as ‘Bean,’ from the string of symbols, namely B34N, in the sponsor protocol code. Yet there he was, challenging me to publicly acknowledge that information about adverse drug reactions involving violence was being suppressed.

An announcement over the P.A. invited attendees to take their seats in the auditorium, and I and other speakers were directed to the green room to relax and prepare; but I found myself pacing the floor of that small room, to the consternation of others there. Then, when I finally stood at the lectern to deliver my speech, Blake in the audience motioned towards me as he leant into his neighbour, his mouth concealed behind his hand, spitting spite, poisoning other Society members against me, provoking a snigger that rippled like a metachronal wave through the conference hall.

‘It was Blake all along!’ my inner voice reverberated as I hurtled to my residence from the train station that day; and I chewed, swallowed, regurgitated, and re-chewed indications of hostility towards me. I told myself this was in order to evaluate and counter the threats I was facing, but I became stranded in a labyrinth of dark thoughts that laid bare my own failings, and my mood plunged. I switched on the radio and cranked up the volume to blank my mind. Someone said,

‘He who would live must fight. He who doesn't wish to fight has no right to exist in this world, where permanent struggle is the law of life and only the powerful survive.’

There and then, I removed a bottle of Bean from the drugs cabinet, and in a parody of self-experimentation and an attempt to fix my mind, took a swig of the bitter-sweet potion.

What happened next I’ve described in my book Unleash the Power Within, a testament to how the drug liberated me from a fearful state of mind to one of extraordinary lucidity and creativity, enabling me to come into my strength and make a deep impact on the world.

*

Blake phoned, and we met that evening. The ease with which he made-believe everything was hunky-dory between us was impressive*

When Blake arrived with a bounce in his step on the appointment day, someone on the radio was saying,

‘Swarms of vermin are invading our homeland, spreading misery, crime, poverty, disease and destruction, and we don’t do anything about it. It’s like a death wish for our country.’

I switched off the radio, installed Blake at my desk with a hardcopy of the trial results, tailored to reflect his needs and preferences; removed a key from the door of the drugs cabinet; dropped it in a box with a digital lock inside the desk drawer. Then I left to walk the city backstreets and feel its hidden pulse; and I stopped in an alley once to watch a game. It was as if I was in the cubiculum of an amphitheatre overflowing with a baying crowd as a cat stalked a mouse among the bins, leapt on it, repeatedly released it to seize it again, and tossed it in the air.

Blake was still at the desk when I returned, so absorbed in his task that he didn't hear me call his name. I prepared a lamb heart and liver casserole, which we enjoyed with a bottle of Syrah; and we discussed the report. Then, after we agreed that Blake would take his dose of Bean the following morning, we withdrew to the sitting room, and I brought out the port, most of which I alone would drink.

We reminisced about the time we first met over thirty years ago when we bonded over our shared interest in the application of nanotechnology in drug delivery. Perfidious Blake did most of the talking, and he soon slipped into a relentless exposition of his virtues while I wondered how the night would end; whether he would seek out what was mine when he supposed that wine had veiled my mind. Then I rose up from my chair and unmasked him for the fake and traitor he was by deploying a weight of inferential evidence he couldn't refute. Whereupon, I declared that it was payback time, and he would never lay his hands on Bean, and collapsed to the floor in a drunken heap - my final move in the test I was setting out for him.

*

I can see you now, my erstwhile friend, if I half close my eyes. You’ve moved out of your chair and are towering above me. You watch me intently, exhale a plaintive sigh. Next, laboriously, you lift me under the arms, drag me backwards to my bedroom, shove me on my bed, and leave.

            I was up at dawn. I proceeded to the kitchen and put the kettle on, then went to open the study door. The drugs cabinet was wide open, and there you were, outstretched beneath the desk. Next to you on the wooden floor was a bottle on its side, and a patch of oil from its open throat.

            Do you wonder how easy it was for Blake to get hold of the key to the drugs cabinet that night? He wouldn't have known that the Bean potion he drank contained a lethal concentration of active ingredients and wasn't intended for administration in its current form.

Several months have passed since then. So-called violence-related adverse events linked to Bean are increasingly seen as unexpected benefits, and instances of direct and strong self-expression.

A number of participants in the drug trial have joined me to launch a new political movement. We aim to bring about a radical restructuring of society through a programme of national renewal, with individual empowerment at its core.

Regimes come and go in a semblance of change. Power elites replace one another in never-ending circulation. Such has been the way of the world. But real change is finally coming. The old structures are about to tumble.

It’s been a protracted and arduous journey, but I’m nearing my destination. I’m the leader people have long waited for, and when I take the reins of power, my first act, on day one, will be to make Bean freely available to all who follow me.

About the author:

Moossa Casseem is a short story and poetry writer. He has been published in Bath Flash Fiction Award Anthology and The Other Side of Hope: journeys in refugee and immigrant literature.

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Cough by Andrew E Hart, pink gin

It was during the final movement of Schubert’s Ninth symphony in C Major, that I decided I would have to kill him. Once again, his cough was loud and persistent, ruining the concert for me and I am sure for all the other music lovers who had packed the Liverpool Philharmonic to hear some of the greatest music ever written, not some old fool coughing and spluttering.

 

It had been at the Christmas Concert that I first noticed him. I am not a Christmassy person but the older I get the more sentimental I have become so when ordering tickets for the new season I included this one as a guilty pleasure. The Phil had more children than usual, but they seemed well mannered and quiet, and so I sat back to enjoy some seasonal cheer and remember my childhood. And at first it was as fun as I thought it would be; some carols I remembered from school and couple of more popular numbers; I am not a snob and enjoy all sorts of music, at least in moderation.

 

But then – oh irony – during Silent Night, I heard a distinct cough from a couple of rows behind me; there had been a few coughs and sneezes throughout the first half; after all it was December and there were lots of children there, but for some reason this cough was particularly noticeable; a high pitched noise, and only half finished, as if there was still phlegm in the man’s throat, and yes it definitely was a man’s cough. And as the concert headed towards the interval whoever it was coughed again and again.

 

I hoped that he would take the opportunity to have a drink or take a cough sweet – the Philharmonic used to supply cough sweets at the entrance which I thought was an excellent idea, but have not done so for awhile -. But no sooner had everybody resumed their seats and the orchestra burst into some Motown Christmas schmaltz than there was that awful cough again, at least once per every song or movement.

 

I could not concentrate on the music and peered in front of me trying to see who it was making such an unpleasant noise, perhaps by mind control I could get him to stop. After awhile I realised who it was; a man in his late fifties I would say, smartly dressed and with a shiny bald patch. Every so often his head would bob slightly and that was when he coughed. I guessed he was on his own, as the two people next to him were a young couple who clearly had nothing to do with him, and were probably incredibly annoyed at having such a unpleasant neighbour.

 

The concert finished and He strode past me, just as I stood up, not caring that he had ruined the concert for me and presumably for most of the audience. I tutted at him, and for a moment he paused before carrying on out of the auditorium and into Liverpool. I hoped he got run over on the busy road outside the Philharmonic and that his death was very slow and very unpleasant.

 

But alas he must have reached home unscathed, because a fortnight later he was there again and so was his cough. It was an all Mozart programme; the 22^nd Piano Concerto, the overture to The Marriage of Figaro and his Clarinet concerto. All great stuff, but the opening notes of the overture were only just sounding out when I heard that familiar cough, and there was that man again, in the same seat looking pleased with himself and clearly enjoying himself hugely, and causing misery to all around him.

 

The concert was ruined; when I couldn’t hear him coughing I was waiting for it, so that I could not concentrate. And the music just passed me by, and I love Mozart and had been looking forward to the concert hugely since I bought the tickets last summer, it was going to be one of the highlights of the season. What upset me was that when I had bought my tickets they were always the same seat, in the middle with a good view of the orchestra but unfortunately also a few rows behind this ghastly man.

 

I wondered who he was; a widower perhaps whose quiet, and subservient wife died quickly and perhaps with some relief; escaping the noise of her pompous and loud husband. I imagined him laying down the law with his relatives, when they forced themselves to visit him. Or going out for his usual constitutional, his neighbours avoiding him so that they did not have to listen to his blather.

 

At the interval I stepped outside and looked across at the Victorian monstrosity that is the Anglican cathedral and shivered in the cold, smelling the damp and cigarettes from the smokers who had escaped for a quick fag.

 

And then, for the first time ever, I decided not to go back in; I just could not bear the thought of sitting through another hour of listening to this man cough, ruining this lovely music. I left the hall and jumped a bus back home to Childwall, one of the more congenial parts of Liverpool. Halfway home when a man got on and started coughing I almost got up and bludgeoned him to death, but restrained myself, and anyway it was soon my stop and I left giving the man a baleful glare as I did so.

 

As you can imagine I was not especially looking forward to the next concert, and in fact considered not going. It was a selection of English music; songs and incidental music by Purcell and various pieces by the likes of lesser-known composers such as Henry Lawes, Matthew Locke and William Boyce. Ordinary I would normally would have looked forward to it but I did not want to listen Him coughing all the way through such lovely music. But in the end habit got the better of me and at the usual time after a light dinner I got on the bus and headed to the city centre.

 

And lo and behold as I sat down and watched the orchestra settle down and tune their instruments there was no coughing, and when I looked over and in front the Cougher was not there, his seat empty; perhaps he had died of whatever it was that was causing him to cough; consumption or something equally unpleasant….I did hope so.

 

The orchestra began with Purcell’s most famous piece of music, his Abdelazer Suite, and I settled down to enjoy it, although naturally I was on edge, just waiting for that cough, but it didn’t happen, and I began to relax.

 

And then Abdelazer came to an end, and as I applauded, there was the sound of someone running down the aisle, and there was The Cougher looking apologetically at those around him, before sitting down in his usual seat and joining in the applause and – of course – giving a cough, just to make sure we all knew that he had arrived.

 

At first I thought I would walk out, perhaps I could start going to the Bridgewater Hall in Manchester; it would mean getting a hotel for the night, and taking the odd day off work, but it would be worth it to be able to enjoy live music in peace once again. But then I thought, why should I have my leisure time ruined by a selfish old duffer, and I determined to do something more practical.

 

What surprised me, was that nobody else seemed particularly bothered. There were a couple of middle-aged women sat next to him and they seemed to be enjoyed the concert despite their neighbour’s noise and the fierce looking man sat immediately behind him, had not tapped him on the shoulder, there were no glares or tutting. Perhaps it was something about the pitch of his cough that particularly annoyed me, but it was more than that; it was so often; every few minutes a partial clearing of the throat and then the cough, so loud and harsh before ending with a little gulp. And then before you knew it, he was starting the whole routine again.

 

As the concert ended I waited for The Cougher to leave and then followed him out; he was going at my usual pace, so it was not difficult to keep up. He headed down Hardman Street and then Bold Street and towards Liverpool Central Station, which was what I had been dreading as I thought I would lose him; fortunately the ticket office was empty so I was able to quickly purchase a day ticket (“are you sure sir, wouldn’t it be cheaper to buy a single to wherever you are going; it is almost ten”).

 

I had seen The Cougher heading towards the Wirral line, and fortunately he was still there as I reached the platform; I could hear his cough echo along the tunnel. He got on the first train that came along and I followed Him on and sat at the other end of the carriage, pretending to be engrossed in my book, but watching him all the time. He was not on the train for very long; once we had gone through the tunnel and into what used to be Cheshire he got off at Birkenhead Park and I followed him out of the station.

 

He headed through the park, which was dark and quiet, and I quickly caught him up.

“Hello”.

He smiled at me, “hello to you.”

“You were at the concert at the Phil weren’t you?”

He smiled, any momentary fear gone, “yes indeed a lovely concert don’t you think?”

I was seething with anger, meeting my enemy had not helped, “it would have been if I had not been disturbed by this awful coughing.”

“Oh indeed” the Cougher answered, “I must say I was so engrossed in the music I did not hear anything.”

 

And that was enough; I pushed him as hard as I could and he fell and then I kicked him again and again. Someone could have come at any time but I did not care; I doubted that even if they had I would have stopped my assault, but it was a cold night and nobody seemed to be about to interrupt me. And at last The Cougher, was lying dead in front of me; giving one final, pitiful cough as he breathed his last.

 

I left him there, as a warning to others and hurried back to the station and tidied myself up in the bathroom before heading back into Liverpool and then home; fortunately I live alone and my neighbours are elderly, so I doubt anybody noticed my late return (gone midnight). I should have felt guilty or scared after what I had done, but truth to tell I didn’t. He was dead and I was glad.

 

Even over the next few days I did not worry about what I had done. I bought the Liverpool Echo and sure enough the following evening it was headline news about a Mr Harris found dead in Birkenhead Park and the Local MP bemoaning how unsafe Birkenhead had become. They talked a little about Mr Harris; a retired solicitor and – as I had thought – a widower, loved by all who knew him, although not by those who had to sit near him at concert. By the end of the week the story had disappeared from the newspaper and I stopped buying the Echo.

 

By the next time of the next concert, three weeks later, I had almost forgotten about what I had done; it was as if I had dreamed it and I cannot remember feeling as happy going to a concert as I did that evening. It was not even a particularly good one; something by Brahms and Dvorak’s New World Symphony. But the thought of being able to listen without being disturbed made me very happy.

 

And so it started; I sat back and relaxed, until I realised my throat was somewhat sore; I tried to swallow it but there was this tickle, and eventually I gave a couple of coughs in the hope of clearing it but the tickle remained. At the end of the first movement I gave a very loud cough to the clear annoyance of the couple next to me; but what could I do. And throughout the rest of the concerto it was a constant battle to stop coughing or at least not cough too loud.

 

At the interval I hurried to the bar, and bought an orange juice, and for a moment I felt relief, as it eased my throat; I really should have ordered another one because by the time I got back to my seat my throat felt as sore as ever. And throughout the New World my torments continued, as I struggled not to cough or gulp, and of course I saw the irony but at least I was trying to do something about it; if only I had some cough sweets or a bottle of water with me.

 

I felt eyes upon me as I struggled, a young man who was sat with his girlfriend a couple of rows in front of me, kept turning to look at me, so I smiled in apology, but he did not seem impressed. Next time I would bring lozengers and water. It must have been nerves, because once I left the auditorium my throat felt fine and I did not cough once for the rest of the evening.

 

A week later, I went to a concert at the Music Room behind the main concert hall; this was a complete performance of Bach’s Cello Suites, one of my very favourite pieces of music. I felt fine as I sat down but had my cough sweets to hand just in case and a bottle of water.

 

I like the Music Room; it is more intimate; and there is a sense that you are sitting with the real lovers of music, not just those who like a tune you can whistle, and who don’t know their Messiaen from their Mahler. I am truly not a snob, but here, with a hundred or kindred spirits I felt at home.

 

As the orchestra’s cellist sat down and started to play suddenly I felt as if there was something lodged in my throat, and I had a desperate need to cough it out. I grabbed a sweet, but it got stuck in my jacket pocket, but eventually, after some tugging, I got it out and then unwrapped it; my god it was noisy, and then as it came out of the wrapping the sweet fell to the floor but desperate now I picked it up, and tried to pick off the dust from the floor.

 

Then I popped it into my mouth, aware that my exhibition was causing consternation. And so nervous was I that I gulped at the sweet and for a moment it stuck in my throat and I could not breathe, I hyperventilated briefly before I grabbed my water and swallowed some and fortunately after a heart stopping moment or two, the sweet disappeared down my throat. As I recovered myself, I realised that the concert had stopped and that everyone was looking at me, not only the cellist, who after giving me a glare resumed playing, but a pair of angry eyes which I recognised from the last concert.

 

As soon the cellist had bowed and put down his bow, I walked out as quickly as I could, never having felt so embarrassed and ashamed in all my life. I had ruined a fine performance by such an exhibition, and I wondered if I could ever attend a concert again.

 

Even on the bus home, I felt as if somebody was watching me; somehow having heard of my antics at the concert. Feeling even more ashamed, I got off the bus and headed home; it is a thirty minute walk from the stop, but usually I enjoy thinking about the music and enjoying the peace and quiet, but this time I felt an idiot, a bumbling old fool, and for the first time felt guilty about what I had done a few weeks ago.

 

 And then I realised that there were footsteps behind me, coming fast, as if to catch up with me,,…and then a voice young and cultured but with a touch of Scouse.

“Excuse me, weren’t you at the concert….?”

I turned around to answer, but before I could do so, I felt a tremendous bang on my head and the sound of a thousand drums echoing in my brain.

 

Bio:

Andrew was born many years ago in Yorkshire England, but now lives in Cheshire where he writes stories and works with prisoners out on licence.

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No Nonsense Medium by Ella Torres, cappucino

When did I find out I was a medium? I'll tell you when I found out I wasn't one — which is how you find out you can't do most things, at the precise moment you want it most.

Before we go any further: I am not a bad person. I've done bad things, but so has every person sitting in a pew on Sunday morning. The difference is their bad things led nowhere. Mine led to a penthouse on Fifth Avenue and a waiting list three months long. Make of that what you will.

I was an orphan. Lying wasn't a character flaw, it was a survival strategy. The same way some children learn to play piano or speak French, I learned to say whatever kept my head on my shoulders and food on the table. I was very good at it. I saw no reason to stop.

My mother was a chorus girl. In the '30s, that was the polite word for prostitute. She slept during the days and worked at nights, which meant I raised myself, which is either a tragedy or a character-building exercise depending on who's telling the story. I've always preferred to be the one telling the story.

That's probably where this all started.

My mother was a chorus girl. In the '30s, that was the polite word for prostitute. She slept during the days and worked at nights, which meant I raised myself. By nine I was stealing electricity from the hallway outlet. By thirteen I was checking the pockets of drunks who'd passed out on the stoop. I wasn't cruel about it. I only took what they wouldn't miss.

My memories of her are fragmented and drowsy, but I remember she was a beautiful woman: silky skin, naturally red hair, blue eyes. She'd have looked like Poison Ivy if her face didn't carry such an innocent depression to it. Despite that beauty, we were poor as mice — a four-hundred square foot kitchenette in Chinatown, no heat most winters, a broken windowsill that whistled when the wind picked up. And yet I slept in a large canopy bed with pink chiffon curtains. She told me she got it from a store sale. I suspect she slept with the owner for it. I don't blame her. I'd have done the same.

I developed an unsympathetic attitude toward life early, the way some children develop allergies: quietly, completely, and without anyone noticing until it was too late to treat. But I had one weakness: my mother’s knots.

Our schedules never overlapped — she came home when I was already asleep. So she'd devised a system. Every night she’d tied that knot. It was the only promise she ever kept. I'd wake before dawn and reach for it — tucking my small fingers between the chiffon folds, feeling a warmth that would slip away by afternoon. It wasn't much. But it was mine.

Until the morning I woke to a straight curtain.

My mother didn't come that night, nor the night after. For those two December nights I didn't touch the sheets. Instead I wrapped myself in the canopy curtains, the pink chiffon pulled tight around my body — so that when she came home, and she would come home, she always came home, I'd feel her fingers working the knot. I'd feel her there, even in my sleep.

She never came.

I spent the next four years at Angel Guardian Home, a home for girls who would never dream of get adopted. When I think of that time, all that comes to mind is lukewarm porridge, the frown lines on the nuns' faces, and curtainless beds where I still searched for knots each morning. Reaching for something that wasn't there. Hands remember what the mind tries to forget.

By the time I left Angel Guardian in 1958 I had blossomed into what they called a full-figured gal: my mother's heart-shaped face, except my nose was a little straighter, and an ass that made even the most god-fearing of nuns stop and stare. I went straight to Broadway. I'd been practicing in the orphanage choir for years. I had a decent voice and better legs. What else did a girl need?

My first audition was a chorus part in Much Ado About Nothing. I practiced for weeks. Learned every word, every step, every breath. I pressed my only good dress the night before and didn't sleep a wink. Onstage, someone asked if I had any connection to the theater. I said my mother had been a chorus girl — worked all over the city at nights. The whole room laughed. I laughed too, because I didn't yet know why.

After the callback, the director asked to see my breasts. That's when I learned what kind of Chorus Girl my mother was.

His hands were cold, that’s what I remember.

Two days later I had my part.

I walked out of the Winter Garden onto Broadway and the city hit me all at once — the smell of exhaust and roasted nuts, cabs laying on their horns, women in good coats walking fast like they had somewhere important to be. I had news. Good news. And good news needs an audience or it curdles, and I was desperate to share this news with the only person who’d care enough to celebrate. I could see exactly how it would go — I'd burst through the door and my mother’d be there, sleepy-eyed at our old wooden kitchen table, and she'd laugh and say she always knew I had it in me. Like she'd done something that mattered. Even if it was just birthing someone who someday might.

The feeling that rose in my chest was one I hadn't felt since the last morning I found a knot in my curtain. Warm and sudden and dangerously close to hope.

It lasted three blocks.

Here's the thing about growing up poor: you learn not to want things. You get very good at it. So when you finally do, really do,  the disappointment doesn't arrive quietly. It grabs you by the chin and forces you to look at every single thing you'll never have.

My mother was dead and the dead don't clap. They don't cry. They don't say I told you so, baby. They just stay dead.

That night I made two decisions: I would get myself a canopy bed, and I would find a medium.

Three months later, with my first paycheck, I had a canopy bed made — pink chiffon curtains, the same shade as the one I'd lost.

Six months after that I found the medium.

Her name was Soraya. She had jade eyes, tan skin, and a fake freckle on the right corner of her mouth that smudged when she drank tea. I arrived at her apartment on Fulton Street, and walked up to a room that stank of cat litter drowned in jasmine incense, where she sat in silence and started her séance. She clutched her temples. She moaned about the spirits. When she finally spoke, she told me my mother was at peace — described the car crash in detail, the screeching tires, how mine was the last name on her lips.

My mother had died of syphilis. Found alone in a motor court off the highway, rotting from the inside out while I waited for her to come back home. I found out when her death certificate arrived in the mail.

That night I wrapped myself in my canopy bed the way I had the night my mother disappeared — pink chiffon pressed against my face, crying with the particular humiliation of someone outwitted by their own longing. I was twenty years old and incandescent with rage. Not at Soraya. At myself. I swore, with everything a twenty-year-old orphan has to swear with, that I would never again let want override judgment. Sentimentality, I decided, was a racket I could not afford.

My years on Broadway were both austere and intoxicating — sometimes within the same evening. The Winter Garden dressing rooms were sardine tins of ambition and Chanel No. 5, Marlboros passing between us with the solemnity of a sacrament, cold cream jars circulating like parish wine. We were all, in our way, rehearsing for lives we hadn't yet been cast in. Here and there a columnist from the Mirror or the Journal-American would materialize backstage, and if your bone structure merited it, you'd find yourself at El Morocco or the Stork Club by midnight.

It was during one of those nights out that I met a doctor named Johnny — handsome in that absentminded way intelligent men sometimes are, gold-dust hair, olive eyes. He treated cancer patients. After my third grasshopper I asked him how he told people they were dying.

"You tell them the facts, and you're as direct as possible. I've come to learn that people appreciate honesty more than comfort. They need something solid to stand on, even if it's terrible news." He took a sip of his whiskey. "It's the uncertainty that kills them before the disease does."

I had one more grasshopper with Johnny at Gleason's and left.

The next evening at the theater, I stood in the wings watching the audience. They'd paid good money to see us sell them a performance of happiness, stories with tidy endings that bore no resemblance to their actual lives. And it struck me: Soraya and I were in the same business. We both sold fantasies to people who needed them. The only difference was she charged more and worked alone.

But Johnny sold something else entirely. He sold the truth. And people paid him handsomely for it, because the truth—even when it's terrible—is something you can actually use.

But what if you gave people something else? Not the lie they wanted, but the truth they could use? Not fog, but floor. Not hope, but closure.

I became a medium. The honest kind. Which is to say, a different kind of liar.

My first client was a waitress from Queens named Dorothy. She wanted to know if her fiancé, missing in Korea, was coming home. I looked at her across my rickety kitchen table, took her hands in mine, and told her he'd died at war. I can't tell you whether it was true. But three years later Dorothy was happily married and pregnant so I saw that as a win. What I'd learned from Soraya's failure: people can't let go of hope, but they can let go of love.

Word spread the way it does among women with nowhere else to turn. Secretaries. Seamstresses. Widows from the Bronx who took three buses to see me.I charged five dollars a session, held their hands across my kitchen table, and handed them the gift of a certainty that had never occurred.

Did I feel bad about lying? I don't know, I think that once you've done something long enough it stops feeling good or bad, it just becomes normal. What I will tell you is this: every single person who walked out of that room left lighter than they'd arrived. Not happy — lighter. Slowly, session by session, I learned the thing that would make my career: people can't let go of hope. But they can let go of love.

I took on fewer Broadway shows as my practice grew. My fees were simple: you paid what you could afford, and no one skipped the line. In a business of immorality, that was my one moral compass. I followed it religiously.

Before I left Broadway entirely, I got married. I should say that differently. Before I left Broadway entirely, I acquired a husband.

His name was Paul Ashford. Handsome in the architectural sense — good bones, impressive facade, structurally unsound. He came from one of those old money families where the name still opened doors but the bank account couldn't pay for dinner once you walked through them. He wore his grandfather's watch, his father's cufflinks, and the expression of a man perpetually on the verge of a comeback. I found it charming for approximately eighteen months.

I never told him I was a medium. There are things a man like Paul simply cannot metabolize about his wife — the truth being chief among them.

Over the years, Paul brought my practice to a whole different level, unknowingly introducing me to my wealthiest clients. At a dinner party in his mother's apartment on Park Avenue, one of her friends — a Mrs. Vandenberg — mentioned she’d spent the last week in because her poodle had passed away after eighteen loyal years. I thought it was a joke. But every red-lipped, bejeweled woman at that table creased her porcelain forehead in sympathy. Amongst this cathedral of earnest absurdity, while the conversation drifted between summers on the French Riviera and the season's most anticipated gallery openings, I was quietly building a business plan.

She told her friends. Her friends told theirs. Within a year I had a waiting list of Park Avenue widows, all of them veiled, all of them grieving, all of them paying handsomely for the privilege of hearing the worst.

My life with Paul was happy enough — which is to say, decorative. We hosted dinner parties where I smiled and said nothing of substance, attended the opera where he fell asleep in the second act, and lived in an apartment on the Upper East Side we couldn't quite afford, though he'd never have admitted it at gunpoint.

He couldn't have children and blamed it on me, which I let him do. I found out the truth after I had an affair with his business partner and got an abortion I've never once regretted. People speak of motherhood as though it's a calling, a biological destiny, a woman's crowning purpose. I’ve come to realize that self-awareness is an underrated form of generosity. And some people are so aware of their selfishness that the most selfless thing they can do is not to have children.

My practice flourished. My marriage did not. The day after I turned forty, I found him in bed with a woman who looked like me fifteen years prior. Younger, obviously. Prettier— maybe. She had the kind of wide-eyed admiration I'd stopped faking around year three, which told me she had approximately two more years before she'd be replaced by someone who looked like her fifteen years prior. I stood in the doorway for a moment, and then I laughed. Not bitterly. Genuinely. Paul always did like an audience.

I cried, briefly, in the bathroom. Then I packed my things.

I took my clothes, my jewelry, and the canopy bed. I left him the fish forks. I've always believed in leaving a man just enough to feel like he won.

I rented a brownstone in the Village and hung a brass sign by the door: "Appointments Only." No more Madame Fontaine. No more veils. No more borrowed accents. Just me. Three years later I was making more in a month than Paul made in a year. I sent him a Christmas card every December. He never wrote back, which I took as a compliment.

I built an empire out of bad news. I told a shipping magnate's widow her husband had died thinking of his mistress. She left me her Cartier watch in her will. I told a Broadway producer his mother had never forgiven him for missing her funeral. He sent me a case of Château Margaux every Christmas until he died. I told a sitting governor's wife that her son, dead from an overdose, had blamed her in his final moments. She doubled my fee and came back the following week. They always came back.

I was profiled in The New Yorker in 1987. "The No-Nonsense Medium," they called me. No candles. No theatrics. No spirits crowding my mind. Just the truth, delivered like a doctor's diagnosis. The writer asked if I really spoke to the dead. I told her the dead were easy. It was the living who exhausted me. She printed that. I framed it.

It was glorious, and luxurious, and everything I'd stolen electricity and picked pockets and pressed pink chiffon against my face in the dark to one day have.

Until now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 Here's the thing about dying: you leave behind every wall you ever built. All that armor, all that cleverness, all those years of convincing yourself you didn't need anyone—none of it comes with you.

I take one last breath in the canopy bed I've had since I was nineteen, the pink chiffon exactly the same shade as my childhood, and then—

I'm standing beside the bed. My body is still there, small and gray beneath the sheets, hands folded, face finally peaceful. It looks so small in that big bed. Smaller than I ever let myself feel when I was inside it.

I know I have to leave this room but first —

I reach for the curtain. My hand passes through once, twice. On the third try, the silk catches. I tie a knot. Carefully. The way my mother used to. The way I spent seventy years searching for.

There. Proof I was here.

And then I see her. Not a door, not a tunnel. Just her. Standing by the window, bathed in that early light, as if she'd been there all along. Red hair, blue eyes, that innocent depression on her face. My mother. She's smiling. She's been waiting.

I spent my whole life believing that hope was a trap. That wanting things only led to disappointment. That the kindest thing you could do for someone was to tell them the worst so they could stop waiting.

But here she is. Waiting.

I take her hand. Warm. Solid. Real.

I want to say something clever. Something wry and detached, the way I've said everything for seventy years. But when I open my mouth, what comes out is: "I missed you."

Bio:

Ella Torres is a Brazilian writer and translator and a graduate of Barnard College, where she earned a degree in English and Creative Writing. She is currently pursuing an MFA in fiction at The New School. Her work has appeared in Broadripple, Litbop, and other publications. 

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