It's graduation. Hand in hand, we watch our fellow students approach the stage to receive their diplomas.

  High school has been the best years of my life. I've studied really hard. I've made a lot of friends. I got to go on field trips, play in the summer basketball league, perform in talent shows, go to prom. I did it all.

  But most importantly, I did it all with you.

  Soon we'll be in college together. Studying puppetry. Making new memories. Finding job opportunities. And then we'll get married and spend a long, beautiful life together. It's going to be really exciting.

   Your name is announced. Up you go to get your diploma. You smile at the camera. You look so beautiful with your ivory hair combed down like that. Then you walk back down, next to me. And then…

  The person beside me is called up next. Huh? Did they skip me? I stand up to object, but I don't want to make a scene. But they skipped me. I don't have my diploma. I turn to you, but you're talking and laughing with the people around you.

  "Taylor." You don't hear me. I hold your hand, but you pull it away. More and more people are called up to the stage. My name still hasn't even been mentioned. I stand up, ready to complain. But everyone looks annoyed at me; they're sighing and rolling their eyes. Hands clenched, and without thinking, I walk away from the stage, from my peers, from my future.

  I walk away from Taylor. I can't stop crying now. It was all a lie. None of this actually happened. I can't believe I fell for it. I'm such an idiot.

…

"Hey Aubree," Mike said when he clocked in. "How's it going?"

"I wanna fucking die."

Mike laughed, but quickly stopped. "You okay?"

“It’s a joke.” Her voice choked with tears. “It’s a joke, Mike.”

…

She had scanned a cart full of groceries, but the customer forgot her wallet. "Can you suspend the order so I can run out to my car?" She left, and, without thinking, Aubree started scanning the next order. It was another full cart of groceries. So many groceries. She was already halfway done when the first customer returned and said: "Hey, I told you I was only going to be a minute."

"Oh jeez. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," the woman said. "Can you, I don't know, suspend that order, open up mine and I'll quickly pay for it?"

"Sure, sure."

"Wait a minute." The second customer looked at the list of items on the screen. "I didn't buy any of that stuff."

Aubree looked at the list on her screen. Oh shit. She hadn't suspended the first order yet.

"Great," the woman said. "Does that mean we have to ring up all my groceries again?"

Aubree bit the inside of her lip until it bled. "Goddamnit."

"That's okay," the woman said. "That's okay, I guess. I can wait."

"Goddamnit!" Aubree shouted. She started clawing at her scalp. "God fucking damnit! I'm so fucking tired of this! It's every fucking day!"

The two customers glared at her. "Hey, don't lose your marbles now," the second one said.

Aubree slid to the floor. Every day. Every waking moment of her awful fucking life. And it would keep going and going, until the day she died.

"Should we ask for a manager?" the second customer said. "Think she's having some kind of panic attack."

Tears and snot were streaming down her face. A few minutes later, Mike showed up.

"Aubree, I've got this," he said, and took over.

"Thanks." Her voice sounded so broken.

"Wanna head into the break room for a bit?"

"Sure."

Instead, Aubree sat in the bathroom. Staring at her snot covered hands, she wondered why she had been crying in the first place. Because of Taylor, of course. But why? Who was Taylor to her? They'd barely known each other. They'd spoken about nothing but puppetry. They hadn't even touched. It was stupid, then, to be grieving something that never even existed. And yet Aubree was still shaking, still heaving, as if she were dying.

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

"You feeling better?" Mike said when she got back.

Aubree opened her mouth. For the longest time, she didn't know what to say. At last, she muttered: "I think I need to quit."

"Huh?"

"I need to quit, Mike. Now."

"Oh." He looked at the floor. Then, after a while, he nodded. "Okay."

The front doors slid open for her. Before she stepped out of Fresh Farms Market, she heard Mike say: "It’s gonna be okay, Aubree."

Her mom was home for some reason. And no wine glasses this time. "Hey," she said.

Aubree couldn’t look at her. "Hey."

The clock ticked against the stillness. "You're home early," her mom said.

"So are you."

"Guess we both owe each other an explanation."

"I guess."

They said nothing for a while.

“I’m sorry for last night,” Aubree said.

“You should be. I’m not going to drink myself into a coma like some alcoholic.”

“I know.”

More silence.

"I took off today. I wanted to do something," her mom said. "I visited your father."

Aubree stumbled back. She went to go see him? Him?

"You shouldn't have," Aubree said. "Oh my god. Holy shit. What were you thinking?"

Her mom stepped closer. "You’ve been so lost lately. I've been thinking that maybe it's because of our broken family. I want us to rekindle what we lost."

"I don't want to see him, mom."

"Please, give him a chance," her mother started to cry. That was typical, whenever she drank. But Aubree had seldom seen her cry sober. "I talked to him. He's softened. He's so much kinder now. And he regrets everything. He needs you, Aubree."

Aubree stomped upstairs. "I'm not going to see him. I hope he fucking rots." Then Aubree went to her room, slamming the door.

She picked up the puppet-making stuff Taylor had lent her. Her hands moved on their own. She didn't know what the fuck she was doing. Afterall, she'd only made two puppets in her life.

  But my hands are moving anyway. I need to make something. But what?

  The truth. I need to craft the truth. I'm tired of yearning for something that isn't real, something that's too good for me. I'm not like Taylor. I don't live out dreams. I'm stuck here, in reality. Cold, ugly reality. I—

  I hear glass shattering downstairs. Then banging. Mom shrieks. Putting my ear to the floorboards, I hear a man shouting. I can't hear what he's saying, but his voice sounds familiar.

  "How did you get here?" mom says. The man speaks, and though his words are muffled again, I recognize his voice now.

  It's dad's. He's escaped. I need to do something. Quick. But I can't move. Years worth of terror have paralyzed me. Suddenly, he starts beating her. Mom screams with every thrash. She's fallen to the floor, I think, and he's beating her even harder. Fists crack against her skull, one after the other. I'm crying now too, but I don't make a sound.

  It stops. He laughs.

  Seconds later, I hear a gunshot.

  I jump, holding my breath, my face wet with tears. The front door of the house opens. Then dead silence.

  I wait for what feels like hours, my heart pounding. With every creak of the floorboards, I jump again, afraid that I'll hear heavy footsteps ascending the stairs. But nothing happens.

  I force myself from the floor, and, hesitating for another hour or so, I open the door. The doorknob clicks as I turn it— a death sentence, if he's still here. But I hear nothing, so I tiptoe downstairs. I find mom on the living room floor.

  She’s breathing slowly, and bleeding all over the carpet. I drag myself down with her and lay her head on my lap. Her eyes are wide open, glaring at me. Her lips dribble with blood. She parts them, as if she wants to say something, but, for a long time, she only gasps and snorts blood. Finally, she whispers: “You should have come down sooner. You could have helped him.”

  Then she stops breathing.

  I stare at her until the sun goes down.

  It’s been about two days. For some reason, I haven’t called the police yet.

  Mom’s body has begun to bloat. It smells too. I’ve been ogling it this entire time.

  I’m not sad or angry or whatever; if anything, I’m just sorta neutral about this. But I can’t keep my eyes away from her corpse.

  My stomach rumbles. I haven’t eaten since before work two days ago. Maybe I’ll keep starving myself until I die too.

  I hear my phone ring. It’s Mike.

  “Hey,” he says. He sounds tired.

  “Hey,” I respond. We’re silent for a while.

  “How’s it going?” he says.

  “Fine.”

  “That’s good.”

  “How’s it going with you?” I say. Talking with him feels natural, as if we’re just chatting. But the conversation quickly goes sour.

  “I’m not doing so great,” he says. “The economy is bad. It tanked. Damn near everyone’s lost their savings. Food prices are starting to skyrocket too, so everyone’s buying stuff before they’re not able to afford it.” His voice breaks. Is he crying? “It’s been hell over here, Aubree. The lines are so long; I haven’t been able to leave in days. All the customers are screaming at me, as if this is all my fault. It’s too much. This is the beginning of the end. The economy is about to collapse. And who knows what’s gonna happen to me after this. I’ll be homeless, probably. Or worse, I’ll work in some shitty coal-mine for eighty hours a week just to make end’s meet. That’s it. I’m gonna kill myself, Aubree. There’s no other choice. I just wanted to tell you goodbye.”

  We’re silent again. I stammer, trying to think of something, but nothing comes out. This is all so much to process. I can’t even tell if he’s serious.

  “Alright. I don’t wanna waste any more of your time,” he says. “Goodbye, I guess.” There’s a gunshot on the other end. I gasp, and now I’m crying again.