Beverly sat cross-legged on the strange, pulsating ground of the pocket dimension, her mind reeling with questions. Angele and Joanna, now fully reverted to their natural forms, loomed beside her, their tentacles undulating gently in the thick, metallic air.
“What… what are you?” Beverly asked, her voice trembling slightly. “Where do you come from?”
Angele’s eyes, now a kaleidoscope of swirling colors, fixed on Beverly with a gentle intensity. “We are anthropologists from a world far beyond your own,” she said, her voice a melodic thrum that seemed to resonate in Beverly’s bones. “Our planet’s name, in your language, would be a series of images and sensations, impossible to pronounce with a human tongue.”
Joanna nodded, her own voice joining Angele’s in a hypnotic harmony. “The same is true of our birth names. In our natural form, we communicate through a complex interplay of light, sound, and chemical signals.”
Beverly shook her head, trying to wrap her mind around the concept. “But you look human… or you did. How is that possible?”
“We have the ability to reshape our physical form to a limited extent,” Angele explained. “But it requires great concentration and effort, and we must return to our true selves to regenerate and recharge. That’s why we created this pocket dimension – it’s a small piece of our homeworld, a place where we can be ourselves.”
Beverly hesitated, almost afraid to ask the next question. “And your relationship with me… was that all just a study? An experiment?”
Joanna reached out with a tentacle, gently brushing Beverly’s cheek. “No, Beverly. Our feelings for you are real and profound. We never meant to cause you harm. We didn’t know that prolonged exposure to our kind could trigger a metamorphosis in humans. By the time we realized what was happening, it was too late.”
Angele’s voice took on a tone of deep regret. “We hoped that your world’s medical science might be able to reverse the process. But when we discovered the plan to euthanize you, we knew we had to intervene, even if it meant violating our own version of your Prime Directive.”
Beverly’s eyes widened. “The Non-Interference Mandate? How did you know about the euthanasia? How did you find me?”
In response, Angele waved a tentacle, and a shimmering screen appeared in the air before them. “We have ways of monitoring events in your world,” she said. “We saw what they were planning, and we knew we had to act.”
Beverly stared at the screen, a sudden thought occurring to her. “Can you show me what’s happening in 3B? In your condo?”
Joanna nodded, and the image on the screen shifted, revealing a scene of controlled chaos. Forensic investigators swarmed through the familiar space, dusting for fingerprints and bagging evidence. Beverly watched, her heart in her throat, as they tore apart the life she had known, the home she had shared with her beloved friends.
Suddenly, one of the investigators answered a phone call, his face growing grim as he listened to the voice on the other end. “Another team has arrived at Anderson’s family home,” he said, his words sending a chill down Beverly’s spine. “They’re bringing them in for questioning.”
Beverly lurched to her feet, panic and determination warring on her face. “I have to go back,” she said, her voice shaking but resolute. “I have to make sure my family is safe. I won’t let them become targets because of me.”
Angele and Joanna exchanged a long, unreadable look, their tentacles twining together in a gesture of silent communication. Finally, Angele turned back to Beverly, her eyes glowing with a fierce, protective light.
“You’re not a prisoner here, Beverly,” she said, her voice a solemn vow. “But you need to understand the dangers that await us on the other side of that portal. And you’ll need help navigating in three-dimensional space because you won’t be in human form.”
Beverly nodded, her jaw set with determination. “That doesn’t matter. I can’t hide here while my family is in danger.”
And with those words, the three of them turned to face the shimmering portal, ready to plunge back into the chaos and uncertainty of the world they had left behind.
Welcome to No Fixed Address, a weekly series where I write candidly about what it means to be homeless—right now, in real life, not in some sanitized Hollywood version. I’m currently unhoused. Not “drifting.” Not “on a journey.” Just trying to survive in a world that looks away.
Each week, I’ll share personal accounts, hard truths, and moments that don’t make it into the movies. If you’re here to understand what homelessness actually looks like—not as a plot point, but as a life—then you’re in the right place.
This is not a cry for pity. It’s a record. A mirror. A small act of resistance.
It’s not the kind you fix with a nap or a strong cup of coffee. It’s not jet lag. It’s not overwork. It’s something deeper — a warping, a slippage. A depletion of self. Sleep becomes an idea, not a practice. A memory you can’t quite recreate. You get pieces of it: a head nod, a microdream, a blackout between train stops. But real sleep? The kind where you go somewhere and return? That’s a ghost story.
The body adjusts — poorly. You lose the edges of things first. The line between now and five minutes ago goes smudgy. Your eyes start seeing movement that isn’t there. You forget simple sequences, like brushing your teeth or zipping your bag. Then the thoughts change — not the big ones, not “What’s my name” or “Where am I,” but the connective tissue between ideas. Things start to… float.
I’ve cried while laughing and not noticed the difference. I’ve asked the same question twice in a row and not known it. I’ve sat on a bench staring at a coffee cup I wasn’t holding. It’s like my mind is trying to fold itself in half just to keep warm.
One night, about a week ago, I decided to sleep outdoors. The weather was relatively mild and I was layered up — a puffer jacket under a peacoat. I’d found one of those “Open to the Public” patios where the building had — miraculously — left their metal chairs and tables out overnight. (Usually, management hauls them inside to avoid people like me doing exactly what I was doing.)
I spotted a table against the wall, sat down, threaded my legs through my backpack straps like a seatbelt, and drifted off. How long was I out? No idea. But something woke me — a pressure, a wrongness. When I opened my eyes, there was a man sitting inches from my face, closer than a lover, closer than breath. Startled, I shouted for him to back off. In a voice smooth as a razor, he said: “I only wanted to talk to you. Go back to sleep so I can finish the conversation.”
I cursed that man out so thoroughly the air itself blushed. Eventually, he left — not running, not raging, just walking away with the same unnerving calm. If I had stayed asleep, I genuinely believe I would’ve died that night.
It just goes to show, every night is a new gamble. Will the train keep running? Will someone try to rob me? Will I snore loud enough to get kicked out, or quiet enough to vanish? Will my legs give out from being crumpled too long? Will someone mistake me for someone dangerous, or worse — someone disposable?
Sleep, when you get it, feels like theft. Like you’ve stolen a moment from the world. And when the moment’s over, it demands payment.
To sort of prove my point, let me tell you about a man named Mike Black — a millionaire entrepreneur who once “went homeless” to try and rebuild his fortune from scratch. You may have heard of him. He paused his business, cut off his network, assumed a fake identity, and aimed to make $1 million in 12 months with nothing but grit and hustle. He documented the whole thing. Very inspiring.
Except… he never slept on the street.
He used a couch-surfing app to secure nightly shelter — and I’ve tried that app too, by the way. I’ll explain in another post why it didn’t work out for me (and while we’re on the subject, being homeless and owing a car isn’t the same, either). Mike also had a film crew. He also had a safety net, even if self-imposed. And while he cited his father’s health as the reason for ending the challenge early (which I respect), he failed to mention the mental health toll the experiment took on him as his story shifted.
Living without a fixed address isn’t some damned a startup challenge. It’s not a game, or a detox, or an experiment in bootstrapping.
It’s waking up to yourself and finding you’re thinner in spirit than the day before. That the thread holding you together has frayed a little more. That your body feels less like a home and more like a failed machine.
I miss dreaming. I miss waking up and knowing I had been somewhere.
Once, I got lucky — a miracle, really. I managed nearly four hours of sleep in the library. Either security gave me a break or they weren’t on duty that day. It felt like slipping into something sacred.
And I dreamed.
In the dream, I had a friend. Not just an acquaintance or a helper, but a real friend. Someone who knew me. Someone I laughed with. When I woke, I instantly remembered I was homeless — the weight of it landed like usual — but it didn’t crush me the same way. I had a strange warmth in my chest. I didn’t feel so alone.
Lonnie Hatch was a cartographer of comfort, meticulously mapping the familiar coordinates of his life. Every morning, precisely at 7:18 AM, come fog thick as wool or sunshine that made the asphalt shimmer, he embarked on what his wife, Carol, called his “bagel pilgrimage.” The destination: Goldberg’s Deli, three blocks down, one block over. It wasn’t merely about the destination – the perfectly dense, chewy everything bagel, generously smeared edge-to-edge with their signature scallion cream cheese. It was the ritual itself. The rhythmic thump-thump of his worn sneakers on the sidewalk, the specific way Mrs. Henderson always waved from her window, the slightly-too-loud greeting from Sal behind the counter (“Lonnie! The usual? You got it!”). It was the comforting fug of malt, yeast, and roasting onions that hit you a half-block away, a promise of simple satisfaction.
Lonnie treasured these anchors in a world that often felt adrift. He was, by his own admission, a simple man. He found deep contentment in the steady rhythm of his days: his quiet work as an accountant, the shared laughter with Carol over dinner, the worn armchair where he read history books, and especially, his volunteer shifts ladling soup at St. Jude’s kitchen downtown. Helping felt less like a duty and more like breathing. His parents, pragmatic but kind souls, had woven service into the fabric of his upbringing – “Leave things a little better than you found them, son,” his father used to say. Lonnie lived a righteous life, not from fear of some celestial scorecard, but because kindness felt like the most logical, most human response to the world’s sharp edges. It simply felt right.
This particular Tuesday morning carried the crisp promise of early autumn. The air was cool against his face, carrying the scent of damp leaves and distant exhaust fumes. Lonnie walked with a familiar spring in his step, his thoughts pleasantly tangled around Carol’s upcoming birthday. A necklace? Too predictable. Those fancy gardening gloves she’d admired? Perhaps. He was so engrossed in weighing the merits of artisanal pruning shears versus a weekend getaway that he barely registered the frantic screech of tires tearing through the urban symphony.
He looked up, confused, just as a yellow taxi, moving far too fast, mounted the curb with a sickening lurch. It wasn’t aiming for him, but for the squat, red fire hydrant standing sentinel a few feet away. Time seemed to warp. He saw the driver’s wide, panicked eyes, the metallic shriek as bumper met iron, the impossible physics of the collision. The hydrant didn’t just break; it sheared off its base with explosive force, a sudden, brutal projectile launched directly into his path. Lonnie had only a fraction of a second to register the blur of red metal hurtling towards him, a final, absurd punctuation mark to his meticulously ordered life. Then, only blackness, absolute and instantaneous.
The newspapers would later describe it as a “one-in-a-million freak accident,” a tragic confluence of speed, distraction, and unfortunate positioning. A testament to the cruel randomness of urban life.
But randomness, Lonnie was about to learn, was a concept largely confined to the mortal plane. His death, far from being an anomaly, had been a scheduled event, noted centuries ago in the incomprehensibly vast ledger known colloquially as the Book of Life. A cosmic domino, nudged at the appointed hour.
There was no tunnel of light, no choir of angels, no St. Peter polishing the Pearly Gates. Instead, Lonnie experienced a profound sense of dislocation, like being pulled inside out and reassembled in the same instant. He found himself standing, disoriented but strangely intact, in a chamber of impossible scale. It was vast, utterly sterile, and bathed in a soft, sourceless light that cast no shadows. Around him, stretching further than his earthly eyes could comprehend, were others. Thousands upon thousands – a quick, bewildered estimate suggested maybe one hundred and fifty thousand souls – all freshly transitioned.
A low, pervasive hum filled the space, woven from the threads of countless emotions: the soft sobbing of bewildered grief, the sharp intake of shocked realization, the low murmur of confusion, the stony silence of utter disbelief. Some souls shimmered faintly, others looked as solid as they had moments before death. Lonnie instinctively touched his face, expecting to feel the catastrophic impact, but there was nothing. Only a strange, numb detachment. He looked for Carol, a desperate, automatic reflex, but saw only strangers adrift in the same sea of uncertainty.
Then, the ambient hum shifted, coalescing into a focused point of energy at the perceived center of the immense room. Light didn’t bend towards it; reality itself seemed to warp, allowing the presence to manifest. It was an Ophanim, one of the formidable Wheels within Wheels described in hushed tones in ancient texts. Not a winged humanoid, but a construct of impossible geometry – interlocking rings of what looked like burning gold, constantly rotating in different directions, the rim of each wheel studded with countless, unblinking eyes. These eyes, terrifyingly perceptive, swept across the assembled souls, seeing not just their bewildered forms, but the entirety of their lives, their choices, their deepest natures. Its presence wasn’t merely seen; it was felt – an overwhelming wave of ancient power, intricate purpose, and undeniable authority.
“Welcome, Heaven Seekers,” the Ophanim’s voice resonated, not through the air, but directly within each soul’s consciousness. The sound was like the grinding of galaxies, yet perfectly clear. “Some among you may have already grasped the transition you have undergone. For those who remain uncertain, allow me to confirm: the existence you knew, the life you inhabited on Earth, is concluded.”
A collective sigh, a wave of despair and dawning acceptance, rippled through the multitude. The Ophanim paused, its thousand-fold gaze seeming to acknowledge their grief without dwelling on it.
“Your anticipated entry into the Kingdom,” the celestial being continued, its voice devoid of emotion yet carrying immense weight, “has been temporarily deferred. An exigency has arisen. Heaven requires assistance.”
Another ripple, this time of pure confusion. Heaven needed… help?
“The terrestrial sphere, your Earth, has been significantly disrupted by the recent global pandemic. Its effects ripple beyond the merely physical, upsetting delicate spiritual balances cultivated over millennia. While this event does not herald the prophesied End Times, the scales measuring hope against despair, connection against isolation, have tipped unfavorably. The trajectory, if unaltered, leads toward escalating devastation – not necessarily apocalyptic, but a profound diminishment of the qualities Heaven seeks to foster.”
The Ophanim’s wheels spun, eyes blinking in asynchronous patterns. “Therefore, we are extending an invitation. We seek volunteers from this cohort – souls whose earthly lives demonstrated resilience, compassion, and a propensity for service – to return to Earth. You would be imbued with entirely new identities, new circumstances, severed completely from your past lives. Your mission: to subtly intervene, to act as counterweights, to assist in mitigating the coming discord and gently guiding humanity back towards equilibrium, or at least towards a new, more sustainable ‘normal’.”
The Ophanim let the proposition hang in the vast silence. “Consider this carefully. Your decision will not prejudice your ultimate acceptance into the Kingdom; entry is assured for all present based on your earthly merits. Declining this task carries no penalty. However,” the voice seemed to lower conspiratorially, though it still filled every mind, “choosing to volunteer confers certain… benefits upon your eventual, permanent arrival here. The nature of these benefits, I am not at liberty to disclose at this juncture.”
A current of speculation surged through the crowd. Whispers erupted in thought-forms Lonnie could now perceive. Benefits? What benefits? A higher sphere? Less waiting?
Lonnie felt a familiar ache, a phantom sensation in his chest. If this offer had come yesterday, when he was still Lonnie Hatch, bagel pilgrim, soup kitchen volunteer, Carol’s husband… the choice would have been instantaneous. Pack a bag, lace up the boots, get to work. That was his nature. But here, now? Standing on the very threshold of Paradise, the promise of eternal rest, of reunion, of peace beyond understanding, was an almost physical pull. It was the ultimate reward, the cessation of striving he hadn’t known he craved until this very moment. He felt weary, not just from his life, but from the shock of its ending.
Was this the real test? Not the good deeds on Earth, but this choice, right here, right now? A final, cosmic essay question determining his ultimate placement? Refuse, and enjoy the earned rest. Accept, and plunge back into the struggle, albeit in a new form.
He looked around at the sea of souls, each facing the same impossible choice. The weight of it settled upon him, heavy and profound. Things were never easy, it seemed. Not in life, and certainly not at the doorstep of eternity. The Ophanim waited, its myriad eyes patient, eternal, observing the quiet, monumental struggles unfolding within one hundred and fifty thousand souls.
Beverly’s senses were assaulted by a kaleidoscope of alien sensations as she tumbled through the portal. Colors she had never seen before swirled around her, while strange, discordant sounds echoed in her ears. She felt a pressure on her skin, not painful but intense, as if the very fabric of this new reality was pressing in on her from all sides.
As the initial disorientation began to fade, Beverly found herself lying on a surface that felt both solid and fluid, like a cross between a waterbed and a slab of granite. She blinked, trying to clear her vision, and gasped at the sight that greeted her.
They were in a vast, open space that seemed to stretch on forever, its walls and ceiling lost in a haze of shimmering, opalescent mist. The air was thick and heavy, filled with a strange, metallic scent that made Beverly’s nostrils tingle. All around them, strange, organic structures rose up from the ground, twisting and pulsing like the internal organs of some colossal beast.
Beverly struggled to sit up, wincing at the pain that lanced through her battered body. Beside her, Angele and Joanna were already moving, their forms shifting and changing in ways that made Beverly’s mind reel. She watched in mute astonishment as her friends’ human features melted away, replaced by a riot of writhing tentacles and iridescent, chitinous plates.
“What… what is this place?” Beverly croaked, her voice sounding small and frightened in the vastness of the space.
Angele turned to her, her face a mass of undulating flesh and glowing, pupilless eyes. “This is our sanctuary, Beverly. A pocket dimension outside of normal space and time. Here, we can heal and regroup, safe from those who would harm us.”
Beverly shook her head, trying to wrap her mind around the concept. She had always known that there was something different about Angele and Joanna, something that set them apart from the rest of humanity. But this… this was beyond anything she could have ever imagined.
As she watched, Angele and Joanna began to move around the space, their transformed bodies undulating and pulsing in strange, hypnotic patterns. They seemed to be interacting with the environment in ways that Beverly couldn’t fully comprehend, their tentacles touching and probing the organic structures that surrounded them.
Slowly, Beverly began to notice changes in her own body as well. The pain and fatigue that had weighed her down for so long seemed to be fading, replaced by a strange, tingling energy that coursed through her veins like liquid fire. She looked down at her hands and gasped at the sight of the tentacles that had begun to sprout from her wrists, their tips waving gently in the thick, metallic air.
For a moment, panic threatened to overwhelm her. This was too much, too strange, too far beyond anything she had ever known or imagined. She felt like she was losing herself, like everything that had once defined her was being stripped away, leaving her raw and exposed in this alien realm.
But then, she felt a gentle touch on her shoulder, and turned to see Joanna standing beside her, her face a mask of compassion and understanding. “It’s okay, Beverly,” she murmured, her voice a soothing balm to Beverly’s frayed nerves. “I know it’s overwhelming, but you’re safe here. We won’t let anything happen to you.”
And with those words, something deep inside Beverly began to unclench. She realized that, no matter how strange and terrifying this new reality might be, she was not alone. She had Angele and Joanna, her beloveds, her anchors in the storm. Together, they would find a way through this, would unravel the mysteries of her transformation and the forces that sought to control and destroy them.
As she leaned into Joanna’s embrace, feeling the comfort of her friend’s alien flesh against her own, Beverly knew that she had crossed a threshold from which there could be no return. Her old life, her old self, was gone forever, replaced by something new and unknowable.
The few of you who follow (and hopefully read) me regularly, know me as a fiction writer — I typically manage two stories a week, every Monday and Thursday, strange tales spun from stranger places. That won’t change. The fictions will continue. The ghosts and aliens and memory glitches and strange girls at the bus stop will all keep coming.
But starting this week, Sundays will be different.
I’m calling the new segment No Fixed Address — not just because it sounds poetic (though it does), but because it’s now my legal truth. I don’t have a home. Not an apartment. Not a room. Not even a couch.
As of February 18th, I was evicted from the small rented room I’d lived in for nearly a decade. I sleep upright on the subway most nights. I apply for jobs constantly. I carry everything I own. I’m not telling you this for pity. I’m telling you because it’s happening, and because I believe truth deserves to be written down.
So on Sundays, I’ll post about that truth: The logistics, the humiliations, the loopholes, the kindnesses, the cold. What it’s like to find a public restroom when you have nowhere to go back to. What it’s like to smile at people who step around you like you’re a trash bag with eyes. What it’s like to still write stories in your head while watching a cop gently nudge a man awake so he won’t freeze to death.
These entries won’t be pretty. They won’t be polished. But they’ll be mine. And if you’ve ever read anything I’ve written and thought, “I see something of myself in this,” then maybe you’ll see something in these, too.
So:
Mondays & Thursdays: Fiction.
Sundays: No Fixed Address.
And the rest of the time, I’ll be out there, living it.
Stay with me if you can. Read if you’re willing. And if you’ve ever loved a story I told — now might be the time to send some positivity my way to help me live long enough to write more.
The stolen car screeched to a halt in front of the familiar condo complex, its tires leaving black skid marks on the asphalt. Angele, Joanna, and Beverly tumbled out of the vehicle, their bodies battered and bleeding from the harrowing escape. In the distance, the wail of sirens grew louder, a stark reminder of the pursuit hot on their heels.
Beverly leaned heavily on Joanna, her mind still foggy from the drugs and the trauma of her ordeal. She stumbled as they made their way towards the building, barely registering the shocked and curious stares of their neighbors. Dimly, she heard the murmur of voices, the urgent questions and exclamations that followed in their wake.
“Why… why are we here?” Beverly mumbled, her words slurred and thick. “They’ll find us… we’ll be trapped…”
Joanna tightened her grip on Beverly’s waist, her voice low and reassuring. “Trust us, Bev. They won’t find us here. We have a plan.”
As they stumbled into the lobby and made their way towards the elevators, Angele took the lead, her eyes scanning the hallway with a fierce, predatory intensity. Beverly caught a glimpse of her friend’s face, and was shocked to see the way her features had begun to shift and change, taking on a distinctly inhuman cast.
The ride up to the third floor seemed to take an eternity, the seconds ticking by with agonizing slowness. Beverly leaned against the wall of the elevator, her breathing shallow and labored. She could feel the warm, sticky flow of blood beneath her clothes, the throbbing ache of countless bruises and contusions.
When the doors finally slid open, Angele and Joanna practically dragged Beverly down the hall, their movements urgent and frantic. They burst into apartment 3B, slamming the door shut behind them and engaging the deadbolt with a decisive click.
Beverly slumped against the wall, her vision swimming as she struggled to take in her surroundings. The once-familiar space seemed alien and surreal, the cozy furnishings and personal touches overshadowed by the pulsing sense of danger that filled the air.
Angele raced across the room, her movements a blur of speed and agility. She came to a stop in front of a strange, abstract sculpture that Beverly had always assumed was some kind of avant-garde art piece. But now, as she watched Angele manipulate the device with deft, purposeful movements, she realized that it was something else entirely.
“What… what is that?” Beverly croaked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Joanna grabbed her hand, squeezing it tightly. “It’s our way out of here, Bev. Our sanctuary.”
Suddenly, the sound of splintering wood and shattering glass filled the air, followed by the thunderous pounding of booted feet. The authorities had arrived, and they were breaking down the door, their shouts and commands echoing through the apartment like the tolling of a bell.
But Angele and Joanna seemed strangely calm, their eyes locked on the device as it began to hum and vibrate with an otherworldly energy. Beverly watched in amazement as the sculpture unfolded like a flower, revealing a shimmering, iridescent portal that seemed to lead to another world entirely.
Just as the door burst open and the first of the armed agents poured into the room, Angele grabbed Beverly and Joanna’s hands, yanking them towards the portal with a fierce, desperate strength. Beverly felt a rushing sensation, a dizzying sense of displacement as the world around her began to warp and distort.
And then, with a blinding flash of light and a deafening roar, they were gone, sucked through the portal and into a pocket dimension beyond the reach of their pursuers. Beverly felt her consciousness slipping away once more, her mind overwhelmed by the sheer impossibility of what had just happened.
Back then, they didn’t have a name for it. Today, he would be classified as neurodivergent—his mind wired to see patterns where others saw only chaos.
He was also brilliant. Devoting his life’s work to the mysteries of the brain, he earned his doctorate by mapping its final flickers—the synaptic whispers between life and death. He believed that human consciousness lingered past the moment of expiration, like a voice echoing in an empty house. His research was meant to help the grieving process, to prove that death was not an abrupt end, but a slow fade.
Then, Dorothy died.
It was a freak accident. A sedan ran a red light, struck her car, and left nothing but twisted steel and an empty space. She was gone before he arrived at the hospital. They handed him a clear plastic bag of her belongings. He remembered staring at her wedding ring, still smeared with blood, and thinking, No. No, this isn’t right.
Walter had always been a man of science. that is, until grief rewrote the laws of reality.
His daughter, Shirley, was the first to notice the shift.
“You’re not sleeping,” she told him one morning, standing in the kitchen with her arms crossed. “And you’re avoiding work.”
Walter, unshaven and hollow-eyed, stirred his coffee without drinking it. His house smelled of burnt toast and unwashed clothes. Shirley sighed.
“Dad, listen to me. You have to—”
“I heard her,” he said. His voice was flat. Unshaken.
Shirley’s expression faltered. “What?”
“Last night.” He finally looked at her. “I was reviewing neural decay patterns, and there was an anomaly. A frequency that shouldn’t have been there.”
Shirley placed her hands on the counter, gripping the edge. “Dad. Please don’t do this.”
But her plea was far too late. Walter had already begun.
He relocated his research to a house outside Atlanta—an old rundown Victorian thing he managed to get dirt cheap, that hummed in the wind, with walls that swelled and groaned as if breathing. He filled it with stolen lab equipment, wires curling like veins across the hardwood floor, and spent his days and nights playing back Dorothy’s EEG scans from the morgue, searching for the signal.
Richard Fiske, his research assistant, tried to reason with him.
“Listen, Walter. You’re looking for something that isn’t there.”
Walter didn’t answer. He only turned up the volume on the signal. It was faint, like a heartbeat beneath static.
Then, something whispered his name.
Richard slammed the laptop shut. “Jesus Christ, Walter, that’s auditory pareidolia. You’re hearing what you want to hear.”
Walter pressed his fingers to his temples. The hum in his ears was growing louder. “Then why does it keep happening?”
Lester Allen, a brilliant but reclusive engineer, was the only one who didn’t dismiss him outright. “You’re listening to death’s afterimage,” Lester murmured, sifting through the data. “A voice trapped in a neurological photograph.”
“So now, all we need to do is find a way to amplify it,” Walter said.
Lester hesitated. “But what if the brain isn’t just lingering? What if it’s still…thinking?”
Walter ignored him. One problem at a time.
There was no doubting that Walter was a man of science, but the fact of the matter was that science had its limits. And that was where Madame Gravestone came in.
She was not the fraud he expected. Her presence unsettled him. She studied his equipment with quiet interest before finally saying, “You are opening doors. The question is: Do you know how to close them when you’re done?”
Walter hated her…but couldn’t deny that he needed her.
They worked together. She held séances while his machines recorded electromagnetic disturbances. The voices were growing louder. Dorothy was coming through.
But as they were on the brink of a breakthrough, something went wrong.
One night, during a particularly intense session, the housekeeper, Mrs. Hargrove, entered the room.
She had worked in the mansion for years, long before Walter arrived. She had seen many strange things, but nothing like this.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice trembling.
Walter barely glanced at her. His pulse was pounding. Dorothy’s voice was clearer than ever.
“She’s here,” he whispered.
Mrs. Hargrove stepped closer, her eyes widening. “No,” she said. “No, that’s not your wife.”
The moment snapped like a rubber band.
The equipment sparked, the lights flickered, and a deep, rattling breath filled the room. Madame Gravestone’s eyes went wide.
“Shut it off,” she hissed.
But Walter was frozen. Dorothy’s voice was still calling his name.
Mrs. Hargrove let out a strangled gasp. Her body stiffened, her eyes rolling back as she convulsed and collapsed.
Walter fell to his knees, shaking her. “No, no, no, wake up!”
But the housekeeper was gone. Her face a frozen mask of terror.
When the sheriff arrived, Walter told the truth, but the truth sounded utterly insane.
“You were…talking to the dead?” Sheriff Thompson asked, rubbing his jaw. “And that killed your housekeeper?”
Walter sat in a chair, hands shaking. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”
When word reached Shirley, she paid her father a visit. She looked at him with an expression that made his stomach turn.
“I told you to stop,” she whispered.
“I wish I could.”
That night, alone in his study, he listened to the last recording.
The static crackled. A whisper slithered through.
“Walter.”
His breath caught.
It was Dorothy’s voice. But distorted. Stretched. Wrong.
“This is all so unnecessary. All you need to do is let me in.”
His heart slammed against his ribs. His hands trembled.
And he whispered, “Yes. Come in, my love.“
Rumor had it that Lester tore out of that house like a bat out of hell. He left town without so much as a by your leave and was never seen nor heard from again.
Madame Gravestone also mysteriously disappeared, her occult accoutrements abandoned in the mansion.
Shirley pleaded for someone—anyone—to help her in her search.
But, as with the others, Walter Baldwin was never seen again.
The rundown Victorian mansion stood empty. At night, passersby swore they could hear static crackling from the second-floor windows.
Sometimes, if you listened closely, you could hear a voice whispering.
Beverly drifted in a haze of pain and confusion, her consciousness flickering like a candle flame in a bitter wind. She caught snatches of sound and sensation – the blare of alarms, the acrid scent of smoke, the jostling motion of being carried. But nothing seemed real, nothing made sense through the fog of drugs and trauma that enveloped her.
Dimly, she was aware of Angele and Joanna’s presence, their voices urgent and strained as they navigated the chaos of the facility. Beverly tried to focus on their words, to cling to the familiarity of their touch, but her mind kept slipping away, dragging her back down into the depths of oblivion.
In her moments of semi-lucidity, Beverly caught glimpses of the incredible lengths her friends were going to in order to save her. She saw Angele’s body ripple and change, her limbs elongating into sinuous tentacles as she grappled with a group of armed guards. She heard Joanna’s voice, normally so gentle, rise in an otherworldly screech that sent their pursuers stumbling back in shock and pain.
But even as Beverly marveled at the incredible abilities her friends possessed, she couldn’t shake the sense of unreality that pervaded everything. The world around her seemed to be breaking apart, the very fabric of reality fraying at the edges. She wondered if this was what it felt like to die, to have one’s consciousness unravel and dissolve into the ether.
And yet, through it all, Angele and Joanna remained her anchors, her lifelines in a sea of chaos and uncertainty. They cradled her broken body close, whispering words of comfort and encouragement even as they fought their way through the labyrinthine halls of the facility. They used their own bodies as shields, their alien flesh absorbing the impact of bullets and blows that would have surely killed a human.
Time lost all meaning as they raced through the complex, dodging patrols and circumventing security systems with a skill and intuition that seemed almost supernatural. Beverly faded in and out of awareness, catching only glimpses of their progress – the flash of emergency lights, the clang of metal doors, the distant wail of sirens.
And then, suddenly, they were outside, the cool night air washing over Beverly’s feverish skin like a balm. She forced her eyes open, blinking against the harsh glare of floodlights and the swirling chaos of smoke and debris. In the distance, she could see the perimeter fence, a tangled mass of razor wire and electrified metal that seemed to stretch on forever.
For a moment, Beverly was gripped by a surge of despair, certain that they would never make it past such formidable defenses. But then she felt Angele and Joanna’s grip tighten on her, their bodies coiling with a fierce, determined energy. They exchanged a glance, a silent communication passing between them, and then, as one, they began to change.
Beverly watched in awe as her friends’ human forms melted away, their flesh rippling and reshaping itself into something altogether alien and extraordinary. Their limbs elongated and multiplied, their skin taking on a slick, iridescent sheen. Their faces split and reformed, eyes blossoming like strange, luminous flowers across their bodies.
And then, with a surge of incredible speed and agility, they were moving, their transformed bodies carrying Beverly effortlessly across the ground. She felt the rush of wind against her face, the powerful flex and coil of their muscles as they vaulted over obstacles and raced towards the fence.
In a matter of heartbeats, they were there, their tentacles lashing out to tear through the metal and wire like paper. Beverly felt a jolt of electricity course through her as they breached the perimeter, but it was nothing compared to the exhilaration of knowing that they were free, that they had escaped the clutches of those who sought to destroy them.
As they plunged into the darkness beyond the fence, Beverly finally allowed herself to slip back into unconsciousness, secure in the knowledge that she was safe, that she was loved, and that whatever challenges lay ahead, she would face them with Angele and Joanna by her side.
When the pastries first went viral, people called them Ganymuffins, though, to be honest, they weren’t even remotely related to the muffin family, or even to the Jupiter moon, Ganymede, for that matter. The actual ingredients remained a mystery until Doughmenic Bakery, Inc. filed a patent and listed the horribly renamed ConstellaScones as:
a laminated soy-based dough, deep-fried in pumpkin seed oil, which is then dusted with confectioners sugar, filled with a proprietary fruit preserve recipe and glazed.
This turned out to be a big fat lie.
It wasn’t until much later that we learned the real ingredients and how the baked goods were actually made. Then, everyone called them blood doughnuts, which should have affected sales, but by then it was far too late. We had been hooked on them for at least a decade.
***
Maybe that wasn’t the best way to start. My father always told me I couldn’t tell a story good and proper, always back to front with everything jumbled up in the middle. Perhaps I should have begun by mentioning our first contact with the Tiiwarnias? Sound good to you? Okay, let’s rewind and give that one a go.
On August 15, 1977, while searching for extraterrestrial intelligence, the Big Ear radio telescope located at Ohio State University received a strong narrowband radio signal that appeared to originate from the constellation Sagittarius. Dubbed the Wow! signal after Astronomer Jerry R. Ehman circled the recorded data on a computer printout and wrote the comment Wow! beside it, the anomaly lasted a full 72 seconds and bore the expected hallmarks of extraterrestrial origin.
A set of first contact protocols were rushed into draft that essentially stated if anyone received an extraterrestrial signal they were obligated to share the information with the rest of the world and were warned against broadcasting any replies without international consultation. In actuality, we could have taken our time composing the protocols because it took decades for the extraterrestrials to receive the reply and by the time they had, they were already here.
World governments rallied together and held a conference to (1) devise a plan of action to the potential threat posed by these unknown extraterrestrials and their alien motivations; and (2) discuss making the right first impression, whether we should tell the aliens all the bad things about humanity, or just the good things, and what language we would use. What would be the official first contact language of Earth?
In the end, none of it mattered.
As the Tiiwarnias touched down on American soil, all reports came through the White House which, of course, caused tensions with the rest of the world. The U.S. government agreed to work together with the United Nations to create a team of scientists and researchers from each nation to join in the first contact mission.
The public was informed through government officials and the White House Press Secretary that the aliens couldn’t speak any of our Earth languages and expert linguists made the determination that we would never be able to speak theirs, so a hybrid-speak was mutually adopted that combined the simplest words of all the languages, which the news explained as a sort of interstellar pig Latin. Because of this, it was nearly impossible to determine their level of intelligence but it was simply assumed that beings capable of interstellar spaceflight were orders of magnitude smarter than the brightest among us. From our increased dealings with them, they appeared to be beyond thoughts and acts of aggression and war and treated us with immense consideration and respect.
Yet, despite the aliens’ politeness, there was something… off. The way official reports danced around certain questions. The way scientists who had once been eager to discuss first contact suddenly went quiet. No leaks, no whistleblowers, no “anonymous sources” spilling classified details to reporters in dimly lit parking garages. Just silence.
And then there was the biggest red flag of all: no footage.
Not one single leaked video, blurry photo, or grainy livestream of the Tiiwarnias outside the government’s carefully orchestrated press events. Not even a rogue intern snapping a pic for clout. Either we’d suddenly become a species capable of keeping a secret, or someone was scrubbing every unauthorized glimpse before it ever saw the light of day.
And if there’s one thing history has taught us? When the government tells you everything is fine, everything is definitely not fine.
The Tiiwarnias earned their name from a television field reporter who attempted the nearest pronunciation our human tongues could manage of a word the alien visitors repeated frequently.
As far as shared technology went, the aliens were absolutely uninterested in our advancement and theirs was so beyond our understanding there was no way to adapt it to our systems or reverse engineer it. Even their seemingly limitless power source was both visible and touchable yet not liquid or gas or matter in any way we could measure or analyze. We weren’t capable of using it as a fuel or power source and more importantly, it existed beyond our ability to be weaponized. So while an international team of theoretical physicists continued to study it and create theories to explain it, the world at large lost interest in the Tiiwarnias.
That was until the press conference.
Until their television appearance, the public hadn’t laid eyes on the aliens. There had been artist renditions based on reports but none came close to capturing their unique alienness. When the broadcast cut to the live feed, the world finally saw them—and let me tell you, the artist renditions hadn’t even come close.
The Tiiwarnias were… unsettling. Not in a monstrous, tentacled-horror kind of way, but in the way your brain struggled to place them. Like an optical illusion that made sense only until you looked too long. They had faces, but not the kind you’d instinctively trust. Too symmetrical, too smooth, like something designed by a committee that couldn’t agree on what a person should look like. Their mouths were thin suggestions of shape, never quite moving when they spoke, and their eyes—God, their eyes.
Not black, not pupil-less, not the soulless void Hollywood loved to slap onto anything alien. No, these were worse. Multi-layered, refractive, shifting between colors like an oil slick catching the light. When they turned their gaze to the cameras, I swear you could feel it. Like looking at something that was looking back with interest, but no real understanding.
They were tall, but not towering. Their limbs just slightly too long, their fingers tapering into delicate, unnecessary points. Their skin—if you could call it that—was pale but not white, translucent but not see-through, as if they were composed of something that hadn’t quite decided whether it wanted to be solid or liquid.
And yet, they moved with an almost absurd grace, like dancers trained in a gravity different from our own. Effortless. Unnatural.
No wonder the government hadn’t shown them to us sooner. The moment they appeared on-screen, every human instinct screamed wrong.
And then they presented us with donuts.
At first, nobody moved.
The President—flanked by a dozen tight-lipped officials—stared at the silver tray piled high with what, by all appearances, looked like donuts. A slight sheen of glaze, powdered sugar dusted over the tops, the kind of thing you’d find in any grocery store bakery aisle.
A long silence stretched between species.
Were they serious? This was first contact—the moment humanity had dreamed of for generations—and the first thing they did was roll up with intergalactic Krispy Kremes?
The press, bless them, snapped out of the collective daze first. Murmurs rippled through the room, cameras flashing, reporters already forming the inevitable what does it mean? headlines.
The President glanced at his Chief of Staff, then at the tray. His face betrayed deep suspicion, but also something else: the impossible weight of being the guy who either (A) rejected the first gift from an alien race, potentially causing an interstellar diplomatic incident, or (B) took the first bite and died on live television.
The room held its breath.
Finally, in a move that could only be described as passing the buck, the President turned to Dr. Marina Solano, head of the international First Contact Research Division. She blinked, pointed at herself, and mouthed, me?
A slight nod.
Swallowing hard, Solano stepped forward, selected a donut—no, not a donut, a ConstellaScone, a name Doughmenic Bakery would shove down our throats later—and hesitated just long enough for every camera in the room to zoom in.
Then she took a bite.
And her face changed.
It wasn’t a oh, this is good change. It wasn’t even a holy hell, this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten change. It was something deeper, something more visceral—as if every pleasure receptor in her brain had just been hardwired into something beyond human comprehension.
Her breath hitched. Her pupils blew wide.
The entire world watched as Dr. Marina Solano, esteemed astrophysicist, decorated scholar, and one of the most rational minds on the planet, devoured the rest of the donut like a starving animal.
A second of stunned silence.
Then the rest of the delegation lunged for the tray.
The aliens, eerily patient, merely watched as the most powerful figures on Earth shoveled bite after bite into their mouths, eyes glassy, hands trembling, as if they had just been offered the answer to a question they didn’t even know they were asking.
By the time the press got their hands on the leftovers, it was already too late.
We were hooked.
***
As mentioned before, the Tiiwarnias ship touched down planetside deep within a national forest on a 140-acre ranch in Sedona, Arizona, that belonged to a Hollywood stuntman and was used as a filming location for several movies. It also just so happened to be one of the most popular destinations in America for spotting supposed unidentified flying objects.
The ranch was reported to have been confiscated by the U.S. Government and certain areas of the national park were deemed off-limits but there were individuals who operated clandestine tours at night and that was how I became involved.
I worked for a rag named, Candor Weekly, as an investigative reporter, and my assignment was to infiltrate the base where the aliens were being held and uncover the things the government wasn’t sharing with us. So, I joined the Truth Seekers tour group and rented the suggested pair of night vision glasses and binoculars that had seen better days, after I signed an accident waiver and release of liability form, in which I agreed to hold harmless, and indemnify Truth Seekers Tours from and against all losses, claims, damages, costs or expenses (including reasonable legal fees, or similar costs). I wondered which one of these Einsteins thought they would be able to enforce the document for their illegal tour company that routinely trespassed on government land?
The tour group gathered two hours before sunset for orientation where we had been given a brief history of the strange occurrences that happened almost nightly since the aliens arrived.
“First, all of the animals on the ranch, dogs, and horses mostly, became sick with diseases that none of the vets in these parts were able to explain,” Tourguide Flint said and quickly followed with, “But not to worry, though, whatever bug is flying around out there only affected animals. I’ve been conducting these tours nightly and my doc says I’m fit as a fiddle!”
“Also, you’re gonna want to take pictures because there’s some freaky stuff that goes on out there especially during the last hour of twilight,” Flint continued.
“What kind of freaky stuff?” I asked.
“All kinds. From crazy light shows in the sky to bigfoot and dinosaur sightings and the biggest of them all, thelight portal!”
“The what?”
“Hey, man, I don’t invent it, I just record it,” Flint held up his hands in a don’t shoot the messenger fashion. “I’ve got plenty of photographic proof over there in the tour log book. Now, I’m not saying that it allows beings from other dimensions to travel here and vice versa, like some of the less reputable tour guides claim, but the portal’s the real deal, man, as real as it gets!”
“Oh, and there are two things you should know,” Flint added. “One: we’re uninvited guests on government land so it’d be a smart thing to turn off your camera’s flash. You don’t want to give our presence away, do you? And two: your electronic devices will not work out there, so the cameras on your phones will be useless. Not to worry though, we sell disposable cameras with 400-speed film which is excellent for taking nighttime photos.”
Probably a lie and scam to part the tour group with more of their money, but I bought a couple of cameras just to be on the safe side.
“Uh, sorry for all the questions,” I raised my hand.
“Knowledge is essential, man,” Flint smiled. “Ask away.”
“If this place is as heavily guarded as people say, how are you able to take tours out each night?”
“That’s because most of the barracks you’ll see are all decoys, man. The real base is underground, accessible by an elaborate tunnel system, used by both the military and the extraterrestrials.
“Course, some folks went poking around to find the real deal,” Flint said, lowering his voice like he was letting us in on some deep, dark secret. “Journalists. UFO nuts. Couple of rich boys with more money than sense.”
“And?” I asked.
“And nothing.” He gave me a knowing look. “Because they were never seen again. Oh sure, you’ll hear the usual excuses—car accidents, sudden retirements, tragic boating mishaps. But we all know what’s really going on. You get too close, you stop being a problem real quick.”
A woman in the group laughed nervously. “You’re just trying to scare us.”
“Am I?” Flint shrugged. “All I’m saying is, some questions ain’t meant to be answered. And some things? They stay buried for a reason.”
He clapped his hands together, jolting the group out of the heavy silence. “Now! Who’s ready to see some UFOs?”
I forced a grin, but my gut twisted. Because if half of what he was saying was true, I wasn’t just looking for a story anymore.
I was walking into a cover-up.
If there was a base out there, this was most likely true.
Once the sun set, the tour began with a two-hour meditation walk starting at the Amitabha Stupa, supposedly Sedona’s most spiritual vortex. Flint took us through a painfully boring guided meditation that ended at a well-known hot spot of UFO activity where we were guaranteed sightings of UFOs, using special night vision goggles. People in the group swore up and down to have spotted objects. I turned up a big fat goose egg.
Flint began rambling again about the “decoy barracks” and “elaborate tunnel systems” and while the rest of the tour group nodded at the prospect of uncovering the truth of the government UFO cover-up, I found myself in the grip of an irresistible gravitational pull, to be anywhere else at the moment.
But maybe there was something to the whole elaborate tunnel thing, so I slipped away from the oblivious group and I must have done some fantastically good deed in a former life, because after fifteen minutes of mindless wandering with my borrowed night-vision goggles, I luckily stumbled upon something.
A maintenance door? An emergency exit? Whatever it was, it was discreetly tucked behind what appeared to be a Hollywood movie prop of a pile of boulders. My heart raced as I dug my fingers into the seam and managed to pry the door open with the kind of stealth usually reserved for midnight snack raids.
The narrow tunnel was dim, lit only by the intermittent sputter of the night-vision goggles. The silence was oppressive and every step echoed, mingling with a faint, almost mocking aroma of something being baked—a scent that brought me back to childhood Sunday baking days with Mom, which was profoundly out of place in an underground labyrinth.
The descent into the heart of darkness felt like it went on forever but eventually the tunnel opened to a vast, cavernous chamber and in the middle of it lay a massive structure that could only have been described as an alien ship. Not the sleek, awe-inspiring craft of sci-fi cinema, but a crumpled, battered wreck, half-swallowed by the earth. Its metal skin, scarred by impact and time, gave off that same beguiling aroma of freshly baked goods. I hesitated for a moment before the allure of inexplicable contradictions forced me to press on.
Creeping along the ship’s rusted exterior, I discovered a side entrance open just enough to allow me to slip inside undetected. The interior was bizarre beyond words: stark, high-tech surfaces clashed with an oddly domestic atmosphere. And then I saw it—a surreal assembly line of sorts. There, strapped to a conveyor belt contraption that could have been ripped straight from a mad inventor’s sketchpad, was a creature whose features were unmistakably alien yet curiously reminiscent of a human in an uncanny valley sort of way. It was bound in restraints, its pale, unearthly skin lit by the harsh glare of a single overhead lamp, and from its body—of all things—continued to emerge a steady stream of what looked unmistakably like ConstellaScones.
I was never what anyone would have ever called “quick on the uptake” but my breath hitched in my throat and my heart pounded with horror, because I instantly knew what I was looking at. And the absurdity of it all was almost too much to comprehend: an alien was being forced into a subservient role that even the most desperate and despicable of culinary con artists wouldn’t consider. Before I could fully process the scene, I heard muffled voices coming from a nearby room or compartment or whatever they were called on an alien ship.
Slipping into a narrow passage, I pressed my ear to a cold, metallic wall and caught fragments of conversation between two individuals: one whose tone was clinical and detached, the other brimming with a greasy sort of enthusiasm.
“—so, you’re telling me it’s exactly the same as donuts?”
“Chemically, there’s no difference,” the clinical and detached speaker said. “I know you’re new here but surely you can smell it, can’t you? And have you tasted one? It’s donuts. Addictive as hell, and beyond our wildest indulgences.”
The other voice, smoother yet laced with dark humor, replied, “In the briefing they said only two of them survived the crash, and that one of them recently died and the other one’s been on a permanent strike ever since they started the forced-feed routine. So, how are they still shipping out ConstellaScones?”
“It turns out if you break them down to raw materials, you can manufacture a whole new batch.”
“So, they’ve been turning the dead bodies into alien donut poop?”
“Poop? Is that what they told you? The scientists discovered a while ago that we haven’t been eating their excrement at all. We’ve been snacking on their offspring.”
I nearly dropped my night-vision goggles. The implications ricocheted around in my head like a badly tossed frisbee at a Fricket match. Here I was, in a subterranean facility that smelt of freshly baked betrayal, and the dark truth was layered like a well-crafted éclair: a high-stakes, interstellar donut racket where survival, exploitation, and culinary perversion meshed into one twisted recipe.
As I absorbed the conversation, my mind raced with a cocktail of disgust, fascination, and a grim sense of responsibility. I knew I should retreat and report what I’d found, but the deeper I delved, the more I felt that the true story was just beginning to rise—like dough left to proof in the most unlikely of ovens.
Clutching my evidence—a hastily snapped photo of the conveyor belt and a recording of the hushed voices—I backed away from the macabre production line. My next move was clear: I had to expose this unholy alliance between extraterrestrial misfortune and human greed.
As I retraced my steps through the tunnel, the weight of what I’d uncovered pressed down on me like an overfilled jelly donut about to burst. My mind spun through the possibilities—if I got this story out, if people knew the truth, if they understood what they’d been eating, they’d…
They’d what?
Panic? Riot? Demand justice? Burn down every Doughmenic Bakery in righteous fury?
Or—
Would they shrug, lick the glaze off their fingers, and take another bite?
A cold realization slithered up my spine, slow and insidious. We’d been eating them for years. A decade of blind devotion, of cult-like devotion. We hadn’t just accepted the addiction. We’d embraced it.
Would I be exposing a horror? Or just ruining breakfast?
That’s when I heard it—a distant clink, the unmistakable scrape of a boot against stone.
As the weeks turned into months and the limits of what could be learned from studying Beverly while alive were reached, a grim consensus began to emerge among the scientists and officials overseeing her case. Whispered conversations in shadowy corners and behind closed doors gave way to a chilling realization: the only way to truly understand the nature of Beverly’s transformation was to examine her from the inside out.
At first, the idea was met with shock and revulsion. The notion of deliberately ending a human life, even one as altered and unprecedented as Beverly’s, seemed to cross a fundamental ethical line. But as the pressures and frustrations mounted, as the clamor for answers grew more and more urgent, the unthinkable slowly became the inevitable.
And so, without Beverly’s knowledge or consent, without even the courtesy of informing her family, the decision was made. Beverly would be euthanized, her body dissected and analyzed down to the cellular level. It was a betrayal of the most profound sort, a violation of the most basic principles of human dignity and autonomy.
When the day of the procedure arrived, Beverly was prepped and sedated like any other patient. She lay on the cold, sterile operating table, her body a patchwork of scars and mutations, her mind still clinging to the faint hope that somehow, someway, she might yet find a way back to the life she had once known.
Beverly lay on the cold, hard operating table, her mind foggy from the anesthesia that was slowly being administered to her. She had no idea what was happening, no clue that the people she had trusted to help her had instead decided to end her life in the name of scientific discovery.
As the drugs coursed through her system, Beverly’s thoughts became increasingly disjointed and hazy. She tried to focus on her surroundings, on the bright lights overhead and the masked faces of the surgeons looming over her, but everything seemed to be slipping away, fading into a distant, intangible dream.
Dimly, Beverly became aware of a commotion outside the operating room. There were raised voices, the sound of a scuffle, and then the door burst open, revealing two figures that Beverly would have known anywhere, even in her drugged and disoriented state.
Angele and Joanna stood in the doorway, their faces a mix of shock, horror, and fury as they took in the scene before them. For a moment, Beverly felt a surge of hope, a desperate belief that her friends had come to save her, to put an end to this nightmare once and for all.
But even as that hope flickered to life, Beverly could feel herself slipping away, the anesthesia dragging her down into a deep, impenetrable darkness. She tried to call out, to beg for help, but her lips wouldn’t move, her voice nothing more than a faint, gasping whisper.
The last thing Beverly saw before the void claimed her was the anguished, horrified expressions on Angele and Joanna’s faces, their mouths open in soundless screams of rage and despair. She wanted to reach out to them, to tell them that it was okay, that she understood, but it was too late.
As the darkness closed in around her, Beverly felt a final, fleeting moment of clarity, a sudden understanding of the true nature of the betrayal that had been perpetrated against her. She had been sacrificed, offered up as a lamb to the gods of science and progress, her life and autonomy stripped away in the name of a higher cause.
And with that realization came a crushing sense of despair, a feeling of utter hopelessness and isolation that threatened to consume her entirely. In that moment, Beverly knew that she was alone, that even the love and devotion of her friends couldn’t save her from the fate that had been chosen for her.
And so, with a final, shuddering breath, Beverly surrendered to the inevitable, her consciousness slipping away into a void from which there could be no return. The last thing she felt was a profound sense of loss, a deep, aching sorrow for all that had been taken from her, and all that she would never have the chance to experience.
And then, there was nothing. Only the cold, empty darkness, and the fading echoes of a life that had been cut short, a story that would forever remain unfinished, a mystery that would never be solved.
MADD FICTIONAL 