Just past 7 am.

I walked out to my car and saw a streak of red in an arch across the driver door.

I used the squeegee from the gas station, and scrubbed. I dipped in the orange bucket, the water was black. And I scrubbed.

I saw the lady at the next pump. She looked at me. And for a second, I thought she knew. She knew I had murdered the old woman myself. Murdered her with the back of an ax.

The red disappeared from my car, but it dripped onto the pavement, not dissappearing at all. And when I touched the handle, it got on my hands, and I knew. I knew I could never escape. I had to turn myself in.

Okay. It was really just ketchup.

I was doing an army crawl over gravel and dirt. I was crawling to meet you. The moon was full, shining through some thick clouds. I was wearing a cloak and hood. It was at Uncle Montey’s house, only there was more open space around the house and mounds of dirt and rock–as if it were still under construction. I saw a shadowy figure in the distance. He fired at me with a silenced gun. I ducked behind a mound, and heard several thuds on the opposite side.

A few minutes later, you appeared, having circled around to meet me. I looked at you twice, a little surprised: it was your 6-year-old self–pajamas and all. I looked at my hands and body to see if I was also younger, but I wasn’t. I gave you a questioning glance. You held up that old wooden sword and a cap gun–both of which have been lost since we were little. “These are why.” That’s all you said. I got the impression that finding and using those weapons had made you young again.

And then I knew that my mission was to also find my old weapons so that I could become young too.

Then I woke up. I wrote it down so that I wouldn’t forget. I also thought that it might fit into the Reign of Fire storyline somehow.

It was dark. There were charcoal-gray bars on the windows. It didn’t look like a whorehouse. They all hung their heads down, their long ratted hair hiding their faces. One sat on the top of an upright piano to my right. The cell—the room—was too small for a piano. She looked at me.

“Lauren?”

She slid off the piano, and gingerly stepped, leaning forward.

“Oh, God no. Not you.”

“It wasn’t. I didn’t.”

She walked toward me, and I cradled her greasy head in my arms. She shook as she cried. The hint of a tear gleamed in my eye.

“It ends tonight. Either he or I will die tonight,” I said, clenching my teeth. My hands on her head were leathery, and oil stained.

She tipped her head upward, and I saw one eye through the ratty hair. “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”

“Funny,” I replied. “That’s what I say too.”

I kissed her on the head and then let go. She curled her knees close as she crouched into the corner.

With grit on my chin, I stepped to the door. I rested my palms on the butts of two silver, flint-lock pistols tucked at my side. Then I kicked the door open with my boot and stepped outside.