u/MountainMiscreant

Node 15: the end

Node 14 is in the link

Finishing a story can be hard. I hope I didn't disappoint. Thank you all for reading.

Content warning: language

Node 15: Abyss

It's lunch now. As anticipated, Ms. Christner is guarding the tree.

From what I understand some of the other teachers tried to find out if there was anything else hiding in it. There was nothing. Maybe what they wanted wasn't something the tree could get. Maybe it didn't fit. Maybe it just doesn't work for adults.

I head to the bench to meet up with Devin. He's there, waiting. Andrew's there too, spooning out pudding from a snack pack with his fingers. I keep walking.

“Brett!?” Devin calls my name.

I don't answer. Things are different now. I thought I could fix things: fix things for Devin, fix things for my mom, but most of all fix them for me.

I just didn't want to be replaced…

The tree. The tree will give it back. Somehow I need to get to the tree. I can't now, not while under surveillance. I'll have to wait.

I watch from a distance. Typically Ms. Christner can't make it through a fifteen minute recess without feeding her nicotine addiction let alone lunch.

She’s jittery, forehead dappled in sweat, hands fidgeting. Her eyes dart from the tree to the rest of the playground and back again.

She wants a cigarette so bad she’s practically vibrating.

But she stays.

For now.

Eventually the bell rings, and lunch is over.

Back in Mr. Hanley’s class Devin keeps looking back at me over his shoulder. I don't return his gaze, not once. I keep my head down and focus on the handout.

A

B

B

A

C

Not much longer.

Ay

Bee

Bee

Ay

See

After school.

Ay

Bi

Bi

Ay

Cis

My Muzzy.

Abyss

Abyss

Abyss

BRRNNG!

Backpacks zip.

Chairs scrape.

Everyone rushes for the door.

Outside, Devin stops me.

“Dude, what's up with you?” he asks.

“Don't worry about it.” I say.

“You wanna hang out? I can let Ms. Chris know I'm gonna head to your place. Just you and me.”

“Not going home.”

“Okay, where we going?” He's already decided to include himself. I know Devin. There isn't anything I can say to shake him now.

“I'm staying here. I need something from the tree.”

“What?”

“You know what I mean. The time-out tree.”

Devin squints at me. “The time‑out tree? Brett… what are you talking about?”

“I need something from it.”

“What do you need?”

I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s afraid someone might hear. “Dude, that tree’s messed up. Ms. Chris has been guarding it all day.”

“I know.”

Devin stares at me, trying to read my face. He wants to believe I'm joking, but he knows I'm not.

“I’m coming with you.” he says.

“I know.”

Andrew jogs up behind him, backpack bouncing. “Hey, wait up big brother!”

Devin turns. Andrew looks at me, then back at him with his wide, gormless eyes.

“Hey Andrew, could you tell Ms. Chris that I'm going with Brett to the library? We got paired up for an assignment, and we wanna get a head start on it.” Devin doesn't usually lie. He jokes, he exaggerates, but he doesn't lie.

“Can I help?” Andrew asks.

“No,” I say before Devin can answer.

Andrew's face falls, and Devin steps in to soften it. “Just tell mom. I'll meet you back home when we're done, okay little brother.”

Andrew nods, eager to be useful. “Okay big brother.” He runs off, arms flailing like he's attempting to take flight.

“What now?” Devin asks.

“Now we wait.”

We stand there, just off the blacktop, close enough to see the tree but far enough that no one will notice us. The playground is thinning fast, kids peeling off toward buses, parents, bikes.

Devin shifts from foot to foot. He keeps glancing at me, then at the tree, then back at me again.

As we wait, hundreds of birds start to populate the tree. Their voices fused into one long, liquid rush. Not chirping, a kind of wet, shimmering static. The whole tree humming under their strain.

By the time everyone has gone, the sky has turned from vivid blue to deep amber. The swings hang loose and still. The hopscotch cort is vacant. All that remains is the sound of the birds.

Devin hugs his arms to his chest. “Why are there so many?”

“Don't know.”

We approach the solemn giant. The sound of the birds intensifies. What sounded like rushing water now sounds like a cacophony of screams. The oak is speaking with the only voice it has. It knows.

I kneel at its base as if at an altar. Devin stands behind me. As I push my arm into the hollow the birds explode from its branches, flying off in all directions.

“What the fuck!” There’s panic in Devin’s voice.

I reach deeper, pushing past the slick, wet muck. It feels warm, pulsing. I feel it! A soft bundle. My finger grip at it. The tree tightens around my arm. It doesn’t want to let go, but I can feel it slipping free.

Devin steps closer. “Stop! Dude, stop! This isn't right.”

I don’t.

The hollow contracts, squeezing hard enough to make my knuckles grind together. The muck climbs my wrist, thick and clinging, like it’s trying to pull me deeper.

But the bundle is right there.

Right there.

I yank.

The tree shudders. A low, wooden groan that vibrates through the roots and into my knees. The birds scatter farther, their wet static rising into a shriek.

The bundle comes loose.

The tree releases me all at once, like it’s giving up.

I fall back onto the dirt, clutching the thing against my chest. It smells of rot, decay, death.

Devin stares at me, breathing hard. “What is that? Brett… what is that?”

I don’t answer.

There in my arms I have it, My Muzzy. It's wrapped around something, something delicate, something small.

The fabric is damp and heavy. Devin take a step back.

He knows.

He doesn’t want to know, but he knows.

It's my sister.

It's Hannah.

What's left of her after nearly a year of grave rot.

The stench rolls up from the bundle, thick and sweet. Impossible to ignore.

Devin covers his mouth.

His eyes go wide.

He shakes his head like he’s trying to wake up from a dream.

I start to unravel the blanket.

“Brett-” Devin’s voice cracks. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

I ignore him.

The fabric peels back slowly, sticking to itself, sticking to what’s beneath.

The smell hits harder.

Devin staggers away, gagging.

He can’t look.

He can’t not look.

I pull the last fold aside.

Devin makes a sound I’ve never heard from him before: a choked, broken noise that isn’t a word.

I drop the corpse to the ground, and push it back into the hollow with my foot. The tree swallows it whole.

“My Muzzy,” I whisper, holding my blanket close, breathing in its essence.

The tree stands behind us, hollow open, birds gone, the whole world silent.

Waiting.

I know what I have to do now. You were a good friend Devin. I'm going to miss you.

Node 14

Node 13 is in the link

Figured I'd let you guys know I started reading this story on YouTube. Here's a link to the first part. https://youtu.be/6E7g1344Lz0?is=4fBORfyXUDYrk84O

Content warning: language, blood, violence

Node 14: Communion

“Riding down the highway, on bus forty four!”

The chorus begins to swell, spreading like a bad cold.

“Donna ripped a big one, and blew us out the door!” I join in.

“The moon couldn’t take it. The sun couldn’t shine.” Time for the big finish.

“All because of Donna’s big fat behind!”

How long will it take? How long until someone checks in on her?

Vrrrrrt - a backpack zipper.

She’s scheduled at four.

Kifff - a sneeze.

They’ll call, no one will answer, but no one will worry. Not yet.

Tchk - the stiff plasticky slap of a nine‑pocket sheet being flipped.

It’ll get busy, the rush will hit, and whatever concern they had will sour into irritation, then resentment.

Keh‑HAA - exaggerated laughter. Maybe sarcasm.

I can get it back. Today, I’ll get it back.

The tree will give it to me.

My Muzzy.

Skeeee thmp - the squeal of worn breaks as we come to a stop.

“Everyone off!” Donna says, still hunched over the wheel.

Devin seemed somewhat more himself today. When Mr. Hanley called out his name during roll-call, Devin responded with an armpit fart. Snickers spread through the classroom like ripples in a pond. It's good to have the old Devin back.

The lesson today was something about the first Thanksgiving. Mr. Hanley droned on: Pilgrims, Wampanoag, gratitude, unity, peace, war. I hear him, but I’m not listening, not really. I’m thinking about the tree.

When the bell finally does ring, it catches me off guard, stirring me from my thoughts. Everyone’s rushing out the door. Even Devin’s gone before I can stand.

When I step out onto the walkway, I'm already bracing myself. Any time Devin beats me outside he's hiding just around the corner waiting to jump out, or trip me. It’s our routine, his routine really.

I pause, glance left, then right.

He's not there. No “BOO!” No grin. No shove. No “Got you again!”

I find him leaning against the volleyball pole, chatting it up with Andrew. Andrew? Why is he hanging out with peanut boy?

“Hey Devin.” I say with a painted grin.

“Hey.” His reply feels as forced as my smile.

“What are you guys doing?” I ask.

“We're just talking.”

“Bout what?”

They share a quick confirmatory glance: a silent calibration on whatever half-truth they’re about to give me. It doesn’t matter.

“We uh, we were just talking ab-” I cut in before Andrew can finish his bullshit.

“What was up with your mom taking you out of class Thursday?” I ask Devin.

“Dan got into a crash. He died.” His face twist. “Why are you pretending you don't know? Everybody knows.”

Shit.

“I know what everyone's been saying, but… Look, I'm sorry man. It just didn't feel right to ask if he was really dead.”

Andrew's still standing there, hovering; watching with the look of someone waiting for a stop sign to turn green.

I'm just gonna ask.

“Sooooo, when did you two start hanging out?”

“He's my new brother!” Andrew says, beaming with exuberant pride.

“Yeah, my mom, she's not doing so well. She had to go to the hospital so I'm staying with Ms. Chris now.”

“Ms. Christner?” What's going on?

“She's our foster mom.” again, Andrew interjects.

Before I can tell him to go fuck himself, there's a sound, something rhythmic, something tribal drifting across the blacktop.

“Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”

All three of us rush over, hungry for whatever spectacle awaits. Two boys are squared off near the time‑out tree. I don’t know their names, but I recognize them from the bus.

“I didn’t steal it,” the smaller boy says. He’s clutching a nine‑pocket sheet smeared with dark muck. “the tree, it was in the tree.”

The taller boy swings hard, driving his fist straight into the other’s gut.

UF-

The smaller boy folds, air punched out of him in a single ugly sound. “Stop, please stop.” No pride, just raw fear. “Here, take it.” He holds out the sheet, hand shaking, body trembling, still trying to catch his breath.

The taller boy snatches it away, and shoves the smaller boy against the tree.

THOK!

His head hits the trunk with an odd sort of hollow sound, like kicking a traffic cone. For a moment he just stands there, stunned. Then the blood comes, an impossible amount of blood. It pours down his forehead, over his nose, soaking his shirt, dripping off his shoes and into the earth below. His body goes limp, and he falls to the ground.

“Oh fuck…”

The taller boy says.

“Dude get up, come on get up.”

The blood keeps coming.

So much blood.

The dirt around the boy’s head turns black and wet, soaking it up like a sponge.

Devin whispers, “Is he dead?”

Andrew’s eyes are huge, his mouth hanging open.

Ms. Christner finally charges in with a cigarette still hanging from her lips.

“Oh God.” She says as it drops from her mouth, hitting the blood and muck with a tiny hiss.

“dude… dude get up, get up, get up, get up.” The taller boy's muttering to himself.

The bell rings, a few kids run toward the office, yelling for help. Others bolt for classrooms, desperate just to get away.

Ms. Christner's pressing her hand against the boy’s head, trying to stop the bleeding. It doesn’t work. The blood keeps sliding between her fingers, dripping down her wrist, soaking the earth, feeding the roots.

“Stay with me,” she says, voice cracking.

Everyone’s watching the boy, waiting for some sign of life, but I'm watching the tree.

The blood that hit the trunk is gone now, not smeared, not dripping, gone. Even the ground has gone from a crimson mud back to dried earth.

Ms. Christner lifts the boy, cradling him against her chest. His arms hang like empty sleeves.

One of the other teachers yells at us.

“Everyone, back to class now!”

What's left of the crowd breaks completely. Kids scatter in every direction, buzzing with panic, gossip already foaming in their mouths. Devin pulls Andrew away with the quiet care of an older brother.

I stay.

Just for a moment.

The hollow is darker now. Deeper. Alive.

I feel something, a tug in my chest.

My Muzzy.

Closer now, yet further than ever. After this, they'll be watching the tree. The coins, the doll, now the cards, they'll be watching.

Node 13

Node 12 in the link

I apologize for the wait. I didn't know what to do here. It took some time before it came to me. I do however have an idea about how the next two, the last two, are gonna be. It's almost over now. Thank you all for reading along.

Content warning: Suicide, infant death

Node 13: Requiem

I wake to an unusual quiet. The house feels more hollow, more empty than usual. The only sound as I make my way down the hall is my own footsteps.

I find mom sitting alone at the table. She's trying to hide it, but she's crying. A low mournful sobbing. I pull up my usual chair, and for a time we share the silence.

“Why are you crying?” I finally ask.

She doesn't answer.

“Mom?”

No response; instead, she gets up and walks to the kitchen. I hear the sink, the water rushing. A long, steady shhhhhhh telling me words are not welcome. Not here, not now.

I get up and peek in. She's washing yesterday’s dishes. Her movement’s slow, automatic.

shhhhhh-plnk

shhhhhh-plnk

shhhhhh-plnk

Then,

shhhhhhh-plnk-KRAK.

shhhhh- KSHHHT!

shhh… CRACK.

KRAK-KSHHHT-KRISH-SKRAAASH-TCH‑KRAK‑KSHH-KLINK‑CRACK-SHKRAAASH-KRISH-KRAK.

“HRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! haa-ghh-haa-AAAH-ghk-haa, why, why-WHY! God Why?”

Shattered fragments of ceramic scattered across the floor like confetti. Blood dripping from her fingertips. Her back rising and falling with labored breath. I start to make my way towards her. I want to comfort her.

Before I can, she begins to speak.

“Why can't you just let me be happy?” tears falling into the running sink.

“Mom?”

“You know what I mean.”

“He wasn't who you thoug-”

“No.”

“Mom, he was-”

“I SAID NO!”

I don't understand, she didn’t even like him. She knew he was using me to try to get to her. She had to know.

“You're my son… I will always love you. But I'm afraid of you, he wasn’t. He wanted to help you. He wanted to help us.”

“By labeling me special needs!?” I protest.

She turns off the sink, and looks into my eyes.

“No one thinks you're stupid… Emotionally Disturbed. That's what the tests were for. You don't feel things the way people feel things, you just pretend, you copy.” her eyes are pleading.

There's a long pause. I don't know what I'm supposed to say.

“When your sister died, all you cared about was that blanket. That's when I knew. I didn't want to believe. Your sister, MY BABY was gone, your father went to prison, and all you cared about was that stupid blanket! That's why I buried it with her. Because I knew.”

What did she know?

“I… it was an accident.” The words fall out of my mouth. Why did I say that?

She turns away from me.

“Mom, mom you have to believe me!” I'm pleading now.

“You're the accident.” Her words cut me.

I reach down and pick up a jagged shard from the floor.

shff-klk

Her shoulders tense at the sound, but she doesn't move, doesn't turn, doesn't run.

I place the shard into the trash, and grab the broom. For the next hour or so we clean the kitchen together in silence. Time drags: thick and heavy.

...

“Tell me what happened.” She's asking for the truth. I'll tell her.

“Dad was asleep with her-”

“Hannah…” Her voice cracks, eyes glossy.

“Yes. Hannah. Dad was asleep on the chair with Hannah. It was late, you were working. She was wrapped up in my blanket-my Muzzy. That’s what you called it, remember?”

I look at her for some confirmation: a nod, something, anything. It was my special blanket. She gave it to me. She told me it would keep me safe. Dad had no right to take it.

Nothing.

“I wanted it back. I wanted it back, so I came into the living room to get it. It was stuck. When I pulled, Hannah fell onto the ground and started crying. I didn't even get it. Dad woke up and she wasn’t on him so… when he put the footrest down… Mom, you know what happened.”

“Why didn’t you say anything. Where were you.” It doesn’t sound like she's asking questions, but I answer anyway.

“You would’ve been mad at me, I went back into the hall so I could pretend I was coming from my room.”

“My husband’s in prison for negligent homicide. He blamed himself. I blamed him.”

“He took my Muzzy.” She had to understand. It was mine.

She turns away and walks down the hall. At the end hangs our family portrait. I watch as she lifts it from the wall. Her fingers tremble as she works the backing loose. The photo slides out, edges curled from years of being hidden. She unfolds it slowly, carefully, smoothing the crease with her thumb. She stares at the face she buried, the one she pretended wasn’t there. A soft, broken sound escapes her. She presses the picture to her chest for a moment, then kisses the man she once loved.

She carries the photo with her into the bathroom. I hear the medicine cabinet creak open. Bottles shift and rattle. She doesn’t know what she's looking for.

"Take eight of the small white round ones first," I say softly. "Then take six of the oval yellow ones with the line down the middle. After that, take four of the blue capsules. Then drink what's left of the cough syrup. There should be about half a bottle still after my last cold.”

“Will it hurt?” She asks.

"It will start slow. You’ll feel warm. Heavy. Like sinking into a deep bath. Your thoughts will get soft and sort of far away. There won’t be any pain, but you're gonna feel really tired. Don't fight it. Everything will fade, softer and softer, until... You won’t feel afraid. You won’t feel anything bad at all.”

She emerges from the bathroom, bottles in hand, photo tucked in her blouse. We stand there motionless, looking at each other in the dim light. Then she smiles. Not her bright smile, not the smile I love. Something smaller. Softer. Tired.

She gathers the bottles into one hand and reaches out with the other, running her fingers through my hair. Her hand is shaking. She leans down and kisses my forehead. Her lips are soft, but cold.

Then she walks past me to the nursery, Hannah's room. Her hand rests on the doorframe for a moment, maybe two. She steps inside, and closes the door behind her.

I stand there for a while, listening. The house is quiet again. I think about knocking, but I don’t. I think about calling someone, but I don’t. Eventually I go to my room. I have school tomorrow.

Lacrimosa dies illa

Qua resurget ex favilla

Judicandus homo reus.

Huic ergo parce, Deus,

Pie Jesu Domine,

Dona eis requiem.

Amen.

Node 12

Node 11 in the link

Sorry for the pause between nodes. I've got allot to wrap up in the last act.

Content warning: language and death

Node 12: Inferno

“Out of bed, you sleepy head.”

“Mom?”

“No, it’s Pamela Anderson and I’m heeeere toooo saaaave yooooooooou,” she says, breaking into a dramatic, slow-motion jog from the doorway to my bed.

“Come on, I made Eggos and scrambled eggs for breakfast.” Her voice is light and joyful.

“I’m awake, I’m awake.” Something’s up. I haven’t seen her this cheery in ages.

After she leaves, I roll out of bed to get dressed.

When I meet her in the dining room, she’s already pouring me a tall glass of Sunny‑D. There’s a plate waiting for me: a leaning stack of waffles surrounded by a wreath of bright yellow eggs.

“Thanks, Mom!” Her energy is infectious. It’s that smile, a shimmering crescent of weightless light.

I sit down and begin eating immediately. Melted butter and maple syrup pooled to the brim of every square divot. The eggs, fluffy and warm. Each bite floods my brain with a piercing rush of tender dopamine.

“I have a surprise for you.” Her smile glows brighter still.

I nod, my mouth stuffed, a small dribble of syrup escaping my lips to rest on my chin.

“Mini‑golf! Go‑karts! And a huge arcade! We got it all here at-”

“We’re going to Castle Cascade!” A soft yellow curd of egg escapes with my words.

She laughs: a chorus of bells and angels.

“Finish eating first,” she says, wiping my chin with her thumb like I’m younger than I am.

I don’t mind. Not today.

I shovel the last few bites down, food turning sticky at the corners of my mouth. The final mouthful almost catches in my throat. I swallow hard and polish off my O‑Jay with a triumphant gulp.

By the time I stand, she’s grabbing her keys.

“Let’s get going,” she says.

“What about the dishes?”

“We’ll wash them when we get home. Now let’s go.”

Outside, the air is cool and sharp.

She rolls the window down as soon as we’re on the interstate.

The wind rushes in, loud and clean. It smells like wet grass and morning sun. I stick my hand out and let the air carve around it, lifting and dipping, lifting and dipping.

Meanwhile, mom's tapping the steering wheel and humming to the rhythm of the radio. Her smile keeps flickering in the corner of my vision, gentle and bright.

We crest the last hill, a sign comes into view: colorful paint, flags fluttering, a cartoon dragon frozen mid‑wink.

CASTLE CASCADE — NEXT EXIT

My stomach flips, sharp and electric as we turn into the parking lot. The whole place looks like something straight out of a Saturday morning cartoon. A faux-stone facade, the plywood turrets, and its mural of brave knights celebrating with a jovial dragon all culminating in dream-like wonder.

She finds a spot near the front. We get out, the air warmer here, buzzing faintly with the hum of arcade machines leaking through the walls. Mom smooths her hair in the window’s reflection. She’s still smiling, that bright, weightless smile that carried us all the way here.

We start toward the entrance.

And then I see him.

Lock's standing just outside the double doors smoking a cigarette. The morning light reflecting on his glasses, turning them into two blank coins. He lifts a hand in a small, casual wave.

Mom stops.

Just a half‑step, but I feel it.

A tiny stutter in her joy.

“Morning,” Lock calls out, like this is normal. Like this is fine.

My stomach drops, the electric flip turning cold.

Mom forces her smile back into place.

“Hey handsome.”

“Denise, you're looking beautiful as always.”

I look up at her. She doesn't look back, she can't.

Lock continues, “Are you two ready to cut loose and have some fun?”

khff-mm

He stifles a cough.

“We sure are.” Her smile now curdled, sweet on the surface but sour beneath.

Lock throws his cigarette to the ground and grinds it into the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

“Let's have at it then, my treat.”

His treat.

The whole morning rearranges itself in my head: the playfulness, the Eggos, the rush to leave, the humming. All of it tilts, revealing the truth.

This wasn’t her idea.

It was his.

And now we’re here.

At Castle Cascade.

With him.

“Hi ya sport.” he says, tussling my hair as I make my way through the entrance.

The doors hiss open and the arcade hits me like a punch; a wall of sound and blinking light that swallows the air whole.

Beeping.

Chiming.

Explosions.

Digital jingles looping over each other in a frantic, tangled mess. Lights strobing across the carpet in violent bursts of reds, greens, and blues.

The smell is its own chaos: buttered popcorn, warm plastic, sickly sweet cleaning solution, and the everlasting tinge of stale vomit.

My chest tightens.

My vision fuzzes at the edges.

Everything is too close, too loud, too bright.

Lock steps in behind us, and the noise somehow gets louder.

I scan the room for exits, blind spots, choke points, anything I can use. The machines blur into a single pulsing organism.

Claw machines.

Skee‑ball lanes.

Air hockey tables.

Prize counter.

A maintenance door propped open with a paint can.

A tangle of cords behind a broken racing game.

A janitor’s cart abandoned near the restrooms.

Nothing clean.

Nothing simple.

Nothing I can use without drawing attention.

Lock’s hand lands on my shoulder: heavy, possessive.

“Quite the place, huh?” he says, leaning down close enough for me to smell his putrid breath. Then he hands me a paper cup half filled with arcade tokens. “Here ya go champ, this should keep you busy for a while.”

The lights flare again, a stuttering burst of neon that makes my eyes water.

I swallow hard.

My brain is buzzing, overloaded, sparking in every direction.

I need a plan.

I need space.

I need him to stop touching me.

But the arcade keeps screaming, drowning out every thought except one:

I'm going to kill Lock.

Focus

Focus

Focus

As I walk by the snack bar, I take note of the menu, then make my way to the restroom.

WORLD DRYER

PUSH BUTTON

RUB HANDS LIGHTLY UNDER WARM AIR

DRY HANDS THOROUGHLY

Tkk-VRRRRRRRRRRRRR

One-thirty, maybe one-forty degrees. Might take a couple blasts. That's fine.

I have a plan now. Sixty-two tickets, that's what I need. That's step one.

Skee-Ball is gonna be my best bet. I choose a lane, and insert one of my tokens. The balls clatter into the chute with a clumsy click-clack. I lift the first one and judge its heft. This lane leans a hair to the left; I’ll have to aim just right of center. The forty‑point ring is the sweet spot. It's no larger than the other high value rings, but still within the large ten point ring. If I can land three in a row, I’ll trigger the bonus. It's gonna take a few games to hit sixty‑two tickets. Good thing Lock made sure to give me enough tokens to keep me “busy” while he tries to dig his nicotine stained claws into my mother.

Thm, shhhhh-tok

Ten points. Adjust. Try again.

Thm, shhhhh-tok

Twenty this time, just a little harder on the next throw.

Thm, shhhh-tok

It bounces off the rim of the forty, and rolls into the ten point hole. Six balls to go.

Thm, shhh-tok

Forty points. I take note of the action, and do my best to commit it to muscle memory.

I end my first game with only one hundred and sixty points. The machine dispenses a single ticket.

My second game isn't much better. I end up with two hundred and twenty points: one ticket again.

It's not until my fifth game that I start to hit my stride. The drift makes sense now. The forty‑point shot lands more often than it doesn’t.

Game five: 310 points. Three tickets.

Game six: 340 points. Four tickets.

Game seven: A near‑jackpot: 390. but still four tickets.

As my total climbs, I stop counting the points and start counting the tickets.

Game eight: Jackpot! Ten tickets.

Game nine: Another solid run. Four more.

The pile grows in my hand, warm and papery.

Fifty‑seven tickets.

One more game.

I feed in the token.

Roll.

Adjust.

Roll again.

thm‑shhh‑tok

thm‑shhh‑tok

thm‑shhh‑TOK

Three clean forties in a row. Bonus triggered.

The machine spits out five tickets, curling into my palm like they’ve been waiting for me.

Sixty‑two.

Enough.

I make my way to the prize counter and claim what I'm here for: one cheap neon green squirt-gun and a handful of pixie sticks. Step two complete.

When I find my mom again, Lock’s got his arm draped over her shoulder.

“Hey, Mom. I’m getting hungry.”

She steps forward, quick enough that Lock’s arm drops back to his side.

“Sure thing, sweetheart. Let’s get some food.”

We head toward the food court. Lock follows.

“What do ya want, champ?” Lock asks.

“I’ll take a corndog and a basket of fries.”

“Oh, fries sound good. I’ll take some too,” Mom says. She never passes up a chance at fries.

We get our food and take it to the outdoor seating area. Step three complete. From here we can see the mini‑golf course and the go‑karts. The smell of exhaust and cigarette smoke drifts through the air. Smokers are predictable. Lock’s going to spark up the second we’re done eating.

When we sit, Lock pulls his chair closer than he needs to.

“These fries are pretty good,” he says, reaching into Mom’s basket without asking.

She laughs, more of a curiosity than a real laugh: the kind I imagine she uses at work.

Lock talks with his mouth full. Mom nods along. I'm not really listening, I can't.

After what seems like an eternity, we finish. I quickly stand and volunteer to take everyone’s trash. I’m not even through the door before Lock’s already smoking. Inside, I pocket the greasy fry‑basket liners and the corndog stick, then head to the restroom.

Time for step four.

I fill my squirt gun at the sink and add the pixie‑stick dust. A quick shake dissolves the sugar. I listen, someone’s in a stall. I wait it out in an empty one. Before long, they leave without even washing their hands.

I step out and use the corndog stick to shove the wadded‑up fry liners into the hand‑dryer exhaust vent.

When I return, Lock’s still smoking. Time for the final step. I draw my weapon and fire.

“What the fuck you little shit!” Lock jerks back as the sugary water splashes across his cigarette and soaks into his cheap polyester dress shirt. Mom shoots me a look, sharp enough to sting.

“Sorry, heh-heh” Lock says, forcing a laugh. “It’s fine. Boys will be boys, right? I probably would’ve done the same thing at his age. Not too many chances to take a shot at your principle, am I right” He stands, brushing at his shirt. “I’m gonna take care of this real quick. Don’t you two have too much fun without me.”

He heads toward the restroom.

After a long pause, my mother finally speaks.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” she says.

I don’t answer.

“It’s David, isn’t it? I know you two don’t get along, but he told me about the trouble you’ve been having in school and he’s just trying to help.”

“How?” I ask.

“It’s not your grades. David says you’re having some trouble socially.”

“Since when are we calling him David?”

“He’s trying. In his own way he’s-”

“OH MY GOD!”

“FIRE!”

“SOMEONE HELP HIM!”

The shouts explode from inside.

We rush in. Lock's lying just outside the restroom, smoke rising off him as he fights for breath. Mom drops to her knees beside him, rolling him onto his back. His shirt is fused to his chest. His face is dark with soot.

He drags in short, frantic breaths.

huh‑huh‑huh‑huh, each one thinner than the last. Pulmonary edema. Mom’s crying, calling his name, begging him to stay with her.

I stand there, frozen. I’ve never wanted to smile more, but that’s not who I am right now. Right now I’m a scared kid trying to understand what I’m seeing.

His breathing stutters, huh‑huh‑huh, and then fades into a wet, rattling exhale.

And then it’s done. He's done.

Node 11

Node 10 in the link

Act 3: the final act

Node 11: Phantasm

Burning sky, amber light, well past noon but not yet night

Swings hang loose in faded sight, a vacant court devoid of flight

No one running, no one leaping, a place of play with secrets sleeping

Shadows stretch like ink that's seeping, echoes caught in circles keeping

Joy is fleeting, pain repeating, cycles hold until the reaping

Who draws these lines that no one's needing, then bends them back to name the cost

When all is gone, who pays the cost

What lingers here, and what is lost

A figure knelt beneath the tree, her shape is blurred too soft to see

Flowers placed in memory, tears that fall in misery

The air grows thick, a breath half‑caught

No footsteps here, just someone weeping, branches bowed and sadness creeping

Shadows stretch, the light receding, echoes buried, safe and sleeping

Above, a laugh begins its leaping; coins fall to earth, the world forgot

They strike the ground in clattering thought

Then twist to chains the moment caught

The tree leans in with quiet might, its hollow pulsing faint with light

Its bark expands, then folds in tight, a breathing shape that isn’t right

A hush descends, world overwrought

Pale fingers curl from darkness creeping, soft as moth wings barely keeping

Their touch is cold, their motion sweeping, reaching out as if for keeping

Something slides from shadows sleeping, wrapped in warmth the world forgot

A bundled weight my mother wrought

Its heartbeat faded into not

I lift the form, it hums with light, a fragile glow in failing sight

Its warmth grows thin, its edges slight, its outline trembles into flight

The world tilts once, a wound distraught

The blanket stirs with life so fleeting, shifting hues through fabric seeping

A pulse beneath the stitching leaping, then folding inward, sinking, sleeping

It swallows what my arms were keeping, leaving cloth and nothing caught

The hollow weight of life's that's not

A memory held and then forgot