Editorial: My Life With Depression

**This is an opinion piece, not fiction.  It explains my current struggle with depression.  Read on with that in mind.**

I am so bitter and damaged.  I have zero patience for other people and their quirks.  I don’t expect anyone to have patience with mine, either, if I can’t return the favor.  And it’s not that I choose to have no patience for the way people talk around things, the games they play (willingly or not… a lot of it is completely unconscious), and how people will say something but have an entirely different motive behind their words… it’s just my past experiences combined with my psychological training that’s made me this way.  I equate it with my atheism: once I have the proof, there’s no going back.  I know so much about psychological phenomena and how the brain literally works (down to parts of the brain and neurons) that I can’t just pretend like I don’t know these things.  It genuinely influences my opinion of humans in general.

And don’t get me started on how my training and life experiences have affected my outlook on MYSELF.  Good god.  I think those are two things that make my depression so much worse.  I’ve studied depression in depth, and the fact that, even though I know, in theory, how to overcome depression, and what I should do in order to take steps to help myself, and I STILL can’t, tells me the power of the brain is SO much more than we will ever fathom (at least that is my educated opinion on that matter).  We learn more and more about the brain and how it works every year, but there are still so many questions that remain unanswered, or are answered with a, “We don’t know that yet.” 

I’ve always been a humble person, so I become extremely frustrated when a person who has never suffered from depression; or someone who thinks depression is just a big, dramatic tug for attention; or a person that thinks depression is a sign of weakness; offers me advice on how I should be able to ‘get over it.’  Really?  Do you think it’s that simple?  Do you think I wake up everyday and say to myself, “Gee, it sure does sound fun to be paralyzed and unable to move or be productive!  I really enjoy the thought of being paranoid and anxious over things that are simple everyday actions for everyone else.  I love crying, let’s cry all day long, that sounds great!  You know what would be fun?  Canceling my plans with friends because of my social anxiety and crippling panic attacks, because that’s exactly the right way to keep friends!  Oh, and let’s eat everything in the house and gain a ton of weight, cuz that’s exactly how one goes about boosting self-esteem and self-worth!”  Do you see how ludicrous it sounds now?

I also have a hard time with how my presence is seen now that I’m back in Minnesota.  I believe that many of my friends genuinely forget I’m here and available to go out and have fun.  I was gone for two years and was so crushed that I couldn’t see my friends that I didn’t call.  It’s too hard for me to hear the voice of someone I will never see in person.  I would text, but I do have several friends that won’t accept texts, and since I won’t talk on the phone, and they won’t text, we just didn’t talk.  Not talking for two years is almost like I fell off the face of the planet and… died.  And in a way, I did die.

I will never tell you exactly what happened to me that made me ‘run away’ to Arizona.  Never.  You just have to believe me, if I hadn’t left, I would have done something really ‘stupid’ to myself, to put it nicely.  If you’d like to think of me as weak and ‘running away from my problems’ whatever, I don’t care, you can think what you want.  No skin off my nose.  The result of my two year disappearance is that many of my friendships, that were so incredibly close at the time I left, are now irreparably broken.  I’m invisible.  I’m shunned.  I might as well be dead.

Which, of course, leads to my depression worsening.  I was trying my hardest for a very long time to build up the courage to go out and meet a guy (who shall remain nameless).  To talk, to laugh, to perhaps date eventually.  I couldn’t do it.  Yeah, it’s my own fault, I couldn’t get past my own fears and insecurities.  Of course the guy blames me for it and doesn’t understand any of the mental illness underlying it.  Whatever.  It’s for the better to get rid of people who have zero understanding of mental illness.  But it’s discouraging, because there were TWO times that I got all dolled up, drove out to where we were going to meet for a beer, and had such a severe anxiety/panic attack that I had to cancel.  It’s something I need to work through, but it makes me feel even less human than I already do.  I get the question, “So, are you seeing someone?” and when I answer, “No,” the overwhelming response is ridiculous.  “Oh, that’s too bad,” or “You need to get a man!” or other such silly things.  No, I don’t need anyone, thank you very much.  I need to work on me.  And that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.

I will not be forced to meet up with strangers for dates.  If you can’t be patient enough to wait for me to be ready and ask you if you’d like to go out for a date, then you don’t deserve me.  And I don’t need any man forcing me to do anything.  The next time a man does that to me, they are going to get an eyeball gouged out, and I’m not even kidding.  I’ve been hurt by men both physically and emotionally one too many times in my life.  If it even comes close to happening again, the man is going to be sorry.

My mind is a complex hurricane, yet at the same time, it is a paralyzed, throbbing organic ball in cardiac arrest.  So much is going on, yet the level of complexity cripples me.  It angers me when people try to suggest simple things that might help.  Some time away.  A nice cup of tea.  A movie.  No, no, no.  Nothing will help me.  Not you, not anybody.  It’s hard to talk to someone when I can tell (I’m a professional, you can’t pull the wool over my eyes) they aren’t interested in what I’m saying.  And just like I’ve been saying all my life… I don’t say much, so if I am going to use the breath to talk to you, by god you better listen to what I’m saying.  If not, I’m never going to confide in you again.  Simple.  If someone comes to me with a problem or concern, I give them 100% of my attention and really listen.  I give more feedback than just “yeah.”  If you convince me to talk to you, you better be willing to put in some effort.  If you’re a man, don’t touch me or try to cuddle with me.  Just don’t.  That is the last thing on the face of the planet I want.  Just listen.  Don’t try to crack a joke, don’t try to fix me.  Just listen.  It’s not rocket science, I promise.

Drowning (A Poem)

Wavering lines of blue

Rising, slowly

Like a lover’s lips.

Warm, too

And embracing tenderly

Little by little.

Muscles relax,

Eyes close,

The mind accepts its fate.

Suspended in warmth,

The temperature rises

And the air bellows.

It is pleasant, yes,

But the implications are deadly;

The perfect solution.

The waves envelope neck,

Chin, lips, nose.

Almost gone now…

The senses scream

And the mind and body
Are washed clean.

Copyright 2013 by Erin M. Truesdale

I Was A Diamond (A Short Story)

    I was a diamond once.  Bright, sharp, flawless, precious and highly sought after.  The years have not treated me well.  I’m not so much a diamond anymore.  I’m not sure how I’d even describe myself now.  Dulled, elusive, boring, produced from the great pressure and heat of life, like volcanic rock.  I was once rolling along, red hot and dangerous, but now I stand still petrified, full of holes, and forgotten.
    The call of a crow echoed in the distance, but outwardly I didn’t acknowledge it.  In the ever dimming night, I kept my eyes cast down, their tunnel of vision skimming past my weaved fingers to the dirt beneath my Doc Martens.  A wind picked up out of the west and blew several strands of hair across my forehead as the flowing air changed the trajectory of the cawing.  It morphed and amplified, as if the crow itself was inches from my head in a single instant, inside my head the next, and a mile away just as fast.  I knew it was just an illusion, but I felt my eyelids tremble minutely from the after effect.  Some hair became lodged in my eyelashes, sending an odd feeling through my face and a chill down my spine, but my hands stayed still, steadily poised in the turbulent wind.
    The metal I sat upon jumped into my awareness then, and only one word came to mind: cold.  I had been sitting in the same stationary position for hours, but my body warmth could only go so far once the temperature started to dip closer to freezing.  Thin and spanning miles, the single train track I balanced skillfully on doubled as a fantastic bench, as long as its occupant was well aware it was active and a train could come shooting by at seventy miles per hour at any time.
    My body finally moved when I chuckled to myself.  Elbows still resting on my jean-covered knees, shoulders slouched forward, I lifted my head.  My neck seemed to creek and crackle as I moved.  How long I had let my head hang like that?  Maybe the entire two hours I had been sitting there?  I lifted my eyes and winced, the lids felt like sandpaper.  Before me was a wall of trees, the leaves and branches reaching up to an infinite sky.  It seemed even more infinite as the sky darkened, the tops of the trees vanishing into the black hole, stars struggling to be seen.  It was the first day of October and the leaves were now every shade of the rainbow.  As night fell, they turned into a million shades of gray.
    The spot in which I sat held a million sentiments for me, as much as a place can be emotional.  Not only was it a place of solitude, but it was a wild place, a dangerous place, an exciting place, a constantly changing place.  I had to hike to reach it and, most of the time, it was a quiet spot in the woods made especially for introspection.  Other times, though, it turned into chaos.  Since that part of the tracks was nowhere near a city, the trains didn’t have to slow down.  They roared around the curve with mind-bending speed and with deafening noise.  When I felt one coming, (you’ll always feel it before you hear it) I would hustle into the trees so the conductor wouldn’t see me.  This is important because he would report me for being so near the tracks; plus, he would unleash his horn.
    Though I love the controlled chaos of trains, I hate their horns.  The sound is like fingernails on a chalkboard, the three notes of the horn combined make my teeth hurt.
    The crow called out again and I began to wonder if the poor soul was lonely.  I only heard one caw and no beating of wings.  If a murder of crows were afoot, there would be a million caws ringing out at once with a bass beat of flapping wings.  Not tonight.  One single crow calling and nothing else.  No other people, no trains.
    As my eyes slowly scanned the gray-toned trees, a scene played itself in my head.  I had stopped at a gas station after midnight to pick up a pack of cigarettes and a can of Mt. Dew.  When was it last night?  The night before?  It was all blurry in my mind’s eye, so I wasn’t certain.  I paid the clerk and walked back to my car.  Inside the car again, I threw the pack next to my purse in the passenger’s seat and put the can in the cup holder in the middle console.  I looked straight ahead and out of the windshield as I brought up my key to the ignition with my right hand.  The tip of the key touched the metal rim of the ignition and that’s as far as it got; I froze.  My eyes widened as I noticed several people in the abandoned parking lot across the street.  Strangely enough, I didn’t hear a shot, but I saw a man fall to the ground in a heap with two men standing around him, hunched down, knees bent in the rising dust.  It looked as if they were preparing to run away.  One shoved something in his pocket, and like a huge spotlight was on me, he looked up, turned his head and, though I didn’t expect it, his eyes met mine.
    I remained frozen, my car still quiet and my key still paused in midair.  I stopped breathing, as if the noise of my inhalation would make him take what I assumed was a gun out of his jacket and propel a bullet through my windshield and between my eyes.  I panicked under the uncertain circumstances and could do nothing but stare back.  I felt like I could see more detail in his face than I would have preferred, but his black eyes struck me. 
    As I looked on, his eyes narrowed to slits.  His eyes shrunk but mine grew.  I felt the corner of my mouth twitch as he brought his opposite hand up, curled his gloved fingers into a fist minus one, and as he stared at me still, he slid that one finger across his throat.  He mouth moved then, and the sudden movement startled me.  I jumped as if electricity were surging through my veins.  He mouthed slowly and deliberately, “You’re dead.”
    With that, I realized I had lingered too long, that in my panicked state I should have fled, but I froze and now he knew my face, my car, and possibly even my license plate number.  I shot out of my stupor and plunged the key into the ignition with such force I crammed my fingers into the dashboard.  The pain registered, but I knew I only had one objective: get out.  Get out, now.
    The engine roared to life and I shifted before it was even done turning over, foot to the gas petal.  I was normally a cautious driver, but my tires spun and I burnt rubber out of the parking lot.  I was bracing myself for flying bullets as I sped off, but, against my best judgement, I took one last look at the men, along with the one lying on the ground.  That same man was still staring at me, his gaze strong and not faltering, his eyes following my car’s movements fluidly.  A blood curdling smile rose up on his face at that moment.  He stood up taller and ran his finger across his throat menacingly again before I tore my eyes from him.  I drove over the curb and onto the street, the metal of the my car’s frame complaining about the drop with a loud thwack.
    Now, I was constantly plagued by the situation, wondering if I should have done something, if it was now too late to do anything, if I did anything would that guy with the black eyes find me, if I didn’t do anything would that guy with the black eyes find me, would I be in trouble with the law if I did nothing, had I imagined the entire thing, had something really gotten murdered at all?  Had it been an illusion?  Just some guys fighting?  Playing in the lot like kids do sometimes?  All the questions, all the what-ifs, just couldn’t compute, and the bottleneck they were forming in my mind made me malfunction.  So, back to my element I run, just like I do when I feel overwhelmed or helpless, and though the trees and the trains help a bit, it’s never a catchall for my existential conundrums. 
    But it was a nice escape.
    The air seemed to move, and just like I did in the car at the gas station that night, I held my breath.  My senses seemed to heighten when I did.  The metal track on which I sat began to tremble ever so slightly.  It was coming.  The highlight of my night was coming.  The disarray I reveled in, that matched the discord in my mind, was coming to me now.  I jumped to my feet and a high pitched squeal escaped from me.  A smile began to form as the rumble became audible.  It was coming and it was coming fast.
    Ripples ran through the air, bending it and bunching it up, making it more dense in places and more thin in other places, resulting in my ears plugging up and popping constantly.  I heard the crow one last time over the rumbling, and it sounded more song-like, more cheerful, that it had before.  Maybe the bird was looking forward to the coming of the huge metal contraption that shot through the forest, too.
    As I ran to the trees, I stopped by one that grew at the outer most layer and placed my hands upon it.  It shook, as did the ground beneath my feet.  I tucked myself behind it, running my fingers on the dry, rough bark, and braced myself for the engine to flash by so I could run back out and stand recklessly close to the tracks.  There was no feeling in the world like standing a foot away from a speeding locomotive, the wind and momentum and entropy threatening to knock you off your feet and sweep you up in the zephyr.
    A bass surged through the trees so deep it made the hair that hung about my shoulders dance without the use of wind.  Before I could stick my head out from behind the tree to spy the oncoming engine, I felt a hand on my shoulder.  It was not merely placed there, but it grasped a handful of my jacket in its fingers.
    He said something to me.  I couldn’t hear it.  I couldn’t bear to move in order to see who it was that had appeared amidst the pandemonium of the train’s descent on my spot.  I had an ex-boyfriend who had showed me this spot years ago, but this would be the weirdest way for him to greet me.  I wanted to ask the stranger to speak up over the loud passing train, but I froze once more.  After he was done speaking, his fist tightened and he shook me violently.  Tears began to sting my eyes, but I dared not blink.  My frozen facade melted and my eyes closed when a long metal edge pressed against my throat.  In the paralyzing fear I felt, only one thought was floating through my mind: At least you are in your favorite spot.

Copyright 2013 by Erin M. Truesdale

Sunrise in New Mexico (A Short Story)

     She got up, while it was still dark, with a mission.  She meant to pack the car and head out, but her mind was full of hopes and fears, excitement and apprehensiveness pervasive in her mind.  She blew some hair out of her face and grabbed a couple of her bags off the floor, slung them over each of her shoulders, quickly exited the room so the cats wouldn't escape, and walked down the dingy, dim hallway.
     A stairway lay to her left and she bounded down it, her knees creaking and her muscles beginning to ache from the baggage that weighed her down.  The staircase twisted ninety degrees and she followed it, huffing with exertion.  When she reached the bottom, a glass door greeted her; she pressed the lever to open it by bending down and pressing her shoulder against it, the bags shifting uncomfortably producing a grimace on her reddening face.  The cool night air hit her face as she set foot outside and sighed with relief, the bags rocking back to their original positions.
     The sky was still completely dark, but she looked up at it and smiled as she walked across the parking lot.  The cool air pleased her.  As she closed in on her car, she dropped her bags, yanked the keys out of her pocket and unlocked the doors.  She threw the bags into the back seat, making sure to leave room for the cat crate, when she heard someone behind her.  She twirled around as she slammed her car door shut, her smile fading quickly.
     "How much further do you have to go?" a man's voice rang out through the layer of mist that sat a couple feet above the ground.  Her brown eyes scanned the dark, darting from left to right, and finally fell on an old pick up truck parked across the median from where she stood.  The dome light was on inside, illuminating the dash board.  The driver's side door was open slightly; a man stood next to the ajar door, legs crossed casually.  "I've got awhile yet."
     She swallowed hard, fell back against her car, her hands squished between her and the slick maroon paint, and made a quick decision in a moment that seemed to unfold in slow motion.  The man seemed innocent enough, she thought, just another patron at the motel in the middle-of-nowhere New Mexico.  But, on the other hand, he and she were the only two humans awake and walking around at that early hour, so if something bad happened, she'd have no one to hear her scream, and no phone nearby to call for help (it was still in her hotel room, where she had left it, in her haste, with her purse and other belongings).  She studied the man curtly; he seemed a bit older, probably in his 50s; he was short, stout, wore glasses, and had a friendly smile.
     She decided reluctantly to oblige him.  "I have about a thousand miles to go," she answered quickly, her voice low and her eyes cast down.  "I'm going to Minnesota."
     "Wow, you might have further than me, even!"  He closed the driver's side door and leaned against that side of the truck.  He crossed his arms over his chest and smiled brightly, his grey mustache curving with the line of his lips.  "I'm going to back to New York.  Just ending a nice summer road trip out west to visit family."
     Her eyes made their way to his license plates.  Yep, they said 'New York' on them.  She darted them back at him and flashed him a closed smile.
     "Do you drive it straight through?"
     "No," she answered, locking her doors and awkwardly making her way towards the glass door that lead back inside.  Her keys jingled as she thrust them back in her jeans pocket.  "I'll be stopping one more time.  I have my two cats with me and this trailer," she motioned to the trailer hitched to the back of her sedan, now walking backwards, "so it takes a bit longer."
     "Yeah, that would slow ya down," the man called after her, chuckling as if he understood her plight.  She kept walking, but threw him a smile over her shoulder.  She felt like saying she was going to continue loading her car, but she thought it would be redundant to say so.  What else would she be doing at 5:30am, especially since he saw her pack some bags into her car already?  She shook her head to herself for being so paranoid.
     She ran the motel's key card through the reader, a metal box hooked up on the frame of the door, the light flashed green and she pulled the door open.  She bounded up the stairs; she started becoming cognizant of how sweaty she was once she was back inside the stuffy building.  This place needs some circulation, she thought when she reached the landing.   She glanced through a window at the opposite end of the hallway and sniggered.  It might have something with the swimming pool being right there.
     She squirmed, her skin crawling.  Her hair started to stick to her neck, so she snatched the binder off of her wrist and twisted her hair up into a quick, messy bun.  Her hair was extremely long, so anything she did to it, regardless of how utilitarian the 'do was, usually looked nice.  And for that, she was thankful, because she had been, and always will be, extremely self-conscious about her looks.
     She opened the door to her hotel and room, closed it behind her with a click, and when she saw how many bags she had left, and her two cats wandering around the room meowing at her, her heart sunk and her stomach twisted into a painful knot.  She felt overwhelmed in that moment, no matter how hard she had tried to fight it up until that point.  A lump formed in her throat and her eyes began to burn, but her mind immediately said, Don't cry, this journey will be over before you know it!  She took in a deep breath, the tears still teasing at her eye lids.  I know it's hard, but it'll be worth it to be back home!
     When she breathed in, she cringed.  Just the smell that lingered in the room made a tear run down her cheek.  When she had first left her residence in Arizona, one of her cats peed in the pet carrier not even an hour out.  Because of that little incident, which occurred barely 60 miles into her 1800 mile trek, everything smelled like cat urine and she couldn't wash it out.  She had tried several times, but it stuck around in a pungent cloud.  What luck!
     "Bubba, Gabby, use the litter box before we go, okay?  We won't be stopping again for two hours."  Her feet slowly brought her past her two feline companions, their crate, their litter box and food bowl, and her purse that sat on the bed.  She stopped when she reached the window at the far end of the room, the thick, gaudy gold and brown drapes drawn shut.  Both of her hands rose in tandem, suddenly compelled to pull them open.  Her fingers wiggled their way between the curtains, tightened around the edges, and threw them apart.
     The image before her rocked her back an inch.  She could see everything in the immediate vicinity from the window, which she hadn't noticed when she checked in the night before because it had been completely dark when she had done so.  She spied her car below, parked lengthwise against a curb, taking up four spots with the trailer attached.  The strange man's truck was still there, but he was nowhere to be found.  She mentally sighed with relief; she somehow imagined that he had been checking out the stuff she was putting in her car and was planning on taking it when she went back inside.  Like he was casing the joint.  As far as she could tell, her car windows were still intact.  She laughed under her breath.  You're too paranoid, girl.
     On the other side of the parking lot stood a field, or as close to a field as it could be for New Mexico.  It was a desert field, mostly dirt of a lovely red hue, with a few shrubs, bushes and scrawny trees that dotted the landscape.  The environment had been gradually changing as she drove across Arizona and New Mexico, from the hardcore desert she to which she had grown accustomed, to different colors and more greenery.  She was very near Texas now, so a marked difference sprung forth from the shadows.  Though it was beautiful, she was more than ready for green leaves as far as the eye could see, and she'd get exactly that the more north she traveled.
     Kitty-corner from the lot was another motel, and across from that was a tiny gas station, the kind that closed up shop the moment it got dark.  Other than those small businesses, there was nothing around except I-40 that ran lengthwise across New Mexico and the small road that lead to a nearby county road.  She followed the small side road with her eyes, and in the distance she imagined herself driving off into the wide unknown on the county road.  She planned to head more northeast, away from I-40, up through the panhandle of Texas and Oklahoma.  She was excited to drive that way, because she had never been to those states before.  Wide unknown, indeed.
     The sky was beginning to transform into a royal blue, instead of the pitch black it had been only minutes before, and she peeled her eyes from the distant road to behold it.  In the distance she could make out some vague hills that varied in color the further back they were situated.  Beyond that, a bright orange twinkle, so very small in a tiny pin prick point, but she knew exactly what she was witnessing.
     Sunrise.
     For the first time that she could recall, she was watching the sunrise.  She'd seen it before, like most adults have, but those were times when she was running off somewhere, or stopping for gas, or getting some coffee and a scone, or doing last minute homework, or getting ready for work... But this time... This time, she just stood where she found herself, breathing purposefully, calming herself, and trying to enjoy what might be the last time she ever found herself in New Mexico.  She wanted to enjoy the moment, even though her journey urgently called for her to begin again.  She felt adamant that little moments like this would enrich her and set the tone for the entire day.
     The tiny orange dot grew second by second, and with each second that went by, the sky incrementally altered and transformed before her bewildered eyes.  Not once did it look the same from the moment before.  At first the blue hues in the sky changed, but as the orange dot climbed out from behind the hills, it morphed into magnificent purples and brilliant pinks, a mosaic of wispy clouds and atmosphere and plane contrails and stars.  To her, it looked like something pulled directly out of one of her favorite fantasy novels; the ones where the skies are purple and there are two moons surmounting the curvature of the planet.  The moon was still apparently visible, but the sun demanded attention now, crawling and clawing up higher and higher.  The sun, in the moment where it was still a glimmer, rather than a fiercely beating ball of flames, almost acted as another moon in her awakening imagination.
     The stress she had been feeling was now replaced with wonder.  Yes, she was driving across the country, alone, with her two cats that meant the world to her, with a heavy trailer and only her phone to guide her.  Yeah, that's scary.  Anyone in their right mind would be at least a little iffy about it.  But here she was anyway, on a journey.  Though it was a huge change in her life and she was uncertain of her future, she counted herself among the most fortunate of people.  Who else could say they drove across the country, alone, twice?  Who else could say they've seen the scenery and wildlife that she had?  Who else could say they lived on the other side of the country for two years?  Who else could say they got to spend the last two years with their long lost grandmother?  Who else could say they've seen and experienced everything she had?  Who else could say they stood in the middle of New Mexico, at 6am, watching the sunrise?  Only her.  She could say that, and damn it, she as proud of it.
     She felt like crying again, but this time it was a joyous crying, a grateful crying.  She felt... blessed... for the lack of a better word, and grateful for everything she was and will continue to be.  She had experienced more in her thirty years than most people did in an entire lifetime.  She realized that many people found her life unstable, or they had an unsavory opinion of her.  Let them think what they want, her mind said proudly.  She felt a smile come to her lips again, and this time it stayed.  My choices have led me to more experiences and more happiness than they could ever imagine.  Life had been hard, but she wouldn't trade it for anything.
     The orange ball was now halfway above the hills in the distance, the sky brightening to a light blue in some places.  She shook her head.  "I better get going, shouldn't I, Bubba?" she asked one of her cats who had climbed up on the nearby couch to attempt to see what she had been staring at.  He meowed at her and Gabby joined him, tails wagging.  "We've gotta get back to Minnesota."

Copyright 2013 by Erin M. Truesdale

Waiting - An Excerpt

What follows is a scene from the novel I'm writing for NaNoWriMo called, "The Battle at Skull Valley."  Enjoy!

          He felt warm, too warm.  His fingers ached, as if his body was now made of ice and being indoors was now melting his very flesh.  He cringed and turned his head to see if anyone had seen the horrific growling face he’d just made.  No one had come into the room yet.

            A heat flashed up his chest, traveled up his throat, and burst into his cheeks.  He wanted desperately to unclasp his hands and loosen the stiff, uncomfortable formal collar that threatened to act as a ligature.  For some reason, though, he didn’t think lifting his weaved fingers from the hardwood face of the table would be a good idea.  As soon as he did, the president would walk in to find him in a less than flattering stance.  It would just figure, after holding his form and being overly conscious of how he looked for that many years, that the one time he let his guard down the leader of the free world would witness it.

            His pounding heart urged him to relax, to move a muscle, to be human.  He couldn’t.  Military habits were hard to break.  He fixed his eyes on a small piece of the wall directly across from him.  He sat at one end of a lengthy table, alone.  Would the president sit all the way at the other end?  It had to have been about fifty feet from one end to the other.  At that distance, he’d have to shout to be heard.

            As his eyelids fluttered his mind drifted to Annika.  He wanted to see her so badly he came dangerously close to scooting his chair away from the table, tearing his medals from his chest, throwing his hat to the ground and walking over them as he exited the room, flashing a vulgar hand gesture as he went.  The time ticked by, slower than ever, but he had to tell himself that in less than an hour’s time, he’d be in her arms.  All bets were off as to how he’d react, but it’d be nothing but human emotions flowing from him.  All the emotions he had felt necessary to hide all these years.  He was only 30 years old; if things panned out the way he hoped, he would have the next sixty years to revel in her beauty. 

Involuntarily his eyes closed at the thought of her hair.  Bright red strands of pure rose petals that she wore long, down to her waist.  He hoped that she’d curl it at the ends like she did for special occasions today.  Her little upturned nose with freckles that danced over the bridge, and twitched adorably when she laughed.  It took all of the strength he could muster to pull his eyelids back up and keep form as he thought of the laugh that tattooed her name on his heart.  If he hadn’t heard her laugh across the playground in second grade and turned to see where that irresistible sound was coming from, they may not have ever met.  Eight years old and he knew, though he, at the time, had no idea what love was, or soul mates, or marriage, he knew she was the one.  Tears sprung to the corners of his eyes thinly, burning like fire.  He had to blink them away.  He had to keep strong for his last duty as leading general of the Outerland Wars. 

            A shiver ran through his body.  Ankou almost gave in to his desire to break form when the doors behind him exploded open.  Not only did the president enter, but a full parade of official looking men followed him, suit jackets and ties flapping as they raced behind him like drones.  Oh, great, Ankou thought.  I get an entire audience.

            “General Redgrave, what an honor to have you in my chambers,” said a tall man with a crew cut and stone eyes.  Despite his statuesque appearance, a soft smile broke through.  Ankou smiled in return.  It was merely a formality.

            “The pleasure’s all mine, Mr. President.”  As he began to stand, the president held out his hand, palm up.  Ankou froze.

            “No, please, sit.”  His hand collapsed back in to his chest to tuck in his tie and jacket at he sat down.  As he scooted his chair closer to the table, he continued, “I feel as if I know you, having read all your field reports.  I know you don’t know me very well yet, but please, call me Bill.”

            “Alright, Bill,” Ankou said, trying to relax.  Back in a sitting position, he attempted a bit of banter.  “Only if you call me Ankou.”

            “Very well,” President Bill said, propping his elbows up on the table.  As much as Ankou loved looking people in the eyes, he could barely stand to look into Bill’s eyes.  It was like staring into the eyes of a gargoyle in mid-transformation, hard yet alive enough to rip your throat out.

            Luckily for Ankou, Bill averted his gaze as several manila file folders were placed in front of him.  He shuffled through them lazily and then rested his chin on his knuckles.  The room fell silent.  Ankou darted his eyes around, wondering if he’d get a cue as to when he should start his presentation.  All eyes looked elsewhere.  Watches.  Papers.  The ceiling.  Before he could reach full exasperation,  a request to start on the tip of his tongue, Bill looked up again.  Ankou held his breath.

            “So, give us a brief overview of how the victory played out.”

            Three years in the field, and you want a brief overview?  Anger clouded Ankou’s vision as a shaky smile held his lips aloft, showing his teeth.  I sacrificed my adult life for this mission, and you only want to hear about the last eighteen hours of it?  When he was standing up, notes in hand, Ankou said politely, “Absolutely.”  Bill sat back in his chair, the way a teenager might when he’s trying to look suave in front of his impressionable classmates and folded his hands across his stomach.  Does this man have no manners?

            As he stood, he felt as if he would explode.  He wasn’t sure if it would be his heart, or his lungs, or his brain that would explode, or all at once, but the anger, the blame, the guilt, and anguish, and the pain would all come to a head just by looking at the lax stance of the president.  Ankou cleared his throat and his fingers danced on the table top, trying to find the remote for the computer monitor.  With the press of a button a screen, the size of the entire back wall, lit up, and upon it was his entire report.  He pressed the button multiple times to get through the slides that the president evidently didn’t care about; as he did so, he walked to the middle of the room.

            Ever the symbol of shining and proud nationalism, Ankou stood up tall, unwavering.  Though he felt sick to his stomach with nervousness and rage, he stood calm, a gentleman’s smile still plastered to his face.  When the first twenty slides had been skipped, he stopped on one with the header: “Victory at Skull Valley.”  He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get a word out, the president interrupted him, leaning forward violently.

            “I thought the victory was at Saturn’s Hill.”  His smile had vanished.  Only the stone cold stare remained.

            Ankou sucked in a breath and held it for a moment.  Keep it together, slick.  “We started out at Saturn’s Hill, yes, sir.  But the battle moved drastically as it was fought, and the eventual overthrow of the Reachers was at Skull Valley.  Although it wasn’t a planned move, it worked to our advantage, as you’ll see…”  His hand held aloft towards the screen, Ankou attempted to go on with his presentation when he was interrupted again.

            “General Redgrave, I mean…” Bill held up a hand in a fist, the forefinger held out, the thumb stood straight up.  He cocked the thumb down as if pulling a trigger and made a faint kablam noise in the back of his throat.  “…Ankou.  Pardon me.  But you say the move to Skull Valley wasn’t planned.  Why did you move there then?  Didn’t you have explicit orders not to travel that far north?”

            Fire lit up in the back of Ankou’s throat.  He felt moisture pop up above his brows.  He swallowed dryly and dropped his hand.  “Yes, sir, I did receive orders from you not to move in that direction, but like I said…”

            A laugh, a loud, hearty belly laugh, severed Ankou’s speech this time.  His eminence crossed his legs under the table and swiveled his chair to the side, hiking his elbow up on the table.  A slow blink blacked out Ankou’s vision for a second and when he opened them again, his president, the most powerful man in this dimension, was still sitting there, squirming like a pre-teen who hated algebra class, and just wanted to go home to his new Playstation.  “Ankou… Do you know what this means?  Since we ventured into Skull Valley, we may have started another war.  By defeating the Reachers there, we’ve violated an age old treaty with the Mountain People.”

            Ankou smirked.  “You mean the Orissa?”

            “Yes, the tribal people in the mountains who worship gods with no faces and unspeakable names…”

            With this comment, Ankou had to bite his tongue.  In essence, he was a servant of the government, of Bill, really, but for him to sit there and spew racist words about a people that were culturally rich and made their dimension as diverse as it was like driving a dagger into his heart.  A soldier he was, deep down, made to be a cookie cutter being with no soul, but he felt strongly about slanderous words about fellow humans, and coming from the president of all people…

            “They may come to seek revenge for traipsing on to their land.”  Bill twirled again in his seat.  The men who had entered with him remained silent, undistinguishable in their matching suits.

            “I’m sure if you spoke to them diplomatically, they would understand our need to enter their lands.  The Reachers are a common enemy between us.  The Reachers fled into Earthsea; what were we supposed to do, just let them raise the Orissa villages to the ground?  To let them murder their women and children?  We saved the Orissa people by following the Reachers into Skull Valley.”

            Suddenly, all the identical men in the identical suits looked over at the president.  A loud thud ran through the room like an aftershock, the resulting ring piercing Ankou’s ears.  He was shocked.  The pure anger in Bill’s eyes startled him.  Was it because Ankou had suggested, and rightfully so, to sort things out diplomatically with the Orissa?  On the off chance they would find their venturing into their lands as a threat?  If anything, Ankou was certain they would see it as a peaceful move and send a company to thank them, not reprimand them.

            Bill stood.  Trudgingly, like a hulking monster, hands splayed at his sides, he walked towards Ankou.  Unsure, Ankou anchored his feet to the floor, begging himself not to break form.  It was almost over, his duty in the military was almost over, and he could go home to his wife and start a family and…

            As he stopped in front of Ankou, he studied Bill’s face.  It was so hard and menacing that he had no idea how Bill would even move it to speak.  But he did.  “General Redgrave,” he muttered, tone flat.  The slate eyes dug into Ankou’s face.  He tried not to flinch away.  “The Realm of Rath would have you do one more thing before you go home to your family.”  Bill’s eyes, which seemed to not have lids as they stared unblinkingly at Ankou, never moved, not even to search his eyes, or to glance at his army of black suits for support.  “Would you do that one more thing for your Realm while you’re still in its care?”

Excerpt from "The Battle at Skull Valley" by Erin M. Truesdale, Copyright 2013