A Letter to 221B

Dear Watson,

I owe you this dedication as my dearest, and only, friend.

Solitude has given me time to relate back to what’s really at focus. I’m beginning anew, creating my own mix of identities that were stifled in my childhood. This death in part had to be done, surely you can hold this to your chest when you find it unfair. I know that I am unfair, but my intentions mean well.

Cleaning the mess my Moriarty left me is an integral part of the case. Just like writing the letter to your father was for you. Remember that argument we had in the kitchen? By god you humans always fight me tooth and nail on my deductions. Remember I had to tell you it was the only way it could be done as well? It took a year to persuade you but eventually you wrote it. I’ll never forget how much it took a toll on you. The bravery you showed was able to change the entire relation of your family, too.

You may have even been able to save him from the addiction. We solved that case together, me and most importantly, you.

I called that one, ‘The Dying Man’.

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The Open Door Policy

When I was a child my mother caught me trying to steal the neighbors stray cat.

When she asked me why I told her it was because they always left it outside.
‘Well don’t they leave the shed door cracked open?’
‘Yeah but who wants to live in a shed?’

The second I put the thing down it ran immediately back around the cul-de-sac.
Straight back into that damn shed.

‘I don’t get it,’ and my clothes were dirty, my hands were torn from the fight, ‘why wouldn’t it want to stay here?’

‘Sometimes you’ve just got to let them make their own choices. You can’t save everyone and you’ll find some don’t really want to be saved. Usually that is when they need it the most.’

I felt beyond defeated.
‘Then what am I supposed to do?’
‘Leave the door cracked open.’

– B.

Behind the Scenes

“No you haven’t lost your sanity, you’ve lost your conscience,” says the Bagman, dark irises boring into the Truth.
“My conscience?” She counters, awareness lingering on the note of her tone. He thinks to himself that she’s much too clever for this stage act. He pulls down the curtain of a sigh when he sees the confusion in her eyes.
“Yes and it’s always such a telling part of yourself to lose.”
This time her naive smile turns to a frown, head tilting sideways in his direction. The movement is so fluid he questions his previous disposition. Was this really the same woman he once knew, and if so, what had happened to her?
“Why’s that?”
He nearly scoffs, surely she knew. Surely she had to know.
“We don’t lose our consciences, we choose to ignore them. That’s the thing about it, this has always been a choice.”
She stares at him for a while, the wind whipping in earnest against both of their backs. The capitol sits boorishly in the distance, a mere skeleton of a building, a simple vessel to the entities in question. She notices the chill in the tips of her fingers and wraps them around the center of his palm.
“A choice, you say.”
“I don’t believe anything in life is ever really a choice.”
“Life itself has always been a choice. A choice made up by other choices, if you will.”
“How did you get so clever?” She tilts her head with a slight grin, attempting to get a better glimpse at his eyes.
“I started listening to you, instead of trying to prove my own lies.”

– B.


“Do you think we’d all have different personalities based on our different upbringings?”
There is a moment of silence and a puzzled look shot my way, “What do you mean?”
“If different dimensions do exist,” which I’m fairly certain they do, “and there are multiple versions of yourself, do you believe they’d all be slightly (or vastly) different based on their upbringings?”
“Do you feel upbringings are what our personalities are based on?”
“To a certain extent. I mean, I think it’s sort of like an algorithm. Of genes, interactions, choices, people we bring into our lives – at the base of all of that I believe is where our upbringing lies. We learn how to make choices, whether we like it or not. It’s rare we ever really make them for ourselves.”
For some of us that feels like bloodletting. For others, draining any remnants of the family pool is a relief. Either way, it seems when you have to take that route, the ending always leaves you with an empty set of veins.

By now it’s only the sound of our footsteps responding to my inquiry. My company finally lifts their eyes from the ground.
“I guess I’ve never thought of it that way.”
“I could be wrong,” there is a slight grin, “but if it’s really true I suppose that means we’re all interchangeable. You can be whoever you want to be whenever you want to be it. Nobody can say boo to you because somewhere you’re just being yourself.”
Eye contact is finally locked, I figure by the mirrored reflection it’s time for me to start explaining myself. I’m not even sure how to. Sometimes it all just trails from my mouth like I missed the water in my cup.
“What I’m trying to say is that I think we all have some level of control over who we are.”
“You want to have control over who you are?”
“No, I guess it’s just that I’m more afraid of who I’d be if I didn’t.”
This time it’s my own eyes counting the breaks in the tile. My veins feel so hollow they could shrivel up into dust.
“I think that is due to your upbringing.”
“Not if I pull my view from a different dimension.”

– B.


“Would you say you’re an open book?”

“I believe anything is readable so long as you learn to decipher the code in question.”

I think I used to want people to know what was going on in my head. I think I thought that if I could spell it out for them I’d feel less lonely and that it would make us more similar. Juvenile thoughts from when I was merely a girl.

They just rallied with their pitchforks.

Now my binding is torn loose and all of the pages have been strewn across a diagnostic. It’s still open, it’s just no longer a story in chronological order. People don’t like to read what they cannot relate to, they are not as fearlessly curious as some of their counterparts.

“That’s a good way to think. We should never stop trying to connect with those around us.”

My eyes cast up like daggers, the airy tone irks me because I do not feel the same way and I know that comment was charged with purpose. The aura on either side of the room is completely fluxed and I’ve no idea why no one is ever clever enough to learn this language.

I hear the voice whisper back, ‘because yours is indecipherable’, and I pull a grin because it is true.

I close my eyes off to a garden where I could plant my rose bushes and touch the tails of koi fish drifting by in their consistent ebb and flow. Where my irises fall to a human spectrum of sight and my breathing syncs with the peace of ignorance. Closed off to anything but the sound of trickling water and all the hidden whispers on the breeze.

“______? Are you okay?”

The words are like fingers snapping in front of my face and eventually I’m back in the room.

“I don’t particularly think people view us the same way.”

Like Victor Frankenstein and his Monster, you could agree one is good and the other is bad but which one is which will all lie in personal speculation. The truth is, good and bad don’t exist and societal preference hasn’t dawned on that notion yet. They haven’t dawned on a lot of things, if you ask me.

“I take it loneliness is something you’re no stranger to?”

“I believe loneliness is like a blanket. Sometimes it’s so thick and heavy it keeps out the light, other times, it keeps out the cold. Either way, you don’t get to choose if you’re born into it. They just wrap you up and send you on your way. The rest is yours to figure out and I suppose that’s half the fun in it.”

My tone is cool, concise and vacant. That is all it ever takes to silence a room.

Codes, clues and cues over Sunday coffee; and I am pulling my blanket up over my head and dodging reality like a reoccurring nightmare.

– B.


What kind of teeth-rotting sugar do kids even like anymore? Surely not licorice, though I was never picky. If a sign said ‘take two’, I was the one who’d only take one. The adult on my left shoulder says it doesn’t matter what they want, it’s free candy. The narcissist on my right says we refuse to be the house on the block that gives out shitty candy. 

I settle for a mix of brand name chocolates and two bottles of wine. I tell myself I’m not answering the door. I try not to think of all the children in sweat shops that probably assisted in this holiday – any holiday, really. The plastic decorations that litter landfills, birds choking on gummy eyes and possums using the foam of cleverly punned RIP signs to build a nest. Wasted velvet and velcro from cheap costumes strangling a noose around human decency and thought

I’m putting out a bucket on a stand and if some bastard spawn wants to take the entire loads worth then so be it. Eventually they’ll have to learn the early bird gets the worm, even if it’s a crow. They’ll need to be prepared for the corporate throat slitting bloodbath, anyways, once time turns the corner and age dawns the cloak of the reaper. 

It’s a dogs world but dogs would’ve run it better. 

I wonder how many children will be sporting costumes their mothers forced them into. A cute, fluffy chicken when all he wanted to be was a zombie scientist. Why can’t we just let people be what they fucking want to be?

I remember a time when we used to throw parties. One year, a kids mom dressed him up as an inflatable shark. He tried to run up the hill, deflating fins flapping in the air as she chased him with the machine. He fell and started crying. I was dressed as a corpse bride. 

One year my brother dressed up as Boba Fett. They spent way too much money on the costume but he looked cute enough in it. The night before Halloween he accidentally dropped silly putty on the crotch and the next morning it dried to resemble cum stains. He was six or seven and they were on their way to Disney. My mother was mortified

They asked me one year why I chose my costume and I told them it didn’t matter. Being anything and anywhere else besides Earth for a night was all the escape my clever imagination needed. I said that every year afterwards, too. 

Now I don’t bother dressing up because I do so every single day. Halloween is the only time that is socially acceptable for me to let the skeleton shed its clever layers of meat and lounge on the couch with bottomless eyes and fangs dripping in crimson cynicism. 

I place one, the deepest of maroon merlot, upon the highest shelf in my kitchen. Because my skin tastes like pink moscato tonight and my stomach is lurching for solid food and it is not time to crumble to bone yet. 

I will save that one for a day I need a costume, or perhaps a piece of candy. 

– B.