(Not so) afraid.

Still floating soft
I am dreaming and I'm glad I lost
And still with my fingers
I'm drawing circles in the water
In the water
And still, still you're always there

Congratulations
Cause we've made it
All the way home
All the way home
And you know that
Until the stars fall
I will always love you
I will always love you

We are lying in the warmth of the cozy dark morning. Ben left hours ago (Finish the project, and then you can start another and we'll cut you a big fat cheque that totally makes up for your infinite absence from your own life. No worries, Dude, they say, and Ben nods because he's gloriously creative, overworked, beautiful and completely unable to tell the difference between too much and not enough).

Lochlan has my hands outstretched toward the ceiling. He's writing words in the air with my fingers, trying to make me read them. I can't make out the letters and he's frustrated but he's laughing softly, his head pressed tightly against mine while I sing Lost at Sea to him. We're flat on our backs wasting precious daylight and struggling to divide our common ground right down the middle. He is afraid that Caleb's banter back and forth will draw me in and leave him out in the cold. He's afraid tomorrow has me with one foot out the door. Ready to run headlong to the edge of the cliff where I will stop short (if I'm lucky) and wonder how the hell I got away from them again. I get away because I'm fast and terrible and unpredictable and a very bad singer besides.

I will be over to see Caleb later but only to make sure he isn't really drinking anything more than lots of water and juice. He shouldn't drink with his medications. He shouldn't do a lot of things but Caleb rules his own underworld and no number of experts could ever be brought in to make him see differently. Sometimes, though, he listens to me and maybe if I remind him that I am afraid of drunken rages, uncontrollable ideals and certain death, then just maybe he might hear me.

Cross your fingers.

Loch will stand outside in the rain at the bottom of the stairs and seethe with hatred and at the same time he'll heed my request to let me do the things I need to do to keep my shit together while the countdown gets narrower by the hour here.

Tomorrow is a day I wish I never have to wake up for. Maybe I won't. Maybe I'll hide with my head under the blankets, headphones jammed in to block out the world and wait the whole thing out. But they don't call that progress, they call that denial.

(It wasn't, it won't be and I never! I insist but they don't listen.)

So for now, I'm just going to hold tight and guess wrong as he continues to write love notes in thin air while I begin the song again. This is a game we used to play years ago, albeit with different songs that I change as my mood dictate, snuggled down into the darkness when I would wake up afraid of the noise or the isolation or just the usual terrors of that age. Lochlan would take my hands and write stories across the night until I could follow them back to sleep, singing to both of us until I would just stop. It still works better than expected. My eyes are so heavy and I fail to lock my elbows to make his work easy. My arms sag against his hold and he turns and lifts his head up to look at me.

Tired girl this morning. 

Mmm hmmm.

Go back to sleep, Bridget.

Takotsubo cardiomyopathy.

Jafari died this morning.

He was Dad to Amyrn, husband to Eleah and the last surviving giraffe at the Greater Vancouver Zoo.

Here's a picture of the family for posterity. I couldn't wait until they came closer so I just started snapping photos the minute I walked out onto the platform. I had never seen such magnificent animals before in my whole life and here was a whole family, just hanging out in the sun like they had all the time in the world. 

If you follow the link back to Amyrn's passing and then the link there to when I first met them, you'll see some much better pictures of some truly incredible animals. 

And I'd like to say I hope he didn't suffer, but I think he did. I think he died of a broken heart.

More SMS fun with Satan.

You want to rule the world? Accept my proposal.

I don't recall seeing that on the list. 

I can put anything you want on the list. It's one of the perks of being the Dark Overlord. 

Are you drunk?

Do you want me to be?

Goodnight Caleb. 

Hey! Want some cheese?

Wished away.

The clocks go back tonight. We gain an hour. Or rather, we steal it back from Spring, without interest paid on the dividend left behind. Time is a measured horror and a comfort all at once, and as soon as I figure out how to harness this power in better ways than holding the buttons down on the digital alarm clocks and stoves I will rule the world.

Maintain your halo.

Caleb, what are you going to be when you grow up?

I'm going to be a lawyer. A very rich one. Maybe in the financial district.

Where is that?

Far away, where exciting things happen.

Oh. Why are you and Lochlan best friends? Wouldn't your brother be a better one for Loch? He's younger.

We used to have a lot in common. And no, Cole's a baby.

What does that make me?

A...zygote.

What's a zygote?

A fertilized egg.

Oh you're being gross now. Let's talk about some other things.

Tell me what you're going to do when you grow up, Bridget.

 I don't know yet. The only thing I know is that I want to be in love.

Why?

It looks happy.

Do you think it is?

Why wouldn't it be?

Life is complicated, Bridget. You just never know if someone's happiness is real or a mask they wear when they have to face the world.

Do you wear a mask?

Of course.

Then show me what you really look like.

It's not an actual mask. That's a metaphor.

I know that. Show me what you really look like. And I don't think love is fake or sad, for that matter.

You're not like other girls. You're really forward and deep.

Thanks, I think. How many other eight year old girls do you spend time with?

Not very many.

So you're not an expert or anything. Maybe I'm typically eight.

I doubt it.

So show me the real you?

I don't think I can. You wouldn't like it.

Let me decide.

No, Bridget.

So..we should change the subject again?

No, because it's time for you to go in. Didn't you say your curfew was nine?

Aren't boys supposed to want to break curfew?

I don't have a curfew. I'm seventeen.

Lucky.

Not really. There isn't much to do here.

We should all run far away and join the circus then and spend our days and nights having fun!

That's the most ridiculous, unlikely thing, Bridget. You spend too much time with Lochlan, you even sound like him sometimes, and you've only lived on this street for a few months.

I like his ideas about life. And you said you wanted to go far away too.

My plans will happen. His won't. He doesn't have a hunger for anything at all except...nevermind, you have to go in. Stop tricking me into keeping you out longer.

Finish your sentence! I want to know!

No, in you go. See you on Saturday, maybe, if you get to go to the lake with the girls.

No, Saturday Lochlan's taking me out for milkshakes.

He is?

He drank all of mine after he punched you and he said he'd get me another one on the weekend. You want to come too?

No, thanks. But come to the lake afterward if you can. Everyone's going.

Is Lochlan going?

You'll have to ask him. But I hope not.

So I see you don't wear your fake happy face for him much, do you?

The Witch of November.

I woke up wrapped in a dream, smothered by fire and tangled in the thick winter blankets we've put on the bed to try and deflect the strange grey rain that never ends. Comfort from the dark. I've been busy seeking out knitted sweaters and different kinds of tea and golden bourbon and fireplaces and books. European spy movies and rich desserts and bigger umbrellas still and cute army boots in every color of the rainbow.

I could sleep for days, if I could ever sleep at all.

When my eyes open my brain says November first. It's the calendarly town crier, hellbent on reminding me dutifully that I am in the countdown toward an anniversary that isn't so great, followed by an attempt to give meaning to a day that is no longer celebrated. Jacob's birthday, in which he would have been turning forty-two.

I've seen a bunch of the boys turn that age already. I used to think twenty-two was as amazing as it would ever get and then thirty-two was just incredible and BOOM, here we are again. Getting older still. Time marches on like an army of robots, never slowing down, never getting distracted, never losing their charge.

PJ already confiscated anything I might be able to use to aid a getaway of any kind. The circle got a little tighter as per tradition once we teed off with the pumpkins, over the cliff and into the sea to mark the end of Halloween and the beginning of the dark season.

I know, GOD HELP YOU BRIDGET, YOU FUCKING EMO FREAK, YOU. GET A LIFE ALREADY.

You don't have to say it. I hear those voices too, you know.

The Devil has a data plan (an SMS exchange).

Will you be prompt this evening? I was planning on having the cheese toast ready when you arrive. 

No. 

Can you give me a time then? 

No. 

Bridget.

What.

Put on a pretty dress and come to me. 

No. 

Single words? From you? Who is this?

Bridget.

Prove it. 

In Vegas in 1995 you won 30k and they gave us free champagne. Worst and best collective hangover of our lives. Still surprised it didn't involve any Russian ganglords or any transvestite showgirls considering where we stayed. 

Okay it's you. And in 1995 that was a nice hotel.

Depends on your definition of nice. 

My definition of nice has a picture of you beside it. 

That isn't charming or clever. 

My apologies. I need more cheese and then I'll be at the top of my game. 

No more games, remember?

Fine. Your picture is actually filed under O. 

Wow. Crass. 

No, CHEESE. and it's O for Obsession. Mine. You win. I'll be honest. And if it makes them feel better I'll make sure to deliver you home before midnight. 

I'm not putting on a dress. It's cold and pouring rain outside right now. 

Fine, arrive naked. All my dreams will come true at once.

I'm staying home. 

OMG ITS GROUNDHOG DAY BUT WITH SMS. 

Did you know in Vegas they gave us free champagne?

Did you know the waitress that brought it to the room was a transvestite? 

NO. HOLY SHIT. 

THATS WHAT I SAID WHEN I TIPPED HIM AND HE MADE A PASS AT ME. 

You never told me that. 

I had you in my room and we were getting drunk, I wasn't about to spoil the moment. 

How would that have spoiled the moment?

I would have had to dwell on his offer.

You know what helps with dwelling on things, Caleb?

What. 

Cheese Whiz. Goodnight. 

Goodnight? What? COME OVER. 

Goodnight Diabhal. 

Do I need to order you to come to me?

Don't do that. 

Oh but I will. 

I'll send a transvestite instead. 

Can I pick who it is?

WHAT? TELL ME WHO YOU'D PICK. 

LOCH. It would be the only rejection he's ever had and I want him to feel it, just once. 

The only one, eh?

You don't reject him. 

Of course not. 

Then, yes. The only one. 

I'll dress him up and send him to you. 

I know Ben would do it but Loch probably wouldn't. 

You would be surprised. 

On second thought, keep him home. Last thing I need tonight if you're not stopping down is Pyro, in a dress and on my case. 

He's on it from here. Can't you feel it? Not the dress, I mean your case.

You're so LITERAL. 

It's the cheese. 

BUT YOU HAVEN'T HAD ANY YET BRIDGET!

The Dacryphilic and the damned.

Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold.

You see everything
You see every part
You see all my light
and you love my dark

Previous years saw Halloween come and go in a whirlwind of lights, skulls, ghosts and parties, costumes, themed and elaborate, and Caleb's legendary party, which involved hired staff and from 2007 on, an afterparty that left me unable to show my face for days for the literal shame I felt just in knowing that the others knew I had remained behind. Back when I still had a face to save, that is.

Now that the ghosts are real there are no parties, no lights and no costumes. I don't feel up to celebrating what has become a macabre display of death by people who clearly don't know that death is forever, that doing the zombie shuffle and catastrophic-injury face-painting is a crass celebration of someone else's agony. That skulls are what remain when we lose the precious features of the ones we love.

Besides, Caleb doesn't feel well enough to host a party, let alone an afterparty and I am granted a reprieve from the digressions he has come to expect. Obedience he draws power from, sucking the life right out of me as I try to put on a brave face and stand up to him as I attempt to plot his inevitable death.

Another ghost, albeit as malevolent as Cole and as passionate as Jake, or maybe he really is immortal. I would expect no less of Satan.

I would still like to see you tomorrow night after the children are settled in, if you would join me for a nightcap. 

I frown at him.

We'll have some juice and toast with Cheese Whiz. 

I burst out laughing. Classy. 

I'll use the good plates. 

Do you have bad ones?

No. 

I can't come. 

Why not? 

Lochlan won't like it. 

So don't tell him. Just like you didn't tell him you've forgiven me for failing to confirm what you already knew. 

Oh, have I forgiven you?

You're here, aren't you?

Because you won't release me. 

Because, Bridget, he stood up and walked around my chair and then brought his face down beside mine, you aren't ready to go just yet. 

I'm fine. 

You still talk to the dead, Bridget. You can't be left unattended. You devastate everything in your path and you can bring a man to his knees in under six seconds without so much as flinching when he falls. That sort of power has to be controlled and you can't manage it. 

And you can? It's a whisper. I clear my throat and he stands back up.

So far so good. 

What happened to honesty and illness and a kinder, gentler Diabhal? 

Sometimes you function better when I simply order you around.

He smiles so kindly I want to agree but I shake my head. That's a myth. 

We'll test your theory tomorrow evening. Say around ten?

Paper.

Daniel and Schuyler have been married a year yesterday. After three hundred sixty-six days of bliss, they're settling in nicely. They're very committed and old-fashioned and glorious well-dressed. They've been a lot happier living back on the point, albeit with a lot more privacy than before, being next door and they've been good to me as usual, tucking me under their arms when they are free and I need hugs and rubbing the top of my head for luck every time they leave the room. I hate that. They call me their mascot, their good luck charm, their biggest cheerleader and I remain devoted to supporting them in any way I can.

(I was disappointed that Gage left before their festivities but Gage, as you probably see by now, has a history of ducking out at the strangest moments. He missed their wedding last year. He comes and goes like the wind, actually and it's something everyone but Schuyler really needs to get used to.)

I'm very proud of them. I'm proud of all my boys but Sky and Danny deserve every happiness. They are amazing separately but even more amazing together.

Vacancy.

My ghosts have found their way back home
I have every right to kill my own
I am something now that never could exist
My anguish conquers all
Pay the price and watch me fall
My only key is broken
My broken key is only me

This is Gage's last weekend. He's heading down South and may or may not swing back around in early spring. That's okay, he's a nomad at heart where Schuyler is a true homebody, content to bake gourmet delights for Daniel and sooth his nighttime fears in a way that still makes me green with envy. While Gage and Schuyler share the same father, their mothers were two vastly different people, from what I hear, and that brings me back to even in my nature/nurture argument on child-raising. It's a whole lot of both, in the end.

I'll miss him but we never did become very close after all. I'm more mindful of Schuyler's omnipresent disappointment that Gage did not opt-it to our idyllic lifestyle here on the coast, instead choosing a harder road.

But you either fit in or you don't and while Gage is a wonderful addition to the point, I daresay it just doesn't feel as if he belongs here. Even though he left last fall too. He was here longer than the last time, maybe we'll just be lucky enough that he will come around every now and again and grace us with his smiling presence and endless patience for lightweights and fuckwits. Besides, he won't find a girl here.

I have an empty room again.

And I still hate goodbyes.