Regina Whittle couldn't take the sound anymore.

That constant knocking on the door, his voice coming in and telling her to just come out and talk to him, that this isn't fair to him, to keep cutting him out like this, but she didn't want to listen anymore. She leaned against the door of the bathroom and poured herself another glass of wine as she wiped her eyes on her arms. She downed the wine and then she ran one hand down her arm, looking at the scars on her wrists. She wanted to tear them open, watch them flow with blood. She wanted to cover the entire bathroom floor with her insides. She wanted to. But she didn't.

After all, she had to work in the morning.

                                                                                           ***

"You know, between Angela Lansbury and Matlock, television really convinced me that I'd be knee deep in detective work when I reached old age," Burt said, making Boris laugh.

"You're telling me. In the end, it turns out that the only mystery I'm trying to solve is how I ended up here," Boris said, as Carol walked in and handed Boris a can of soda. He thanked her as she took a seat beside him and watched the tv.

"MORE fucking Matlock? Seriously?" Carol asked, "Have you no shame?"

"You know, there's this great place called your bedroom that you can sit and NOT insult my viewing choices," Burt said.

Carol mocked him, making both men laugh as the front door opened and Whittle entered, looking pale and exhausted, her eyes red, like she'd been up all night crying and then had to tried to cover it with makeup so as to dissuade any questioning. As she walked past them, she smiled at Boris, who nodded back at her accordingly, before she headed into the back of the nurses station. Boris looked back at Carol, who was sipping her soda and he sighed.

"Whittle looks like shit," he said.

"And you look like a basket of roses," Burt said, "Don't talk about a womans appearance like that."

"No, I'm not being derogatory, I'm being concerned, asshole. I'm saying she doesn't look well, like she is feeling bad or having a hard time dealing with something," Boris replied.

"We're all having a hard time dealing with something Boris. It's called life," Carol said.

Boris stood up and walked to the door that exited from the nurses station into the hallway and leaned against the wall, waiting. Eventually, it opened, and Whittle walked out, holding a small tray with tiny paper cups on them. She was surprised by his presence at first, but then acknowledged him and the two walked together down the hall.

"What's going on?" Boris asked, "You seem...kind of...not...good."

"Boy, for a writer, you sure are a real conversationalist," Whittle said, making Boris chuckle.

"I'm just concerned. Is everything okay?" he asked, as Whittle stopped and looked at him.

"Meet me outside, in the gazebo, in about...twenty minutes? We can talk then," she said, and he nodded as she went about her way, delivering medicine to house citizens. Boris got something to eat from the cafeteria and then headed out to the gazebo and waited for her. Leaning against the rail of the gazebo, chewing on his cookie, he watched the knitting club and saw Larry toiling in the dirt nearby, seemingly trying, badly, to do some gardening. After a few minutes, Whittle showed up and sat down on the floor of the gazebo, exhaling.

"Want some of my cookie?" Boris asked, holding it out to her, but she smiled and shook her head.

"No thank you," she said.

"Good, cause I didn't wanna give you any," he replied, eating the rest and then groaning as he too sat down across from her; he wiped his hands on his pants and then asked, "So...what's going on? You usually seem sort of perky. What's up?"

"I don't want to do this anymore," Whittle said, "I don't...I don't know what it is I wanna do, but I know it's not this."

"You're a trained medical professional, you can do anything," Boris said, "There's lots of jobs in that field for someone with your expertise."

"It's not just that, I just..." Whittle said, trailing off as she pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, "...I'm really unhappy with, like, EVERY decision in my life. I don't wanna do this job, I don't wanna be where I am, at work or at home, but I don't know how to fix any of it."

"Nobody knows how, and because the idea of change is so scary, so many often don't even try and they remain unhappy until they either die or wind up in a place like this," Boris said, "Do you wanna wind up in a place like this?"

"I already have," Whittle said, making him laugh.

"Sure, but, voluntarily. I mean like us. Like Carol and myself. Not by choice."

"...you're here by choice," Whittle said, making him furrow his brow.

"Listen, we're here to talk about YOU, okay?" he said, "I remember being extremely unhappy when I was married and working, and that nothing, no matter what it was that I tried, seemed to help. Eventually I just sort of accepted how I felt and left behind the concept of gaining fulfillment of any kind. Society would have you believe that having a family makes your life complete, but I think that's only true when that's a goal you actually want to achieve. Point is, you're a lot younger than I was when you're realizing how screwed up your life is and that you want change, and I admire that."

"Yeah, but I don't know how to do anything about it," Whittle said, "That's what's so frustrating, man. Like, where do you even START? I..."

She glanced away and rubbed her eyes as Boris finally sitting down, cross legged, across from her. He cocked his head, waiting for her to continue, and she finally cleared her throat and undid her ponytail, letting her bushy brown hair down.

"I hate my boyfriend," she finally said, very matter of factly, "He doesn't know this, obviously, nor does he really deserve it. I just...I don't think I'm capable of being in long term relationships with people. My sister can, she's fantastic at it, she's been with her husband for like 10 years, but I just...I can't do it. It's not even a fear of commitment, it's just that eventually I get tired of people and nobody ever really understands how I feel, even if they swear up and down that they do and I try to talk to them about it."

"I sort of get what you mean," Boris said, sighing, "I was very unhappy in my marriage because I felt like I wasn't good enough. Like my wife deserved better. Then, when the fighting started, after the accident, I took the hatred I had for myself and merely redirected it towards her, because it's easier to hate others than it is to hate yourself, at least for me it was."

Whittle ran a hand through her hair and glanced around at the gazebo, taking in the architecture.

"I don't even know that I wanna stay in this field," Whittle said, "...did I ever tell you how I started getting into the nursing field?"

"No, but please do weave your tale for me," Boris said.

"I was actually in college for something else. I was about three months into my sophomore year, working towards my culinary degree, when my aunt took ill. She was my favorite aunt, and she'd gotten really sick and it looked really bad, so I started spending a lot of time with her. It got to the point where I was spending more time caring for her than I was working towards my degree. After a while, I decided that I needed to do more with my life than cook soup, that I needed to help others, so after she died, I changed my major to nursing and decided instead to dedicate my life to the care of others. But the thing is, the sick, irrefutable thing is, I don't really CARE about others. I mean, I DO, but...but I don't want to dedicate my life to them, but to say that, to admit that I don't want to spend my life doing that, feels so cruel, so instead of following my dreams and shit, I just continue to live with a man I no longer love and work at a job I no longer enjoy."

"...I think you should leave him and go back to school," Boris said, "I know, I know, that's so easy for me to say, but I think it's the only option. Look at how miserable you are now, imagine how miserable you'll be if you stay in this situation. You have to do something. That's...that's the one thing I've come to learn this past year. I have to try and move forward and be a better person, even if only for myself, because otherwise it was all meaningless. I want my life to end with an exclamation point, not a question mark."

Whittle smiled as Boris handed her a fresh cookie, still wrapped in plastic.

"Thanks," Whittle said, taking it and trying not to cry, "I guess you're right. I guess I'm the only one who can do anything, and that that's what I should do, is something, anything. Otherwise I'm doing nothing and look at what doing nothing has netted me. It's netted me nothing."

"Exactly."

"I can do better," Whittle said, opening the wrapping and biting into the cookie.

"We all can," Boris said, opening yet another fresh cookie he'd pulled from his jacket.

"What's with all the cookies?!" she asked, mouth half full of cookie, trying not to laugh.

"I stole 'em from the cafeteria," Boris said.

                                                                                           ***

Father Kricket was sitting in someones room reading his bible by the dim light of a small table lamp when he heard a soft knocking on the door. He turned to see Boris standing there, coming in quietly. Father Kricket smiled and nodded at him as Boris shut the door behind him. Boris sat down in a chair across from Father Kricket and leaned forward, hushing his voice, so as not to disturb the sleeping woman.

"You're here an awful lot," Boris said, as Father Kricket leaned forward too, but didn't whisper.

"You don't have to be quiet, she's deaf," he said, making Boris laugh, "Yes, I'm here a lot. It's a nursing home. I'm all a lot of these people have, as you should well know. Lots of folks end up here completely alone, and it's up to me to give them some sort of comfort and guidance in their final days."

"Is this woman dying?" Boris asked, looking at the woman sleeping in the bed and Father Kricket shook his head.

"Nah, I just come in here cause she sleeps a lot and is deaf so I can't bother her. I'm actually on break," Father Kricket said.

"The word of god takes breaks?" Boris asked.

"Well, I'm only human underneath this cloth," Father Kricket said, shutting his bible and setting it on his lap gently, "So, what's on your mind?"

"Not much, just wanted to see how you were doing. I had a long conversation with Nurse Whittle today about the things she does and doesn't want from life, and it made me wonder if I was even qualified to be giving out advice, considering how well I screwed up my own life. I'm likely the LAST person who anyone should be coming to for life advice."

"I don't think that's true. Those who screw up are actually, in my experience, the ones with the best advice for how not to fail because they've already failed. If anyone is qualified to steer others towards success, it's those who have failed. They can tell you what NOT to do," Father Kricket said, "You know I'm not a therapist, right?"

"That's fine, I don't need a therapist. I need a friend," Boris said, making Father Kricket blush a little as he looked at his cross necklace he was playing with in his hands.

"Well, I'm glad I can be that for you," Father Kricket said, "I know all too well what it's like to feel like you don't have any companions. If I can alleviate some of that pain for you, then so be it. I'm here to bring comfort to those who need it, as I said."

"...you don't think I'm a bad person, right?" Boris asked.

"I don't, no, but I gotta tell ya, I'm gonna get very annoyed with you if you ask me every week," Father Kricket replied, making Boris laugh loudly.

"I have to confess, I stole some cookies from the cafeteria today," Boris said, "But I did share them with Nurse Whittle, so."

"The lord taketh and the lord giveth back," Father Kricket said, licking his lips, "You wouldn't happen to have any of those cookies left would you? I need to keep my blood sugar up."

"I do, yes," Boris said, reaching into his jacket and tossing Father Kricket a wrapped cookie before leaning back in his chair and sighing, "I guess in a way I AM sort of like Columbo. Earlier today we were watching Columbo, and I thought how weird it is that there was a trend of old people being detectives, but I think, really, all old people are detectives. We're detecting new ways to help others, help ourselves, always solving one problem or another in any way that we can. I discovered Whittle had a problem and I helped her with it."

"Another case closed, Columbo," Father Kricket said, raising his cookie to him before taking a bite.

Yes, Boris thought, another case closed.

It wasn't really fair; Boris spent most of his time either at the hospital or the home, and he didn't particularly care to be at either one. Sitting here now, with Father Kricket, waiting for Lorraine to show up. Boris sighed and checked his watch, as Father Kricket read a book across from him, them both sitting next to Ellens bedside. Boris sighed again, folded his arms and shook his head.

"Patience is a virtue," Father Kricket said, without looking up, turning a page in his book.

"Patience is a waste of time," Boris said, "You're just giving others carte blanche to throw your precious time away and I don't know about you, but I'm pretty old and I ain't got much time left, and frankly, I'd prefer not to spend what little time I do have in this place."

"You have to learn to be patient, it isn't something that comes naturally, it's a skill, like cooking," Father Kricket said, leaning forward and resting the closed book on his lap, continuing, "When I was in college, I was interested in this girl but I wasn't sure she was interested in me, and at the same time I was thinking of switching colleges but I wanted to see if things would work out with her first, so I waited for her to make her decision and until she did, I wouldn't switch schools. It taught me to bide my time and wait for the right choice to show itself."

"You know, sometimes, listening to you is like having a conversation with a hostage negotiator. You know what I mean? Everything you say sounds logical, it very well may be the right way to feel in fact, but god knows I don't wanna hear it," Boris said, making Father Kricket smirk.

"That's what I'm here for. To help people along, especially when they don't want it," he said.

Boris looked at Ellen and put his hand on the sheet over her legs. He thought about the last conversation they'd had before she went under for her operation, and wondered how such a thing could result in this sort of situation. The door opened and Lorraine entered, making Boris scoff as she shut the door behind her and sat down at the end of the bed.

"Well, what're we doing here?" Lorraine asked after a minute.

"We're here to say a prayer," Boris said, "Or does that cut into your 'me' time?"

"For your information, all my free time is my me time because I don't have anyone else in my life to deal with, so," Lorraine replied, fishing through her purse for some gum as Father Kricket leaned forward and cupped his hands on his lap.

"Let's not bring negative energy into the room," he said calmly, "Let's approach this like rational adults, alright? We're all capable of being in complete control of our own emotions, so let's try that. We're here for Ellen, remember that? Not for you two, but for her, so let's stay focused on that."

"I'm sorry," Boris said, continuing to rub Ellens hand, "So I'm not a particularly religious person, is there a sort of non partisan prayer we can do? One that ensures she'll be okay even if I go to hell?"

"Certainly," Father Kricket said, laughing, "The thing about prayer is there's no set rule on how they must be said or anything. They can be made up on the spot, so just say whatever comes to your mind. Boris, if you'd like to start, you're welcome to."

Boris cleared his throat and squeezed her hand as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Dear god, please let my daughter wake up, let her go on to bigger and better things, lord knows she deserves it. Please do not punish her for our misdeeds. MY misdeeds. She is not me, she is her own person and she deserves to be judged accordingly so," Boris said, "...I love her, please just protect her and let her wake up."

"That was beautiful Boris," Father Kricket said, then, turning his gaze to Lorraine, he added, "Would you like to go?"

"Certainly," Lorraine said, "Dear god, please give my husband and I something else to do besides grieve over someone who isn't even dead yet. And please don't let my husband see this as something to make about himself."

"Gee, you're a riot," Boris said, glaring at her, "This is supposed to make us feel better."

"There's no feeling better about this, Boris, and in fact, I think it's time we let it go and take her off life support. They say that after 3 months nobody comes out of a coma generally, or at the very least, the chances drop dramatically."

"It's barely been a month and a half," Boris said, sounding annoyed now, "How about, if that's the case, we at least get to the third month and see what happens before we write our only child a one way ticket to the afterlife."

Lorraine leaned back and crossed her legs, groaning as Father Kricket shifted in his seat and looked at Boris. He fumbled with his bible before standing up and finally setting it down on his chair as he stood up and headed for the door.

"I, uh...I am going to head to the snack machine, if anyone would like anything?" he asked, but neither one responded, so he politely nodded, opened the door and exited the room. Boris looked at Lorraine and ran a hand over his face.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I know this hurts you too, I'm not making this about me, I hope you know that. I hope you don't think I'm the same man that I was before. I'm not saying I'm totally better now, but I like to think that I've grown a bit in the last year or so, and I'm still trying to change for what it's worth."

"I believe you," Lorraine said, "But I'm still going to blame you."

"Why?!"

"Because if I don't...I have to blame myself, and I...I don't think I could handle accepting that guilt," Lorraine said, near tears. Boris understood that line of thought, though. He stood up, patted her on the back as he passed by her and exited out into the hallway. He spotted Father Kricket standing near the snack machine, eating from a bag of chips. Boris strolled up to him and stopped beside him, leaning against the wall as Father Kricket put the bag in front of him, offering him some chips.

"I never speak ill of people, but I have to say...she's hard to deal with," Father Kricket said, making Boris smirk.

"She's not hard to deal with," he replied, "She's just like anyone else. She's reacting, understandably, to something that's terrible, that's affecting her, and has affected someone dear to her. I think, more than anything, what she's actually upset about is that Ellen came to ME instead of HER before her surgery and tried to talk to me."

"I could see that. She might take it personally, making her question her worth," Father Kricket said, putting a chip in his mouth and eating it before adding, "That's why we shouldn't take her attitude personally, because she's already judging herself far more harshly than we ever would. She's forcing herself to suffer, so we shouldn't add onto that. We should be helping her."

"Exactly. I couldn't agree more," Boris said, "If there's one thing I've learned in the last few months, it's that I don't need other people hating me. I hate myself enough as it is. Don't need any help in that department."

Father Kricket chuckled as he crumpled the chip bag and tossed it into a garbage can across from them. He sighed, adjusted his collar and looked at Boris, who looked up from his shoes to Father Kricket, their eyes locking for a moment.

"Come on, let's get back to the room," he said, Boris nodding in understanding as the two turned on their heels and headed back to Ellens room. As they arrived, Lorraine was coming out, pulling the strap on her purse up over her shoulder, adjusting it. She stopped and let them in before passing them. Boris turned and followed her, abandoning Father Kricket in the room. Boris walked with Lorraine down the hall, towards the main lobby.

"So you're just leaving?" he asked, "We're done today?"

"I can't sit there with her," Lorraine said, "I just...can't."

"I know, it's hard."

Lorraine stopped, her back still to him, and she sniffled before saying, "She didn't have to do this."

"...do what?"

"Have the surgery."

"Sure she didn't have to, but she wanted to and that's her decision. I was more than supportive."

"But she wasn't broken," Lorraine said, "She's always acted like she's been broken but that's because of the bullshit lense society puts on those with disabilities. She wasn't broken. She was still Ellen. She could've done anything she wanted just as she was."

"I agree with you," Boris said, "But...nonetheless, she made a decision about her own life and I stood by her."

"Do you still?"

"Excuse me?"

"Do you still stand by her decision, even now, while watching her lay in that bed, struggling to even live?" Lorraine asked, "Because if you do...then I don't exactly know where you stand. I don't know how you can support a decision that nearly killed her."

"You can support something in the moment and not support it in retrospect."

"Certainly, but perhaps had you not supported it to begin with, she-"

"Don't you EVEN," Boris said, almost snarling at her now, pointing at her, "Don't you DARE do that. That isn't fair. You and I both know she would've done it whether or not I supported it."

"Oh please, she was always your little girl, she always wanted your approval," Lorraine said, "Don't pretend she wasn't. She asked you because she knew that you would go along with it, because you want to make her happy, you want her to love you. I would've fought her on it, because that's always been the dynamic, I've always been the bad guy."

Boris stood there as Lorraine wiped her eyes on her sleeve, hoisted her purse back up again and buttoned her sweater.

"I'm so tired of being the bad guy. I say it's time we audition for new roles," she said, before turning and leaving, letting Boris stand there and watch her walk off towards the main lobby. He turned and headed back to Ellens room, where he found Father Kricket reading his bible silently, as he sat down beside him.

"Am I a villain?" Boris finally asked, taking his hat off and scratching the back of his head.

"Nobody is a villain, Boris. They're just misguided heroes," Father Kricket said.

And somehow, this statement made Boris feel better. They sat for a few minutes, watching Ellens machine buzz and beep, and after a moment, Boris held his hand down by his chair, and Father Kricket held his hand for a little bit. Boris rarely held the hands of other men, but this wasn't just any man, it was a man of god, and that meant, in a way, he was holding the hand of god, and that comforted him in its own small way.

*beep*
*beep*
*beep*

The noise had become somewhat soothing, over time, like a white noise used to help one drift off comfortably to sleep. This made Boris uncomfortable. Did it mean he was alright with what had happened? That, because the noise didn't bother him, that it meant he wasn't hurt by it? No, that couldn't be right. He was definitely hurt. He put down his magazine and looked at the bed, where his daughter lay, unconscious. He sighed and reached out, touching her hand, gripping it ever so gently. He shut his eyes for just a moment, when he heard the flatline, which jolted him awake. Boris opened his eyes in worry, only to discover that it wasn't Ellen's machine, and instead was sounding from a machine down the hall. He stood up and swiftly marched to the door to her room and glanced out.

He saw two nurses and a doctor rush by and head into the room two doors down. Boris came out into the hallway and headed to the room, peering inside where he saw a man who was probably his age laying flat on a gurney, while the doctor prepared paddles. One of the nurses turned and noticed Boris, then swiftly shut the door to the room. He backed up, and stood in the hallway while every manner of person seemed to move around him, quicker than he ever could. He felt trapped in time, stuck in existential molasses. He buried his hands in his coat pockets and realized that this place was where it all ended, and that was if you were lucky enough to not die alone.

Yes, this place, a hospital, is where most roads lead. He sighed and turned, heading back into Ellen's hospital room, shutting the door behind him. He only hoped it wouldn't end for him here as well.

                                                                                           ***

"I always wanted to be a pilot," Burt said, "Never happened, but it was nice to imagine. Even tried out for my pilots license every few years. Just...couldn't quite grasp it. Add it to the list of shit I'll never finish I suppose."

"I know what that's like," Carol said, "I never quite got the hang of a lot of things I was interested in, that I swore up and down that I'd learn to do. You have anything like that, Boris?"

Boris looked up and shrugged, his chin resting on his fist, his elbow posted up on his armchair. He sighed and sat up more, yawning.

"I don't know why we think we don't have time NOW," he said, "I mean, what's stopping us? Who says that at a certain age you can't learn to do something, right?"

"I appreciate your attempt at positivity, but that isn't how things work. As you age, your brain stops soaking in new information and it becomes harder to learn things," Carol said, "Like, if you try and teach a small child a language, they learn it easier when they're young than if you try when they're older. It's just how the mind works."

"But you can still learn things. Sure, it may not be as easy, but you CAN do it," Boris said, "I don't...I don't want to die and be remembered for the two things I did in life. I want to be remembered for all sorts of stuff I knew how to do. I want them to say that I spoke multiple languages and could play multiple instruments and that I could build things with my hands-"

"But you can't do any of those," Burt interjected.

"Thank you, I was getting to that," Boris said, annoyed, "But that doesn't mean that I can't learn it right now. Who knows how much time we have left? Why're we spending it sitting around, taking medication and remembering the things we have done instead of finding new things to do?"

"Because I'm old and cranky," Carol said, "And I prefer to complain, because that's a right you get when you live to be this age."

"Carol has a point," Larry said, approaching them with a drink in hand, "Everyone tells you not to complain your entire life, but dammit, if you live to be our age, that's a right that you EARN."

"I think I'm going to make the best of my time and learn something new," Boris said, "I'm tired of feeling useless, I want to feel like I still have things I can offer the world, even if the world doesn't necessarily want or need them."

With that, Boris stood up and headed down the hallway towards his room. As he walked past a door, Father Kricket came out, and the two stopped to look at one another for a moment.

"What're you doing here? Is someone else dying?" Boris asked, and Father Kricket laughed and touched Boris's shoulder.

"Of course not, I'm just visiting someone who can no longer come into church. Walk with me a ways," he said, and Boris obliged, walking alongside Father Kricket as they headed down the hallway; Father Kricket cleared his throat and said, "So, how've you been? How are you dealing with things?"

"Not very well," Boris said, "Honestly, I feel like I'm the one who should be dying and my daughter should be out there leading a full life."

"It's never easy for a parent to see their child in a manner that could lead to death," Father Kricket said, "I've dealt with many grieving families who've lost children at a young age, even some at a not so young age, and man let me tell you, it's hard. They're not even my children and it's hard."

"They're not your children? But you call everyone 'my child'," Boris said, smirking, making Father Kricket laugh again.

"Well, biological children then. I know from experience what it's like to lose a child," Father Kricket said.

"I thought priests couldn't-"

"No no, no, I watched my parents lose my brother at a young age," Father Kricket said, "I watched them go through all the stages of grief, watched their marriage fall apart. You know that it's a rather high statistic that a marriage that sees the death of a child doesn't last, right? Most marriages usually end within a year of said death."

"My marriage didn't end because of what happened to Ellen," Boris said, "Not just for that, anyway. I want to become a better person, but I'm finding it difficult to know where to start."

"Don't let the rough start discourage you. It's good that you're wanting to better yourself. Just because you reach a certain age doesn't mean you can't continue to evolve into a better human. There's no age limit on morality."

"That's what I was thinking," Boris said, "But where should I start?"

"Frankly," Father Kricket said, stopping, turning to him and placing a hand on his shoulder, "I think we both know where you should start."

                                                                                        ***

Boris and Carol entered the hospital room, Carol lightly clasping his hand as he stopped right in the doorway and stared at Ellen laying in the bed. Carol looked at him and patted his shoulder, letting him know that he wasn't alone. He cleared his throat and approached her bedside, taking a seat and gently stroking her arm. Carol came in and stopped beside him, again, resting her hands on his shoulders. Boris sighed and looked down at the floor, at his shoes, and opened his mouth.

"I wasn't the best father, nor was I really a father of any sort, so I guess take how I feel with a grain of salt, but...I really could've, and should've, tried harder. But here we are, you're unconscious and I'm talking to a semi lifeless body and I don't really know what to say or how to feel and all I know is that I should say something and feel something and now I'm not sure where to go. I wish I could actually speak to you. I wish I had spoken to you more before this happened. I just...I wanna know what you think. About everything."

Carol tightened her grip on his shoulder and he reached up and held her hand, his eyes brimming with tears. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his other arm and exhaled, waiting a second before speaking again.

"I didn't really know how to be a dad. I just sort of assumed you'd know what to do when it happened to you, that somehow, this magical button would get pushed in my head and I'd know exactly what to do. I think it's safe to assume that most parents think that's what'll happen when they have a kid. Like...like having a kid is what somehow flicks this light switch and you now know how to do everything for them, but that is SO not the case. I thought playing Soccer is what you wanted. I'm sorry, I'm an idiot. I tried to push you into extracuriculars and it ended so poorly. If I could go back in time and change one thing, just one, it'd be that. Fuck Soccer. I fucking hate Soccer now."

"Eh, most americans do, so you're not alone," Carol said, making him chuckle a little.

"I wanna be a better adult to people, but nobody needs me now," Boris said.

"There's always someone who needs you," Carol said, and this made Boris think.

                                                                                          ***

The school bell rang and Chrissy came out, heading to the bike rack. She put her bookbag down and started undoing her bike lock when she heard a horn honk and she looked around, concerned. After a minute of scanning the parking lot, she spotted a car sitting nearby, and noticed a priest sitting in the drivers seat, and an old man standing by the passenger seat.

"Hey, get in the car, kid, we're gettin' ice cream," Boris said as she started to wheel her bike towards them, glancing at Father Kricket.

"Usually when you're told to get in the car with a priest, it's not a good sign," Chrissy said, and Boris laughed as Kricket rolled down his window.

"That is true, and I am aiming to change those connotations, so if you're humor me, please get in the vehicle so we can acquire rum raisin," Father Kricket said.

"Rum Raisin? I'm not 21," Chrissy said.

"Nobody said it was for you," Boris replied, popping open the car trunk, "Now get that bike in here and let's ride."

Chrissy smiled, nodded and did exactly as she was told.

She might not be his kid, but for this afternoon, she would be.

"You're serious?" Boris asked, his jaw slightly ajar as he stood in front of Whittle in the main room. She was smiling, as she got his meds together in the little paper cups.

"Yep, it's all final, you've got Hendersons room, you move in later," she said, handing him the tiny cup, which he gleefully took and downed in an instant.

"This is fantastic!" he said, laughing, "Oh god, finally some good news. You have no idea how badly I needed a win lately...thank you for getting this approved, it really means a lot."

"It's no problem, Boris, really," Whittle said, "I gotta get these to everyone, I'll catch you later."

Whittle turned and headed off to give everyone their own little paper cups while Boris sat and looked out the nearby window. The world seemed brighter when you win, and he'd so rarely won that this wasn't a feeling he got to feel often enough. He didn't want it to ever go away. Suddenly he felt a presence beside his chair and looked up to see Burt standing there, drinking a glass of orange juice.

"What?" Boris asked, "Can't you see I was enjoying all the absence of you?"

"What's got you so happy?"

"I get a new room," Boris said, "Hendersons old room."

"But he DIED in there, it's gonna be haunted," Burt said, finishing his drink.

"Don't say that! You're going to jinx the whole thing!" Boris said, rubbing his face, "Besides Burt, if you die after that long, why would you haunt the fuckin' nursing home you died in? That's stupid. You'd wanna go anywhere else but here."

"I'm just saying, you're going to have a ghost roommate," Burt said, and just then they heard the front doors open and a man walked in. He appeared to be a priest, and he headed straight to the front desk to quietly speak to one of the men standing behind it. Boris and Burt were watching this closely when Carol walked up.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"We don't know," Boris said, "This guy just walked in. Priests never come here unless someone is about to bite it."

"God I hope it's Jacoby. I've had him on my pool for weeks now," Carol said.

The priest and the man behind the counter exchanged a few bits of words before politely exiting into the hall together. Boris stood up and headed after them, cautiously so as not to be seen, Carol and Burt right behind him. They peered into the hallway and saw the priest stop at a door at the very end of the hall with the man, and after a moment, the man opened the door for the priest and the priest entered, the man shutting the door after he entered before heading back to the main desk.

"Corey, what's a priest doing here?" Carol asked as the man, Corey, headed past them and back to the front desk.

"Miss Price isn't expected to make it through the night," Corey said, stopping to speak to them, one hand on his hip, his other hand rubbing the back of his head, ruffling his hair, "She requested a while ago that she have a priest come speak to her before she dies, read her her last rights."

"I didn't even know Bella was sick," Carol said, hand to her mouth, clearly somewhat upset, "God...every single day you lose someone important to you."

"Just go about your day, you guys, he won't be here too long," Corey said, continuing back to the front desk, leaving the three of them alone together. Carol didn't say a word, she just turned and waved a hand at the guys, heading off to be alone. Burt put his hands in his pants pockets and sighed as Boris glanced back down at the hall.

"This is hell," Burt said, "This is actually hell. Forget what the Bible says. THIS existence is what hell really is. Put in a home you have no control over, no way of leaving, nobody visits and you die alone, so many dreams unfulfilled."

"I'll see you later," Boris said, heading down the hallway, leaving a confused Burt there. As Boris approached the door, he knocked gently before entering and seeing the priest sitting on a stool next to the bed, reading from a book. Miss Price looked completely unconscious, but she was definitely still breathing.

"Hey, father," Boris said, waving casually as he entered and shut the door.

"Hello," the priest said, smiling, his short, scruffy brown hair and his piercing blue eyes surprising Boris, "Can I help you? Are you a friend of-"

"Not really," Boris said, pulling a chair from a nearby desk and sitting on the other side of the bed, across from the priest, "My name's Boris."

"Hello Boris, I'm father Kricket," he said, "It's nice to meet you."

"Yeah, you too...so, how often do you have to do this? Come and read last rights and stuff? It has to be a kind of bummer, right? Seeing so many people near death," Boris asked and Father Kricket just smiled and shook his head.

"Actually, I like knowing I can give someone that scared, that close to nothing, some comfort."

"That close to nothing? That doesn't sound very religious."

"I'm not particularly religious, as much as I compassionate. I want to help other people. Sure, when I became a priest I was much more, what's the word...gullible? No, that's rude. Open to belief. But these days, who knows what lays beyond. All I know is that death is terrifying, and these people need something, someone, to tell them it's all going to be okay. So many people don't have family at this point. No friends. That's where they need me."

"...that's really kind of you," Boris said, "...I haven't been to church in years, to be honest. Um...can I talk to you about something while you're doing...this?"

"Of course, Boris."

"Okay well, my daughter had an accident when she was little, and she's...she hasn't been able to walk ever since. She's spent most of her life in a wheelchair. Well, now she's having this surgery to give her these 3D printed legs, right? So she can walk again? Anyway, I'm happy for her, but...is it wrong that I sometimes-"

"Feel guilty? Of course not, guilt is-"

"No, not guilty. No, I've accepted that I'm guilty. No, I feel bad because sometimes I wish she'd died. I wish that she had just...died so she wouldn't have had her life be this challenging. I know, I know, that's so mean of me, like disabled people can do anything they put their mind to, but it HAS to be frustrating on some level, and I sometimes wish she didn't have to suffer like that. I wish...I wish she could've died so she wouldn't have been hurt."

"...you feel that by extending her life, it's only made her life more painful than if she'd just died?"

"Exactly, and I know, that sounds AWFUL and I FEEL awful for thinking that, but...on some level...I don't know, it just seems like it'd be a better alternative."

"For who? You or her? If she died, she'd be died. You'd still have your guilt, but it wouldn't be the way it is today. You still feel guilty. You never accepted what happened. You might've accepted that it was your fault, but you never accepted that it's okay. You never got past it. But you feel that if she'd just died, that would've been easier to move past, yes? That you wouldn't have had to watch the enduring pain that came after?"

"...I...I guess...yeah," Boris said, "I didn't even really...I didn't really get to see her much after that, I was...I didn't..."

Boris paused, his eyes half shut and his voice cracked.

"I was a bad father," he said weakly, "I was such a bad father."

"But you care, so no, you weren't. You said it was an accident, right? The fact you feel this much about it at all shows you're not a bad father. You didn't want her in pain at all, you care. And besides Boris, even if you were a bad father then, that was then, and this is now. You don't have to continue being a bad father. She's still here. You can be a better father. There's no expiration date on recovery. It's never too late to get better."

Boris looked at him, somewhat surprised.

"Every time I talk to someone about this, they always say 'oh that was in the past!' or 'don't be so hard on yourself!' but nobody has ever, EVER, once told me 'that is terrible but you can fix it'. Nobody ever said I could fix it," Boris said, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, "...god...thank you Father Kricket."

"Boris," Father Kricket said, crossing his legs and leaning back, "...everything is fixable, no matter how broken it gets. People especially are fixable. It may take some time, some patience, and a whole lot of effort, but humans are fixable, you just need to believe you can be fixed. By continuing to tell ourselves that we can't be fixed, we live that reality that we're so far gone, so beyond broken, that nothing can bring us back. But WE can bring us back. You just have to stop telling yourself you're broken and start telling yourself you're being fixed."

A few moments passed as Miss Price mumbled something in her sleep and they both glanced at her. Boris stood up, as did Father Kricket and they looked at one another for a moment. Boris approached the door, Father Kricket following him into the hall.

"If it's any help, I can come back and speak to you weekly," Father Kricket said, "I'd like to help-"

Without warning, Boris quickly turned and hugged him tightly. Father Kricket, surprised but not put off at all, simply smiled and hugged Boris back, patting his back.

"It's going to be okay Boris. There may be nothing afterwards, but there's always something right now," he said, "We're going to make you better."

After the hug, Father Kricket headed back into the room, leaving Boris standing there, smiling like an idiot. This was the best day in weeks. Suddenly, a voice spoke out in the hallway, surprising him.

"Boris," it said, and Boris turned to find Lorraine standing there behind him. The two stood and stared at one another for a moment before he really accepted she was actually here, standing in front of him.

"Lorraine? What the hell are you doing here?"

"I said I'd come by," she said, "I know this is sudden, but um...we didn't really schedule anything concrete and I had to see you. Something's happened."

"Well, you could've called first, we could've...what do you mean something's happened?"

"It's about Ellen," Lorraine said, "They called me. She had...some sort of allergic reaction to what they gave her in the hospital to put her under, and she...she hasn't woken up. She's rather unresponsive. I didn't want to tell you this over the phone. I...I had to say it in person, to your face, that they told me to-"

"No."

"Boris," Lorraine said weakly, standing in the hallway, her hands holding eachother in front of her, her eyes stuck to the floor, "...I don't...I don't know how to..."

"No. No you don't...you don't get to say it," Boris said, tears brimming in his eyes, "Don't say it."

"Whether I say it or not it happened," Lorraine said, "It happened."

"No," Boris said softly, clutching at his chest as she approached him. She put her hand on his shoulder and he glanced up at her, and then his head hit her knees, he hugged her legs and he started sobbing as she stood there and stroked his hair.

"There there," she said quietly, "Get it out. It's okay. I'm here now."

"This isn't happening!" Boris shouted, standing up, turning and running, best he could, down the hall and out the back doors, out into the back garden area, past the quilters and just kept running. He had been given a good room, but at what price? The price of his daughter? And just when things were getting better? Boris kept going, until he reached another building on the property, and started into it, heading up the stairs. He finally reached the door he was looking for. Room 37G. Leanne's room. He needed something familiar, someone who would still be there for him. He knocked, and then opened the door and...

...it was empty. The entire room was empty. Boris stepped inside cautiously and looked around. Where was she? Where was EVERYTHING? An old man passing by with two small kids stopped and tapped Boris on the shoulder. He spun around, face to face.

"You alright?" the man asked, "What're you doing here?"

"Where is she? Where's Leanne? This is her room! It's...it's empty!"

"Oh, yeah, Leanne. Yeah, her daughter came and picked her up yesterday, took her to her house. Checked her out of here completely. I thought she would've told everyone she knew, but, with her mind these days, who knows what she remembers to do. Sorry, pal."

The man continued with the kids down the hall and out the door as Boris entered the room and stood there, the sunlight peeking in through the blinds and spilling on his face. He shut his eyes, and he could still hear their voices. Their faces. And then...and then...

And then.

"Boris," Lorraine said weakly, standing in the hallway, her hands holding eachother in front of her, her eyes stuck to the floor, "...I don't...I don't know how to..."

"No. No you don't...you don't get to say it," Boris said, tears brimming in his eyes, "Don't say it."

"Whether I say it or not it happened," Lorraine said, "It happened."

"No," Boris said softly, clutching at his chest as she approached him. She put her hand on his shoulder and he glanced up at her, and then his head hit her knees, he hugged her legs and he started sobbing as she stood there and stroked his hair.

"There there," she said quietly, "Get it out. It's okay. I'm here now."

                                                                               1 WEEK PRIOR

Boris was sitting on his bed. He didn't want to be sitting on his bed, but he was. He wanted to be sitting on a new bed, in a new room, the room he'd asked for what felt like months ago now. He wanted Hendersons old room, but a decision still had not come down about whether or not he'd be given it, and at this point, he was ready to accept a decision never would. So, Boris was sitting on his bed, picking at a loose string coming out of the quilt when someone knocked on his door. He looked up, surprised.

"Uh...come in?"

The door opened, and there stood Carol, looking at her watch.

"This Bingo game is going to start soon, if you wanna..." she said, before looking up and around his room, "...god this is depressing. Why don't you do something to this place?"

"Decorating would only create the reality that I'm never leaving," Boris said, "And I like to keep my options open. It's like finding a stray puppy, once you name it, you become attached to it."

"Are you coming to Bingo?"

"I don't know. I don't really feel like it," Boris said, "I think I may go watch the knitting club."

"Alright," Carol said, sighing, "Well, the offer is open if you decide to change your mind."

Carol turned and exited the room, leaving the door wide open. Boris continued to pick and pull at the errant string from the quilt, his brow furrowing at it. He heard a voice at his doorway.

"Boris?" it asked.

"Carol, I already-" he started, before he looked up and realized it was, in fact, Leanne. She was standing there, smiling at him, looking just as pretty as the last time he'd seen her. She started to come in, but stopped before entering.

"May I join you in...whatever it is you're doing?" she asked.

"Wallowing in my own despair."

"Sounds lovely!"

With that, she entered the room and sat down beside him, watching him pick at the string.

"How've you been?" he asked.

"I've been alright, I'm sorry we haven't seen more of eachother...I've been having a lot of family visits and doctors appointments lately. I guess it's just kept me busy. It wasn't that I didn't want to come over and talk to you."

"It's okay. I didn't make much of an effort to come talk to you either," Boris said, "Not that that excuses anything. I should've. You've been having family come visit?"

"Yes! It's been wonderful. I've been having my daughter come and visit me, and she's so sweet, I would love if you could meet her sometime," Leanne said, "She'll come over, we'll chat a bit, she'll take me to the doctors, you know, things like that. Sometimes we go out for lunch and..."

A pause as she looked at his hand tugging at the string.

"...is there a reason you're torturing this quilt?"

"Huh? Oh...I don't...I mean...it's broken. It's coming apart. I could have it fixed, there's lots of women here who know how to knit and could easily fix it for me but...it's like me, it's damaged, and that's fine. We're fine. I like it this way. I'm only doing this because I'm bored," Boris said, sighing, "...that was so overly dramatic of me, I'm sorry. I used to write."

"You were a writer?"

"On and off. I did greeting cards, copy, freelance things like that," Boris said, "Then after the accident...I didn't really write much anymore. I liked writing happy things, and I didn't really have much happiness to inspire me, so, why bother writing anymore?"

"How cliche, a damaged writer," Leanne said, smirking, "Oh, you're in SO much pain Boris, please, let me HEAL you. Goodness knows anything can inspire art of any kind. I guarantee you that pain isn't a necessity, and anyone who tells you it is hasn't made anything worthy of themselves. To believe pain is equal to great art is to say that pain is the only emotion worth feeling, which is such a load of shit. If that were true, love stories with happy endings wouldn't be as popular as they are."

"...I guess you're right," Boris said, "But when you've reached this point in your life, what's there to be happy about? You have little to no family, and finding a reason to even get out of bed if you have no career or friends or goals is hard to do."

"You're alive! That's what makes getting out of bed worth it! Because you can get out of bed! Think about it, there's billions of people already dead, but you're not one of them! Not yet, anyway! So get up, enjoy things!"

"But...how?" Boris asked, tearing up, "How do you enjoy anything? I feel like I haven't enjoyed something in years."

"Stuart, things like that hurt to hear," Leanne said, "I wish I knew what to say to make you feel better."

"I appreciate that you even care enough to listen, so...Stuart?" Boris asked, realizing she'd just called him the wrong name.

"Stuart, there are things in life that are worth pursuing even if you don't achieve them or even if you choose to give them up, because the fact of the matter is that simply pursuing them means you made a decision to do something, you acted upon impulse, you made a change. You. You. YOU did that. You are in control of your OWN life."

"Sure, that's all fine and true, but-"

"And," she continued, cutting him off, "the fact of the matter is that if you do NOTHING, then you're letting the pain win. Pain is a miserable, fickle creature, Stuart, it really is. You didn't try hard enough in college and you aren't trying hard enough today."

"Whoa whoa, I mean, I agree, I'm a lazy sack of garbage, but come on," Boris said, "Also, my name isn't Stuart."

Leanne stopped and looked at him, rubbing her arm with her other hand, seeming nervous and confused.

"Where am I?" she quietly asked.

"You're...you're in my room, I'm Boris, remember?" he asked, "You...you came in from the hallway, and we were talking about your daughter and your doctors appointments and stuff? Are you feeling okay?"

"I have to go," she quickly said, trying to get up before stumbling and grabbing the wall to keep herself from falling. As Boris approached her to help, she put a hand up to stop him, "No! No...I don't need help, I can do this."

She got back on her feet and continued down the hall as Boris watched her from his doorway. As he did, Polly stopped by and watched with him as she ate a pudding cup.

"Leanne Wilkins huh?" Polly asked, "She probably won't be staying here much longer, if she keeps getting worse."

"Worse?"

"She's on my floor. Sometimes she goes into peoples rooms, thinking they're her rooms from her old house, or her childhood home. Sometimes she thinks the younger nurses are her daughter. They're going to have to take her home soon, because she's becoming too much of a liability here," Polly said, "She's come up on the pool a few times and managed not to kick it so far though, so kudos to her."

"Why...why would she be a liability?"

"...jesus Boris, you really don't know anything about anyone here, do you? Leanne has Alzheimers you dipshit," Polly said, handing him the empty pudding cup and spoon, "God, listen to people for once in your life. It's like conversing with a wall."

Boris watched her walk away as this information sunk in. That's why she repeated the story about her leg when they first met. That's why she'd called him by the wrong name. She was sick. Just then he noticed the trash in his hands.

"Hey! I don't want your goddamned garbage!" he shouted after Polly.

                                                                                              ***

Sitting here, staring at the phone, wondering if he should pick up and call. Would she even answer? Would he even want her to? He finally swallowed his pride, picked it up and dialed the number.

"Hello?" she asked.

"Lorraine," Boris said, "It's...it's me."

"Boris, hello," she said, sounding actually somewhat happy to hear from him, "How are you doing?"

"I'm doing okay. Um...have you talked to Ellen lately?" he asked, twirling the phone cord around his fingers.

"Right, like she'd ever reach out to me," Lorraine said, almost laughing, "You know how she is. She sees me as the villain, and...maybe I am, sure, but...all parents are villains in one way or another, intentionally or not. We all fuck up and most of us don't admit it."

"A simple yes or no would've sufficed," Boris said, "She told me she was going into surgery and she hasn't called me or anything since. I just wanted to make sure you hadn't heard from her either."

"Surgery?"

"It's nothing major," he said, quickly covering himself, "I just wanted to know if you'd heard from her, that's all. Anyway, thanks for answering."

"Boris, wait!" Lorraine said shrilly, keeping him on the line, "Boris...would it be alright if I come see you soon?"

"...yeah, that would be fine," Boris said, actually wanting to see her in person again, "Yeah, come on by whenever you have the time. I'd like to see you. I have some things I need to talk about with you, actually."

After he hung up, he sat and thought about Ellen, and Leanne, and wondered why everyone he cared about was hurt or sick. Was he just destined to care for damaged people? Leanne's situation wasn't his fault, but Ellen's certainly was, and he blamed himself for it daily. He stood up, headed out of the common area and started to head back to his bedroom when he heard someone crying, and he stopped, listened for a moment and then followed the sound to a corridor at the end of the hall, near the stairs, where he found Nurse Whittle sitting alone, sobbing into her hands.

"Hey," he said, surprising her as she quickly looked up and wiped her tears away.

"Boris, shit, you scared me," she said, catching her breath.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"I'm not...I'm not okay, no," she said, "But don't worry about me, I'll be-"

"No, no, don't...don't be like me. Don't not talk about yourself until it's too late. Let someone in to help you. You're here always helping others, let someone help you for a change. Tell me, what's wrong?" he asked, sitting down next to her under the stairs.

"I'm just really unhappy, Boris," she said softly, "I...I tried to talk to my parents yesterday and my father, he's just...such an asshole. He won't let it go that I gave up becoming a doctor to instead become a nurse, and he keeps making references to it and my mother never fucking defends me, and it just...it's not fair, like, I recognized I didn't personally have it in me, at that time, to become a doctor, and that this is more what I was able to do, but now I'm unhappy doing this too."

"Parents are broken sacks of crap, Whittle," Boris said, pulling out some mints from his coat pocket and giving her one as he popped one in his mouth, "They're so angry at themselves for not doing the things they wanted to do before they had you, so now they pin all those hopes on you, and when you don't achieve them, they feel betrayed. But it's bullshit. You are your own person and are in no way responsible for their failings."

"...thank you," Whittle said softly, almost whispering, "God...all I wanted my entire life was ONE fucking adult telling me that they sucked, that they recognized they sucked, and that they all hurt their children."

"I wasn't a great dad, but I tried, and I'm still trying," Boris said, "I'm sorry your father is shit. Most fathers are. So, hey, at least you aren't alone. Welcome to the universal brotherhood of shitty dads."

Whittle sighed, took the mint and put it in her mouth before laying her head on Boris's shoulder and shutting her eyes. Sitting here, in his terrible present, Boris wondered if secretly people like Leanne had it better; being trapped in the past, in the memories of happiness and joy, instead of the terrible present where everything is gone and feels wrong. He knew that was probably terrible to think, but he thought it just the same.

"Boris?" Whittle asked, her voice soft as the wind.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for the mint," she said.

"It's the small things, kiddo;" he said, putting his arm around her, the two of them sitting there well into the evening.

"Haaaappy birthdaaaay to youuuuu...." everyone sang, trailing off towards the end, showing their clear disinterest. Boris was seated at the table, a party hat on his head, while all the seniors were surrounding him, along with a few nurses.

"Alright, well, do you have any words to say about your birthday, Boris?" a male nurse asked, as Boris groaned and shrugged before the male nurse continued, "Alright, well how about everyone has a slice of cake, and we all-"

"Actually," Boris said, sitting upright now, "I do have something to say about my birthday. I want to say that for most of my life, birthdays were a joyous thing. An opportunity for your family and friends to gather with you in warm spirits and tell you they were happy to be there, and that they loved you, but when you turn our age, what the fuck does it even mean? Carol," he stopped, looking at her, "Your last birthday, what happened?"

"You know goddamn well what happened," she said, annoyed, "You were there. It was a disaster. Wrong kind of cake, crappy presents, and the freakin' banner spelt my name with a goddamned K! Who spells Carol with a K?!"

"And Burt, what about you?"

"They didn't even remember my birthday. I spent it alone, in my room, eating a sugar free cupcake from the cafeteria," Burt said, "Actually, it was one of the nicer birthdays, cause all of you weren't there, but still, I get your point."

"What IS your point?" Polly asked.

"My point," Boris said, standing up now, "Is that the older you get, the less meaningful birthdays become. Honestly, they're a positive way to count down how many years you have left on this miserable, rotting ball of dirt, and we just disguise them in glitter and cards and sweets, all because we like to think that as we age, we get wiser or some bullshit, but guess what, I'm not any goddamned wiser today than I was 15 years ago!"

"Tell me about it!" a voice shouted from behind everyone.

"Shut up Alice!" Boris shouted back, "All I'm saying is that, at a certain point, you have to wonder what's the goddamned point, right? What're we celebrating? The fact we're still alive? Nobody here wants to BE alive anymore! In constant pain, needing dozens of medications to get through a single day feeling moderately alright, no family comes to visit us. Nobody wants to celebrate, 'yay! another 5 possible years of emptiness!' because let's admit it, this is miserable."

Boris sighed and looked down at the table, wincing, trying not to cry.

"When I was younger, I had the best birthdays...I'd come home and my daughter would be so thrilled to see me, and she'd give me this gift she'd hand made, and my wife would've made dinner and gotten a cake from a bakery and we all were together, just...just happy to BE together, you know? Just being together is no longer enough. Now you have to be DOING something together. Nobody just sits with one another anymore. That was the happiest part of my year, was my birthday. Now it's just a yearly reminder that I'm alone, hated and not much longer for this world."

Boris sat down and poured himself a glass of caffeine free soda, drinking it in one go before wiping his arm on his sleeve and looking back at everyone else.

"...Boris?" Carol asked as he took the party hat off his head and looked at it in his hands.

"Yeah Carol?"

"...can we have some cake now?" she asked.

"Sure."

And with that, the male nurse started cutting into the cake as Boris got up and walked down the hall and out to the garden area, where he found Whittle sitting alone, smoking a cigarette. She quickly waved her hand in the air as he sat down by her, and held his hand out. She put the cigarette between his fingers and he took it, taking a drag.

"...happy birthday?" she asked cautiously, and he exhaled, shaking his head.

"Nobody gets it."

"I think everyone gets it, it's just...shitty to focus on. Nobody here wants to think about the fact that they're alone, forgotten and going to die soon. You need a hobby, Boris. Maybe take up writing again?"

"I have nothing interesting left to say."

"You have plenty interesting things left to say!" Whittle said, "Boris...I'm your friend, and I know how you feel. Goddamn dude, I'm in my late 20s and I feel the way you do. I want to die. I've wanted to die for a long time now."

"...you have?" Boris asked, eyeing her.

"Yeah. I've been seeing a therapist about it for a while, trying to keep myself level and busy, but those things don't make it go away, they just distract me long enough for me to forget for just a little while that I want to cut my wrists. I know how you feel, Boris. I really do."

"I just don't know how anyone can take aging seriously. Time itself is such a stupid concept, and the concept of aging is even worse shit piled on top of it! Experience does not equal intelligence, trust me. I've known plenty of full grown adults who're stupider than 12 year olds, alright? Wisdom, experience, all that shit is just what greeting card companies want you to believe are important, but you know what's important, Whittle? What's really, utterly, irrefutably important?"

"What?"

"NOTHING," Boris said, throwing his arms in the air, almost laughing, "And that makes existence hilarious! Because think about all the things you take seriously, right? Your health, politics, love, none of it means SHIT, because none of it's going to LAST. This means that you should instead just focus on having fun, being with people you like being with, and take everything for granted. People say you shouldn't take things for granted, but you SHOULD, because by NOT taking things for granted, that means you don't appreciate them enough! I'm not saying you should use people, but you should take advantage of the fact that they like you, that they wanna be around you, that they're HERE AT ALL! Think about it! You exist at the same time as people you love! That's crazy!"

"It is pretty wild."

"Atoms collided and built two people who manage to get along, and enjoy one anothers company, and yet people say 'don't take them for granted!'. No! Take EVERYTHING for granted! It's here! It exists! Love it with all the strength you can muster! Because one day, it, and you, won't exist, especially not at the same time. And sometimes, you WILL exist at the same time, and they won't want to know you anymore, or they won't be here anymore, and then what? Then you'll hate yourself for not taking them for granted. For not taking all the time with them you could've taken, and you'll want to die. But here's the thing...even what I'm saying is bullshit. Don't believe it. Don't let me tell you what to believe. This is just what works for ME."

"Does it work for you though?" Whittle asked, putting her cigarette out, "Because you seem pretty fucking unhappy all the time. Wouldn't it be better to have something, anything at all, to believe in?"

"Possibly, but it hasn't thus far in my life. I find far more comfort in the reality of the inevitable nothingness than I ever did from the supposed comfort of a 'god' or whatever. But again, that's just ME. Do what makes you happy."

Whittle sighed as she stared out at the senior community garden and she pulled a small package out from her jacket pocket, handing it to him.

"Happy birthday, Boris," she said, hugging him gently before getting up and walking inside. Boris looked at the present and then back at the doors she'd just disappeared through before looking back at the present. He looked at the community garden, and shut his eyes, letting the sunset glow onto his face and warm his old skin. For a moment, he swore he could hear Ellens voice when she was a child. The past...it was so close and yet he couldn't reach it. It was just out of his grasp forever now, because he'd already lived it.

He looked down at the present in his hands and started to unwrap it, careful not to rip the carefully wrapped clown wrapping paper Whittle had put on it. Inside was a box, and as he lifted off the lid to this small, cardboard box, inside he found was a watch. He looked at it, and pulled it out, and sighed before slipping it on his wrist. He then looked back in the box, and found a small note that had been folded and hidden under the watch. He pulled it out, unfolded it and read it to himself:

"Dear Boris, happy birthday. I know a watch is a sorta cliche gift, but I figured it'd make the most sense to give you one, so you can make up for lost time. Love, Whittle."

Boris smiled and looked at the watch again.

Just then, the door opened and Carol joined him, eating cake off a paper plate and handing him a plate with a slice on it, along with a plastic fork.

"I brought you some cake," she said, before reaching into her coat pocket and pulled out a flask, "And some Whiskey."

"You beautiful woman, you," Boris said, making her laugh, "...thanks Carol. Thanks for the cake, and...thank you for taking the time to know me. I appreciate it."

"You're kind of a douchebag, but you're a good douchebag who knows he's a douchebag. I can appreciate that level of self recognition, because being that aware often means you are trying to change those bad parts of yourself. So you're welcome, Boris," Carol replied.

Carol smiled warmly, and patted his back as they sat and ate cake. As the sun set, she simply whispered, "Happy birthday, douchebag."

It had been a nice day, and now it was time for a nice evening. Since getting back to the home, Carol, Boris, Burt, Larry and Polly had played a few hands of poker and a few other card games, watched a movie and had dinner, and now it was time for a long sleep. As Boris buttoned up his pajama shirt, he felt like he'd really made a difference today. Just then, someone knocked on his door.

"Come in," Boris said as Whittle entered.

"Hey," she said, "Um...you have a visitor."

"A visitor? It's almost 8 at night," Boris said, "Who is it?"

"It's a girl," Whittle said, and Boris smiled.

"It's Chrissy, she probably came to talk about today. Alright, I'll be right out," Boris said. He and Whittle exited the room and walked down the hall. When they reached the main visiting room, Boris saw it wasn't Chrissy, it was another girl. A woman, actually, in an advanced wheelchair. Every cell in Boris' body went cold, and he was frozen where he stood. After Whittle nudged him, he nodded and approached the table, seating himself across from her.

"Uh...hi," Boris said, clearing his throat, "It's uh...it's funny seeing you here."

"Hi dad," she replied.

Boris rubbed the back of his neck, clearly nervous, as he avoided eye contact with her.

"So..." he said, "...how have you been Ellen?"

"I'm okay," she said, "Work's been tiring, but you know..."

"I know," he said, "I mean...I...I don't know, I don't know because I don't work your job, but I assume...I mean, I'm not saying you're not good at it, I know you're good at it, I just-"

"Dad, stop it," Ellen said, slightly blushing, "Please, you're embarrassing yourself."

"What...uh...what brings you here?" Boris asked, and she coughed and bit her bottom lip before finally speaking.

"Um...I'm going in for surgery," Ellen said, "In a few weeks, and I just...I wanted to talk to you first about it. These specialists I've been working with, they're really great, and they think they can give me new legs, and I can get out of this chair finally."

"You don't have to get out of the chair to be worth-"

"I know, jesus, everyone says that. I know I don't. I've accomplished everything I've set out to do despite being in this chair, but this isn't about whether I can or not. It's about what I want. I want to get out of it. It's just time to move onto a new part of my life. I'm just here because...I don't know, I'm scared, I guess."

"Why didn't you go to your mom?" Boris asked, and Ellen scoffed.

"God, yeah, that would've gone over well," she replied, "You know how she is. She turned my disability into her cause to champion. Suddenly she was the distraught but proud and strong woman who loved her daughter even though she had become 'damaged'. No. I'm not...no."

"Yeah, I guess that was kind of a dumb question," Boris asked.

"I'm scared," Ellen said, "It's simultaneously what I want and not want, like, does that make sense?"

"It does, sure."

"I want this, I do, and I'm only scared I think because it's going to be different than what I've grown accustomed to, you know? Change. Change is terrifying," Ellen said, "I just...I guess I wanted to talk to you about it, see how you feel."

"It's not up to me to feel anything about it. You know I'll agree with anything you decide to do. I support whatever decision you make, Ellen," Boris said, "I just wish it wasn't my fault you were in this situation in the first place. I wish I'd never put you in that thing."

"Dad-"

"Don't tell me I didn't," Boris said, sniffling, wiping his nose on his sleeve, "I...I try and find ways to forgive myself every single day, but I can't. I mangled my child. I was not a good person and it's my fault you were hurt. But...but it doesn't make me any less proud of everything you've achieved. I hope you know that. I love you, I love you so much."

Ellen smiled, trying not to cry as she cleared her throat and tossed her hair.

"I know dad, I love you too," she said softly, "Just tell me I'm going to be okay. I know I'm going to be okay, I just need to hear that I'm going to be okay from a parent for some bullshit validation thing. I just need to hear you say it."

"Ellen, you are going to be okay. It's going to go great and you're going to be happy and everything will be wonderful," Boris said, "Trust me."

A pause enveloped them, and after a few moments, Boris looked down at the table, his hands cupped in front of him.

"So...have you spoken to Lorraine lately?" he asked, and Ellen shrugged.

"Kind of. Not so much 'spoken' as much as 'was spoken TO'. You know how it is with her. She makes everything about her. I told her about an award I received for my work and she instantly made it about her, about how she raised me so well disciplined, so hard working, bragging to her friends. I'm nothing but a 'my child is better than your child' chip between her and her snooty friends."

"She didn't use to be that way..."

"Even growing up, mom was weird about my achievements, you know that. She turned every fundraising thing into something about her. Look at what SHE brought, look at all the work SHE did. Always offered to host things because she could show off how good she was at it, and just...I don't want to be cruel because you obviously saw something in her that made you love her, but she-"

"She was different when we were young," Boris said, "She really was..."

"So what happened?" Ellen asked, and Boris shrugged.

"A lot of things," he said, "Anyway, tell me about your new legs."

"Well, they're 3D printed and combined with robotics, it's complicated, but they're cool. I'm...I'm really excited, honestly..." Ellen said, and then trailed off, looking out the window at the yard where she saw an orderly helping an old man get off a bench, "Dad, if you want to-"

"No."

"You don't have to stay here," Ellen said.

"Yes, I do."

"Dad-"

"Ellen, just don't. Don't. I'm happy for you. I'm happy you're happy. I'm proud of you, I want you to know that. I've always been proud of you. You're always going to be a better human than I ever was. Considering what you've gone through, you deserve to be, and-"

"Dad?...does it ever stop?"

"...what?"

"Hurting, on the inside?"

"...it hasn't yet."

"I don't want to be this sad for the rest of my life. There's little peaks and valleys, moments of grand joy and bliss, mostly overshadowed by recurring terribleness, no matter how tough I try to see the positivity, but all around me is pain in one way or another. Sometimes I get sad and I don't even know why, and I didn't even do anything to be sad!"

"You inherited this sadness, that's what depression is. It's as dangerous as anything else. Passed down from one person to another. Between your mother and I, you got it doubly bad. It's not fair, I agree with you, but it's what you were given. Other children inherit talent. You inherited sadness."

"I don't want to be sad my whole life."

"Neither do I."

"...I guess it's getting late," Ellen said, checking her watch, "...dad, just...please stop blaming yourself for me. I'm here. I'm okay. Or, at least, I'm trying to be okay. I'll keep you updated before my surgery, okay?"

Boris stood up and walked to her chair, kneeling down and touching her face.

"You're just as beautiful today as you were when we brought you home," he said, smiling, making her blush, before he kissed her forehead, "I love you Ellen."

"I love you, dad," she said, hugging him. After the hug broke, she turned and started to wheel herself out. As Boris watched her leave, Whittle approached him again.

"Are you okay?" she asked quietly.

"I need to make a phone call," Boris said.

Whittle walked him to the phone and left him there while he dialed a number. After about three rings, someone finally answered.

"Hello?" a woman asked, sounding groggy.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Boris asked.

"Boris? Jesus, is that how you greet everyone you call?" Lorraine asked, "I was about to fall asleep you know."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Boris asked again, sounding angrier this time, "Ellen just came to see me, and she still sounds so tired of your shit. What did you do this time?"

"I don't know, Boris, I haven't spoken to her in weeks," Lorraine said, "But you know, not everything can be blamed on me, you know that right?"

"Everything can be blamed on you when you're responsible for it!" Boris said, growing angrier with each second he was on the line with her, "You try to say you're so much better than the rest of us, playing the victim! 'Oh, my daughter doesn't call me...' but there's no context to WHY. If people knew WHY, perhaps they wouldn't feel so fucking bad for you. You're such a goddamned liar, Lorraine."

"I don't have to take this," Lorraine said, "I..."

A pause, as Boris heard some shuffling on the other end of the line, and he finally spoke again.

"Lorraine?"

"I'm so tired of this, Boris," she said, actually sounding sincere, "I'm so tired of being angry all the time. It's exhausting. I'm tired of this facade...I'm just...I'm so fucking tired."

"...yeah," Boris said, scratching the back of his head as he actually felt bad for her, "...yeah, me too."

"Do you remember what it's like being in school?" Burt asked Polly as they were getting on the bus for their trip. Polly shrugged as Carol and Boris followed them on.

"I have memories of parts of school, but nothing I like remembering, mostly embarrassing things," Polly said, "It's kind of unfair. You live a full life, you have great accomplishments, child rearing, marriage, whatever, and then the only things you remember are the bad things. The embarrassments and failings are what stick with you."

"You know what sucks even worse?" Boris asked, "Not being able to sit down. Move it, Polly."

Polly took her seat with Burt as Boris and Carol continued by them and headed to the back of the bus, Larry right behind them, to sit down for the trip to the local elementary school. Boris sighed as he laid his head on Carols' shoulder and shut his eyes.

"I don't see why I gotta go, just because everyone else is," Boris said, "It's not like I've got anyone to see there."

"You don't have grandkids?" Larry asked, and Boris furrowed his brow and ignored him.

"I'm excited," Carol said, shrugging, "It's nice to get out of the home once in a while. I just hope this isn't a cover for driving us to the middle of nowhere and leaving us there. They do that you know."

"They do not," Burt said, looking over his seat at them.

"Sure they do," Boris replied, eyes still shut, "If you're too much of a hassle, they drive you to the middle of nowhere and leave you there. You think they get paid enough to take care of people? Come on. This a conspiracy of massive proportions that goes all the way to the top, Burt."

"It's true, it happened to Delores," Carol said.

The bus started moving as everyone settled in for the ride. Carol looked at Boris as he sat upright and stretched best he could, yawning. He straightened his cap and blinked a few times before looking out the back window.

"I've got a granddaughter I can't wait to see there," Larry said, "Family comes to visit once a week anyway, but it's always nice having extra time to see her."

"I'm going to see my granddaughter too," Burt said, "She's the cutest thing. Smart as a whip too."

Carol and Boris didn't say a thing as the bus drove. They just sat, each looking out a separate window. When the bus finally rolled up to the front of the school about 25 minutes later, Boris had dozed off yet again. The sharp stop when the brakes hit jarred him awake, and he groggily opened his eyes to see an elementary school out his window, with tons of kids walking inside. He then noticed one girl struggling with locking her bike up.

"Chrissy?" he mumbled, but before he could be sure, she had finished and had gone running off into the school, not wanting to be late. As the seniors started to pile off the bus, Boris passed Whittle by the doors on the way out and touched her arm.

"Hey," he said, "Uh, what do you do if you don't have anyone to visit?" he asked.

"You have nobody?"

"I have no grandchildren, no," Boris said softly, "My daughter....was never able to have children."

"Well, just take it easy I guess. I won't be around to chat, I'm going to have to helping everyone else, helping other nurses, so, just try and stay out of trouble," Whittle said.

"Yeah, like that'll happen," Boris said, making her smirk as she left him to go assist someone with a wheelchair. Boris sighed, dug his hands into his pants pockets and started walking off towards the front of the school when he heard Carol coming up from behind him.

"So," she asked, pulling her purse up on her shoulder, "Want to harass some kids by insisting we're their grandparents and crying, asking why they never come to visit?"

Boris smirked, "Fun as that may be, I think I'll spend the day sitting on a bench and reading a book."

"You brought a book to a school?" Carol asked, scoffing, "You nerd."

"I know, books have no place in school, but I needed something to do," Boris said, "Don't you have someone to visit?"

"None of my family lives close by," Carol said as they entered the main school hall, kids running by them each way to get to their classroom, "They moved away a few years ago, so they never come see me now. They call every now and then, usually just my sister, but that's neither here nor there."

"That's screwed up," Boris said as they sat on a bench in the school hall and he pulled his book out from his coat pocket, "You give everything to a family and they just leave you somewhere, as if you never did anything for them."

"Well, the point of having a family isn't hoping they'll take care of you later on. You don't have children in hopes to gain something in return, Boris. You do it because you want to, because you want to raise a child and teach them right and wrong and give them a good life, possibly a better life than you were ever given."

"I know why people have children," Boris said grimly, looking into his book, now trying to ignore her.

"...sorry," Carol said quietly, standing up, "I'll just...I'm just going to go to the cafeteria. Maybe they have snack machines."

With Carol gone, Boris could finally enjoy his solitude. The students were in classrooms and everything was fine now. He relaxed, leaned back against the wall and crossed his legs, happily lost in his book. Until a door down the hall opened and he saw a teacher take a student out of the classroom and stand with them in the hall, talking to them quietly. Scolding them, perhaps? The student was crying. Actually, the student was...

"Chrissy?" Boris asked, noticing her now. It was in fact Chrissy, and it had been her in the front having trouble with her bike lock. He waited until the teacher was done, and left Chrissy in the hall by herself until he saw Chrissy standing there, sniffling and wiping her nose. Boris whistled, and got her attention. She spun around, spotting him and cautiously approaching him.

"Boris?" she asked.

"Hey," he replied, "What's going on?"

"Oh..." Chrissy said as Boris patted the spot next to him on the bench and she sat down there, "I...there's this girl in class and she sits behind me, and she put gum in my hair. I got in trouble for yelling at her and 'causing a scene'."

"What?" Boris asked, "That's ridiculous. You stand up for yourself and you're labeled as the problem?"

"Hey," Carol said, "I come bearing frozen yogurt."

"The cafeteria had frozen yogurt?" Boris asked, "Jeez, school has changed a lot since I was there."

"No, idiot, I went down the street," she said and handed him a cup, which he took and then after a second gave to Chrissy, who happily took it. Carol took her seat on the other side of Chrissy and started eating, asking, "So what's going on here?"

"This is Chrissy, she got in trouble for yelling at a girl for putting gum in her hair," Boris said.

"She does this sort of stuff to me all the time!" Chrissy said, clearly and understandably annoyed, "And she never gets in trouble because her parents are like, the ones who host all the bake sales and donate money to the school and stuff. It's so unfair. She's untouchable."

"She's like a tiny mob boss," Carol said, "But there has to be something you can do to counteract this. I mean, she should be being punished for this behavior. She's doing wrong. That has to count for something, right?"

"Power means you can't get held accountable," Boris said, "Look at government."

"Why are people so mean to one another? It's not that hard to be nice. I do it. It isn't tough," Chrissy asked, spooning more frozen yogurt into her mouth.

"Because...people..." Boris started.

"Suck," Carol finished for him, surprising him, "I don't want to be that negative, but sweetheart, people are so unreliable, and they're cruel and they're selfish but that doesn't mean you should give up on them completely. Sometimes certain people can surprise you, like our friend Boris here," she said, putting her hand on his knee and smiling, "On the outside, he's a curmudgeon, a crank, an absolute bummer-"

"Okay, this might be helping her, but it's hurting me," Boris interjected, making Chrissy laugh.

"But," Carol continued, "He's really decent if you get to know him and he likes you. Sadly, you're not at the age where you no longer have to rely on relationships and friendships to get you through life. When you're this old, being lonely can be a virtue. You can want it, and it won't be weird because it's almost what's expected of you. 'Oh, they're old, they want to be alone'. But a kid wanting to be alone? Somehow that's strange and unheard of. So this girl's a problem, but it doesn't mean everyone will be. Sure a good majority of them will be, but not all of them, and those are the ones you want to work on being friends with."

"Wow," Boris said, "That was lovely."

"But how do you know which ones are worth it?" Chrissy asked.

"Well, that's the problem, you won't," Boris said, "But it doesn't mean it's not worth trying to figure out anyway. And this is coming from a cranky bummer curmudgeon, so you know it's gotta be true. Now if I were you, I'd keep making a big deal out of things that bother you, because being quiet is only being complicit in their behavior. If nobody ever calls them out, then their behavior becomes acceptable, because they feel they'll never be told it isn't. Even if she's never punished for it, at least there's one person telling them that hey, this isn't the right way to be a person, knock it off."

"Never stop defending yourself," Carol said, and Chrissy nodded, finishing the frozen yogurt and sucking on the spoon, "You have to defend yourself, sweetheart, because more often than not, you're the only one who will."

"But you just said that some people-"

"I realize it sounds contradictory, but while those people will care and want to help, in the end, you really do need to defend yourself," Boris said, "Trust me, the people you really do love may not be able to stay forever."

Carol glanced at him, noting the hint of sadness in his voice, and she felt so bad. Just then, the teacher came out and looked for Chrissy. When she spotted her, she waved her hand and Chrissy stood up and looked at Boris and Carol.

"Thanks guys," Chrissy said, "...you guys are my friends, right?"

"Of course we are," Carol said.

"For sure," Boris added, the both of them smiling. Chrissy hugged them both, then headed on back to her classroom. Carol looked at Boris who returned to reading his book while she ate the rest of her frozen yogurt and looked around the hall they were seated in.

"God, look at all the art these kids put up," Carol said, "Kids are so full of emotions and creativity, and we just crush it out of them more and more as they get older until they're nothing but jaded, cynical copies of adults...Boris?"

"Hmmm?"

"...if you ever want to talk about your family, I'm here."

"I know."

Carol looked at her shoes and didn't know what else to say, until he put his arm around her and pulled her close, making her smile. It was good to have friends, especially at their age. By the time afternoon rolled around, and everyone was making their way back towards the bus, Boris was ready to go home and take a long nap. As they stood in front of the bus, waiting to get on, all the school kids passing them by, Boris couldn't help but feel like he'd done something good today.

"You want to play a game when we get back?" Carol asked, "We could play cards."

"Poker?"

"I got some money I could afford to lose," Carol said.

Just then, a girl ran past them, sobbing and got into a car parked near the bus. Boris and Carol glanced at one another before shrugging, and then they heard the sound of a bike being taken off the rack behind them. They turned to find Chrissy getting her bike chain off and climbing on.

"What was that all about?" Boris asked.

"I told her she could make my hair ugly, but her personality is even uglier," Chrissy said, smiling as she started to peddle.

"Our little girl's all grown up," Boris said, hugging Carol and she looked at him.

"The kid's gonna be alright," she added.

                                                                                             ***

It had been a nice day, and now it was time for a nice evening. Since getting back to the home, Carol, Boris, Burt, Larry and Polly had played a few hands of poker and a few other card games, watched a movie and had dinner, and now it was time for a long sleep. As Boris buttoned up his pajama shirt, he felt like he'd really made a difference today. Just then, someone knocked on his door.

"Come in," Boris said as Whittle entered.

"Hey," she said, "Um...you have a visitor."

"A visitor? It's almost 8 at night," Boris said, "Who is it?"

"It's a girl," Whittle said, and Boris smiled.

"It's Chrissy, she probably came to talk about today. Alright, I'll be right out," Boris said. He and Whittle exited the room and walked down the hall. When they reached the main visiting room, Boris saw it wasn't Chrissy, it was another girl. A woman, actually, in an advanced wheelchair. Every cell in Boris' body went cold, and he was frozen where he stood. After Whittle nudged him, he nodded and approached the table, seating himself across from her.

"Uh...hi," Boris said, clearing his throat, "It's uh...it's funny seeing you here."

"Hi dad," she replied.

Carol was sitting by herself in the lunch room, slowly sipping her apple juice, her eyes staring directly down at the table and nowhere else. If anyone were to look at her for even more than half a second, they'd find it very easy to notice she was lost in deep thought about something, but what? So she sat and drank and thought. Boris sat down with her, his lunch tray filled with food. He sighed and picked up his fork, slowly poking at the food in front of him.

"At least they feed us well," Boris said, "I've heard horror stories about other nursing homes. It's awful, some of the shit those poor people are forced to eat."

"I remember the slop they tried to feed us in elementary school," Carol said, half smiling, "My parents could afford to send me to school everyday with a lunch, we were better off than other families, but some of my friends, the crap the school provided to them, oh, it was vile, Boris. Absolutely vile."

"I can't believe, now that I'm as old as I am, that I cared so much about where to eat as a young person. That it had to be hip, have atmosphere, all that bullshit. It's food. It's something that's going to end up in my toilet. Why the fuck should I care as long as it tastes halfway decent? It's not like I'm there to make friends or some shit! I'm there to stuff my face."

"That's the spirit!" Carol said, laughing, touching his arm.

As Boris started eating, Carol sighed and looked around at everyone in the lunchroom, and then back at Boris, realizing she was very lucky to have him as a friend. Sure, he was grumpy and kind of a snob, but he was honest, he was kind to her, he respected her. Carol finished her juice and looked back down at the table.

"...did you read the paper?" she asked.

"Nah, haven't gotten to it yet. Had to do some physical fitness stuff this morning, keep me limber, all that crap," Boris said, "Anything interesting?"

"Just the usual. You know, government screwing its own citizens for the sake of its own survival, big CGI blockbusters outdoing one another at the box office dumbing down the masses while well made thought provoking film is left to rot, same ol' same ol'."

"Sounds riveting," Boris said, shoving salad into his mouth.

"...there was this story of this high school girl, a sophomore; great student, straight a's, extracurricular activities out the wazoo, all that jazz. She got hooked on pain medication because of a lacrosse injury she got playing for the school team, and she overdosed on them."

"Jesus," Boris said, swallowing and picking up his drink.

"...I knew her," Carol said softly.

"Yeah? Relative? Kid of a friend?"

"No, she just came here a few times, doing after school stuff for college applications," Carol said, "She'd come in, read to me a little, we'd talk about school, that sort of stuff."

"That stinks Carol, I'm sorry," Boris said, patting her back, "It hurts losing people you know especially this late in the game when it gets so much harder to make new friends."

"I killed her," Carol said coldly, and Boris looked at her as Carol lifted her gaze from the table and their eyes locked.

"W...what?" he asked.

"They were my pills. I sold them to her," Carol said, "I killed her."

                                                                                             ***

"God, I don't know how you do it," Carol said, leafing through Lexa's essays as the two sat at Carols desk in her room, "I never did this well in school, I didn't have the energy, and I tried pretty damn hard. You're so determined. It's nice to see."

"Well," Lexa said, pushing hair behind her ear and blushing, "I get so little sleep, I stay up just trying to make sure my schoolwork is just perfect. They push us so hard, you know? It's not enough to get up at 6 in the morning, but then they give you so much work you have to stay up until about 3, so you get 3 hours, and that's if you don't have insomnia, which thankfully I don't, but still. I know some girls who drink coffee nonstop and stay up all night every week and sleep all through the weekend."

"That's disgusting," Carol said, shaking her head, "Something about the school system has to change."

"It'll all be worth it when I get into college," Lexa said, "I'm so excited."

"I used to be like that," Carol said, laughing, "God. I was so excited for every single upcoming thing in my life, always looking forward to the next adventure. Could never enjoy what was in the moment because I was so preoccupied with what came after."

The girls laughed, and Lexa started packing up. As she stood up, she stumbled a bit and hissed in pain, grabbing at her ankle as she sat on the bed. Carol looked at her, confused.

"Are you alright, dear?" she asked.

"I hurt my ankle during my last lacrosse game," Lexa said, "It's still stinging, and I don't have the time to take off school to go to the doctors and get it really looked at, and plus I need the physical credit to maintain my GPA."

"You don't have anything to deal with the pain?" Carol asked, and Lexa shook her head, so Carol opened her desk drawer and pulled out a pill calendar and opened it, pulling three light blue pills out and putting them in Lexas hand, shutting it around them and smiling.

"What...what is this?" Lexa asked.

"It'll help with the pain," Carol said.

"I can't just take something, let me at least pay you," Lexa said.

"Oh, you don't have to-"

"No, I...I'd feel guilty otherwise," Lexa said, opening her purse.

"Well, if you insist," Carol said, the two of them laughing.

                                                                                             ***

"Come again?" Boris asked as Carol buried her face in her hands, weaving her fingers through her dyed brown hair.

"I killed her," she whispered, "They came from me. The pills she died on came from me. I'm responsible."

"Jesus christ," Boris said, setting his fork down, wiping his mouth and turning to face her, lowering his voice now, "What...what are you going to do? I mean, are you going to tell anyone, or-"

"Are you CRAZY!?" Carol hissed, "That is not an option, Boris. I could get in major trouble if I came forward. There's no paper trail, no evidence linking me to her, so nobody will ever know anything. For all a coroner could know, she could've gotten those pills from a friends grandparents or a medicine cabinet somewhere or who knows."

"Carol, you killed a kid," Boris whispered, "You have to take responsibility for that!"

"I didn't mean to!" Carol said, "God knows, I never...she was so talented, she had such a bright future...she-"

"You don't know that," Boris said.

"...wh...what?"

"You don't know she had a bright future. Nobody is guaranteed a bright future, good student or not. Look at all the talented people who wind up in obscurity. No, you have the idea she had a bright future, but for all you know, she might've wound up somewhere else, somewhere worse. She might've ended up an alcoholic, or hooked on some other drug, or pregnant and abandoned."

"Boris, I knew the girl, she was smart, she was dedicated, she-"

"Because she was young, but let's look at her in 15 years, when she's out of college...look at the state the world is in for young people, alright? No jobs for anyone even with high end college degrees, they're all renting, if they can afford that, or living at home still, so many don't even drive. You don't know where she would've ended up once the school life was over, okay?"

Boris had a point, Carol realized; so many "smart and bright" students were left to rot once they burned out or were found not to be financially dependable to their parents. Nowadays to get a retail job as a cashier you needed 15 years experience even if you were only 23. Maybe Carol had saved this girl in some twisted way from having learned life is unjust and cruel. Maybe Lexa had lived the best part of her life already, and things were about to get very, very bad. Perhaps this was a blessing in disguise.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

                                                                                         ***

Carol was fast asleep, it was almost 3 in the morning. She slowly woke, tasting something awful in her mouth, realizing she needed some water. Carol got up and headed to the bathroom in her room and turned on the faucet, grabbed a paper cup and filled it, drinking it when she heard a tapping coming from somewhere. As she turned to find it, she noticed Lexa was standing outside her bedroom window. Carol threw the cup away and walked to the window, unlatching it.

"Lexa?" she asked groggily, "What're you doing here?"

"I'm in so much pain," Lexa said, "I could barely drive here, the pressure on my ankle on the gas pedal, it was so painful. I need more medicine."

"I don't have any," Carol said, "I'm waiting to get it refilled. I only have two and those are for my own hip pain."

"Carol, please, please, I hurt so much," Lexa said, near tears, "You don't...I am under so much pressure to play in this weekends upcoming game and I need to make sure I can do it. After that I will deal with it and go to a doctor and actually get something done about this, but I hurt so much."

"....Lexa, I'm sorry, I-"

"I'll give you 1500 dollars for the two of them."

"...what?"

"1500."

"Where did you even-"

"I have two part time jobs, okay," Lexa said, "I've been saving for months, please. Carol, I'm so sorry to have to put you in this position, but I am in so much pain, you should know what that's like to live with. Seriously. I can't even sleep anymore because it hurts all night long. I just want to not hurt for like, another two days, and then it's spring break and I'll have time off to see a doctor and-"

"....alright, okay, sure," Carol said, walking to her desk and getting the last two pain pills she had. She walked back to the window and looked at Lexa, "Promise me you will see someone about your ankle after this, okay?"

"I do, I promise, I don't want to be doing this, especially to you."

Carol smiled and handed her the two pills, "You're a good kid, Lexa. I hope this helps."

And as Lexa turned and headed back to her car in the darkness, Carol had a feeling that would be the last time she'd ever see her.

                                                                                      ***

"Wait wait wait," Boris said, "Two pills?"

"....yeah, so?"

"You can't overdose on two pills, I'm sorry, I don't care how strong they are."

"But....but why-"

"From the way you've described this girl, it seems like she was overworked and hyperfocused, not a good combination, so maybe she killed herself."

"It said she overdosed," Carol said.

"That could've been on anything," Boris said, "But I'm telling you, two pills ain't gonna do shit, Carol, trust me, as a former drug addict."

Just then Burt came by holding a stack of papers.

"Mail's here," he said, handing Boris a few magazines and a newspaper, and then Carol a single envelope before heading on his way.

"Goddammit, how did I get on the fucking pottery barn mailing list?!" Boris shouted, standing up, "Who did this!? Alice?! Was this you?!"

"Bite me, windbag!" Alice shouted from across the room.

"If you had any teeth left, you old hag, I'd kick them in!" Boris shouted, as Alice laughed.

"Boris..." Carol said, touching his arm as he sat back down, "Boris...it's from her."

"Hmmm?"

Boris glanced at the envelope Carol was holding, and it was indeed from a Lexa Platter. Carol and Boris exchanged nervous glances, and Carol took Boris's plastic knife, opening the envelope and pulling out a letter, which she slowly unfolded and started to read aloud.

"Dear Carol, I know letter writing is so out of date, but I wasn't sure you had an email, so. I wanted to thank you for caring about me. You cared about how well I did in school because you liked me, not because it made you look good, unlike my parents, and you helped me deal with my injury without asking a lot of questions. I want you to know how much I valued knowing you, and I wish I could've made it to be your age, but things are so tough right now, life is only going to get harder, busier, and I know I won't be able to handle it. I knew you would read about me in the paper, and I didn't want you to think you'd be responsible, so I figured I'd tell you it's not your fault. I actually never even took the last pills you gave me, because when I got home, my father found out about my boyfriend. He'd been in my room while I was gone, looking for me, and it turned into an enormous fight. He called me a slut, called me a disappointment, after everything I've done for them. I realize now that you simply can't live to make other people happy, but you also can't live if those are the only people you care about making happy. Carol...you've lived such a full life, I wanted that, but it isn't for me. Thank you for caring when nobody else would. I love you. Lexa."

"See," Boris said, smiling, "I told you it wasn't your fault."

"God...the way we treat our young people needs to change, Boris, this is sick," Carol said, near tears as Boris rubbed her back.

"Hey, you did something good for her, you cared. That's a start," he said, the two of them smiling at one another as Boris continued to flip through his mail, suddenly standing up again and shouting, "God dammit, Alice! Stop signing me up for junk magazines! I don't even OWN a horse!"

Carol looked back at the letter and smiled widely, still nearly crying, wishing she could've done more, but proud of what little she had been able to do.

                                                                                        ***

*knock knock!*

Carol opened the door to her room to find a young brunette woman standing there.

"Yes?" Carol asked.

"Hi, my name's Lexa, I'm with Martins High School, I'm here to read to you," she said, smiling.

"Sweetheart, I know how to read."

"Well, congratulations, we're all proud of you, but I'm still going to do it," Lexa said, the two of them starting to laugh.

"God," Carol said, "You look so much like myself when I was young...you want to come in?"

"So I'm going to look this good when I'm your age?" Lexa asked as she entered and Carol started to shut the door.

"Girl, you know we're a catch!" she replied.

"I remember being in the girlscouts," Whittle said as she walked Chrissy down the hall.

"Did you have to do this sort of thing?" Chrissy asked, and Whittle smiled, nodding.

"Oh yeah, helping the elderly was a big time effort. Granted, we didn't have to go to nursing homes, they considered that 'too dark' for kids our age, but anytime we saw an elderly person in need of any sort of help, we were supposed to help them," Whittle said.

"What is this guy like?" Chrissy asked, sounding nervous.

"Sweetheart, don't worry, I know him, he's an old man, you'll be just fine."

As Whittle opened the door to Boris's room, they saw him sitting on the bed, holding a lighter, casually setting his tie on fire. Nobody said a word, and finally Whittle just sighed, pushed the girlscout inside and shut the door as she left. The girlscout looked at Boris, who put the lighter down and groaned as he stood up.

"Are you here to sell me cookies? Because I can't eat them, and if you're selling magazines, I probably won't live long enough to make use of a subscription service," Boris said as he walked across the room and grabbed a chair, dragging it back to the bed.

"I'm not...I'm just...I'm here to help you so I can earn a badge," she said, "I'm Chrissy."

"Chrissy, I'd tell you it's nice to meet you, but it's not really nice to meet anyone anymore," Boris said as he walked away from the chair and into his closet, where he rooted around for something, "You say you need to help me with anything I ask?"

"Yes sir."

"Then help me hang myself," Boris said, as he pulled out a rope.

                                                                                             ***

Down the hall, in Carols room, she was being treated to the same thing. Carol had gotten her own girlscout, a young black girl named Missy. Carol was just sitting in the rocking chair by the window smoking while Missy sat on the end of the bed and asked her questions from a paper she had attached to a clipboard.

"Are you happy with your life?" she asked.

"At this age?" Carol asked, laughing, "It's not a bad life, but it's not where I wanted to end up. I always thought I'd be living on my own at this point, rich enough to take care of myself."

"Wasn't your generation the most wealthy?" Missy asked, "I mean, you guys were able to buy homes in your 20s. My sister is in her 20s and lives at home because she can't pay for that, and can barely afford her college courses, and she works 3 jobs."

"Yeah, we were the most financially successful," Carol said, grabbing a teapot from the dresser by the chair and pouring herself a cup, "But that doesn't mean we did the right things with it. For instance, instead of stocking money away for retirement or anything, I blew it all on frivolous things, put some into charity, and I'm not saying that's a lost cause, but it didn't help me stay out of this place."

"Charity's a good thing!" Missy said, smiling.

"Well sure it is," Carol said, laughing, "But when you reach this age, you start to wonder if you should've saved some of that money to take care of yourself. You think about all the mistakes you've made in your whole life, and what they cost you now."

"What did you used to do?" Missy asked.

"...you want to see something beautiful?" Carol asked, and Missy nodded. Carol lifted herself from her chair and headed to the closet, where she reached inside and pulled out a large cardboard box. She motioned for Missy to join her, and she did, kneeling beside Carol at the closet. Carol opened the box and started pulling things out.

"These are clothes," Missy said.

"Clothes I designed," Carol said, coughing, "I used to be a seamstress, but in my spare time, I made my own clothes for fun. I went to school to major in fashion."

"This is beautiful!" Missy said, grabbing a blouse and holding it up.

"Yeah, I like that one too," Carol said, smiling, "Do you want it?"

"Really?"

"Sure, why not, I've got a few and they're not doing anyone any good being in here," Carol said, "Take it, enjoy it."

Missy stood up and pulled her jacket off and pulled the blouse on over her girlscout shirt, and walked to the mirror, admiring it. She squealed and raced back to Carol, hugged her and helped her continuing to search through these clothes Carol had made. This was the first time in years Carol had talked about her work, and it was nice to have someone to share it with who would appreciate it.

                                                                                            ***

"Why would you want to die?" Chrissy asked, as Boris climbed onto the bed and started tying the rope around a banister.

"A whole lot of reasons, but today in particular? Just feels right."

"I...I don't think this is what I..."

"Look, you're supposed to help me, right?" Boris asked, finishing and climbing back down, "So then help me! You have no idea what it's like to be here, to be in this situation, to have wasted your entire goddamned life and know you have no time left to fix anything."

"There's always time to fix things," Chrissy said.

"Yeah, if you're 12."

"I don't want to-"

Boris sat down on the chair and buried his face in his hands, starting to breath heavily, trying not to cry. Chrissy sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him.

"I used to have a little girl like you," Boris said, not looking at her, "You look a lot like her. You're right, this is wrong. I can't force you to help me. I couldn't force her to do anything either. Trying to force her to participate in an extracurricular activity is why it happened. So no, I won't ask you to do something. Just go ahead and leave."

"Where is she now?"

"Not here, obviously," Boris said, wiping his eyes, "Every year I do this. Every year on this day, the day it happened, I pull this rope and this chair out and try and end everything, and it's only made harder today because you're here and you look like her. But it's wrong of me to put you in this situation, so just leave now and go get your badge and live the best life you can."

Chrissy touched the ends of her skirt and sighed.

"I don't even really want the badge, I don't really want to be doing this."

"...then why are you?"

"Because my parents are making me. I don't like doing group stuff, but they say I'm too 'antisocial' and that I need to have more friends my age."

Boris scoffed, "Who would want a friend? Honestly. More trouble than they're worth."

"I agree. Everyone is so mean," Chrissy said, "I wish I could be here, alone, not doing anything."

"Hah," Boris said, sitting on the bed beside her now, "Trust me, you don't want this."

A moment passed as Chrissy pulled at her braids.

"What was your daughter like?" she asked.

"A lot like you," Boris said, smiling, "She really didn't want to do group things. She was fine being alone. She was smart, probably too smart for her own age to be honest, and she didn't get along with a lot of kids because of it, but it didn't bother her. She was fine staying by herself and reading or playing alone, or doing things with her mother and I."

"She sounds cool."

Boris couldn't help it anymore, and started sobbing.

                                                                                               ***

"And here comes Missy Blake, down the runway in a beautiful sequined gown, complete with tiara and high heels, look at that stride, that poise!" Carol said, talking into an unplugged microphone she was holding as Missy walked from one end of the room to the other, laughing the whole time.

"Why didn't you ever try and sell these?" Missy asked.

"I did try a few times," Carol said, "But ultimately I did it for myself. It was something I wanted to prove to myself I could do, and besides, how unique are clothes if everyone can have them? People often asked me where I got my outfits, and I told them I made them and they were so crestfallen that they couldn't go to a superstore and buy them."

"How did you learn to sew?" Missy asked, "Because my grandma tried teaching me but I can't do it."

"Why not?" Carol asked, sitting back down on the bed as Missy stepped out of the high heels.

"Because I have bad hand eye coordination," she said, laughing, "It's okay though, I still like to draw and design stuff."

"Sometimes that's all it takes. You don't have to do it all, you can only do a part of it and get someone else to stitch the damn thing for you," Carol said, "Is that what you think you might want to go to school for eventually?"

"That would be great," Missy said, "Can I show you some of my designs? I have them in my backpack!"

"Of course you can!" Carol said, the two of them sitting on the bed as Missy dug through her backpack to drag out her designs to show.

                                                                                                ***

"Why do people kill themselves?" Chrissy asked, the two of them laying on his bed, looking up at the ceiling. Boris sighed and rubbed his eyes.

"Because often they feel the alternative is more painful," he said, "I've lost everything. I deserve to be here. I deserve to die. Some people realize after an attempt that they didn't really want to die, and they can get the help they need to get better, but there's always those people for whom life really is not worth living. Once you've reached my age, been through what I've been through...it makes it kind of hard to want to keep going."

"My grandpa died a year ago," Chrissy said, making Boris sit up on his elbows, looking at her.

"...yeah? Were you two close?"

"Yeah. We were really close. I really miss him. After he died, my grandma moved in with us, and they sold their house, and now I can't go back there. I miss their house."

"It's incredible how attached to buildings we get. Your grandparents house is just as memorable as they themselves often are, because you spend so much good time there. I remember when my parents sold their house, and thinking how it's not my place anymore. How somebody else is going to make memories in it now, and I felt so angry. No! This is my place! I felt like they were invading my space."

"Yeah, exactly," Chrissy said.

"But...memories are all we really are guaranteed in this life. Memories are all that keep a lot of the people here warm at night. Even if their children never come visit, even if their spouse is gone, they still can wrap themselves in those memories, and the world doesn't seem so bleak. You can do that too. You can celebrate your grandfathers life by keeping his memories alive, that way he isn't really dead."

Chrissy smiled and sat up, "Please don't kill yourself."

"How about this, how about I promise not to kill myself if you promise to remember your grandpa every day. Does that sound fair to you?" Boris asked, and she nodded, when Boris added, "Now come on, I have something you actually can help me with."

                                                                                         ***

There was a knock at Leah's door, and she got up to answer it, setting her book down on the table by the chair. When she opened the door, she found Chrissy standing there, holding a bunch of flowers she and Boris had picked.

"...do I know you?" Leah asked.

"No, but these are for you," Chrissy said, "They're from a friend."

Chrissy handed Leah the flowers and turned and left, meeting Boris back outside. When Leah took the flowers, she turned the little card attached to it over and read what he'd written: "Remember, you have friends."