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       Every Day

      

      ANNIE.

      Annie.

      Annie.

      Annie.

      I can’t think about her, not ever. It isn’t safe.

      But when I’m asleep, no one can listen to my thoughts. I’m still afraid to sleep—too many ghosts peering creeping condemning. Sometimes though, the good times, I get Annie.

      It’s always the same.

      Phillip Keane is gone, his webs destroyed, everything smoking and charred in beautiful ruins around me. We’re safe. It’s over.

      But my hands are red, they’re still so red I can’t look at them, can’t see them, can’t breathe.

      And then Annie is there. She’s too young. I know she doesn’t look like that anymore, but her face is open and innocent and clean. She wraps her hands around mine, so that I can’t see the red anymore. We’re together, and when we’re together, all these things I’ve done, they don’t matter anymore because they were worth it.

      If I were Annie, I’d know whether this was a real future. All I know is it’s the only one I want, the thing that keeps me going.

      I will make that future happen.