Aurora 2026

Krislyn Moreland

of prescription meds. We have the blue bottle for sleep, orange for anxiety and depression, and any hallucination I have as a side effect of the purple bottle for pain management. The only noticeable difference was all the bottles had been moved so their labels face the outside. My first rationalization was a burglar trying to score but deciding none of my drugs were good enough, which came with some strange pride for my medicine cabinet. The more reasonable idea was that it was someone from the service trying to see what my liver had been through so they could price it correctly. I started leaving my door unlocked after that. Sort of hoping they would come back and hoping someone new would walk in. I figured that the two options were that I would finally be put out of my misery, or I would have someone real to talk to for the first time in months. Typically, after my subway ride of shame and walk of regret, Lucy appears. Maybe it’s the drugs or blood loss or grief so strong it defies corporeal reality. Whatever the cause, I don’t care. I’d take a hospital’s worth of drugs if it meant she would walk me home again. She doesn’t always talk; sometimes the sound of her lavender high heels clacking along the pavement is the only thing that fills the silence. Other times she does. She talks about our time in high school together and cheerleading at the pep rallies. She asks about Lou and if we are thinking about tying the knot anytime soon. I don’t have the heart to tell her I left Lou when I left my old apartment. I can’t tell her that every time I looked at the face of my partner of almost three years, I saw the moment Lucy had introduced us. How Lou’s short cropped blond hair reminded me of Lucy’s flowing locks. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I had fallen out of love with Lou and in love with her memory. How do you tell a ghost you see them in everything? Show them that you’re sorry, that if you could trade fates, she would have a beating heart right now. How do I turn the sidewalk in the pouring rain into a confessional? I can’t. Some great poets or philosophers might have an answer, but I have nothing. So, until I am filled with the spirit of Socrates, I walk in the rain, leaving one set of footprints behind me and a trail of blood in my wake.

45