Death was my only way out. After all, I was the one who killed my older brother, by murdering the main character in my novel. The world did not deserve a traitor.

        I was also a liar. I told my family I would graduate in December 2021, but that was not the case. The past few semesters were Hell for me. They trapped me, and I could not free myself. Where was my knife?

        I hated Christmas now. Sure, I changed my Major to English, with a Concentration in Creative Writing, instead of History, but the holidays felt so unnecessary without Matthew.

        Stress gnawed at me, like when a hamster whittled down its teeth, and grabbed my intestines, ripping them from my abdomen. Regardless, I could not let it stop me from ending with an Incomplete for my African American Literature class. My teacher called me a “war hero”, and I wanted to prove to her that I, indeed, was. But I couldn’t handle the stress of school, grief, and my lies anymore.

        I rushed into my house’s kitchen, slid across the mopped, wooden floor, and removed a knife from the silverware drawer next to the sink. This was my fault. I should have never been a writer in the first place. I needed to grow up, but I feared I never would. My addiction was too strong.

        The knife’s shimmering blade shone like a penlight in my grief-stricken eyes, and I brought it towards my chest.

        “Vika, stop!” Mom, who was preparing dinner, snatched the knife from my hand.

        Tears pouring from my sockets, I choked out, “I’m a failure! I killed Matthew!”

        “Please,” Mom begged. “Please don’t do this.” She rested her forehead on one of the cabinets on the other side of the sink. “We can’t lose another child.”

        Timothy rushed into the kitchen, but he didn’t say a word. The look in his eyes was enough to tell me he was scared, too.

        Dad snuck up behind Timothy and I. Unlike Mom, he didn’t cry. He stayed calm, because he knew it was just the grief talking. “Vika, you did not kill Matthew,” spoke his wise, fatherly voice. “What happened was an accident.” He pulled me into a tight hug. “We’re going to get through this.”

        “I don’t deserve to go to Canada,” I whimpered. “You guys go without me.”

        Dad pecked the top of my head. “A trip to Canada will do you well,” he whispered. “We all need a vacation.”

        Timothy tilted his head towards Dad and I. “Go, Vika. Please.”

***

        Ugh. Did I have to write a story for my Capstone writing class? 2021 was already a bust, and I expected 2022 to be the same.

        I could not remember the last time I wrote, but let’s be real. Who cared? Who on those writing websites actually read my stories?

        Leave me alone, island of personality. Crumble away, like Riley’s in Inside Out. Writing was a thing of the past. I did not like being forced back into what killed Matthew in the first place.

        I sat in my cramped dorm, with the light off, for three days, as I tried to come up with something for my class. Had my island truly vanished, or was this just grief and writer’s block taking advantage of me?

        From out of nowhere, my chest seized up, indicating the panic attacks were back. After six months, I thought I would be used to them, but apparently not. My world spun like a record player, and I burst out sobbing.

        My roommate, Dystinee, made haste to pull the curtain in front of her bunk aside. She was a bigger girl, who had curly, red hair and wore glasses. “What’s wrong?” she asked, panicked.

        I kicked my computer aside and explained, “My brother,” burying my face in my palms. How did thinking about a short story for my class turn into this? Was the saying my counselor true: that “Grief comes in waves”?

        Dystinee and I stumbled down our bunks’ unsteady ladders and leaped onto the fluffy, white rug that separated them from each other.

        “Come on,” Dystinee said. She took the lead and opened our room’s door.

        Before stepping into the dorm’s common room, my eyes caught a book sitting on my desk called The Genre Writer’s Book of Prompts and Story Ideas. The whole reason I got it was because I told my family I wanted to improve my writing skills. This was before Matthew.

        Dystinee sat me down on the common room’s couch, which overlooked the campus and one of the busiest roads in the city. She went over to the coffee maker and flipped up the on button, saying, “I’m going to fix you a cup of tea, all right?”

        Just like Timothy on that fateful night in December, I said not a word. I did what my counselor told me to when episodes like this happened—inhaled, exhaled—and studied the room’s un-decorated ceiling.

        I saw Tracey swimming with the dolphins. He looked exactly like I pictured him: ninja-like with long, black hair and golden brown eyes. Those were the days, the days when I didn’t have to worry about suffering from panic attacks every two weeks. How on Earth was I supposed to write a story? The world was too fragile for me to remain a kid. I am not a writer, so stop trying to drag me back to my island, emotions.

        Dystinee freed me from my self-doubt. She tapped my shoulder with a simple teacup. “Here you go. Are you doing better?”

        “Yes, I think so,” I said, although it still felt like I needed to do one more thing, in order to calm down completely. I chugged that spearmint tea in less than a minute.

        My mind next moved over to the prompt book I had on my desk. “Excuse me,” I told my roommate, standing. With that, I slipped back into our room.

        “Sure,” Dystinee said from behind.

        There it was—the prompt book. It suckered me into sitting at the desk.

        I set my tea down next to me and opened the book to the first page—the table of contents. My finger moved down the line of genres. It stopped at Fantasy Prompts.

        Just seeing all the imagination, something surfaced from my crushed abdomen and broken heart. The spark felt familiar. It was the one I usually got when I wrote, but why? Matthew’s death proved writing was not my cup of tea.

        Tracey swam around my head and sprinkled me with his green and purple magic, which touched that spark. Right when it did, it exploded above the perfect prompt for my Capstone: “A hunting expedition goes awry when its organizer reveals they are hunting a mythological beast”.

        Tracey tossed his magic into the dorm. The characters in my stories emerged from the palleted cloud,—Dan, Makenna, Messummer, etc.—twisting and turning like me, when I found the Unknown in 12th grade. They calmed me to the point I cracked a small smile. The spark. I really did love writing. I did not feel the physical and emotional pain of grief anymore.

        My mind settled on my favorite Disney princess: red-headed Merida. What if I had a red-headed character who had flames, literally, in her hair?

        I got it! I know the name of my new story: Evangeline’s Flame.