I’m in way over my head… As utterly sexist as Guillermo’s comment was, I almost feel inclined to agree with him. Not because I think that a woman can’t do this job, but because I’m starting to really believe that I can’t do it. Why couldn’t I just major in mechanical engineering instead? This would be so much easier… … But nooooo, like a fucking loser, I majored in math and now I’m a semester away from not finishing my Physics degree because I’m probably gonna die trying to build this fucking thing. … I really need to stop saying ‘fuck’. I sound just like Levi. … Fuck, fuck, fuckety, fuck, fuck, fuck! An audible groan vibrates from my throat as I bring my forehead to the lab table. My arms swaying freely at my sides, I huff loudly as I shut my eyes and internally cry in frustration. I’m exhausted, but my br

⊰ Marcel ⊱ I lean back into the driver’s seat, one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding my chin as I prop my elbow against the door beside me. The sound of the wind brushing against the truck is hardly enough to pierce the deafening silence between Mercy and I as she sits in the passenger’s seat beside me, her head turned away, looking out the window. Was I too harsh? The soft sigh that passes my lips is hardly audible, and while my gaze is fixated on the empty road ahead of me, driving through the dark path illuminated by the headlights of my truck, my thoughts are submerged by the events that took place no more than half an hour ago. The buzz from the cigar clouded my pride deeply enough to drag me back down into the pit I’d spent so long pulling myself out of. As I sat on the bed of my truck, next to her, I forgot about how I let her take a hold of me and she discarded me as easily as she captivated me. I

Okay…maybe I should leave a couple wires disconnected… I sit back on the swivel chair, setting the pliers down as I eye the circuit board I’m just about done working on. I’m a few steps away from putting together the trial product and though, theoretically speaking, the only thing that can trigger these things is the switch I’ve already finished building, I don’t want to leave anything to chance. A shaky breath parts my lips as I avert my gaze to the clock on the display screen across the table, reading ’10:12PM’. Oop. It’s as if I’ve been on autopilot since I sat down and had dinner with Marcel, 2 days ago, which consisted of silence. The blue pill I’d taken played its effect just ten minutes after, and while, in the back of my mind, I was curious about what had transpired at that hilltop, I was more concerned with the plan I’d put together and implementing it. It’s true what they say: you can accomplish anything if you set your mind to it. Needless to say, 2 days of working wh

After a successful trial, Guillermo insisted that “we celebrate”, and while Marcel, his father, and about 20 other people that I don’t know, sit on the long, roundabout, cushioned bench around the fire pit, drinking, smoking, talking, and laughing, I lay on one of the many white chaise lounge chairs surrounding the pool, silently. The cool night breeze flicks the stray hair strands from my loose low bun, the chilly air penetrating my sweater as I cross my legs in front of me. I draw my cheek between my teeth, chewing thoughtfully with my eyebrows furrowed ever-so-slightly and my gaze fixed on the whipped cream of the Piña Colada in my hands as my mind wanders to the thing I wish I could stop thinking about: the bomb. Damn it. Thinking back to the assembly, I don’t know how the bombs managed to go off. I missed a couple of wires, and I remember this now because I remember telling myself not to forget about the hidden wires beneath the circuit board before I forgot about them. I onl

As I stand here, in the parlor, looking at them, I feel the anger, sadness, and frustration inside of me churning, threatening to spill over. “You were supposed to stay outside,” Marcel’s voice is a steady reprimand. Despite his obvious disapproval, he sets his glass down with a calmness—a testament to his control beneath the mask of his own frustrations. I’m fighting to swallow the knot in my throat, holding back the tears that so desperately want to build in my eyes, but my voice betrays me, quavering slightly as I muster the courage to speak, “I’d like to get back to work.” “You’re not working tonight,” Marcel responds, his voice firm as he wears the stoic look on his face. I stare at him, the bridge of my nose stinging, and I can’t help but lash out, “Why? So you have a reason to keep me here longer?” My raw and unfiltered accusation hangs in the air, and though he tries to keep up with the facade of his stoicism, his eyes betray him. He k