March 20th, 2054

I am seventeen…

Tomorrow I will be eighteen.

At least, that is what should transpire. For you, maybe.

The Ides of March give way to the Spring Equinox and with it, the seasonal “returning” of those deemed unwanted before they can grasp adulthood.

Unwanted for many reasons. All legal now. Too fat, too thin, too moody, too happy, too lively, not lively enough. Too smart, not smart enough.

For loving too much, for not loving enough.

For loving someone not in their plans.

The insane whims of bad parents are too terrible to predict these days.

They call this season’s returnings Spring Cleaning.

I am seventeen…

I sit upon the flat rock overlooking the lake where I first met her. Where I first met Maryse. The sun is setting. I know they will find me here, but I do not care anymore. I want to see her. I want to remember her. How she smelled. How she sounded.   

And it’s such a good memory. One I’m terrified of losing. Once I’m gone, no one will remember her how I saw her. How seeing her made me feel.

I’m all she had left when they found her. When I die, so does she.

I want to run, to hide, to fight. But they’re just temporary solutions that delude those like us into false hope. This world is too far sunken into apathy and fear now.

I can hear them coming. Their trucks and their vans. Their sirens.

A runaway. That’s how I’m classified. They love runaways. It makes their jobs feel that much more justified.

They will bind me, they will burn me, and return most of my ashes to my mother’s loins. My father will consume the rest.

My body will not escape the selfishness and cruelty of my kin.

But I can hope my mind, my soul, whatever that may be, ends up wherever Maryse is.
I miss you, my love.

I am seventeen…
​
And I will be that way forever more.

​Whoever claimed that killers had sweet dreams, never met Connie.
She woke in her grandparents’ living room, sprawled on wet carpet.
The bogeyman that chased her in a nightmare wasn’t as terrifying
as her heart-thumping reality.
She’d helped Grandma kill Grandpa.
 
Connie had drifted to dreamland for only sixteen minutes.
Her hands stung, rubbed raw from scrubbing bloodstains.
She’d watched enough CSI to know she should’ve used bleach,
but it would’ve faded the chocolate brown shag.
Premeditation and conspiracy made the murder first degree,
but cops couldn’t arrest Grandma for swinging the bat.
Mortals couldn’t confine a ghost.
 
Trembling, Connie swaddled the stiff in towels and a tarp,
wrapped the leaking cocoon in duct tape.
Weeping, she dragged Grandpa’s corpse to the garage
and stuffed him into the Buick Regal’s trunk.
She climbed into the driver’s seat and cranked the key.
The engine rumbled reassuringly.
“You think God believes in an eye for an eye?” Connie asked.
“Don’t worry dear,” Grandma replied.
 
4:15 AM, too early for rush hour traffic.
Connie squeezed the steering wheel in a white-knuckle grip,
drove under the speed limit, west on Division Street,
south on Lawndale Avenue, until they reached Humboldt Park.
“You sure you want to leave him here?” Connie asked.
“It’s where he left me,” Grandma replied.
 
Robins and wrens serenading the rising sun
quit chirping when the ghost shoved the body into the lagoon.
It bobbed before it sank.
Invisible arms wrapped Connie in an embrace.
Grandma exhaled ectoplasm that smelled like spring rain.
 

Alicia Hilton is an author, editor, arbitrator, professor, and former FBI Special Agent. Her poems have been nominated for the Rhysling Award and the Dwarf Stars Award. Her work has appeared in Back 2 OmniPark, Creepy Podcast, Dreams & Nightmares, Eastern Iowa Review, Egaeus Press, Litro, Modern Haiku, Mslexia, Neon, NonBinary Review, Not One of Us, Space and Time, Stoneboat Literary Journal, Vastarien, World Haiku Review, Year’s Best Hardcore Horror Volumes 4, 5 & 6, and elsewhere. Her website is https://aliciahilton.com. Follow her on Twitter @aliciahilton01 and Bluesky @aliciahilton.bsky.social. ​