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Everyone, I'm very sorry, I have been extremely busy lately and I have not had time to write this week's installment.

I promise that I will finish writing and typing it by tomorrow, or Tuesday at the latest. I am very sorry, and I apologize for the inconvenience. 

And, I promise you, this will NOT die. I will finish it.

Thank you for reading this extremely pointless comment. 

Chapter Three — Myra

Iduna Vance was on the floor again. Slumped against the wall and crying, crying, crying. And she was clutching at Altoos’s hand as if it was the only thing in the world that was keeping her alive. Altoos looked rather uncomfortable with the situation, especially once Bandit decided that it would be a good idea to climb up his pant leg, clutching at the fabric with her sharp little claws, and gnaw at his elbow. Saylor looked at him sympathetically, but then she remembered that the raccoon belonged to him in the first place. It served him right.

Then Saylor decided that she was doing uncharitable thoughts, which was something that she was trying not to do. Uncharitable thoughts rot your mind and your heart, but they slip into your thoughts so easily, corrupting all of your sweet and pious thoughts. Pious thoughts are so hard to summon.

“Saylor?”

Saylor absentmindedly wondered why it was so hard to be a good person at times.

“Saylor!” Lola was nearly shouting in Saylor’s face by the time she looked up. “Are you okay?”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

“I was asking you if your shoes are working out okay.”

Saylor glanced down, taking in her business-like outfit. She liked to seem professional, because there was no other way to force a person to take a young woman seriously. The cream-colored blouse, the long navy-blue skirt, it was all part of her professional image, an image that she liked to project to the world as much as possible. But, after only an hour in that madhouse, her image was ruined. Her long skirt was battered and muddy at the edges where Bandit had nibbled at it outside. Her blouse was rumpled. But, worst of all were the shoes. The pink Crocs. They were the complete antithesis of all of her beliefs about fashion. Lola seemed to be a nice girl in general, but she was far too obsessed with her appearance. Vanity was not a good trait, and Saylor spent as little time as possible thinking about fashion and other frivolous subjects.

“Yes,” she forced herself to say. “They’re working out beautifully.”

Lola applied another layer of lip gloss to her already shiny, pink mouth. “I’m so glad. They didn’t seem to be quite your style, but they were all I had.”

Myra was leaning against the wall, with a look of disgust on her face. These girls were simply too awful to be true. How could they live with themselves, these fashion-absorbed teenagers? Surely, she hadn’t been like that when she was their age. . .

Slowly, sadly, she slipped into memories. No. She had not been like that when she was their age. When she was nineteen years old, she had no time to take a break after high school. She didn’t have the money to buy fancy glasses to promote her professional image. She didn’t have the money to buy a thousand tubes of lip gloss. Maybe, if she had the money, she would be able to have been a typical teenager, full of gossip and laughter.

But, instead, she spent the years after high school working non-stop. Working, working, working until she had the money to pay the rent for a tiny apartment. An apartment that was hardly fit for a mouse, much less a young girl.

Myra pushed her hair away from her face. She hated that hair. It was so bright. It belonged to the girl she had been. Before her father disappeared. A girl who had gone to parties and stayed up all night, laughing. A girl with her whole life ahead of her, with the promise of a good college education. A new stepmother too. A lovely woman, a bit younger than her father, but not so much so that it was creepy. What was that woman’s name, again? Kate, maybe? And her last name was something odd and nature-y. Swamp, maybe? Kate Swamp? That wasn’t it. Myra sighed. She didn’t want to think about it, anymore.

Altoos sighed, looking down at the young woman beside him. She seemed so fragile. That wasn’t what she was like before everything started. Before Clay got turned into paper, she seemed strong. With a quirky, sarcastic humor that he admired. But this woman seemed to be as delicate as a butterfly. She needed strength, and he would do what he could to help her. He awkwardly knelt down and patted her back. He didn’t really know what to do, but, somehow, miraculously, she seemed to relax under his influence.

Nearby, by the fireplace, Yamaneko was crouched down, watching the path of an ant across the floor. It was carrying a large crumb of bread nearly twice its size, and yet, somehow, it didn’t even struggle. The little thing was an inspiration. People were often disgusted by the little insects, but she always found them to be incredible creatures. Not as beautiful as cats, of course, but wonderful in their own way.

Almost against her will, Katherine moved closer to the young girl. What was the little kid looking at? Katherine bent down beside her and watched the ant. She wasn’t used to looking at little things. She enjoyed seeing the big picture. And yet, somehow, the tiny thing interested her. It had strength and perseverance, traits that Katherine admired. She looked at Yamaneko herself. The girl was gazing at the ant with a strange intensity, as if she was willing it to keep going, trying to make sure that it did not give up.

“Hey,” Katherine said. Yamaneko glanced up in surprise. “You like ants?” The younger girl nodded, silently with wide eyes.

“Me too.”

Allen looked around the room, taking in the scene. It was nice, almost home-like. The people were flocked around in little clusters. A couple of girls were talking in a corner. Altoos, the boy with the raccoon, was comforting Iduna. And, of all people, Katherine Ellis was talking to the little cat girl with the long name. Only Myra was alone. Standing in a corner with the air of a person dreaming of the past. Allen knew a lot about what it felt like to dream of the past. The past is rarely a pleasant thing, but it is always much nicer than the here and now.

He was about to walk over to her, ask her what she was thinking, maybe even start an actual conversation. But then, the girl walked away. She slipped silently through a small doorway in the wall. Allen hadn’t noticed that doorway before. No one had, and no one would until, later, he would point it out to them. It was Myra’s doorway, you see, and so she was the one who discovered it. If Allen hadn’t been watching her, no one would have ever known what had happened to Myra.

Allen looked around him. He didn’t know why, but it felt as if it would be a good idea to keep the doorway secret for a while longer. Once he convinced himself that everyone was perfectly happy ignoring him, he followed Myra through the doorway and out into a little herb garden. Creeping thyme covered the ground, with occasional clumps of mint and oregano erupting up above it. The entire area seemed to be overgrown and wild, although it seemed to hold memories of a time when it had been loved and well cared for.

Myra knelt down on the carpet of herbs, running her fingers through the fragrant leaves. Allen thought that he saw a tear or two fall from her cheek and splatter onto a sprig of mint. He turned around and left. This was a moment that was best left undisturbed. He returned to the cozy, firelit room and opened up his copy of The Sandman. It was one of his most prized possessions, an autographed first edition, and would someday be worth a lot of money, although he would never dream of selling it. It was only after he finished reading it (for the seventeenth time since he got the book for his thirteenth birthday) that he realized that Myra had not returned from the garden.

He leapt up with a shout. Many of the other authors looked at him oddly, but he was gone in a moment, before they could process what had happened. Allen raced through the door and into the little garden, where he skidded to a stop.

No.

It couldn’t possibly be true.

And yet, somehow, it was.

Lying peacefully on the bed of herbs was another packet of papers.

Sorry, the formatting for that chapter came out really badly.

Wow! Keep writing! I am loving this!!!!

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This was so beautiful, not in a happy way.  But in a sad way.  I enjoyed all of the sections but so far this one is my favorite.

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