Xenon phobia Sterling Emmal

Xenon Phobia—Sterling Emmal
I was Dead.
When the medical examiner cut away the clothes that covered my
lifeless corpse to perform the routine autopsy, he saw the warning that
I had etched into the cold dead flesh that was once the skin that
covered my flat stomach:

The time of my death was 3:15 AM. The cause of
my death was a lethal dose of Morphine that was
injected directly into my heart. My death was ruled as
a homicide, But there’s only one problem with that. I
am still here, and now I have a little vendetta to take
care of.
—Xenon 54
He appeared so confused as to why the CSI team didn’t mention
that there were words cut into my skin. He turned to get his camera so
he could document this newly found evidence in the case of my
murder. When he turned to take the picture, I cut the lights.
I didn’t want that message to fall into the wrong hands. Using the
fire of my wrath, I burned my body in the darkness. Watching it burn
was liberating. When the lights came on any resemblance of me was
gone.
To the human world I, Xenon Aira, was gone, but hate doesn't
die that easily.


Xenon Phobia—Sterling Emmal
Copyright © 2017 by Sterling Emmal
sterlingemmalbooks.com
First Printing, 2017
ISBN 9781521770757

Independently Published by Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing


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Xenon Phobia—Sterling Emmal

Xenon Phobia
By

Sterling Emmal
Dedicated to
Professor Jeri Rubin
Thank you for believing in my writing.

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Xenon Phobia—Sterling Emmal
Chapter One
I was the only woman enrolled in the Stanford University School
of Medicine that had no intention of saving lives, yet I didn't say that
to anyone. It wasn't until I interviewed for my dream job that I chose
to express my true motives behind my twelve-year stint of
postsecondary education. The date was May 15th 2017.
What a glorious day it was. Let me make it clear, the glorious
part wasn’t me admitting that the only reason I went to medical school
was to become the executioner for the State of California. The
glorious part is that no one else had the balls to apply—at least no one

with my credentials.
The man who interviewed me was named Harvey. He was the
head of the prison board at San Quentin in California. He dressed
sharp. His dark chocolate skin was like flawless silk. His forest green
eyes were tantalizing to stare into. It was unfortunate that there was a
thick platinum wedding band around his finger screaming you can
look but you can not touch. Besides, I would never date a co-worker—
especially if that co-worker happened to be my boss. That would be
completely unprofessional, and screwing him would have made me
look like a total slut bag—and no one respects a slut bag.
I remember Harvey asking why I would dedicate my life to a
profession in which I would be killing people. I knew my answer to
this question would be the determining factor in the success or failure
of this interview, and I knew I had to be strategic about how I worded
it. At that moment my nerves started to kick in, but I would not let
them win. If they did, I knew my true motive would come spilling out
of my mouth like water breaking through a dam.
I knew the truth was something I could not have said in this
interview. I wanted this position for a very vindictive reason. When I
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was fifteen, two men had attempted to rob our house. One of them had
me, my sister, and my mother at gunpoint while the other one was
ransacking our home. The men kept yelling, "where you bitches
hiding yo shit?”
We had lived in a nice house but we didn't have that much money
or that nice of things. I kept thinking I was going to die because my
family was poor. I was both enraged by my family’s financial situation

and scared for my life. I was wrong to be angry at my family, and I
still feel guilty about the emotions I had at that time.
After twenty minutes of this hell, I heard the sound of our garage
door opening. I knew my father had just gotten home from work. The
man who was holding us hostage called to his accomplice, and they
both ran towards the garage. I tried to go after them, but my mother
held me down. I was furious with her and fought to get up. I then
heard one of the robbers' guns go off and the sound of a car driving
away. I knew they had shot my father, but I never got to see his body.
My mother simply wouldn’t allow it.
My father was a good hard working man who contributed not just
to our family but to the community in which we lived, and he had
been ripped off the face of the earth all for greed. The police were
able to catch the men who had killed him because they had stolen my
father's car. After pleading guilty they were sentenced to life in prison
without parole, but I never thought that punishment was fair.
My father was lying in a box six feet under the ground while his
killers got to live in a room with a bed. As my father's body was
decomposing, his killers would eat three meals a day. It wasn't fair to
me that my father was dead, but his killers got to live until they died
of old age. I felt they should have suffered the same fate as my father,
but I knew this would never happen; Washington wasn't a death
penalty state. This made me feel such betrayal.
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By the time I turned sixteen I had made up my mind; I was going
to become an executioner. I was going to do it, so I could help ease
the betrayal other people in my position felt. And in doing this, I

thought I might be able to feel closure about the death of my father. I
never spoke a word of this plan to anyone, and I had just turned thirty
in January.
I knew if I said any of this to Harvey that I would never be able to
work in the position I had put my blood, sweat, and tears into getting.
“This job is not about killing people,” I said with a hint of caution in
my voice, “At least that's not the way I look at it.”
Judging by his expression at that moment, I could tell Harvey
wasn't looking for some grandiose load of generic bull shit about how
the death penalty is about justice or how it's the 'American thing to
do.’ He wanted the raw and personal reason that I wanted to do this
with my life, so at that moment, I decided to throw caution to the
wind, and I gave him exactly what he wanted.
“This state found one-hundred-twenty-seven people guilty of
crimes heinous enough to warrant their execution. For each of those
criminals, there is at least one victim who suffered immensely at those
monster’s bloodthirsty hands. Each one of those victims was
someone's son or daughter. They were each someone's friend." I
paused there for a moment to let my words truly marinate in the mind
of my interviewer. "If it was your wife—if she was the victim—and
the courts ruled that her killer would be executed, wouldn't you be
livid if they didn't follow through?”
Anger was the exact emotion I wanted to evoke with that
statement, and I could see the anger building behind Harvey's eyes.
"That's why I want this position," I said allowing my voice to exude
the passion I felt at that moment, "To make sure that this state follows
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Xenon Phobia—Sterling Emmal

through—especially for all the people who are left behind from these
heinous acts."
At that moment, I couldn't tell if Harvey was impressed by my
statement or disgusted. I just couldn't tell. I wanted to ask him, but at
the same time, I didn't. After a brief moment, he cracked a bit of a
smile and told me that was all the questions he had for me at that time.
Before I could stop myself the words "when will I hear back from
you" came out of my mouth. I instantaneously regretted the statement
because it just sounded pushy and desperate—at least that's how it
sounded to me.
"I've gotta be honest with you," Harvey said with an almost
playful glint in his eyes, "About two hundred people applied for this
position. We at the San Quentin State Prison Board found that only
five of you have the basic qualifications to perform this job." He
paused for a moment there. "I have conducted four out of the five
interviews, and as of now, you are the only one I would consider.”
Chills ran down my spine. I couldn't explain why—at least not at
that moment. Little did I know that in a matter of hours everything
would become so crystal clear to me.
“Look, Xenon, I don't want to scare you off," Harvey said in a
more hushed voice, "but this is a very dangerous line of work, so just
be careful who you tell. Okay?"
"I haven't even told my family yet," I had said the words with a
hint of unease in my voice. Then I added, "Why are you telling me
this?”
"I shouldn't be saying any of this,” he replied, “In fact, the Board
explicitly told me not to, but I can not in good conscience keep my
mouth shut. The last person who worked for us disappeared the day of
his first execution. He called me that morning from his car stating that
he was stuck in traffic and was running about ten minutes late. He

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Xenon Phobia—Sterling Emmal
never showed up, and he was never found." He stopped and looked me
directly in the eye. "Just promise me you'll be careful,” he had said at
last.

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Xenon Phobia—Sterling Emmal

Chapter Two
As I walked back to my car, I kept looking over my shoulder.
Something about this whole situation just seemed wrong. I couldn't
help but to think that there was more to what Harvey had said about
the last executioner than he had actually expressed to me in words. At
that moment, I wondered if his statement was some sort of warning. It
sure seemed like it.
My phone went off just as I was opening my car door. I was so
startled by the sound of my own ringtone that I dropped the contents
of my purse all over the ground. I looked around one more time very
cautiously before cleaning up the mess I had just made.
Once I had gotten into the driver's seat the phone rang again, and
I had no intention of picking it up. Whoever's calling can just leave a
message, I thought to myself, then I'll know what they want.
I waited until the stupid thing stopped ringing; then I looked at
my notifications. There were ninety-four missed calls and twentyseven voice messages all from members of my family. Before I could
even click on the first listed voicemail the phone rang again. The

caller ID read Savannah Aira; it was my mother.
Her real name was Agnus Aira, but she truly despised that name.
She told me it never bothered her until she was in high school. During
that time, people would shout out as she would walk down the halls,
"Look. There's an anus with a big 'g' in it.”
Because of the constant bullying, she had legally changed her
name to Savannah the day she turned eighteen, despite the fact that it
broke her parents' hearts. Because of this, I always thought my mother
was weak. She had let the assholes who teased her win. I always
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wanted to change her caller ID from Savannah to Agnus, but I never
had the balls to do it.
After seeing the caller ID, I quickly answered the phone. My
mother was in hysterics as she screamed, “Xenon, why didn't you pick
up your phone.”
I told her that I was at a job interview, and I had turned off my
phone because of it. I could tell my mother was crying on the other
end of the line. "Mom, what's going on," I asked trying my best to
remain calm.
"Jenny's at the hospital," mom told me, "She's in critical
condition.”
At that moment time seemed to come to an abrupt stop. Jenny
was my twin sister. She was six and a half months pregnant with a
little girl who she was going to name Molly. My sister had been so
excited about welcoming her into the world.
She was so dedicated to making sure she was doing everything
right that I don't even think she saw me walking across the stage at my

graduation. Out of the corner of my eye, I had caught her sitting in the
front row of the audience reading one of those baby books that
pregnant women usually force their significant other to read. I never
held it against her. In fact, I was proud of her for taking her pregnancy
so seriously, and because of this, just knowing she was present at the
ceremony meant the world to me.
"Xenon, are you still there," my mother asked breaking my train
of thought.
"What happened to her," I asked in a hoarse whisper.
My mother told me that her mother fucking alcoholic boyfriend
had beaten her up in a drunken rage.
"And Molly," I asked already knowing what the answer was.
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Xenon Phobia—Sterling Emmal
I could tell my mother was choking back tears of rage. "Before
the police could stop him, he had kicked her in the stomach so many
times... Molly is dead, Xenon, and there's a chance Jenny won't wake
up.”
I told her I was getting on the next available flight to our
hometown of Spokane, Washington. I never made promises, but I
promised her that much. If I had to pinpoint the biggest regret I had
during my time on Earth, making that promise would have to be it.

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Xenon Phobia—Sterling Emmal
Chapter Three

There was a massive heat wave going on in California at the time,
but I felt as if I were freezing to death as I walked from my car to the
front door of the cheap ass excuse for a hotel that I had so stupidly
chosen to stay at. There were no working elevators, and my room was
on the fourth floor, and the only way to reach it was to walk up a
secluded, closed-off, claustrophobic, stairwell.
The steps themselves were made of concrete; walking up them
made me feel like I was in a prison rather than a hotel. To top it off,
there were no windows for me to look out as I made the treacherous
four story climb.
When I first arrived at the stupid place the stairs were just an
inconvenience to me, due to the fact that I had to lug my rather heavy
suitcase up them. After everything that had happened to me in the past
twelve hours, I started to panic just thinking about entering the
stairwell. What if some creep was in it—waiting for some defenseless
person to walk in and become their next victim.
I stood frozen in front of the double doors that led to the
stairwell. I wanted so badly to go to sleep, but I couldn't force myself
to open the door. Xenon, you are just being paranoid, I told myself. I
then took a deep breath and grabbed the door handle, only to find my
hand was trembling. At that moment the bright yellow lights in the
lobby dimmed to a soft white glow. ”That's it," I said aloud, "I'm
sleeping in my car."
Just as I was running out the front door, I heard a crack of thunder
followed by a downpour of warm rain. I felt a sense of saddened
euphoria come over me as I felt each water droplet come in contact
with my body. The feeling of rain was a sensation I hadn't experienced
for a while due to the drought that had been plaguing California. It
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was there, as I was standing in the rain, that I started to cry. I hated to
cry; it made me feel weak, but the tears that I shed at that time were
liberating me from so much pain.
After indulging in this emotional state for a moment, I started to
feel bad about running out of the hotel. My mother had given me the
money to stay there, and it really would have been a waste of her
money if I carried out my plan of staying in my car for the night. To
me wasting someone's money was a sign of disrespect, and I couldn't
disrespect my mother like that—especially after what happened to
Jenny.
As I began to walk back, there was another crack of thunder. This
one was much louder than the last. My instinct was to run into the
hotel because where there was thunder there was always a chance for
lightning. Before I could even take a step forward I felt someone put
their hand on my shoulder. I spun around to see who it was, but there
was no one in sight. I froze for a moment—unable to move.
Suddenly lightning struck the roof of the building, and the whole
hotel went up in flames. I thought there was still time to save the
people on the lower levels. I wanted to run in and help, but someone
grabbed my hand and began pulling me towards the parking lot.
"Please," I shrieked, "Let me help them.”
"They're beyond help, Xenon," the man replied calmly, ”We need
to go now."
His voice sounded so familiar, yet I couldn't quite pinpoint why.
At the same time, I really didn't care where I knew this man from, or
why he knew my name. So many people were being burned alive. I
heard them screaming for help. I saw flames breaking through
windows. I witnessed a woman on the third-floor shatter the glass

window on her suite and push her infant to its death. I wanted to run
and try to catch the child, but the man wasn’t letting go of me.
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"People are dying," I said desperately trying to free myself from
his grip, "Let me go. I can help them.”
"If you go after them you will join them," the man had replied
simply.
"They need me," I pleaded, "Just let go.”
"What about your sister," the man asked me, "What will happen
to her if you die."
"She'll be fine," I said without thinking, "She has our mother, and
she'll have the peace of mind that her fucking ex will be put away for
murder."
“Really Xenon," The man asked mockingly now, “Murder?"
"He killed her baby," I said through gritted teeth, "He killed
Molly."
"Molly was a fetus," He whispered in my ear, "and fetuses are not
considered people under US law. That's why his crime will not be
tried as a murder, but more as an aggravated assault." He paused for a
moment then added, "You know that I'm right.”
Before he had made this statement, I never once contemplated
that Molly wouldn't be counted as a person in a court of law. I was
infuriated at the thought. I could feel the blood boiling under my skin,
and I could feel my face turning bright red.
Instead of trying to run back to the fire, I now turned to face the
man who held my hand with such a firm grip. He was tall—at least six
three. Every piece of clothing on his body was black including the

gloves on his hands, and his face was covered up with a black
bandanna. All I could see was his light blue eyes. They looked like
opals sparkling in the moonlight. At that point, I knew for a fact I had
seen him before.

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I was so perplexed by his appearance that I didn't notice the full
syringe he had in his hand. When I did see it I began to panic. "What's
that for," I asked in a horrified state.
Before I could make another sound, the man had stabbed the
needle straight into my aorta and quickly pushed the lethal dose of
what I now know to be morphine into my heart. I quickly fell to the
ground in pain. I tried to speak but the drug was working too fast.
"Don't be afraid Xenon," he said finally letting go of my hand,
"The pain only lasts for a moment."
I tried to mouth the words ‘don't leave me,' but I don't think my
attempt was successful.
"I'll see you again Fifty-Four," he said looking down at me, "And
when I do, I know you'll be thanking me."
Fifty-Four was the nickname I received during my sophomore
year of high school. I was taking a required chemistry class at the
time, and it was hands down one of my favorite classes. I quickly
became obsessed with the subject matter. I went from the girl sitting
quietly in the back row to the girl who was always up front asking
questions. I was never satisfied with the answers I was given, so I
always did research on my own.
It was during that research I learned Xenon was not just my

name; it was an element on the periodic table—the fifty-fourth to be
exact. On the table, it was located in the far right-hand column. All
elements in that column were members of the VIIIA family otherwise
known as the noble gases. They didn't react with other elements
because the outer shells that held their electrons were filled to the
maximum capacity. This made them the most stable. After learning
that, I would write the number "54" after my name, and soon it just
became a part of me.
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The nickname didn't follow me to California though. That was
why I was so confused as to why my killer knew it. My vision was
getting blurry as I tried to recall where I knew him from. I fought to
keep my eyes open because I wasn't ready to die. I wasn't ready to lose
everyone and everything I knew. I just wasn't ready yet.

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Xenon Phobia—Sterling Emmal
Chapter Four
I had promised my sister I would always be there for her—that I
would take care of her no matter what. I had promised my mother that
I would be on the first flight to Spokane. I promised myself that I
would do something meaningful with my life; I wanted to make a
difference in the world and help people.
It hit me, just as I was losing consciousness, my mother would
have to come and identify my body, and she would be the one

burdened with the planning and execution of my funeral. And what if
Jenny died too? My mother would then have to bury both of her
children. Just the thought of it brought tears to my eyes. I closed my
eyes tightly and began to cry.
At least, I thought I was crying. The fact of the matter was that
the second my eyes shut my heart stopped pushing blood through my
veins. My brain had stopped transmitting signals throughout my body.
My muscles had gone limp. My body was dead, but I couldn't
comprehend it at first.
All I knew was that the pain had stopped. I felt as if I could move
freely again, but I was too terrified to even contemplate getting up.
The last memory I had was of me lying on the cold ground fighting to
stay awake. I remembered it was raining but now I did not feel wet. I
thought, perhaps, my killer had moved me to a second location, and
the drug he had given me was just a sedative.
After what seemed to be an eternity of silence, I started to hear
people talking. There voices sounded as if they were close to me, but I
couldn't quite make out what they were saying. When I finally decided
to open my eyes, I was expecting my vision to be extremely blurred.
That was a common side effect of most sedatives, and it would go
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Xenon Phobia—Sterling Emmal
along with the cognitive impairment and confusion that I was feeling.
But my vision wasn't blurry; it was crystal clear.
The first thing I saw was what remained of the hotel. The
building had burned to the ground leaving only fizzling embers in its
place. Fire crews were still working to put them out. The thought
never crossed my mind that the owners would have cut corners when

it came to building safety, but I should have figured that out when I
learned both the elevators did not work.
After watching the fire crews for a moment, I noticed several law
enforcement officers working to establish and block off the perimeter
to keep the press at bay. Burned and distorted human bodies covered
the pavement, and I can just about guarantee that no family would
want to open up their morning paper and see them on the front page.
After a moment, I noticed one of the law enforcement officers
walk over to me holding a camera. "Hey," he called out to his partner,
"This one looks like a possible homicide to me.”
I quickly pushed myself into an upright position, but the officer
just held the camera up and began taking photos. "Do you not see me
here," I asked him now a bit frustrated, "Can't you see I'm hurt?"
The officer was unfazed by my comments; he just continued
taking photos as if I wasn't there.
"Knock it off," I said raising my voice in an agitated rage, "This
isn't funny. I'm really scared. Why aren't you helping me?"
"Because they can't see you, Xenon.”
I quickly recognized the voice of my killer. He was standing
about four or five yards away from me, but I hadn't noticed him before
he had spoken to me. Because of my exacerbated state of denial, I
didn't listen to his words nor did I want to. I started yelling at the
officer. "That man tried to kill me," I cried out desperately, "He's
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dangerous. You have to help me." When the officer still acted
oblivious to my words, panic set in.
As my killer started walking towards me, I got to my feet. I

couldn't help thinking the officer with the camera was just being an
asshole, or he was blind in both his eyes and his ears—but I was
leaning towards the asshole theory. If they won't help me, I'll have to
help myself, I thought as I began to run as fast as I could towards my
car. I didn't get very far before I felt someone take hold of my ankle,
and I knew it was my killer.
My leg was yanked backward so quickly that I didn't have time to
brace myself for the fall. My face hit the rigid pavement with such
force that I felt the sensation of my nose breaking and my skull
cracking open. Before I could even fight back, I was being dragged
back to the spot I had started running from. I felt the skin on my face
was being cut and burned as it was scraped across the ground. I closed
my eyes and began screaming.
Finally, he stopped dragging me, yet he didn't let go of my leg. I
was in too much pain to fight back. At that moment I hoped that he
would just take my life and put me out of my suffering.
"Are you going to stop fighting me now, Xenon," my killer asked
with an extremely calm and soothing tone to his voice.
I couldn't move. I was too scared to talk, and I was too hurt to
cry, so I just held perfectly still and prayed everything would soon be
over for me. After a brief moment, I felt my killer let go of my leg. I
automatically curled up into a little ball and began sobbing
uncontrollably. He sat down on the ground next to me and tried his
best to console me. "It's okay, Xenon," he said gently stroking my
arm.
"It hurts," I said shaking badly.
"I know," he replied.
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My eyes were still shut tightly, and the pain I felt was getting
worse by the second, yet the calm tone of his voice somewhat relaxed
me. "Can you make it stop," I asked feeling extremely week,
"Please?"
He continued to gently stroke my arm. "I will make it stop, dear,"
he said, "As soon as you open your eyes."
"I don't want to watch you do it," I pleaded with him.
"Do what," he asked.
I felt so defeated as I replied, "I don't want to watch you kill me."
"Xenon," he said in a reassuring way, "I already have. All you
have to do is figure it out."
At that moment, I didn't believe him—not for a second. I couldn't.
It didn't make any rational sense. If I'm dead, I thought, How can the
man who took my life still see me? How can he touch me? No, this…
this can't be true.
"I can always make it worse, Xenon," My killer said breaking
through my train of thought.
I closed my eyes even tighter. Suddenly I felt as if he held the
sharp edge of a knife up against my arm. "Don't," I begged.
"Then open your eyes," He commanded.
"Okay," I said trying to hold extremely still, "I'll do it."
After taking a slow deep breath, I finally did as I was told. What I
saw, when I opened my eyes, was like a scene out of one of the
forensic shows I had watched obsessively after my father’s death.
Crime scene tape had been put up, and members of a local CSI
team were everywhere. Then I saw the victim. At first, I looked at her
body as if she were a stranger. I didn't understand why my killer was
insisting that I saw her. Then I slowly started to notice her features.
They looked so familiar to me.

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Her freshly dyed blond hair was pulled up into what would have
been a professional looking pony tail. She had greenish gray eyes that
were staring off into nothingness. I could tell she had been crying at
the time of her death because her mascara had run all over her fair
skin. Despite this, her eyelashes were still shockingly long. She had
on a professional white dress with a light blue blazer with three
buttons in the front. I had just bought an outfit like that before my
interview with Harvey.
Then it hit me. I wasn't looking at some random crime scene. I
was looking at the aftermath of my murder.
"Do you feel any more pain, Xenon," my killer asked, "or has it
stopped now?"
I no longer felt the sensation of physical pain, but that was the
last thing that was going through my mind. I was unable to take my
eyes off my dead body. The more I looked at it the more rage I felt.
"What exactly are you," I snapped back at him, "How can you see me?
And what the fuck do you want?”
He didn't seem phased by the change in my demeanor or the
harsh tone in which I spoke. He merely asked, “Don’t you remember
the wish you made the morning of your ninth birthday?"

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Xenon Phobia—Sterling Emmal
Chapter Five

I flashed back to the day I turned nine. The date was January
24th, 1996. I was supposed to have had a party with all of my
classmates the day before on the 23rd, but no one had shown up. I
remember sitting by the front door for three and a half hours waiting
and hoping for just one person to come. I wasn't the most popular kid
in school; in fact, I was the loner. But knowing my elementary school
social status didn't make me feel any better about the party attendance.
That night, I cried myself to sleep. I thought I had been discreet
about it, but the next day Jenny had made me a cake for breakfast and
offered to play board games all day. At the time Jenny was a part of
the cool crowd at school, and at home, we would fight like cats and
dogs. I knew that she was just being nice because she felt bad for me.
Back then, I hated when people acted nice to my face out of
obvious pity. I felt so humiliated by my sisters actions that I pushed
the cake she had made from the table to the floor, ran to my room, and
locked the door. I hadn't been tired but I laid down on my bed anyway.
As I laid there I tried to imagine what my life would be like if I had a
best friend. I contemplated this until I had fallen into what I thought
was just an amazing dream.
It started with a little knock on my door. I remember yelling out,
"go away Jenny, I don't want to talk to you.”
"My name's not Jenny," a little boy had called from behind the
door, “It’s…”
My mind flashed back to the present moment. I sat up and faced
my killer. "Hello, Damien," I whispered, looking him directly in the
eye.
"Hello, Xenon," he replied with a now playful undertone to his
voice.
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Xenon Phobia—Sterling Emmal
“This is just a dream,” I said half to myself, "This isn't real. You
are not real. I've had years of therapy explaining that to me."
"You're still thinking like a human," Damien replied, "and it's
kind of adorable, but honestly it's getting old. I brought you into my
world because you're a different kind of person—one that doesn't fit in
with the rest. Xenon, tell me you haven't been assimilated that much
by normal human culture. Have you?"
"What the hell are you talking about," I snarled out the words
through gritted teeth.
Damien didn’t respond. He just sat there looking at me. It felt as
if his stunning opal-like eyes were analyzing each and every part of
my physical form. At that moment I couldn’t look at him, so I directed
my gaze to the ground where I lay. I felt cold as I waited for him to
speak, yet he didn’t. The longer this silence went on, the more my
thoughts started to wander off to dark places that held even darker
realizations for me to stumble upon.
I realized that I was trapped in a world where I was invisible and
voiceless. One day I might be able to see my family, but never have
the ability to speak with them—or even touch them—again. I realized
I wouldn’t be able to hold my sister’s hand as she lay there in a coma,
and I would never have the chance to hug my mother and tell her how
sorry I was.
I looked up helplessly—finally meeting Damien's steady gaze.
Tears were forming in my eyes. All I wanted him to do was hold me,
and comfort me. I would have given anything for it.
"You're still in denial, Xenon," he said at last, "And you need
time to grieve what you have lost."
"What are you saying," I asked, already knowing what his answer

would be.
"You'll be alright," he said picking himself up off the ground.
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Xenon Phobia—Sterling Emmal
"No," I begged desperately, "Do not leave me here."
"I'll come back for you," he said looking down at me, "When you
are a tiny bit more appreciative and grateful for my presence, and you
truly understand the situation you are in.” Before I could plead any
further, Damien's physical form dissipated from my sight, and I was
alone.
I stayed stationary for what seemed to be hours. At first, it was
just due to fear. The last time I tried to leave the spot in which I sat,
Damien had dragged me right back to it face down across concrete,
and I never wanted to feel that sensation again. I tried to close my
eyes, but for some reason, even with them closed I could still see
everything going on around me.
In a way it was ironic. Damien had told me at the end of our first
encounter that every time I was lonely and needed a friend, all I
would have to do was close my eyes, and he would come back to me.
Now I didn't have that ability. Soon, my fear changed to sadness, and I
wondered how long I would be left on my own.
As I sat there my mind began to wander once more. Growing up,
I was so judgmental of my sister. She always hung out with the wrong
crowd in school, and to look cool she acted as if she didn't know me.
The day we graduated high school she moved in with two crackhead
roommates who got her hooked on hard drugs. I remember screaming
at her on the phone one night when she called me wasted off her ass. I
told her that she was throwing her life away and that I didn't want

anything to do with her. That night she tried to overdose on
painkillers. By the grace of God, she was at a party and someone
drove her to the hospital.
The doctors were able to resuscitate her, but for the longest time,
I wished their attempts were unsuccessful. She wanted to see me
while she was in the hospital, but I had refused. I was so enraged with
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Xenon Phobia—Sterling Emmal
her stupidity that I had cut her out of my life. The day she checked out
of the hospital, she checked into a drug rehabilitation program. After
completing the six-month program, she moved back in with our
mother. By that time, though, I had moved into the dorms at Stanford
and was engulfed in my studies. It wasn't until the end of my second
semester that I actually spoke to her again.
It was May 25th 2007, and I had just returned to my dorm after
finishing my last final exam, and there was an envelope taped to my
door with my name written on it in black permanent marker followed
by the words, "Read Me.”
I knew it was Jenny's handwriting, but I couldn't figure out how it
got taped to my door. I sat my book bag down in the hallway and
opened it. The letter read as follows:
Xenon,
I know you're still angry at me, and I understand if you don't
want to see me again. I just want you to know how sorry I am for
everything I put you through, and I want to try to make things
right. I know that you won't believe that I have changed by
reading a stupid letter, so I'm taking a leap of faith with you
right now. I've got a job, and I've been saving up to buy this

plane ticket. I'm staying at a hotel in Palo Alto close to the
university. I'll be here for three nights. Please come and see me
—even if it's to cuss me out and scream your head off at me.
I miss my sister,
Jenny Aira
She left her cell phone number and the address of the hotel. At
first, I didn't know what to do. I walked into my dorm, laid down on
my bed, and held the letter close to my heart. I still had so many
!25