she crawled up out of the glass and the rubble


and her body and turned around
to see the shell of the bug she had crushed.
She had killed it.





not intentionally. But yet, the life was gone. the pieces of the Beetle surrounded her, silvery and glittering in the frosted moonlight.
Her hands and knees bled but she felt no pain







Her body lay hunched in the fetal position, trapped in the hulking mess of metal and murder. Backseat demons pressed up against the windows, but their bodies had no strength.
She stood victorious.






She was awake. The kind of awake that captures the soul, brings it out of the body to examine the damage, and is thrust back into Hell to take inventory of the demons within.
The kind of awake that motivates short, white puffs of air to escape the mouth, the moisture gathering into droplets and turning into the tears of the moon.











The kind of awake that works









That loves









That gives









That cares









That will wipe it’s hands clean when the job is well finished and be satisfied with the spirit. That will be










HAPPY.

That’s the kind of awake she felt, that cold March evening, when death knocked at her door and her soul left her body and made a deal with both Heaven and Hell to grant a birth, rather than a death in exchange for an
Awake that Works.