The Place Where Nothing Bad Happens

At the intersection, I could go right and head home, but turning left would take me to the place where everything “bad” happens.

My name is Cordelia, and I've lived in Serenity Gardens for nineteen years, seven months, and three days — which is to say, my entire life. I was born at Memorial Hospital on Tranquil Street, delivered by Dr. Sweetworth under the soft pink glow of our eternal sunset. Mother always said I was the most perfectly content baby she'd ever seen, never crying, never fussing. "Born for this place," she would say, brushing my blonde hair that grew exactly one inch per month and never needed cutting.

"Thank you for joining me for tea today," Mrs. Claudia had chirped earlier, her smile stretching so wide it disappeared around the sides of her head. She'd been saying the same thing every Tuesday since I was old enough to attend tea parties. "What is it like being born in the place where nothing bad happens?"

Mrs. Claudia was what Mother called a ""Newcomer"—someone who had chosen to move here from somewhere else. I found Newcomers fascinating because occasionally their eyes would turn completely white when they stared at the intersection.

"Oh, it's lovely," I replied, watching her pour tea from the pot that had been pouring the same cup for nineteen years without ever running empty. The tea always tasted like sunshine and vanilla clouds, though sometimes it had a wonderful red flavor that made my tongue feel all tingly and electric. When I'd asked Mrs. Claudia about the special red taste, she'd made that fascinating gasping sound and told me some flavors were too complex for people like me to understand. "Nothing bad ever happens, though I'm not sure what ”bad” means!"

"Exactly. It's perfect."

Perfect was my favorite word, though I was starting to think there might be other interesting words I hadn't learned yet. Everything in Serenity Gardens was perfect — the grass that sang lullabies in ancient languages I couldn't understand, the flowers that whispered secrets when you got too close, and the birds that only had one song but sang it beautifully even though they never seemed to land anywhere. I'd never questioned perfection until recently, when I'd started wondering why the sounds from the other side were so much more interesting than ours.

"But I'm curious — what happens on the other side of this intersection? The sounds are so... artistic!"

Mrs. Claudia quickly slammed her teacup on her saucer. I'd learned that loud sounds meant someone was experiencing strong emotions, which seemed exciting since I'd never experienced any emotions that weren't perfectly pleasant.

"That's the place where everything bad happens, dear."

“What does “bad” mean? Is it like “good”?"

Mrs. Whitmore started making that lovely sound where air comes out in little puffs very quickly — I think the Newcomers called it "hyperventilating." She was always clutching a small bottle full of rattling things that sounded like tiny bones when she shook it.

"Cordelia, darling, you mustn't ask about such things during tea time."

But I was so curious! From our pavilion, I could see the most amazing lights flashing across the intersection — colors that made my eyes hurt in the most interesting way. Red lights that pulsed like something alive and blue lights that made me feel empty inside, which was a completely new sensation! And the sounds — such wonderful, complex sounds!

"Those loud, sharp sounds coming from over there —they're so much more varied than our humming! Are they singing a different kind of song?"

"Those are called screams, dear. They're like singing, but in reverse."

"Screams!" I repeated the word with joy. It felt sharp and exciting in my mouth, like chewing on glass. "They sound so passionate! So full of feeling! Why don't we make sounds like that?"

The Newcomers all started doing that synchronized trembling they sometimes did, which looked like a beautiful dance. Mrs. Cranston's head was shaking so hard it made a rattling sound, like there were loose things inside her skull.

"Because we're content here, dear," Mrs. Claudie said, though her voice was coming from three different places at once now. "People make those sounds when they're experiencing the opposite of content."

"There's an opposite of content?" This was the most exciting thing I'd ever heard! "What's it like? Can I try it?"

Eighteen faces turned toward me, though I was quite sure there had only been six people at tea when we started. Their expressions were all the same now — wide white eyes and mouths hanging open like little caves.

"Why would you want to try that?" Mrs. Claudia's voice sounded like it was coming from underground. "That would be very un-Serenity-like behavior, Cordelia."

"Because it sounds so interesting! And if people over there are experiencing the opposite of content, maybe I could go help them learn to be content too! I could teach them the humming song or show them how to choose happiness!" I was practically bouncing in my chair with excitement. "Oh, it would be like sharing the most wonderful gift!"

Mrs. Claudia made a puffing sound like laughter. "Oh, sweet child. If you go over there, then you'll bring all the bad back with you, and we can't have that. Do you know how hard it is to get the red stuff out of these tablecloths when it gets everywhere?"

"Red stuff? Like the pretty red patterns in the cobblestones?"

The silence that followed was so complete I could hear the grass singing its ancient songs in languages that sounded like happiness.

"Yes, dear. Exactly like that."

"But where does the red stuff come from? Is it paint? Does someone come and decorate the intersection every day?"

Mrs. Claudia's face was now just a mouth that kept getting bigger. "It comes from inside people, Cordelia. When they break."

"People can break? Like teacups? But then how do they still make the screaming songs?"

"That's exactly why they make the screaming songs, dear."

I felt a wonderful shiver of excitement run through me. "That sounds so fascinating! I want to learn about breaking! Can you teach me how to break?"

Mrs. Cranston made a sound like a balloon deflating, but much more musical. She was staring at me with eyes that were now completely white and weeping those beautiful silver tears that were starting to puddle and steam on the table.

"It doesn't feel nice that some people experience only contentness and some none at all," I said thoughtfully, though I wasn't entirely sure what I meant.

"And that's exactly why you mustn't think about them," Mrs. Claudia said, though her voice was now coming from the teapot. "If you don't think about them, it's as if nothing is happening over there at all."

"But what if they're lonely? What if they want someone to come and learn about breaking with them? What if they need a friend?"

"But you're not over there." Mrs. Claudia's mouth was so big now it took up most of her face, and her teeth were growing as I watched. "Out of sight, out of mind, as they say. Now stop asking questions before you spoil everyone's lovely tea party."

The other Newcomers had begun their ritual humming — the Serenity Gardens anthem that went "La-la-la-la-la" in the exact same tone for exactly four minutes.

"Oh, alright. But I still think it sounds interesting over there!"

At that moment, I was already planning my Tuesday visit to the intersection. To my right lay everything I had ever known: Serenity Gardens with its singing grass and whispering flowers and people who smiled so widely their faces split open. My cottage at 42 Blissful Lane waited for me, with its walls that breathed softly and its furniture that rearranged itself when I wasn't looking. Tonight I would take my perfect-temperature bath that was always exactly the same temperature and watch my programs about people who solved problems by smiling until their faces came apart.

To my left lay the place where everything “bad” happens. Through the beautiful, red-colored lights, I could see shapes moving in ways that seemed so much more dynamic than our gentle swaying. They moved like they had purpose, like they were trying to accomplish something important. How exciting!

The sounds were so much richer here at the intersection. Not just the screams — I was learning to identify different types of music. There were percussion sounds like things breaking in rhythm and mechanical sounds like our maintenance equipment, but so much more complex and varied. And underneath it all, voices singing in harmonies I'd never heard — not content, not peaceful, but something that made my chest feel tight in the most interesting way.

Sometimes I thought I could almost understand what they were singing about, but the words slipped away like water through my fingers.

I'd been having the most wonderful dreams lately — which was unusual, because people born in Serenity Gardens typically slept dreamlessly for exactly eight hours each night. Sometimes I would dream about the sounds from across the intersection, and in my dreams I understood their songs perfectly. Mother had been concerned about my restlessness. She'd scheduled me for extra contentment sessions with Dr. Sweetworth, who'd given me additional happiness supplements that tasted like copper and made my teeth feel loose. But my curiosity kept growing anyway.

Standing at the intersection, I found myself taking a step toward the left. The cobblestones felt different under my feet — more textured. The air tasted like metal and salt and something else I couldn't name but wanted to taste more of.

I had taken perhaps ten steps when my shoe caught on a cobblestone that jutted up from the surface, dark with those beautiful red patterns that looked so much more vivid up close. I fell forward, my hands and knees hitting the lovely rough ground.

What happened next was the most incredible experience of my entire life.

Red liquid — the same red as the patterns!—welled up from small openings in my skin where the stones had touched me. But it wasn't just the sight of it that amazed me. It was the sensation. A sharp, immediate something radiated from the scraped areas like electricity, like heat, like music made of feeling.

The sound that came from my throat was the same sound I'd been hearing from across the intersection all these weeks. A scream! My scream! Raw and powerful and completely new, rising from some part of me I didn't know existed.

I looked down at my hands and knees in wonder. The red liquid was so beautiful, so artistic, painting patterns on my skin that were never the same twice. And the sensation — oh, the sensation! It was like feeling for the first time, like discovering I had been numb my entire life and suddenly I could feel.

I laughed as I screamed, delighted by this wonderful new experience. The sensation was so intense, so immediate, so completely different from the gentle, muffled contentment I'd known my whole life. This was real.

I stayed there on my hands and knees, watching the red liquid make new patterns, feeling this incredible new sensation that seemed to get stronger instead of fading. How wonderful! How amazing! Why had no one told me about this?

I could hear voices now, getting closer. The Newcomers, running from their cottages with those fascinating white-eyed expressions. I wanted to show them my discovery, to share this wonderful new experience.

"Look!" I called out joyfully, holding up my bleeding hands. "Look what I learned! Look what happens when you break! It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen!"

But when they reached me, they didn't seem to share my excitement. Mother appeared and made those lovely gasping sounds, and Dr. Sweetworth was called.

"Oh, dear," Dr. Sweetworth said, kneeling beside me. "You've hurt yourself quite badly."

"Hurt?" I repeated the word with delight. "Is that what this feeling is called? Hurt? It's wonderful! It's like... like music, but in my body!"

Dr. Sweetworth's face did something strange. He started cleaning my scrapes while I laughed and tried to catch the red liquid in my hands.

"Cordelia, you shouldn't be enjoying this."

"But why not? It's so interesting! So much more interesting than being content! Look how the red makes such pretty patterns! And the feeling — oh, the feeling is extraordinary! It's like I've been asleep my whole life, and suddenly I'm awake!"

Mother was making those lovely silver-tear-crying sounds. "Cordelia, darling, you're frightening us. This isn't supposed to feel good."

"But it doesn't feel good," I said, still laughing as Dr. Sweetworth bandaged my wounds. "I think it might even feel bad! It feels like... like the opposite of content, and it's magnificent!"

The Newcomers all exchanged those looks again — the ones that made me feel like I was missing something crucial.

"You don't understand," I said, flexing my bandaged hands and delighting in how the sensation changed and shifted. "This is what they have over there. This is what makes their songs so beautiful."

Mrs. Claudia's enormous mouth was making those puffing sounds again. "Cordelia, you can't want to feel pain. That's not how it works."

"Pain!" I repeated the word like a prayer. "What a beautiful word! Is that what this is? Pain? I want to learn everything about it! I want to feel all the different kinds! I want to understand their songs!"

I could see it in their wide eyes—they thought I was broken. But I wasn't broken. For the first time in my life, I was working. For the first time, I was real.

I looked back across the intersection at the place where everything “bad” happens, where people sang their complex songs of pain and painted beautiful red patterns and felt things that were more than content, more than perfect, more than the gentle humming numbness I'd known my entire life.

I wanted to go back.

I wanted to learn more songs.

I wanted to paint more red patterns and feel more of this incredible aliveness that made every moment sharp and immediate and true.

But they took me home to my cottage with its breathing walls and rearranging furniture and gave me stronger happiness supplements that made the wonderful pain fade to a dull, disappointing ache. They made me take baths in water that was exactly the same temperature every day until the beautiful red patterns washed away.

And every Tuesday, I went back to the intersection with my teacup, staring across at the place where people made beautiful music. The Newcomers watched me more carefully now, their white eyes following my every movement. But they couldn't watch me all the time.

The people across the intersection were living. Really, truly living in ways I'd never imagined possible.

So the next Tuesday, I brought my own teacup — the one with the crack in it that Mother had always tried to throw away but I kept rescuing from the trash bins. After all, I reasoned as I stood at my eternal intersection, if you're going to learn about breaking, you might as well start with something that's already figured out how to be imperfect.

I held it up to catch the light from across the intersection, watching how the colors played through the crack like liquid fire. Then, very deliberately, I let it fall.

The sound it made hitting the cobblestones was perfect — a sharp, crystalline note that sang briefly and then scattered into a hundred smaller songs. I knelt down to look at the pieces, each one catching the light differently now, each fragment creating its own small shadows and reflections.

I picked up the sharpest fragment and drew it across my palm. A perfect red line appeared, welling up like a signature written in the most honest ink I'd ever seen. The pain was exquisite — sharp and immediate and so intensely present that it made every moment of my nineteen years feel like a gentle dream I was finally waking up from.

"Oh," I whispered, watching my reflection fracture into a dozen different versions of myself in the scattered pieces. "Now I understand why they sing."

I laughed — not the perfect, tinkling laugh I'd been taught, but something raw and genuine that tore its way out of my throat.

Behind me, Mrs. Claudia's voice called out, "Cordelia, dear, what are you doing?”

"Look!" I called out, holding up my bleeding hand. "Look how beautiful it is when something real happens!"

"Cordelia, you need to come back over here," Mrs. Claudia pleaded, her voice cracking like her perfect vocal cords were learning to be imperfect. "You need your supplements."

I took a step toward the left side of the intersection. The moment my foot crossed some invisible line, the air changed — thicker, more textured, full of scents that made my eyes water in the most wonderful way.

"You don't understand," Mrs. Cranston sobbed. "We came from over there. We chose this. We escaped from all that pain and chaos. Why would you want to go over there?"

"Because," I said, taking another step across the line, "I feel alive over there."

I turned away from Serenity Gardens and walked toward the place where everything “bad” happens.

Behind me, I heard Mrs. Claudia whisper, "What have we done?"

And then, to my absolute delight, I heard something I'd never heard before in Serenity Gardens: the sound of someone else throwing their teacup onto the cobblestones.

Then I heard another.

And another.