tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79082728716559398172024-03-05T06:12:49.746-06:00What's Best Left BuriedMy blog, my thoughts, my stories.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.comBlogger60125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-51790971062148708762016-08-01T11:18:00.000-05:002016-08-01T11:18:15.495-05:00Pocket<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The first time Claire opened the
closet door and found a long, dark hallway, she closed the door and left. A silver jolt of adrenaline snarled up from her
stomach to her heart and then constricted around her throat. Her fingers curled arthritically around the
door knob and her hand felt separated from the rest of her body by static, but
she managed to close the door. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Closed the door and left the room.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Within a day, the memory had taken
on a surreal, fuzzy tone and by the fourth day, she could not think about it in
the same space as reality. She’d had
vivid dreams all her life. She could
remember certain dreamscapes more clearly than the house she was born in. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She did not go back and open the
closet door. She knew she didn’t have
to. Didn’t have to prove anything. Her older sister, Jen, and her boyfriend,
Marco, opened it all the time and there was always just a closet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It was the trauma.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The stress.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The sleepless nights and the new
surroundings.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I’d stayed with Jen before and I’d
known Marco almost as long as Jen had, but this wasn’t a sleepover in my big
sister’s city apartment. This was Dad
finally losing his job again and Child Services finding his stash after I had to
drive him to the hospital. I hadn’t been
able to stay in my own lane on the drive there and had been pulled over. Dad and I had been loaded into the cop car
and taken the rest of the way to the hospital.
The cop said I wouldn’t be in trouble, I was only thirteen. I’d done what I thought was right and blah,
blah, blah, did I know what had happened to my father?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
His nose was bleeding and he was
puking and seizing, of course I knew what was wrong with my dad. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Marco cleared out his office the
day I got there, stacking all his stuff in the corners of the living room. He left his desk in there until he could
reorganize the living room.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“We’ll look into something better
than an air mattress soon,” Jen promised.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Which means they think this is
permanent. Marco’s sacrificing his office
and Jen’s buying me a bed. Dad’s gonna
survive, but they don’t think he’ll keep custody. Jen thinks she’d be a better guardian than
Dad. She’d never say it, not now that
she’s outta the house, anyway, but she still thinks it. Marco thinks so too, but he comes from a real
family. He thinks Dad should always get
another chance anyway.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
No one talks about custody. We talk about him, but not about it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“He’s agreed to go into rehab
again.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“He’ll get it straight this time,
it never sticks the first try.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“We’ll make a trip over there next
weekend.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Dad loves Marco. Loves him.
He knows Marco believes in family, knows Marco will always give him a
second chance. And a third. And now he knows Marco will make sure Jen
can’t keep me away from him. She wouldn’t,
but he worries.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
****<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Weekends came and went before
Claire opened the closet again. This
time she brought a flashlight. Because
it was only her. Because Jen and Marcos
and that one dude who had bunked here during a road trip all opened the closet and
it was just a closet. Because when Jen
had been busy making breakfast and asked Claire to grab a jacket from the
closet, she had faked sick to avoid opening the door and seeing that
not-closet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
So while Jen was at work and Marco
was out to meet her for lunch, Claire grabbed a flashlight and went to the
closet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The closet opened into
darkness. Claire’s thumb slipped off the
button twice before she managed to click on the flashlight. The beam twitched and swayed. The hallway’s floor was made of what looked
like chain link fencing, but the links were much smaller and closer
together. The walls were corrugated
sheet metal. When Claire turned the beam
to the ceiling, she felt the floor lurch beneath her feet slightly. Above her was pure blackness and even with
the flashlight, she could not see the ceiling.
She turned the beam back downward.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The walls wept rivulets of
corrosion and rust down its ridges.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
At the very edge of her
flashlight’s beam, Claire could make out a wall where the hall branched right
and left. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Crouching just outside the
threshold, she tapped the end of her flashlight against the floor. The beam flickered off briefly and the floor <i>clinked</i>.
Claire waited—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>One-one
thousand.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Two-one
thousand…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>…One
hundred twenty-one thousand.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
—and nothing changed. The floor didn’t fall away, there was no scrabbling
within the walls, and no voices calling faintly from within. Claire pressed her hand lightly against the
floor and then pressed down. Harder and
harder, but the metal links barely bowed at all. Which, she knew, meant it was time to
decide. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She stalled a minute longer,
turning the flashlight over in her hand and rapping the butt of it loudly
against the wall. The sound echoed down
the hall a ways and she counted off sixty seconds. She stretched out her right leg, straddling
bedroom and the closet. And then she
brought her left foot across. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When her father hadn’t paid the
cable bill, he’d joked about ants taking over the TV when all they could see
was static. Little black and white ants
rioting across the screen. Her chest
felt like that now, like roiling waves of insects skittering around inside of
her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She stomped one foot against the
floor and the chain links <i>chink </i>and <i>chime</i> sharply. No light pushed into her peripheral vision
from behind, from where the windows in Jen’s bedroom were. The air smelled stale and damp and little
motes of light flew in little flurries across her flashlight’s beam. Deeper into the not-closet, metal groaned
softly. Her legs wouldn’t carry her another
step forward. The sound of her foot first
clanking against the floor had severed all lines of communication between her
brain and her extremities. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Which is all the same in the end
because the only signals her brain could send out involve complicated strings
of shrill, panicked denials. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
A shining sliver of panic lodged
into her brain. Behind her, where the
closet door should have been and through which light from the bedroom windows should
have been shining, she heard hoarse, labored breathing. Close enough to cut through her brain’s vapor
lock. She spun back toward the door,
dimly aware that it must’ve been her own breathing that startled her, and saw
the doorway was still there. The bedroom
was just as she left it and sun was still shining in through the windows. The light just didn’t reach the
not-closet. It was like an unfinished
drawing, the light just <i>ended</i> at the
threshold. So did the distinctive smell
of the heavy duty laundry detergent Jen used.
The room had reeked of it since Marco had piled all the clean laundry
onto the bed to be sorted, but just a foot into the not-closet, the smell was
totally absent. So were the sounds of
suburbia. No cars, no lawnmowers, and no
kids running around on the weekend.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Just a low, bubbling snarl that
rolled through the corridor.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Her brain shut down entirely. Survival instincts older than the human race
kicked in like hotwiring a car. Exposed
wires touched and the engine coughed to life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Claire ran.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
****<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Marco found her crying in her room
when he got home from lunch. She didn’t
answer when he knocked on the door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Claire, I gotta know you’re
okay. If you can’t tell me you aren’t
concussed or bleeding, I <i>have </i>to come
in, alright?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She grunts something wet and hoarse
and not nearly coherent enough to appease Marco. He comes in, eyes circling her. Looking for any sign of injury. No blood, no heavy fallen objects, and no
holes in the wall so he shifts gears.
Loud, concerned, and authoritative softens.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Hey, hey, hey, Claire—Claire
what’s wrong?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It takes a couple minutes of
cajoling just to get the ball rolling, but eventually Claire remembers the
basics of human speech.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Nothing, Marco, nothing. Sorry, just forget about it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
He crouches down next to me and
puts a hand on my forearm. His hands are
delicate and slim and Jen always makes fun of them when they pretend to
bicker. I turn my head so none of the
tears trickle down onto his hand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“You know the house rules, I’m not
allowed to forget about it if you keep crying.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“That’s not a thing, you made that
up. Just—”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“C’mon, kid. I know I’m not Jen, but I <i>am</i> almost a fully-functional adult and
I’m engaged to a psychiatric nurse. That
has to make me qualified to help out a crying middle-school girl, right?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Marco, it’s—I don’t wanna talk
about it, okay?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Was it a boy? I’m not much good at fixing heartbreak, but I
can call Grandma Fuentes. She’s got
hook-ups with some nasty folks. Cartels
and shit, y’know?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I hiccup and snort. Grandma Fuentes is short and plump and the
smiliest person on Earth. When I look up
at him, the world comes into focus. The
new room filled with my old stuff. The
baseboard of my bed that I’m leaning against, the brightly colored pillows and
blankets, the mess on the floor, and the light from the window coating almost
every surface in sight. Outside sounds
come filtering in. The gushing tears
subside into a leaky, snotty mess.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Shut up, Marco. I’m gonna tell her you’re lying about her
again.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Normalcy slowly reasserts
itself. The impossible starts feeling
impossible again. Closets are just
closets and I’m just some little girl crying on her older sister’s fiancé. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I drop my head, so my hair covers
my face, and wipe my nose.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“How was lunch with Jen?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It takes a second for him to
respond. If he answers, it takes us
completely away from whatever I was crying about. I keep my head down until he speaks, putting
my face back together and letting the fabric of reality knit itself back
together.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Good, good. Went to that little pub thing, McArthur’s.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Talk about anything fun?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Eh, I think they’re gonna cancel
one of the comics I’m working on right now, so I don’t need to be three issues
ahead anymore.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Aw, which one?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“The ghost story one.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“<i>Campfires</i>? But your art was
so good on that one!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Marco smiles. “Yeah, but did you actually read it? Dude had no idea what to do with the story
after they gave him a second story arc.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“True.” I pause.
“And he wasn’t a great writer to start with.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Heh, at least he sent me the
scripts on time.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The normalcy briefly butts up
against what happened earlier, but my brain is getting less and less willing to
process it with every second. “Not like Duncan.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
He rolls his eyes
dramatically. “Duncan is an <i>artiste</i>, what does punctuality mean to a
work of such literary import?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I turn up my nose haughtily—the
image slightly offset by the sniffling, “The critics simply <i>adore</i> your collaboration though,
Marco.” My hand flutters. “The, the…<i>symbiosis</i>
of your pencils and his words is simply <i>transcendent</i>.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Ugh,” he grimaces “Now you’re just
reading the back cover of the first trade paperback. And don’t let Jen hear you talk like that,
she still likes Duncan.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I snort. “That’s because she thinks it’ll be an easy
out-patient procedure to get his head back out of his ass.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Marco laughs. “Don’t swear like that. Jen’s gonna think you’re picking up bad
habits from me, kid.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
****<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The metal floor rattled and clinked
as she walked across. Halfway between
the door and the wall ahead, Claire uncapped an oversized car marker and drew a
huge orange arrow pointing back toward the door. She capped the marker and swung the
flashlight beam over the arrow, it lit up slightly like a reflector on a bike.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Sleep deprivation and wildly
inconsistent eating habits have taken their toll. Her brain felt stuck between gears, a
single-minded, obsessive focus on the not-closet and a floaty disconnect from
the world. Her skull felt a size too
small for her brain and her scalp tingled.
The ant riot raged across her chest.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She’d almost brought Jen or Marco
along with her this time. The closet was
just a closet when they opened it, but what about when she opened it in front
of them? Almost. She’d been stymied by the other side of the
coin. What if she opened the door and
there was nothing? To be crazy and
unable to tell reality from fantasy or to be sane and thought crazy. Those would be her options at that point and
she might never figure out which was true.
Jen worked at a psych ward for teenagers. Just a couple days ago they’d admitted a girl
because of a psychotic break. Couldn’t
figure out what was real. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Jen came home exhausted that night,
looked completely heartbroken telling Marco about that girl. It was that look that kept Claire from
talking to them. Because that girl was
only two years older than Claire and couldn’t figure out what was real. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
So she’d walked over to Wal Mart,
bought two car markers and a backup flashlight.
She’d loaded her hand-me-down satchel bag with the markers, flashlight,
a bottle of water, and a bag of Chex mix and waited for the house to empty out.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Trying to get a grasp on her own
thoughts felt like trying to pick a single conversation out of the din of the
gym right before an assembly started. It
was all jumbled fragments and foggy murmurs that never solidified. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Carrots
and peas. Carrots and peas.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Her dad had told her that when
actors needed to create noise like background conversations, they would say
things like “carrots and peas” and gesture like it all meant something
grand. Nonsense sounds to round out the
silence. But the bit players in her head
weren’t doing their jobs right. The din
was becoming a rising tide, drowning out the important dialogue. The leads were tripping over their lines and
only a few useful bits of information could reach through the noise.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Leave
an arrow.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Shine
a light down the hallway before walking.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Drink
some water.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Carrots
and peas.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The fragments that made it through,
they weren’t really her thoughts. She
was vaguely aware of that. The car
marker was just breadcrumbs. The light
was just look before you leap. The water
was just her Dad’s voice, ironic advice about her health. All external thoughts that had lodged into
her brain.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The beam of her flashlight bobbed
from wall-to-wall-to-floor and it occurred to Claire that something had
changed. The floor was no longer rusted
links of metal, it was cement. Rough
like sandpaper and, in places, damp and stained. A sharp, acidic smell wafted towards her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
One of her own fragments shouted to
be heard. Over and over, the same
sentiment tumbled softly through her mind.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>What
if Jen comes home?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>What
if Marco comes into the bedroom during a break?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Over and over.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>What
happens if someone closes the door?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Claire turned a corner without
uncapping the marker. Freezes. The last seven seconds rubber banded back to
her brain. Like having a conversation
where you didn’t quite hear what the other person said and your brain takes a
second to process it, getting the information straightened out even as you say
“what?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The part of her brain focused on
walking herself through this maze, the part dedicated to breadcrumbs and
hydration, and the part overrun by anxieties and questions, they all drew her
attention in rapid-fire bursts. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The brain doesn’t really
multitask. Not the way people like to
think. A teacher had explained it when a
student tried to say she was paying attention to the assignment and texting. You can do multiple things at once—breathe,
walk, listen to music—but your brain isn’t focusing on those things all at
once. Breathing and walking and idly
thinking, those are all automatic. The brain
can do them without any conscious thought.
But trying to do multiple things that require real brain power at once
doesn’t work. The brain can’t really
manage it. Instead, it splits its focus,
jumping from one to the next to the next in rapid succession. It gives the illusion of multitasking,
particularly to those who can shift focus very quickly, but it’s
imperfect. There are gaps. Holes.
Overlap. Places where something
gets lost in the mix.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Something Claire had missed finally
caught. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The last time she turned, she
hadn’t left an arrow. And maybe the time
before. She had made three turns in
fairly rapid succession, had she marked any of them?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The floor changed to concrete, but
the walls were also different. Painted cinderblocks, instead of rusted sheet
metal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Footsteps. Soft, almost inaudible footsteps approached
from off to her left. Still a ways off,
but moving towards her. Until they
stopped. For a second there was silence
and then she heard footsteps again, softly <i>clop,
clopping</i> like the wingtips her Dad wore to work and to court. Another hall cut across up ahead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Clop, clop, clop, clop, clop... clop, </i><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">clop, clop, clop, </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The footsteps crossed at the
intersection ahead, but nothing crossed Claire’s flashlight beam. Just little motes of dust, drunkenly tumbling
to the floor. The footsteps trailed off
to the right and Claire took two hurried steps forward. Keeping tight to the left wall, she craned
her neck out to see around the corner. She heard footsteps still faintly marching
forward, but whether they were real or not delved down too many levels for her
to process.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
From around the corner behind her,
something rumbled a cracked, wheezing bass tone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Claire dropped her flashlight and
pushed off the wall. She turned to run,
stepped on the flashlight, and tumbled to the ground. The flashlight’s beam spun sickeningly. Her left ankle, her forearms, and hands shot
flares up to her brain. Until Claire
looked in the direction of the rumble as the flashlight’s beam came to a
stop. Half of the beam splashed against
the corner, but enough of it went down the hall to completely disable Claire’s
fine motor skills. Her brain gibbered
and howled.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It was humanoid, hulking and
malformed. One enormous arm rested
against the wall. The other arm was
shorter, swinging uselessly at its side.
Its head lolled sideways against its massive right arm, looking
downward. Spittle and what looked like
blood dribbled down off its face and onto the floor. Some part of her brain connected the stains
and dampness. The creature shivered,
lurched a half-step forward, and made a gurgling, retching noise. Something wet and stringy <i>plopped </i>to the floor. It shook harder and rumbled again, deep and
fuzzy, like a blown-out subwoofer. Not
just spit and blood, stomach acid. It
was so hunched over it could barely lift its head to walk. Barely illuminated, its face looked like
rotted flesh that had melted like wax. Its
stench was a tangible thing, hands pressed tightly over her mouth and
nose. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Her brain struggled to start back
up, but kept tripping over itself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>How
had this thing snuck up on her? How had
she not noticed it sooner?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It stumbled and vomited again,
blood and stomach acid and foamy spit splotching the floor and her brain
finally coughed to life. For a brief
second, she had seen the image of a person superimposed against the hulking
thing. Moving forward with stumbling,
rubber-legged steps and a hand against the wall, blood and spit and vomit
trailing behind. The image held for half
a second before fading, but it was enough.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Claire spun, kicked up off the
ground, and ran. Her stride was uneven,
her ankle swollen, but she was back on the rusted chain-link floor in
seconds. Seconds after that, she saw the
doorway back to Jen’s room. A small
voice bristled at the impossibility of finding the door so quickly and so
close, but Claire pushed that voice down as far as she could. She needed the door and the door was there,
that’s what mattered.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
****<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Is Dad crazy?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And just like that, it’s out. Completely circumventing the
thinking-things-through part of my brain and going right to the
let’s-blurt-out-all-the-edgy-paranoid-things-running-around-my-head part. Something happens to Jen’s face, but I don’t
look too closely to find out what.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I mean, it’s a disease,
right? Addiction’s a disease in your
mind. That’s what everyone kept telling
us. ‘It’s not his fault.’ ‘There’s nothing you could do, don’t blame
yourselves.’ All that stuff.” Somebody’s cut the brake line to my
mouth. I’m hot and I’m shaking and I
can’t stop talking. I think I’m actually
melting from the inside-out. “So
something in his brain isn’t wired right or, or, or, it-it’s not <i>firing</i> right or not producing
something. It’s not voices-in-your-head
crazy or seeing-something-that’s-not-there cr—”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Whatever I was ignoring in Jen
comes to a head. She wraps her arms
around me and presses her cheek against mine so fast and so hard that my head
bounces off of hers. Little bruised,
purple splotches creep around the corners of my vision. For a second, I wonder if I really am
melting. Jen’s squeezing me like I might
slosh through her fingers and the left side of my face and neck is wet. Until I actually hear her softly sob, it
doesn’t hit home that she’s crying. I
lean into her and we sit like that for a minute. Jen softly crying and me too stuck between
babbling and hugging to do anything else.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She leans away for a second,
splotchy and snotty and staring intensely.
She rests her hands against my cheeks.
“How long have I taken care of you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Automatically, I think: <i>Twelve,
almost thirteen years.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Mom and Dad had figured out how
badly they worked right around when Jen started developing adult perceptions of
the world. And then they screwed up and
had another kid. I have no idea why they
stayed together as long as they did, but Mom was gone within a year of me being
born. Dad told me once that he’d had to
fight tooth and nail to keep me from being aborted. I don’t think he remembers telling me
anything about it. Dad loved kids, but
wasn’t the sort to anchor an entire family all on his own. He had his hands full balancing keeping a job
and hiding his drug abuse. Jen managed
the home front. Made friends with our
elderly neighbor, Miss Williams, so someone could look after me while she was
at school and kept the house running after she got out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She’s turning twenty-seven in a
month and a half and she’ll have spent nearly thirteen years of her life taking
care of me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Forever,” I finally say. “Even after you moved in with Marco, I spent
more time here than at home.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“And now you’re here with me
full-time and I’m seeing less of you than I did before.” She runs her thumb across my cheek, wiping
away a leaky drip I hadn’t even noticed.
“I’m working too much, I—”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Jen, you’re busy. You’re covering shifts. Your job is importa—”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m <i>making </i>myself busy.” She
blurts. “I’m picking up too many extra
shifts, way more than I should. Zari’s
told me she’s gonna stop letting me cover shifts if I keep this up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Zari lost a nurse last year. Suicide.
She was sweet before, always fawning over how I’d grown at Christmas
parties and the like. Since then, she’s
looked a little ragged. Spread thin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Jen’s stopped crying. Her face is red and her nose is runny, but
she’s back to what I always think of as The Core of Jen: ignoring all the white noise and focusing in
on what she wants. Nursing school,
taking care of Dad and me, or making a relationship with Marco work through it
all. Whatever she wants, whatever she
centers her focus on, is all there is in existence. It’s probably why she and Marco have made it
work, despite her splitting focus between him, nursing, and her family. It’s probably why Dad gets so worried
sometimes, he knows he has rightfully earned her ire. And it’s why, when my mind drifts towards the
closet again, I finally have a moment of clarity.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I wash my hands for what feels like
the seventh time in the last ten minutes and splash water on my face. I turn the knob all the way to the right and
then splash some more water on my face.
The skin around my eyes whines about the cold and my stomach threatens
another rebellion, but I am in control of all this. The cold water cleared my head and my stomach
has already emptied itself completely. I
close my eyes and just breathe. Deep
inhale through my nose. Hold it. Even, measured exhale through my mouth. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Repeat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Repeat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Repeat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I must have picked up a dozen
calming and relaxation methods from Jen when she was in school. It doesn’t stop my legs from shaking or my
stomach from trying to collapse in on itself, but it uproots my feet from the
tile floor and starts me out toward Jen’s bedroom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Jen would be thrilled to know that
some of the relaxation exercises she practiced on me actually got put to
use. Maybe I’ll make up a story about a
really hard test and tell her I breathed my way through it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I wrap my hand around the doorknob
and turn slowly so that the latch retracting doesn’t make a sound. I swing the door halfway open in one motion
and it groans softly in protest. Any
further and it’ll really start to creak.
I turn sideways and squeeze through the gap, careful not to lean forward
or backward and bump into anything. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When Elena had moved away three
years ago, I had dreamt of walking out through the sliding doors. Instead of coming out in our backyard, I came
out in a small glass box, hovering over the neighborhood. Everything moved at double or triple speed
below. Moving vans took up most of
Elena’s driveway. The movers came and
went, carrying boxes and furniture out into the back of the vans, but as each
item was set down it caught fire. A box
came to rest, ignited, burned brilliantly for a second or two, and then another
box was set down on the ashes and the cycle began anew. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Elena’s family had lived in that
house for years before we moved in two doors down. She was the first playdate I went on after
moving in. We’d gotten on the bus
together for the first day of school. We
sat together every day for lunch and brought homework assignments for each
other when one of us was sick. My mom
left when I was too young to really understand, so Elena was my first experience
with losing someone important. I
remember a lot of sitting around my room, but I remember the nightmares more
than anything else.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I move on my tiptoes, trying to
minimize the floor’s groans. The
carpet’s too thin to soften my footsteps much.
Marco grunts and fidgets in his sleep and I freeze. My stomach clenches more tightly into a ball and
a prickling wave of cold rolls out through my abdomen. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Two years before Elena moved, Dad
didn’t come home one weekend. Left for
work Friday morning and didn’t come home for dinner. He wasn’t home when Jen and I woke up the
next morning either. Later that night, I woke up and walked around the
house. I couldn’t see out any of the
windows and neither of the doors out would open. Dad wasn’t in his room and neither was
Jen. I walked around until I heard a
scratching in the kitchen. As I got
closer to the pantry, I realized it wasn’t just one scratching sound. Faint, like it was coming from far deeper
back than the pantry even extended, I could hear small, sharp things
scraping. I ran out of the kitchen and
heard scratching under the sofa in the living room. Heard it in the armchair and saw something
straining against the cushion’s cloth.
The scratching was in the towel closet in the hall and under the sink in
the bathroom and franticly clawing at Dad’s door. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I told Jen about it the next
morning—Dad was still not home—about how real it was and how I couldn’t
remember waking up from it, I just opened my bedroom door and was back in the
normal house. She told me it was a
dream, that she never left her bedroom last night. Maybe I’d heard a bird or squirrel scratching
at the window and that had made it into my dream. She told me that she knew the best remedy for
bad dreams—a sleepover in her room. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Dad had shown up after a dinner of
mac ‘n cheese. Jen sent me to her room
and the two of them fought it out. I
could hear Jen screaming even down the hall.
Afterward, Jen came in and we stayed in for the rest of the night. We watched movies on her laptop until it was
time for bed. Curled up next to Jen, I
didn’t dream of a house filled with scratching, but for weeks afterward I was
convinced there was something wrong with that house. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I remind myself that tonight is
just a test run. Tell myself I’m not
going inside if the closet isn’t a closet when I open it. Tell myself again, that I am in control. I breathe deeply as Jen snores softly. Each part of the breath, the inhale, the
pause, and the exhale, all last longer than usual. I make a conscious effort to breathe in more
deeply than is natural, to pause longer than is comfortable, and to breathe out
until my lungs feel empty. None of it
automatic, none of it out of my control.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
My arms are heavy and unwieldly,
but they move when I tell them to. My
hand grips the door knob. I look over at the bed—<i>Jen is right over there</i>—and pull the closet open. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Nothing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Clothes and shoes and sheets and
blankets.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The next morning, I ask Jen if I
can borrow a scarf. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Which one?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I dunno, come pick one out with
me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She smiles, doubly ready to do her
sisterly duties after our talk, and leads me to her room. I slip in front of her so I’m the one opening
the door. Later today, I’ll probably have
a heart-shaped bruise in the center of my chest from the industrial-strength
beating it’s doing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The door opens up and I practically
collapse into the closet. I don’t leave
the closet the whole time. I stand in the
threshold, draping one scarf over my shoulders and then the next, modeling for
Jen. She chooses the striped one, an
array of icy blues, purples, and white cascading down to the fringy edges. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Halfway to the door, I stop.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Go ahead, I’m gonna go back to the
closet and grab a blanket. I was a
little cold last night.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Last
time. Final test.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>The
closet was a closet with them asleep, it was a closet with Jen in here with me,
and it’s going to be a closet again when I’m alone.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
More of Jen’s breathing exercises.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I wait until I hear her talking to
Marco in the kitchen before opening the closet again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Nothing.<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-49530173123899050792015-02-02T22:59:00.000-06:002015-02-02T22:59:18.915-06:00Straight to Hell<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: 0in;">
<i>There ain't no need for you!<br />
There ain't no need for you…<br />
Go straight to hell, boy…<br />
Go straight to hell, boy!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
D’ya wanna know a secret?
I think I like The Menzingers’ cover of Straight to Hell better than the
original rendition by The Clash. Don’t
tell anyone. The punk community would
have me taken outside the city limits and stoned to death. It’s not that The Menzingers are a bad band
(they’re one of the best punk bands to come out of the 2000s); it’s just
unfathomably heretical to say anyone can do a Clash song better than The
Clash. If you ask me though, The
Menzingers just run a current through the song that The Clash never did. Kicks ya right in the ass.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But who am I to say?
I’m probably drunk…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: 0in;">
<i>You wanna join in a chorus<br />
Of the Amerasian blues?<br />
When it's Christmas out in Ho Chi Minh City<br />
Kiddie say papa papa papa papa papa-san, take me home<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“See me got’a pho’o—pho’o—pho’ograp’! Uh you an’ Ma’,
Ma’a-san! Uh you ‘n’ Ma’a Ma’a-san!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, judging from my slurring I’m definitely drunk. I push myself off the couch and stagger
toward the kitchen for another drink. Swaying
around my coffee table and managing to squeeze through the doorway that refuses
to stay still, I nearly topple over the second my foot hits vinyl. For a moment I look like one of those child’s
toys, weighted at the bottom so I’ll always bounce back up for me. The counter pushes me to the refrigerator
which bounces me in a semi-circle before I catch myself on the stove.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wezley wob’les bu’ he ‘on’t fall down! Hee Hee!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I slump to the floor still laughing. I dunno when the evening stopped being funny,
but pretty soon I’m crying instead of laughing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The’ you re’lize you got’a ‘ave a pur’ose…or ‘his place iz
gonna knock you ou’ sooner er la’er.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ignore the bottle sitting somewhere above my head and I
ignore that I’m still wearing everything but my suit jacket. Instead I focus on how nice the cool, smooth
floor feels against my throbbing head and I drift listlessly into dark.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wake up to the dull patter of rain against the kitchen
window. Gray, shifting skies tell me the
rain probably won’t let up any time soon.
Just as well, if the sun was out in full force I’d have to pull the
curtains for the sake of my headache. I
push myself up off the ground (<i>upsy-daisy</i>)
and squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for the motion sickness to pass. Just makes me wonder why I drink.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: 0in;">
<i>As I dig my hands in the cold, dark
dirt<br />
In a search for roots now lost forever<br />
With one last great hope of a messiah<br />
I check the time and admit to the surrender terms.<br />
Remember the days when I had a conscience?<br />
Yeah, me neither.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shuffle into the living room and jab at the stereo’s power
button to kill the music. I don’t really
like the silence any better, so I turn the power back on and scroll through my
iPod. I settle on a playlist and turn
the volume down a bit. Red City Radio
filters through the speakers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: 0in;">
<i>We're moving backwards, not forwards<br />
And the time we've wasted is killing us<br />
And it's time that we all grow up<br />
And it's time that we lose our way home<br />
And it's time that we found a new one<br />
Where nobody else knows <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Good modern punk bands are few and far between so I spend a
minute just enjoying the music.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next up is a change of clothes and a thorough mouth
cleaning. I wobble down the hall,
catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror and do a double take. I’m still baby-faced, my haircut is still too
short, and my eyes are still bloodshot but the shadowy figure is no longer
standing over my shoulder. Life’s little
blessings.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I kick off my shoes and strip off my shirt, my tie, and my
slacks. My phone falls out of my pocket,
hitting the carpet with a soft <i>whump</i>. Without giving it any real thought I scoop
the phone off the ground, run my thumb of the screen in a jagged, angular
pattern to unlock it, and scroll down to Jenna’s number.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her voice is warm and friendly and inviting and her laugh is
so genuine I almost forget why I’m calling.
She asks if I wanna put something on the books and I ask if she’s got
time for me tonight. I can hear her
smiling on the other end of the line when she tells me that she does indeed and
would I like to meet at her place or mine.
I tell her mine and not to eat, I’ll cook for her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Nobody else is half the gentleman you are, Wesley. I’ll be around at 8.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> And the only thing we
know<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i><i>Is it’s getting dark
and we better go<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i><i>And the only thing we
say<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i><i>Are the despairs of
the day<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i><i>And if you’re too
tired<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i><i>Go to sleep, my
brothers, I<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i><i>And if you’re too
tired<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i><i>Go to sleep, my
brothers, I’m alright to drive<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i><i>And we’re much too
young of men<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i><i>To carry such heavy
heads<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i><i>And tonight for the
first time<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i><i>It felt good to be
alive<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I put the appointment into my phone’s calendar within a
second of hanging up. I set an alarm as
well. I’d like to say I did this because
I was so thoroughly organized but the truth was that an alarm made sure I
didn’t start drinking again and lose track of the day. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I scratch my ribs, a familiar gesture that ran my
fingernails over an old tattoo. Four
vertical black bars staggered so that the first and third were shifted up
slightly higher than the second and third.
It had faded a bit during its decade plus long life, but there’s no
mistaking Black Flag’s logo. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Water</i>, the only
fully functional part of my brain reminds me.
My brain’s developed a heartbeat and my stomach feels like a landfill
and everyone on earth has a surefire (made-up) way to cure a hangover, but at
the end of the day a hangover’s dehydration.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That and your brain trying to comprehend its own
stupidity. And either way, a greasy
breakfast from McDonald’s the same as a sugar pill.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stick glass under the sink, fill it, and chug it and then
repeat the process, ignoring the uncomfortable sloshing feeling in my
stomach. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Standing in my kitchen, mostly naked, squinting, sipping a
third class of water, and smelling like a guy who got thrown out of bar and
kept on drinking once he got home, I put the glass down and head to the
bathroom. Calling Jenna distracted me
earlier, but basic hygiene still needs attending to.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I catch my hand before it automatically flips the bathroom
light on and tend to myself in a state of grey that seems to only exist on
cloudy weekend mornings. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Four aspirin first.
Someone at the office yesterday was telling me that dry swallowing
pills, especially on an empty stomach was bad for you, and when I politely
pretending that was interesting information I would use to better my life, went
on to tell me that I shouldn’t even keep pills in the bathroom at all. I wondered aloud why they called it a
medicine cabinet if I wasn’t supposed to keep pills in it. I never caught the explanation over the
raucous in my head, wondering why I was the only person dumb enough to get stuck
in these conversations. I splash my face
with water, run a toothbrush around my mouth, and try to avoid making eye
contact with myself in the mirror. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A fine bit of advice:
never make eye contact with someone looking for a fight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: 0in;">
<i><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Hey hey, I got a monster in the closet</span></i><i><br />
<span style="background: white;">The door's open even though I've tried to lock
it</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">His teeth are long, he's gonna eat me today</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">No matter what you say, I won't be OK, so there</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Hey hey, won't you just turn out your pocket</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">And gimme something I can put up on the docket</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">A simple strategy for fighting it back,</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">It's not like talking to it nice is gonna put it
on track</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Just a stick or a broom that'll help me get it
out of the room</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">I don't wanna meet my own doom tonight</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">So hey, just help me out</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">Lend me a shotgun please for just one bout</span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shorts,
t-shirt, socks, and tennis shoes. I’ve
been paying for gym membership for seven years now, despite the fact that the
last two years I can count the number of times I went on one hand. It’s already May and this year’s numbers are
on-track to be even worse. I stuff a
change of clothes into my gym bag along with a collection of short stories by
Kurt Vonnegut because who am I kidding, I can dress up all I want, I’m not
going to the gym. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll
walk to the bakery around the corner and then sit outside somewhere and maybe
finish a book I’ve already read three times.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“My jaw hurts.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jenna laughed. It was
warm and genuine and not at me. Never at
me, even when I was the only thing to laugh at.
She took the icepack out of my hand and pressed it to my jaw. “Of course it does, Wes. You got yourself punched by the pizza
delivery boy. You’re lucky he didn’t rob
you afterward.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Eh. He was a nice
enough guy, just wanted what he was owed.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She smiled. “That’s a
rather kind assessment of a man you just got into a fistfight with.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hah! You are a very
generous person to call me getting laid out by a frat boy a ‘fight’.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, I should see the other guy. I bet he’s a mess.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He may not look it, but he is all torn up inside. I bet it took him minutes, nay, seconds to
recover.” I run my tongue over my teeth. Thankfully nothing seems obviously
loose. “At least he waited for a full
three days after my jaw stopped hurting from last time.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She laughed again.
“Oh God, that’s right. You never told me what that was.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smiling costs me dearly, but it really is a funny story.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My head slid off of my hand and hit the bar chin first. Randall muffled a laugh behind his washcloth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fallin’ asleep on me Wesley?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smiled. I could see
my reflection in the mirror behind the bar, I looked drunk and cheery.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Asleep? Nah. I’m just plotting, but I fell too deep into
my own schemes and lost track of the real world.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This earned a belly laugh from Randall that he didn’t bother
to hide. “And what the hell are you
plotting with yourself in such a sorry state?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I grin my drunk’s grin again and point a wobbling finger
toward the shelf over Randall’s shoulder.
“That bottle ‘a whiskey. I’m
gonna steal it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Randall’s expression becomes the same semi-solemn look one
gives to a drunk or a child who wants to be taken seriously. I wonder which he thinks I am. “S’at so?
And how do you plan to pull off such a caper?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hee Hee. I can’t
tell you that, Randall.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, cuz if I knew you were gonna steal it, I’d be able to
stop you. Can’t have the heist of the
century foiled by a bartender past his fightin’ prime. It’d be an <i>embarrassment</i>.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tapped a finger against the general vicinity of my nose,
careful to avoid putting an eye out. It
took me three tries, but I finally managed to stop poking my cheek.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Another beer, bar keep!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Randall rolls his eyes and fills another mug. He sets it in front of me with a heavy <i>thunk</i>.
Randall doesn’t cheap out on his mugs, they’re solid and heavy and they
make me think of a longhouse full of Vikings swilling mead and swaying back and
forth after a successful day of looting and plundering. Randall wanders further down the bar to tend
to other customers, shaking his head and smiling. The moment his back’s turned I make my
move. I pull myself up onto the bar and
lunged toward the top shelf, hand extended toward the stubby neck of the
bottle. Things start going sideways
before I’ve covered half the distance.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Something brushed against my chest and my beer spills. Tenuous was my grip on the bar before my hand
was covered in beer and suddenly my grip is nonexistent. My stomach hits the bar and I start a rapid,
face-first, decent to the floor behind the bar.
Some generous, burly soul grabs my ankle and the back of my pants to
keep me from breaking my face on tile.
Instead my head jerks forward and my chin hits a shelf beneath the bar
hard enough that I lose a couple seconds.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bobby the Bouncer has me on the ground, leaning against the
bar and is asking me questions. Failing
to foil my heist, he decided to foil my fall instead. I smile and thank Bobby and he tells me his
name’s Barrett. I like Bobby better, but
whatever makes him happy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her laughter’s a little different this time, like it’s mixed
with something else. I don’t think I’ll
like whatever that is, so I smile (painfully) again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Small wonder I didn’t end up with a concussion or a missing
tooth.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I take the ice pack away and wave my hand at the pizza
sitting on the table. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Now, <i>eat</i>. It’s not much, but I slaved over it all
afternoon.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We sit in silence for awhile, she eats and I ice. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This is the third time I’ve had to open a tab, does your
guy do that with anyone else?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jenna’s caught pulling a piece of pizza away, strings of
cheese stretching between the two, being pulled on the rack. I can almost hear their little screams.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She shakes her head and swallows. “Not that I know of.” She smiles.
“I think he likes you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, he thinks I like <i>you</i>.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She tilts her head to the side and smiles some more. “Is he wrong?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smile, set the ice pack down, and reach for a slice of
pizza.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ya know what fascinated me as a kid?” She shakes her head politely. “The little phantom things you see out of the
corner of your eye. Like when you think
you see something until you look back and it’s gone. I always thought there were little shadow
people hiding in my periphery, living half in this world and half in
imagination, and it would be my life’s work to find and study them. Then I’d start writing a book and just got
native or something, life amongst the shadow people.”<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-3698143099162519742014-05-14T10:56:00.000-05:002014-05-14T10:56:27.661-05:00Shouldn't Someone Start Freaking Out Right Now?<div class="MsoNormal">
I have no idea where I am or where I’ll be going, so running
seems like a bad idea. I’m not too
terribly far from Nelson Boulevard, but I honestly don’t know Nelson all that
well so I might get lost even if I get back there. And I can’t very well start asking people for
directions with this blood on me or they’ll just call the cops and I’ll be
right back in this position.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Fuck, fuck, fuck,
fuck, fuck.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I dig my thumb into my thigh, fighting for a moment of
clarity. Only fragments come, but
they’re enough to get me started.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Okay, time for Plan B.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I drop the phone back into the bag and fish out my utility
knife. Cutting the cable ties nearly
gives me a panic attack, but I have to do it if I don’t want the cops far
enough up my ass to tickle my tonsils. I
stuff the knife and the busted ties back in the bag and fish her gun out. I set it next to her and then zip my bag up
and stuff it into a garbage can just as the lights give way to a Crown Vic
rolling slowly across the mouth of the alley.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I take a deep breath and start to panic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Here! Here!
Help!</i>”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For once in my life, I’m happy my voice will never be James
Earl Jones low. I’m hitting some pretty
high notes here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Crown Vic comes to an immediate stop and the cop riding
shotgun hops right out. My fake panic
stops melding with my real panic and starts being completely overwhelmed by it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I could get
arrested. I’m going to get brought in
for questioning. They’re gonna check the
alley and find my bag and God only knows what’ll happen then.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shotgun cop must see part of Easley sticking out from behind
the garage because he pulls his gun out.
My hands spring right up and his gun twitches upward for a second before
I realize he’s not aiming it at me. The
driver is out of the car now too and is following his partner down the alley,
gun drawn. The first guy pulls up short
of me once he sees Easley sprawled across the ground, his eyes keep flickering
between her and me. Thankfully his gun
stays pointed at the ground. His
partner, who I’m now noticing is the elder of the two, holsters his gun once he
reaches the scene.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Elder Cop puts a hand on Junior Cop’s shoulder and whispers
something to him. Junior gets right to
work rolling Easley over and cuffing her.
Elder sets his sights on me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are you hurt?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s hard to focus on anything. Is his expression concerned or
suspicious? If they bring me in will I
have to sit in the back with Easley?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He speaks more slowly.
His voice is surprisingly calm.
“Are you hurt?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My voice is not. “No.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Whose blood is that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I look down at my shirt and assume there’s more of it on my
face. I don’t look like I just butchered
someone, but I might’ve just killed a chicken and only cleaned the feathers
off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Um. Hers. I, uh, broke her nose. I think.”
I shake my head, trying to clear it.
The good news here is I’m gonna be able to sell the shell-shocked victim
spiel. The bad news is, of course, that it’s mostly true. My ability to think clearly and coherently
hit its peak when I came up with my little plan of escape, and that plan
involved getting myself pistol whipped so it wasn’t exactly a shining moment of
intellect. It’s all been downhill since
then.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He holds a hand out.
“My name’s officer Mitchell Abrams.
And from the look of her, I’d say the nose is pretty broken. Tough thing to have to do, defending yourself
like that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stare at him for a second, wondering if anyone could
sincerely be this much of a “good cop” and if so, is his partner equally “bad
cop”? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I take his hand, but I don’t think my grip’s particularly
impressive today. “I—I don’t…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He blinks and makes an odd face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Shit, yeah—‘how did you guys find me?’—right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I really hope I’m not that transparent about everything.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We got a couple calls, saying a woman was holding someone
at gunpoint on Nelson. We had a couple
cars in the neighborhood with all this Easley bullshit going on, so we wondered
if it wasn’t her. You got all kinds of
lucky, kid.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Certainly seems that
way.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Listen, my partner’s called in another unit to come and
pick you up so we can drive you to the station separate from that woman. Nothing serious, we just need a statement. We’ll get you checked by an EMT too. Is that alright?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My head feels swimmy when I nod. When Junior Cop gets back, it’s his turn to
tap and whisper. Abrams turns back to me
and this time I’m sure he’s at least a little suspicious. He’s looking past me to where Easley was
lying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wesley.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wesley, my partner found blood over there by where our car
is now. On the sidewalk. Is that related to this?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My head’s spinning and I’m feeling a little sick, but I
still know a cop question when I hear it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah. It’s hers.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Is that where you hit her?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I nod. <i>Just tell the truth. Most of the truth is completely reasonable
here.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m sorry, I’m confused.
If you hit her over there, how did she get over here?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The little warning bells chime in my head: <i>cop
question, cop question!</i> I wish I
could do my breathing exercises without him noticing. Calm myself down, stop being so
paranoid. No reason for him to suspect
me of anything. I’m the victim.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I…I panicked…” I
look up at him, needing him to believe me.
I’m not sure if this is part of the lie or if I’m really this strung
out, but I’m in dire need of some good faith here. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Tell as much of the
truth as you can. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“She fell and I wasn’t trying to hit her, but we just got
tangled up and, and I panicked. I was
alone…<i>somewhere</i>…with an unconscious
woman, covered in blood, with a gun nearby, and what the fuck would someone
think if they found me like that? I
just…I just needed some time to think…to figure out what I was supposed to do…” I send out all the pathetic desperation I can
and just pray it sticks.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Abrams doesn’t spend long considering me. I must look like I’m about to collapse
because I see a disgusting amount of pity in his eyes. I wanna hit him so he’ll stop looking at me
like that. Yeah, I didn’t really factor
in my seething hatred of being looked down on when coming up with this plan.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it, you held up pretty well.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He smiles a small smile, rewarding the brave little soldier
for his courage, and even though I really am tweaking out about this and am
somehow getting exactly what I want, I still have to fight off an intense urge
to ruin it all. He may mean well and he
may be one of the truly good guys, but I cannot stand being condescended to and
I don’t fucking need anyone’s pity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My face is ticking spastically and I can’t figure out what
to do with my hands.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>What do people do with
their hands after knocking an escaped criminal out and then getting picked up
by the cops with blood all over them?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My insides are swinging from hot to cold sporadically, and
now I can’t contain either my anger or my panic. Instead of saying or doing anything (which is
likely to get me in even more trouble), I look at my feet and nod.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s literally the first smart thing I’ve done since I left
the house this morning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Things go a little sideways once we get back to the station;
apparently someone felt it necessary to look into my record before cutting me
loose. I’m still a couple months away
from having a certain…youthful indiscretion…expunged from my record. Something about underage drinking and public
urination, I don’t really remember the details.
What I do remember is Alan busting his balls convincing the cops to go
easy on me. If I get into any more
trouble with the law before my previous trouble blows over, Alan’s gonna have
an aneurysm. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the fact that I’m behaving so the stick up an authority
figure’s ass doesn’t get worked around a bit more makes me feel a little ill.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I swear to God if I
call this cop “sir” at any point, I will bash my own head against the wall.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So, apparently the media’s gathered outside—probably
looking for an interview with the man who helped apprehend Violet Easley.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I appreciate Abrams not calling me a kid, but I also feel
less like I “helped apprehend Violet Easley” and more like I “single-handedly
foiled her escape”. That I stumbled ass
over elbows onto her is of no consequence.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We can arrange for you to be picked up around back, more
privately.” He’s sporting a pretty
impressive sour puss as he says the next bit.
“We generally advise against it quite strongly, but you’re also welcome
to leave out the front, if you’d prefer.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now that things have settled down a bit and I’m not worried
about being charged with criminal costuming, I kinda think I’d like a little
recognition. I don’t actually wanna <i>talk </i>to any of those people, but it
might be cool to push my way through the crowd, waving off all questions. Movies always make it look so impressive.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The front door should be okay. I’m not looking for an interview or anything,
but getting my picture in the paper would be pretty solid.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Abrams smiles. Oh,
the rambunctiousness of youth. “They can
use your yearbook photos for this too, if you’d rather.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, I haven’t actually taken a yearbook photo since I got
into high school. I keep forgetting
where they’re taking the pictures and getting lost. By the time I get my bearings, they’re gone.” I shrug.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do not call Susan for a ride. Doesn’t matter that I’m there because I did
something good (hugely stupid, but good), I really don’t want her to have to
take off early from work to pick me up at the police station. Especially since I still need to pick up my
bag before it gets taken to the curb and that’s not the kinda favor I really
wanna ask her for.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So when I shoulder my way through the crowd of reporters, my
destination is Anna’s red Ford Focus, not Susan’s green Prius. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I see Anna’s face through the window and can’t really
decipher her expression. I see confusion
and nerves, but there’s more there I’m not getting. She pulls away from the curb the second my
door’s closed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I know you gave me a quick rundown over the phone, but let’s
try it again.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With no cops listening in this time, I give her the
uncensored story and when I finish she punches me in the arm. Pretty hard, actually.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You stupid asshole!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A laugh horns in on her scolding like she might be a little
pleased that I did something good, even if it was stupid and dangerous. Or it could just be wishful thinking, but I’m
gonna stick with it anyway. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I grin. Anna swats at
me again, still smiling.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t you look at me like that. Just because I can’t keep a straight face
doesn’t mean I’m amused by your antics.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well then, I might as well earn all your ire at once. You know how I told you I had to ditch my
bag? Well…I kinda need to get it
back…it’s full of fairly important things…like the costume of a fairly well
known vigilante with my fingerprints all over it…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her eyes flit over to me and with as straight a face as she
can manage, she says, “You’re only saying that ‘cuz you think you’re too
adorable to earn much ire from me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I give her my best pathetic puppy face. “Well?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She smacks me again.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll take you, but there will be ire. A great deal of it. <i>Heaps</i>,
even.”</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-41633391017093063102014-05-06T20:56:00.000-05:002014-05-07T07:23:58.029-05:00Just Think "What Would Batman Do?"<div class="MsoNormal">
Across the abyss stands a fading figure. Monolithic, but for the steady
particle-by-particle erasing, he is Promethean, cradling fire in his palm. Dissipating from existence while the fire
flickers and struggles, he twists.
Contorts. Multifaceted eyes like
bulbous, molten gems bubble up across his brow and cheeks as his skin peels,
pushed aside by something gray and hard.
And he’s gone, leaving only a small globe of flame in his stead. I stumble backward, bumping against something
hard and transparent with a solid <i>clunk</i>. The world sways and tips and shatters. I tumble across a sea of glass, each piece
jagged and ugly and yet utterly the same as the rest. I bleed painlessly—silently—from a thousand
ragged wounds.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then I’m awake and pawing at my arms and chest. Sweat seeps from imagined gashes. My pillow’s on the floor and my sheets have
been completely dislodged from the mattress, tucking themselves unevenly around
my sprawled limbs and over the edge of the bed.
I’m hot and cold and shaking and twitching. Boone snores softly, undisturbed by whatever
scene I’ve been making. My phone tells
me I have almost three hours until my alarm goes off. I find my iPod in the dark and put in
headphones. Jim Morrison sings of
crystal ships as I stare up at the ceiling, watching shadows twist and contort.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The playlist rolls through The Gaslight Anthem’s mellow
backseat strumming, Against Me!’s tense bassline, and The Kill’s fuzzed out
forlorn before I go fetch my laptop. Three
hours isn’t enough time to go out on the town and I’m not getting back to sleep
anytime soon, so I wander the new sites until something catches my eye. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet another article reporting on an anonymous member of the
law enforcement community slamming OPHR.
Third this month. I skim, picking
up the important parts like claims that OPHR bullies law enforcement
agencies into dropping cases so they can hand pick who has to obey the law,
obligatory quotes from the anti-post-human organizations like People for the
Rights of Everyday Citizens, and even someone referencing me by name. Makes me feel a bit warm and fuzzy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And of course, more name calling. “Illegals” isn’t an unfair term for
unsanctioned post-human costumes like myself, but it is a little irksome. Something about the name tastes sour.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“A recent poll conducted by Channel 11 shows that 66% of
people are dissatisfied with OPHR’s competence.
These numbers are up from 27% in the last poll, taken just two weeks
earlier. When asked, over 71% of those
dissatisfied cited the recent escape of post-human criminal, Violet Easley, as
the main source of their current discontent.
Easley, known for a spree of high-end robberies committed earlier this
year was apprehended just weeks ago trying to escape a break-in. OPHR quickly stepped in and asked that the
police transfer Easley into their custody.
Shortly afterward, the first anonymous law enforcement personnel in this
recent string of denouncements spoke out against OPHR, claiming that their
department was ‘strong-armed into giving up a dangerous criminal’.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The transfer has been delayed several times due to
undisclosed complications before finally happening yesterday. However, late last night it was leaked that
OPHR had lost Easley right after the transfer and was starting a manhunt to
find her. This morning, OPHR issued a
statement urging caution to those living or working around the three addresses
shown on-screen. These are places Easley
lived or frequented, and may return to.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Further complicating matters is yet another anonymous
report from within the law enforcement community—this one from within our very
own police department—claiming that they were ordered by OPHR to keep news of
Easley’s escape, and the ensuing manhunt, from the public.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Clusterfuck…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m so caught up in the news report that I barely hear
myself muttering out loud. I wanna call
Alan, and ask him how they could possibly fuck up this badly. Tell him they’re making guys like me look bad
with this bullshit. But I don’t. Alan’s not involved in the law enforcement
aspect of OPHR, there’s not a damn thing he can do about it. He also doesn’t know I spend my nights
dressed up in a full-body costume wailing on criminals (which makes me sound
like I hang out at Mafia-owned BDSM clubs…), and I really don’t want him to
know that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I do the next best thing: I arrogantly assume I can do something that
neither OPHR nor the cops can do and go out looking for a dangerous
criminal. I take down the addresses from
the TV, leave a note (a lie) on the refrigerator, and walk to the door. Gripping the knob, I debate the merits of
bringing my costume. If I’m gonna go out
and do something stupid like this, I should keep it on me, just in case. But at the same time, I’m not exactly
comfortable with the crispy state it’s in.
Or the crispy state I was in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Fuck it. Better to have it and not need it.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I run upstairs, grab my bag before I can start over-thinking
things, and head out the door.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a world where the answer to the question “Why is there an
overturned ice cream truck in the middle of the road?” is “Because a woman with
magnet powers flipped it over.”, I’m not sure why I thought I’d be able to
track down an experienced post-human criminal without any knowledge of her
power, but at this point, I’m starting to doubt myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So far, I’ve followed every single person who’s looked
suspicious and the sum of my work has been my feeling like a stalker-perv. One woman bought an inordinate amount of food
at the grocery store, so I figured hey, maybe she’s stocking up so she can
properly shelter the post-human fugitive she’s housing. I know better than anyone that active
post-humans can have very hearty appetites.
What did I find out? That Cousin
Justin and his new wife were coming into town to stay with them for the week
and that the woman’s kid was very excited to see big Cousin Justin again. Congratulations to me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next up was a shifty looking guy who kept eyeballing every
cop and security camera he passed by.
After following him along a suspicious couple laps around a three square
block area, I found out that he was some small-time pothead dropping off little
baggies of fun to suburban men and women who needed a pick-me-up before heading
back to their little boxes made of ticky-tacky.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I saw a woman who bore a passing resemblance to Easley
shoplifting a pair of shoes, a kid who looked like a miniature Jason Segel
pocket a pack of football cards, and I’m about to give up searching around the
third address the reporter listed when something catches my attention. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A nagging sensation that I’m being watched, like when I was
poking around the ice cream truck. I’ve
been ignoring it for the last twenty or so minutes because when you’re
wandering around a relatively crowded area, it’s hard to ever <i>not</i> have a pair of eyes on you, but at
this point I’m starting to get paranoid.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t have major social anxiety, I’m not freaked out by
large crowds of people, and though I am a little more sensitive than most when
it comes to feeling eyes on the back of my neck, I don’t usually have issues
like this. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s at this point that something metal jabs against my back
and a hand clamps down on my shoulder.
The metal thing jabbing me makes a clicking sound that’s alarmingly
similar to the sound of a pistol’s hammer being thumbed back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Smile. Smile like
we’re family friends who haven’t seen each other in awhile.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smile weakly and turn my head toward the hushed female voice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Face front, dipshit.
I don’t know you from Adam and I will blow your goddamn spine out
through your stomach if you don’t do exactly as I say. Deal?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The little stretch of spine directly in front of the barrel
of her gun goes icy and starts tingling.
I have to swallow three times before I can respond.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Deal.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Good. Keep walking
straight. I’ll tell you when to
turn. Now laugh, all my friends think
I’m fucking hysterical and I just told you a joke.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Has anyone ever told you just how hard it is to act cheery
when someone’s threatening to cripple you?
Cuz it is. The sound that comes
out of my mouth only loosely qualifies as a chuckle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She jabs the gun harder into my back. “Turn right here and keep your hands out of
the goddamn bag.” We head down a less
crowded side street and I feel a sudden pang of loss for the crowd we’re
leaving behind. “Who are you and how did
you find me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I, uh, I don’t even know who you are so how could I find
you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ve seen you three times today. Once at Martin’s Square, again at Prince
Avenue, and then just now when I picked you up on Nelson Boulevard. All three times you were looking around,
looking for someone. You’re way too
young to be a cop, so who are you and how did you find me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Oh God…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Please tell me you’re not Violet Easley…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She jams the gun harder into my back. “No.
And that’s your one and only question.
Left here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Oh sweet shit, not
only did I </i>not<i> find the criminal I
was looking for, I drew the ire of an entirely </i>different <i>criminal who just got the drop on me. And I’m not even in costume. It’s official, no one has ever been worse at
this than I am.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’re leaving civilization fast. This street’s only one step above a dark
alley. To the left of us is nothing but
a row of garages blocking the view of the apartments and to the right is an
apartment building that may or may not even be habitable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Do something!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Really? Because your
answer leads me to another question,” and before I can stop to consider whether
this’ll get me what I want or just get me shot, I ask “Are you hot? Because I need to know whether to just feel
terrified or terrified and turned on…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unfortunately for me, my exceptionally sexist remark gets me
exactly what I was hoping for. Miss
Hostage-Taker snarls and pistol whips me.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The second I feel her take the pistol off of my back I start
leaning forward a little, not enough to run away or to avoid getting clubbed, just
enough to drop my bag without getting tangled and then lean away from the hit. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When she does hit me, I’m already moving. A glancing blow to the head is still painful
enough to disorient me a little, but a pistol that’s smacking someone is a
pistol that isn’t able to shoot them through the spine. I turn and grab her wrists as I fall,
dragging her to the ground with me. From
there, all I can do is turn my hips to (hopefully) keep her from landing knee-to-groin,
and bring my chin down before she lands.
Luck and heightened reflexes are on my side and her nose smacks squarely
against the crown of my head. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Hooray for finally
doing something right.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She slumps off of me and lands in an unconscious heap on the
pavement. Unfortunately, I’m now covered
in little splotches of her blood and I still have no idea who she is or why she
pulled a gun on me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I do know is that she was in all three of the places
Violet Easley was said to frequent, she was on high enough alert to notice me
looking around at all three places, and that whatever had her on high alert was
enough to get her to pull a gun on me.
I’m starting to wish there was a summer course at the Batman Academy
that taught amateur crime fighters detective skills. Hell, at this point I’d settle for a YouTube
video from a Sherlock Holmes-wannabe. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>So, now what? Found…</i>someone<i>, got snatched, knocked said someone unconscious, and now I’m in the
middle of the sidewalk, crouched over the unconscious body of a woman whose
blood is spattered all over me.
God. Dammit.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I take a look around, momentarily thankful for the
all-but-abandoned street we’re on. No
one’s started screaming yet. I don’t
hear police sirens off in the distance.
Maybe I’m okay. I decide that’s a
sign from God or the Flying Spaghetti Monster or whatever it is that runs the
universe that my idiocy has been blessed.
I loop my arms under her shoulders and drag her into the nearest alley,
hoping I don’t get mistaken for a rapist by an inconvenient passerby. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Long black hair, soft cheek bones, a slightly flat nose
(which might be my fault), and a long face.
Her skin’s olive. I clearly don’t
know her, but I keep staring like that’ll suddenly change. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I set her down between two dirty, faded garages and go back
for her gun. I make sure to grab it with
my sleeve over my hand, just in case I need to <i>not</i> have my prints on a criminal’s gun. Into my bag goes the gun (until I can find a better
place for it), and out comes a pair of cable ties. Ankles and wrists. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m grateful for the cover provided by the two garages now
because I <i>definitely </i>look like a rapist. Goosebumps roll across my arms and chest and
I shiver.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Now, seriously. What next?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fragments of thought, exasperation, confusion, and God knows
what else start clogging my brain, swirling too fast for me to process. Something pulses between my eyes and I wonder
if my brain’s gonna erupt from my forehead like a Chestburster.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I lean against one of the garage walls and slide down to the
ground. With my eyes squeezed shut, I
start winding down. Deep, deep breath;
let it fill my entire chest and stomach.
Hold it. Push it out. Rotate my head, around and around. Roll my shoulders. Keep breathing. Bend my elbows, clench my biceps, extend,
flex my triceps. Chest. Wrists.
Fists. Thighs. Calves.
All the way down to my toes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I nearly lose my shit entirely when my unconscious
friend groans and rolls over. I manage
not to shriek by the thinnest of margins. I don’t even bother trying not to
jump backwards.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She’s still snugly cable tied, but her hair’s
different. It’s getting shorter and
blondeness is overtaking the formerly dark strands like the tide washing in. Her cheekbones are more pronounced, her nose
looks slenderer (but still a little broken), her skin’s lightened, and her ears
are inching flatter to her skull. I
don’t know exactly what color her eyes were before, but they’re bright green
now. I also don’t remember there being a
birthmark on her neck.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All told, this woman now bears a striking resemblance to
Violet Easley. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Okay. </i>Now<i>
I’ve lost my shit.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Since when the fuck
are shapeshifters a real thing? And why
didn’t anyone mention that the big, scary criminal everyone’s looking for can
change her appearance at will? And holy
shit, when did I start doing my post-human business without a costume? </i>Now<i>
is the time to walk away. Put a call in
to OPHR and just walk away. What more
can I do here? Dress myself up and walk
this woman to the PD’s lobby? (No,
daylight superheroing is not on the table for Illegals. Tried it, didn’t like it.) Just put in a call, pretend to be a bystander
who saw someone fitting the Sentinel’s description, and then walk the hell
away. I’ll have to torch this burner
afterwards, just to be safe, but life’s full of little sacrifices.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s only after fishing the burner phone out of my bag that
I realize I didn’t copy down the hotline number OPHR posted. Which leaves me with two less than ideal
options. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One, call the police and have them bring in Easley. She’ll still get to OPHR and this mess’ll be
cleaned up, but it doesn’t reflect particularly well on OPHR that they had to
resort to such methods and at the moment, my alter-ego is catching splash
damage from OPHR’s shitty PR. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Option two is to call Alan on my burner and hope he doesn’t
think it’s a prank. Alan can pitch it up
the line and OPHR can save the day and hopefully start taking the heat off of
amateur crime-fighters such as myself. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s during this moment of contemplation that I see the
roving red and blue of police lights creep up the street.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Fucking wonderful.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-53581557267829933992014-04-29T18:10:00.000-05:002014-04-29T18:10:34.134-05:00Decorated Soldier<div class="MsoNormal">
The last thing Anna did before she left yesterday was tell
me to talk to Susan and ask what she thought about my costumed crusade. Well, the <i>last
</i>thing she did was make out with me some more, but that’s not the
point. The point is, Anna kinda sorta
owns me and I’ve accumulated a fairly large debt to Susan over the relatively
short amount of time I’ve spent under her roof, so the talking to Susan thing
is gonna happen today, like it or not. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And on top of that, the itch has been on me worse than usual
today. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which is wonderful.
The two things taking up most of my admittedly limited mental capacity
are two things that I really want no part of right now. A serious talk with Susan right on the heels
of a serious talk with Anna plus an intense urge to dress up in a cape and mask
and punch people in the face. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That and peeling off all the purple heart stickers Boone
stuck to my clothes. All my
clothes. The only things not stickered
are my socks and boxers. I woke up with
a sticker on my forehead somehow. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There will be hell to pay for that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But before I can too thoroughly distract myself with
thoughts of revenge and peeling stickers, I bookmark my <i>Hellblazer</i> graphic novel (ignoring the desperately nerdy part of me
that tells me <i>Staring at the Walls</i>
needs to be read in one sitting) and roll outta bed. My landing’s a bit heavier than normal, but
it’s a vast improvement over the last few days.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No bullshit.” Anna
told me. “Just ask her.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan’s in the living room, weaving a pair of metallic green
knitting needles throught a complex, fragile-looking spider web of purple
yarn. I think she called it lace or
something.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I clear my throat before dropping into the big armchair
between Susan and the far wall. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Whenever you get to a stopping point,” I mutter, rubbing
the back of a finger against my chin. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I need to shave.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a few seconds, Susan gently sets her knitting down on
the cushion next to her. She folds her hands
in her lap. It doesn’t look particularly
casual. More like she’s trapping them
there so they won’t fidget.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before I can ask the simple, straightforward question Anna
told me to, I blurt out “If you guys don’t want me around anymore, I’ll go.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She cringes, from her face all the way down to her hands,
before taking a deep breath. And then a
second. It reminds me a bit of the first
time we met. A bit graver, but there’s a
similar sense of her gathering herself to answer a hard question she’s been
expecting me to ask.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Where?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It looks like the question hurts her almost as much as it
does me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Almost.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Out of the city?”
She continues. “Out of the state?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She sighs, pausing for a second to right the ship.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This isn’t what I want to say. What I really mean is that you don’t seem to
grasp your place within this family. <i>We want you here.</i>” She emphasizes each word in the sentence, not
letting me break eye contact. “We want
you to feel like you can stay here as long as you’d like. And then when you’re done staying here to
come back and visit when you’ve got the time.
When you first came here, this wasn’t a sure thing. We could’ve talked to you and then gone our separate
ways. We wanted you to stay. When you came to live with us, this <i>still </i>wasn’t a sure thing. Not every family is the right place for every
child. But we let you stay. We found out what you do at night. We found out you broke the law and put
yourself in danger on a regular basis.” She
smiles a thin smile. “Admittedly, that
was a little more difficult to process, but still. We let you stay. None of those decisions were colored by pity
or feeling like we were committed to keeping you around, whether we liked it or
not. We let you stay because we <i>want </i>you here. And to drive that point home, I’m going to
spoil a surprise Paul and I were planning.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She holds up a finger and walks quickly into the hall. Her footsteps trot up the stairs, stop, and
then march back down. She comes back
into the room, holding a thin binder.
Across the front in permanent marker is:
Yard Sale.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She sets the binder in my lap and sits back down. I thumb through the pages of table layouts
and item prices and anything else anyone could conceivable need to run a yard
sale. My mouth’s too dry. Someone’s filled my insides with
molasses. My lungs and heart labor and
my eyes sting.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We’ve been planning to clean out that other bedroom as soon
as it warmed up enough for a yard sale to work.
We wanted it to be a surprise.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She folds and unfolds her hands a few times.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We probably should’ve just told you. I didn’t even think of how you’d see it. An extra bedroom just sitting around filled
with clutter while you had to share a room.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We sit in silence for a bit.
Susan fidgets and I bury myself in the little binder so I don’t have to
confirm or deny anything. She starts up
again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m sorry if this <i>stupid</i>
surprise has made you feel unwanted or, or made you feel temporary, we…we just
wanted to give you a proper welcome.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Don’t say
anything. You suck at words. Just give the poor woman what she deserves.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shift the binder aside, slide out of the armchair, and
give Susan a brief, tight hug. It only
makes me slightly uncomfortable. And I
ignore the little voice in the back of my head that tells me things are
starting to stack up dangerously high in my favor, that things are gonna topple
soon. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve spent the last three hours lying in bed. Most of the first two were spent doing
various anxiety management exercises.
Deep breathing, stretching, and the like. Since then I’ve done the absolute worst thing
in the world for managing stress: I’ve
obsessed. And oddly enough, it’s the
obsessing that’s helped the most. People
seem hellbent on keeping me around.
Anna, Susan, Paul, Boone…well, at least Boone doesn’t seem to actively
want me to leave. Plus, he’ll be getting
his room back soon. That’ll help.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the millionth time, I scroll back to Polar Bear Club’s lovesick
anthem, “Drifting Thing” and text Anna back during her study hall. Susan calls up to me to keep feeling better
before heading to her shift. I close my
eyes and drift off until someone shakes me awake. Literally, I wake up to Anna shaking my leg.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once she sees I’m awake, she steps up onto Boone’s bunk,
pulls my head toward hers, and kisses me.
We spend a minute or three like that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we separate her eyes look really big. She’s smiling.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I lick my lips and smile back. “What did I do to deserve that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe it’s the whole near-death experience I had or Anna
finally being cool with what I do, but she’s spent an inordinate amount of time
shoving her tongue down my throat these last couple days. Not that I’m complaining—this is pretty much
what teenagers live for—just making a note.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She rolls her eyes like I’m slow. But the adorable kind of slow. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s one of the hidden perks of being in a relationship,
dumbass. I can make out with you
whenever I want for little or no reason at all.
And I dunno, things feel <i>better </i>now. Like there’s not as much stress and we can
just enjoy being us, ya know?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And this is what I can expect from us just getting to be
us?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another eye roll. “<i>Yes…</i>”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tilt my head to the side and lean toward her. “Just checking.”</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-24916282877856908442014-04-22T22:11:00.000-05:002014-04-23T16:36:08.984-05:00Bug Out<div class="MsoNormal">
I wake up at one forty-seven pm trying to cough one or both
of my lungs up. Coughing, being a rather
physically engaging activity, reminds me just how bruised, knotted, and abraded
my shoulders, head, arms, and back are.
I cough and cough and cough ‘til I can barely push out anymore coughs
and they subside into a breathless wheeze.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Fuck everything</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was in bed for almost eleven hours, but I couldn’t have
slept for more than four. The
exhaustion’s let up just enough to keep me from physically having to make a
decision between sleeping and collapsing.
Now I’m just tired all the time, in need of rest, and not really getting
it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>No, seriously. Fuck everything.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is probably what I deserve after staying out so late
last night instead of laying around and healing. I sit up, wincing when I try and prop myself
up on a bruised forearm. Out of the
corner of my eye I see my bedside table looking a little more crowded than
usual. On top of my laptop and next to
my phone is a paper plate with a peanut butter sandwich and a big Granny Smith
apple. I unlock my phone and skip past
the other three text messages, going straight to one from Susan.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Enjoy the food. Hope you’re feeling better. Shift doesn’t start ‘til 3. Come down if you get this before I leave.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>God.</i> <i> Why
is she being so nice to me?</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know she was on the verge of a heart attack when Anna
called her from the hospital. And so
tight on the heels of me getting my shit stomped by Sewer Man. I keep giving her enough time to think I’ll
stay outta trouble and then getting into even more trouble than before. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I lumber to the floor and grab the plate with one hand,
carefully rolling the apple off into the other hand. I haven’t been eating all that well the last
couple days, but today’s feeling like the day that’ll change. The first bite of the apple reminds my body
just how hungry it is. My metabolism is
every bit as post-human as the rest of me.
I generally need more food than the average person to get by, so my
recent fast is about to end with a pantry-raiding feast that would put a hall
of Vikings to shame. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The apple’s chewed to the core by the time I’m down the
stairs. I awkwardly switch the apple
core for the sandwich and almost choke.
Peanut butter doesn’t go down quite as easy as apples do. My eye-watering coughing catches Susan’s
attention.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wesley?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I manage to stave off one cough long enough to confirm that
I am indeed the foster child fuck up she’s looking for. When she steps into the hall her mouth’s a
thin line and her eyes are scrunched, they make contact with me and then flit
to the side.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I finally find myself fit for speech I try to wave off
some of her concern. “Just a ‘took too
big a bite’ cough, that’s all.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It doesn’t seem to help much. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I honestly don’t wanna know what she has to say right
now. She’s been bottling it up, waiting
for me to feel better before dropping it on my head and I know bottling isn’t
her thing but I just want her to keep it up.
Hearing how scared she was or how angry she is or whatever just isn’t something
I’m up for. I don’t need her to tell me
what a fuck-up I am, I’ve been this way for long enough to know that all by
myself. And if I can keep her from
getting going then I can keep her from reaching the end of the
conversation. The point where, spoken
straight or insinuated, she tells me I’ve found the line in the sand. She’s had all the bullshit she’s gonna have
from me and maybe more and if I don’t get my head outta my ass this is over. It’s not her fault I’ve burned through
literally <i>every</i> capable foster family
in the area and I’ll be shipped somewhere completely new if this doesn’t work
out. I got myself neck deep in shit,
it’s up to me to deal with the consequences.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or maybe even worse, she’ll tell me there is no line. That no matter what I do, we’ll just keep
butting heads on this and she’ll keep suffering and I’ll keep hating that my
crusade is more important than her pain.
Or whatever the less melodramatic version of that may be. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But not right now. I
really can’t have either of those conversations right now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thanks for the sandwich.”
I raise the plate and avoid eye contact.
“Think I’ll scrounge around for a bit more. High metabolism and all.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everything’s flat and awkward. I feel like someone’s smashed me into two
dimensions. My voice doesn’t have any life. My brain can’t seem to do anything but remind
me of how much everything sucks, myself included.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My appetite’s soured, but I can’t keep eating light or I’m
gonna collapse. I shuffle into the
kitchen and grab a container of leftover chicken casserole from the fridge,
plopping most of it onto a real plate. I
feel Susan’s eyes on me, but I’m hoping she’ll just swallow whatever she’s got
to say. I’m only down here for a couple
minutes then I’ll be out of her way again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wes?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Please, not right now.”
My throat’s swollen like I’ve developed a sudden allergy to this
conversation. “Please.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I keep my back to her on my way to the microwave and try to
look like I’m casually crossing my arms and not hugging myself to keep a
pathetic emotional outburst from blowing me apart. Susan either gets the message or just gets
her feelings hurt pretty quickly because I hear her footsteps head toward the
living room. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In between all the self-pity and wallowing, part of me’s
screaming: <i>MAN UP!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The part that runs into burning buildings, the part that
functions even with loaded guns shoved in my face, the part that managed to win
a fight with a super-powered lunatic and do so without hurting him too badly
screams at me all the way up to my room.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I skip past one of Anti-Flag’s lesser songs to one I like
more and turn the volume up on my laptop.
I don’t know what it is about two such disparate things that they have
the same calming effect on me, but they do.
Angry punk snarls and digging through my bag. They don’t calm me down so much as they offer
a sort of morbid comfort. Being angry
and being mobile, they’re what I know.
So I bury myself in them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The zipper on my bug out bag is starting to separate from
the rest of the bag. Just a little tear
right now and it’ll stay little if the bag stays tucked away under the
bed. But if the bag gets any real use,
it’ll be a tattered chasm before too long.
I unzip it, careful not to cause anymore damage, and start sifting. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A heavy Swiss Army Knife with a notch taken out of the
handle. A black pouch filled with
band-aids, disinfectant, and the like. A
flashlight like the one I carry in my costume.
A couple burner phones. Few pairs
of clothes that could carry me through anything short of deep winter. Other items I’ve deemed necessary over the
years. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the bottom are a few of my favorite comic books, boarded,
double bagged, and kept in a slim padded case I stole when I was twelve. When it really occurred to me that I was
different, comics had taken on a whole new appeal. I’d scrounged through old used book stores,
traded anything I had with other kids at school, and even spent lunch money on
them. At one point I’d even snuck one of
my foster parent’s credit cards and ordered a subscription of Ultimate
Spider-Man. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m so engrossed in what I’m doing that I don’t hear the
footsteps coming up the stairs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna knocks twice and opens the bedroom door.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey, neither of you idiots is answering your phone. Is Boone here? I need him for a project.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stiffen and turn around, carefully shielding the bag from
Anna. This is normally the time I would
make a joke about waiting before coming in, that I could be naked or worse,
playing air guitar. Instead, I fumble
with silence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna makes a face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Is this Anti-Flag?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I nod, still not sure how to speak without giving myself
away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What’s wrong? You
only listen to them when you’re having a bad day.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>How could she possibly
know that? Who keeps track of that kinda
shit?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s only now that I’m having my normal, uncomfortable
reaction to one person knowing so much about me that I realize how weird it is
that I’ve been okay with it for so long.
That I’ve even enjoyed it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I grunt. “Haven’t
been sleeping well.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She walks farther into the room and I straighten up, hoping
I can stay on the floor and still keep her from seeing the bag over my shoulder. She kneels down next to me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How come?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shrug. “Stress, I
guess.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t make any mention of the fire, but I probably don’t
have to.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you wanna talk about it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She puts her hand on my knee, running her thumb over it in
slow circles. I’m tempted to tell her
the truth. That even with the shit with
Susan, our fight, getting mauled by a sewer man, and getting caught up in a
burning building, this has been the best place I’ve ever lived and sooner or
later the other shoe’s gonna drop. I’ll
find the line, the line everyone has and I’ll cross it. At some point I’ll stop amusing Boone or I’ll
stop being worth all the effort Susan puts in and it’ll all fall apart.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or that Anna’s gonna get tired of me and dump me and then
I’ll spend what little time I have left here miserably watching her move on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But instead of opening up and spewing red-hot molten crazy
everywhere, I do something much worse: I
lean in for a hug.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And when Anna accepts, resting her chin on my shoulder, she
gets a clear look into my open bug out bag.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What’s that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Fuck.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Uh…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Say something. It’s my bondage bag. Everything I need for a night at a BDSM
club. My bank robbing gear. Supplies for my afterschool job as a
clown. Something!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna pulls away and slides past me. There has to be something I can do to stop
her, but I can’t think of anything. She
pulls it onto her lap and starts picking through it and it’s like Susan
catching me coming in the kitchen door all over. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What’s…” She runs
her hands over my travel toothbrush and deodorant. Her hand freezes on the little roll of cash
I’ve squirreled away. “What’s with the
bag?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She’s trying to sound reasonable. Working hard to keep the accusation out of
her voice. Trying to give me a
chance. But she can’t keep from looking
heartbroken. It doesn’t take her long to
figure out what the bag means and when that happens I think a little part of me
dies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s…I’m not planning on…I wasn’t…” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I try to take a deep breath, to push down the anxiety that
scrabbling madly up my chest cavity, but can’t even draw a normal breath. Anna jumps in. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wasn’t gonna run away?
Wasn’t gonna leave?” She makes a
sound halfway between a scoff and a sob.
“God, I thought we were past this shit.
I get that you’re uncomfortable with this <i>stability </i>or whatever, but I thought you were making progress.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Breathe. Breathe as deep as you can. Breathe and find your words.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Progress isn’t the same as being better. It…it takes time.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel like that was the closest thing to profundity I’ll
ever manage and what’s more, I expressed it fairly clearly, but even still, I
sound whiney. I sound like I’m making
excuses.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first time Alan set me up with a therapist, I tried to
be good. It was after Henry Campbell and
the canings and by that point I’d started identifying the right choices in life
and actively making the wrong ones. It
helped and after awhile it started being fun.
But when Alan sent me to therapy, he was so worked up about
everything. He launched an investigation
into the Campbells, he started checking in on me more often, and then he
suggested I try talking to someone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even at my most cynical, I’m not sure I could’ve said no to
the face Alan made. It was guilty and
heartbroken and angry and hopeful and everything else in the world. Way more than any one facial expression
should be able to encompass. So I played
along. No fucking around.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then I started feeling like a rat trying to navigate a
maze. I wasn’t really allowed to say
anything normal, to just talk to my shrink like people. I’d try and joke about the shit food at the
cafeteria and he’d imply I wasn’t eating right.
Just subtly and never accusatorily, but he was like that with everything. I say something and he turns it a little to
the left, poking and prodding me. It’s
not easy talking to someone like that.
Nothing feels safe, nothing’s relaxed.
Nothing gets to be off the record.
He’d say it was, but he was always scribbling on a fucking notepad and I
knew he was giving Alan the gist of it afterward. That <i>was</i>
part of our agreement, Doctor Grant and Alan could exchange notes—good
communication being the foundation of therapy and all. But at a certain point it felt less like good
communication and more like spying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It got to the point where I was digging my thumb into my
thigh, just to keep from strangling him.
And you better believe he took note of that too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I stopped telling him things. If he asked a pointed question or just
anything I wasn’t too fond of, I’d ignore it.
Pretend I was hard of hearing. I
stopped initiating anything and when I did answer his questions, it was as
sparsely as possible.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those are not conditions under which therapy flourishes (or
so I was told), so I left. Alan set me
up with someone else and I didn’t spend as long trying that time. By the third shrink I was actively sabotaging
things. Eventually Alan gave up, under
the guise of giving me a little more control over my life. If I ever felt therapy would be beneficial,
all I had to do was say so and Alan would hook me up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Surprisingly though, I told Doctor Grant about the bag. I’d started planning one before I gave Alan
my ultimatum and I started putting it together in earnest as soon as I got to
the next house.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna runs her hand through her hair and I wonder if she
didn’t pick the gesture up from Boone.
She throws her hands up and makes an exasperated huff.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why do you keep doing this?
You need to quit pretending that because you’re not normal Susan and
Paul are suffering from…buyer’s remorse or something. This self-pitying bullshit has to <i>stop</i>.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Who’s pretending?</i> Just because Susan and Paul want me here,
doesn’t mean I should be here. They’re
generosity isn’t an invitation for me to fuck up their lives.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m starting to raise my voice again. Starting to pick a fight with someone who’s
just trying to help. With Anna. I need to stop fucking do this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Suck it up. Stop being a child and speak.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I…I need you to be okay with me.” It actually pains me to say that. My chest feels like someone’s created a black
hole the size of a pinhole inside it and my insides are all being sucked slowly
through it. My ears and cheek must be an
impressive shade of red. “With what I
do. I just…” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not one of those guys who collect sneakers, but right
now I can’t think of anything more interesting than staring at my shoes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t notice Anna moving toward me until I feel her arm
around my shoulders. She sighs into my
neck. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m sorry I keep yelling at you. I think what you do is amazing.” She kisses my cheek. “Not getting into fights or whatever. You ran into a burning building to save someone. The police told you not to. The fire department had given up. You knew…things on the home front wouldn’t be
much cheerier.” She turns her head away
a little bit as she says the last bit.
“I think I got blinded by the danger.
It’s hard, knowing you’re <i>putting
yourself</i> in danger like that all the time.
But it’s…incredible. Stupid and
courageous and incredible and I think you’re the most amazing person I know.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She goes quiet and I imagine I can feel the heat radiating
off of her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-indent: 0in;">Given all the time
in the universe I wouldn’t be able to come up with a proper response to
that.</span><span style="text-indent: 0in;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-indent: 0in;">She jabs the bag
with her foot.</span><span style="text-indent: 0in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0in;">“Amazing and
<i>infuriating</i>.</span><span style="text-indent: 0in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0in;">In equal measures.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-indent: 0in;">When I find my
voice again, it’s small.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You can hold onto it if you want. Keep the bag over at your place so you’d know
for sure.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She shakes her head immediately. “No. I
don’t want you staying here because you’re not able to leave. You stay or go because you want to.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’re both silent for awhile. I’m out of gestures and apologies and I guess
Anna not sure where to go next either.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Tell her you won’t
really leave. Tell her why!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then she perks up.
“Go to prom with me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll believe you if you promise you’ll go to prom with
me. You can’t just up and leave if we
have plans. Okay?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Tell her!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have to snort, clear a little snot out before I can
speak. It’s gotta be incredibly
sexy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I laugh. At my own
self-deprecation, at the delusional young woman asking me to prom instead of
killing me, at how my luck’s changed since moving in here. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No one in their right mind would ever turn down that
invitation.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She smiles a little.
“That doesn’t answer my question.
You’re not actually in your right mind.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A real smile overtakes my face. I can’t seem to just blurt out the super
romantic thought on the tip of my tongue, so I stick with, “Of course.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She squeezes me in another hug and kisses my cheek before
pulling back, looking semi-serious.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But if you stand me up, I will kill you. Superhero or not. I will find you and kill you. On prom night. In my prom dress.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the first time today I feel safe to try a joke.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What if I bail on you tomorrow? Would you just wait for prom night to come
find me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes. I would give
you that much of a head start because there is nowhere you could go to run away
from me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She kisses me again, on the mouth. Like she means it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While we’re locked like that, lips pressed together, I mouth
three words.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-26468775475440864552014-04-08T15:51:00.000-05:002014-04-08T15:51:20.158-05:00Smokehouse<div class="MsoNormal">
I shouldn’t be doing this without my costume.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The only way I can even come close to justifying jumping
from roof to roof like this is that in this particular low-income district of
downtown it’s possible for normal people to do it too. The buildings are only about eight feet apart
and the eaves on either side extend out two more feet. My problem is that I don’t know how to jump
like a normal person, so I’m clearing the whole eight feet in one go.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Someone’s tied my intestines into one big knot. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s terrifying to be out doing even quasi-superhero things
again, but the exhilaration isn’t lessened by that fact. And it’s even more intense because of how
stupid it is to be doing this without a mask on. I’d never noticed how jumping around like
this cuts through my hair. It’s hard to
ignore how nice the weather’s turned, even at night. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not that there’s really any alternative. I can’t stay in my room not sleeping anymore
and I can’t just put the costume back on.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not just that I’ve started getting bleakly
philosophical about costuming, seeing my costumed identity as a
jack-o-lantern: hollow and garish. That the Sentinel’s crusade for peace,
justice, and the hope that one day I won’t feel so small feels like the
pathetic pipe dream of a damaged child.
It’s that I’m honestly afraid I’ll piss myself if I step outside in it
or that I’ll throw up the second I smell the cloying scent of fire wrapping
itself around me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A coughing fit rattles my lungs and aggravates all the
injuries I got from jumping out of a burning building. I put my hands on my knees and cough ‘til my
lungs are raw (which doesn’t take long considering I’ve been coughing like this
all day).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s next to no wind tonight, but the smell of the
apartment building still carries almost a block. It stinks like the world’s trashiest
bonfire. Wood, metal, plastic, and
concrete all went up and most of those have fairly distinct scents. There was only one reported death in the fire
and even though I can’t possibly smell it, I keep catching phantom whiffs of
cooked flesh. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I jump another roof.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All the construction equipment’s gone quiet for the night,
but they’ll probably be working twelve hour days to get it done as quickly as
humanly possible. The neighborhood may
be poor, but the slumlords who run it aren’t.
They’ll want tenants back in as quickly as possible. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before I jump to the building next to the burnt out husk, I
see someone sitting on the roof and I pull up short. He’s sitting on the edge, letting his legs
dangle and swing lightly. It almost
looks like his feet are swaying in time to the caution tape’s fluttering, but
then I notice he has headphones in and assume it’s more in time with the
music. Losing my privacy really isn’t
worth a slightly better view. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sit down on the corner of this roof.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a little weird.
Blaming myself for something so I can get away with something else, but
it’s what I had to do to explain away my injuries. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was over at the apartment building visiting a friend when
the fire started, that’s why no one in the building would really know me. I fell down the stairs trying to get out,
that’s why my shoulders, arms, and back are bruised and why I’m limping a bit. I was dazed and in the confusion of that
masked vigilante trying to rescue people, the paramedics lost track of me,
that’s how I managed to wander off. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If those damn Illegals would just leave things to the
professionals…” the nurse had grumbled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just nodded and kept a death grip on Anna’s hand. Her fingers were bruised the next day and I must’ve
spent more time apologizing than I did breathing. Apologizing and thanking her for coming up with
the lies I gave to the nurses because I was too wrecked to know what to say and
too paranoid to assume they wouldn’t grill me about why I was there. But true to Anna’s word, no one tried to
stake me to the wall.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Only bits and pieces of the night really push through the
mist. After getting out of the burning
building, it’s all clips and phrases. I
don’t remember a single detail of the doctor I saw. Height, weight, gender, skin color,
nothing. Could’ve been a janitor dressed
up in a lab coat for all I knew.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Could’ve been an orangutan in a doctor costume. Or a doctor in an orangutan costume.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back home, everyone made a big fuss about me almost getting
burned alive. Susan wasn’t working when
I was brought into the hospital, but she made sure everyone was awake and waiting
for me when Anna carted me home. I still
don’t know how Anna convinced Susan to stay home instead of dragging the whole
house out to the hospital. The next
morning Paul even went in to work a bit late so he could wait for me to wake
up. Just to check-in, I guess. Susan insisted I stay home from school and
turned a blind eye when Anna ditched to stay with me as well. Boone stood around and looked painfully
awkward before making a bad joke about charbroiling myself and catching the bus. I kinda got the impression he wanted to stay
too, but I dunno.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A lot of that day was spent sleeping. Not very deeply or restfully, but sleeping
nonetheless. Either Susan or Anna were
in my room for almost every second of the day.
They stepped outside long enough to let me change when I sleep-sweated
through my pajamas, but that was about it.
I’m a little surprised neither of them tried to follow me into the
bathroom. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It wasn’t until that night that I actually slept deeply
enough to dream. Supposedly if you’re
not dreaming, you won’t be fully rested when you wake up, but I think that only
goes for people who aren’t having bizarre dreams full of melting children’s
toys and bones falling through the ceiling and turning to ash. Every time I got deep enough for dreams, I
was quickly and violently jerked back into the land of the living. If my body hadn’t been so desperate for
sleep, I probably would’ve kept myself awake after the first nightmare. But as it was, I doubt I would’ve been able
to delay sleep for more than a few minutes even with the nightmare adrenaline.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tonight, however, my need for sleep isn’t quite so
intense. So here I am. Standing on the roof of a building that’s
little more than a tenement and staring at the twisted remains of another
tenement.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m so caught up in my own shit that I barely notice when the
guy sitting on the other roof gets up and turns around. The roof access stairwell is on the other
side of the building and there’s nowhere else I can run off to, so I take a
deep breath against the mounting anxiety.
Not like exchanging awkward nods with a stranger is gonna kill me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But instead of pursing his lips and nodding briefly as the
Guy Code mandates, he twitches when he sees me and drops his headphones around
his neck before offering a sheepish smile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Guess I’m not the only one who finds it kinda…fascinating.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shrug and hope he’ll leave me alone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Like, hypnotic. I
dunno. There’s something about it that’s
hard to look away from. Even when it gets
really kinda depressing to look at. I
put headphones on to block the silence, but I couldn’t walk away. I didn’t know anyone that lived there or
anything…did you?” He blurts the
question out like he’s worried about striking a nerve.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shake my head.
“No.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He exhales heavily.
“Good. Bad enough that it
happened at all.” His eyes roll around
the roof, like he’s looking for something that’ll spur further
conversation. “You heard that Sentinel
guy busted in mid-blaze trying to save people?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My intestines untie and retie themselves. “Yeah.”
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My voice doesn’t sound right, it’s thin and tight, but my
new friend doesn’t seem to notice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fucking psycho. The
fire department was making their last sweep when he busted in. It was getting too hot and they couldn’t risk
any of their people even if there was a kid stuck inside.” He smiles and shakes his head. “The damn fire department wasn’t willing to
risk it and he goes in there just to save <i>one
person</i>. Shit.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I swallow a few times.
“Yeah?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ten ton balls, man.
Shame he couldn’t save the kid, but just going in there…<i>shit</i>, ya know?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I guess I’d know
better than anyone.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Shame, yeah.” My
voice is still an awkward croak.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Apparently he’s noticing I don’t sound right now because
he’s got this odd look on his face. “You
said you didn’t know anyone that got hurt in the fire, right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For a minute, it’s pretty clear how badly I’m losing my mind
because I debate actually talking to this guy.
Telling him, no I didn’t know anyone in the building, but it was my
fault the kid died. That I was the
Illegal costumed vigilante who barreled into the building half-cocked and was
spat back out shortly after. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It feels like my brain is pulsing and throbbing inside my
skull, desperately trying to purge itself.
I don’t know exactly what time it is, but I know Alan won’t be
awake. I’m tempted to call him anyway,
tell him to set me up with a shrink first thing tomorrow. I know it’d mean revealing my costumed
escapades because I don’t think patient confidentiality covers that, but it
might be worth it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My chest feels too small; it’s not letting my lungs expand
all the way. I start my deep breathing exercises,
but it’s sounding more and more like hyperventilating. I hunch over and put my hands on my knees.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey, hey, hey…” I
lost track of him for a minute and now he’s less than a foot away from me
holding his hands out and looking thoroughly freaked out. “What’s happening?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Panic attack, you
fucking idiot.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But even as I tell myself what’s happening, which should be
the first step toward overcoming it, I can’t remember what I’m supposed to do
next.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Seriously, I’m calling an ambulance.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I reach out and swat at him for a second until I find his
forearm. I grab hold and shake my
head. Between the recent smoke
inhalation and the current panic attack my voice is more of a wheeze than anything
else.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>No.</i> I’m fine.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His forearm tenses up, but he doesn’t pull away. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a mild spring night, but I’m sweating. I’m wearing sweats and a hoodie, but I’m
cold. Either this came on way faster
than usual or I was <i>really</i>
suppressing my anxiety for awhile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Let it pass. It’s going to end. It’s going to end without killing you. Let it pass, idiot.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I keep telling myself that over and over. My mantra.
At some point I all but fall over backwards. I cross my arms over my knees and rest my
head on my forearms.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know how long it takes, but I start to level
out. The tide rolls back out and the
crushing weight of an ocean of anxiety rushes off my chest with one great
inhale. Each following breath eases the
weight, steadily expanding my lungs back to their normal size. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m <i>fine</i>.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He didn’t ask, but he was <i>not</i> asking far too loudly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Looks like it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I turn my head away from my arms and glare weakly. “No one likes a smartass.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I speak from
experience.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I drop my head onto my forearms again. We sit in silence for a second. He breaks it fairly quickly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You live around here?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No.” I debate lying
about where I live for a moment, before realizing I don’t actually care all
that much. What’s he gonna do with some
stranger’s address? “I live over in
Willowwood.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sounds like some fancy gated community or something.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Just a middle class neighborhood with illusions of
grandeur. Not all that far away,
really.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He grunts. “I’m
Brandon, by the way.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m starting to feel like a child, curled up on the ground
beneath him so I stand up. When I’m on
my feet I offer my hand. “Wes.” Smalltalk not being one of my superpowers, I offer
up this little gem: “So where do you go
to school?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m a senior at South.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
South Bluffs. Is that
my school’s rival? If I had more school
spirit, I’d probably know for sure. Not
that it really matters. “So which
building is yours?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And with that, this is officially the worst first impression
I’ve ever made. And that’s counting the
times I was actively trying to make a bad one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He taps his foot lightly on the roof.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This one, actually.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I nod like that’s interesting information and wish I had a
question worth asking.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He breaks this silence too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Supposed to rain tonight.
Wondered if it’s laying off to let people like us take in the view.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Just waiting for the most dramatic moment to loose a
downpour on us, I’m sure.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brandon snorts.
“Probably.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another pause.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I fill it with a few coughs before Brandon breaks it again,
with a small smile this time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re not gonna spaz out on me again, are you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I didn’t spaz.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You kinda spazzed.
There was hyperventilating.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I scowl. “You should
be careful about insulting strangers.
Hitchhikers could be escaped mental patients and all that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That earns me a good laugh.
“Guess I assumed if you were gonna strangle me with your straightjacket
you’d have done so before I fanboyed all over the Sentinel.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“True. Damn…missed my
opening…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So I never asked what school <i>you</i> went to?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“East. Go Flying
Badgers…or whatever our mascot is…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Is this actually how
normal people make friends? </i>Am<i> I actually making a friend or is this guy
just too polite to tell me to fuck off?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Probably both.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Your school spirit blows.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s because I’m not showing my midriff, three quarters
of my thigh, and there aren’t any pompoms on hand. It’s a package deal. And when it all comes together…” I make an exploding motion with my hands.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He sighs dramatically.
“Shame I’m straight or that’d be a sight to see.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I consider giving him my number, telling him to hit me
up. I have next to no friends, so
whenever he wants to chill, I’ll be free.
However, my usual social ineptitude (multiplied by my current state of
skullfucked) is telling me that it’d be weird considering our present
circumstances. All of four minutes ago
he was trying to call an ambulance to cart me away for a panic attack. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, instead of doing something social, I look around a bit
and wave. “Alright, I think I’ve had my
fill for tonight. Plenty of other tragic
sites to hit on my sightseeing tour.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before jumping the first roof, Brandon shouts after me. “Brandon Tate. Hit me up on Facebook if you get bored of all
the sightseeing.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I look over my shoulder.
“Tate. Got it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I start jumping the gaps in what I hope is a more
normal-looking way and debate just waiting for Brandon to go back inside before
coming back, but I’ve already had more than my fill. Clearly, I’m a masochist, but everyone’s got
a line and apparently my line stops me shy of two embarrassingly pathetic panic
attacks per day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Probably for the best.
Just jumping around like this is starting to give me the shakes. Anxiety sucks. Ejecting myself out of a third story window
sucks. Smoke inhalation sucks. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Fuck this, I’m going
home.</i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-57141016889268916272014-03-25T14:16:00.003-05:002014-03-25T14:16:45.475-05:00Nuclear Family Fission RevisitedNo new story this week, but for those of you who follow the blog (real or imaginary), I'd recommend rereading <a href="http://bestleftburied.blogspot.com/2013/07/nuclear-family-fission.html">Nuclear Family Fission</a>. I made some revisions and decided now was the time to properly introduce it into the novel. <br />
<br />
It's a good thing people don't actually keep up with my blog or there might be some folks getting irritated by the lack of new content. Hooray for minuscule readership!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-64539148679864024382014-03-19T15:57:00.000-05:002014-03-19T15:57:00.126-05:00Held Hands and Hate Crimes<div class="MsoNormal">
The bus is abuzz with gossip when I step on. Boone heads back to his usual group and
though they immediately start talking, I kinda doubt it’s about the same thing
as everyone else. Boone’s never seemed
like the gossipy sort.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unfortunately for me, some of Anna’s friends are.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We plop down in an aisle across from Haley Zuelch and Monica
Demanski. They start chattering away
before we’ve even settled in. For the
most part, I can handle the two of them.
They’re decent people. But once a
piece of gossip is on the wind, they can’t help but spread it as far and as
fast as humanly possible. I slump back
against the window and Anna squeezes my hand.
I can’t tell if it’s an “I’m sorry about this” kinda hand squeeze or a
“hang in there” or just “I felt you slip away a bit and didn’t wanna let go”,
but I give her a quick squeeze back.
Neither of us is huge on public displays (it’s really only fun when
you’re trying to make people uncomfortable and that’s not what I want Anna and
I to be), but we’ve labeled handholding as PG enough for both of our
tastes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“—like she thought it would never get out or
something.” Monica’s already on a roll.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And of all the music they could’ve been doing that to, why
did they pick Alice in Chains?” Haley makes a face as she says it, as if music
about drugs and self-loathing is somehow inappropriate. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Some people.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna laughs. “Haley,
did you even know that band existed before you saw their video?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well…no, but I do now and I just don’t get it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna’s not one to spread gossip and she likes to give people
who do a little bit of shit, but she’s a more socially normal high school
student than I am. The latest rumors
hold some intrigue for her. Which is
fine, the only reason they don’t interest me is because I find most people
intolerably boring so why would I wanna hear second-hand stories about their
boring lives?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And,” Anna continues, “of all the things for you to be
worrying about here, the music is what you pick?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Haley sighs, clearly a little off-put by Anna’s
difficulty. “No, I think you know what
I’m most concerned about in all this—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t say “spreading meaningless bullshit about people’s
personal lives that won’t matter to anyone in a couple days” out loud because
last time I was rude to Anna’s friends she got so far up my ass I felt her
using my lungs as speed bags. Apparently
the difference between what she does and what I do is that I’m a bit of a
dick. Oh, and I’m not <i>actually</i> friends with them so it just
comes off as mean. Who knew?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“—everyone knew they weren’t gonna last. I don’t know what made her think making a <i>video</i> like that was a good idea…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m getting so tired of catching random snippets of
conversations that I’m tempted to just ask what the hell they’re talking
about. I’d much rather just tell them to
shut the fuck up, but once again, frowned upon by the pretty young woman who is
currently slumming it with me. So,
rather than having to spend the entire bus ride tuning the world out, I decide
to give being a normal high school student a try.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Monica and Haley both stop to take a breath, I jump
in. “So what are you guys talking
about?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Both of them give me a wide-eyed look like I’ve just asked
who the Beatles are. Then again, they
probably find being behind on the latest school news far more blasphemous. Anna just stares at me in a mixture of shock
and dismay. If I wasn’t already so sure
that I’m gonna regret asking, I would sure as shit know it now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Elizabeth Lauter and Raj Sharma broke up yesterday. Apparently it was apocalyptic. I mean, they always fought,” Monica tells me
this as if I obviously already knew it, “but this time she threw his iPod at
him and chipped one of his front teeth before leaving. Later that day, Raj posted a video of them
online. It was the two of them, Liz
giving him a lap dance and then the two of them having sex. <i>All</i>
<i>of it completely on camera.</i>”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And, like, isn’t that
just the most scandalous thing you’ve ever heard?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Instead I ask, “What song was playing?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna snorts and rolls her eyes, but Monica and Haley just
look at me like I’m not nearly as funny as I think I am. I get that look a lot.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I offer a sheepish smile that only Anna can tell is
fake. She squeezes my hand again and
purses her lips to hide a smile. “Just
curious. You mentioned Alice in Chains
earlier.” I shrug. “I went through a grunge phase awhile back.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Is the music really what you’re most worried about?” Haley turns a little pink when Monica scolds
me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just shrug.
“Mostly. I don’t care what they
do with their personal time and it’s no skin off my ass if they’re dumb enough
to make a sex tape.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can tell Monica is looking for a polite way to stop
talking to me. <i>Apparently I’m not very much fun.</i>
That’s okay. I’m not all that
interested anyway. Tried to be
normal. Didn’t give a shit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I put one earbud in and spend the rest of the bus ride
stroking Anna’s knuckles with my thumb and listening to Alice in Chains. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we pull up to the school I hold Anna back a second to
let her friends get a head start. She
smiles at me. “You almost gave the two
of them brain aneurysms.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shrug. “I don’t get
why you’re such good friends with them when pretty much all they do is gossip.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s just all <i>you </i>see
them do. They’re really sweet most of
the time. You should actually spend some
time with us.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I try not to bristle at her using “us” to describe the three
of them and not the two of us. This
whole being in a caring relationship thing comes with a few obnoxious side
effects—like being extra sensitive about “us” stuff. I’m not a big fan of being sensitive about
anything. Sarcastic and irritating is so
much easier. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t know what you guys do for fun…” <i>But I
doubt it’s my kinda thing.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, it’s getting
warm enough for the pools to open up.”
Anna smiles like she knows exactly what I was thinking. “But I don’t want you to feel obligated or
anything…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stop for a second and try to think of anything I wouldn’t
do if it involved Anna in a bathing suit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Nope. Not a damn thing.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fridays in Modern American History class is article
day. Two people bring in recent news
articles, stand in front of the class, summarize, and then give their thoughts
on the matter. I’m one of today’s two,
me and Emerald. Emerald, unlike me, is
ridiculously smart and ridiculously interested in school work. Her little report is gonna be way better than
mine (and I don’t mean that just because I picked the first article I saw last
night), so I volunteer to go first. I
may not care all that much about school, but <i>no one</i> wants to follow Emerald.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stand and deliver a monotone spiel about a failed attempt
to free a political prisoner being held by North Korea. It’s not that I don’t care about personal
liberties or the poor treatment of prisoners, I just hate that Mr. Karimov
thinks he can make me care by assigning a grade to this shit. When I finish, I give a little bow (earning a
few snickers and eye rolls) to lethargic applause, and sit back down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Emerald steps to the front of the class and reads her
headline.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Murder of Post-Human Teen, Dennis Reaves, Being
Investigated as a Hate Crime.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Okay, how was </i>that
<i>not the top news story when I was online
last night?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Emerald continues.
“So, this is one plenty of people are probably unaware of since it
happened a little after midnight. But a
high school kid from the Bluffs was killed last night. The police found him with ‘Restore Balance’
carved into his back in an alley a few blocks from his house. For those who don’t know, Restore Balance is
a radical anti-post-human group that takes actions similar to the Weather
Underground that Mr. Karimov mentioned in class the other day. What makes this unusual as well as tragic is
that Restore Balance, like the Weather Underground before it, doesn’t generally
commit violent crimes directly against people.
They’ve vandalized, sabotaged, and even leaked secrets, but before today
they were bloodless extremists.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>That’s an awfully
civilized title for an organization built on a foundation of hate crimes.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No official statement has been made by Restore Balance to
take credit for the killing—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I snort loudly enough to break Emerald’s train of thought
for a second. She frowns at me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“—but police are working under the assumption that what you
see is what you get. OPHR has also been
called in to aid in the investigation, but hasn’t released a statement of its
own.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She takes a deep breath, like maybe she’s steadying herself
for another skeptical snort. When she
starts back up, her words tumble out fairly quickly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Personally, I’m not convinced Restore Balance is actually
responsible for this. While I am in no
way sympathetic toward the cause, this <i>is</i>
the first connection to or even allegation of murder connected to their
organization. I just figure that if
they’re going to change their MO all the sudden, they’d broadcast their reasons
for all the world to hear.” She purses
her lips and nods. “Thank you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The applause is even more sporadic for her than it was for
me. She clearly did a better job, but
she did a better job on a touchier subject.
I’m sure there’s at least one person in the room who isn’t all that fond
of post-humans and there’s probably a couple people who are hardcore pro-post-human
activists, but the vast majority of people just wanna get by without getting
involved. It’s that group that doesn’t
want to clap too loud for fear of being labeled as having an opinion or
something.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The school’s wi-fi barely covers this building, but at least
I don’t have to worry about Karimov catching me on my phone. He’s up front, pacing and lecturing and
gesturing at his PowerPoint, and as long as I look up from time to time and
turn the page of my notebook, it’ll just look like I’m being vaguely
studious. Which would probably look
suspicious if Karimov wasn’t so focused on his lecturing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lucky me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It doesn’t take me long to find the article. Turns out, hate crimes make for good
news. The first site reports it the same
way Emerald did and I wonder if this isn’t the site she got it from. When the next two sites are all nearly
identical I’m about to give up on finding out any breaking developments. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Ugh. Why do the police even bother investigating
crimes if they can’t solve them within a couple hours?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My knee starts bouncing without my express consent and when
I stop it from bouncing, my fingers start drumming on my desk. I’m neither Batman nor a private
investigator, but I’m still having to fight off a nearly overwhelming urge to
go out and try my hand at some detective work.
Which is unwise on a number of levels.
For one, I’m not a detective. I
am, in fact, the exact opposite of a detective:
some random, untrained teenager. And,
more importantly, last time I went out in broad daylight in costume I couldn’t
go five feet without being gawked at or chasing people off. Guess I’m gonna have to sit around and wait
for this to get resolved like a normal person.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I refresh each of the three news sites I’m on five
times. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No new updates.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I get back to the house, Susan’s waiting. Which isn’t the same thing as her just being
home. It’s easy to tell when someone’s
walking with a purpose and this is the same thing. She’s home with a purpose. When she hears the door, she pokes her head
out into the hall and when she sees me, she waves. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wes, can we talk?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No one ever <i>asks</i>
to talk unless at least one person won’t like what’s gonna be talked about.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Certainly seems like it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan sighs. “No, I
mean really. Can I talk to you about
something?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fine. But whatever
it is, I’m reasonable sure this time that I really didn’t do it.” Which is only a half-lie, since from the
second Susan caught me sneaking into the house in-costume I’ve felt
uncontrollable guilt every time she tries to have a talk with me about
anything.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She gives me a pained look and clenches and unclenches her
fists spastically for a second. “<i>Wesley.</i>”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I purse my lips and remind myself that with all the shit she
puts up with from me, I probably owe her a few minutes of serious conversation,
painful though it may be to admit.
“Okay. Whatcha got?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well…I’m not really sure where to start with this…I don’t
know what you know…I haven’t actually had much time to think about how I want
to say this…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Oh God, just say
it. Whatever it is can’t be as
uncomfortable as this build up.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But word has gotten around that two of your classmates made
a…<i>personal</i> video and…I thought this
might be a good time to talk to you…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>No! No, go back to the build up!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You and Anna are both good, smart people, but I know how
things can be at your age…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I can’t</i> possibly<i> have done anything to deserve this!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re both fairly young still and I know you…<i>feel</i> certain things and think a certain
way right now…but I really hope you two are…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While she grasps for a word, I wonder if it’s possible for
my face to get any redder without being water boarded with auto paint. I can feel wavy lines of heat radiating off
of my ears like asphalt on a hot day. If
I could pay a post-human criminal to bust into my house and start a fight right
now, I would. Without hesitation.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My only consolation is that Susan can’t actually know what
Anna and I are up to. Not that we’ve
done anything sex tape worthy, but still.
If I could keep Susan from knowing we even held hands, I would.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan digs her thumb into the palm of her hand. “I don’t want to sit you down and shove a
lesson down your throat. My parents did
that and it never worked. I got mad and
stopped listening. They got frustrated
and started yelling. And after it was
all said and done…I usually went out and did exactly what they told me not
to. Even if I hadn’t planned on doing it
before.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Huh. That’s new
information. I didn’t really figure
Susan for having a “fuck you!” side.
Then again, I’ve never really considered that Susan might’ve been a
teenager at one point in her life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I think we can both agree that I’m fairly lenient with you
and Boone. I may get on your case about
your…costumed activities, but I let you guys get away with a lot. You come and go as you please, so long as you
leave a note or let Paul or I know where you’re going and when you’ll be
back. We don’t harass you about
homework. We look the other way on
profanity. We respect your privacy. And by this point I think you know Paul and I
talked you up a bit to Anna’s parents when you two started dating.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel real guilt well up, not the almost compulsive kind
from earlier. When she lays it all out
like that, I feel like an asshole for giving her any trouble at all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt here as
well. Paul and I talked about how we
wanted to handle things when Boone started dating. Admittedly, some of the same precautions
don’t apply to him…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>What with the
difficulty of him getting pregnant with another guy.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But the principles remained the same. We wanted to trust him and we want to trust
you. Plus, unless we want to lock you in
your room, we can’t stop you from going out and doing what you’re going to
do. And I think in your case, even
locking you in your room wouldn’t work.”
She smiles a tight smile that can’t decide whether it means she’s okay
with that fact or if it still stresses her out.
“So I’m going to struggle to tell you the same thing I struggled to tell
Boone: we trust you, please use your
best judgment, and be respectful.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I weren’t such a manly man, Susan telling me she trusts
me would make my eyes feel a little hot and wet. But I am, so my rapid blinking is just
because something flew into my eye at an inconvenient moment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I swallow and nod.
“Thanks Susan.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She hesitates for a moment before reaching out and giving me
a hug. I let her, awkwardly returning
her hug with one arm just before she pulls back. This time, when she smiles it’s closer to her
normal levels of cheeriness.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, and since Paul couldn’t get home in time to do his part
in this, I’ll have to do it on his behalf:
sex is a natural, wonderful thing and you should enjoy it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yup. There’s a
surefire way to torpedo my libido.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Goddammit Paul.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m really not a fan of this socially conscious thing
you’ve got going on here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fuck off, Boone.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan sighs. “Would
you two stop?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Paul throws a piece of popcorn at Boone. “Yeah.
Don’t discourage his interest in the daily goings on around us. If he isn’t nurtured, he might wanna stop
watching the evening news and if that happens then <i>I</i> have to stop watching the evening news. I like having a television majority.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boone rolls his eyes.
“I’m just trying to do him a favor here.
The whole ‘I’m too cool to try at school, but secretly I actually care about
things’ bit is all kinds of cliché.” He
looks up at Paul with his most innocent, concerned look. “And you wouldn’t want to raise a cliché,
would you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Paul holds a finger up to his lips, shushing Boone. “I’m too busy getting my way to pretend I
believe you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan tries hiding a smile and swats Paul’s shoulder. I take a minute to figure out if I can give
Boone the finger without anyone else in the room noticing. Victory without mockery is a hollow thing
indeed. I don’t quite manage it. Paul throws a piece of popcorn at me and
rolls his eyes, but he’s wise enough to know it’s useless trying to keep us
from getting after each other. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It doesn’t take long for the news to get to the murder and
when it does I’m left a little cold.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bad enough that there’s a radical organization that thinks
people like me are abominations. Being a
part of any kind of minority earns you some degree of animosity. Worse still that said organization might be
willing to murder some kid for being what they see as an abomination, but
again, there are some bastards looking for any excuse to gun down kids of a
different color. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then there’s this.
Some macho high school showdown gone wrong. Two kids never got along and it didn’t get
any better when the blatantly anti-post-human guy found out what the other guy
was. Not that similar things haven’t
happened before. Gang affiliations,
sexual orientation, and race have all led to violent situations like this. But I guess it doesn’t really matter that this
stuff also happens in the real world, it’s still the worst option of the three.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those groups, those are adults. Adults <i>dedicated</i>
to hate. But people my age? Most of them aren’t dedicated to
anything. Most of them probably aren’t
capable of real dedication.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But this kid? He’s
dedicated now. They’ll probably try him
as an adult. He’ll be that guy who
committed a hate crime. And murder, at
that. He’s buried himself way behind the
eight ball as far as making up for high school mistakes goes. Might end up being easier for him to just
roll into the mistake. Especially if he
serves time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t tell if I’m sadder or angrier about this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then it occurs to me that in an attempt to get away with
it, he mutilated the other kid’s body.
Anger takes the lead.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I manage to excuse myself without swearing and walk up to my
room without storming off, so when I get up to my room I feel rather entitled
to some sort of outburst. I’m sorely
tempted to put a hole in the wall, but I know I’d just feel bad about it later
and patch it up myself. Even still, I
consider it. It’s not even nine o’clock,
but if I’m not gonna punch something here I might have to head out and about to
find something to punch.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Have you ever had one
of those lives where everything seems to go wrong?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-75755794192636083582014-03-12T15:38:00.000-05:002014-03-12T20:51:41.703-05:00Magnetic Moment<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, come on!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boone snorts, finally getting his breathing back to normal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s hard enough to get any respect without everyone
thinking I’m some idiot teenage Peter Parker wannabe!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Aren’t</i> you just
some idiot teenage Peter Parker wannabe?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I glare.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That is so freaking beside the point! As if I didn’t get enough shit as it is, now
I’m gonna get ‘kiddo’ and ‘sport’ thrown my way like a hot chick catching cat
calls! There is no way I deserve this!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boone ruffles his hair.
“<i>I</i> think you deserve it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>You’re</i> an
asshole.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna pokes her head in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why’s Boone an asshole?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I arch an eyebrow at her. “That might be the most ridiculous question
I’ve ever heard.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She rolls her eyes, “Okay, why is Boone an asshole <i>now</i>?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I grumble and wish I could throw something at the
television. “Some damn reporter-guy
poked around in my costuming business, talking to some of the people I helped
or jailed and even the police who cleaned up after me. Nobody said anything slanderous like I kicked
their baby but the general consensus seemed to be that they were dealing with
a…” I wince and sigh and wish everyone would leave me alone, “plucky young man
looking out for the average citizen.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s a pregnant moment of silence before the dam breaks
and Boone, still a little short of breath, looses a fresh gale of
laughter. Anna follows shortly after,
neither willing nor able to hold back for the sake of my dignity. She falls forward onto my chair, draped over
the back for a minute before falling to the floor.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I look over the arm of the chair at her. “I hope that hurt.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Y-you’re—you’re <i>plucky!</i>” She jams her fist against her mouth, shaking.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hear something coming from the kitchen. I think even Susan’s laughing at me. She doesn’t approve of what I’m doing and
she’s laughing at me. My life sucks so
unimaginably much. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boone can’t even form coherent words. He just mumbles a string of muted vowels and
consonants in between throat-strangling bouts of laughter. I throw the remote at him. He gets his arms over his head in time to
block it, but the remote still makes a satisfying <i>whump</i> against his forearm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I lean the recliner back as far as it’ll go and pull my hood
over my head.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The microwave bleats and Susan calls Anna back in to collect
her popcorn. It takes a minute for her
to regain enough composure to stand and she’s still wheezing when she heads
back to the kitchen but she manages.
Boone’s crying. Tears are
actually welling up in his eyes. Susan
comes in, sounding a little out of breath.
I try to lean further into my hood like maybe I’ll fall into the abyss
if I can only push my skull a little further back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Alright, you guys it’s past my bedtime. Sleep well and don’t stay up too late.” Susan leans over the back of my chair and
squeezes my shoulder. “Stay plucky,
dear.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I growl and suffer through another round of breathless
laughter.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You people are the worst.
I hope you know that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah!” When Boone
comes to my aid, I know something’s about to go wrong. Well, more wrong. “You’re all gonna regret picking on a nice
young man like Wesley! For <i>shame</i>.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan has to stop climbing the stairs for a second to catch
her breath. Anna comes in pressing a
bowl of kettle corn against her stomach to keep from dropping it, but she can’t
stop a few pieces from rolling down the sides and to the floor. She holds it out between us, pressing her
lips together and trying to look bashful.
The hysterical, lunatic laughter rolling around her eyes undermines the
attempt a bit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I brought you a peace offering.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I glare at her for a second but can’t really get any <i>oomph</i> behind it. I make what I hope is a properly begrudging
face and tilt my head from side to side.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I accept your apology.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna scooches onto my lap, leaning against my chest and
dangling her legs over the edge. Wherever
she makes contact with me goes hot and tingly.
I sit still and hope that if neither of us moves for a few seconds I’ll
be able to bring my heart rate back to healthy levels. And keep control of...other things.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And I never said I was apologizing, that was fucking hilarious. I’m just offering popcorn and my company to
soothe your tortured soul.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I scrunch up my face and shrug. “Suppose that’s close enough.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I root around the kettle corn with my left hand. I’d almost forgotten how much I love the
stuff. It’s like someone drizzled sweet
wonderfulness on salty popcorn. I chew
through a few handfuls of popcorn until I’m sure that Boone’s caught up in
what’s on TV and kiss Anna’s neck once, twice, three times. She presses more tightly against me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suppose I’ve had worse nights.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you two are gonna start that shit, I’m going upstairs.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And just like that, a flash fire breaks out across my
face. Whoops.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna shifts herself as far to the outside of my thigh as she
can, as if she’s decided sitting on my lap wasn’t a particularly good
idea. I find myself simultaneously
agreeing and damning the notion to hell.
This must be what adults are always talking about when they use their
condescending tone of voice and mention “raging hormones”. Fuck, I hate when people other than me are both
condescending <i>and</i> right. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna bites her lip for a second before sliding off my leg
and onto the floor, taking the kettle corn with her. I can’t help but feel this wouldn’t be so
awkward if we weren’t so fresh off a big fight.
It’s not true, neither of us are big fans of public displays, but it’s
hard to shake the feeling. We’re still
sort of feeling each other out again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna sets the bowl in Boone’s lap.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I think my eyes were bigger than my stomach. You wanna finish it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You sure?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She nods. “Yeah, it’s
getting late anyway. If I eat all that
now, I’ll still be digesting an hour and a half after I should be asleep.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You’d think sooner or later, karma would have to start
breaking my way. I’m not a big fan of
accepting I.O.U.’s, but I don’t think there’s much room to argue with the
forces that shape the universe. I’ll
just have to hope there really is a sense of balance to things.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hop off the chair and walk Anna to the door. You wouldn’t think twenty feet could
encompass all that much awkward, but I assure you, it most certainly can.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a bit of a strain to wish her a more sophisticated
good-bye than monosyllabic grunts. “I’ll,
uh, see you tomorrow.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An awkward smile and a kiss on the cheek from Anna and she’s
out the door.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Not a good day.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boone snores like a small, well-worn bellows being pumped
slowly and carefully. A raspy inhale,
slight pause, and a long wheeze. It’s
not loud enough to keep anyone awake, but it’s hard not to notice in the
silence of 2:17am. Thoughts of Anna and
I keep winding their way around my wondering what it means that I’m
getting all this media coverage. Both of
which crash over the nagging worry that all this attention is gonna get me in
trouble with the bigoted folks who just wish us post-human freaks would leave
the regular people alone. And that’s not
even considering what OPHR might be thinking of the displays of the
Sentinel. Them being the big-shot
post-human organization, I imagine they keep track of as much post-human
activity as they can. And I still haven’t
let go of my grudge against Boone. I
stare at the ceiling, watching the shadows twist and wave, not really trying to
get to sleep anymore.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Inhale. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pause. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wheeze.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s official. I
can’t sleep. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seems like a good time to sneak out the back door and burn
off a bit of restless energy. After all,
it is Saturday morning. Not like I have
anything to wake up for.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An overturned ice cream truck. Of all the things I expected to see tonight,
an overturned ice cream truck wasn’t even on my radar. Overturned and lying in the middle of the street
with the rear door ripped off. The
door’s on the sidewalk nearby. I climb
on top of the truck—er, I guess I’m climbing onto the side of it
technically—and look around. No signs of
explosives, no spike strips; I don’t see anything that could flip a big truck
like this. The front end isn’t crumpled
either. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>What the shit?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I squat down over the driver’s side door. No one’s home. No blood either, thankfully. Seatbelt’s not cut. The airbag’s been deployed and deflated. I pull the door open and lower myself into
the cab. It’s a narrow fit and when I
crouch down to get a better look at things, it feels even narrower. I have to keep my knees bent straight ahead or
I won’t fit at all. Glass crunches
beneath my boots. The keys aren’t even
in the ignition. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Seriously, what the
shit?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t even begin to figure out where to go from here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pressure’s starting to build in my temples like my head’s
been dropped on a workbench and clamped in a vice. This is definitely not helping me sleep. Why do I do these things? I climb back out and sit down over the front
of the truck, letting my legs dangle.
Truck’s flipped for no reason. No
sign of anything or anyone. No one’s
investigating. Doesn’t even seem like
anyone’s called the cops. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What is an ice cream truck even doing driving around this
late?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hop down and walk around to the back of the truck. I poke my head in. It’s cool in there, but not
freezer-cold. Same temperature as the
outside world. Maybe the motor burnt out
or maybe it just stops working once the truck’s engine stops running. I dunno.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m about to take a closer look inside when that
hair-raising, eyes-boring-into-the-back-of-my-head sensation washes over me so
intensely that I actually expect someone to tap me on the shoulder and ask me
to “please step away from the vehicle with your fingers laced and placed on top
of your head”. I turn, running my eyes
over the street. A car drives down a
cross-street two blocks away. Someone’s
yappy little pocket-dog yips inanely. I
shift my gaze to the rooftops. Steam
billows up from a couple roofs. Nothing
else. No cop leveling a service pistol
at me. No criminal crew rocking assault
rifles, ski masks, and covered in ice cream.
No manically grinning super villain types prowling the roofs. I take a couple deep breaths, (hold them, and
then exhale) trying to steady the overly enthusiastic beating of my heart.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Getting worked up over
what’s probably just some soccer mom with insomnia peeking out her bedroom
window. Great.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back to the truck.
It’s hard to shake the feeling that someone’s watching me, even if the
actual feeling itself is mostly gone.
But unless I’m willing to comb every inch of the block at street-level
and then on the roofs, I’m gonna have to ignore it and get on with life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spend thirty seconds in the truck before the headache
comes back, bulling past the feeling of being watched and reestablishing itself
as the dominant presence in my head.
There’s no ice cream in the truck either, just a couple empty boxes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I quit. Sooner or
later someone else is gonna find this and they can figure it out or outsource
it to Batman or whatever it is that needs to be done to solve the Ice Cream
Truck Mystery (sounds like a freaking Nancy Drew book) and I’ll catch the
outcome in the news. If I keep at this
I’m just gonna fry my brain and spend the rest of my weekend a useless
vegetable. Mind you, that’s not a huge
outward change from my usual weekend behavior, but the constant headache I’d be
contending with is something I’m just not willing to deal with. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I step out of the back and poke the tires (nothing) before
officially calling it quits. No use
beating my head against a wall. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Not the best night out
I’ve ever had.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“—about you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think I missed something.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna rolls her eyes. “Carla
Flores. That reporter with a thing for
post-humans? She talks about you in her
latest article.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After the last bit of publicity I got, I kinda wish people
would just leave me alone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What does she say?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Good things. You’ll
have to read for yourself if you want more.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I think I’d prefer if someone just called me a menace and
started a campaign against me. I’m
getting pretty tired of everyone saying nice things about me. No one’s scared of the nice superhero.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna pats my cheek.
“Poor baby. Do you want me to go
talk to them and tell them to be nicer to you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>No!</i>” I crease my forehead and frown, pouting. “That’s the exact opposite of what I want!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna presses her lips together, smothering a laugh.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I growl and turn back to the TV. It would probably be easier to check online
news sites for an update on the Ice Cream Truck Mystery, but my laptop’s all
the way upstairs and I really don’t feel like fetching it. Physically gifted post-humans are entitled to
a bit of laziness too, especially on Saturday mornings. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And in this morning’s post-human news, an overturned ice
cream truck was discovered last night on Mason Street downtown. The truck was turned onto its side and the
rear door was ripped off, no injuries were reported. The police gave an official statement this
morning, connecting this bizarre event with the post-human vigilante known as
Lodestone. Known for her magnetic powers
and work targeting child offenders, Lodestone is believed to be responsible for
rescuing a child that had been imprisoned in the back of the truck by two men
looking to sell her into slavery. In a
statement taken by the police, the victim said that Lodestone stopped the truck
as they were passing a stop sign, turned it over, and rescued her from the
truck. With the victim safe, Lodestone
apprehended the men, left them on the front steps of the police station, and
brought the victim to the hospital.
With…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Magnetic powers? <i>Come on!</i>
How was I supposed to figure that out?
I would’ve ranked alien prank above Lady Magneto…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna looks over at me like I’ve just sprouted a horn and a
couple tails. “What?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I found that truck last night. That overturned ice cream truck full of kiddy
pervs? I found it overturned and
completely empty last night. I couldn’t
sleep so I went out and about and I found the truck they were talking about,
but I couldn’t figure the first thing out about it.” I shrug.
“So I left, vowed to catch it on the news from the mouths of people who
got it from the mouths of experts, and now here I am. Thoroughly confused.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She presses her lips over a smile. “You found an overturned ice cream truck and
your first thought was aliens?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What? <i>No.</i>
Well, not my first thought…and you weren’t there last night. That shit was eerie.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She pats my cheek.
“I’m sure it was, Wes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shrug her hand off and pretend not to notice how hot my
face is. “It wasn’t a serious thought or
anything…I just...shut up.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna grins.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-78820545225006719352014-03-04T21:44:00.000-06:002014-03-12T21:05:11.487-05:00First Time<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna’s not waiting by the front door, nor is she in the
kitchen with Susan and Boone. My phone
tells me it’s 7:28. The bus doesn’t get
in ‘til 7:37-ish, but Anna’s usually here five, ten minutes before now. I sit at the kitchen table until 7:34 before
giving up and walking out the door with Boone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan looks curiously at me and then at the empty chair, but
has the decency not to ask.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What’d you do?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boone, however, has never bothered with tact in his life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I browbeat her with my
petty hurt.</i> “Shut up.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His smirk twitches, like for a second it’s too heavy to hold
up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wanna take a ditch day to soothe your wounded soul?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Yes.</i> “No.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He shrugs and runs a hand through his hair. “Offer stands all-day.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Ask me again!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I grunt and step onto the curb to wait for the bus. Anna’s not there either. The bus is running a few minutes late. Not a surprising turn of events. There are always assholes who go running up
to the bus as it’s about to leave, yelling from a block away to hold the doors. Do that at every other stop and being late
becomes the new on-time. Not that I
would know from first-hand experience or anything.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bus rolls up at 7:41 and Anna still hasn’t showed. I stall a bit, pretending I forgot a book and
then rooting around my backpack a bit before “finding it”. She still isn’t anywhere to be found, so I
shuffle aboard. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna’s sitting in the third row from the front, on my left
and with her nose buried in a book.
Literally, buried. She looks too
close to be able to read more than one word at a time. Waves of heat ripple out from my chest and
across my body and the hairs on my arms snap to attention.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>She’d rather wake up
early and walk an extra five blocks than wait at the bus stop with me?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her ears are so red her hair looks dull and brown by
comparison, but she keeps her head firmly down and her backpack in the spot
next to her as I walk by. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boone gives me a look over his shoulder. I ignore it.
I plop down in the first empty row I find and stretch my legs out across
the second seat. Boone wanders further
back to sit with Shelly McCourtey and Danton Park. I pop my headphones in and close my
eyes. Two stops and a song and a half
later someone taps my foot. My eyes open
immediately, completely sure they’ll see Anna, ready to bury all this shit in
the backyard. Or beneath some water
below a bridge. However this metaphor
works. Instead, I see a placid looking
girl, cupping her elbows in her hands.
She’s tall and gangly and her crimped brown hair is pulled into a tight
bun. I recognize her round, freckly face
but can’t stick a name to it. <i>Marissa?
Melissa? Martha? </i><i>I dunno.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I slide my feet onto the floor and pull one earbud out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sorry.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She shakes her head and settles in next to me. “It’s okay.”
And after a pause, “Don’t you usually sit with Anna?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stare at her for a second, wondering if I’m really supposed
to know this girl. I’m bad with faces (a
side-effect of a lifetime of not caring) and can’t be sure so I don’t tell her
to mind her own fucking business. My
face must tell her for me because she backtracks.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sorry, that was rude.
You probably don’t even remember me.”
She waves a hand at me. “I’m
Melanie. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna and I are friends.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I nod and smile tightly (is it a smile or a grimace?). “Ah, Melanie.
That was gonna be my first guess.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She doesn’t seem to mind my forgetfulness or my flippancy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“She looked pretty upset when I walked by. Do you mind if I ask why?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Because I suck.</i> “Sorry, I know you and Anna are friends, but
I don’t know you all that well.
Personally, you know?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Did that sound as
diplomatic out loud as it did in my head?
Did I seriously just say something right?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Melanie nods. “That’s
okay. Just thought I’d ask. Some people like to be asked.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tilt my head from side to side. “Fair enough.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I don’t put my earbud back in. I feel too hot and my mouth’s too dry and
yesterday’s headache is coming back.
Before I can remind myself that my problems are <i>my problems</i>, I start talking.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I yelled at her, like really <i>fucking</i> yelled at her. She
got mad and said something she didn’t mean and I blew up.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Melanie looks over at me like I didn’t just blurt out
something really personal to an almost complete stranger on a goddamn school
bus. Like this isn’t weird. Her lips are pressed together and her
eyebrows are scrunched up, like she’s listening to her best friend vent his
troubles. She’s all patience and
sympathy. I don’t know if that makes
this better or worse.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Did she apologize?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I break eye contact.
“She tried.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How can someone try to apologize?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>By having an asshole
boyfriend. Or by being one.</i> “She called.
I didn’t pick up.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How come?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shrug, still not sure what’s possessed me. “I was pissed, I guess.” <i>And
guilty.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you want her to come to you and apologize?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Jesus, who talks like
this?</i> “I don’t know.” <i>And who
answers?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting her to apologize for
hurting your feelings. You’re not trying
to blame the whole thing on her. You’ll
apologize too, right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Profusely.</i> “Yeah.”
I look up at her, still wearing that same calm, concerned
expression. “You are being remarkably
laid-back here despite the fact that a nearly total stranger is unloading on
you and unloading about a friend of yours at that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She’s the one to shrug this time, glancing up at Anna. “Anna’s a sweetheart, but it’s hard to ignore
how she gets when she loses her temper.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For a brief second I see Patty Campbell in Melanie’s face,
hear her words coming out of Melanie’s mouth.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Henry’s a good man,
but—it’s just the accident. He can’t
walk without pain sometimes and it’s frustrating and it just makes him do
things he wouldn’t normally do…It’s really not his fault…</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then Melanie shrugs and it’s her again. No more Patty.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Not that that’s an excuse, it just kinda <i>is</i>.
She’s an intense person. Mostly,
it’s a good kind of intense, but no one’s always cheery and wonderful. Although, that day after you kissed her she
sure seemed like she’d be happy forever.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I blink. “What?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Melanie’s calm breaks for a second and a deep flush rolls up
her neck. She smiles nervously and waves
me off. “Nothing. I don’t think I should be spilling girl talk
to a boy. I think it’s against some sort
of code.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want her to go back.
Go back and expand. Tell me
exactly what was said and how it was said.
Instead I try to remain composed (or as composed as I can after puking
up all my feelings to a stranger).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Is that why you’re over here with me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She shrugs. “I like
her. She likes you. There’s a mathematical property that says I
have to help you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Is this what math teachers are always talking about when
they’re telling us that math really <i>is</i>
useful in real life?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Melanie smiles, big and bright. “No, they probably actually think we’ll need
to determine when a train will arrive at Station X, but I imagine they’d take
credit for this anyway.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An honest smile touches my face for the first time in
twelve-ish hours. “Seems somewhat
dishonest. What will become of us
without good role models?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Melanie giggles and it feels good to laugh with
someone. Feels like all I’ve done with
people of late has involved sulking or yelling.
Or punching. I might need to get
to know Melanie better so I can figure out a way to pay her back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I…I’m gonna go talk to Anna.” My smile tightens a little. “Thanks.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not really good at subtle or delicate, so I go for
direct. I slide into the seat next to
her, dropping her backpack onto my lap.
Anna’s ears go a brilliant, painful shade of red. She’s still giving the book a colonoscopy
with her nose, but I think her body eases up a little. Maybe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now that I’m sitting next to her and she’s not starting up a
conversation and I still don’t know what to say, my courage starts to wane a
little. The irony of this is not lost on
me (or is this just weird instead of ironic?).
I can face down knife-wielding muggers, drug dealers, and post-human
crazies, but having a normal conversation like this leaves me flatfooted.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Something soft bounces off the back of my head.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I turn around and see a little ball of paper on the
ground. When I look up, Melanie’s
leaning out into the aisle, mouthing “Do something!” at me. I frown and turn back around.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mind’s still a blank and I think someone’s jammed a
bellows in my chest and is steadily pumping harder and harder. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before I can completely meltdown, I reach out and take
Anna’s left hand. Freed from one hand,
her book sways drunkenly against her thigh.
The pressure in my chest eases slightly.
She doesn’t take her hand back, just looks down at it for a second
before smiling a small smile and squeezing back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I press my lips together.
“I’m sorry.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nothing’s fixed.
Apologies aren’t magical, no matter what your parents say. I’m still an asshole with anxiety issues,
trust issues, abandonment issues, intimacy issues, whatever. And in one moment of intense anger, she still
completely cut me down. But I guess that’s
what caring for someone does, makes you stupid and reckless and willing to get
hurt and show pain again and again because when she strokes my knuckles with
her thumb I goo-ify a little bit. Or
something. I think I got distracted.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For a few minutes, I decide to ignore my feelings on public
displays of affection and slump down in the seat, resting my cheek on her shoulder. Anna must agree because she props her chin on
top of my head. For a few minutes,
things are okay.</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-18043038631403117532014-02-25T17:19:00.000-06:002014-02-25T17:19:56.829-06:00The Comedown<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Ow. Ow, ow.
Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I blindly stab at the tray clipped to the end of my bunk
that acts as a makeshift bedside table until I find my phone and stop its
incessant bleating. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Never again.</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rolling over hurts, so I stall for a bit longer, delaying
the inevitable trip to the floor (and hoping I won’t be making it face-first).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Wouldn’t it be nice to
believe that I’ll never again wake up feeling like someone stuffed me in an
oversized duffel bag and rolled me off a cliff?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another voice chimes in that if I were a little better at
not getting my ass kicked I wouldn’t have to pretend to promise myself I won’t
chase down any violent sewer-men again. I
clamber to the floor, grunting and wincing all the while. The bottom bunk’s empty, thank God. I take advantage of Boone’s absence and lift
my shirt up gingerly. Red-purple
contusions sprouted up across my ribs and shoulder overnight. Some of them have already started yellowing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I kinda wish I hadn’t peeked; just looking at the bruises
makes them throb painfully. They match
the bruises creeping out from under my right sleeve and running down both my
forearms. My knuckles are scraped and
bruised too. I spend a moment mourning
winter’s passing, at least then I could wear gloves. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now? I’ve got two options: go to school and pass these bruises off as
boxing injuries (apparently I’ve graduated to bare-knuckle boxing) or try and
fake sick. Or I could just go Goth and
start wearing black fingerless gloves around all the time. But I don’t really think I’ve got the bone
structure to rock eyeliner. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, shit. Anna and
Susan are gonna be on my fucking ass over this.
And now someone’s boring into my forehead with a dull drill bit,
grinding away at the bone slowly, but surely.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I take a minute to stretch out a little before heading into
general population. It’ll hurt now, but
hopefully it’ll help get me past the shuffling around hunched over stage of the
day. I lace my fingers and extend my
arms out in front of me, slowly raising them over head. I get up on my tiptoes and feel my shoulder
snarl when I try to engage it. I’m
careful not to lengthen my torso too much—no good can come of that. Little shifts. Low-key stretches. Nothing too aggravating. Take it nice and slow. None of it feels good, but I can’t very well
go downstairs wincing with every step. A
few slow, painful torso rotations and attempted toe touches that burn more than
they have any business doing and I call it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Gotta get moving if
I’m actually going to school today.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knock on the bathroom door and, when no one shouts
“occupied”, I let myself in. Start up
some hot water and have to double back to my room to grab some clean clothes to
change into. I drop the stack of clothes
onto the counter and start the arduous, painful process of peeling off my shirt
and shorts. I take a minute to give
myself a once over in the mirror. Being
a post-human with increased strength, speed, and stamina has some perks—like
never having to lift weights to look really fit. Plus, now that I’m over the shock of it, I
kinda like the way the bruises look. No
one with bruises like these could be someone nice and safe. I’d never say it out loud, but I’m kinda
digging the whole “dangerous” look they give off. I turn away with a newfound appreciation that
lasts all of ten seconds before I reach out to slide the shower curtain out of
the way with my bad shoulder. That
appreciation dies in an avalanche of teeth-gritting profanities. I’m hoping the shower will help loosen things
up, but what I really need is pills and ice and pills and pills. And maybe a heating pad. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t rush the shower.
Standing under a sustained barrage of hot water is just about the
greatest thing in the world for me right now.
It loosens up some of the knots spread across my body and soothes the
headache nicely. There’s no forgetting
about any of it, but intense physical discomfort no longer dominates my
thoughts. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I step out and towel off and try to figure a way out of
talking to Susan about the obvious beating I took last night. My thoughts hiccup when I catch another
glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’m
crazy about Anna, but I really wish she was a little less mature about my
superheroing business. She spends way
too much time worrying about if I’ll get hurt and not nearly enough time just
being a stupid teenager and thinking how awesome it is. Twenty bucks says just about any other girl
in school would <i>ooh</i> and <i>aah</i> over my bruises and think how brave
I am to go out and do what I do. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whatever.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I eventually manage to dry myself off—like a big boy—and
start the herculean task of dressing myself.
I’m three seconds away from calling for an adult when I finally get my
jeans up over my thighs. From there it’s
a simple—and painful—matter of pulling a t-shirt over my head and sliding my
arms through a hoodie. Gingerly, I loop
my arms through my backpack’s straps and start downstairs. Anna’s waiting, leaning against the door,
arms crossed and wearing a purple and teal striped long-sleeved shirt under a
black t-shirt branded with Big Foot’s silhouette over white block letters
proclaiming, “I believe”. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re late,” she mutters.
“Bus’s gonna be here in a couple minutes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I growl and check my phone.
Guess I’m missing breakfast today.
<i>Dammit.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just as I’m thinking that, Anna nods at the little table
next to the door. There’s a plastic
baggie filled with granola and a shiny red apple sitting there next to the key
basket.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She smiles a little and fingers a strand of hair out of her
face. “You get bitchy when you’re
hungry.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I squeeze her hand and open the front door.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I assume Boone didn’t feel the need to wait up?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna just snorts and walks outside. <i>Fair
enough.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We don’t even get to the end of the driveway before I tap
Anna’s shoulder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Can we slow down a bit?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She arches an eyebrow at me, but slows.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Since when do you drag ass?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It takes me a minute to swallow the lies that come bubbling
up to my lips. All the while, Anna’s
looking me up and down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I may or may not have gotten into a physical altercation
with a crazy, super-powered sewer-man last night.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She stops walking.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are you okay? Should
we go back and talk to Susan?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, I’m fine.
Nothing broken or situated where it shouldn’t be—unless you count the
generally unappealing structure of my face.”
When she doesn’t start walking again, I put my hand behind her
elbow. “We’re gonna miss the bus.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, sorry. So,
what happened? What the hell is a
sewer-man?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I give her a brief recap, leaving out the part about how my
amazing knockout punch was something I saw on YouTube. I don’t think anyone really needs to know
about that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So your thought process was that chasing the crazy
sewer-man down <i>into the sewer</i> was a
good idea?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, I didn’t know he was a sewer-man at the time. Or that he was powered. Or that he was crazy. Really, I didn’t know anything about him
other than that he tried to attack someone.
But even if I did, I couldn’t very well just let a violent criminal
escape. I’d lose my union
membership. And I don’t do this shit
‘cuz it seems smart, I do it for all the sweet perks.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bus rounds the corner a block and half ahead of us. I shrug and start shambling a bit faster,
wincing as I go.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Let’s talk about this later, okay? We’re about to miss the bus.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna jogs up ahead of me, hopefully asking the driver to
wait for the pathetic soul stumbling along behind her and not telling him to
floor it while she laughs at me through the window.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You can’t tell Susan about this, okay?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna just sits on her bed and stares at me, lips pressed
together, arms wrapped tightly around her stomach. I let myself sink down into her beanbag chair
and have to actively suppress a groan.
Nothing’s been this physically comfortable all day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Seriously, Anna.
I’ll tell her as much as she needs to know. She doesn’t need all the gory details about
this anymore than she needs to know about Boone’s sex life. We’re barely on solid ground as it is and
she’d just freak the fuck out over this.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No shit she’ll freak out, it looks like it hurts to
breathe.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Only the inhaling part, and really, who needs to inhale?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her hand twitches like she wants to smack me, but decides on
mercy at the last minute. I sigh. I probably owe it to her to not be a childish
douche.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What good would it do anyone to tell her everything all the
time? There’s nothing she can do to
protect me out there and sooner or later she’d try and tell me to stop.” It comes out a little more impatient than I
intended.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And why can’t you stop?
Why is this so important to you?
What is it about getting the shit kicked out of you that’s so
appealing? Most people would take this
as a sign to knock it the hell off, but you’re acting like it’s just a normal
hazard of teenage life like fender-benders or mono.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Everyone talks about doing something important with their
life.” I can feel the sadistic
revolution of that drill bit starting up again, boring and boring into my skull. “They spend their lives dreaming of doing
something important or—or wishing more people would do something good, but no
one ever does. So why is it that when
someone <i>does</i> something important,
tries to do something good, they get fucking bent over for it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At some point during my ramblings, I started yelling.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I start trying to do something and Susan gets on my
ass. Susan gets on my ass and then you -two
start talking about me behind my back and suddenly Boone’s the only person on
my side!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>On your side?</i>” Anna bolts up and the hair falling in her
face isn’t so cute this time. “Boone’s
the only one on your side? Like Susan
and Paul and I are just sitting around every time you go out, crossing our
fingers and hoping you’ll fuck up? Like
every day we don’t worry that you’ll go out and get hurt—<i>really</i> hurt—and we’ll be to blame because we were the ones who
supported your decision? Is that what
you mean?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Support?” I
laugh. “Yeah, I’m really fucking feeling
the support. Susan’s constant
disapproval, Paul’s unwillingness to do anything one way or the other, and you
going behind my back—it’s all just too much.
What have I done to deserve such love and support?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh get off your <i>fucking</i>
cross, we both know this is the best goddamn place you’ve ever lived. Those people care about you. They want what’s best for you. Most people would consider themselves lucky
to have parents like them and we both know you’ve never had a more loving family.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna’s temper dies the second the words are out of her
mouth. The defiance and the anger vanish
like they were never there. Her face
goes watery and her eyes are bright and panicky. Fuck that, my anger’s not nearly spent. I’m just catching my second wind. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Really? Little
orphan boy’s never had a loving family before?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, I meant—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“See, ‘cuz I thought the nice guy with the cane was part of
a loving family. He was such a
sweetheart when his knee wasn’t acting up.
When it was though, he’d have a drink to calm it down since the doctors
stopped giving him pain pills. But one
little drink never calmed anything down.
Couple drinks later, he’d finally start forgetting about his knee and that’d
free his mind up to think about other things.
Most days he’d figure out his cane was good for more than just limping
along. He was generous with his newfound
insight. His wife couldn’t give him a
kid and I was literally the son he couldn’t have, but that was all okay because
I thought that was love, right?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t tell my legs to take a step forward, but they do
anyway. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Or the apathetic folks who wanted a foster kid to keep up
with the Joneses, so they could parade around, telling everyone how wonderfully
charitable they were. Or the ones who
just got fed up with the snarky fuck with the filthy mouth who snuck out after
curfew and came home from school bloody all the time. Although, really, I never expected anything
more wonderful than my birth parents, they <i>really</i>
spoiled me. All I know about them is
that they loved me so much they couldn’t stand it another minute.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m dimly aware that I really am playing the martyr card
harder than I ever wanted to but I cannot give any fewer fucks about that right
now. Anna’s not looking so puffed up
anymore. I look down at her for a second
(ignoring her shining eyes and shaking shoulders) before stomping out and
slamming the door behind me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fuck this, I’ve got better things to do.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My phone vibrates in my pocket for the fourth time since I
left and I regret having given Anna the number to my burner cell. I don’t know if she kept calling my real
phone after I changed into my vigilante getup, but it didn’t take her very long
to figure out I’d changed. I don’t care
what she has to say right now, I’m not ready to let go of my anger. My blood feels thick and heavy, roaring
through my veins like a little kid shooting through the world’s most violent
waterslide. I don’t care that I was
being an asshole too. I don’t care that
she just lost her temper, that she didn’t really mean it. I don’t care that she probably wants to take
it all back. All I care about is the
anger that swiftly saturated every inch of my consciousness, overwhelming what
little rationality I possess. The pain
helps. Trying to move around the city
like I usually do in costume is an exercise in masochism. My shoulder howls in protest when I lift
myself up the first fire escape like I’m doing a pull-up, my ribs tweak and
twinge every time I change directions, and my brain throbs inside my skull like
a beating heart. <i>Thump-thump. Thump-thump.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My phone vibrates again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Vrrrm. Vrrrm.
Vrrrm.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Vrrrm. Vrrrm.
Vrrrm.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let her stew.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I look across the rooftops, not sure where to go. It’s always a crapshoot, but tonight I don’t
even wanna be out helping people, I just wanna be away from whatever it is that
broke in my brain. Whatever it is that
made me freak out, that stopped me from not caring, that kept me from not getting
invested. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m out a little early, so the city’s more lively than
usual. Cars rumble around below me, most
windows are still alive with light, and, despite the after dark crime rate,
laughter and chit-chat drifts up from the sidewalks. Everything’s below me or across the street or
above me. Far away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then the roof access door opens and I duck down behind a
chimney.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whoever just walked out turns and screams back through the
doorway.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Fuck you! </i>It was just a goddamn fish,<i> Jesus!</i>”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She slams the door, but I can still hear the muffled
response echoing up the stairwell.
Something about bitch and knowing the first thing and some other things
I can’t make out. I peek out around the
chimney. She looks younger than me,
hands shaking so hard her lighter falls onto the roof.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Fuck.</i>”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She picks it up and finally gets her cigarette lit. It’s not winter anymore, but it’s still a bit
cool for sweats and a t-shirt, and I suspect she’s shivering as much as
shaking. Hands clamped across her
elbows, turning in circles, muttering to herself around her cigarette, eyes
jumping between the ground and aimless points across the city, I recognize
her. Not that I’ve ever met her before
or even seen her, it’s what she’s doing.
I was too much of a pussy to get over how harsh cigarettes taste, but
I’ve done the same thing myself. It’s
feeling everything inside of you bouncing around, slamming against your
insides, crawling up your throat, storming, raging, trying to find a weak
point. Trying to escape and if you hold
yourself really tight and keep moving on the outside it’ll somehow counteract
all the pressure and movement inside you.
I don’t know what the looking around is about—trying to find a place
where this might not happen to you? I
dunno.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can practically see Anna standing in front of me, looking
up and maybe feeling these same abstract things that don’t make any sense and
wondering what just happened. Panicking,
knowing something had just gone wrong, but not really sure what’s going to
happen next or what she should do next.
Something in my chest sinks. It’s
like having a piece of rotten fruit inside my chest just as part of it caves in
on itself. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then the moment’s gone and I’m just some douche bag who
freaked out at his girlfriend because he’s insecure.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I fucking hate myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sit down in the gravel, grimacing as the impact rattles up
my body. Leaning against the brick chimney,
I pull my phone out of my pocket and hold 1 for voicemail. A scratchy, robotic voice tells me I have one
new message.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Wes, I’ll leave you
alone after this, but I, uh, I’m home alone right now. Parents don’t get home ‘til late tonight, so
if you wanna come talk to me, I’ll leave the basement door unlocked. I—I don’t know what to say to make this
better, but I am really sorry. </i>She
pauses for a second to take a deep breath.<i> I just think we actually need to talk about
all this, ‘cuz we’re </i>really <i>not on
the same page. I, uh, I’m just trying
to—I fucked up and I wanna make it right, okay?
Just…call me back.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I delete the message and hang-up the phone. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not that far from our street yet. It hurt changing and it hurt running and it
hurt climbing, so I’m barely out of the suburbs. I could be back at her place in less than an
hour. I don’t know why I wouldn’t. All the anger and adrenaline’s gone now, I
don’t really want to be out anymore. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>So get up. Get up, stupid. Stand up and walk back. This is pointless, I can’t actually do
anything worthwhile like this and Anna’s trying to be an adult here. Just go back.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One last surge of spite pulses through my brain and tells me
to keep sitting. Just sit and let Anna feel
guilty, it’d serve her right. But I’m
past the point where that particular voice in my head is in control. I don’t want to be that asshole. It takes me a minute to get up without
throwing anything out of whack. Along
with the anger went my appreciation for physical discomfort. I just wanna lie down somewhere soft and
comfortable. Going down the fire escape
is a little easier than going up; as long as I don’t let my momentum hurl me
down the metal stairs I can let it help me down. Getting from the bottom of the fire escape to
the ground is still uncomfortable as hell, but I lower the ladder and manage to
avoid any further injury.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I dig my phone out of my bag when I get to the forest,
scroll down to Anna, and stare at an empty text block for a minute. Two minutes.
Three. Five.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want this to be over.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>So, apologize!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not angry anymore—I don’t know exactly what I <i>am</i>, but it’s not angry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Apologize, goddammit!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What am I supposed to say in this situation? What can I say in a text to start making all
this better?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Sorry! Say you’re sorry!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even as I tell myself, I know I won’t say it. I don’t know <i>why</i> I’m too emotionally retarded to say it, but I won’t just
cave. I’m sure she’d say it back—she’s
already said it—but some part of me won’t let me go back to her to get things
started. I’m of two minds and each is
firmly opposed to the other.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I climb the stairs to my room without having texted
Anna, I feel like there was never any other way this could turn out. It’s just what I do—nothing and hope it’ll
work itself out. I’m such a fucking
coward.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I clamber up to the top bunk as quietly as I can and hope
Anna can let go of this soon. Stop worrying
about me and really think about this. It
might be time she figured out she can do better than me. Someone less emotionally inept, less
obstinately difficult, someone less damaged.
I know I’ll feel different tomorrow, that once this stupid cloud passes
over me I’ll be desperate to keep her, but right now all I can think is that
she would be so much happier with someone else.
Less, less, less. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-4512964741172368162013-12-12T19:59:00.000-06:002014-02-18T20:17:38.941-06:00Sewer Rat<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>No. No, no. No, no, no, no, no. Under no circumstances am I going to chase
this guy into the sewers. The woman he
attacked said he had claws! Do </i>not<i> go chasing after him, you moron!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dammit all to hell…who runs into the sewers anyway? Seriously!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I look up and down the street to make sure no one’s going to
run me over while I’m not going into the sewers and trot over to the
still-dislodged manhole cover. I hear a couple
footsteps and then just the hum of a restless city. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Oh God, </i>why<i> do I
do these things?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I slide the cover over with my foot and feel my way down the
ladder. Ladder’s really a misnomer here,
it’s more like a few overly wide U-shaped metal rungs anchored into the
surrounding concrete and covered with foam padding that squelches when I squeeze
it. Oh, and covered’s also something of
a misnomer, turns out that when people walk on foam padding it tends to
deteriorate so the rungs are covered with foam the same way the Hulk is covered
by his pants. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My footsteps sound a lot louder than the other guy’s
had. I wonder how far sound carries down
here. Not far enough for me to hear the
other guy is all I can tell. Smell, on
the other hand, must travel for miles because I swear to God that I can smell
every bit of raw sewage packed in down here.
It must be able to travel through time as well—there’s no way I’m only
smelling today’s sewage. This has to be
the accumulated scent of a thousand years of sewage, past, present, and future. <br />
<br />
I really hate myself for doing this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most of the light bulbs strung across the ceiling are
missing, giving the remaining bulbs a feeling of oases among the darkness. I pull my flashlight out and click it
on. I’ve heard this model’s prone to
dying out early, but until then it shines like someone shoved a supernova in
one end. The beam reaches a dead end on
my left, but can’t make out the end of the road to the right. Guess right’s the way to go. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My eyes are watering and my nose is burning, but I force
myself to take slow, methodical steps, keeping on the balls of my feet. I can’t stay perfectly quiet, but it’s better
than the hollow booms of my first few steps.
I flick the beam around the tunnel, looking for some sign of a
disturbance. My boot squelches worse
than usual and I gag on a painfully intense smell. I can’t bring myself to check what I just
stepped in and try to get as far away from it as possible before scrapping my
boot against the concrete ledge. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Something scrapes and clatters and I spin around, flicking
the light across the tunnel in front of me and back where I came, in case
whoever I’m chasing somehow doubled back on me.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nothing. The only
thing I hear is my own rough, slightly panicked breathing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Shit, that’s unnerving.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My hair’s standing up on end like someone’s watching me, but
odds are I’m just losing my nerve in the darkness. This is the part where I would normally (does
that word actually mean anything to me?) tell myself to take some deep breaths
and keep moving, but I’m worried that if I breathe too deeply I’ll inhale half a
dozen infections and die down here. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Skip
the breathing and just move, asshole.
Standing around talking to yourself isn’t doing much.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t get very far before I hear another scrabbling
sound. It sounds like a giant rat
running across concrete. Giant and quick
and aware that I could hear it for a second because the scrabbling stops almost
immediately. My stomach’s a helium
balloon that some douche bag kid couldn’t keep a hold of and is now floating
around my abdomen. I stop. Pinching my nose helps with the smell enough
to let me take deep, slow, and most importantly quiet breaths. Someone turned up the bass on my heart when I
wasn’t looking and the <i>thump, thump,
thump </i>of it is starting to hurt my head.
I’m not willing to go so far as to close my eyes for concentration, but
I try and focus on everything I can hear down here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My heart’s slamming around my chest. <i>Okay, move on.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The occasional faint slosh of what I’m going to pretend is
just water. <i>Tune it out.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A drip somewhere.
<i>Ignore it.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A wheeze.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Something wheezed.
Something nearby wheezed. If that
guy had kept running once he got down here I shouldn’t be able to hear him
breathe no matter how hard I concentrate.
If I can’t hear his footsteps, I shouldn’t hear his breathing. Which means he’s not running away. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My heart’s beating so hard I’m gonna have a bruise on my
chest soon and my ears are starting to ring.
The flashlight’s beam is wobbling around because I can’t keep my goddamn
hands steady and my breathing’s not nearly as quiet as I’d like it to be
anymore.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Walk away! Walk away and leave this guy to someone
else. Drop the cops a tip and let the
professionals deal with this one.
They’ll bring floodlights down here and flush him out. They’ve got guns and the training to go with
them. Hell, they might even bring down
one of the Registered costumes that OPHR keeps on-staff.</i> <br />
<br />
Walking away is where the smart money’s at. <br />
<br />
Running as fast as physically possible sounds
even better. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ignore the sane, rational part of my brain and take
another couple steps forward, coming to a split in the tunnel. <i>Keep going straight or veer off to the
right?</i> I hear another scrabbling sound
to my right and turn in time to see someone hurl himself at me from the
ceiling. I have a second to recognize
that he’s a big guy and his fingers look awfully sharp before he hits me hard
enough to knock the flashlight out of my hand and the air out of my lungs. He tackles me to the ground and stars ignite
behind my eyes. I bring my arms up
around my head without thinking and feel him dig into the sleeve of my jacket.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Claws. He actually
has claws. Claws sharp enough to scrape
through leather maybe? God, I hope the
Kevlar holds.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I try to roll out from under him, but he’s a big guy and
every pound of him is pressing down on me.
I only manage to roll onto my side.
He starts cutting into the leather on my shoulder. I turn my face into the ground, try to ignore
the sewer water soaking my mask, and throw an elbow. It connects with something solid and he
shifts his weight a bit. Thankfully he
stops clawing at me for a second as well.
I roll again, this time getting my hands under his leg and lifting it as
I do so, and manage to get free. The
floor’s too slick to get any traction and I skid trying to get up to my feet, finally
catching a break. While I was rolling
and slipping, he was trying to hit me with another flying tackle and went
sailing over my head. He hits the wall,
falling into a harsh cone of light. <br />
<br />
It’s
the first good look I’ve gotten of him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He’s big. Like, prize
fighter a few years past his prime big. Beat to shit jeans and what was probably a white t-shirt at one point are the only
things that seem real about him. He
looks like a comic book villain. Ichy-Thump
disorder, or whatever that dry, scaly skin thing is, makes his skin look like a
cantaloupe rind. His finger nails are
thick and unevenly pointed like he’s filed them down that way. He bares his teeth at me and growls like a
fucking animal. His eyes are too narrow
and there’s something wrong with the lids, they’re red and irritated. The skin deal is one thing, but I can’t even
fathom why he’s acting this way. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He moves like an oversized dog, pushing himself on
all-fours. Two galloping steps and he’s
slashing at me again. I take it on the
forearm, hoping my jacket holds, and hit him in the mouth. He staggers back a step and growls again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>There’s something very wrong with this man.</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not that that changes how dangerous he is. Particularly because I think he’s realized
he’s not gonna get through my jacket very easily because his next slash is just
a feint and when I move to block it he slams his other fist up under my ribs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ow. <i>Shit</i>, ow.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My turn to stagger backward, but my defiant psycho-growl
sounds more like a groan. He keeps after
me, swinging at my head, stomach, and shoulder while I duck, sidestep, and
block. He overswings and stumbles
forward; I plant my foot on his shoulder and shove him over. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t actually wanna hurt him, but he’s obviously violent
and I’m obviously gonna get my arm ripped off if I keep play-fighting with
him. <i>Goddammit.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He lunges at me again, all animal-rage and
hyper-aggression. I don’t know if
this’ll actually work but supposedly it’s a good way to knock someone out. I also learned about it from a YouTube video
about Muay Thai so there’s a good chance I’m gonna get decapitated for trying
it. Either way, he’s giving me the setup
and I can’t turn a chance like this down.
I bring my rear leg forward, snap it back, and launch my whole body
forward. He only catches me with
glancing blows on my side and off-shoulder.
I catch him square on the jaw with the better part of 170 pounds behind
my fist. I think I hear his jaw break.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s no staggering, no growling, he just collapses and I
very nearly fall on top of him. I dance
around his sprawled body and crouch down immediately to check his pulse. I have to take my glove off and his skin
feels pretty freaky but I’m immensely relieved when I feel his pulse drumming
on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Jesus Christ.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I fall over backward, barely noticing the cold filthy water
that’s soaking through my jeans. It
occurs to me that I haven’t even cable tied the temporarily incapacitated,
violently unstable sewer-man. I push
myself up off the ground and grab a pair of cable ties. With the adrenaline draining, I’m starting to
feel a bit less than sunny. My rib’s
tweaking, my arms and shoulder are bruised and throbbing, and the customary
comedown sickness are all making movement a monumental chore. I need to call the police in to deal with
this guy. Tell them to bring the non-lethal
gear. They never talk about this post-dustup shit in the
comics.<br />
<br />
I reach into my inside pocket
and hope I didn’t break another phone.
It’s just a burner but I can only afford so many. Thankfully, it comes out in one piece and none of the
important buttons are missing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
9-1-1</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The operator answers quickly, calm and professional. I tell her he’s not well, that he needs
help. I wonder if she’ll actually pass
the message along. I have absolutely no idea how the
police decide who to actually take seriously, they’ve gotta get prank calls out
the ass. Kids claiming to be a costume
that just busted a bank robbery up or crazies thinking they’re Batman. Better them than me. I’d lose my shit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This guy’s heavy enough that picking him up really aggravates
my everything. Picking conscious people
up is one thing, picking unconscious people up is something else entirely. Lots of dead weight distributed over almost
six feet of body makes it hugely awkward.
There has to some trick to this that I don’t know. There’s no way in hell I’m gonna try and haul
him up to the street, so I drop him at the foot of the ladder. Anyone looking down the manhole won’t be able
to miss him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Up the ladder (ribs and shoulder muttering mutinies all the
while) and out onto the street and it hits me how exhausted I am. My phone tells me it’s 3:17am. I yawn.
There are two ways to guarantee a yawn:
watch someone else yawn or check the time after two in the morning. I rub my eyes, ignoring the seam of my glove
scratching uncomfortably against the bridge of my nose.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I really don’t wanna be standing around in the middle of the
street when the cops show up. Costume
vigilantism isn’t all that legal. I also
really wanna be home and in bed. Winter’s
gone, but it hasn’t been a terribly warm Spring. <br />
<br />
And yet for some stupid fucking reason I’m
climbing a nearby fire escape instead of skipping home. I stop at the third story and wait. <br />
<br />
Apparently, the police aren’t nearly as
worried about prank calls as I am because they show up pretty promptly. One cruiser rolls up and two cops step
out. They’re both strapped with tactical
armor around their upper bodies and bright yellow taser guns on their
hips. That’s a good sign. One mutters something into his radio and the
other looks the street over like he’s expecting to find the suspect unbound and
foaming at the mouth instead of tied up at the bottom of a hole. <br />
<br />
I lean back into the shadows a bit. One of them keeps checking the street for
free-roaming psychopaths while the other pokes his head over the open
manhole. He says something I imagine to
be along the lines of “Holy shit, look at this!
There’s a dude in the sewer!” and his partner stops checking the street
and jogs over. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It suddenly occurs to me that they might have some trouble
getting the guy out of the sewer as well.
And that’s only if he hasn’t woken up and decided to be
uncooperative. Normally, the slapstick
humor of two people struggling to carry around a flailing burden of a person
would be nothing short of delightful, but this whole deeply disturbed human
being aspect of it is sucking the fun right the hell out of everything. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Maturity blows.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It took them a second car with two more cops in it to haul
the guy out of the sewer and by the time they got him to the street he was
awake and fairly disagreeable. Seemed
more scared than angry or defiant though. If I
could get all four of their badge numbers and drop them all glowing words of
praise without including somewhere in there that I was the masked vigilante
that called them in the first place, I would.
Nobody’s laying into him with nightsticks or screaming at him with guns
drawn wondering “why the hell isn’t he responding to my clearly-worded and in
no way panic-inducing demands?”. The
ties are holding and the cops have added a set of their own handcuffs and though
everyone’s hands drift to the grips of their tasers from time to time, things
look surprisingly solid.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I make my way up the fire escape and start in the general direction
of the forest preserve. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-79251792656230099422013-12-03T23:34:00.000-06:002014-04-08T22:22:36.893-05:00A Brief and Uneventful Interlude<div class="MsoNormal">
I hop to the next roof and look around. No criminals sneaking around wearing black
and white striped jumpsuits or carrying around bulging bags with big dollar
signs on them. No bloodied college preppy
gasping and pointing down a dark alley, shouting about two men who just stole
his wallet. Nothing. When someone parallel parks and walks across
the street I’m tempted to jump him for jaywalking. Instead, I sit down on the edge of the roof
and let my feet dangle out over the abyss, my heels smacking against the
brick. I hear cars wheeze and rumble and
hum by on the streets nearby. Windows light
up from the inside while others extinguish themselves. The sharp bite of exhaust fumes has faded now
that the only consistent traffic is coming from a few streets over. I look up and see a faint light pulsing and
shimmering across the sky in lieu of actual stars. It would probably be soothing if it wasn’t so
freaking boring. It’s times like this
that I’m glad I don’t have awesome powers like Spiderman. If I did, I probably would’ve webbed that jaywalker’s
ankle and dangled him from the streetlight.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As it is, I just sit and kick my feet and wonder if I’ve
been out long enough to call it quits for the night. My phone tells me I’ve been out for almost
two hours without catching even the faintest whiff of crime. I swear to God, at this point I’d settle for
lecturing a little kid about the merits of sharing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of all the weeks for the city to go crime-free, why
now? The first spring thaw is upon us. It’s still not warm, but it’s not cold enough
for snow anymore. Criminals should be
flocking to the streets to revel in the joyous departure of winter’s cruel
embrace. Pillage! Plunder!
<i>Do something!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When an older woman drops her purse and a young kid in dark
clothes with her hood up actually returns the purse instead of just
running off, I decide I’ve had enough.
Maybe if I leave now I can make out with Anna a bit. Gotta find a way to salvage this night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I get home and no one’s in the living room. The kitchen’s empty too. Not terribly unusual. It’s past Paul and Susan’s bedtime and the
magic of the internet can make any room in the house a living room for
teenagers, but without all the pesky social interaction that living rooms bring
with them. I trot up the stairs just as
Boone starts shambling down them bundled up in horribly mismatched blue and
black flannel shirt and bright red sweats.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How’s it going, Hero?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I flip him off. He
laughs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That well, huh? What’s
that? Three empty trips in a row?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I debate just shouldering past him but that would be
admitting I’m frustrated and it’s never a good idea to show weakness in front
of Boone. I grunt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Something like that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve actually gone out four times this week and haven’t
found a damn thing. He laughs again and
walks past me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Must be cuz you’re so goddamn good at this. Criminals are too scared to go out at night.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wish I had something to throw at him. But I don’t, so I settle for sending Anna a
text asking what she’s doing. I get a
quick response: <i>tv in the basement by myself.</i>
I drop my superheroing bag in the closet and turn right back around,
stopping long enough to let her know I’ll be over in a second, then I'm down the stairs
and out the kitchen door. I cross the
street and circle around the back of Anna’s house, shuffling down the thick
cement steps to her basement door. I
send another text—<i>knock, knock</i>—and
wait. She fusses with the bolt for a
second (because they refuse to accept that their can of WD-40 is lost and just
buy a new one) before opening the door, face freshly scrubbed of make-up and
slightly pink. She’s wearing black
sweats and a comically oversized gray hoodie.
I make a sad face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Boone was being mean to me and tonight sucked; can I hang
out with you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna rolls her eyes and turns away to hide her smile, but
leaves the door open for me to walk through.
After I close it behind us, I give her ass a quick squeeze. She spins around and smacks the holy hell out
of my hand. Mind you, I’m quick. Like, <i>really</i>
quick. So I could’ve pulled my hand
away, but what fun is dating if you don’t play the game? She grabs a handful of my shirt and pulls me
toward her—<i>play the game</i>. She has to look up at me a little to make eye
contact.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Is that all I am to you?
A toy to play with?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hang my head and give her my best chastised look. “No ma’am, but I am more than willing to just
be a toy for <i>you</i> to play with.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She struggles to keep her frown from crying mutiny and
flipping upside down. Right as the
battle looks completely lost she bounces up onto her tiptoes and gives me a
quick kiss. My heart does that stupid
swoopy, flippy thing it does around Anna.
If I listened to it, there’d be no game.
Just me puking up everything I feel all the time. Stupid fucking emotive stomach. Returning to the soles of her feet, Anna
grabs my hand and leads me over to the couch.
She plops down and waves at the TV.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I was watching <i>Psych </i>for
awhile before bed. Care to
join me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Honestly, it barely matters what the first sentence
was. I sit down next to her and drag a
blanket over us. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Haven’t you already seen all the episodes like seven times?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She nods cheerily. “<i>Yup.</i>
Still funny.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She’s halfway through the episode, so Shawn’s
already launched into a nonsensical rant about shark toast. When Gus starts translating, I loop an arm
around Anna’s shoulder and she scoots closer.
She props her head against the hollow beneath my collarbone and I rub my
thumb over her arm. That’s amore. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-65733109029815493782013-12-03T15:48:00.001-06:002013-12-03T15:59:55.315-06:00Change Is Good for What Ails YaAlright, some fairly large changes have been made to the Wesley Chronicles story. I'm mostly happy with what I've been doing, but one fairly obvious problem has been the Wesley-Anna relationship. I like them together. She's good for him. But there's the whole foster family thing to get over and that was always a nagging problem. Today I was finally motivated to get off my ass and fix the problem. And I did. Boom. Just like that. Anna's outta the house. She's now a neighbor, the daughter of a family that has been friends with the Rhodes family (Susan, Paul, Boone, and Wes) since before either family had kids. Her relationship with the Rhodes family reminds me of the Dille family I used to live near when I lived in Charleston, South Carolina. I used to walk over there and spend tons of time with them, especially during the summers. I practically lived there and I've always intended to write about someone who had a similar relationship with a neighbor family. Now I have. And now the Wesley-Anna thing is a bit less creepy and illegal. Hooray me!<br />
<br />
None of the changes are final at this point, I like the idea but it'll prolly take me a couple tunes and tweaks to get all the details ironed out.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-57236452000244722192013-11-26T15:33:00.000-06:002014-02-11T18:04:36.335-06:00Date Night<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Goddammit! I’m so
sick of him doing this shit!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan lets us get away with a little profanity from time to
time, but two in one sentence bellowed across the house is enough to push her
buttons. “Wesley, watch your mouth!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I clamp my jaw down hard enough that I immediately have to
run my tongue around my mouth to make sure I didn’t chip any teeth. I storm into the kitchen, failing to keep
enough self-control to stave off the look of a teenage boy throwing a temper
tantrum. Whatever. My pride’s taken worse hits.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan’s putting what look like tinfoil footballs in the
oven. The sight of foil-wrapped hot
sandwiches, normally enough to calm even the mightiest of tantrums, doesn’t do
much considering Anna and I are eating out tonight. “Don’t you guys get sick of it? I can’t use my gift to fu—” it takes a
staggering amount of willpower to keep my mouth clean “mess with Boone. Anna only uses hers for little things, not
much call for force fields. You and Paul
don’t even have powers! Don’t you guys
get sick of Boone using his to…screw with you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan turns to me, one foil football still in hand and the
oven standing open, pouring out waves of heat.
Concern replaces the anger.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Susan, the oven…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She blinks a few times, like she’s returning from a daydreamm or
something, and puts the last hot sandwich in and closes the oven door. Her voice is quiet and awkward, like she’s
trying to restrain herself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What did Boone do?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know what it is in her voice that’s making me itch,
but something feels wrong about all this.
“N-nothing. Nothing, he’s just
being Boone, y’know?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She chews on her lower lip.
“No, Wesley, I don’t know. What
did Boone do?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He…I don’t really know.
He did whatever it is he does, <i>animates
things</i>, I guess. I was—” I look
away, wondering if there’s any way to avoid talking about Anna and my Date
Night. It’s an awkward situation,
honestly. Susan cares about me. She cares about Anna. She wants us both to be happy, but she’s not
a huge fan of…<i>us</i>. It’s really not a particularly good idea to
let your pain in the ass foster kid date your best friends’ daughter. Especially when said daughter is practically
an adopted member of the Rhodes family as well.
“I was getting ready to go out tonight and Boone busted into the
bathroom and messed up my hair. But, not
the same way I’d mess up his hair. After
he ruffled it up, it…” now that most of the anger’s drained out of me, I’m
feeling like a seven year-old tattling on his mean big brother “it started
moving and hissing like it was a bunch of little snakes or something.” I hang my head. “It was nothing. It only went on for like two seconds. I shouldn’t have come down here screaming
like I did. Sorry Susan.” I raise my voice so it’ll reach the living
room. “Sorry Paul.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan’s still giving me an intense, worried look and I’m
really starting to wonder what it’s about.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Susan, it’s fine.
Really. He’s just being Boone.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wes, how often does he do that kind of thing?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She doesn’t sound mad, like she’s gonna go upstairs and
wallop Boone over the head. She doesn’t
sound exasperated, like all the brotherly (does that apply to us?) horseplay is
driving her nuts. I have no idea where
she’s going with all this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I dunno…more than a little, less than a lot. He made a paper airplane fly around the room
like an F-16 awhile back.” I’m not
really sure what she’s looking for here.
“It’s not all the time or anything.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her puzzled, worried super-stare is really freaking me out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wes. Do you know how
many times I’ve seen Boone do something…<i>special</i>
like that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m starting to think that I have absolutely no idea.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Once. In the nearly
eleven years since Boone came to live with us, I’ve seen him do something like
that once. Paul and Anna might have seen
more, but if they have it isn’t much.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I blink. I’ve been
here for less than a year and I’d prolly need more than just my two hands to
count the number of shows Boone’s put on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Seriously?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She nods. It takes me
a minute to come out and ask the sixty-four thousand dollar question.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So why show me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan presses her lips together, internal debate raging
across her face for all the world to see.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“When did he start doing these things?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t know, around the time I started parading around
town in a ski mask to fight evil.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She gives me an expectant look like I’m supposed to have
made a connection somehow. Goddammit,
why do all the women in my life seem like they’re constantly a step ahead of
me? I shake my head and shrug.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s because he envies you.
He envies that you can go out and show off your powers. That you can help people and then have people
on TV and on the internet talk about you like you’re this wonderful person
doing these wonderful things.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh dear God. I still
don’t get it. I don’t consider myself a
dull person, but if it keeps taking me this long to reach the center of the
maze then I might have to reconsider. I
make a face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He wants to impress you, Wesley. He wishes he could do the things you can do,
but since he can’t he wants to impress you instead.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I’d been drinking anything I swear I would’ve done a spit
take. But Anna’s words come back to me (<i>too </i>fucking<i> busy being jealous and thinking how</i> fucking<i> cool it is that you can do what you can do!</i>) and I start feeling
like the slow kid in class again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Impress me? What I can do? His deal is <i>way</i> cooler than mine.
All I can do is bench press a lot, run fast, and get hit in the face a
lot. He can…I don’t even know what
exactly he can do but he takes inanimate things and <i>animates</i> them.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“A gift that you’re being encouraged to use. By the media, by the public, and even by your
family.” Susan says the last bit
gingerly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You say it like the world’s telling me I’m awesome and
should keep doing what I’m doing. Most
of the people encouraging me in the media aren’t personally fond of me, they
just support the whole caped crusader thing in general and for every one of
them there’s another person saying we’re lawless vigilantes trying to relive
the old west Golden Era of American Violence or whatever. And then there’s the bigoted sect of assholes
who think all the freaks should be buried in a mass grave.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan winces. “But
you <i>are</i> being encouraged. Boone’s parents weren’t bad people, but they
were rather poorly equipped to raise a child like Boone. He—he scared them. What he could do scared them and so they
lashed out at him sometimes, especially when he actually made things
happen. They’d punish him for it,
despite the fact that he really wasn’t in control of what was happening. They made him hide what he could do. It was traumatic for him.” She makes an uncomfortable sound. “I hate talking about him behind his back,
but…this feels important. He’s trusted
you with his gift. You need to know how
rare that is.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alright, this is freaking me out. Boone’s not supposed to have serious things
going on in his life. He’s supposed to
be an asshole that doesn’t care about anything.
This feels wrong. I blink and
turn away from Susan and check my phone.
It tells me it’s time pick Anna up.
I wander across the street, taking the time to unwind a bit. Mrs. Riley answers the door with a tight smile. I don’t think she’s wild about
her daughter dating someone with my colorful history, but I don’t have a record
and Susan and Paul vouched for me. That
last bit must go a long way with her.
That and the fact that this is just a first date. She’s probably holding onto the hope that
Anna’ll come to her senses and dump me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We swap terse small talk as she walks me upstairs to Anna’s
door. Music floats through the hallway
and I can faintly hear her singing along. Something soft and mellifluous. Guster, maybe?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Mrs. Riley knocks on Anna’s door.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Almost ready, hun?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why am I even trying to read this? Most of the words don’t even make sense to
me. What’s qategna? Injera?
Kibe? I should just let Anna
order for me. Don’t know the first thing
about Ethiopian food. I’ll just—<i>envies
you</i>—dammit, I can’t even not understand a menu without—<i>how many times</i>—all
that shit Susan said popping into my head.
This—</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I almost jump over the back of our little booth when
something brushes against my leg. Anna
jolts back, looking a little alarmed, and then laughs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That was just my foot, Wes.
You were being so quiet…I just wanted to say hi.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Well played, Wes. Really.
Two dates in and you’re already spazzing all over the place.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I give her a sheepish smile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sorry, kinda off in my own world for a second there. So are you gonna help me order or am I just
supposed to jab my finger blindly at something on the menu and hope it’s good?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She smiles again.
“Jab blindly. You’re cute when
you flounder.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stop myself from opening and closing my mouth soundlessly
like a fish and instead give Anna a glare.
She smiles even wider and pats my cheek.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There it is.
Adorable.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m still glaring my half-hearted glare when the waiter
comes back. I don’t remember his name
and he’s not wearing a nametag but I remember it started with an ‘E’. Anna orders a sambusa appetizer and an assa
watt meal (oh God, what does that even mean?).
E looks expectantly at me. I
shoot Anna another glare out of the corner of my eye.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll have whatever—” I stop short of giving up and making
Anna pick for me “you like best. What’s
your favorite meal?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
E returns my smile and after a moment of thought decides on
yebeg tibs watt. I don’t even know if
that’s a real thing. He takes our menus
and heads back to the kitchen. Anna
snorts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Nice save.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I thought so.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not the deepest hour of winter or anything, but
tonight’s definitely carrying a chill.
Anna’s fingers are twined between mine and I wish it wasn’t so
cumbersome to walk and huddle for warmth.
I’d be an even bigger fan of winter dates if we could manage that. She lifts our held hands and wedges them into
my jacket pocket. I’ve offered her my
jacket twice now, but she just keeps smiling, calling me stupid, and telling me
I’ll freeze. I’m tempted to ask a third
time just to see her smile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A little voice in my head tells me that Anna absolutely owns
me. This is only our third date and
already I’m inclined to agree with it. I
don’t even know what movie we’re seeing tonight. Probably something awful. I picked the restaurant so Anna gets to pick
the movie. Last time she picked the food and I picked the after-dinner entertainment. Her taste in food is generally better than her taste in movies, so this whole switching off thing might not work out. I can only hope she doesn’t wanna watch the
whole thing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I drop an extraordinary amount of money on two tickets for
something called <i>Within and Without</i>
and wonder what I’ve gotten myself into.
We skip the concession stand and head straight to the theater.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Less than a quarter of the way through the movie Anna starts
whispering in my ear. “I’m so
sorry. This is <i>awful</i>.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because I’m such a good boyfriend, I don’t even tell her I
knew that coming in. I just make a sad
face and nod somberly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She smiles. “We don’t
have to stay. I didn’t think it would be
this bad.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shake my head and whisper back, “You wanted to see this.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She’s trying so hard not to laugh, whether at my pain or at
my attempt at chivalry I’m not sure.
“No, this is so bad it skips straight past ‘it’s so bad it’s good’. No one should suffer through this.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Someone in front of us shushes, making more noise than our
whispering.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna moves closer, cupping her hand around her mouth to
muffle the whisper even more. “There ya
go. We’re obviously not welcome
here. Let’s take the hint.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smile this time. I
can take a hint.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>You just couldn’t
fucking resist, could you?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I growl and open the front door instead of kicking it off its
hinges. I drove around for an hour after
dropping Anna off just to make sure I wouldn’t get home before Susan and Paul
went to bed. Boone’s still up, but
unless I wanna drive around ‘til two o’clock (and fill up Susan’s car while I’m
at it) just to guarantee a little privacy, I’ll have to live with that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>It wasn’t even a </i>good<i> joke.
Pissed her off over a joke that wasn’t even funny. Why am I like this?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not that I’m a mind-reader or anything. I couldn’t actually <i>know</i> she’d get upset, right?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Yeah, cuz most girls
would love jokes like that from the guys they’re dating…</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dammit. Four
dates. <i>Four damn dates</i> and I’m already screwing it up. Not that I’m all that surprised, four dates
is the longest relationship I’ve ever been in without suicide-bombing it into
oblivion (not that anyone really needs to know that). But there’s no way I’m insecure enough to try
and sabotage things. Even I’m not that
dumb.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Nope, just dumb enough
to sabotage things accidentally.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Shut up, brain.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What’d you say?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Apparently Boone’s still awake and watching TV in the living
room.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Nothing.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How’d the date go?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Great.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Liar.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fuck yourself.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boone laughs and I tromp up the steps to our room. I close the door behind me and unbutton my
flannel, tossing it onto my “not quite dirty” pile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Apologizing would be a
good idea. It was a dumb joke, but it
wasn’t a huge deal. I didn’t beat it to
death and she wasn’t super-pissed or anything.
Just apologize. She’ll accept and
then move on. That’s how real couples do
things, right?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hm. Now that I think
about it, I’ve never actually apologized to a girl I was dating for being a dick. Usually when it’s time to apologize, I’m
right where I want to be—intentionally in trouble and uninterested in
reconciliation. Hell, I'm not sure I've ever apologized for being a dick to anyone. Ever.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not that I’m looking at an overabundance of choices
here. It’s really just apologize or
ignore it and hope it goes away. Not
that ignoring it is without its charms.
Bad enough that I fucked up in the first place, but what good does it do
to revisit it? I’ll feel shitty, Anna’ll
probably get a little mad, and that might lead to an actual fight. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I freeze with only one arm through my hoodie. Jesus Christ, am I actually thinking about <i>not</i> apologizing? I was giving serious consideration to not
apologizing to Anna. I’m really trying
to sabotage this. I pull my hoodie down
over my head a little more violently than necessary and hear the sound of
stitches popping or whatever it is that makes that ripping popping sound in
clothes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Start thinking up an
apology now, asshole. No way am I
getting out of this.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I start running through lines in my head ranging from “Anna,
listen, about last night…” to “So, how ‘bout that terribly tasteless joke…”,
fully expecting to dream not-quite-obscure dreams about Nazi sympathizers and verbal miscues.</div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-6979016744761473852013-11-19T15:57:00.001-06:002014-04-20T16:45:12.825-05:00Gratitude<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’d like to start class off today by expressing my
heartfelt gratitude to all of you for deeming your term-papers worthy of such tremendous
effort. That only sixty-two percent of
my classes turned their papers in on time has done nothing to dampen my spirits
and that the average grade was a full <i>twelve
points</i> below last year’s average is of no great importance. I believe the blood, sweat, and tears that so
clearly stained each and every paper is worth more than all the As in the
world.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mr. Karimov stops for a second and looks around the class,
dark eyebrows furrowed intensely.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Now, have I made my sarcasm clear enough for everyone?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s a general murmur of assent.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Good because I’m going to give many of you a chance to give
this assignment a second shot. Anyone
who got a B on this paper will be exempt from the rewrite but are welcome to
give it another go. Those of you who got
an A will <i>not </i>be turning in rewrites
at all, congratulations to you. The rest
of you will be <i>required</i> to rewrite
your paper and turn it back in to me a week from today. I’m handing you back your papers today
complete with mark-ups and suggestions for improvements. Take them home, read my marks, and come back
in a week with a stronger second effort.
I know you all are capable of far better than this, I saw it on your
earlier papers. I will be taking your
highest grade and putting it on the books.
Your lowest grade will be thrown out.
I hope you all appreciate this because I feel I’m being extraordinarily
accommodating. Are there any questions?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kevin Whelk leans over to me and whispers, “Twenty bucks
says I’m under 50%. I didn’t start my
paper ‘til the night before.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I arch an eyebrow.
Kevin’s a nice enough guy, but they’ve invented pet rocks with better
study skills than him. No way I’m taking
that bet. “I’ve never wanted a B more in
my life. No fucking way I’m rewriting
that paper, it was bad enough the first time around.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What subject did you get?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Reconstruction of Western Europe after World War II. You?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It takes him a second to remember. Not a good sign. “How people treated veterans after the war.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Karimov finally gets to me I skip all the feedback and
jump straight to the last page. Big and
bright green: </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
82%</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
B-</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Would it be inappropriate to yell “fuck yeah!” in the middle
of class?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s a subtlety to the art of superheroing. It’s not all punching and jumping around
roofs; there’s staking out the right part of town, figuring out which person to
hit and which to rescue, and understand that when you hear “<i>Help!
Someone please help m—</i>” you need to leap into action. It takes most people years to get down all
those nuances; I must be a fast learner.
I scramble down the old apartment’s fire escape, crossing my fingers
that it holds the whole time, and take off running the second my feet hit the
pavement. I see them across the
street. They’re struggling against
someone’s garage door down a little dirt series of driveways. I really don’t think now is the time to start
examining sexism in the world of street crime, but I figure the guy is the bad
guy here. One, he seems far less
interested in getting away than she does and two, he’s got the look of a man
who wouldn’t sound like a woman when he cries out for help. Plus, he’s the one holding a knife.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looks over when I shout and freezes for a second—long
enough to get himself kneed in the balls by his would be victim. He doubles up, nearly dragging her to the
ground. I don’t know if she breaks his
grip or if he shoves her down, but either way she’s on the ground and he’s
limping away like that’s actually gonna earn him a clean escape. I chase him down and shoulder-tackle him into
a waist-high chain link fence. He hits
it and flips over it, landing in an awkward heap on the other side. It’s pretty much the pinnacle of physical
humor, but it does make a bit more work for me.
Life’s full of little trade-offs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hop over after him, toss him back over the fence, and hop
after him again. Apparently he dropped
his knife at some point because instead of trying to stab me to death he
awkwardly punches me in the hip. I kick
him in the chest and wrench his arms behind his back, cable tying his wrists. I grab his ankle and drag him back to the
mouth of the driveway, puffs of icy breath and dirt trailing behind him. I don’t quite get all the way there before
the woman tackles me hard enough that it takes me a second to realize she’s
hugging me and not attacking me. It’s a
perfect sitcom moment. A complete
stranger just barreled into me, wrapped her arms around me, and is crying into
my chest while I stand there awkward with my arms held out like I’m not sure if
it’s okay to hug her back. When I make
out the words “thank you” repeated a couple times I figure it’s safe to respond
in kind. There’s a subtlety to all this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The last person I’d “saved” had just been role-playing with
her husband. She called me a pervert and
he threw a bottle at my head. This is
infinitely more satisfying. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Plus, I might actually get home early enough to catch Anna before she leaves. It’s a good night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Anna?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Living room, Wes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Good cuz I’m cold and I need someone to listen to how
awesome I am.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I set my backpack down at the foot of the stairs and wander
into the living room. I’m a second away
from rambling on about how well tonight went when I see Susan on the couch next
to Anna. Wow. That got awkward fast. Is seeing your foster mother supposed to be
this awkward? Didn’t we talk about this
so we could stop the awkward? Prolly
should have thought about how we were gonna make this less awkward. Do we sit silently and appreciate that we’ve
worked out our differences in opinion or do we talk openly about it like
everything’s all wonderful and whatnot?
I try to think of anything we’ve said to each other that would suggest a
solution.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan told me I should come to her if I needed any help, but
I think that’s just cuts and bruises, right?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Paul seemed unusually torn on the matter. Proud of me helping people, but guilty that
he approves a little? Worried that I’ll
get hurt, but pleased that I’m making something of myself? Happy that Susan and I are on speaking terms,
but worried about Susan’s stress? I
don’t know. Paul’s hard to pin down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna’s too happy that I talked it out with Susan to think
about much else.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boone isn’t here but I know he’s snickering somewhere.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I clear my throat. “What’ve
you two been up to?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna leans over the arm of the couch and her hair falls over
half her face. It’s a little tousled and
really attractive. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Nothing really.
She’s been knitting, I’ve been reading.
How about you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan’s still knitting, but she’s slowed down a bit. I guess now’s the time to set the precedent
one way or the other.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I got a hug from the woman I helped tonight.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna gives me an odd look and I rush to clarify.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I stopped someone from hurting her and she was so panicky
and grateful that she pretty much tackled me and cried into my jacket. Took almost a full minute before I felt like
she wouldn’t fall apart if I let go. I
stayed on one of the roofs nearby until the cops arrived, just in case. Usually when I do that I just act like I’m
leaving, but she was so freaked out that I actually pointed out where I was
gonna go. Had to ask her not to tell
that police I was still around, just in case.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna and Susan are quiet for a second and while they’re
grasping for something to say the toilet flushes in the other room and Paul
pokes his head into the living room. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, hey Wes. Thought
I heard you getting in. I’m calling it
for the night.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“G’night, Paul.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He waves and heads upstairs.
I get the impression that Susan wouldn’t mind following him just to get
away from this conversation. I wonder if
I made the right call.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What did the police do when they got there?” Susan asks.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shrug. “Same thing
the police always do when some asshole gets caught trying to cause trouble,
made sure she was in one piece and weren’t too gentle about tossing him in the
cruiser.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan purses her lips.
“It’s ridiculous the amount of street crime we have to live with. I really hope Mayor Shaw was serious about
looking into the police’s methods. I
don’t know how there can be this much trouble if they’re doing their jobs.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Lotta people say most of the cops <i>aren’t</i> doing their jobs cuz they get paid better to look the other
way, but I dunno if that’s just people trying to turn a rough city into Gotham
City for the sake of drama.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan shrugs. “You
always hear things like that when someone’s trying to lay blame for
something. It’s been stirred up lately
because of all the…” she gestures at me “mixed feelings toward this costumed
situation. People wanna know why this is
happening, and one of the easiest ways to acknowledge their existence is to peg
them as an extension of people’s dissatisfaction with the legal system in
general.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I swallow heavily. “I
take it you’ve spent some time thinking about this?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She nods. “Have to
know what my kids are doing with their lives.
You should see the statistics I came up with when I thought you were
getting into boxing.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not sure I wanna know the answer, but it feels like I
need to ask the question anyway. “So
what do you think of all the…” I gesture at myself “mixed feelings toward this
costumed situation?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan looks over at me for a minute. “All that matters is how I feel about you, and
I believe I’ve made that quite clear, Wesley.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I make a face. The
motherly affection card. It’s the
foulest form of cheating, the lowest of hits below the belt, an attack against
which there is no defense. Dammit. I sigh and admit defeat.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thanks, Susan.”</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-26285142734579887162013-11-12T16:47:00.001-06:002013-12-16T18:21:20.024-06:00Growing Pains<div class="MsoNormal">
It started out as paranoia, but at this point I <i>know</i> Anna and Susan are talking behind
my back and breakfast today just reinforces it.
Whispers that die out the second I walk into the room, meaningful looks
exchanged when Anna and Susan see me, and
just a general sense of unease when all three of us are in a room together.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m getting that same vibe from them when they walk into the
kitchen this morning. Anna doesn't usually come in and eat with us on school days. I start downing my
eggs a bit faster. Susan’s been extra
awkward lately, like she’s had something to say that she just can’t get out and
as far as I’m concerned the longer we go without discussing my costumed
business the longer it’ll take her to tell me she can’t let me keep it up. I don’t really wanna have that argument because I have no intention of stopping.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pick up my plate and tip it back, shoveling the last two
or three bites of egg into my mouth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wes, would you sit
back down?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Can’t. Already
running late.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wesley, I’m trying to be respectful of your—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shrug my backpack up onto my shoulders, walking backward
toward the door, “Sorry. School.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m out the door before I stop to think about what a
ridiculous dick I am.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Anna, please—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You have to talk to her, this isn’t just going to go away
if you ign—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No. Anna, no
goddammit, not righ—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You can’t just ignore her feelings, We—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This is my lif—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What you’re doing affects everyone arou—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well I don’t hear Boone giving me shit for—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s because Boone’s too <i>fucking</i> busy being jealous and thinking how <i>fucking</i> cool it is that you can do what you do!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The entire hall’s watching us now. Some people are pretending they aren’t but
others have stopped their conversations and are openly staring at us like one
of us is going to hit the other any minute now.
I’m not so sure Anna won’t hit me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I lower my voice. “We
can’t do this right now. We have eighth
period study hall together. I won’t duck
you once classes are over and we can talk about it on the way home.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can see her working it over. She isn’t happy with me. I think if she could find a way to strap a
shock collar around my neck, she would—just in case. “Fine.
When this conversation happens though, so help me God if you are
insensitive enough to say anything remotely resembling that she isn’t your
mother I will kill you where you stand.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nice to know that my reputation precedes me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna’s already sitting at her desk when I walk into the room
and I have to remind myself rather firmly that I promised her not to cut and
run. <i>Yeah,
I know. I’m a bitch.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She doesn’t say anything when I walk past her; just makes
brief eye contact and goes back to her book.
I sit down behind her and choke on silence. If Boone were here I would hate him for the
shit he’d be giving us but at least it wouldn’t be so goddamn quiet. But he’s not and it is and it’s my
fault. My hand is actually twitching,
wanting to tap her on the shoulder but not having anything to say.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>This is insane. I’ve become that annoying idiot in every
stupid, angsty teen drama that whines about everyone and is universally reviled
by moviegoers, readers, and/or TV junkies.
And now I hate myself for whining about whining…more whining! Just wonderful! <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bell rings and Mr. Mitchum reminds us all to shut the
hell up and not disturb our neighbors (I’ve always liked Mr. Mitchum). Anna pulls a book out of her bag and starts
working. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Oh fuck this. Deal with this like an adult. Or at least the closest facsimile of one you
can manage.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tear a page out of my notebook and scribble on it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "ChickenScratch AOE"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "ChickenScratch AOE"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Am I being an asshole?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I fold it up and drop it over Anna’s shoulder. She stiffens a bit when it falls in her lap,
but she picks it up and I hear the soft crinkle of unfolding paper. After a minute she arches her back, grabs one
hand with the other, and pulls her arms up over her head, stretching. Her hair falls over the front of my
desk. I try not to think about the view
I could be getting right now if I were sitting somewhere else. I don’t figure my libido for much of a
problem solver, though it’s trying quite hard to convince me otherwise. Her hand opens and my little square of paper
tumbles down onto my desk. She lowers
her arms, lifts her hair, and goes back to her homework. The moment passes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I open the note.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "CatholicSchoolGirls BB","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "CatholicSchoolGirls BB","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">No.
Just self-centered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I scribble and pass.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "ChickenScratch AOE"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "ChickenScratch AOE"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I’m not sure that’s much better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pass.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "CatholicSchoolGirls BB","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "CatholicSchoolGirls BB","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">A little.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "ChickenScratch AOE"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "ChickenScratch AOE"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Close enough that you’re still pissed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "CatholicSchoolGirls BB","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "CatholicSchoolGirls BB","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Not pissed. Frustrated.
Confused.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "ChickenScratch AOE"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "ChickenScratch AOE"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Fuck. I owe Susan
an apology, don’t I?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "CatholicSchoolGirls BB","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "CatholicSchoolGirls BB","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Yes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "ChickenScratch AOE"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "ChickenScratch AOE"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Gah! But I’m not
wrong!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "CatholicSchoolGirls BB","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "CatholicSchoolGirls BB","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Now you’re being an asshole.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Ugh. Slow down. Think about what you mean before you say it.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "ChickenScratch AOE"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "ChickenScratch AOE"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">No, I mean I know I’ve been acting like a three year-old,
but going out on the town like I do isn’t wrong. Right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It takes Anna awhile to answer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "CatholicSchoolGirls BB","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "CatholicSchoolGirls BB","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">No, but it is illegal and dangerous and
it affects everyone around you. You may be
the one running </span><span style="font-family: 'CatholicSchoolGirls BB', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">around and getting into trouble, but we’re aiding and abetting
or whatever. </span><span style="font-family: 'CatholicSchoolGirls BB', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">Listen,
this note’s getting kind of dangerous to keep passing.</span><span style="font-family: 'CatholicSchoolGirls BB', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'CatholicSchoolGirls BB', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">Just pocket it and we’ll talk after
class.</span><span style="font-family: 'CatholicSchoolGirls BB', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'CatholicSchoolGirls BB', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">Okay?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I jam the note into my pocket instead of doing something
stupid and smart ass like passing the note back to agree with her. Probably the first decent thing I’ve done
since all this started. Now, all I have
to do is sit around for another thirty-five minutes and pretend to be able to
focus on anything other than how much I suck.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Shut up, Boone.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What? I haven’t even
said anything.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I know you haven’t, but you will. So, shut up.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boone looks between Anna and me, leading our procession out
past the huddled student masses and onto the sidewalk.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Dude, who or what got wedged up your ass?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not sure why I’m snapping at him, but I can’t seem to
stop myself. “Don’t you have someplace
to be?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boone gives me an odd look.
“Fine, fuck you. I’m heading
downtown anyway. Anna, your boyfriend
needs a reach around or something; he’s kinda being a dick.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna puts a hand on Boone’s arm. “Stop teasing him. Please?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boone throws his hands up and rolls his eyes. “Fine! I’ll see you guys later.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’re silent for a little while before the crowds thin out
enough for us to talk. Anna sighs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, that wasn’t a very good start.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t need his shit on top of everything else.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He wouldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t antagonized
him. He’s not all that happy about this
clusterfuck either.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There’s only so many times someone can pick fights before
they lose the benefit of the doubt.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Silence again. Why am
I so bad at this? I take a deep breath
and try again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll talk to him tonight.
I have no idea what one says to Boone to try and have a serious
conversation, but I’ll try anyway. Just
know that if one of us ends up dead, I tried as hard as I could.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna takes my hand and squeezes. “Thank you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I rub my eyes, trying to push back the headache boiling up
behind them and hope Anna doesn’t let me walk into a light pole or
something. I’m gonna end up with an
ulcer and it won’t even be my costumed life that gives it to me. “Why do I feel like you’ve already figured
out how this is going to end and you’re just trying to lead me across the
finish line?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Because I’m older and wiser than you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re barely a year older.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“True, but girls also mature faster than boys.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I nod my head in concession.
“Well I can’t speak for men and women as a whole, but it certainly seems
true in this case.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna puts her hand on my cheek, gets up on her tiptoes, and
kisses my other cheek. “Keep making
stupid jokes. It’s a far more appealing
sort of childishness.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Pfft. They’re not
stupid; they’re disarmingly clever masquerading as stupidity. You’d be amazed how often it works for me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She snorts. “How are
you still talking?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m not really sure.
I think my off switch was broken by one of the many blows to the head
I’ve received.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh my God, who actually <i>answers</i>
that question?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Guess I do.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna makes an exasperated sound and shoves me into a
newspaper dispenser.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The woman at the front desk of the hospital recognizes me as
“one of Susan’s” and starts chattering away the second she’s told me Susan
isn’t due for her dinner break for another eleven minutes. I smile and tell her everyone’s doing great
and really wish she would move her hands so I could see her nametag. Bless her heart, she’s a sweet woman just
dying to know how her favorite family’s doing but I don’t recognize her at all
and I’m gonna run out of bland pleasantries before she runs out of breath and
has to inhale again. I jump in the
second she pauses to shift our conversation from one family member to another.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I hate to be rude, but this food’s cooled off while I was
walking over here and I was hoping to have it heated up and all ready to go
when she gets into the cafeteria.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She clicks her tongue.
“You really are a sweetheart. Do
you know where the caf is?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yep, thanks.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Alright, well be sure to swing by before you leave.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wouldn’t dream of ducking you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smile as I leave and hope she gets off before I have to
come back through the lobby. Down a
hallway to the left and then down the stairs and I push the cafeteria doors
open. I rush toward the back and hope
Daisy’s working. I don’t know any of the
other cafeteria workers and I don’t think I’m actually allowed to use their
microwaves. Sure enough, as I get a
little closer I see her frizzy beehive of orange hair bobbing above the short
line of hungry people. Daisy’s tall and
thin and has a thing for purple and blue dresses. She’s a dead ringer for The Magic School Bus’
Ms. Frizzle. Susan calls her the Friz,
but I’m not sure I could get away with it.
I raise my hand over my head and wave.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Daisy! Hey!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She waves back, careful not to swing her ladle around too
much and hit someone with green bean juice.
Daisy has a smile that nearly cracks her face in two and she isn’t
stingy about using it. “Wesley, darling,
have you eaten?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, that’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If that’s not the start of someone asking for a favor then
I don’t know what is.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I had more time, I might banter a bit more but I’ve got all
of two minutes before Susan gets off for dinner. “Heh.
I’ve kinda got myself in a tough place with Susan and I’m looking to run
a Hail Mary to get back in her good graces.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, who am I to keep you from making nice? You know the drill.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thank you. If Susan
comes in before I get back, can you keep her from ordering anything?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You got it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The microwave’s back behind a mixer big enough to blend Hansel,
Gretel, and their two fattest friends together into a wonderful pie
filling. I put our plates on the counter
and surround them with Tupperware. I
drop a slice of meatloaf onto Susan’s plate and slide it into the
microwave. While the meatloaf is
spinning round and round, I load three slices onto my own plate and pop the
tops on the salads. The bell tolls and I
stick a couple rolls on Susan’s plate and hit the go button again. I repeat the whole process with my plate and
poke my head out of the kitchen. Susan’s
sitting at the end of a table, looking a little bewildered. I toss rolls onto my plate and reheat it
before gathering Susan’s plate, salad, and little cup of dressing. I get halfway across the room before she
notices me. Her confusion deepens before
she remembers to smile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wesley, what are you doing here? Is everything okay?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s what I’m hoping to sort out, actually. But first, a bribe.” I drop the food in front of her and
smile. “I’ll be right back.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I repeat the process but this time I tuck a twenty ounce
bottle under each arm. It takes a moment
longer than before to unload my food, lest I ruin my good start with a
carbonated assault on Susan’s person. We
eat in silence (or what passes for silence in a relatively public cafeteria)
for a minute before I decided that awkward chit-chat is better than awkward
silence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How’s your food?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s wonderful. Very
thoughtful.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I made the rolls.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She laughs and takes a bite of a roll that clearly came out
of a Pillsbury tin. “They’re delicious.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I swallow enough spinach to choke myself and blurt, “I’m
sorry I suck at this and if you have the time and energy after your shift
tonight we can talk about all the stupid shit I’ve been running away from
talking about.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, wow. That was bad
even for me. Don’t smack your head
against the table repeatedly while chanting “stupid, stupid, stupid”. Don’t do it.
This doesn’t need to get any worse.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She sets her roll down and puts her hand on top of
mine. “Let’s just eat for now and worry
about all those happy thoughts afterward.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan doesn’t eat quickly, but afterward still comes too
soon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So when does your shift end?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Nine. How’d you get
over here?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Took the bus, why?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Take the car back home.
It’s too cold to be standing around at the bus stop. You can come pick me up at nine and we’ll
start sorting this out then. Deal?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I fidget a bit. “Deal.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Neither Susan nor I really know how to start so we spend the
entire ride home making small talk. How
was your day? Not too bad, how about
you? Isn’t the weather just
delightful? Don’t you wish one of us could
say something important? I’ve got the
house keys in the door before I stop myself.
If we go inside with Anna and Boone and Paul we’ll get caught up in
whatever’s going on in their lives.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“On TV, people always sit on their front steps and
talk. That or they poke their heads in
through open windows. Does anyone ever
do that in real life?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Not really. Enough
people have heated or air conditioned homes they can have discussions in that
sitting outside has become largely obsolete.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ah. Well, how about
we do it anyway? I always thought it
made things seem more important.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She smiles thinly and sits down, squirming a little in the
silence. “I hate to start this off with
a cliché, but it all seems so obvious in hindsight. It worried me that you and Boone and Anna
were all so fascinated with these masked vigilantes, but it would never have
occurred to me that one of you was going out there doing what they do.” She shakes her head. “I had a hard enough time agreeing to let you
box—which I assume was just a way for you to cover all the cuts and bruises—all
the violence that comes with this isn’t healthy. Boxing is a sport, of sorts, there are rules
and limits and protection. This costumed
business, it’s even more violent and it has none of the protection, none of the
rules. It’s—it’s <i>real</i> violence, for lack of a better term. People out to hurt and kill each other and
there is no aspect of it that impacts human beings in a healthy way.” It takes a moment of fumbling for Susan to find
her words and when she does they all come out in a rush. “I appreciate that you’re doing this to do
something good and that you’re not a child and that if you want to keep doing
this, Paul and I are truly incapable of stopping you, but I cannot consider
myself your parent and not at least talk to you about all this.” By the time she’s done she’s a little hunched
over and breathing shallowly. She looks
brittle. I should do something
comforting, but I can’t seem to lift my hand.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But you want me to stop, don’t you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She nods.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Would it help if we talked about what I actually do?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“When I found out, I went online and did some research but
it was all a little spotty. Second-hand
accounts, terrified victims, and anonymous statements given by police officers
who don’t have an official line to support because of how damn crazy this
superhero business is.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alright. Start at the
beginning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“First one happened on accident. Big hooded boy with a knife meets mousy
little girl with a purse. A tale as old
as time. No mask, no hood, no secret
identity. I just saw him before he saw
me and I stopped him. The woman freaked
out, crying and hugging me until the police arrived. It was—good.
And I mean, I don’t know, but isn’t that the kinda shit people are
always so hyped up on? People helping
people? One of the most popular
entertainment mediums in the world is based around the concept of people with
the ability to help <i>helping</i>. There has to be a reason everyone’s so
obsessed with superheroes, real and fictional.”
I rub my nose with my knuckle and grasp for words. “I’m getting better at it every time I go
out; better at helping people and better at protecting myself. I don’t think I’ll ever be a name brand
superhero, saving the world every month, but I can make people feel safer walking
home at night. I can cut down on people
busting up local businesses. I—I can <i>help</i> people.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Silence. Raging
internal debates rule the day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It never even occurred to me.” I can’t tell if she’s talking to herself or
to me. “You know, I think I could read
every parenting book every published and I wouldn’t find a single tip on what
to do when your son or daughter is a superhero.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Maybe you should write a book. ‘So Your Child Wears a Full-Body Stocking and
Fights Evil in the Dead of Night’. It’s
a little wordy, but I think I’m onto something.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She smiles thinly.
“You’re going to get hurt. Really
hurt.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“People get hurt every day.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Now is <i>not</i> the time to be flip, Wesley.” The
fragility leaves her momentarily and I backtrack quickly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m not being flip, that’s just how it is. You can’t go through life expecting to avoid
pain. Mind you, I’m asking for quite a
bit more pain than is usual, but I figure that’s balanced out by the pain I
help other people avoid.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another pause. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This isn’t healthy, being exposed to the kind of violence you’re
being exposed to and taking the lives of others onto your shoulders. You’re making yourself responsible for so
much more than anyone your age, or any age for that matter, should. How can anyone ever know that they’re able to
handle all that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I scratch my cheek, listening to the little bit of stubble crinkle. “I’ve heard people talk the same way about
having kids. Not that having kids and
fighting crime are the same thing,” Although there are some striking
similarities. “Just that no one really
knows if they’re gonna be ready for it, ready to take responsibility for
another life, and yet people kinda have to jump in. They have to take a leap of faith at some
point and just trust that they’ll be up to the task.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay, that had to have scored me some major points, right?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Plus, if I get myself in any real trouble I can have Paul
as my lawyer! I’ve got all my angles
covered!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She gives me another weak smile. “It’s freezing out here. I’m gonna go inside and talk to Paul about
this.” She kisses my temple before
standing up. “You’ll just have to survive
the embarrassment of being kissed in public this one time. We all care about you, Wes. Especially me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stop her before she gets to the door and hug her quickly
and awkwardly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, me too.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I give her a minute or two head start so I can avoid her and
Paul on their way upstairs before heading in myself. Anna’s waiting in the foyer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How’d it go?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Won’t really know until tomorrow, but I don’t think I did
anything too fucking stupid.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She bounces onto her tiptoes and puts her arms around my
neck. “Thank you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, but now I’ve gotta talk to Boone and I’m fairly
certain he won’t be nearly as pleasant or cooperative as Susan.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
"I've gotta head home now, but text me an update after you talk to Boone." Anna squeezes my hand. "Good luck."<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boone’s sprawled across one of the recliners in the living
room, one leg draped over the arm and the other on the footrest. He’s watching Pulp Fiction. Samuel L. Jackson’s double daring Brett to
say “what” again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alright, just like a band-aid.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This scene always makes me want a cheeseburger.” I mutter.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boone looks over his shoulder at me. “Shut the fuck up, man. I don’t wanna drive out to Wendy’s just
because you got me craving a burger.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Samuel L. Jackson shoots Brett in the arm and starts quoting
a semi-fictitious Bible passage.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey, about earlier, I uh—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No. No, no. If you apologize…I’m going to cry.” He sniffles and wipes the back of his hand
across his face. “I, I can’t handle this
right now. Oh—oh God!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You are such a pain in the ass, you know that right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Deal with it.”</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-19685610897216846272013-11-09T10:25:00.000-06:002014-05-14T10:59:29.012-05:00Table of ContentsOkay, so I have a little gizmo on the side of my blog that organizes and directs people to the stories I've written for my current project (still need a better name for it, I've got three or four possibilities and I don't like any of them haha), but I think I want a post that acts as a table of contents so I can post a link to a specific post that lets people start from the top and just roll through the stories. Considering I've only got four followers and scarce few readers this might be completely gratuitous, but hey, if I don't take my writing seriously who will? So here it is, a nice, clean table of contents.<br />
<br />
Stories in Chronological Order:<br />
<a href="http://bestleftburied.blogspot.com/2013/06/the-atomic-punk.html">The Atomic Punk</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://bestleftburied.blogspot.com/2013/10/his-name-is-alan-thompson.html">His Name Is Alan Thompson</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://bestleftburied.blogspot.com/2013/10/golden-age-wesley.html">Golden Age Wesley</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://bestleftburied.blogspot.com/2013/10/an-origin-story-because-who-doesnt-love.html">An Origin Story (Because Who Doesn't Love Flashbacks?) (Part 1)</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://bestleftburied.blogspot.com/2013/10/an-origin-story-because-who-doesnt-love_29.html">An Origin Story (Because Who Doesn't Love Flashbacks?) (Part 2)</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://bestleftburied.blogspot.com/2013/11/growing-pains.html">Growing Pains</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://bestleftburied.blogspot.com/2013/11/gratitude.html">Gratitude</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://bestleftburied.blogspot.com/2013/11/date-night.html">Date Night</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://bestleftburied.blogspot.com/2013/12/a-brief-and-uneventful-interlude.html">A Brief and Uneventful Interlude</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://bestleftburied.blogspot.com/2013/12/sewer-rat.html">Sewer Rat</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://bestleftburied.blogspot.com/2014/02/the-comedown.html">The Comedown</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://bestleftburied.blogspot.com/2014/03/vicarious-apologies.html">First Time</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://bestleftburied.blogspot.com/2014/03/magnetic-moment.html">Magnetic Moment</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://bestleftburied.blogspot.com/2014/03/held-hands-and-hate-crimes.html">Held Hands and Hate Crimes</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://bestleftburied.blogspot.com/2013/07/nuclear-family-fission.html">Nuclear Family Fission</a><br />
<div>
<br />
<a href="http://bestleftburied.blogspot.com/2014/04/smokehouse.html">Smokehouse</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://bestleftburied.blogspot.com/2014/04/bug-out.html">Bug Out</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://bestleftburied.blogspot.com/2014/04/decorated-soldier.html">Decorated Soldier</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://bestleftburied.blogspot.com/2014/05/just-think-what-would-batman-do.html">Just Think "What Would Batman Do?"</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://bestleftburied.blogspot.com/2014/05/shouldnt-someone-start-freaking-out.html">Shouldn't Someone Start Freaking Out Right Now?</a><br />
<br /></div>
Miscellaneous Stories to Appear Later:<br />
<a href="http://bestleftburied.blogspot.com/2013/07/night-watchman.html">Night Watchman</a><br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-52875188924821366282013-10-31T21:30:00.002-05:002013-10-31T21:30:36.997-05:00Kuchisake-Onna<div class="MsoNormal">
“Goddammit. You don’t
even have your fucking suit on.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Howard ducked under Layne’s arm and pulled him up off the
couch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You smell like shit, Layne.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No one shook his hand very firmly at the service, but
everyone wished him the best and let him know they had all thought the world of
Payton.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Layne, we’re all terribly sorry for your loss. We’ve gotten in contact with a sub who’s
willing to hold down the fort for you as long as you need. We all loved Payton, as a teacher and as a
person.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Layne got back to the car, he twisted the cap on a
bottle of Coke that was now half whiskey and started the engine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Layne ran his thumb over the raised scar tissue under his
collarbone. It was short and straight
and tight to the bone and his collarbone shaded it so that even when he was
shirtless it was well hidden. Payton had
liked tracing the scar with her fingers at night; its existence was information
few were privy to. He had been nursing
the same slice of pizza for almost half an hour and even his glass was relatively
full. The television’s volume was turned
down low and other than the hand on his collarbone Layne was entirely
still. Tinnitus keened in his ears, the
ceiling creaked as his neighbors milled about their bedroom, and the television
murmured softly about the latest flavor of brutal murder but he did not hear
her voice again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey, it’s Howard.
I’m gettin’ the guys together tonight, we’re gonna play cards and get
hammered. You should come.” Layne pulled the phone away from his ear and
brought the keypad up when Howard’s voice came back, small and hesitant. “You should fucking show up, man. Really.”
He pressed “7” and deleted the message.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It took Layne a few minutes to find his pocket knife, buried
as it was under the detritus of a drunken shut-in, but he eventually laid hands
on the composite of the handle. He
pulled the blade out until it clicked open and plopped down on the sofa. He spun the knife between his fingers exactly
the way everyone’s parents taught their kids not to and grabbed the first
letter off of the table. A swig of vodka
and a moment of contemplation later Layne slit the envelope open and slid the
letter out onto his lap.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<i>Dear
Mr. Shepherd,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I think most of the
class had forgotten how boring History classes are when their teacher isn’t
hopping around the room, swearing, and tossing erasures at their heads. We’re all looking forward to you getting back
to Central. We’re all also wishing you
the best; a lot of us had Mrs. Shepherd too.
She was awesome.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Best,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Naomi Bates<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Layne tipped the bottle back and gulped down cheap vodka to
sear his throat and start his eyes watering.
He dropped the letter into the waste bin and slit open a new one. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<i>Shep,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>So help me god if you
leave me here with this another week with this substitute douche. He’s corrected pronunciation more than he’s
taught history. I’m about three
corrections away from braining him with my textbook.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Seriously if you don’t
show up I’m gonna end up a felon,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Derek<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another swig of vodka.
Another slit envelope. Another
letter. Two more pulls from the
bottle. Another letter. Three more letters. Three more inanities. Layne set Derek’s letter on the sofa next to
him and pushed the rest, opened and unopened alike, into his wire-mesh
wastebasket. He stood up and wandered
into the kitchen, set the bottle of vodka in the counter and started digging
through the bric-a-brac drawer.
Alcohol-clumsy fingers did not sift well through clothespins, twist
ties, and coupons but he eventually found a book of matches. The matches went next to the vodka. He dragged the wastebasket onto the linoleum
floor and took another drink before dousing the contents of the basket with the
rest of the vodka. The first match snapped
just below the head, the second and third just above his fingers, but the
fourth caught. Layne could not actually
smell the sulfur but it seemed more poetic to imagine he could. He dropped the match and the flames enveloped
the paper. Had he not disconnected his
smoke detectors days ago they would have gone off within seconds. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Layne turned the empty bottle over in his hands and wished
he had used a little less to start the fire.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The fire twisted and writhed, twining itself with the
wire-mesh and scorching the linoleum around the basket in a wobbly circle. Little flecks of fire bobbed away from the
basket for seconds before the paper sustaining it crumbled to ash.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Layne leaned against the refrigerator and pulled a dry-erase
marker away from its magnetic clip. He
smeared the little whiteboard mostly clean with the side of his hand and
scrawled a note across it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Psycho Poetry","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Psycho Poetry","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Call school<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We’re glad to have you back, Layne.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Layne smiled. Awkward
and stilted and fake, his face could not seem to support even a small
smile. “Thanks. Coming back felt like the best way to kick
start my life again, so…” Layne smiled
again and held out his hands in a gesture meant to encompass the school. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Principal Gould smiled and started poking through the metal
mesh divider on his desk. He stopped at
a thin blue folder that he pulled out and passed to Layne. “We got Thom Reynolds to hold down your class
for you, he kept notes of what he walked each class through. Take a minute to catch yourself up.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Jesusfuck it’s so
quiet.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They had all returned his greeting. Hi.
Hello. Hey. Some of them had even seemed quite pleased to
see him, but after first contact settled reality set in. This was awkward. Plenty of them liked him and he had like
plenty of them, but they were his students.
They had often been friendly, but they were not <i>friends</i> and now there was a deeply personal trauma that had dug a
trench between them and was watching over the no man’s land like a German
machine gunner. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So how did Mr. Reynolds take care of you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No one spoke at first.
It was a phenomenon that was unique to high school and college; most of
the people in the room knew the answer but they were all waiting for someone
else to answer lest they be wrong or sound too interested and engaged. It was also a phenomenon that, at the moment,
was like being slowly lowered into a vat of low-grade acid. Nothing so intense as to actually kill, but
Layne could feel a slow burning sensation spreading through him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, Veronica Knowles spoke up. “He was fine.
His classes weren’t nearly as fun though—we actually had some people
falling asleep.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He smiled, but it felt like someone had starched the smile
to his face. <i>I need a mirror. Am I smiling
too wide? Am I smiling for too
long? Does anyone actually believe I’m amused
or is it just grotesque? Gah, fuck. Say something.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Heh. Well at least he
didn’t cater to the lazy whims of you little terrorists. If you’d had it your way not a soul in this
room excluding myself would understand the first thing about the Crimean War.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A wave of chuckles pulsed through the room and a couple kids
shifted in their seats.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well. For those of
you who didn’t pay a damn bit of attention, I’ve got a short musical review to
catch you up. It’s an old song that most
of you will hate, but suck it up.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It took Daryl and Emily a few seconds to decide whether they
were sympathetic to Layne’s loss or happy to see him back on his feet. Their eyes twitched between each other and
they both decided to take the route that entailed more smiling. Daryl’s was too wide and Emily’s eyes were
aimed firmly at Layne’s chest.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Layne!” To his
credit, Daryl’s voice boomed just the same as it had every other day they had
eaten lunch together. Nerves had never
been able to curb his enthusiasm. “Sit
down, you’re just in time to help me change the subject. Emily is just <i>endlessly</i> fascinated with these recent…” Daryl’s grimaced. “Butcherings.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Emily’s entire right arm twitched. She had made a point of not swatting or
shoving her husband at school. Principal
Gould had reprimanded them for it, saying it was inappropriate behavior in
front of students. “It’s not
fascinating, it’s disturbing.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And it’s not going to get any less disturbing the more you
talk about it, so let’s move on.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Layne started in on his sandwich and briefly debated asking
what they were talking about before deciding that he had no interest in
fascinating and/or disturbing butcherings.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every week without exception for almost a decade, Layne had
gone to the grocery store; sometimes with Payton, sometimes without. Even after Payton had died he had kept making
the trip. It was ingrained in his every
muscle and it would have taken him more effort to ignore the habit than to just
walk around the corner. He also needed
more alcohol on a regular basis. More
often than not it was whiskey and Coke.
When he had thrown out his alcohol he had kept a half-full two liter
bottle of Coke and after three weeks of spiking it with whiskey, Layne took a
sip of it without the liquor and realized he hated Coke. <i>Pure
goddamn sugar</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He dug a pad of sticky notes out of his briefcase, wrote
“for everyone” on one, and stuck it to the two liter. If I stick it in the teacher’s lounge
refrigerator and just leave it there it’ll be gone soon enough. Before settling back into the chair he
snagged the remote for the television and put the news on. Volume set close to zero, Layne unpacked his
briefcase and started tweaking his lesson plan for the rest of the week.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His second day had gone better than the first. At no point during the day had he broken out
in a cold sweat, he had not stammered through any abysmal bastardizations of
the English language, and the half-sympathetic/half-awkward looks he had
noticed had been reduced by half. Had it
not been for the newspaper article pinned to the bulletin board in his
apartment’s lobby, Layne might have made it through the entire day without any
overwhelming urges to drink.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unfortunately the article was posted and Layne felt a
panicky pressure build up inside of him as he read.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<i>Glasgow Smiles Turn Serial<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>A third victim of the
Glasgow Murderer was found last night, bringing the known total to three. The police are currently withholding all
personal information about the victim, but it has been confirmed that the victim
is a woman and does fit the grisly pattern set forth by the previous two
murders. The victim’s body was found in
the middle of the street in front of Hillstreet Market around 11:34, stabbed
repeatedly. Her face was also disfigured,
her mouth torn open from ear to ear. One
police officer agreed to speak anonymously saying “Leads have been hard to come
by, but we do have a couple avenues of inquiry open.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He closed his eyes tightly and took deep, shuddering
breaths. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>In. Out.
One.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>In. Out.
Two.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>In. Out.
Three.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>In. Out.
Four.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>In. Out.
Five.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He counted to ten. The
blind panic abated. His insides were
still pulled tight enough to strum and he was getting only limited sensory data
from his lower extremities, but he felt able to move his feet without running
madly into the streets. Progress. Layne looked over his shoulder and stumbled
backward, slumping down into a chair against the wall. Eyes squeezed shut, he balled his hands into
fists. Held. Released.
Rolled his shoulders. Rolled his
ankles. Rotated his head slowly. He stretched out every muscle he could. Then he did it again. And again.
Twice he heard the lobby door open, heard footsteps stop short of him,
and then continue on. Most of the
numbness had abated and his mind felt less like it had been packed with cotton. He pushed himself up from the chair and
ignored the sudden lightheadedness.
Blotches of purple and red and yellow plodded across his vision and his
skull felt slightly too tight for his brain, but he had walked up to his
apartment hundreds of times. His path
upstairs was not going to suddenly shift on him. He did not turn back to finish the
article. He already knew who the first
victim was and couldn’t honestly care who the second one was. Why should the third be any different?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Would it look too panicky if I started wearing a surgical
mask during class?” Emily had been
considering a small fork-full of pasta salad quite intently since Harold Davies
had rattled off four rapid fire sneezes.
“I mean, you’ve both noticed how incredibly unsanitary most high school
students are, right? A few take tissues,
but mostly the best we can hope for is that they wipe their nose on their
sleeves. Then anything on their hands
gets onto their pens and pencils, which they lend out, and their papers, which
they turn in to us. And that’s not even
considering the fact that their hands <i>have
</i>to touch their desk sooner or later—a desk they share with five, six, or
seven other classes each day. Would it
be so alarmist to want to take precautions?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Daryl’s lips pressed together over a smile, “Emily,
darling. You know that surgical masks
won’t protect you from any of those things, right? They’re only good for airborne
particles…” He caught his wife’s eye and
pulled up a bit short, “like the kids who don’t cover their mouths when they
sneeze. You’ll need hand sanitizer for
the rest of that stuff.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Layne smiled around a mouthful of sandwich. “Keep tissues and hand sanitizer at the back
of the room and remind them that it’s there for them to use. Plenty of kids in my classes use them when
they’re there.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Emily took a moment to stop staring a black miasma of death
at her husband to smile at Layne. “I’ve
worked here for five years and I’ve dreaded this time of year every time it
comes around and somehow the most obvious solution never occurred to me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Layne shrugged, “Stress isn’t terribly conducive to clarity
of thought. I used to worry about it
too, I actually bought a surgical mask one year but when I put it on and looked
in the mirror I couldn’t bring myself to walk outside like that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The three of them laughed.
Emily exchanged the half-empty Tupperware of pasta salad with Daryl’s
bowl of tomato soup. Layne kept working
over his turkey sandwich. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So. Hillstreet
Market.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Daryl winced. “Emily,
not this.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The silence shifted, melted and re-forged itself into a
cage, a strangling thing straining outward under deafening duress.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are we just not supposed to talk about it because it’s
ugly, Daryl? That’s Layne’s grocery
store and I feel entitled to my concern.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Daryl pursed his lips, but did not respond.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Just because it’s my grocery store doesn’t mean it’s my
problem. Anytime any murder takes place
in front of almost any building, it’s gotta be <i>someone’s</i> building. Doesn’t
mean anything.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Layne. It’s not just
the Market, it’s—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s always someone’s building; someone’s loved one.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They finished eating in silence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Alright, first week back.
How was it, man?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’d forgotten how little most of them care about the actual
subject matter.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Howard smiled, “Forgotten what it was like to be a high
schooler already, huh?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fuck me. I’m plenty
content to not remember. Did you ever
get that pool put in?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Nah, but it’s prolly for the best. Diane’s pregnant and I swim about as well as
a gut shot house cat.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t have the slightest idea how I’m supposed to respond
to that mental image…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Howard leaned back in his chair and smiled again. Before he could express just how amusing he
found himself, Diana walked in. Short,
dark-haired, and six months pregnant Diane was looking only a little less put
together than usual, which meant a long strand of hair was not pulled back with
the rest and she was looking only as stunning as nature had made her rather
than ever so slightly cosmetically complemented. She smiled and waved, always happy as can be
to see a friendly face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Layne, hey! It’s so
good to see you!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her smile was contagious and Layne quickly found himself a
carrier. “Heya Diane. Heya fetus.
How goes the labor of love?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She narrowed her eyes at Howard, “Heavy.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And I bet he has a big head. Howard has a big head.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Layne. I said it was
good to see you, not that I wouldn’t hit you over the head with a beer bottle.” Diane shifted her bag up her shoulder. “I’m getting the hell out of here before the
rest of Howard’s idiot friends show up.”
She started toward the door, swatting the back of Layne’s head along the
way. “I hope you start coming around
more often, Layne. Keep Howard from
breaking anything.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Layne swallowed the last of the cheeseburger slider and
wished he had thought to grab a napkin on his way out. Jeans being the next best option, he rubbed
his hands against his thighs. The sky
had been threatening rain all day and now even the air itself felt
pregnant. Layne turned his collar
up. He started walking faster. He did not quite beat the rain—he had to run
the last half block—but he did beat the police.
The first patrol car pulled up across the street from the apartment just
as Layne was brushing his teeth, met with the victim’s husband as he was
stripping off his pants, and started questioning the tenets as Layne burrowed
deeper into his pillow.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Alright. Ladies and
gents,” Layne tilted back something more closely related to jet fuel than
coffee, “and teenagers of grade points.”
Another swallow. “I’m exhausted
as shit. I was kept up until four thirty
in the morning by unavoidable personal nonsense and I have to wake up at five
thirty to get myself ready to teach you ungrateful bastards, so I’m running on
fumes.” Another swallow. Layne raised his cup. “I’ve got another one of these sitting in the
teacher’s lounge which is a rather unfortunate way to survive a day because
this stuff is so incredibly hyper-caffeinated I can feel it eating away at my
esophagus as it goes down and as the day goes on my remaining cup will get more
and more stale and, as all of you coffee drinkers out there know, stale coffee
is a drink not fit for even the most uncouth of philistines.” Layne took a longer drink and fought down the
urge to wince. “Who here can guess what
this situation means for you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Clark Abasi raised his hand.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Free day?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Damn right. Do
homework, play games on your phone, chat with friends, but anybody who gets too
loud is getting a zero for the day.
So. You go about your day and
I’ll try to prepare for the rest of mine.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Layne sat down and wondered if any of his classes would care
if he stopped pretending to care.
Probably not, all they would hear was “free day”. He resisted the urge to fall asleep at his
desk and wished he had some more tests to grade, something to keep busy or at
least to earn his pay. Instead he just
sat at his desk and felt cold and tired.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Jesus Christ, Layne, this one happened in your <i>goddamn apartment building</i>. You can’t pretend this is a coincidence!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Emily, leave it alone.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Goddammit, I will not
leave this alone.</i> Someone is out
there fucking <i>murdering</i> people and
since Payton was killed the victims have each been killed closer and closer to your
home—this is a big <i>fucking </i>deal.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At some point Emily had stood up and knocked her chair over
and even the people who had been pretending not to notice the commotion were
now openly staring. Layne was the only
one not paying her any attention. He
stood up and walked away. Emily started
crying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The police had acted like it was not a coincidence as
well. They had talked to a lot of people,
probably the whole building, but when one of the officers had made the
connection between Layne Shepherd, resident of apartment 450, and Layne
Shepherd, recent widower of the first Glasgow victim Payton Shepherd, special
attention had been paid to him. First he
had been the suspect, the sick bastard who had carved up four beautiful women
including his own wife. They had been
careful not to say it out loud, but it’s hard to mistake being interrogated for
being questioned. Thankfully it had not
taken them very long to change their approach.
Layne had told them about the binging—a story the grocers could
corroborate—and the little ring burnt into the linoleum that he would have to
pay for whenever he decided to move out.
He had told them about the times he would have sworn, hand to the Bible,
that he had heard Payton’s voice in the apartment. He had told them everything because once he
had told them something there seemed to be no way to stop the rest from
bubbling up and out. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Layne sat alone in the teacher’s lounge, Emily and Daryl
both taught seventh period classes, turning his last cup of battery acid coffee
around and around. He had papers to
grade, but he was not feeling all that sharp at the moment. He had not eaten enough lunch to get himself
up and running and neither of the previous two cups of coffee had managed to
make him anything more than a ragged sort of wired so he just stared at the
pile of ungraded papers and turned his coffee cup around and around.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By eighth period he had mustered the strength to at least
put an educational movie on in the background while the kids chatted and
slacked off. He was slowly making his way
through the papers as well, having finally discarded the childish notion that
not feeling well was a good enough reason to not do his job or that a better
time was sure to come and so he made that time now. He was moving too slowly through them, but it
was progress and the act of doing <i>something</i>
was creating enough inertia to hopefully carry him through the rest of the day. As he ran his green pen over Manuel de Rosas’
seventh spelling mistake in an otherwise compelling persuasive essay on the
merits of Governor Ross’ stance on foreign affairs Layne let his mind wander to
Emily. It would be nice to find a way to
lay the issue to rest without having to apologize. What did she think was going to happen? What did she think he could do? He had cooperated fully with the police, they
had seen his connection with the case, and as soon as he felt confident in his ability
to follow-through he was moving out of the apartment. Even if he was as concerned as she was buying
a new apartment was not a matter of wishing for a new place and then <i>poof</i> being all moved in. He had to look around, find the right place
at the right price, and then work it out with the landlord. And while he did that he would still be
living at his same apartment. Nothing
about living in the apartment where his ex-wife used to live was easy, even
before the murders came knocking on his door, but sleeping on someone’s couch
because he was not able to sleep in his own apartment would be
humiliating. So he did what adults often
do when faced with unpleasant situations: he sucked it up. Emily would just have to do that same.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Layne got halfway through the stack of papers before mashing
the mute button on the remote and letting the pretty Asian reporter mouth
soundlessly about the storm rolling through the East coast. Hand held over the remote, pen perched precariously
between two fingers, Layne stayed perfectly still as if the scrap of his shorts
on the couch cushion might be enough to drown out the voice he knew he had
heard. It did not matter that there was
no one in the apartment but him, that there had never been anyone in the
apartment since Payton died other than Howard, it did not matter than Payton
was dead and her voice was just a manifestation of his grief. If he could hear a single word from her, imagined
or otherwise, then he could keep pushing forward.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The television anchors signed off. Some late night talk show host strode
victoriously on-stage, fists pumping madly.
Payton’s voice did not come back.
Layne dropped his pen, left the papers out, and killed the
television. He did not brush his teeth,
did not wash his face, just stumbled into his bedroom, stripped down, and fell
into bed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Am I beautiful?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Layne turns over, dragging the sheets with him and dangling
his foot over the edge. Payton runs her
knuckle gently down his cheek and he jerks awake. Eyes flitting around in the dark, his first
thought was that a spider crawled over his cheek until he noticed the shadow
standing over his bed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Am I beautiful?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her voice is soft. A
quiver runs through it as if speaking was costing her a great deal. Layne’s eyes adjust to the darkness quickly. Payton is still wearing the beautiful red
dress she was buried in, the one they had argued about buying in the first
place it was so expensive. She looked
perfect, not a day older than she had been before she died. The only detail out of place was the surgical
mask drawn across her face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Layne’s answered quivered like her question and he
understood just how taxing this conversation would be. “Yes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Payton raised her hand to her mouth, pressed her finger
against the mask as though to chew on her knuckle. She ran her finger along the string tucked
around her ear for a moment before flicking it over her ear. It dangled lopsidedly for a moment, exposing
her, before she delicately peeled it away, letting it drift to the floor. What had once been soft, red lips was now
scabbed and ragged. All of her teeth
were exposed and stained red-brown and her gums showed in places, mottled and
gouged. Stroking his cheek gently with a
folding knife, Payton looked into his eyes.
Her voice sounded like it might fall apart and just disintegrate into
the aether.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Am I still beautiful?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She dug the knife into his face.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-52420137606639428872013-10-30T21:30:00.000-05:002013-11-07T15:45:43.208-06:00It's Not Easy Being Green<div class="MsoNormal">
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Shut up</i>.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You shut up! I used
to have some fucking dignity. Never had
much else, but I had that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Really? Where the
fuck was <i>your</i> dignity when you were
Simonetti’s errand boy?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s pushing a hundred goddamn degrees in the middle of the
night and I’m wearing a fucking Halloween mask while I load stolen shit onto
the back of a van for a man—if you can call him that—that would love nothing
more than to murder me. This is rock bottom,
man. I’m telling you the only way to get
any lower is to actually rip the boss off and get—I don’t know—drawn and
quartered or pulled by horses or fed to orphans as meat substitute in their gruel
or whatever nutball bullshit way the boss feels like killing traitors today.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So go to fucking Willowwood Cemetery and ask Simonetti for
your job back. They buried him alive so
he might still be able to hear you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fuck you, Mo. That
was inhuman what the boss did to Simonetti.
No one deserves that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Shut up, wouldja?
Jesus Christ, I swear you get dumber every day. You think if anyone else hears you talking
like this they wouldn’t sell your ass out just for a gold star from the
boss? This isn’t the best job we—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This is horse shit!
Our line’s never been the easiest, but it’s only getting worse. Bad enough when the nutjobs started putting
on costumes to fight crime or whatever, but once guys on our side of the fence
joined in…shit got dark fast. That’s all
I’m sayin’”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Shut up, Torrance.
You’re always ‘just sayin’’ or ending ten-minute rants with ‘that’s all
I’m sayin’’. It can’t be all you’re
sayin’ if you’re saying every goddamn word in the English language. So just shut the fuck up already. Boss wants us outta here within the hour.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mo goes back to loading the crates and I sweat through my
suit for another couple minutes before joining him. I wonder what the driver’s name is and why he
isn’t helping. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It takes me a minute to ask Mo the sixty-four million dollar
question.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So whadya think of the boss?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mo slides another crate onto his pushcart and turns his head
toward me. He got the worst mask of the
three. It looks like it’s got barbed
wire writhing out through his eyes and mouth.
Makes me shiver whenever I see it.
I don’t need to see his face to know he’s giving me a look.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What the fuck d’ya think I think? He’s a lunatic and a freak, but he pays.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wince. He does this on purpose. “No, not like
that. He’s a fucking awful boss, I mean…<i>whadya</i> <i>think of him</i>?”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mo stops loading entirely.
His head twitches left and right a couple times like he’s trying to
pretend he’s not paranoid. I bet Mo
thinks the boss is fucking Beetlejuice or something. Talk about him too much and he’ll appear. We’ve been talking kinda quiet to keep the
driver from overhearing, but apparently that’s still too loud for this
conversation because Mo’s even quieter all the sudden. “I think his body count is higher than my IQ
so I try not to give it too much thought.
He can claim whatever the fuck he wants.
Now shut the fuck up, Torrance.”</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-81188392142094957372013-10-29T22:37:00.000-05:002014-02-11T07:44:00.459-06:00An Origin Story (Because Who Doesn’t Love Flashbacks?) (Part 2)<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Solomon Grundy,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Born on a Monday<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t keep the grin off my face. “Wanna know something cool?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boone looks at me blankly for a second, opens his mouth and
then closes it. “Too easy. Yeah, sure.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I sent you a link.
Check it out.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boone stares for a little while longer before looking down
at his laptop. A couple clicks and his
eyes start flitting across the screen.
He frowns. “A mugger got
mugged. You mind-blowing son of a bitch,
you. Where ever do you find these
things?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I keep grinning. “It
was me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You mugged a soccer mom?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, you jerk-off, I mugged the mugger!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boone blinks a couple times.
It takes him longer than usual to find line up a putdown. “If you wanna cookie, you’d have better luck
with Anna.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m too giddy to care that Boone’s an asshole.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Christened on Tuesday<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tuck the ski mask into my hoodie and pull the hood up with
a flourish. <i>Voila! I present to you, the
amazing Ski Mask Man!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I look like a hobo was inspired to turn superhero. My jeans are spattered with various colors of
paint, stained with dirt, and worn through in more places than one. My hoodie’s a size too big and it still has a
couple thin blue chalk lines crisscrossing the battered front. At least the mask is new. Not that it improves my appearance at all,
now I look like a hobo <i>and</i> a thief. Whatever.
Fuck it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I step into the hall and listen for a minute. The wind chime clink, clink, clinks, but the
rest of the house is silent. It’s two in
the morning, even Boone’s sound asleep. I
poke my head out the back door and hope the neighbors are too. The last thing I need now is for some
well-meaning soul thinking they’re seeing a burglar and calling the cops while
I’m out of bed. Susan’d probably think it
was a kidnapping. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hesitate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Do it or don’t. No more time to sit and wring your hands.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One deep breath pushes me out the back door and into the
night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Married on Wednesday<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Two more encounters with that idiot in the red hoodie made
the news last night.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boone stares pointedly, but I keep myself immersed in
writing. This paper on Harry Truman
won’t write itself. He keeps going.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He dolled himself up a bit, though everyone seemed to
recognize him well enough anyway. Apparently
he has a tough time shutting up, bantering and making bad jokes like an idiot
twelve year-old. Plus, putting a jacket
over that ratty hoodie doesn’t make the guy look any less homeless. Kinda stands out among the superhero crowd.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boone looks up again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What would his mother say if she saw him out in public
dressed that shabbily? Shameful.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t stop my ears from going a bit red. I really do look like shit. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boone must’ve been waiting for some kind of reaction because
he snorts softly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Someone’s even given him a name. Which is weird, you know? The media usually treats these costumes like
people in the olden times treated their kids, don’t name them ‘til you know
they’re actually gonna survive.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We sit quietly for a minute, mouse clicks and keyboard
clacking drift between us.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re gonna get killed, you know that right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I look up and Boone’s smiling his best shit-eating
grin. He’s particularly gifted. I’m not on his level, so I settle for a small
smile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, probably. So
what?” I look back down at my paper and
it occurs to me that I’m forgetting something.
“So what name did they give me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The Sentinel.” He
gives a small shrug. “Not a bad one, as
far as names for costumed nutballs go.
It’s a little…” he puffs out his chest, lifts his chin, and plants his
fits on his hips. “But hey, you’ve gotta
be a bit pretentious to think you’re gonna play dress up and save the world.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“A little pretentious.
A little cracked. But a whole
helluva lot more fun than everyone else.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oddly enough, Boone doesn’t shoot me down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Took ill on Thursday<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I yawn long enough to make my eyes water and drop my
forehead onto my textbook unceremoniously. Something bounces off the back of my head and Boone doesn’t bother
stifling his snort.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“D’ya know what’s wrong with kids these days?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I lift my head, one glossy page stuck to my forehead. “Is it you?
Because it seems to me like you’re what’s wrong with everything.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He continues as if I didn’t say anything, “No work
ethic. Lazy good for nothings, the lot
of you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It takes me a while to finish off a second yawn before
speaking again. “You know you’re one of
those kids these days, right? <i>And</i> you take pride in being a lazy good
for nothing.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pick the pen he threw at me up off the floor.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“True enough, that’s why I threw my pen at you. Can’t do my homework without a writing
utensil.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I flick the pen back at Boone who ducks, letting it sail
over his head. It bounces off the wall
and lands less than a foot away. He
stares at his fallen pen for a moment before sighing melodramatically and
ripping a page out of his notebook.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, there’s no saving it now. Best to just cut my losses.” He rolls off his chair and onto his
bunk. “Speaking of cutting losses, you
look like shit.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boone folds the paper over and back, over and back a few
times and then licks his fingers before making the last fold. He sets the airplane on his palm and pinches
the back of it for a minute. The second
he lets go, the place his fingers were billows a thin pillar of black smoke and
rumbles across his palm, taking off just as it reaches his finger tips. The plane soars through the air, banks,
loops, and nose dives into the trash can where it burns to nothing in less than
a second like flash paper.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I raise an eyebrow in his direction, but Boone’s already
tucked in behind his laptop, ignoring the obvious question. One of these days I’m gonna have to figure
out what’s up with his powers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Grew worse on Friday,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Climbing up to the top bunk makes my ribs twinge. I might have to talk to Boone about trading
bunks if this getting my ass kicked thing starts to crop up with any
frequency. Ow, ow, ow, ow. For future reference: don’t let the bad guys get you on the ground.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I plop down on the bed too hard and wince. You know your life is sad when even your
mattress hurts. It’s even sadder when
your winces hurt too. I’m gonna have to
figure out how to explain why my face is purpling so spectacularly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe I joined a boxing club or something. And I’m really, really shitty at it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Owwww…boxing club hurts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Died on Saturday,</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna’s trying to keep her voice casual, but it’s not working
all that well. It’s kinda like watching
a thinly-iced pond starting to crack under the weight of some idiot teenager.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wes, what happened to your face?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I start to say something about not being born with her
natural good looks and wishing she’d have the good graces not to mention it,
but the line dies in my throat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Got myself punched a
couple times.” I smile and feel strained
and more than a little fake. I really
need to get better at lying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Major fissures cut across the pond. “Any particular reason or just because you’re
a smartass?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Way I saw it, I’d get hit either way, but I think he
might’ve hit me a bit harder than was entirely necessary because of the
smartass thing.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The fissures widen and large plates of ice drop into an
abyssal plane of fire. “So what you’re
saying it that you wanna get punched in the face again?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m almost half a foot taller than her. I outweigh her by who knows how many tens of
pounds. I’m a post-human with better
than average strength, stamina, quickness, and a good tolerance for pain. My face is bruised because a group of wannabe
gangsters took offense to it and expressed that distaste with fists, boots, and
a baseball bat. I took that beating and
made jokes while I did. I even managed
to disarm one of them cleanly and whomp him with his own bat. I look at Anna and have to work very hard not
to step back. I don’t know what kind of
feminine voodoo she’s pulling, but it has to be cheating. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And in case you’re thinking of explaining this away like
you did with Susan, I’m not all that inclined to believe that our school has a <i>fucking</i> boxing club. I also know that Boone doesn’t believe that
you box either. He’s actually under the
impression that—you’re gonna love this—” she doesn’t say it like I’m gonna love
it at all, “That you’re going out on the town dressed up in a ratty hoodie and
jeans and a ski mask, playing superhero.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh. This is somewhat
less than ideal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Right now, I’m not sure if I appreciate your silence
because it means you’re not lying to me or if I’m even angrier because you’re <i>still</i> not telling me the truth.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yeah, this is probably the part where normal,
emotionally-healthy human beings come clean and beg for forgiveness. Not that there are too many “normal” or
“emotionally-healthy” costumed crime fighters out there. Still.
I’m feeling particularly ill at ease here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah…so I, uh, kinda suck at this, don’t I?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nothing. Not a smile,
not a nod. This might be the most
painfully uncomfortable moment in my life.
I have nothing to say that’s good enough, but I open my mouth to try
anyway.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I, uh—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This isn’t some random fucking foster home, Wes.” She shoves me. “You aren’t here on a temporary basis. This isn’t a layover that lasts until you do
something stupid or they change their minds and ship you back. You’re part of their family, you asshole. That means <i>a lot</i> to them. The people here care about you. That means you don’t get to keep secrets like
this. You keep secrets like ‘oops, I
didn’t study for my test’ or ‘I’m going to a friend’s place to drink or smoke
and watch movies that don’t make sense if you’re sober’. It also means that if you pull any shit like
this again, I will <i>smother you in your
sleep</i>.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have absolutely no idea how I’m supposed to respond to
that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She takes a deep breath. “And you’re going to tell Susan and Paul about this. They deserve to know.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I open my mouth, but she cuts me off again, a little softer
this time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I know it won’t be fun, so you can take a little time to
figure out how to say it. Don’t take
advantage of that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wow. Anna’s kind of
the best. Ever. Of all-time.
Who needs to know how to express yourself when there’s someone who just <i>gets</i> you?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Can I play the emotionally damaged orphan card here?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She gives me a sour look.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fair. Can I plead
idiocy on a <i>monumental</i> scale?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That seems to make a better impression on her. I can’t tell if I see a smile on her face or
if it’s a desperate desert-traveler seeing a mirage, but I jump on it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Woefully stupid and unbelievably unworthy? I could grovel if that’d help. Seriously, I bet I’m really good at groveling.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This time I definitely see a smile. She wipes it away quickly, but I know what I
saw.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You can start by telling me what you’re actually doing out
there.” Her words warm up a bit at the
end. “Boone says you’re helping people.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Buried on Sunday,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve gotta find a proper phone booth to change in. There are only so many times the Sentinel can
sneak in and out of the Rhodes’ house in full-costume before someone
notices. It’d take way too long to get
to the industrial district, find an abandoned warehouse, change, start
patrolling the city, fight crime, get back to the district, change back, and
then get home. I’d be walking in the
back door just in time to walk out the front door and catch the bus. I need to think up another idea.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I unlatch the fence and pull my bag out from under the old
plastic jungle gym. I unzip it enough to
stuff my mask into it, pleased that I’ve finally managed to get my mask off
without having to pull my hood down first.
I’d rather not be seen in full-costume and sans mask, but I really hate
wearing that stupid fucking ski mask. It
doesn’t breathe all that well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I turn the key and unlock the backdoor, letting myself into
the kitchen. It takes me a second to
realize that it’s a bit too bright in here and another second after that to
notice that the light’s coming from the open refrigerator that Susan’s standing
in front of, wide-eyed and rigid.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Fuck.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She lunges away from the refrigerator and pulls a rather
large bread knife from the block, holding it out between us. Her hand’s shaking, but her grip’s firm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shit. My hood’s still
up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Get the—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I flip my hood back and keep my hands up, “Susan, Susan,
Susan! It’s me! It’s Wes!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t tell what she’s thinking, but she stays rigid for a
few seconds before letting out a slow, rattling breath and lowering the
knife. She still looks like she might
stab me. I flick on the lights.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wesley,” her voice has an edge to it that I’m not really loving. “Why the hell are you sneaking in through the
back door at four o’clock in the morning?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She’s not yelling, but there’s a difference between volume
and anger. One doesn’t necessarily need
the other.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I open my mouth to lie or stall or make a bad joke, but my
mind’s boiling over with Susan-related observations. She’s put the knife down, but she’s giving me
a look that more than makes up for it.
She’s twitching a little; a shoulder tic here, a restless hand
there. She’s also looking me up and
down, trying to make sense of how I look.
I wonder if she’s already made the connection and is trying to ignore it
or if she hasn’t noticed the recent news reports on me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wesley, I’d like to take a look at your bag, please.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This time I don’t even consider trying to lie or stall, I
just hand her the bag and resign myself to the depths of Davy Jones’
locker. She unzips the main pocket and
starts fishing around inside. Out come
my blue athletic shorts, my gray t-shirt, and my black ski mask. She lingers on the mask, not letting it fall
to the counter with the rest of my stuff.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her voice gets quieter still. “What are they calling you? In the news?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have to swallow and clear my throat three times before I
can say anything. “The, uh, the Sentinel. B-but Boone, Boone calls me the Homeless
Hero…” I can’t force a smile; my face is
made of wet concrete.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her anger abates for a moment, replaced by something harder
to look at.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Boone? Boone
knows? Boone knows, but you weren’t
going to tell me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That one hits hard enough to make me flinch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It—you just worry about me—I don’t—” I can’t seem to pick
one train of thought to stick with, my mind keeps shifting gears without asking
my permission first. “I didn’t, wasn’t
trying—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So the fact that I’m a caring person somehow means that I
can’t be let into your life?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The anger’s rising now.
I’ve had fistfights with criminals that have gone better than this. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve had any that
have gone worse. I open my mouth to
say—I don’t know, something, but Susan cuts me off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Go to bed. Take your
stuff upstairs and go to bed. It’s late
and I don’t think either of us are in any condition to talk about this
tonight.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I blink a few times and open my mouth soundlessly before
just grabbing my stuff and leaving the room.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>That was the end,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Of Solomon Grundy</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna knocks and pokes her head in the room. “Whatcha working on?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stare at the pages for a few seconds before crumpling them
up and tossing them at the garbage can.
Only one actually hits the mark.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Nothing. Some stupid
fucking English assignment. Connecting my
life to a poem. It’s not going too
terribly well.” I stretch my arms up
over my head. “I find myself
surprisingly unwilling to talk about my life to a poem.”</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-23412315197185544032013-10-15T19:11:00.000-05:002014-02-26T14:55:49.197-06:00An Origin Story (Because Who Doesn't Love Flashbacks?) (Part 1)<div class="MsoNormal">
Alan walks me up to the front door of a house that looks way
too nice for me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Impressive. You’ve
managed to pass me off to another foster family with surprising rapidity. So, what poor, well-meaning folks have won
the troubled child lotto this time?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
He frowns for a moment.
“You know, I think you might actually like this one if you let yourself.” His smile crops back up. “They’re great people. Susan’s the head nurse at Saint Francis Memorial
Hospital and Paul’s a very good lawyer at a firm whose name seems to escape me
every time I try to pin it down. They
have a kid around your age, Gabriel—although I’m not sure I’ve
heard anyone call him that more than once, he just goes by Boone. Boone was brought into their home,” he gives
it a moment’s thought, “nine years ago and they adopted him about a year after
that. I’ve been his caseworker for the
last five years. He's gifted as well.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
That might be the first interesting thing Alan’s ever said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Gifted how?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Alan smiles, appreciating having my full and
less-than-sarcastic attention.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“You’ll have to ask.
I imagine it might make for a good conversation starter.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I make a face and Alan pokes the doorbell. We aren’t left waiting very long before a
short woman in bright purple scrubs answers the door with a smile. She looks like she's in her late thirties. She hugs Alan and they exchange quick
pleasantries. <i>How do you do? Oh, splendid,
Susan! And yourself? Fine, fine.
This heat’s almost unbearable, isn’t it?
Awful, just awful.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I notice both Alan and Susan are looking expectantly at me
and I realize I’ve missed some sort of conversational cue. Whoops.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Uh, fine.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Well, fine’s better than not.” Susan says with a smile, offering me her
hand. I guess I answered the right
question. Go me. I shake her hand. “I’m sure Alan’s mentioned it already, but my
name’s Susan.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I offer a thin smile.
“I’m sure Alan’s mentioned it already, but my name’s Wesley.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I wonder what all Alan’s already mentioned. She seems far too enthusiastic about meeting
some bastard teen who’s chewed through eight foster families in fourteen years. Maybe she’s just got a thing for delinquents. Wonder what Boone’s deal is. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Well, let’s get the two of you inside, just standing out
here’s got me feeling a bit soggy.”
Susan gestures inside, closing the door behind us. “Paul’s spent the morning shut away in his
office and he’ll barricade himself right back in there after this meeting, I’m
sure. Not the best time for him to take
the day off, but I imagine they’ll be able to make do without him for one day.” I can’t see her, but she’s got the sunshiny
sound to her voice that just screams <i>I can’t
stop smiling!</i> Guess she enjoys
putting on airs, regardless of the quality of the present company. I wonder how long she actually expects I’ll
be here. She sounds even more optimistic
than Alan. I wonder if she knows this is my last chance.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Alan, just head into the kitchen, Anna and Boone are waiting
there. I’ll go drag Paul out into the
sunlight.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
We turn left at the end of the hall into a kitchen that
seems torn between old and new. White
wood and black countertops offset by lots of stainless steel. The refrigerator door’s open and someone’s
rummaging around inside. Past the
kitchen, a dark-haired guy who has to be Boone is sitting at a rectangular
table. His chin’s resting on his palm
and he’s staring out the three windows that look onto the backyard. He grunts when Alan greets him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Alan turns to the refrigerator. “And is that Anna, hiding over there?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Not hiding…trying not to drop the bean dip…Boone will you
come here and help me, dammit!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Before Boone can do anything, Alan’s doing that awkward
jogging-in-the-house run toward Anna. He
opens the door a little wider and starts fiddling with something. It takes them a second, but they rectify
whatever mess was being made. Anna spins
away from the refrigerator, a sizeable Tupperware of what looks like a
multi-layer bean dip in hand. She’s far
more interesting than Boone or Susan. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Bean dip aside, she’s kinda hot. I feel my head tilt a little to the side, but
I can’t seem to care enough to straighten up.
Her hair’s wavy and reddish and accents her face extraordinarily
well. Her eyes are blue…or green…or…I
dunno. And then she smiles and my brain
goes into vapor lock. Huh. This is a rather unexpected twist. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
She laughs and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. “Wesley?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I think I missed another cue.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Hey, uh, call me Wes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
She sets the bean dip on the table and bounces over to what
I guess is a walk-in pantry and comes out with a bag of chips. “Well, help yourself to some chips and dip,
Wes. You too, Alan.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I blink. Alan’s still
here, isn’t he?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Alan pats my shoulder. "Anna lives nearby. Her family's been friends with the Rhodeses since time immemorial. She's here all the time, I'm sure you'll get along well." He leans over a little and whispers, "She's gifted too," and with a wink he wanders over to the table.<br />
<br />
I stare awkwardly as Alan, Anna, and Boone pick at the dip
and chat to pass the time. Anna looks up
and squints at me for a second, before waving.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Sitting in a chair is prolly more comfortable than leaning
against the counter. Plus,” she holds up
a chip that looks like it’s shaking under the strain of holding up all that
dip, “we have delicious bean dip over here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Boone flicks a few pieces of chip into Anna’s hair. She punches him in the chest. <br />
<br />
<i>That’s hot.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I pull up a chair.
Anna slides the dip toward me, nearly dislodging a chip Boone was in the
process of loading up. He makes a face
at the back of her head and hurries to retrieve his chip. I wiggle a chip gingerly through the
layers. Anna rolls her eyes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Don’t be so polite about it; take as much as you want. There’s plenty of dip.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
She overloads another chip and holds it up like she’s
teaching a child and smiles. I dig in
and am immediately rewarded. <i>Holy hell,
that’s fucking delicious.</i> None of the
layers are thick enough to overwhelm the others, just melding flavors
together. Beans, cheese, sour cream,
tomato, black olives, jalapeño, green onion, and ground beef. It’s sweet and savory and salty and sporting
a little heat. I might stick around this
house just for the dip.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Who made this? It’s
fucking amazing.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Anna smiles and nods graciously. “Glad you enjoy it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Hot <i>and</i> she
cooks. I feel like it’s probably a
little sexist to judge a woman based on those qualities alone, but who the hell
cares? So far, this Anna chick is
kicking my ass. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
She looks up over my head and smiles. I turn around and see Susan standing in the
doorway watching us with a tall, bearded guy who must be Paul. Stealth blown, they wander over to the
table. Susan sits, but Paul pulls up
short. He puts his hand out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“I’m Paul.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I’m about to shake his hand when I realize I’ve misread the
situation. Pinched between his thumb and
middle finger is a little sour gummy. I
wave him off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Bean dip and sour gummies sounds like a dangerous
combination.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
He shrugs and eats it himself before wiping the sour
crystals onto his pants and extending his hands for an actual handshake. I triple check that he’s not holding anything
in it this time before shaking. He pats
me on the shoulder before finding himself an open seat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Nice to meet you, Wesley.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Alan hurriedly tilts a chip into his mouth and claps his
hands as he finishes chewing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Well, now that everyone’s been properly introduced,” his
eyes flit over to Boone, who still hasn’t actually said anything to me, “and
we’ve gorged ourselves on a truly delicious snack, I think it’s time to talk
about why we’re here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I don’t make eye contact with anyone, but I can feel all
their eyes on me for a few seconds.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“I really think this is going to be a wonderful match. The Rhodeses,” he gestures toward Susan and
Paul, “have a great track record. But,
before I start gushing too much, I figured I’d do well to open up the floor to
the people who are actually participating in all this.” Alan laughs like he said something
particularly clever and glances around the table before stopping meaningfully
on me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
When I don’t say anything, Susan speaks up. “Is there anything about us you want to
know? I don’t know how much Alan’s told
you, but feel free to ask us anything.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“I was actually kinda curious about what Alan told you about
me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Alan gives me a frustrated look, but it’s Susan’s reaction
that I’m really interested in. Boone
keeps looking bored, but he’s looking at me out of the corner of his eye
now. Paul’s pulling another gummy out of
his t-shirt breast pocket. Anna looks at
me like she doesn’t know where I’m going with this. Susan, on the other hand, is smiling like
she’s been looking forward to this very question all day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<i>Huh.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“He said you’re going to be a pain in the ass and that you take
quite a bit of pride in doing so.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I blink. Um. Okay.
Not what I was expecting. People
don’t usually give an honest answer to that question. Color me caught-off-fucking-guard. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“So, uh, where am I gonna be going to high school now?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Anna and Boone go to Malcolm McDowell so we thought we’d
send you there with them.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Paul perks up. “Makes
sure you don’t go into school without knowing anyone.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“I, uh, what are my sleeping arrangements gonna be?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Boone frowns and Anna smiles and before Susan says anything,
I know I’m horning in on his turf.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“We don’t have enough rooms for everyone, but each room is
plenty big so we picked up a lofted bed to put in with Boone in his room.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Sounds like you’ve, uh…got everything covered, huh?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Susan smiles brilliant rays of sunshine at me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t wanna drag our new student up to the front of the
class like a sideshow attraction, but I would like to take a second to introduce
him. In the back there, mind raising
your hand for the class?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I debate ignoring him.
It’s not hard for all the people who were here last year to notice the
one person who wasn’t, raised hand or not.
Then again, it’s probably a bit too early in the semester to be getting
on my teacher’s bad side. I raise my
hand to head-height.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Thanks. Class, that’s
Wesley Jacobs. Be nice, help him out if
he needs it, and introduce yourselves outside of class. Make him feel welcome. You know the drill.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I get through three classes before one of my teachers stands
me up in front of her indifferent class and asks them to say “hello”. I really wish she’d just leave it be.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I get all the way to the passing period before lunch before
I figure out this school’s alpha douche.
There’s always someone who’s got something to say about the new
kid. This one bears a striking resemblance
to every other one I’ve met. Broad
shoulders, dark clothes, and a thing for pet names. He’s picked out “Foster Kid” for me. His dazzling wit is familiar as well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Word always gets around that I’m a foster kid, but I’m never
sure how it starts. It’s like I’m
followed from school to school by a disembodied voice that just can’t help itself. Not that it really matters, I’m new. If someone wants to start shit, they’ll find
a reason. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I turn and give him a smile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Here, lemme save you some trouble and get the ball
rolling. How’s your first day been? Blah, blah, blah, liking your classes? Blah, blah, tell you how things work around
here. Blah, blah, blah, you got a smart
mouth, huh? Blah, <i>blah</i>, I’ll see you after school in the guys’ locker room,
bitch. And don’t even think about trying
to sneak off on me!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I turn away while surprise and confusion duke it out for
facial expression supremacy. He gets it
together quickly enough, all things consider and calls after me. “Hope you don’t get lost on the way, Foster
Kid.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I’m tempted to turn back to him so he can see me roll my
eyes, but I’d rather not be late to lunch.
Good food or bad, lunch tends to be the best part of the day no matter
what school I’m at. Most people just
leave me well enough alone. Whatever, at
least I’m getting this bully bullshit out of the way early. That’s a plus, right?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Sixth, seventh, and eighth period move along pretty
quickly. Anna’s in my seventh period Lit class and waves me down to sit behind her, tells me I should find her
in the cafeteria tomorrow if I want someone to sit with. “Maybe if you can avoid saying anything, you
might even socialize without offending anyone,” she says. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I don’t hold out much hope, but no straight high school guy
turns down an invitation to sit at a hot girl’s lunch table. It’s simply not done. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I’m halfway through putting in my locker combo when I notice
someone walking down the hall with a purpose.
Tall, blond hair shaved close, hood up—the guy looks like a fucking
mugger. He’s probably one of what’s his
face’s buddies so I open my locker just as he gets here, letting him feel all
kinds of clever when he slams it shut a second later.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I smile. “That's okay, I didn't need anything from my locker anyway.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Some people get confused when the victim mouths off, but to
this guy’s credit he just sneers. He grabs my arm, stares at me for a second, and then shoves me a
bit. I stumble toward the door like a
good boy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
The locker room’s by the gym, up a level and past the
lobby. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
A fair few people have turned out for the prize fight. Some are leaning against lockers, others are
sitting on top of them, and some people are just standing with their arms
crossed. Most of them are talking. Big Man’s standing between three other
future-muggers and carjackers. My escort
joins him and whispers something to him.
Some of the conversations around the room start tapering off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Alright. Now’s the
fun part. Getting him off my ass without
actually hurting him. I love changing
schools.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Big Guy takes a step forward and everyone quiets down even
more.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Got anything else smart to say?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I shrug. “Would it be
pretentious to quote Custer ironically here or just stupid?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
He laughs and shifts into what’s universally known as the
schoolyard fighting stance. A bit lower
and more prepared, but not so low as to look like it’s being taken too
seriously. I mean, come on. Trying too hard is <i>so</i> weak. When I don’t follow
suit or start quivering, he takes a step to the right. I shift my eyes to the left to follow him but
don’t move otherwise. He takes another
step and when I still don’t move he charges at me. Why does every high school idiot go for the
tackle? Does it actually work on anyone?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I don’t spend much time pondering the effectiveness of
tackling non-post-humans in a high school brawl. Instead, I inch to the left and raise my
knee. I don’t give myself too much
credit and say I actually <i>kneed</i> him
in the head or anything, I just sort of gently pushed my knee into his path. I hop aside to avoid the human missile he’s
turned into. He hits the ground with a
solid <i>thunk</i> and slides into the
lockers. I roll him onto his back and
crouch next to him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“<i>Hey</i>. Look at me.
How many fingers am I holding up?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Three?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
He doesn’t seem to understand exactly what’s happening or
why I’m asking him this, but he’s got the right answer. I show him two fingers and then five. He gets ‘em both right.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“What’s your name?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Trent.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Doesn’t usually take much to flip the power structure
around. I look up at my old escort.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Is that right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
He looks around, like he’s hoping someone else will tell him
if he should be answering my question and then nods. I pat Trent’s cheek.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Good boy.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I stand up and grab my escort by his arm the same way he
grabbed me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Doesn’t seem like he has a concussion but take him to the
nurse anyway. He slipped on a wet spot
and smacked his head on the floor, okay?”
He nods. “Good. Now fuck off and leave me alone. I’m tired of this shit.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
People are murmuring and milling around. They got their fight, but I don’t think they
really know what to do with it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I have to trek halfway across the school just to find out
that I missed my bus. I’m standing in
the cold rattling off a string of silent profanities when someone taps me on
the shoulder. I jump a little, turn, and
backpedal a step all in the same motion.
Anna looks as surprised as I probably do, her mittened hand still hovering
where my shoulder was. She looks a
little concerned.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Bad first day?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Well, I look like a spaz now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Let’s call it setting a foundation for a better second day.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
She smiles. Her
cheeks are rosy from the cold. “Sounds
dramatic. You also missed the bus. I should warn you, our bus drivers don’t wait
for students no matter how important the foundation they’re laying.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“I’ll keep that in mind.
So what dramatic-sounding endeavor kept you from making the bus?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“My new idiot neighbor wasn’t on the bus so I had to get
off and make sure he wasn’t lost and wandering around a bathroom in some
distant corner of the school.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I smile and hang my head.
“It’s a cold, hard world out there.
I would’ve left the idiot to fend for himself.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, I guess that just makes me the bigger man. Now come on, idiot. We’ve got a long walk home.”</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-62072020443439477582013-10-09T14:11:00.000-05:002013-10-09T14:25:25.635-05:00One Foot Before the OtherThe whole "being a part of a writing workshop that's filled with people that like my story and are looking for more each week" thing has kinda done wonders for my productivity. Not only do I have another story this week, I have another story that fits chronologically. Weird.<br />
<br />
I've also continued last weeks trend of making minor, but significant, detail-oriented changes to previous stories. While the core concepts of the stories have remained constant, there are some ideas that are still in-flux and I keep trying to make them work at least a little bit better.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14812497008099313788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908272871655939817.post-10199138400652478832013-10-09T14:10:00.001-05:002014-02-06T20:36:52.001-06:00Golden Age Wesley<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, hey there. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Looks like I’ve got a car thief tonight. That’ll break up the monotony of purse-snatchers and muggers nicely. Hopefully without all the unnecessary hassle of post-human powers. I don’t need my monotony broken up quite that much. I’m cool with beating up normal criminally-inclined folks. You know, just doing the whole Golden Age Batman thing, but without all the forcible exposure to mind-altering substances and the freaky costume. My dialogue’s also cheesier.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve had ska-punk stuck in my head all day and it’s hard not to hum Streetlight Manifesto as I scale the side of the building (<i>we’re going down, down, down to Mephisto’s Café, we’re going down. Right? Right!</i>). This particular apartment building has deep window ledges that my hands and feet fit into nicely and none of the bricks come loose. People underestimate the value of not getting splattered across the sidewalk, but I’ve developed a certain appreciation for it since I started parading around town in a makeshift costume. I’ve also grown to appreciate Spiderman’s web shooters and Batman’s grappling hook. Climbing down buildings is a major pain in the ass. Seriously, try it and see.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My feet hit the pavement and I still can’t get that damn song out of my head<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span style="line-height: 24px;">(<i>And I knew you when you were you, before they twisted all your views. Before you came unglued</i></span><span style="line-height: 24px;">)</span>. </span>It’s just so damn bouncy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This guy must not be a particularly gifted car thief because by the time he’s cracked open that god awful beige beater I’m two cars away from him. He leaves the door open and gets half-into the car, leaving one leg dangling out while he starts working on the wiring under the steering wheel. I get a sudden, childishly spiteful urge to close the door on his leg. But, being the good guy of this story, I take a more diplomatic approach.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey, asshole!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He shouts and jumps, smacking the back of his head against the steering wheel. I stop short of actually laughing but allow myself a happy snort. He stumbles out of the car and clumsily pulls a switchblade from his pocket. It takes him another full second to actually open the knife. I groan. Goodie. I guess now’s the time to figure out how slash-resistance my jacket is.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Who the <i>fuck</i> are you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My heart’s all atwitter, but he sounds genuinely panicked. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside knowing that at least one criminal scumbag finds me intimidating. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I roll my eyes with as much melodrama as I can muster and mutter to no one in particular. “No one seems to understand the mask. I’m the meter maid and I’ve—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Car Thief lunges at me, knife-first. This is neither an unexpected turn of events nor a particularly impressive plan of attack. One of the perks of being a post-human is that, minimal though my powers may be, I’m a teensy bit quicker than the average ne’er-do-well. I sidestep and shove him, stepping back a bit. Hmm. Maybe I don’t really know what diplomacy means. I try again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Chill, chill, chill. You haven’t actually hurt anyone yet—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He steps toward me and swings his knife at my stomach like he’s trying to open me up from end-to-end. I step back and step back again when he brings the knife back across. I grab his knife-wrist before he can start swinging again and try something more tactful than diplomacy. Maybe I’ll even manage to avoid violence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Seriously, it’s not too late to just pay whoever owns this car for the damages and walk—”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rather than peacefully surrender, he slams his knee into my side, just above my hip.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Ow.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wrench his arm down, slamming it against the trunk of the car. The knife comes free and I kick the back of his knee. He hits the ground and swings a wild backhand at me, like he thinks blindly flailing limbs are his ticket to freedom. I turn my hip a bit to make sure he doesn’t catch me somewhere delicate and tip him over with my foot. I kick the knife away to keep him and temptation from becoming any better acquainted.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Okay, one of these days you’re gonna look back on this and feel bad that you tried to stab someone who just wanted to help.” He’s on his back, looking around for a way to escape or something to hit me with. “You’ve really only got two options here. One, you chill the fuck out, let me call the police and tell them that you’ve seen the error of your ways and that you cooperated. I imagine they might go a little easier on you if that’s the case. Or two, you do something stupid like—” He’s tensing up like he’s about to launch himself at me or something. “Try and tackle a true-blue post-human crime fighter, in which case I will bounce your head around this parking lot like a damn basketball until the cops arrive and tell them to add assault with a deadly weapon and attempted murder to the whole cracking a car open thing.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He stops readying himself to jump me, but he still looks like a ferret juiced up on speed. I crouch down to put myself at eye-level with him and hope it comes across more as reassuring and peaceful than condescending.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I really think door number one’s gonna turn out best for everyone.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whether he believes that I actually want the best for him or that I’ll actually use him like a sports ball, I don’t know, but he lies down on his stomach and mutters something compliant. I toss him a cable tie and give him my winningest smile before remembering that everything below my eyes is covered and that even my eyes are shaded by my hoodie. How the hell do comic book artists make characters look so damn expressive even with their masks on? It’s one of life’s greatest mysteries.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan keeps looking over at me like her eyes are magnetically drawn to the ice pack I’m holding against my side. Round-cheeked and starting to put on a few “middle-age pounds”, as she calls it, Susan’s short and her strawberry blonde hair is cut in a neat page-style. I don’t say anything about why I’m icing and she doesn’t ask. Don’t think she’s not a caring, concerned mother or that I don’t merit her attention because I’m adopted, we’ve just been experiencing some…tension, lately. It’s hard to imagine, really: a protective, loving woman who takes a bitchy teenager into her home and then <i>doesn’t</i> want him to go out and risk his life wearing a costume and breaking the law. It’s a topsy-turvy world we live in, I know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I still can’t tell if she’s told Paul about my alter-ego or not, although it’s hard to imagine her keeping it from her husband. Either way, Paul’s kept himself completely neutral. Just think of him as Switzerland. He digs peace, cheese, and chocolate. Paul tosses a Milk Dud up in the air and catches it in his mouth, looking far too pleased with himself for a forty-seven year-old man who’s playing with candy.<br />
<br />
I like Paul. He’s good for Susan. Counterbalances some of her insane worrying. Paul’s tall. Taller than me and Boone and a whole lot taller than Susan. His face is long and slightly angular and he’s got a neatly trimmed beard that has recently started showing the gray march of age. When Susan isn’t around to hear him, he calls it a traitorous bastard that’s betrayed his otherwise youthful appearance, but seems rather proud of his decision not to color the gray hairs. Paul’s a weird dude.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna’s camped out in Paul's study doing homework and Boone’s over at Devon Ringer’s house tutoring him, according to Susan. It’s nice that Susan looks for the best in him, but I know better. If Boone’s teaching anyone anything, it’s guerilla warfare adapted for the suburban high school environment. Guerilla warfare sounds like fun and homework sounds even better, but I decided that feeling awkward around Susan while Paul chills out and watching a TV rendition of The Matrix in which Carrie-Anne Moss says “shucks” takes the cake. Sometimes I question my decision making. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We get to the part of the movie where Cipher starts killing members of the crew when Anna comes in and plops down on the other side of the sofa from me. Paul holds a Milk Dud up and gestures to Anna to catch it. She holds her hands out. Paul looks a little disappointed that she’s not catching it with her mouth, but he tosses it anyway. Anna doesn’t have great hands, but she does have pretty good reflexes. The chocolate bounces off her wrist and stops a couple inches from the floor. Anna’s holding her hand palm-out at the Milk Dud. Paul rolls his eyes and smiles.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Is there a five second rule on force fields?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna makes a face. “Calling it a force field makes you sound like a cartoon scientist from the eighties.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, what do you call your invisible projections of force field-like energy?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I try not to call them anything. It’s like giving yourself your own superhero name—kinda weird.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan looks over at my side again. Anna picks the Milk Dud up off her not-a-force field and relaxes her hand.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I like ‘barriers’.” I offer. “Sounds grounded, but still pretty cool.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Susan frowns slightly. Paul seems to like it though.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You know, that’s pretty good.” He throws a Milk Dud to me. “Have a candy.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll hate myself three minutes from now when I can’t unglue my jaw, but Milk Dud’s are too damn delicious to turn down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Paul and Susan say their goodnights when Neo and Agent Smith start charging across the subway platform, emptying their clips into air instead of each other. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’ll miss the best part.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Paul looks back at me, “I already know how it ends. Bruce Willis was dead the whole time.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I like Paul, but he’s an odd duck.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anna and I sit on opposite ends of the couch, watching squid-bots crack open the Nebuchadnezzar like a can of tuna. I ponder the vaguely cannibalistic overtones and remember the car thief I left for the police.</div>
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“I stopped some douche bag from stealing someone’s shitty car today.”</div>
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Anna waves her hand at the sad-looking ice pack passed out on the floor next to my feet. “I was wondering what that was for.”</div>
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I tilt my head from side to side. “He wasn’t entirely cooperative.”</div>
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“Despite your assuredly polite requests that he cease and desist immediately?”</div>
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“Hey!” I stick my lower lip out and feign hurt feelings. “What makes you think that I can’t solve problems with words?”</div>
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Anna gives me a look. “Future results may not be predicated entirely on past performance, but it does give a pretty good impression.”</div>
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“Ouch. Logic and truth hurt.”</div>
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She snorts. “Poor baby. Am I ruining your moment?”</div>
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“Yeah! I mean, he wasn’t immediately open to the idea or anything, but I managed to convince him without going all Punisher on his ass. I was so—freaking—impressive.”</div>
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She looks at me for a minute, scooches over a bit, and slouches, resting her head on my shoulder. “Well, look at you, crusading for world peace and brotherly love and whatnot.”</div>
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She mocks, but over the slowly rising thud of my heart I hear pride. Score.</div>
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And then the front door opens and Boone kills the moment. Anna sits up and turns her head to the foyer. Dammit all.</div>
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Anna calls out, “How’d it go?”</div>
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Dark, menacing muttering drifts in before Boone answers. “Watching that kid try to comprehend trig might’ve been the dumbest damn thing I have ever been a part of. And I was there when Wes was starting out his career as a C-list crime fighter. At least Wes showed a bit of enthusiasm and spunk, Ringer just sat there and stared at me with big, blank eyes, mouth hanging open. I swear to God, I expected a bit of drool to roll down his chin at any second.”</div>
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The thought of tutoring anyone in trig sounds appalling. Hell, the thought of taking trig at all sounds pretty terrible. What with all the douche baggery and all the time spent looking bored, it’s pretty easy to forget that Boone’s not a complete idiot.</div>
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“I’m gonna go lie in bed and weep for humanity a bit. Try not to wake me when you come up, Wes.”</div>
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Anna leans back into the cushions, leaving an exaggerated feeling of cold in my shoulder. Neo’s making a phone call to the machines, but I can’t really focus on what he’s saying.</div>
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<i>Make a move, dumb ass! </i>Do<i> something!</i></div>
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Either my arm weighs way too much all of the sudden or I’ve come down with a premature and incredibly intense case of Parkinson’s because my arm is shaking as I pick it up and put it around Anna’s shoulder. She turns to me, looks at my arm and then up at my face, but doesn’t move away. I can actually feel all the blood in my face draining like a cold waterfall cascading down my neck and into my chest.</div>
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<i>I’m reading this right, aren’t I? This isn’t some grand delusion I’ve concocted, right? Has she always been this intimidatingly attractive? When did her eyes get so bright? Oh God, why am I still talking to myself?</i></div>
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I chew my lip and struggle to keep my eyes on her. “Do me a favor. Close your eyes for a second.”</div>
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She gives me a small smile and squints a little. “Why?”</div>
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I look down. “It’ll make life easier for me. Please?”</div>
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She tilts her head and then closes her eyes. For a second I almost call the whole thing off. A second after that I stall and tell myself I’m admiring how beautiful she is (don’t judge me). My stomach twists and turns and I half-lunge at her to get myself moving. I gently put my hands on her waist and she leans forward slightly. Even I can read what that means. I kiss her. She’s soft and warm and smells like vanilla and honey. Her hands squeeze my shoulders and we stay locked like that for some time. I don’t count the seconds or anything; I’ve got better things to do. </div>
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We separate and the world comes back into focus. I didn’t even realize how intensely I was tunnel visioning until I realize that the television’s been on this entire time and I didn’t even notice.</div>
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My heart’s beating too fast, like it’s about to rip free of the arteries and go bouncing around my chest cavity like a nuclear-reactor driven Mexican jumping bean. Her eyes can’t seem to stay focused on any one part of me, but rather flit from place to place, face to chest to shoulder to knee back to face. She presses her lips together and keeps them that way for a moment.</div>
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“This seems like a bad idea...”</div>
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I nod, my mouth too dry to actually form words, and kiss her again. This one’s much shorter and less all-encompassing than the first, but it still leaves me tingling.</div>
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Anna breaks the silence after a moment. “Boone bet me ten bucks you didn’t have the balls to do that.”</div>
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It takes me a couple tries to get the words out, but I manage. “Did you take him up on that?”</div>
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She nods, regaining her composure faster than I can. Maybe women are more advanced at this age. “Seemed an affront to your honor that I could not abide.”</div>
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My smile widens and I wish I could say something clever, maybe something about chivalry but my mind’s a little floaty and my mouth isn’t quite working right. I open and close it but nothing comes out. I think it’s gone a little numb.</div>
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Anna laughs, leans in, and kisses my cheek.</div>
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“Well, now that I have you good and flustered, I’m heading home. Sleep well.”</div>
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I nod. I don't stop nodding until Anna closes the front door and snaps the bolt home behind her. Yeah. Sleep. That’s what I’m supposed to do now, right? Sleep comes after Anna which comes after foiling car theft. Yeah, that makes sense, doesn’t it?</div>
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Brain scrambled, lips numb, stomach twitching, and heart pounding, I stand up (and add my legs to the list of things not working quite right) and head for the stairs.</div>
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