earl

a short-story by me, a horrible writer.

Content Warnings: Suicide ideation; self-harm references (methods mentioned); depression; existential distress; substance use (alcohol, implied drugs); emotional isolation; feelings of worthlessness; death themes; economic hardship; mild coarse language.

An explosion occurred at the end of that afternoon, at the Enfield canning factory. And a few timid passersby, who lived near the plant, stepped out of their homes in haste, in search of the low, distant sound that had echoed through the inhospitable side of town.

Sylvia was one of the first to notice the dark mass drifting above the canning factory—it was a pity, she thought, saddened, for she adored those little tins of sardines. She had her binoculars in hand when the odor of rot began to spread.

The ding of the convenience store in front of her sounded.

Sylvia kept watching, though the lenses were smeared with crusted beer residue.

— Did you hear that? Can you see it? — she asked the young man walking toward her; he carried small bags of supplies for the long journey they would make to New Mexico.

Darius nodded, opening a bottle of beer with his free hand.

— Please, — Sylvia began — don’t tell me you spent our last dollars on that.

Darius—slow-breathing, droplets of sweat running down his chest and dampening his yellow shirt—covered his eyes with the palm of his hand to make out the swarm lifting into the air in the distance.

— Just some change — Darius said, now looking at Sylvia. — I sold my guitar for twenty dollars yesterday.

A car passed along the street, splitting them apart.

— You’ve got to be kidding me. I loved that guitar, Darius!

On the other side of the street sat the rusted pickup they had bought for the mission. Darius adjusted the front seat with a noisy jolt, while Sylvia flipped through the magazine he had bought for her at the store—women in bikinis, all models; sections of biblical passages and Mormon interpretations; on one page, a well-made illustration of a bear wished the reader, in italic letters, a happy summer of 2010.

Darius turned the ignition key.

The sunlight, which had fractured after midday, now struck them from every side, bathing them. It came in golden tones—intense and, strangely, soft. Sylvia liked this hour in the summer because it turned Darius’s blue eyes into a pastel shade, almost bleached.

— We won’t be sleeping in a motel tonight, I bet — Sylvia said, anticipating the inevitable.

They usually slept in the car most of the time, for lack of money and credit cards. Despite Darius standing at 1.88 meters and she at 1.75, they saw no issue in spending the night elbowing each other or with their feet hanging out over the truck bed.

— Mhm — Darius nodded, turning left onto Main Street. — If I land that gig at the factory, we can keep our pilgrimage to New Mexico going and sleep wherever we please.

— The factory that just exploded? — she scoffed. — Have some sense, Darius. How much does that place even pay? I don’t know, five bucks an hour?

— Three, actually.

— See?! I, at least, think you’re worth more than that.

Yet Darius, who sipped his beer, did not reply. Silence settled between them.

Freezing air, the bluish night stretched across the streets and roads that cut Enfield in two. The scent of rusted metal from the abandoned highways drifted to where Darius and Sylvia sat—on a forgotten corner near the Blue Heron Inn & Motel. Dandelions swayed in the thin wind, and crickets chirped in sync with that distant, melancholy feeling shared by them both.

Sylvia sat beneath the golden glow of the streetlight. They smoked in silence. The pick-up was parked somewhere nearby.

— You — Sylvia began. — Do you think I’ll make it to twenty-five?

Darius took a drag of his cigarette.

— I dunno. — He squinted, trying to see into the dark street. — Do you want to?

— Would it be wrong to say no?

— Mm. — Darius shrugged. — No. Not if you’re cool with that.

— What — Sylvia inhaled from her cigarette — what I lack is courage. And an opportunity to try. Remember Lionel? — Darius nodded, still without looking at her. — I wish I could do what he did. Slitting your wrists seems like the least painful and… cruel way to kill yourself? I mean, some families are sensitive to the scene. Slitting your wrists is less dramatic.

A few cars passed them like streaks of color. The dust rose.

Darius turned his head to look at her, cigarette between his lips.

— You’re only twenty, Sylvia. — He made a face. — Don’t you think it’s a bit early to be thinking about death?

— Not if I want it to come soon.

— You know, at your age I was just gaming in my room late into the night.

— Good for you, then.

Silence.

— Do you really want to… — Darius touched his fingers to her wrist — …die?

— Yes — she sighed. — I just don’t know how. I mean, don’t you think it’s boring to spend decades in this place? In a repetitive, tedious routine, in misery?

Darius gave a half-smile.

— I like the monotony of life.

— Well, I hate it.

— Well, — he wrapped his arms around his long legs — you can’t stay resentful for the rest of your life. It’s a bit unkind to the people who love you.

Sylvia took a heavy drag of her cigarette this time.

— No one loves me.

— I love you.

— That’s not true.

— Yes, it is.

Silence.

— Doesn’t count.

— Why not?

— Because… because I don’t want to be loved by anyone.

Darius arched an eyebrow.

— We could turn your last five years here into better days, how about that?

— If you wa—

— I do.