What an evening at @topatopabrewingco! Thank you to everyone who attended our sold out premier screening of #thegloryoftheglide film. Huge shout out to @joshhallsurfboards and @wormtown for leading the Q+A and bringing along some #joshhall beautiful glider boards and to @allswellcreative for sharing your elegant, ocean-inspired journals. Mahalo @jensmithofaloha @wormtown @mr_rube for rounding out the huge support from cast and crew. Pic by @mr_rube #sealeveltv #saltystoriesofsubstance #independentfilm #greataudience (at Topa Topa Brewing Company)
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Ellie is staring at her new mattress. It is bare. The new sheets are in a bag on the floor.
She didn’t want another queen sized mattress, but it would cost too much to buy another frame, and her mother insisted upon it. Her mother had stayed with her in the house for a while, sleeping on the same couch that Jack once slept on.
It had been a few weeks since Jack’s death. Ellie’s scrapes and bruises were finally starting to fade. Jack’s murderer had yet to be found by the police.
Ellie’s death threats stopped briefly, but soon they returned. She began to receive emails in the same format as before, but very little action had occurred yet. She forwarded the emails to her supervisor, Alex, as before, and now she began to take them more seriously. Someone in the department was investigating them.
The police stopped coming by to question her. Life began to normalize. She started working only a week after his death. At his funeral, she didn’t cry nearly as much as she was expected to, which made a few of the attendees suspicious. Yet, no one would say anything. It was her husband’s funeral. Ellie was now a widow. No one felt strong enough to press the issue.
Ellie stopped wearing her wedding ring a few days after the funeral. It sat on her kitchen counter like much of Jack’s papers.
After a while, Ellie went through Jack’s papers and found many files, none of which aroused her suspicion as the file on her did. She found no confirmation that Jack worked for the CIA, and she had no one to contact that could tell her.
Ellie found it hard to sleep ever since Jack’s death. There was emptiness in the bed and an uneasiness that made her feel uncomfortable. It was nice to have her mother in the house, but her mother was leaving soon, and Ellie wasn’t sure how she would be alone in the house.
On her way out, Ellie’s mother kissed her cheek and told her, “Keep the door locked now, honey. And a knife next to your bed. Please.”
Ellie nodded and ended the embrace with her mother. “I think I’ll be fine, Mom. They’re looking into whoever killed him. I don’t think anything else will happen.”
Ellie’s mother walked out of the door and said, “Don’t be afraid to run again, honey. Please. Be careful.”
“I’ll be fine, Mom. I love you. Tell Dad I love him too.”
Over her shoulder, Ellie’s mother called, “He loves you too. Call him sometime! He wishes he could be here. He’s so worried.”
Ellie shut the door and continued to the living room, where sat down to watch television, a rarity for her.
That night was the first time that Ellie heard voices in the room. She had trouble sleeping, and she thought that she heard a whisper. For the rest of the night, she tossed and turned. It seemed like she never actually fell asleep.
The next day, at work, Alex stopped by Ellie’s office.
“How are you doing, Ellie?” she asked, peeking her head into Ellie’s cubicle.
Ellie slid back on her chair. “Fine,” she says. “A little tired, but I’m good.”
Alex nodded. “That’s good. I’m glad to hear it.” Alex moved to stand with more of her body in the cubicle. She lowered her voice. “We’ve yet to find anything, but we’re close, I know it. Thank you for continuing to work on the project. You’re very strong.”
Ellie smiled weakly. “Of course,” she said. “Let me know if you find anything.”
“You know it.”
That night, Ellie was sure that she heard a voice in her room. No one was there, she was sure. She heard the word “code,” or so she thought.
Work remained the same. Ellie was closer to finishing the code. Alex still had yet to give. Her parents were still worried, her father especially, though he had yet to come down to see her. Ellie knew that it was hard for him to travel.
At night, Ellie continued to suffer from insomnia. Each night, she swore that she heard voices in her room, and they were getting louder. She heard the words “Jack,” “code,” and “kill” frequently.
The emails slowed down, but Ellie wasn’t sure if that was comforting or worrying.
One night, exactly five weeks after Jack’s death, Ellie heard someone say, “You did it.” A few seconds, the same voice sounded again. “You did it,” it said. Ellie put her head under the pillow, trying to keep the voices out.
The next night, she heard the same voice. This time, it sounded similar to Jack’s but it was slightly different. “Why did you do it?” the voice asked. “Why did you kill me?”
Ellie told her mother about the voices. However, she told her that she was having nightmares, not that she was fully awake and hearing voices. Her mother told her to see a therapist. Ellie decided against it.
For nights, the voices continued. “Why did you kill me?” they would ask. “Why won’t you give them what they want?”
Sometimes, the voice would change, and it would say, “I will kill you. Give me the code.”
Ellie cried often. She began to take daytime naps to catch up on the sleep that she was missing.
At the office, Alex continued to interact with Ellie. She stopped by Ellie’s cubicle each day, asking how she felt, and how the code was going. She even asked to see it once, but Ellie told that she had to wait until she was finished.
The voices became louder. Ellie began to stay up late, watching television until early hours. As soon as she was settled into bed, she would hear the voices again.
“Give them what they want, Ellie. Please.” Ellie would cry every time the voices began to sound like Jack.
Eventually, Ellie finished the code. She delivered a thumb drive to Alex, told her that it was complete, and then said that she was taking a week off while the code was reviewed.
“I just can’t work right now, Alex. I can’t do this.”
Ellie almost cried in front of her supervisor, but she held it back. Alex accepted her time off, and Ellie left for her house.
Upon arriving home, Ellie noticed that one of her house’s windows had been broken. She walked inside to see that her house seemed relatively unchanged, except that any paper had been rustled through. Jack’s papers were missing. Her home computer had been taken. Ellie never saved the code on her home computer, and she knew that it was encrypted enough so that it wouldn’t give anything away, but she was still worried nonetheless.
She called the police, and they arrived shortly, investigating her house as they had after the murder, taking down similar notes: forced entry, house a mess, and so on.
Ellie, when she calls her mother, told her “I don’t think that I can do this anymore. I can’t hold back anymore.”
Ellie’s mother says that she is coming the next day, and that she would be there in the afternoon, this time with her father.
That night, the voices were unusually loud. “You should die,” they said. “We will kill you,” they said.
In the sky, in the snow, in the trees, in the people, there is gray.
Black.
On the boots, on the guns, on their hats, on their bands, there is black.
White.
There is no white around me.
As I watch everyone pass, I feel my emotions hanging around me, speckled in the air around my being. I watch them flutter and dance. I watch them twist and wrestle, then separate. They float, light as a feather, and occasionally one brushes my skin. I blow it away.
They used to say that this city never sleeps. Now it never sleeps peacefully. The people around me are weary. They are too tired to be afraid, too busy trying to survive to fight for their lives.
I have been blessed with a perfected origin. I have a line of ancestry that somehow got it right. Somehow, I was crafted with the optimal set of genes. I’m perfect, they say. In truth, I’m only perfect enough to be spared.
I lock eyes with a woman in front of me. She is blonde, she is beautiful. She is thin, but I know that it is not by choice. What does she carry with her? What predisposition has placed her into this line?
There is another woman across the street. Her hair is dyed blue, but she has long black roots. Her dark skin stands out amongst the gray buildings. She has children next to her.
I suppose that if a mother is to be taken, her children will be taken as well.
A gunshot sounds in the distance. I am not unfamiliar to the sound.
I fold my arms across my breasts. It’s cold outside, and my body heat is escaping, even through my jacket. I have had enough. I have watched enough. I turn back to the door to my apartment building.
Amongst the sound of boots crunching in the snow, I hear one set of feet that move rapidly closer to me. I turn to face the street again. Below me, on the bottom of the stops, there is a man. He has gray hair and wire spectacles that make him appear very old.
“Please,” he says to me. “I need you to keep this.”
He raises his arm to me. He is clutching a briefcase, and it swings in his hand. Everyone is allowed to have one bag with them, even small children. He appears to be giving his to me.
I look around him. There are no children, no one that appears to be connected to him. He is alone.
“Please,” he says again.
I look down the street. No one is watching us. No one in uniform, that is. I take it from his hand.
“What do I do with it?” I ask.
He has already turned, and he is walking down the street when he calls over his shoulder, saying “Keep it safe!”
I only ever saw that man again in photographs.
Three days later, the street is quiet. I see a few people around. We are allowed to talk, but very few of us do. I have no lover, and I have no children. I am alone.
In my apartment, it is warm. The hallways are cold. Many rooms are empty. Doors are still open. I can see furniture that has been left. I see pictures on the wall, clothes in the corners, and lamps that have been turned on for days.
I am sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea when I eye that man’s briefcase again. It has a faded plaid pattern. At one point, it was probably very vibrant. Now, I only see the remains of yellows, blues, and greens.
I decide to open it. The day was platitudinous, and I was desperate for some sort of stimulation. Paper spills out onto my table. The bag had been stuffed with photographs, printer paper, and craft paper, all of which now littered my kitchen table and parts of floor.
The first item to catch my eye is the photograph of a young girl. Her smile is wide, but her face is wrong. She is wearing a pink dress.
Behind that photograph, there is a picture of a family. They all look normal except for the girl at the bottom, the same girl in the previous photograph. Her dress is red. In the back is the same man that I saw on the street. His smile is large, and his eyes are happy.
I spy a drawing. It is large and sloppy. An exaggerated green tree stands with a blue sky in its background. The sun, yellow and large, is in the corner.
There is another photograph of the girl. This time, she is with other children. They all look similar. They smile and hug each other, all wearing the same green shirt.
I pick a craft up off of my floor. It is a red heart. On it, in blue marker, is scrawled: “I love you, Mommy. Love, Panny.”
For hours, I sift through these papers. My hair is in my face, but I make no move to put it back into the bun where it normally sits. I pore over these photographs. Most of them are photographs of Panny, but a few of them depict the older man, who was perhaps Panny’s father, and some show the woman I assume to be Panny’s mother.
I watched Panny grow. She always looked the same, but she grew taller and thinner. She began to look like a woman, all except for her face.
Towards the bottom of the bag, I find a certificate. On dingy paper, with black typeface, reads:
RECORD OF EUTHANASIA
Name: Holtz, Pandora
Date: April 21st, 2074
Location: New York City, New York
Time: 3:17 pm
Reason: Genetic abnormality
Age: 17
At the bottom there is a signature that I cannot make out.
I put the certificate down, and I walk away from the table.
Scott Riley stood at his kitchen counter, staring at the cup of milk that he had just spilled. It ran over the countertop and dripped to the floor, leaving streaks of milk on the steel dishwasher.
His father, who had been sitting in the other room, watched as Scott knocked over his cup. He also watched as Scott stood, staring at the mess without moving to clean it up.
Scott has frozen. He knows his father is watching, but he can’t seem to move his arms towards the paper towels, next to the sinks.
Mr. Riley stands up, setting his pencil down on the table. “Goddamnit,” he says. “Move out of the way, numbnuts.”
Scott steps back from the counter. “Sorry, Dad.”
Mr. Riley grunts, buts says nothing.
*
Scott Riley is sitting on the couch, watching cartoons. He hears a few loud steps. He recognizes them as his father’s.
Mr. Riley walks into the room, sits down on the couch, and grabs the remote out of his son’s hand. He changes the channel.
Scott, sitting next to his father, whispers, “I was watching that.”
Mr. Riley turns to his son. “What was that?”
Scott doesn’t look at his father. “I was watching that,” he repeats.
Mr. Riley smacks his son on the thigh with the remote. “Don’t talk back to me.”
Scott walks out of the living room.
*
Scott Riley is in bed, staring at the wall. He hears a shout from his parents’ room. He hears a thump, then a shriek. His mother yells, “This is why I’m leaving you!”
His father screams, “Get out! You fucking whore!”
Scott turns over and faces the other wall.
*
Scott Riley is out on the baseball field, sweating in the sun. He kicks at the grass in front of him, staring at his cleats. He doesn’t get much action out in left field. He doesn’t pay attention to the shortstop as he yells. He doesn’t pay attention when the umpire announces the end of the game. He doesn’t pay attention when everyone enters the dugout except him.
He only the sees the bleachers and the empty seat next to his mother.
*
Scott Riley is sitting at the table, doing homework. He is working in his math book. His father enters the room.
“What are you doing?” Mr. Riley asks.
“Homework,” Scott answers. He focuses on his paper, trying not to look at his father.
“Why?” Mr. Riley asked as he opened the fridge. “Fuckhead like you can’t amount to much, right?” Mr. Riley shrieks with laughter and slaps his hand on the counter.
Scott sets his pencil down on the table.
Mr. Riley walks past Scott on the way out of the kitchen. He smacks the back of Scott’s head.
*
Scott Riley is sitting on the couch, watching a movie that he doesn’t particularly care about.
Mr. Riley storms in with a bottle in his hand. Scott could hear him from the hallway before he entered.
“Why the fuck haven’t you cut the grass yet?” Mr. Riley’s eyes are bloodshot and his cheeks are flushed.
Scott doesn’t look at his father. “It’s noon. I was going to—,”
Mr. Riley throws his bottle at Scott. It misses, but it shatters on the floor.
“Get out there, and don’t let me catch you on that couch again, or so help me, your ass is mine.”
Scott stands up slowly and makes his way to the door. His father storms back into his bedroom.
*
Scott Riley is at his mother’s house, hanging out with his friend Zach. He stole a bottle of vodka from his mother’s liquor cabinet, and they take turns drinking from the bottle, laughing while they do.
Mrs. Riley knocks on the door, then enters the room.
“Scott—,” she begins, but stops when she sees the bottle of liquor in her son’s hands.
“Mom!” Scott exclaims. “Get out of my room!”
Mrs. Riley doesn’t move. “Give me that bottle,” she tells him.
Scott and Zach stay seated. “Get out of here, you fucking whore.”
*
Scott Riley is in his school’s hallway, walking towards his next class. He sees Trent Harper on his left. He sticks his hand out and pushes him towards the lockers, hard.
“Watch out, numbnuts.” Scott laughs.
*
Scott Riley is not in his bed. He is in a hotel somewhere. He looks outside and sees other hotels. In the distance, there is a beach.
There is his fiancé—no, his wife—on the bed, still asleep.
Scott doesn’t remember last night. He looks around the room for a bottle of something, at least a little whiskey. His head hurts.
*
Scott Riley is staring at his son, James, who has just dropped his plate of food on the ground. The ceramic smashes.
“Goddamnit,” Scott says. “Get out of the way, fuckhead.”
It was about two o’clock in the morning when Jackson first heard the train.
Though he had been in bed for a few hours by this point, he hadn’t fallen asleep yet. His mind drifted to far corners of the universe, restlessly jumping from topic to topic. Jackson would constantly roll over in order to get more comfortable. It would never work. He spent most of the night tossing and turning, waiting for his mind to shut off.
His mind eventually began to slow down. Jackson could feel himself slipping lower. His body began to go numb, and he was on the verge of finally falling asleep.
That’s when he heard the train. Loud and obtrusive, Jackson’s eyes shot open, alarmed. He looked over at his roommate, who hadn’t stirred. The train sounded again, booming into Jackson’s room. He sat up, scratched his eyes, and looked towards the window, almost expecting to see a train directly outside. There was no train, of course. Only the sidewalk and building that Jackson always saw.
The next night, Jackson experienced the same phenomena. Still suffering from his lack of sleep the night before, Jackson crawled into his bed at ten o’clock. For a few hours, he suffered the same insomnia, rolling in his bed and staring at ceiling. He felt himself drift downwards again, only to be awoken by the same train whistle, blaring into his room.
Jackson sat up again and stared out the window. His view hadn’t changed. Moonlight still drifted in, barely illuminating the room. Jackson rolled over onto his stomach and spent the next hour lying awake.
This continued for a week. Jackson would be awoken each night by the train whistle. He mentioned this to his roommate, Chase, but Chase told him that he had never heard the train whistle. Jackson asked Chase to stay up with him one night to hear it. They both sat in their respective beds, browsing the internet, waiting for the train to sound. Finally, towards two o’clock, Jackson heard the whistle again, reverberating through his ears. He turned to his roommate to see if he had heard anything. Chase was leaning against the wall, his eyes closed and his mouth agape. He had fallen asleep. Jackson didn’t try to wake him.
Jackson spoke of the train to some of his friends, but he couldn’t seem to convey exactly how much this train frustrated him. Most of his friends only took it as a slight annoyance. None of them had ever heard it, even the friends who stayed up past two o’clock regularly.
Jackson began to sleep more during the day than he did at night. He would often nap for long periods, and stay awake at night to do his homework. He began to skip his morning class in order to sleep in. He missed an exam, but he was so tired that he had completely forgotten about it.
One night, an hour before the train was going to make noise again, Jackson had the idea to look up a satellite image of his college and find the railroad that the train would be on. He searched in the miles around him, looking for some sort of railroad crossing or signal. He finally found one, about two miles away. The instant his eyes fell on the railroad stop, the train sounded again. Jackson shut off his computer and tried to get some sleep.
It didn’t occur to him to visit the train until two days after he had learned of the location. He had awoken from nap with the idea in his head. He planned to visit the track that evening. He set out right around eleven o’clock, dressed in warm clothes. He brought his camera along, thinking that he could take a few pictures of the train, or even capture a video, that would prove that the train existed.
The night was dark, and Jackson hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight. The closest route to the railroad stop was through the woods. Though Jackson hadn’t gone into those woods before, he knew that there was a path that he could take. He managed to find it somehow, in the dark, and trekked through the woods, hardly tripping on any roots or rocks.
Around one-thirty, he found himself coming out of the woods and standing in a clearing. He could barely see in front him, but he could tell that on the ground in front of him was a railroad track. He looked ahead and saw a few streetlamps. He made his way down to them, thinking that he could stand in the light. The railroad was rather well lit ahead of him. He thought it would be the perfect place to take pictures.
It was cold that night, but Jackson put on enough layers so that it didn’t bother him. He would only feel the chill whenever he took a breath and felt the cold air enter his lungs. He took off his gloves so that he could set up his camera and his tripod, then stood with his hands in his pocket and waited.
Though he only stood there for twenty-five minutes, it felt much longer. Jackson would repeatedly look into the distance, trying to see the train before it came to him. He could just barely see a traffic light three-quarters of a mile ahead. He assumed that was where the train crossed the street. He thought of moving up to the street, but decided that he was comfortable where he was.
Towards two o’clock, Jackson looked off to his left, expecting to see the train coming at any minute. He wasn’t sure whether he would see it or hear it first. He had never been this close to a train before. He didn’t know what it would be like.
In the distance, Jackson thought he saw something moving. He pointed the camera in that direction, but it was too dark to make out anything clear. Whatever was moving was travelling too slowly to be a train. It was also much too small.
After a minute, the moving object made it under one of the lamps. From a distance, Jackson thought he saw a person walking along the track. He zoomed the camera in and, though he couldn’t make out distinct details, he could tell that there was definitely a person walking along the track. The figure was moving slowly, lumbering almost, down the track, walking as if he or she was wasn’t focused on any destination.
As the figure came closer, Jackson realized that it was definitely a woman. She wore a lavender dress that billowed behind her as she walked. It was much too cold to be wearing that. She must have been freezing.
Jackson began to feel uneasy. As the woman got closer, he became more upset. Finally, he picked up his camera and backed out of the light. He stopped towards the edge of the woods, where he was no longer illuminated. He felt ridiculous, being afraid of a woman in the middle of night. Something about her seemed to spook him.
She reached the light next to the one that Jackson had been standing under. She did not turn her head towards Jackson’s direction. He kept the camera pointed on her. Though the light was dim, he managed the snap a few photos of her. She continued to lumber forwards, with her chin up and her eyes pointed ahead.
Jackson began to record the woman. Something about her appearance made her seem ethereal. He tried to focus the camera on her face, but there wasn’t enough light to do so, so he zoomed out and captured her whole body.
Jackson thought that he should speak to the woman, but he kept silent.
Suddenly, Jackson heard the train whistle. He saw, in the distance, a white light that was travelling quickly. The track started shaking. He could feel the vibrations around him.
The woman didn’t appear to be disturbed. She continued to walk forward. She had almost reached perpendicular to where Jackson was standing.
The train rushed forward, never slowing. Jackson kept the camera on the woman, but his eyes remained on the train. The train driver had to see the woman, he thought. The light was bright enough that the driver should see the woman and slow down.
The train reached the illuminated part of the track. It was not slowing. It didn’t appear that it would have enough time to break.
Jackson turned back to the woman. He thought he would call out to the woman to warn her. He didn’t expect to see her standing on the track directly in front of him. She was staring directly at him. Jackson was caught off guard. He couldn’t find his voice. He watched as the train slammed into her body. Suddenly, she was gone, and the train’s cars began to pass in front of Jackson’s face.
He stood still until the train passed him. It took three minutes. For three minutes, he didn’t move. Later, he would realize that he had urinated, though whether it was out of shock or fear he didn’t know.
As soon as the last car passed Jackson, his trance was broken. He picked up the tripod and the camera, pushed the legs together, and ran.
He didn’t stop until he reached his dorm. He didn’t sleep that night.
Jackson didn’t go to any classes the next day. He pretended to be asleep while his roommate woke up and got ready. As soon as his roommate left the room, he took the SD card out of his camera, placed it in his computer, and watched the footage from last night.
The video showed exactly what he saw from last night. He watched it three times, then closed out of the video and looked at his images. There the woman stood, her curly hair and lavender dress.
He sat at his desk for a while, unable to think. He couldn’t process what he had seen.
After an hour, he finally stood up. He disrobed, tossing his soiled clothing into his hamper. He grabbed a towel, went to the shower, and tried to shower away whatever he was feeling.
He walked out of the shower as disoriented as he was when he walked in. Without thinking, he got dressed, put on his shoes, and left his room. He was hungry, he realized, and he left to get food.
On his way to the dining hall, he saw the woman in his mind. He could almost feel the train slamming into his body as it slammed into hers.
Mindlessly, he grabbed a slice of pizza and an apple. In his fugue, he almost didn’t notice the woman in the corner of the hall with a lavender dress on. Halfway through his slice of pizza, he saw her standing there. He continued to eat, not taking time to think about her.
He went back to his room, flopped onto his bed, and fell asleep. He didn’t wake up until later that evening, towards dinnertime. He sat up in his bed, rubbed his head, and looked out of his window.
There, on the sidewalk, stood a woman in a lavender dress. Jackson walked to the window. He saw her staring up at him, hardly moving. Though his mind was groggy, he instantly realized that it was the same woman from the night before. He grabbed his room key and ran out of his building to see her. He had to talk to her.
When he made it to the sidewalk, she was nowhere the be seen.
He looked around to see if she had gone anywhere, but he wasn’t sure which direction she would have taken. He went back to his room, feeling defeated and confused.
That evening, he heard the train again. He started to sob in the bed, picturing the woman the entire time.
The next day, he decided that he would try to go to class. He woke up on time, got dressed, and walked outside. The day was warm and sunny. His mind felt clearer today. He didn’t know what to do about the video footage that he had. He wanted to tell someone, but then he would remember seeing her outside of his window. He was too confused by everything that had happened. He wasn’t sure he would be able to tell anyone about what had transpired.
On his way to class, he looked towards a bus stop. He saw students getting on the bus. Amongst them, he noticed the woman in the lavender dress. She stepped onto the bus. Jackson began to run, trying to catch up to the bus so that he could get on and see the woman.
The bus drove away before he had the chance. He saw the woman’s face in the window as the bus drove away. She was looking at him.
Jackson was eating lunch in the dining hall. He had just finished his bagel when he looked toward the door and saw the woman standing near it. As soon as they made eye contact, she pushed the door open and left the hall. Jackson stood up immediately and jogged to the door but, as he expected, she was nowhere to be seen outside.
He hurried back to his room, keeping his eyes alert, hoping to see her on his way back. He didn’t see her anywhere outside but, as soon as he entered his room, he saw her staring at his window again. She stood in the same spot, her eyes pointed upwards, her body not moving.
Jackson almost ran outside again, but he knew that she would be gone before he made it to her. He opened up the window instead and called to her.
“Hey!” he screamed. “What do you want?! What do you want?!”
She continued to stare at Jackson, then turned and began to walk away. Jackson shut the window in anger.
He sat down on his bed and kicked at his backpack. He was frustrated. He didn’t know how to react, or what he should be doing. He wished he had never seen her. He wished that he would stop seeing her.
Jackson wanted to tell somebody about this. He couldn’t tell his roommate, or any of his friends. He didn’t know how they would react. He ended up calling the only person he thought he would be able to speak to about this.
His father called him back after watching the video. Jackson knew it would take a while to send over the internet. He spent his time waiting on his bed, anxious to hear what his father would say. He told his father everything, starting with his insomnia and ending with slamming his window. His father seemed upset about Jackson’s story, and asked to view the video.
Jackson picked up the phone without saying anything. He didn’t know what to ask his father. His father was silent for a minute as well. They were silent, both tense while waiting for the other to speak.
Finally, Jackson’s father told him, “I don’t know what to do.”
Jackson’s voice broke. “What do you mean?” he asked.
His father’s voice was low and grim. “I don’t know. That video is eerie, and I just—,”
His father paused. Jackson waited for a few second, but his father didn’t continue.
“What, Dad?”
Jackson waited a few more moments before he heard his father tell him:
“Well, she looks like your mother, Jackson. And that’s the scariest part of that video.”
Jackson hung up on his father. His father called him back, but Jackson didn’t pick up the phone. Instead, he went to his dresser, found his wallet, and opened one of the slots.
Jackson kept a photo of his mother in his wallet. Though he had no memories of her, he always thought that keeping a picture of her would somehow make him feel closer to her. He had accepted his mother’s death long ago, but the topic had always been sore for him.
He didn’t look at the photo very often. He couldn’t remember the last time that he had taken the time to pull it out. As he stared at the photo, while he heard his phone buzzing on his desk, he realized that his father was right. The woman in the lavender dress looked exactly like his dead mother.
He heard a voice call from outside. He looked out the window. There, on the sidewalk, was the woman—his mother—standing with her head pointed upwards again. She waited a few moments, and then ran down the sidewalk, headed towards the woods.
Jackson followed.
It was much easier to navigate the trail in daylight. However, Jackson wasn’t focused on his feet. He kept thinking of the woman—his mother. He tripped on a tree root and fell forward. His hands were bloody and dirty, and he had injured his knee. He cried out in pain, though no one could hear him. He took his time standing up, leaning against the tree next to him for support. He then began to walk forward, limping on his hurt leg. He had to get to his mother. He had to.
He limped through the woods for a while, never actually stopping. The light around him began to fade. Dusk was approaching.
He continued to hobble forward, determined to reach the track. When he finally reached the edge of the woods, he saw the lights on the track flicker on. There, in the same spot where she was hit by the train, stood his mother. The clearing was dark, save for the lights on the track. Jackson started to jog forward.
He heard someone yell behind him. A voice called his name. It wasn’t his father’s voice, but it sounded similar. A man was calling to him. Jackson could hear footsteps in the woods. It sounded as if someone was running towards him.
His father must have called the police. Jackson ran, despite his injured knee, to the woman. He wouldn’t let anyone stop him. He had to reach her. He had to see his mother.
He heard the train whistle, but he ignored it. Not even that would stop him from seeing his mother.
He made it to the track, then half jogged forward. The woman had one arm out, beckoning him to come closer. Jackson smiled. He saw his mother’s face, and her beautiful lavender dress. He finally got close enough to touch her hand.
Behind him, the police officer had finally exited the woods. He spotted Jackson on the track, then began to sprint towards him.
Jackson held his mother’s hand. He looked up towards her eyes, and finally saw her face up close.
It wasn’t the face that Jackson thought it would be. The teeth were much too yellow. The eyes were too hollow. The skin seemed gray and rotten. The hair was wispy and messy. The eyebrows were too sharp and pointed. The grin on her face was too wicked.
Jackson realized that the woman in front of him was not his mother.
The train whistle rang again. Jackson turned away from the woman long enough to see the white light approach him.
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At eight years old, Sam Jones wasn’t a very observant person. Like most children, she was constantly focused on whatever was in front of her. That’s why she didn’t see the woman at recess for the first few weeks that she appeared.
When Sam finally did see the woman, she only knew that the woman would stop at the fence, look towards the kids, and then move on a few minutes later. Sam wasn’t the only child there who saw her. Some of the other children would point her out, and one even told his parents about her. No one was too concerned. The teachers had seen her as well. They imagined that she was a friendly woman who just enjoyed the sight of children playing. No one suspected a thing.
One day, Sam was playing soccer with her friends. The ball took a hard kick from the foot of the Chris Jensen, a fourth grader. It arced in the air, went out of bounds, and landed right next to fence, very close to the woman. Without thinking, Sam ran over and picked the ball up in her hands.
The woman, who had watched her run over, said, “Hello!” cheerily. Sam, as she picked up the ball, finally got to see the woman up close.
She was pretty, and somewhat young. She was dressed well, and her smile seemed very genuine. Sam thought she looked lovely.
“Hello,” Sam responded.
The woman smiled a little wider. “What’s your name, darling?”
Sam didn’t respond at first. She was a shy child. The woman, however, continued to smile, unaffected by Sam’s silence.
Uneasily, Sam told the woman her name. The woman’s face broke for a second, then returned to smile.
“That’s a nice name,” the woman told her. “You go on and play now.”
Sam did just that. She spun on her heels and frolicked off with her soccer ball.
The next day, Sam looked over at the fence again. The woman was still there, still staring at the children. Sam could have sworn that she saw the woman stare at her.
Sam took a break from soccer and ran over to the woman. “Hi!” she said, staring at the woman’s hair, which she just now noticed was very long and very dark.
The woman smiled, just like the day before. “Hello, Sam.”
Sam kicked at the dirt with her head down. “You didn’t tell me your name yesterday.”
The woman nodded and put her hand on her chest. “My name is Cecilia.”
Sam smiled at her. “That’s a really pretty name. I like that.”
Suddenly, Sam’s teacher called to her. Sam turned around and saw Ms. Key walking towards her. Sam turned back to Cecilia, said “Bye!” very quickly, and then dashed off.
Ms. Key seemed upset. “Sam,” she said, “You know you shouldn’t talk to her. You don’t know her.”
Sam told Ms. Key, “Her name is Cecilia. She’s really pretty.”
Ms. Key shook her head. “Sam, I mean it. Do not talk to that woman again.”
The next day, Sam saw her principal talking to Cecilia. Cecilia looked upset, then left. It made Sam so upset that she talked about it that night at dinner.
“I don’t know why they made her go away,” Sam said with a mouth full of potatoes. “She was really nice.”
Mrs. Jones had a grim face. “I’m glad they did. That woman shouldn’t be staring at children and talking to them. It’s not good, honey.”
Sam swallowed her potatoes. “Her name was Cecilia.”
Mr. Jones coughed on his water. Ms. Jones dropped her fork and turned to her husband.
“Are you okay, honey? Oh. It must have gone down the wrong pipe.”
Mr. Jones nodded and coughed. “I’m fine,” he whispered.
Sam took another bite of potatoes.
The next day, Sam didn’t see Cecilia at recess. However, as she walked from school to the bus, she thought she saw her sitting in a car in the parking lot. On the bus ride home, she swore that she saw that car following her bus. Sam even pointed it out to her friend Jess, who didn’t seem to care about it.
When Sam got off the bus, she looked at the car again. It drove by slowly, and Sam could swear that she saw Cecilia staring at her from the window.
Mrs. Jones called to Sam, which caused her to divert her attention. Mrs. Jones, however, wasn’t looking at Sam. Instead, she was looking at the car, which had sped up and driven down the road.
That night, Sam overheard a conversation about Cecilia.
“I don’t know how,” Mrs. Jones said, “But that woman has found our house.”
Mr. Jones, who normally had a bit of a laugh in his voice, sounded very serious. “It doesn’t mean anything,” Sam heard him say. “She won’t get to Sam.”
Mrs. Jones’s voice rose. “But what if she does?”
The conversation ended. Sam rolled over in her bed.
The next day, Sam didn’t see Cecilia at all. She didn’t see her at the fence. She didn’t see her in the parking lot. She didn’t see her at home.
Instead, when she came home, she saw a police car in her driveway. A police officer walked out of the door with a bitter expression. Mrs. Jones peered from the doorway, puffy eyed and upset.
Upon walking inside, Sam was hugged by Mrs. Jones. Sam, who was rather confused, hugged Mrs. Jones back and asked, “Why was he here, Mom?”
Mrs. Jones only hugged Sam tighter. “Don’t worry about it, honey. Don’t worry about it.” She stood up and smoothed her dress. “Did you want a snack or something, baby? Are you hungry?”
Sam nodded. Though she hadn’t totally forgotten about the police officer, she was rather enticed by the idea of food.
The next day was Saturday. Sam spent most of the day in her room, listening to the arguments from the other room. They argued constantly, and though Sam couldn’t hear what they were saying, she could tell that they were upset.
On Sunday, while Sam was eating lunch, there was a knock on the door. Mrs. Jones answered it to reveal the same police officer, a police officer that Sam hadn’t seen before and, in the background, Cecilia.
Mrs. Jones became hysterical. She slammed the door shut and locked it. Sam dropped her sandwich and looked at her in surprise. Mrs. Jones scooped Sam up and ran her to her bedroom. Mrs. Jones locked the door to that room as well.
Sam began to cry. She heard a loud slam, as if someone was breaking down the door. Mrs. Jones held on tightly to Sam, crying and yelling, “My baby! My baby! No, my baby!”
A few minutes later, the police managed to break down Sam’s bedroom door as well. Sam and Mrs. Jones were both loud and hysterical. One officer managed to break Mrs. Jones’s grip on Sam, and the other managed to put Mrs. Jones in handcuffs.
Later that day, Mr. Jones was also arrested. He had attempted to drive away after he saw the police in his driveway. They caught him later when crashed into a guardrail.
Sam didn’t go home with Cecilia at first. The entire situation was too much for her to handle. She stayed in a local clinic for a while. The police held the Jones’s in custody. A search of their house revealed Sam’s fake birth documents. They were to be put in court immediately. Sam’s story even managed to make its way on to national news. Without her knowing, Sam became a household name for a few days.
Cecilia visited Sam every day in the clinic. After a while, she brought her husband, Xavier. Eventually, Sam became comfortable enough to call them “Mom and Dad.”
Chase leaned against his truck, smoking a cigarette. He felt like a badass. He felt like the baddest ass in this badass world. Try as he might to look cool, he was bubbling on the inside.
Today was the fucking day! He was doing this shit, and he was fucking happy.
He may have smoked something this morning. He may have smoked it at his kitchen table, staring at his bills and saying, “Fuck that!” He said, “fuck that!” so much that he started chanting it, screaming it, stopping only to take another puff and cough. “Fuck that! Fuck that! Fuck that!”
A woman stared at Chase on her way into the building. “Fuck her,” he thought, and took another drag.
He got back in his truck and sat in the passenger seat. He was giddy. He was excited. But he had to be cool. He had to be fucking cool.
He grabbed the satchel on the floor, and stuck the handgun in his pocket. He loved that gun. He couldn’t wait to shoot all those guys up. Yeah, them fucking faggots were going to get it. They were going to get what they fucking deserve.
He looked at the clock on his dash. It was 9:45. It was as good of a time as any. He couldn’t wait any longer.
He hopped out of his truck, almost locked the door, then stopped himself and began to laugh. He didn’t need to lock his truck.
He had his hand on the gun of the truck, but he made sure that no one could see it. His jacket had big pockets. Big enough to hold a fucking gun.
He saw the door and picked up his pace. He saw the security guard off to the side, knew that fat son of a bitch couldn’t do anything.
He went up to the door, kicked it in, and ran inside. He shot toward the roof, and watched all of them dickwads fall to the ground. Some woman screamed. Bitch.
Chase turned toward the door. He saw the security guard with the gun. Bam. It was easy. It was fucking easy. He was fucking high right now.
He dropped the bag, grabbed the button that was hanging by a wire, and started running to the stair. He had forty feet. He counted. Forty feet until he hit the button, then boom.
Bam and Boom. Bam and Boom.
He started running, felt the wire tighten, then hit the button and ran some more.
Behind him, his bag exploded. Flames shot out, grabbing at the paper and desks around it. The carpet went ablaze instantly. Sprinklers went off, but Chase had packed that shit. They couldn’t do anything. Smoke went everywhere.
Chase ran.
Upstairs, Ellen stared at her computer screen, checking FaceBook discreetly. When she heard the first gunshot, she immediately stood up. It didn’t sound like it came from this floor.
She saw everyone around her stand up as well. They all looked about them, panicked and shocked. Dan, in the cubicle next to her, picked up his phone and started dialing. Who was he calling? The police?
Another gunshot came. Ellen didn’t know what to do. Whoever had a gun definitely wasn’t on her floor. She looked towards the stairs, and then bolted towards them.
Ellen was the first person on the floor to make such a move. She reached the handle, pushed forward, and started down the stairs.
A few people came behind her. Someone was screaming, trying to tell them to come back. Ellen went forward, not thinking about her feet, not thinking about the gun, but thinking about Jason.
She had to get to Jason.
She made it down two stories. She was on the third floor when she felt the boom. It made her trip forward. She fell down three steps. Her head hit the wall.
She lost her thoughts for a few seconds, but suddenly Jason went through her mind again. She opened her eyes. Her glasses hadn’t broken, luckily. Her jaw was hot. She tried to stand up, but someone was on top of her.
“Get off!” she said. “Get off!” It was Jim on top of her. He rolled over, and she pulled her knees up to her body.
Ellen started to cry. She didn’t know what was happening, she was hurt, and she just needed to go, she needed to leave, she needed to get to Jason.
She looked down the stairs and saw a man running up a floor below her.
Chase went up two floors from the ground floor to the second. He pushed past the people running past him, on their way to the bottom. Fuckers were going to burn.
He went into the second floor, saw the workers standing around, and shot into the crowd of them. He started laughing at this. This was hilarious.
He shot a few more times, aiming at the people who were trying to hide. Fuck them.
He didn’t want to waste all of his shots, so he finally put his gun back in his pocket. On the inside of his jacket were two grenades. He pulled the pin on one and tossed it, then turned around.
He was in the stairwell when he heard the bang. He saw a man running in front of him.
Jason was at school today. He was currently in P.E. The gymnasium was cold. Today’s activity was freeze tag.
Ellen managed to stand up by the time the man got to her.
“Go!” he said. “We’re on fire. We need to go!”
Ellen let out a sob, and her hands went to her face. He went to grab her hand, but a bullet to his chest made him fall forward.
Ellen shrieked and ran. She went up the steps, fighting against the people she knew, her co-workers, and went up, up, up, and up.
Ellen wasn’t thinking clearly. She didn’t stop until she was at the eighth floor.
Chase shot the man like nothing. He aimed up the stairs and shot that fucker. Son of a bitch had it coming.
Chase thought he smelled something. He turned around and saw a haze behind him. It was smoke.
Chase grinned and ran upwards. He didn’t stop at the third floor. He didn’t stop at the fourth floor. He kept going. It didn’t matter. Those floors didn’t matter.
Fuckers were going to burn.
Jason didn’t like freeze tag. It wasn’t very fun.
Ellen reached the eighth floor and pushed through the door. The eighth floor was in the middle of renovation. There was no one up here. She ran past the ladders and plastic and ran to the stairs that she knew would be on the other side.
For a second, she was happy. She was ecstatic. She knew that no one would be here. She knew that she could go down these stairs and she wouldn’t have to fight her way through a crowd of people in a floor. She knew should could go in here and make her way down and she’d get out and she’d see Jason.
Ellen tripped over a misplaced paint bucket. She fell forward again, catching herself on her hands. They skidded forward.
Her ankle throbbed in pain. Her knee screamed at her. Her hands stung.
Ellen’s head was cloudy. She only repeated Jason’s name in her head.
Chase sprinted up the steps, never stopping to catch his breath. This was amazing, seeing how much he smoked every day.
He made it up the eighth floor and pushed it open. He kicked the door open, held his gun out, and made his way in.
Jason was it. He hated being it. The other kids were so much faster, always running away from him and leaving him behind to trip over his own shoelaces.
Ellen heard the door slam open. She turned her head and saw a tall man in the doorway, two hands on a gun. Her eyes widened.
“No,” she said. “No, no, please. I have a son. Please.”
Chase looked into an empty room. The place was being rebuilt or something. There was no one up here.
He look towards the ground and saw some fat bitch sprawled out on the floor.
Ellen made her way to her knees. “No, please.” She was crying. “Please, my son.”
Chase didn’t want to hear the fat bitch whine. He put up his gun.
There was a thud.
Jason got off of the school bus per usual, but he felt rather down today. He didn’t notice how many cars were in his driveway. He didn’t notice that his door was open, and his father was standing in the doorway.
“He’s here!” his dad shouted into the house.
Tim sat on the couch. He scratched at his elbow. He hadn’t been in this house before, but it was a nice house, that’s for sure.
Jason made his way to the door, perplexed as to why his father had puffy eyes, and why he saw his aunt standing the background.
Suddenly, his mother is in the doorway. She is crying. She looks hurt.
Ellen scoops Jason up in her arms. It has been so long since she has picked him up. He is heavy, but she doesn’t care. She squeezes him to her chest.
Jason doesn’t know why, but he starts crying.
Tim sees Ellen’s husband walk back to the couch. “I can’t thank you enough,” he tells Tim. “Thank you so much.”
Tim shrugs. “I was in the right place at the right time,” Tim says. “I’m just glad I hid up there instead of running.”
Ellen’s husband sits down. “I don’t want to think about what could have happened.”
There were fifty deaths at the Pensey County building. Chase was one of them. The fire was stopped at the fourth floor. The building is not expected to be salvaged. Demolition plans are already in place.
“A moment of love, / A dream, / A laugh, / A kiss, / A cry, / Our rights, / Our wrongs.” -Sweet Disposition, The Temper Trap
“Take your shoes off, silly.”
Mason begins to untie his shoes. “Why?”
Noah, who is already barefoot, remains silent, looking outwards at the openness before him.
Mason removes his socks and stuffs them into his shoes. He places them on the sidewalk and stands up straight.
Noah places his hand into Mason’s palm.
“You’re upset,” Noah tells him.
Mason only nods in response.
“I want to fix that.”
Noah turns his body towards Mason and leans his head in. Mason does the same, his hand coming up to the back of Noah’s head. Before he touches Noah’s hair, Noah whispers to him:
“You’re it.”
Noah sprints off into the night, bare feet pounding over the wet grass. It’s warm and light outside. The moon is full, and very vibrant. Noah absorbs the moment; he feels the tickle of the grass, he sees the stars above him, and he takes it in, hoping to never forget what this feels like.
Noah turns and sees Mason, who is walking towards him.
“Oh, come on!” Noah proclaims, bitterly. “You suck at this.”
Mason nods his head, but Noah can see him grin in the moonlight. Noah continues.
“I don’t understand why you’re so slow now, but you’re always so fast when we—,”
Mason’s walk turns into a jog, and then a sprint. Before Noah turns away, he sees that Mason is laughing. Noah starts to jog in the other direction, noticeably slower than before. It is not long before he feels Mason’s hands at his back, pushing him forwards. Noah stops.
“You’re it,” Mason tells him, then turns and runs away. Noah grins before he chases after him. It’s working.
It’s not long before Noah reaches Mason. Mason had turned to taunt Noah, only to find him extremely close and extremely fast. Suddenly, he’s on the ground, tumbling in the dew and rolling, arms and legs wrapped around Noah. They stop.
Mason is laying on top of Noah, his weight bearing down on him. Noah is smiling. “Got ya,” he whispers.
Mason laughs. “Yeah, okay.” He rubs his fingers through Noah’s hair, grazing the area right behind his ear.
“I love you,” Noah tells him.
Mason rests his chin on Noah’s shoulder. “I love you, too.”
***
It is early spring, but still too chilly for shorts. Noah is wearing a sweater and sipping from a coffee cup. Cliché. That is what he feels today. He likes it.
The day is sunny, though a few clouds speckle the sky. Students are milling around, doing whatever it is that college students do on Wednesdays at noon. Noah is watching and waiting.
A group is playing Frisbee off in the distance. Someone off towards Noah’s left has a guitar. He is playing it, despite the fact that he has no clear audience. Some students bustle to class. There are those who are rushing and those who are walking slowly. Their demeanor is surprisingly easy to read. Noah can tell which students are loathing the fact that they are on their way to class. Other students seem happier. It is, after all, a beautiful day. Quite a few people are taking advantage of it.
Mason approaches the bench that Noah is sitting on and takes a seat. Noah, who was transfixed on his surroundings, hardly noticed. It is not until Mason’s fingers brush his that Noah realizes he is no longer alone.
Noah turns his head to Mason. “Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” Mason responds.
They sit for a few seconds in silence, soaking in the day. After a bit, Mason turns back to Noah.
“How is your day going?” he asked.
Noah keeps his eye on the Frisbee group. “It’s going well. I have a Chemistry test at two.”
Mason nods. “That sucks. I have an Econ test later.”
Noah squeezes Mason’s hand. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. You’re good at Econ.” He turns to Mason and sees his face in the reflection of Mason’s sunglasses. “Which is weird, because Econ is terrible.”
Mason laughs. “I’m sure you’ll do well with Chemistry.”
Noah gives him an incredulous look. “Do you have any idea who you’re talking to?”
Mason nods, which only makes him laugh harder. Noah smiles as well, then faces the group with the Frisbee again. Up and down the field they run, over and over again, as if they have nothing else to do that day. Noah leans back against the bench. He removes his hand from Mason’s and places it behind his own head.
Mason starts to daydream as his gaze stays fixed on a nearby tree. Its leaves are coming back in, slowly, and the tree is just starting to burst with the color green.
Noah speaks up. “You know,” he tells Mason, “I could sit like this forever.”
“Oh really?” Mason asks him. “You’d get hungry at some point.”
Noah grins. “You’re right. Maybe not forever. But, I could do this for a very long time.”
Mason leans back in the same fashion as Noah. “It is a beautiful day.”
“It’s even better now that you’re here.”
Noah turns to face Mason again. This time, he tries not to stare at his reflection. Instead, he attempts to look through the lenses and see Mason’s eyes. Mason helps him by taking off his sunglasses.
“I’d sit here with you,” Mason tells him. “Forever.”
“Yeah?” Noah asks. “Is that a promise?”
“Yeah,” Mason confirms. He strokes Noah’s thigh. “I promise that I won’t leave this bench until you do.”
Noah raises an eyebrow. “What time is your Econ test?”
“One-thirty.”
Noah nods. “I think you’re going to break that promise.”
Mason pulls himself closer to Noah and puts his arm around his shoulders. “I dream of spending every day like this. With you.”
Noah rests his head on Mason’s shoulder. “Let’s make that happen.”
***
Mason is not one for parties. He enjoys drinking, and he loves dancing. However, he hates the atmosphere. He hates the crowds. He hates waking up the next day with a sore head and a cloudy mind. Most of all, he hates the terrible playlists.
Noah, however, thoroughly enjoys parties. He likes loud music. He likes people. He likes the mysteries. What did he just step in? Who will she make out with next? Who has had the most to drink? It’s all very exciting.
Mason is sitting on a couch and sipping a beer. The apartment is not very large, but it has enough space to hold a crowd. Noah is talking to a girl named Brianna over towards the kitchen.
Suddenly, Mason is no longer alone on the couch. A girl has sat down next to him. This girl is very pretty, with long brown hair. Mason hardly notices her until she scoots closer and says, “Hello.”
She smells like beer. The way she has head tilted and her legs sprawled make Mason think that she has had too much to drink. Yet, there, in her hand, is another beer. She takes another drink before Mason responds.
“Hi,” he says, offbeat. The proximity of this girl to his body makes him uncomfortable. She is blinking rapidly and smiling stupidly.
“Why are you all alone?” she asks, scooting even closer. “You’re cute,” she tells Mason, slurring her words together. Mason doesn’t know how to react, other than by laughing. She places her hand on his thigh and begins to rub uncomfortably close to his groin.
Mason’s eyes are wide and his mouth is open. He looks over to Noah, who has just turned around. They make eye contact, and Noah’s mouth widens into a smile.
Her other hand moves up to Mason’s chest, and she leans her mouth in towards his.
Noah is suddenly next to the couch. “Oh no, honey, you do not want to touch him.”
The girl raises an eyebrow. Her face turns mean. “Who the hell are you?” she asks, indignantly.
Noah’s face is serious. “He has got one of the nastiest infections going on down there. I would get your hand off of that. It’s disgusting.”
Mason stands up. “Dude!” he exclaims.
The girl squeals. “Ew” she yells. “That’s gross!” She turns and walks away, dropping her drink and mumbling dirty words, shaking her hands as if she can shake off Mason’s disgusting genitals.
Noah falls onto the couch in a fit of laughter. Mason sits down next to him.
“Yeah, okay. Laugh all you want.”
***
Mason is putting pants on. Noah is on the bed, covered in nothing but a blanket. He is smiling.
“Do you have to go so soon?” Noah asks him. He is cross-legged on the bed, leaning back against the wall.
Mason is tightening his belt. “Yeah, I have to go to work soon.” He bends over to put on his shoes.
Noah stands up, still draped in the blanket. “Do you have to go right now?”
Mason nods, still bent over and tying his shoes. “Yeah. I can’t be late.” He stands up, stretching his hands over his head. “It is a job, after all.”
Noah wraps himself and the blanket around Mason’s chest. “I wish you could stay.”
Mason smiles and takes Noah’s hands off of him. “Yeah, so do I.” He walks to the dresser, where he had placed his wallet and keys. He puts them in his pocket, then turns to his jacket.
Noah sits back down on the bed. “What time do you get off?”
Mason shrugs, slipping his arms into the holes of his jacket. “Late, I guess. I’m not sure, exactly.”
Noah nods. “So I’ll see you… tomorrow?”
Mason puts a hat on. “Yeah, I guess.”
Noah stands up again, letting the blanket fall. He walks towards Mason, then gently pushes him to the wall. They kiss, gently and sweetly. Noah’s naked body is being cradled by Mason’s arms. Noah ends the kiss, then places his head on Mason’s shoulder.
“I’ll see you later,” Noah tells him.
Mason pats his back.
***
The door slams shut behind Noah. He didn’t mean for it to slam, but it did, and now there’s nothing that he can do about that, is there?
Noah makes his way down the hallway, head down and shoulders hunched. His feet are shuffling. He isn’t looking in front of him, but he finds the way to his room easily.
His roommate isn’t here. He’s gone for the weekend. Noah is glad. He wants some solace.
He doesn’t turn the light on when he enters. He locks the door behind him, then takes off his jacket and tosses it on the floor. He kicks his shoes off into the corner. He then collapses on his bed.
The curtain is drawn, shrouding the room in darkness. The hallways are silent. Noah lay on his bed with nothing around him. His senses are dull, and his body is hollow.
His emotions were raw. He clutched his pillow to his chest and faced the wall, never making a sound besides his slow and choked breathing.
It had been a very long time since Noah had felt this terrible. The last time he was this emotional, someone was there to comfort him. The hardest part of this experience was knowing that no one was there to comfort him now.
No matter how hard he tried, he could not get the events of that day out of his head. His face remained contorted, as if he could will that terrible morning out of his brain.
Noah didn’t start crying until a few hours in. Eventually his numbness washed away. It was replaced with pain.
It gripped his throat, and in the dark of the room, he choked out sobs. He felt ridiculous. He hated crying. He hated knowing that he had sunk this low. He hated the feeling that he was too weak to do anything other than lay in this bed and grieve.
At some point, his throat was too raw and his eyes were too tired to continue. He stared across the room for a while, seeing nothing but the hours previous. Eventually, he started to sob again, closing his eyes and wishing he could be anywhere other than here, in this moment.
In his mind, he heard the same word over and over.
Why?
***
The door slams shut behind Noah. He didn’t mean for it to slam, but it did, and now there’s nothing that he can do about that, is there?
Noah makes his way down the hallway, head down and shoulders hunched. His feet are shuffling. He isn’t looking in front of him, but he finds the way to his room easily.
His roommate isn’t here. He is somewhere, perhaps at a party, or maybe just out with friends. Noah is glad. He wants some solace.
He doesn’t turn the light on when he enters. He locks the door behind him, then takes off his jacket and tosses it on the floor. He kicks his shoes off into the corner. He then collapses on his bed.
Noah doesn’t know if he is sad or angry. He doesn’t know if he is accepting or bitter. He doesn’t know how to feel, and he doesn’t understand anything about his situation.
He puts his hands up to his temple, clutching his hair. He groans, and puts his head between his knees.
There’s a knock at his door. It surprises him. He didn’t know who would want to speak to him. He almost ignores it, but something compels him to get up and answer it.
He opens the door and sees Mason, who lives down the hall. He hasn’t spoken to Mason very often.
“Hey,” Noah tells him. His voice is soft. Noah suddenly realizes that he must look terrible. His eyes are red and puffy, his hair is messy, and his clothes are disheveled. He should not have answered the door. This was a mistake.
Mason seems taken aback. “Hey,” he responds. “Are you, um, okay?”
Noah nods, but his eyes are down towards the ground. “Yeah, I’m fine. Did you need something?”
Mason held up a textbook. “You left your math book in the lounge. I just figured I would give it back to you.” He pauses for a second. “Are you sure that you’re okay?”
Noah nods and takes the book from him. “I’m fine,” he says, then turns and begins to shut the door. Before he can say “Thanks,” Mason stops the door and budges his way in.
“You look terrible,” Mason says. “What happened?”
Noah doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t want anyone around right now.
“Nothing,” he tells him. “I just want to be alone right now.”
Mason doesn’t move. “I can’t leave you like this.”
Noah sits down on his bed. “It’s really fine.”
Mason sits down next to him, adamant to have Noah open up. “You can talk to me about it,” Mason tells him. “I’m here for you.”
Something changed in Noah. Here, sitting on the bed next to him, was a total stranger. Perhaps it was his demeanor, perhaps it was his kindness, or perhaps it was the fact that Noah was desperate for any sort of consolation. He suddenly wanted to tell Mason everything. He wanted to confide everything to him. He wanted to get it all out.
He took a breath. “I just had lunch with my mom,” Noah told him. “And it was fine, until,” Noah paused. “Well, it was fine until she asked if I was dating anyone. I told her no, I wasn’t. And she just started telling me about how to talk to girls, and what kind of girl I should look for and all that.
“And I realized that if I didn’t tell her right then, I would never be able to tell her, so I just stopped her, and said, ‘Mom, I don’t want to date girls. I’m gay.’
“She didn’t really react right away. I almost expected her to get angry, but she didn’t. She just looked down, and it got really weird. I didn’t know whether or not I should say something. I mean, what do you say when that happens, right? Finally, she looked back up and she said, ‘No.’ That was it. Just, ‘no.’
“I asked her what she meant, and she told me that she was not dealing with this. ‘You are not gay,’ she said. She told me that she would not have a gay son.
“It got kind of quiet and I said I was sorry, but I can’t do anything about it, and that I’ve tried. I have tried so hard, but I just can’t do it, I can’t stop it, and she just silenced me and said we were leaving. Then she just put money on the table and we left and now I’m here and I have no idea what to do.
“What am I supposed to do? What do you do when your parent just abandons you like that? What do you do when they simply refuse to acknowledge what you’ve said to them?”
Noah looked to Mason for the first time. “Why? Why doesn’t she love me enough to look past this? What’s wrong with me?”
Mason didn’t expect something like this. He didn’t know what to tell Noah. He said the only thing that came to mind.
“It’s all right. It doesn’t matter that she isn’t there for you, because I am.”
Mason put his arm around Noah’s shoulder. Noah leaned into him.
Holding him so close made Mason realize that he was slowly falling for the tragic boy in his arms.
***
“You’re upset,” Noah said.
Mason shrugged. “I’m fine.”
Noah looked down at his eggs. He didn’t feel like eating.
“Are you sure? You seem angry.”
Mason dropped his fork. “I’m fine, okay? Can we drop it?”
Noah was confused.
“Do you want to talk about it?
Mason picked his fork back up. “No.” He looked down at his food, never making eye contact with Noah.
Noah sipped his juice. “You’ve been like this for a while. Is it me? Am I doing something wrong?”
Mason dropped his fork again. “Can you stop doing that? Can you stop victimizing yourself? Please? For once? It is not you. I’m fine.” Noah didn’t know how to react. Mason went to pick up his fork again, but stopped himself. “You know what?” he told Noah. “I’m not fine. I’m tired. I’m tired of this.”
Noah and Mason looked at each other for the first time in that meal.
“What?” Noah asked.
“I’m sorry,” Mason said. “But I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. I can’t handle this anymore. I can’t handle picking up all of your problems. I can’t handle dealing with everything you’re dealing with because I have my own problems and I can’t spend all of my time trying to help you because I am dealing with my own shit and I can’t spend every waking hour making sure that you’re okay, and that you’re fine. I can’t listen to you talk about your mother anymore, and I can’t deal with how much you aren’t liking school, and I can’t handle having absolutely no time to myself. I’m sorry, Noah. I feel terrible about this but I can’t do it anymore. I can’t.”
Noah knew this was coming. He had been dreading it for a week. He thought he had been prepared, but this was worse than what he could have imagined. He didn’t know what to say other than, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so selfish. That was wrong of me.”
Noah stood up from the table, then turned back and asked, “Is this the end?”
Mason was silent. “Yeah,” he said eventually. “This is the end.”
