Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

???
August 1st, 2019

I sit in the passenger seat of their red Honda Civic, my future coffin, thinking nothing at all.

I am not thinking about how I am not with them, in their room, collecting the items I asked them to get. It wasn’t a lot of items, to be fair, but I did not want the memory of their room to be something I didn’t recognize. I told them I was too nervous to leave their car. I’d be mad at myself for bullshitting them if it wasn’t mostly true. I wasn’t afraid of why I had to be inside their room. I was afraid of the aging room itself.

I am not thinking about how I scrolled back to our text messages about me moving here, probably around two or so years ago, then back to today, and I couldn’t recognize either of them. One spoke in cute little sixteen-year-old naivety. The other’s message looked – even felt – like a tired, pathetic mumble, exhausted of the ability to speak and make any noise at all. I guess the high of a timer on your life’s starting to take over.

I am not thinking of reasons to stay alive, mainly because I ran out months ago. My family probably expected me to be dead years ago, and if not just dead to them specifically. Even if they did know, the Russian in my dad would probably man himself up to deal with it. Maybe my siblings would care, but they were too young to remember me. I don’t have many friends, at least ones that would be mentally fucking conscious enough to care that I’m dead. Most of my friends are pricks. Hell, I’d say they’re more prickish when they’re sober. At least I can barely tell what they’re saying with vomit crawling up their throats and their heads cloudy.

I am thinking about how it will feel. How my brain will be comforted by the taste after so long without it, but panic as the rest of my body closes its final shift. Maybe then I’ll be able to think of a reason. And at that point, it will be too late.

I hear the closing of their door. When I finally see them, back covered with their school bag, a numbness begins to settle in my chest. It lingers in my spine and lies in my fingers, leaving me staring, but still wryly, blankly smiling at them. 

They open the door to the driver’s seat, slowly twist the key into the ignition, and start drifting into the Stonebury streets. In those texts, a few hours ago, they said they wanted to drink in this car, lie on the road until they passed out, with the view of the New York City street they could never afford, and get crushed by the cars. We’d be dead before the driver could stop to see us. Maybe they’d remember us for a few days, but too many people pass there to care about two drunks choking to death on Everclear.

“Dramatic as ever, I know.”

We decided to just drink ourselves to death, watching the sunset with their hometown in view, with a few of their pills if we couldn’t take the burn. Practical and cinematic. I guess you could call that some sort of compromise.

We park in some section near an alleyway, a turn away from the merge into the highway. We didn’t say a word to each other the whole drive. I don’t remember what the last thing they told me was. They unzip their bag pull out two bottles of the Everclear. As I grab my bottle and start opening it, they move to the back seat and grab their own. But, in the corner of my eye, I see them staring at the clear liquid in the bottle. I can’t tell what their feeling.

Sadness?
Regret?
Fear? 
I don’t know.

As I shove half the bottle of mystery pills in my mouth and start drinking, I stop and go to say something. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Did I want to tell them to stop? Did I want to tell them to let me do it on my own? But nothing came out.

They inhale, squeeze their eyes closed, and took all the pills. They shove the bottle into their mouth.

We sat there, staring at the back of the front seats. We never turned to each other again. We sat and slowly died next to each other, yet didn’t have the courage to turn to see the body out of guilt. 

 As my eyes glazed over and I felt my thoughts squeeze out of my head like a wet rag, all I could do was smile.

???
August 9th, 2019
11 PM

Tk. Tk. Pshhhhh. Tk. Tk. Tk. Pshhhhh. Tk. Tk. Pshhhhh.

That’s a… that’s a clock ticking. I don’t have a clock in…

What’s that beeping? It’s like… is that the clock too? Two clocks? And that other noise. That’s… air. Breathing, it’s my… breathing? What… are these bed covers? I don’t have… is there water in my head? It hurts. Who put water in my head? My hair isn’t wet. My head isn’t wet. Water’s coming out of my head… my face – no, my eyes… I can’t see. Head still has water… maybe I have a migraine? I can’t sleep anymore. It hurts to sleep.

Why are there things in my arm? Why are the walls white? They’re not supposed to be white. Why can’t I move? Where am I? Am I in a hospital? What hospital? Why am I here? Am I dreaming? Is that why I can’t sleep? It hurts. My head hurts. My arms hurt. My throat burns, my mouth is dry. Why am I empty? I feel sick, but there’s nothing in my stomach to vomit out. What’s going on?
 
“Dona? Dona, can…”

That’s not my name.
 
I can’t see whoever is trying to talk to me. A face is above me, but it sounds like they’re in a different room, miles away. What the fuck… is going on? I try to focus as my eyes water with pain. With every detail, my head stabs itself. I see a light-colored face, straight blonde hair, blue eyes, and a thin figure. I can’t tell what face she’s making. I would assume not a happy one, but I don’t know the type of weirdos want to work with half-dead people in hospitals.

“Dona Tore-os Sack-ara? Is that…”
 
That’s not my fucking name.

My vision starts blurring again, and my brain begins to cloud. Everything the woman says becomes gibberish muffled under the floor. I struggle to think. I melt into the bed, giving me some form of shield against whatever is going on. I feel soft. Like all of my organs have stopped moving and twitching. Like I’m strangely vulnerable.

Why am I here? I’ve been in a hospital before, but every time I try to think before today, even a week ago. Nothing. Not even mundane, everyday nothing. Just a black scratch within my thoughts. Did I hit my
head? I don’t feel any blood. Maybe they cleaned it up?

I look outside the window in the corner of my eye, taking the pain just to see something other than the bright ass room or the White woman staring above me like some sleep paralysis demon. It’s, again, mostly blurred. Expected, but my eyes usually aren’t this bad. I see glimmers of green, probably the grass and the trees in the dark. I see the gray of the highway streets, colors what could be cars, and… my vision blues again, this time into a dark storm cloud instead of just a simply misty look. I can’t turn away, I can’t even move my eyes. Am I... sleeping? Waking... up? The clock…is…

Tk. Tk. Tk. Tk… Tk… Tk…

???
August 10th, 2019
6 AM

 ...tk. Tk. Tk. Tk. Tk. Tk. Tk.

 “...ma’am… ma’am…”

My eyes, still squinting, remove their dark glaze as it looks into the dark, now covered window. I see her crouched over, away from, but still uncomfortably close to my face. That water-in-the-head feel’s still there, and everything’s still stabbing with pain, but at least I don’t feel like I’m having a shitty trip. I can also move my eyes around the room. I look at the clock, which looks like a big gray blob with two sticks on it, but I can sort of make out the time. Around 4, maybe 5?

“You vomited a few times while you were staring off. Not much, since you’re on an empty stomach. Thankfully, you didn’t need the oxygen mask anymore anyway.”

I look confused. Staring off? I thought I had fallen asleep. Guess this wasn’t some weird ass dream, then.

Her piercing blue eyes widen a bit, and a wide, toothy grin barges onto her face. They’re so large and pearly white that they look like dentures old people glue to their gums.

“Oh, good, you’re reactive now! Not verbally, but at least you can understand me, right?”

I go to nod, but my neck stiffens immediately. I groan and grit my teeth in pain.

“Hmmm. Still stiff? Odd, with the time that’s passed and the alcohol mostly passed, I thought you would be more comfortable.”
 I look confused again. She lowers an eyebrow, writing in some note paper close to her face while mumbling ‘Possible amnesia’ to herself. I’m finally able to move my eyes around without a massive migraine, too, but that might be because it’s dark.

Wait, she said the alcohol mostly passed? So I did overdo it on something… but when? I’m assuming one of the days I can’t remember, but… I can’t remember drinking anything even semi-recently. Wow, not remembering things is usually pretty comforting, but this just feels fucking terrifying.

“Did you ever catch my name?”

I force out a negative groan, like an Nn nn sound. And is she saying I’m an alcoholic?

“You can’t speak either?”

I try to say ‘I don’t know’, but only a gravely, phlegmy voice comes out and I start to cough. Aches rock my body as it forces itself to move with every wheeze before the fit stops. She patiently waits for me to stop before she introduces herself.

“Well, I’m Kayla Keller. I’m a new ICU, or intensive care unit nurse here at Stonebury Regional Hospital. I deal with a lot of patients that have traumatic, possibly life-threatening injuries. According to your records, this is your first time in the ICU specifically, but you’ve been brought to the hospital for more minor, alcohol-related incidents.”

I know most people have official records with educational and medical stuff, but having ‘records’ on me for incidents feels like I’m some sort of criminal. I mean, technically I am? I’m almost 20 drinking alcohol like a fat trucker in Wisconsin on his third failed ‘marriage’. But who would that crime be against, really? Myself? Are you gonna put me in jail for committing a crime against myself? Who the fuck does that help? That’s like if I took something from my house and I got arrested for stealing. Well… sort of? And I’m not in jail, so… I don’t know, I’m in too much pain to be thinking so much.

The sick feeling enters my mouth again, and I realize I probably haven’t had anything to drink except gross IV fluid for the past…however many days I’ve been here. I look around for anything to indicate that I need to drink, and I see the bathroom. I move my eyes to point there.
 

“Do you have to use the restroom?” She asks.
“Nn nn.”
“Do you need to vomit again?”

I mean, yeah? I feel like I have to. But… ah, fuck it.
I raise my right arm a little and point to the faucet. I can’t keep my arm up for long, but she notices.

“Oh, you need water?”
“Mm hm.” 

She walks out of the room for a moment, then returns with pitcher of water and a cup. She pours it in, and goes to hand it to me, but realizes I can barely move and puts a straw in. I genuinely feel like I’m a two-year-old sipping from a straw from some woman’s hand. Though… it’s the best water I’ve had in a good while. I feel myself almost sigh in relief as it passes through my body, clearing my throat a little before being able to move a lot better.

“How are you feeling?” Kayla questions.
“Do I have to pay for that water?” I say. It’s the first somewhat coherent thing I’ve been able to get out of my mouth, albeit in a still gravely voice, and it’s been more than an hour since I got up
She laughs a little. “No, thankfully the water’s free. How are you feeling, Dona?”
“Moving still hurts a bit, talking was just the gross shit in my throat though. And don’t call me that.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, I was just referring to your record sheet. It says your name is –“
“Dona Torros-Sacara. I don’t like that name.” I preface.
“Oh. Is there a nickname you prefer?”
“Boris.”
“Boris Sacara, got it. And you use…”
“He/him.”
“Perfect.” She gives this corporate smile that I can’t tell is of genuine acceptance or the visual representation of a woman dodging a lecture. “The pain’s probably your body waking up from the coma.”

“Coma?” I guess that would explain the memory gap. Does that mean the alcohol put me in a coma?
“Yeah, because of the excessive alcohol in your system, we had to flush everything out of your system and put you in a medically-induced coma. That way, your brain wouldn’t become more damaged as the alcohol passed through it.”
“Oh.” So it was because of the alcohol, not due to the alcohol. Got it.
“You were close to being comatose in the original state they found you, though. If you went under there, you probably would have a lot worse problems right now. Possible brain damage, completely ruined memory capabilities, your motor functions could have stopped. The doctors believed you would go brain dead before you got out of your coma.”

I space out at the explanation, not because I don’t care, but because of the sheer disbelief of it all. That, and I have a feeling I know what she’s doing: playing AA therapist.
 
“I’ll have to leave in an hour or so. I’m always here during the overnight shifts – 7 PM to 7 AM – so there will be another nurse in here from 8 AM to 6 PM supervising you in case you need help. Do you need anything before I leave?”
“I don’t think so, no. I’m hungry, but I don’t think I’d be able to
move too much.”
“Oh, yeah, I understand. You should be at least able to move by at worst tomorrow. Just try to get some rest, okay?”

Kayla’s – let’s just say spirited attitude – felt like a plug to most of my thoughts. As soon as she leaves the room, my head overflows with questions. Who brought me to the hospital? The police? Eddie? Lola, maybe? No, I don’t think they would have… they didn’t know… what did I drink? It had to be stronger than most beer, since I know my limits with beer like I know my limits with spice. There’s a clean cut off to it. Some sort of spirit, definitely. Tequila? Rum? No, that’s Mami’s thing, I wouldn’t put anything that woman thought about touching near me. Vodka’s more of my dad’s thing, could have been that if it was this bad. I don’t think I’d ever drink vodka, though. Vodka tastes like rubbing alcohol with watered-down stomach acid. I hate vodka. Couldn’t have been anything else, though, at least that comes to mind.

Okay, so what I’ve gauged here: I got alcohol poisoning from some sort of spirit, probably vodka. Maybe someone threw some out? Maybe I stole it? How would I steal – never mind. I got alcohol poisoning from vodka. I probably did it on purpose, so something probably happened. I mean, I’ve thought about killing myself before, but I never did anything from it. Sure, I was drinking a shit ton, but nothing skimming past death like that. Maybe it just all built up like some sort of depression volcano or something. I only told Lola I was depressed, and Lola was… not really at a point where they’d be a good shoulder to cry on. Maybe they–

Boris
8 AM

“Boris?” A masculine, sort-of middle-aged sounding voice calls quietly.

I turn to the door, a shock of pain running down my back. I don’t know if I’ve gotten used to the pain or if it’s getting better, but it feels like less pain than before.

“Hi, you’re Boris, correct?” The voice repeats.
“Since I last checked.” I answer.
“Great. I’m Nurse Phillips. I’ll be in for Nurse Keller. I’m sorry for the… iffy entrance. Kayla said you’d probably be asleep.”
“I’ve been trying. I just can’t sleep.”
“How long have you been awake?”
“I woke up around 11 PM, I think. I haven’t slept since.”
“Hmmm. That’s not terribly unusual for people your age. If you still haven’t slept by the time Nurse Keller comes back, it should probably be logged. Should have been logged before too, but…” He scoffs.

I tense my eyebrows in confusion.
“Are you tired at all?” He changes subjects.
“Yes. Like I said, I tried to sleep.” I repeat. I hate repeating myself to people, especially supposedly smarter people. “I just can’t.”
“Okay. It might be the pain keeping you up.”
“I guess.”

We sit in silence before Nurse Phillips attempts to duck out of the room, and I call him back over.

“Could you… get someone for me?”
“For the sleep problems?”
I blink in confusion and to keep me from going off on him. “Yes. For the sleep problems.”
“I will… see what I can do, yes.” He then actually dips out of the room, and I sit there with the headache from the incident and the headache from this incident combining.

I sit in the silence of my room as well as the waking buzzing outside of it. The light from the morning begins to overflow from behind the blinds, so I scooch myself as close to the foot of the bed as possible without removing anything, and pull a bit more of it open. It’s enough to light up the room with natural light but not blind my poor, old-person eyes. I squint at the same place I squinted when I first got there, and it looks like if a baby’s picture of a scene was a re imagined art piece. I see the grass and the trees outside the hospital, as well as the various flowers set up for its entrance. The highway looks much clearer now, but the cars look more cluttered and filled with a quilt of colors from the traffic.

“Bo, the – oh, you opened the blinds.”
“Just a bit. Light’s healthy, you know?”
He gives a stupid fake mix of a laugh and an acknowledging hum. “The doctor can see you now.”

In a few minutes, the IVs aren’t in my body and the heart rate monitor are no longer taped to it. Each one, slowly pulled out and off by the doctors, stung enough to make my eyes water, but just left my arms a little sore. I make my attempts to stand with Doctor Phillips’ help, my foot touching the ground for the first time in a week and a half. With a little bit of a close stumble, I am standing. Progress, I guess. After a bit of practice steps in place and stretching my legs and body out, I walk my way out of the room.

As soon as my head turns around the frame of the door, I notice something. These hospital walls are so… emotionless. Each hallway we turn through is another long stretch of different shades of beige, with random minimalist art pieces I could probably do when I just woke up. There’s an occasional group of chairs stuffed in little sections with some fake, plastic plants placed around it. Jesus, at least children’s hospitals have colorful, hopeful stuff everywhere. Old fucks still have emotions, they deserve just as much color.

“Right in here.” Doctor Phillips points to the opened, larger room.

The room’s a pretty standard doctor’s office, except for a separate smaller room with hundreds of draped wires on the floor and a big window. A doctor hears the door close and turns to me, revealing gold-plated, round glasses over blue eyes and a brown-ginger-whiteish beard. For a man with such a large beard, he’s got absolutely no hair on his wrinkly head. Though, I can tell he’s way more professional than Kayla, but also a lot more reserved. He’s wearing the typical scrubs with gloves, and either his hands or his gloves are extremely wrinkly. From the wrinkles on his light skin, I think it’s probably the former.

“Hello, Boris! I’m Dr. Bhernik, pleasure to meet you.” I shake his bony hand, and I realize that I was more than correct: his hand’s so wrinkled and rough I can feel it through the glove. I can’t tell if this guy’s an unlucky man in his 40s or a lucky guy in his 70s. 
“It’s great to hear that you’ve been recovering.”
“I’m doing my best, yeah.” I say, a little annoyed. “Sleep’s been frustrating, though.”
“Exactly why you are here! I wanted to ask you a few questions before we begin your sleep study.”

I nod.

“You can always refuse to answer if you want, this is not a court, thankfully.” He gives an old-man chuckle. “We just would like to know your alcohol habits, considering you are here for severe alcohol poisoning, after all, and from how well you healed… we’re just taking information.”

I nod again.

“So, have you had a past of alcoholism? If so, how many years and how consistently?”
 
Even calling it alcoholism feels off. It gives me that feeling where someone says something you know is wrong. I don’t really see myself as an alcoholic. I feel like I just use alcohol like people use medication. People did use spirits as medication back in the day before modern medicine and all the fancy expensive shit. They gave it to kids, too. Didn’t exactly end well, but that’s what happens without cough medicine.

“I’ve been drinking since I was 14,” I answer. “Probably at least one drink a day – usually more – every day, until now.”
“Do you have any urges to drink right now?”
“Nope. Pretty sure being here because of the alcohol’s shocking me out of the urges right now.”
“What were your symptoms like when you stayed away from alcohol?”

I look down at my palms. “My hands get sweaty first. Then I’d feel really cold, but my body would sweat more, which made me colder. Then I’d get all scared of everything and I start crying. I don’t know what happens after that because that’s usually when I drink.”

“Hmmm. What’s the longest you’ve gone without a drink, and what’s the least amount of drinks you’ve had in a day.?”
“...12 hours? And… a shot or two?”

He grunts, surprised. “Last question. Have you ever contacted anyone regarding your alcoholism?”
“I did once. They put me on hold so I hung up and drank until I passed out. Shitty hotline if you ask me.” I shrug.
Dr. Bhernik nearly laughs a little, but clears his throat. Glad this guy’s got some semblance of a sense of humor. 

“Ooookay, there we go. Like I said, we’re going to be evaluating your sleep tonight. Just the normal 8 hours with wires strapped to your head, any repeats if we need to study anomalies, and you should be good to go with that.”

Great. I can’t sleep without a bunch of shit on my head, and now I need to do it for eight hours and stuck to a computer with a bunch of random doctors watching me.

“And what happens if I can’t sleep?”
“We can just give you an at-home test, and if you still can’t sleep then it can mean a lot of things. You might just be stressed because of all the wires. You might genuinely struggle to sleep. But trust me, it’s likely you’ll get more than an hour of sleep, since that’s around the amount we need.”

9 AM 

My head starts to pound again as I walk back to my room. The light in the room feels like salt’s being poured into my eyes, and I have to look at the floor in order to see without my vision going blurry. It’s then where I remember that I’m wearing a medical gown and not my normal clothes, and I see my chest and the bandage from the stomach pump poking out. Having shitty eyes but not shitty enough eyes to not be able to see my tits sucks.

I slip into the bathroom, and it’s immediately clear how empty it is. It’s the same bare color as the rest of the room. There’s a tiny container of new toothpaste with a skinny blue toothbrush meant for a boring children’s dentist that traumatizes their patients for life. I grab the tightly-packed-together shrink wrap with my clothes in it, and use my teeth to open it. I’m too lazy and weak to just pull it open. I slip into my middle school black hoodie (I haven’t grown since then, might as well keep it) and grind my teeth from the pain of it sliding against the thick bandage. It’s not too bad of a pain, but it’s not exactly a pleasant one, either. Doesn’t help that I can still see my chest, too.

Wait, can I even put this on yet? Am I supposed to still be wearing the gown? No one’s really told me and I didn’t run into any nurses – not like I was trying to look for one with the flash grenade of light in my fucking eyes – so I’m just guessing. It’s not like they’re strapping the wires to my bare ass or something. Eh. I put on the rest of my clothes and go to brush my teeth, but give myself a long stare when I notice how I look.

My skin, even with the excessive freckles on my body, is pale. It looks like I’m dead with how the medium brown’s been grayed, and my signature eye bags digging even further into my cheeks. I look skinnier in general, actually. Maybe it’s because I haven’t eaten anything in a bit, either. I look at my hair, and it stops. It’s shorter than usual, too. I slowly lift my arms to feel it out, but my dumbass realizes it’s a hairnet and I pull it off. My half-wavy, half-kinky brown hair flops to my shoulders, and my heart can beat normally again. My mother never let me cut my hair since I came out, so my hair being fucked with is one of my biggest fears. She’s Dominican, for Christ sake, and she and my Russian dad get scary when they’re mad. I got a good mix of both of their traits: my skin, my hair, my eyes, and my lips from my mother, and everything else – including my eyebags – from my father. I also got a little of his stubble growing in ever so annoyingly slow. It’s probably a hair every year, at this point.

I wince at myself. Why am I thinking about them, of all people? 

I continue to rot in bed for what feels like minutes but ends up being hours, flickering my eyes shut and open for a pocket of time where I can trick my brain into a minute of sleep. That’s not how sleep works, though, so I’m not the most successful. I think of Lola and Eddie, and everything that’s happened with them. I think of every person I’ve met and laughed with, drank with, fucked, hugged, and realized none of them have visited me yet. Sure, most of them I knew for not even a day or two, but from the way they laughed at my stupid humor and the way they got me through hangovers and blackouts, I’d think they’d hear about it.

Does anyone even know I’m here? Does anyone care that I’m here? For a second, I think back to when I first woke up, unable to form the structure for a sentence. A part of me misses that feeling, the feeling of not being able to understand anything. The feeling of melting into my own head.

The flickering attempts to sleep turns into a long stare. My eyes sink in a little more. My body becomes a little number. 

My hands begin to sweat.

11 AM

“Dona?”

I whip my head around and see a few nurses standing with a cart with a metal lid on it. I haven’t seen any of them before, but this hospital’s deceptively big enough for me to miss the majority of nurses.

“Boris.” I correct.
“Oh, but the–”
“It’s a nickname.” I interrupt her. 
“Oh, sorry. They don’t tell us anything here!” One of the girls snickers while the others seem to agree with her. “Here’s some food for you, we realized you never picked any food out for your lunch so we just gave you whatever had the most nutrients for you.”

I open the lid, and it’s a sweet potato with a bowl of honeydew and melons. From how people describe these places’ food, I would have expected to get boxed microwaveable sweet potatoes and McDonalds apples or something. Maybe it is that bad and my empty stomach is screaming too much to care. I scarf down the food, finishing most of it a few minutes after they leave. My stomach’s immediately sore from the amount of food I ate, but I can deal with it.

There’s a part of me that wants to be a whiny bitch and say that the sweet potato was cold and the fruit was mushy, which is true. What’s the saying, though? Beggars can’t be choosers? Yeah, I stopped being picky a while ago.

I finish the food, and I leave the cart next to the bed. I feel my annoyed feelings subside for a bit with the food in my stomach. It was a fullness that almost weighed me to the bed, even if it was such a small meal compared to what people have normally. Maybe it was just that I hadn’t eaten since the coma. Maybe it was something else.

I don’t have a phone, so entertainment sort of came in the cars on the street, televisions looming over friend’s couches, and views from different windows. I know how to pass my time and keep myself busy. It’s something I’ve had to learn over these past few years. Windows sort of give you new perspectives on places, even if it’s the same shitty smell of cars and food you can’t eat. It’s like looking at a stationary pair of eyes peering over some ever-changing microcosm of land and people. Or… something like that. It’s melted fucking sand that looks at the outside, and I like the outside. Jesus, I read too many newspapers.

The channels on the TV slightly hurt my eyes, but it’s either I hurt my eyes and lay down doing nothing or hurt my eyes a little. Random episodes of reality shows and crime dramas appear, and I look in the DVR out of curiosity to see if anyone had anything saved. In fact, there were hundreds of episodes of shows I hadn’t even heard of on channels I hadn’t seen. If this is an intensive care unit, that probably means a bunch of older people put this stuff on here.

One thing continues to appear randomly in some channels I would expect shows from, however. It’s a special report of something, but I keep passing it before hearing from it. I finally stop on one of the channels showing the news.

“– Stonebury Police have come to a grim conclusion in the mysterious disappearance of twelve people – six young men and one young woman, as well as five police officers – as they transition from a missing persons search to body recovery. They came to this conclusion through the duration of time the people had been in the forest. 

“We have come to the collective conclusion that – logically speaking and without any abilities in survival – all twelve people missing in the forest, including five of our own honorable men and women, have likely passed away.” He pauses. “We sincerely mourn the loss of these young, beautiful citizens of Stonebury, New York, and hope they will find their families in heaven someday.”

The SPD’s lack of elite officers investigating the case has sparked controversy surrounding the alleged mishandling of the disappearances.

“I, as a concerned citizen, just want some answers. I believe in every police officer here – all of them are American heroes, don’t get me wrong – I simply want answers as to why these children were not being attended to – by their parents and then the police.”

“Look, if this was the 70s or 80s, we would have assumed these kids found some pot, walked into the forest, and smoked so much their dumb***** forgot how to get out. But now we’re assuming it’s the fault of the police. The police didn’t lead ‘em in there. They put themselves in there.”

Some strong words there from that man – more coverage of this tragedy will come after these messages.”

Click.

I knew about that case. It lasted around eight months, and I only heard about it through the mouths of people who stared at the news or the rare time I’d be in a room with a TV and see it. I didn’t know anyone that’s missing, but some of my old friends – well, ‘friends’ – did. I think I saw a few of them, too, It sucks to say, but that second armchair Republican-looking guy was pretty much correct. Most, if not all, of the people in the forest went in there for drugs. It was a Venus flytrap for college students and dropouts to drink and drug themselves to death. Drugs that I saw and drugs I occasionally did. Acid, various mystery pills like those Beanboozled packs of gross-tasting jelly beans, weed, things that bordered on scary but never as bad as full-on coke or heroin.

Even with her riding for the police like they’re perfect godly beings, that first woman is also half-correct. Parents – at least in theory – attend to their children until they decide to fuck off somewhere else when they’re 18 or older. But the police is what I’m more interested in. All the faces of the officers that also got stuck in that forest are younger as well – definitely seemed like some sort of new recruit college hazing thing. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just distrustful.

But their faces said it all – the faces of those cops trying to come off as sad and upset that who they definitely, and correctly, thought were a bunch of fuck-ass crackheads, had probably died in a forest. Where it gets me at least passively curious is why the police had that sort of look for the newer recruits, the ones that attempted to help their fellow townspeople and likely died doing it. ‘Oh, First Name Last Name was an honored member of our task force, he will be dearly missed, prayers to his family’ with the deadest, uncaring face apparently ‘mourning’. It could be a face of boredom or a face of distraught dissociation, but only he knows.

I sort of wish I could be in both of their heads for a minute, just to see how close both of them were to unraveling the layers behind all the shit on the screen. 

I subconsciously decide that’s what I’m going to sit and watch for the next few hours, so I cozy up on top of my bed and continue watching every interview and account from other potheads. A few of them I recognize. 

I also see Eddie, looking more down-trodden than normal. His face is the same pale peach color as Lola’s, and has similar but less intrusive freckles than me. Thin brown eyes, dark wavy brown hair down to his shoulders, glasses, wispy mustache, goatee... he looks exactly how I remember him, except a little chunkier now. 

“There’s just been… there’s been a lot of loss for me recently, so… those were my guys, man. I just… I hope they’re wrong about that. For my sake and theirs.”

A sinking feeling slides my heart down to my stomach. Seeing Eddie look genuinely upset is what I think people seeing their fathers cry feels like. I mean, I didn’t exactly like Eddie – definitely don’t like him now – but living with a person for a couple years sort of gives you a familial sort of connection with them.  

I’m just glad I’ll be able to get out of here soon enough – maybe check in on Lola and tell them I’m still alive.

 
8 PM

The interviews and analyses ran until around 7 PM, and I had time to process everything. It sounds like an absolute shit show. Some of the parents refused to give interviews and they accused some of the news networks of writing them off as bad parents (they are), some people are just throwing out crazy conspiracy theories like Bigfoot or God stealing them away for their sins. I’m mentally preparing to have to dodge them and the cops like Crossy Road when I’m back out there.

I look at the clock one more time, carefully lift myself off the bed, and walk through the hallway back to the sleep testing room.

“Hi, Boris. Did you get any sleep?”

I laugh a little. “Nope. This forest story shit isn’t exactly helping either.”

Dr. Bhernik frowns a little. “Unusual, but far from impossible.”

“I really thought that week coma would at least feel like sleep, but… apparently not.”
“That was medically induced so you wouldn’t go brain dead.” He says blankly. “Your brain really wasn’t in the best shape to ‘sleep’.”
“I’m not really in the best shape for anything, but I still hauled my ass over here. It’s sleep to me.”

He shakes his head with an uncomfortable smile.

“I guess this is sort of a good thing. I mean, I used to sleep in way too much, so I guess this is my punishment.”
“I’m glad you’re so calm with this process. It’s helping the both of us. Really.”
I shrug again. “Nothing better for me to do. I’d rather be cynical and funny about almost dying last week than to be all traumatized and shut-in about it.”
 
Bhernik turns his head to me from his computer for a moment, knocking all the humor out of him in one expression.

“Honestly, Boris, from what I’ve been hearing about your incident, I think it’d be fair to be either.”

Again, I understand what he’s trying to do, and it probably won’t work. I doubt that he even cares about me enough to give a straight response. Too kind and I’ll just keep asking for the happy pills. Too straight, and I’d probably do what I did again, if I did anything at all. It’s the balance of being a doctor. Regardless, he won’t remember it for long. I doubt either of us care about my results or that joke or really anything: there’s hundreds of people waiting after me, anyway. This is his job, and I am his patient.

And… incident? He heard about my incident and I haven’t? 
 
He sighs. “Well, we’re going to evaluate your sleep patterns to investigate these sleep troubles you’ve been having. We’ll strap all the wires to your head – might take a bit because of all that hair – and evaluate your brain waves, heart rate, eye movements, everything that indicates your sleep.”
“Still don’t know about those wires all on me, though.”
“Don’t worry, they’re actually pretty non-intrusive. I have gotten the same question from a bunch of people and they fall asleep like they aren’t even there. And if you can’t, like I said, you can just take the test at home. There’s a kit you can take home and send back to us or another neurologist if you go elsewhere. I doubt you will be needing it though, you haven’t slept in two days so even if your brain won’t want to sleep, your body will need to.”
“Really hope that’s true.” I say, moving out of the way for the doctor to open the door into the sleep testing room.

I sit on the bed, and the doctors start strapping the wires to my head with small, cold pieces of tape. They part my hair a little to get closer to my scalp, which is a feat I would not have the patience to do, so I applaud their hard work. Afterwards, he steps to the side and starts typing on his computer. A few more nurses come in to check on me, and I even see Kayla wave to me.
 

I obviously feel the cold, tired eyes of the hospital workers, but it feels like a look I haven’t felt before. I could barely imagine going to school and spending that much money for that long without having a new look in your eye. I wonder if they have the same headache I have, closing my eyes and feeling them water with flashes of pain. Regardless, my watery eyes finally stay shut for long enough… 
 

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

I wake up in an operating room, a vibrant group of white lights baking my skin surrounded by pitch black. Despite the blurry dream-like rush of light and abstractions, I noticed every detail as if I was experiencing it in person. I feel like how I first woke up in the hospital: unable to move anything. Thankfully, my head and eyes can still move, but my throat feels too constricted to breathe. I can feel nothing but an operating blanket over my chest and a scraping feeling in my stomach. The sound reminds me of the gutting of a pumpkin, a feeling of emptiness accompanying the squelching of my organs against the operators’ hands.

My head finally jerks up when I feel the wrinkles and skin. Everyone looks abstract and glowy, like everything else around me. The surgeons do not have any gloves or mask on, swaying back and forth like drunkards as they scoop out gooey, crimson-colored piles of substance from what I can assume is my stomach. They all laugh slowly, the sound more similar to a gargle than anything recognizable. They snort like pigs as they rip at my stomach even more to take out more of the sludge. Their gazes never leave mine.

No effort was put into making sure my stomach was cut open cleanly; there are marks of additional attempts to cut into me that are much higher or lower than where my actual stomach would be. Holes cover my whole midsection, savagely sliced and stabbed at across my whole body. I can smell myself rotting, a smell of burnt meat filling the room. 

Every time the doctors pour out the substance into mason jars, a pressure enters me from my sides. Tubes connect me to the bed, flushing a clear substance into me to turn the blood and viscera into a syrupy mess. Eventually, the mixture drips from the hole inside me and spills onto the floor, and almost on queue, they place cups under the leakage. They put it to my lips, a metal, gamey taste entering my mouth and smearing on my tongue. I spit it out, but it doesn’t stop my vision from becoming blurred. Tears leave my eyes as my mouth feels sewn shut whenever I try to scream, but the tears are the same disgusting red coming from my body. In fact, the room begins filling up with it.

The walls, once white and clear, are now stained in my blood. I look around frantically, trying to find a way to move or escape, and I see another person in front of me.

It’s Lola. Their body is entirely ripped open, from their chest to the end of their stomach. Their once beautiful face is a pale blue, glasses broken on a desk next to them. Lola’s green plaid shirt, matching with their lime dyed hair, is ripped up on the ground next to their body.

Unable to take the scraping of my body, I pass out, my head like a cloud as it seems to drift off into the ceiling. 

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

10 PM

I wake up gasping in the same bed as before, now with a sore throat and heart swelling in my chest. Did I dream something bad? I… I can’t remember anything. The doctors all jump up when they see, and worried expressions appear on their faces. From the look of the lack of light outside, I couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few hours. I sigh, trying to close my eyes again, but this time I can’t even get them closed without them feeling like someone is scraping them out of my head. My eyes water out of the sheer embarrassment, and I go to move my arms over my face before realizing I didn’t want to make it look like I was having too much trouble. Maybe I needed a drink. Something to burn my eyelids shut. Maybe that would make this easier for all of us, and I could just leave. 

“I… need… I… need…”

No one could hear me, anyway. Even if I could say it, they wouldn’t hear. I suddenly pass out again, but I feel myself wake up after barely half an hour. All the wires were removed from my skin with a small shot of pain for each piece of medical tape removed.
 
While Dr. Bhernik discusses with the other doctors, there’s a look on his face that catches my eye. It’s one of a lack of confidence. I’m not sure if it’s in me or in himself.

The rest of the doctors leave, and only him and I are in the room together. My eyes are more tired than before, and that lack of confidence still reads in his eyes.

“Are you sure you didn’t have any issues with sleep before you got here?”

I shake my head, and the doctor covers his mouth with his knuckle in concern.

“Well, we definitely have enough info now…” He pauses. “All I can say is that there’s definitely dysfunction within your brain that’s preventing you from sleeping. What we consider sleep is a cycle of light sleep, deep sleep, and REM sleep. You entered REM sleep for a few minutes at most. Your heart rate was also the quickest at that point. Do you have a problem with night terrors?”

“I don’t remember them.” I respond.

“It’s likely the alcohol consumption. Overdosing multiple time can cause significant, permanent damage to your neurons, and at your age… that and the seizure—” 
 
My seizure?
 
I look up at him with a surprise that makes him realize I don’t remember what he’s talking about. “When did I have a seizure?”
“It’s not uncommon to lose memory of them. Drinking a tremendous amount of alcohol in one sitting is a way to cause seizures.”
“I was never told any of this. Why am I just knowing this now?” I put my hands up to my head as the reality of the situation dawns on me. 

I was dying. Not near death. Not at risk of dying. I was dying. I imagine how it felt, but nothing comes to mind. All I can think of is the shaking and the loss of control, which sort of just feels like what happens with alcohol in general. But a violent shaking, a shaking so violent I can’t think or move or breathe. A shaking my brain wouldn’t be able to handle, enough to where that shaking could be the last thing I could feel.
 
I was dying.
 
“Maybe that’s the memory loss. Or you were told while you were coming back to full consciousness and didn’t remember then.”
“No… I remember all that… I don’t think… maybe? I don’t know. I was in and out of consciousness for a bit. I can’t remember the last fucking week, either.”

Dr. Bhernik shakes his head. “I’ll ask Kayla to get you the police report. I’m… sorry. Truly. I hope you get help.” 

He opens the door. I walk out. My head spins, like I’m not walking straight when I most definitely am walking towards my room. Thoughts start cramming themselves into every fold and wrinkle in my head. I think back to when I first got up, and what I thought about then? How did I get that much vodka? I don’t even have a job, let alone the money for enough to kill me. How did I have a seizure from where I was and have no one find me for long enough to cause that much brain damage that quickly? 
 I want to be angry at something. I want to be angry at Kayla for not telling me something was wrong. I want to be angry at Dr. Bhernik for his stupid ass attempts at pretending to care about me. I want to be mad at Lola for not finding me. I want to be mad at Eddie. But all this is my fault.  

“Oh, Boris!” I turn, and Kayla is a bit across the hallway. “I was supposed to pick you up from the room. Are you okay?”
“Could be better.” I rub my eyes. “Do you… have the report?”
Kayla’s face drops from a professional neutrality to a solemn frown. “Yeah. It’s on your bed. If you need anything—”  

I speed back over to the room and see a large stack of papers. I’m almost scared to look at them. Maybe I could just pretend this was one of my normal accidents and just move on. But truthfully, I don’t know what the fuck is going on anymore, and I do need to know.

First page is a normal police report, stating my legal name and the description of… wait…

Is that Lola’s name? Why is Lola on here? How is Lola… 

There’s a description of everything that happened to me and apparently Lola. We were found in the back of a red Honda Civic car in Eddie’s name, unconscious with a bottle of 100 proof vodka spilled on the floor of the car. I was treated before I began seizing, where I was rushed to the hospital and everything that Kayla actually explained to me happened. They assume that either we were irresponsibly drinking or that we were attempting to commit suicide. Lola stopped… Lola stopped breathing at 7:20 PM. Attempts to save them were…
 
I flip to the next page.

It’s a death report.

It’s a death report for Lola Hertzwig.

August 11th, 2019
12 AM

The room fades from view.
Death by alcohol poisoning, heart failure. 
I can’t hear anything but my own breath begin to speed up.
Lola’s dead. Lola’s… 

My arms lose their strength. The papers suddenly feel like they weigh thousands of pounds. I shakily grab the bed sheets. 

I scream as loud as I can into them. I drench them with my tears, my spit. I scratch my arms, some deep enough to bleed on the sheets as well. I feel trapped in New Mexico again, with my Mami and Papi, trapped in that fucking house again. That fucking… 

Save me. Someone. Please. Tell me this isn’t true. Someone. Tell me this is some fucked up dream. Tell me I’m in the coma. Tell me I’m fucking dead. Please. No, I am dead. I’m dead and I died holding their hand in the car and I’m going to leave here and see them. I’m in heaven. Or hell. I’m dead. This isn’t real.

How could I forget them? How could I be so fucking selfish? How could I forget all that? This is all my fault. I got them to do this. I had to. Did I even say sorry? I want to say that this all makes me want to die again, but that’s how I fucking got here in the first place.

I go to snatch the report. I want to crush it. I want it to die. I want to feel it crush in my hands like it’s all bullshit and it never happened. I stop. My conscious comes back enough for me to put them down again.

3 AM

I don’t remember how long I cried. I know it wasn’t short. My eyes burn from the light and from how much I rubbed them. I check in the mirror and they are swollen. I ripped my hair out. Strands of hair are splayed out on the bed.

I pick up the report delicately as I leave the room, spiritless. A nurse I don’t recognize walks past.
“Do you…”
“I’m sorry, did you need help?” She asks.
“Do you know where… where Kayla is?”
The woman, a bit bigger and darker than the rest of the workers here with a short afro, ducks a little bit to look at my eyes. “I can help you if you want.”
“No, it’s… fine.” I notice I’m almost whispering. “Where’s Kayla?”
“Probably helping another patient.”
“...when can I go home?”
“Well, is someone pickin’ you up?”
I shake my head.
“Well, you've got to get cleared to go.”
“They told me… after my sleep test…”
“Well, I guess you can check with reception.”
 
I nod as I silently walk to the desk. I am silent on my way to the receptionist desk.
“Just need your insurance.”
“I don’t… I know what it is. I don’t have my card.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I don’t have—”
“You have to speak up, ma’am.”
“I don’t have my fucking insurance.” I hold my tears in.

The person behind the desk is silent for a bit, then starts typing into the computer. “What’s their names?”
“Edgor Torros and Mari Sacara. They live in Roswell, New Mexico…”

I have to repeat my parents’ information over and over in a pathetic mumble multiple times, all while my brain whispers to itself. I feel like so many things. I feel like a fraud, a rotting body dragged by some devil, a murderer. Everything except for myself.

 “So… I can leave?”
 “Well, everything with the insurance needs to be processed and you have to be released. After that, you should be good to go.”

I nod, knowing full well I would not be coming back to that hospital, nor would I be contacting any of the mental health resources or alcohol anonymous things they gave me. I’m a grown ass adult, anyway, they can’t make me. On one of them, there’s a little illustration of a little girl holding her mother’s hand, and I rush to the elevator before anyone can see me cry.

4 AM

I stuff myself in a corner, tears falling on the papers as I continue reading them. Their face and skin turned to a pale blue quicker than anticipated. Their cheeks were damp, likely due to the pain of the alcohol ripping through their system. Vomit was found to be covered on both sides of the car. They were found to be shaking moments before they died.

I hear the elevator open multiple times, going up and down with people leaving and entering. I don’t stop to see if they notice me crumpled up on the floor. I just think of Lola’s beautiful face. How I ruined it by killing them, violently and painfully. I pull my knees to my chest.

I don’t know how long I spent in the elevator either. I eventually force myself out, stumbling outside, stuffing all the papers in my hoodie as my face wrinkled and curdled over the same few thoughts entering and exiting my head.
 
Getting outside made it so much worse. There’s a smooth late night autumn breeze, and the traffic is beginning to speed up as people head to work. The sound of those rushing cars, birds chirping, wind rustling, grass calmly leaning on one another, the Moon out without having to peek behind the clouds.

How can things be so normal and peaceful with everything I’ve learned? At least in the room, I felt the agony bounce across the room and echo back at me. Here, there are no walls. There is no room. Everyone is just living. No one understands what I’m going through except for myself. 

5 AM

I find a bench near the hospital to sit at, where I lean into the armrest and push my hands into my sleeves. I hide my face from the people going in and out, but I can still see a few confused glares. Maybe they think I’m some bum finding warmth.

I don’t deserve help. After what those papers said? Fuck no.

Those papers rot in my brain, overtaking every thought trying to calm me down or think of my hungry stomach. Even the idea of getting home fades. Do I deserve a home? I took Lola’s away from them, and they didn’t even have to give it to me. I think of their rotting body, slowly melting into that chair as the bugs chip away at the dimples that made me smile, their throat that sang out their favorite songs, sucking out all the warmth and blood, with only their spirit left.

I don’t think I’m hungry anymore, actually.

I think of Dr. Bhernik again. How can he be sorry? This can’t be the first time he’s had to deal with a patient whose facing a loss. And I don’t give a shit about his doctorate, he cannot will me to stop feeling this feeling, this guilt and this grief.
 
I let out a loud-drawn out sigh, allowing for the stress to lessen by even a little bit, but it still sticks in my chest like a tar. I try to clear the echoing sound of the highway, looking around to see if it helps at all.

The hospital looks like the main building off a college campus from the outside, having a whole section of land made of mostly parking lots and mulch. Windows blocked with various colored of blinds brighten up the gray and white look of the building. The bushes give it a little bit of a deep green color, but most of them are withering away and are too spaced out to completely block out the colorless, fading walls.

I throw out the papers in a trash can, but notice something on the back of one of them: a number. One sketched into the back of one of them with fluid handwriting much better than my own. I can guess that it’s Kayla’s, I don’t think anyone else would give me their number in that place. I hate her denture-esque smile and her attempts at correcting herself for me, and I hate that she never told me what happened until I’d already been here for how many days, but she’s been the only positive person I’ve been around that I actually sort of appreciate the existence of. I rip off the number from the paper, and I see a group of telephone booths in one little group around an array of flowers, which I walk over to and dial the number into. It’s one of those weird spinning ones, so it takes forever for me to put it all in.

“Hello? Who’s this?” Kayla asks.
“Hi. It’s Boris. Boris Sac—”
“Boris!” I can hear that damn smile on her face. “I’m so glad you called me! So – I can’t seem to find you. Are you outside?”
“Yeah. Is that a problem?”
“Well, of course you’re allowed to be outside since you don’t have any injury that would prevent your movement. Everyone was just worried about what happened to you, especially because… can I ask you an unusual question?”
“...sure.”
“You should be allowed to leave in around an hour. But… you wouldn’t mind staying for another hour, would you? I’m done for the day then.”
“I guess. Maybe I could sneak in there and ace a two-hour night shift. Mind if you sneak me in there?”

She lets out a nervous laugh. “I’ll think about it. I did want to talk to you about something when I get out of here, though, so try not to get too antsy. I’ll be there in a second.”
“Two hours, you mean.”
“Yes. Two hours.”
“Okay—”
“Actually, you don’t have to! I get that it’s a sensitive topic, so I’ll totally understand if you don’t want to.”
“Cool, I’ll see — oop.” She hangs up before I even say goodbye. 
 
I lean at the telephone booths, staring at the automatic door.

This woman barely spoke with me while I was there. Why does she care to speak with me so much? I guess it’s a nurse’s job to coddle their patient like babies, especially if they’re dying, but I’m not even in the damn hospital anymore. I mean, she’s got a life, no? She’s probably with a boyfriend or a husband – yes, I will assume she’s straight – in her life. Why is she wasting her time talking to her patients?

7 AM

Eventually, after pacing back and forth and trying to sleep to no avail for what feels like forever, I see her leave through the doors, purse in one hand while she wears a brown turtleneck, black jacket, and black skinny jeans. Her hair is tied up in a little bun, which doesn’t really look the best, but I guess it’s practical for her job.

“Hi, Boris,” She speaks in this happy, sort of somber tone, sort of like if a person’s greeting a half-dead person in a hospital bed. I guess I feel half-dead, so that’s not too inaccurate.

“Sorry for the… weird request. I know today’s been… a lot for you – it’s been a lot for me too, first day and… everything – so you really don’t have t—”
“What did you want to ask?” I say, exasperated at her repeating herself.
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. I talk a little too much.” She shrugs. “Workin’ on it.” 

I stare at her, still waiting for her to ask the question.

 “Right. Well, I just wanted to ask you where you’re from around here. Again, weird question, but—”
“There’s a bunch of houses that are on a hill or something. It’s at a bit of an incline. I lived there with my partner and their brother, but… I guess just my brother’s in there now.” I shake my head, still shellshocked.
Kayla nods. “And you moved in together for a while?”
“I moved in 2016, around October. If you consider that a while ago, then…”
“Okay. So the ACTUAL question I wanted to ask is… where did you live before that?”

That question immediately seems off-putting to me. “Why do you want to know?” She goes to talk again, but I cut her off because I know she’s about to repeat herself. “Even if I don’t have to answer, why do you want me to answer?”

Kayla sighs. “I was worried.”
“About?”
“The situation you’re in.”
“What situation?”
“Well, you nearly died. You’re barely an adult and yet no one visited you for the whole time you were there. No friends, no relatives, not even your parents. So… that’s why I wanted to know.”

I think for a moment. I’m 19 now, 20 in December. So they can’t legally bring me back to my parents because I’m not really reliant on them anymore. I might as well answer and get this whole interaction over with, right? 

I sit back down on the bench. “I was born in Roswell.”
“Roswell? What state is that in?”
“It’s out West. Pretty far out west.”
“Like California out West?”
“Mmm, New Mexico out West.”
“You’re from New Mexico? I would have never expected that!”
“I feel like I’d get that a lot. You know, if I told more people. But yeah.”
“Well, how’s the East Coast treating you and your family?”
“Well, that’s the thing. I don’t live with my family. They’re still in Roswell. At least that’s the last place I saw them.” I don’t really care what she does with that information. I don’t have many people left, so I don’t care anymore.
“The same ex that…”

I can’t even get mad at her for how stupid of a question that is, so I just stare at her.

“Oh. Sorry. Do you still live with their brother?”
“No, I found somewhere else to live.”
“I’m glad you’re able to tell a stranger this stuff.” She finally smiles, getting rid of that somber look from before. I don’t smile back.
“I don’t have many other people to talk to. So there’s no reason why I wouldn’t be able to talk with you. Maybe because you’re older than me.”
“Listen, I’m an advanced age, I’m 28. I’m not old.” She puts her hand on her chest.

We both laugh a little before she flips to the next page of her clipboard.

“Did you know your parents marked you as missing? The police chief in Roswell announced your 18th birthday last year. Since it’s been a while past the threshold, they were speaking like you were dead.”

Why would the police announce my birthday? Why would my parents mark me as missing? Why aren’t my parents on the news? She’d curse the teachers out so much when I was still in school I’m surprised they didn’t revive the damn Witch trials for her ass.

How did Kayla even figure all this out? She didn’t… she didn’t get all this from my parents, right? I tense up. She already knew I lived in Roswell? She had to have if she knew about the police chief. Has she spoken to them? Did she tell them I was here?

“You haven’t contacted my parents, right?” I ask nervously.
“Did you want me to? I have their contact information—”
“No.” I say directly and firmly, which makes Kayla jump a bit. “Kayla, if you actually care about me at all, don’t tell them I’m here.”

She looks wide-eyed at me, which takes a bit to fade away as she lets out a breath.

“Well, you’re not a minor, so I can’t move you over there again even if I wanted to. I have the video of your parents doing an interview with the news stations around the area.”
“Even if I wanted to see their ugly asses again, I don’t have a phone.” 
“Understandable. And… I guess I sort of understand?”
“You really don’t.” I shake my head.

She takes a breath. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, but… trust me. I get it at least a little. I switched from social work to nursing because social work isn’t a ‘real medical job’. My mother’s a surgeon, and my father’s a cardiologist.”

That explains the clothes and the purse.

“They said they wouldn’t help with college if I went into social work. I settled on nursing instead, and that was good enough for them. Graduated with honors and ended up in the ICU, doing certifications until around 2 months ago. Now I live by myself a few minutes away.”
I laugh a little. “Your parents.”
She paused for a second. “...what about them?”
“Did they beat you?”

Her eyes widen significantly, shaking her head profusely. “What?! No, no, why would you think that?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t.”
She looks down at her shoes and cracks her left hand. “You seem really lonely.” She suddenly blurts out.

Where’d that come from? I don’t know whether to be offended or feel like this person’s actually honest with me. No one’s been like this in a while. People usually have this fake toxic positive attitude that has to give their dick to kiss every conversation regardless of what it’s about. ‘Oh, no, I don’t think you’re too quiet, even though you sit in the corner of the lunch room every day with your binder of Pokemon cards. You’re just shy and need to get out of your shell.’ Stuff like that.

“I’m not a big fan of people, I don’t think.” I itch my face.
“Am I not a person?” She smirks.
“You’re the first person I’ve had a conversation with in probably a couple months. We’re social creatures, I guess.”

She nods with a closed smile, and goes to get up, purse re-adjusted to the middle of her shoulder.

“And, uhhh, listen.”

I know exactly where she’s headed with this.

“I heard about everything that happened with your partner, and… that report was such a horrific way to figure out that they’re gone. I should have told you again if you never heard me. That was my fault. You’re still so young, and I don’t mean to talk down to you, but you’re going to be growing, and growing up with such a grim look at things… it’s not healthy. If you… listen, if you need someone, any kind of support, just come to me. You have my number on that paper.”

“I don’t need your help.” I say blankly.

I see Kayla’s face sour, but I think she knows my problem enough to understand my apprehension. I’ve got no parents, an alcohol reliance, and a dead partner at the golden age of 19. “I’m still glad we could talk.”

“Yeah. Thanks for interrogating me.”

The same nervous laugh as before comes back as she walks to her car: an Acura… oh, Mercedes Sedan – I really need glasses – which looks all-white (appropriate) and brand new – definitely from this year. She is a nurse and she does have rich ass parents, so I guess she put her money into a car that is basically her whole personality. She backs out of her space, smiles at me, and drives off.

Her first patient was me. What a shit way to start.
I pull up my hood and begin my walk back home. 

8 AM 

Stonebury, New York: the mid-state area people drive through to get to bigger, better places. The highway, splitting the town in two main sections, is jammed as per usual, with all its mile-long straight paths under bridges and bushy trees. The streets curve into big-name restaurants and stores, rest stops and gas stations making more money off their pot than their petrol. Regardless, this is one of my favorite places to walk. The buzz of the cars, the constant accidents turning the vehicles into herds of slugs, and the random smells you experience. You might smell the different foods of a restaurant that you’ve never been in, or you might smell the exhaust of the thousands of cars stretching out for miles. 

I walk through the long stretches of Stonebury, the sidewalk fading out to grass, open street, and back again every few miles. Occasionally, a sparkling New York pond, a mall strip, or a pretty little park would reveal itself, but it didn’t stop most of it from being trees or the opening to a city.

Speaking of trees, I spy on the forest looming over the broken down skate park and a section of the highway. The sidewalks dips into a grassy hill, leading downwards in awkward curves into the park. It had been entirely covered in graffiti, which actually makes it look way better than the boring ass blank concrete it used to be.

It somehow looks different now, even if the bodies within its various trees and wildlife are tucked away. It looks darker, like someone shut off the lights inside of it. It probably is different now: with all those drugs in there the whole ecosystem’s probably mutated into mushroom-and-percocet-filled deer walking on their hind legs.

In fact, despite most things looking the same, everything felt different. Lola made everything feel so… I don’t know. Things made more sense with them around. Life made more sense. I had a reason to stay put and not do anything overly destructive – drinking and the occasional drug being the exception. Now, I feel more like a wanderer than I already was.

The news of the forest deaths is so fresh their missing posters are still nailed to the walls of businesses and power lines. What if I were one of them? What if I walked in there and some animal ripped at my body until it was shredded across the grass? I guess it would hurt, but it’d be quick. I’d cry out in pain, but it’s not like I would have to do it again after that. Might make it an interesting death for some murder mystery podcast if they cover how violent and gory my death was, too. It’d be good for most people.
 
I would definitely miss it here, though. Hell, I’ll never go anywhere else. Stonebury has become a forever home for me, even with all the skeletons trapped in my metaphorical closets. I’m happy with that. 

Every mile of road and sidewalk memorized and mapped out in front of me. I know all the nooks and crannies where homeless people go to hide out. I know every alleyway tunnel into a club or getaway spot from the police. And, I know every house where chicks or dudes or something in between sell weed or booze out of their garage for sex while high out of their minds on something new every day. The payment would vary in convenience because being high and fucking aren’t the best combo when the high turns full-on manic or emotional out of nowhere. Potheads are interesting creatures.

I do a generous amount of window-shopping on my trips back and forth. Sometimes I enter them and hum the songs that bleed from the speakers in stores I can’t buy anything from. The stores always loop the same fifty songs anyway, so walking past them for years kinda makes them get stuck in your head. Some of them are songs from my parents’ radio, which give me this conflicting, stagnant feeling.

I don’t hear a lot of Lola’s music in public, which makes sense. They were a huge metal head, and screaming and loud ass electric guitars hadn’t been the thing since my parents were kids. Metal was pretty good for me, honestly. When I blacked out, I would only remember I went out because of the ringing of my ears.

9 AM

When I turn into Eddie and Lola’s neighborhood, older kids play ball on the edge of the road while their parents stare at me. Some of the kids stare at me too, but most of them look too focused on their own games to look at a random boy crossing through their neighborhood. Most of them have probably never seen me since I’m usually never out at this time, but I ignore them, only watching them through the corner of my eye. It’s almost like no one that lived there died, everything happening like it did before. They sit from homemade wooden porches or folding chairs under ranch houses painted a boring beige or gray. Some are a little different and are DIY-ed with maroon paint. Regardless, I’m still jealous.

One thing I’m not jealous of is the stupid little incline going into the neighborhood. What stupid fucks decided to build a neighborhood where kids would be living on an incline? Some baby is gonna roll down into the street on their Big Wheel and end up on a billboard.

Eventually, the scent of his cinnamon apple vape fills my nose, and I turn towards his house. I don’t see him, and the light in the top floor where Lola’s room is on, weirdly a different color than it was before. The house looks like the other houses in the neighborhood: plain, I guess a little bigger, and still looking the same as it did when I last saw it. Something in me keeps telling me to just go back home, but this feels like my home regardless of how I left it. 

What would I even say to Eddie, though? He probably thinks I’m dead, and I honestly think that would be the best possible scenario. Both of us died, and he can figure out what he’s going to do without knowing that I made it out by sheer karmic bad luck.

I realize that I’m just standing staring at this man’s house with people thinking I’m some stalker there. Maybe they recognize me, I don’t know. I go to walk in the other direction.

Suddenly, I hear the door creaking. My first instinct is to look away, but something in me feels like he already knows I’m there. I’m right.

Eddie opens the door in only his body hair and his briefs, immediately staring at me. He stares like I’m some zombie dragging its awakened corpse through the sidewalk, a mash of surprise and fear mixing with each twitch of his eye.

I walk backwards, stepping onto the driveway, then the stairs of his house. As I approach them, I wonder why I’m back here in the first place. Alcohol? Probably. To see our old room? Also probably. Which one’s the real reason, though?

He’s still staring at me. I stare back. To be fair, it makes sense why he’s so shellshocked by me. There isn’t really a guide on how to talk to guys you thought were dead for the past week. Hell, there isn’t a guide on how to talk to a guy you kicked out of the house two years ago.

“Hey.” I say. 
 He says nothing.
 I turn my head to look behind him. “Can I –”
 He shifts out the way for me to come in. Concern stops me from moving for a second, but I eventually duck in.

- - - - - - - - -  - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

May 2017
2 AM

Lola grabs my hand as we traverse through the house, clogged with drunk bodies and to the brim with drunken musk. I mean, I’m also drunk as fuck, so I have absolutely no right to say that like I’m any less fucked up. I can barely stay upright, my eyes glazed over even more than normal and are constantly watering while the music wobbles to my movement, and bubbles pop in my head and stomach. Every slight brush against any other person leads me to tense up like I’ve never felt another human body before.

We retreat to the kitchen, where not many people are hanging out other than people banging at the fridge asking for more beer to magically pop out. Drunk people are so stupid.

“The cops are gonna fuck Eddie up later!” I say with a drunken giggle.
“They have. Long as his dumbass parents continue to give zero fucks and just bust him out whenever he gets in trouble, he’ll do it until a pig dick screws his brain back together.”

Lola swears even more than me, which is a surprise considering I swear constantly when I’m off my ass. Stupid bad habit, but I couldn’t give a shit if I tried.

Finally, after sitting on the dirty, crumby, shitty kitchen floor for what seems like hours, trying to keep my neck from snapping from how much I’m swaying, Eddie stuffs himself around a few people to get over to us. He looks even more tired and messy than usual, which is definitely saying something considering the constant bags over his eyes. Again, can’t really say shit, but whatever.

“Fuck, man, these crowds are fuckin’ ridiculous.” Eddie says.
“If your fat ass can’t fit through, why’d you invite so many people?”
“I’m skinny, Lola. And my ass is not—”
“Oh, take the compliment.” I blurt out before my brain can even process what he said.
“My ass ain’t fat.” He glares at the two of us, which just leads me and them to laugh. I cannot take Eddie seriously, even when he’s genuinely trying to be serious.
“Just climb on the ceiling. You’re tall enough to reach it by now.”
“I’m flattered, but no. Someone would record that shit. No amount of booze would be able to live that shit down if I fell.”
I shrug. “Your loss then,” I say, opening the fridge for another beer and slinging it down.
“I’m kinda gettin’  tired. You two wanna crash upstairs?”
“Your goons aren’t gonna set the house on fire?” Lola asks.
“They ain’t that stupid.” Eddie assures them.
“Sure.” I roll my eyes, stumbling my way up the stairs. I have to grab onto the railing as well as the wall to get up the stairs, my legs a pair of sky-high stilts and my head an empty cloud. I grab onto the walls to get to the bedroom, which Eddie thankfully locked, and Lola swerves into the bathroom.

Instead of going to his room, though, he keeps walking and sits on the bed.
“Wrong bedroom, dumbass.” I try to say normally, but a stupid laugh comes out again.

I expect Eddie to glare at me again, but instead, he closes the door behind me, locks it, and carries me over to the bed. I would usually attempt to beat the fuck out of him if he did this to me, but I just go limp in his arms and flop onto the bed like a suffocating fish.

He sits on the other side of the bed, his little laughs being a pretty minor but obvious sign that he’s had something to drink too. Eddie basically only drinks near his friends and does so at the absolute bare minimum, so he’s probably a lightweight.

“You don’t mind if I ramble, right, Bo?” 
I just smile at him, my mouth too loose to risk saying anything stupid to genuinely get him pissed off. Not only is he a lightweight, but he’s a lightweight with an ego with the toughness of a wet napkin. If you insult him good enough, he will flip on you in a second, and I’ve seen that with him and Lola. It’s pretty funny to watch.

He sighs. “Bo… I’m just… I don’t wanna do this no more.”
“Do what?” I finally get out in my stupid brain-space.
“I don’t wanna lie to you and Lola. I don’t think you’re a good fit for ‘em.”
“What are you talkin’ about?” I respond, still slurring my words as I feel myself get actively drunker. 
“I dunno, man, since you met ‘em, they’ve been different. Even when it was just an online fling, I could tell they were, you know... too into you. You know what I mean?”
“No.” I laugh.

He completely ignores my reaction. “They’ve been changin’ their hobbies ‘n likes for you, tried alcohol before you even got here, had more panic attacks. Everythin’ you said about your parents hit ‘em hard. I mean, we never had issues that bad with ours, but them thinkin’ about you getting hurt that bad… shit, it broke their heart, man. They’d talk about you to me and you could just tell… it was like ‘em seein’ it happen in person.”

“Awww.” I say in reaction. I feel like I’m under a translator, trying to say what I mean while my brain slips over itself.
“But even if I think you two ain’t the best for each other… Lola loves you. There’s no denyin’ it at this point. And I guess I’ve been denyin’ shit ‘bout myself, and I ain’t a hypocrite.”
“Like whattttt?”

He looks over to me, who’s been trying to get comfortable in the bed the whole time while loudly groaning.
“I know someone like you, ‘cept he’s got a dick. And the more I’m with ‘im and start to feel sympathetic for him… I get this feelin’… this feelin’ of… Fuck…”
“You’re a dick muncher, aren’t you?”

It once again slips out of my mouth, slippery with alcohol and withering consciousness.
He shrugs. “Yeah. Good way to put it, actually. I think of wantin’ to make ‘im feel better, even for a second. I think of kissin’ him. I think of doin’… other things to ‘im. Just to get ‘im to forget it. Who knows, maybe he’ll make me feel somethin’ too.”
“Dick muncher.” I mumble.
“Yeah. I guess,” He laughs to himself. “I mean, I still like women, I just… I think I’m bi.”
“Cool.” I also mumble. I’m struggling to stay awake at this point. Eventually, I just stop fighting it and close my eyes. The last thing I see is him smiling at me as he gets into bed.

1 PM

I wake up in my bed with a random person under the covers, a familiar splitting headache gluing me to my current position and a slow motion feel to whatever movement I make. I’ve been in this scenario before. Usually I check the person to make sure they aren’t naked to make sure nothing happened. Fighting through the headache, I lift the covers.

I breathe out in relief. It’s just Eddie, and thankfully he’s not naked. If he was, I might have vomited immediately after seeing him. His boxers save me from that hairy, disgusting, unwashed, sweaty reality. No problem with hairy dudes, some just wear it more gracefully. And Eddie is not one of them.

I slip out of bed with all my clothes in tact, opening the door to a sea of sweat and bodies on the floor. Apparently, the police got too bored of coming over or something and didn’t bust the party. Or maybe the music just shut off so everyone just passed out collectively. I try to kick some of them awake, but most of them are too knocked out to even feel anything.

Entering the bathroom only further adds to the scents in my nose, some people passed out inside other people while others sit passed out near the toilet. It’s filled with… Jesus, I don’t even want to rethink of what that was. Checking in the shower made me giggle a little, as I see Lola sleeping naked on two other people. After a few minutes of trying to get them up, I take the risk, removing all my clothes before I turn the shower on.

I gasp. The hot water is gone, and Lola starts to get up.
“Morning, gorgeous.” I say.
They take off their glasses, rubbing their eyes and groaning at the cold water. “Likewise. Nice view.”
I’m standing over them, so obviously they can see my back and ass. Didn’t know Lola had it in them to somehow be horny while hung over.
“You’ve seen much more.” I smirk. I wash everything that needs to be washed, help Lola wash as well (and maybe getting some peeks of their ass and nuts as well), and carry them with a towel back into our room. We are immediately spooked out of our skin by Eddie, still only in his boxers while standing like a statue at our door frame.

“Where were you, Lola?” He asks.
“Passed out in the bathroom taking a bath.” Lola replies. “You’re gonna have fun cleaning that up, by the way. Whole bathroom looks like it fuckin’ exploded.”
“Great.” Eddie says breathily. He changes the subject to me.
“Sorry for all that private shit with you, the alcohol made me all gushy, so I dumped it all on ya. Shouldn’t have done that, but you know I don’t drink.” He scratches at the inside of his boxers, making me cringe a little.

But… personal shit? I don’t even remember him coming into the room with. Come to think of it… I don’t remember anything from last night. It just kinda seemed like I skipped a whole day.

“You blacked out, didn’t you?” Eddie looks at me with a disappointed expression.
I nod, and he rubs at his eyes in frustration.
“Well, I guess I’m tellin’ you both now ‘cuz you completely forgot, but… I’m bi.”
“Oh yeah, we knew.” I say.
“100% knew.” Lola says at almost the exact same time. Eddie looks at us in shock.
“How?”
“Gaydar’s a powerful thing.” I respond.
“It’s you?” They respond more harshly.
He shakes his head. “Other than that… shit, okay… honestly, I don’t like that you two are together.”
“Wait, what?” Lola cuts him off. “What’s wrong with us being together?”
“Yeah, they gave me a home when my ass was getting beat. And Lola’s pretty. You shouldn’t have anything to worry about.”
“I gave you this place.” He incorrectly corrects. “I helped them get you away from your parents. Without me you wouldn’t be here right now.”
“Sure, you’re right. You gave me the physical place. They gave me the home. They gave me the comfort. I appreciate you letting me stay, but I’m always going to appreciate them for reaching out for help in the first place for me.”
“I’d be happier for you if you stopped drinkin’ so much.” He completely changes the subject.
“God, can we not fuckin’ argue?” Lola taps me to put them down, still holding their towel. “Bo appreciates your help, Eddie. End of discussion.”
“But he’s ruining you, Lola.”
“He’s not ruining shit, Eddie. He makes living here a lot better, at least.”
“Wow, Lola. I’m your older brother and you can’t even tolerate me?”
“I don’t give a fuck that you’re my brother. That’s all you are to me. At least Bo’s more than just my boyfriend.”

Eddie and I fall silent as they shove their way to their room, shutting the door behind them.

I lean on the wall as Eddie breathes in and out, clenching and loosening his fists as to not go off on either of us.
“Eddie—” I go to speak to him.
“What?”
“I’m not going to stick someone onto alcohol and abandon them. Hell, even if I did, I would have nowhere to live without them. We’re either both going to get help eventually or we’re going to watch each other rot with it. I’m lucky someone even wants me considering I’m just a short dude with tits.”

“Sometimes I think about us leavin’ ‘em alone in this place. Wouldn’t last a fuckin’ week. I have the job, and I make the money here.  

The part about leaving Lola here to discipline them on how living by themselves actually feels like makes sense, at least in a frustrated line of thinking. The part that concerns me is the “us” in leaving.

“...us?” I ask. “Who said I’d leave with you?”
“It was a hypothetical—”
“I’m gonna get one thing straight to you: I don’t give a fuck about your opinion about our relationship. If you wanna be a whiny bitch about it, kick me out. See how fast they’ll leave you here on your own. Then all you’ll have here is your friends who only talk to you because you give them free alcohol. We’ll be completely fine. I’ve been through worse, and Lola would be so much better off without your ass nagging them 24/7. Like Lola said, we tolerate you. You’re their brother. I’m your acquaintance. That’s it. Don’t like it? Tough shit.”

I walk past Eddie into Lola’s room, spying on them with their Nine Inch Nails t-shirt scrolling through their phone. Everything about them is still perfect, even when they’re clearly pissed off. Same light skin, same messy green hair, and still blasting their headphones out with “The Downward Spiral”.

I lie with them, and they play with my hair.
“You didn’t hear anything I said, right?” I ask.
“It’s whatever, heard him bitch enough time to probably guess.”
“I could tell you if you want. It was really funny.”
“Eh, it’s fine. Don’t worry about him.” They suddenly start laughing.
“What?” I smile.
“Now that we know he likes cock and he bitches all the time… fuck, he’s probably such a loud moaner.”
I burst out laugh. “Nah, nah, definitely a screamer.”

Our laughter echoes in my head.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

The house still has a distinct brown tint, with a fireplace surrounded with similarly colored tiles and a black granite inside. The rest of the walls in the living room have a sort of rustic look to it, with everything from the lamp to the bar counter share that same tint. Not a very interesting looking house, but that’s probably because I was in it for however long. The silver fridge stands out like a sore thumb among everything, but everything’s still surprisingly clean.

There’s also the distinct odor of the same vape in the house. It’s funny how he treats the place, considering his parents actually own this house as a second house that they never use and Eddie pays for half of it. Rich people shit. I’ve only really seen them once when I first got here, but other than then they never showed up again. Maybe I scared them out the house.

As soon as I glance at Eddie, who walked to the left of me, he stands in front of the fridge and grabs a beer.

He catches me, and we begin to share this look. He sees the desperation to not open my mouth and ask for one. I see his embarrassment of losing that ‘social drinker’ title. There’s a bit of disgust and sympathy in the corners of our eyes. 

“I thought you never drank alone.” I mention, a bit of malice on my tongue.

He glares at me, knowing I already know how he would respond. He opens the bottle, but places it on the counter when he sees me staring at it. Instead, he grabs the vape from the table and takes a long drag, flipping the grill fan on and blowing into it. It’s all he’s been smoking for the past few years. If the store he went to didn’t have it, he didn’t smoke. It sort of is the cherry on top of his unwashed, wet dog smell aesthetic.

“Why are you here, Bo?” He asks blankly.
“I used to live here?” I mirror his tone.
There’s space between my response and his next question. “Are you at least gettin’ help?”

I don’t have to answer that question, and he knows that too.
Eddie sighs. “At least you didn’t end up like my guys in the forest. Bit of me wished you were, but…” He motions me to sit next to him. “I think we both need a talk.” 

Before I sit, I look in the fridge. Without even thinking, I check to see if Eddie is looking, slide a beer down my left pocket, then sit with it facing the armrest. The silence begins to fry the air with tension, and all we can do is think. 

Regardless of his grumpy tone and mood, and regardless of the sour look of his face, Lola and Eddie never acted like siblings that cared for each other, at least when I saw them here. They hated each other. If you heard them argue while in a different room, you’d assume they were a marriage couple in a shitty telenovela, not two blood relatives. They argued about the pettiest things. They hid stuff from the other. They lied to the other’s faces. They talked behind the other’s back.  Obviously there’s shit talk between siblings, I would know that. But at least there’s some respect folded into all that. Not them. To be honest, the mourning feels really… rehearsed. Not like he’s faking it… more like he’s doing it because that’s what you’re supposed to do when your little sibling dies.

“When’d you stop hating Lola?” I begin.
Eddie shakes his head and grunts. “I never hated ‘em. I didn’t like the way they acted or the way they spoke. They weren’t always like that. Even if I didn’t like parts of ‘em, I’d never be happy they’re dead. Besides, siblings are ‘sposed to hate each other. That’s normal.”
“Eddie, you threw them out of the house multiple times. That’s not normal sibling shit.”
“What else was I ‘sposed to do, man?” He says, frustrated. “I talked with ‘em, I argued with ‘em, screamed at ‘em for hours, trying to stop this exact thing from happenin’, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t convince them to do shit before the alcohol, imagine tryin’ with it.”
“And your solution was kicking me out the house?” I squint my eyes in confusion.
Eddie looks at me. “You were never the best influence on ‘em.”
It takes me a minute to answer. “And you were?”
He changed the subject almost immediately. “Y’know they were better, Bo. They were fine before…” He stops himself. 
“They were fine before me? That’s what you were going to say?”
“Bo…”
“What made you think that, exactly? Did you ask them? You know, when they were alive?”

He looks down, and hits his vape again. Eddie talks so loud through this inflated ego of his that pops with a simple confrontational response. His backbone’s one thin wood stick that snaps constantly. A man three years older than them can’t stop their suicidal sibling from leaving. 

In a way, I mostly blame him for Lola’s death. If he forced us to go to rehab, maybe we would have gotten clean eventually. I know he wasn’t the one that planned it with them. He wasn’t the one sitting in the car with them knowing there was a high chance we were dying that day. But Eddie saw the alcohol. Eddie gave them alcohol. Eddie let them leave that day.

“You’re pissed off at me. I get that.” He motions with his hands.
“Why didn’t you stop them from leaving?” I ask sharply.
“Thought they were goin’ to a party. They finally looked happier, and… I didn’t wanna ruin that, y’know?”
“So you saw Lola’s addiction get worse–”
“Because of you.”
“You saw Lola’s addiction get worse, their anxiety get worse, too. They become depressed. And then, out of nowhere, they get happier, buys unnaturally strong alcohol, and you thought that was a good thing? You had no suspicions at all of what that meant?”
“I couldn’t stop ‘em.” He dodges the question.
“So you really never asked them, then? You didn’t try to stop them or anything?”
“They were a grown ass adult. I’m not lockin’ ‘em in their room.”
“Nineteen is only legally an adult, they weren’t mentally an adult.”
“They have a window in their room. What if they jumped out?”
“Lola and I had a plan. They wouldn’t deviate from it. And you know Lola better than me. Which is why – whatever – drunks still have the ability to think critically when they aren’t drunk. Your house is big, but it’s not big enough for a person to die from a fall.” 
“I couldn’t stop ‘em.” He repeats.

We start fidgeting our hands awkwardly, and I can the guilt crawl into the folds under his eyes.

“I couldn’t move for a while. When I woke up from the hospital, I mean. Everything hurt like a bitch, had the worst headache of my life, and I couldn’t remember anything. Can’t sleep, either. I thought my withdrawals just got bad again, but after I saw the death certificate… I didn’t think that we – fuck…” My voice breaks, but I clear my throat.
 
I know it’s not healthy to keep my emotions trapped inside when I’m mourning. I’m using all my energy to not break down on this couch in front of him. But Eddie, who’s completely silent, is shit at comforting people. He’s had his fair share of moments with Lola and I, as well as some of his friends to prove that.

I don’t care if what I said made him upset. To be blunt, I said everything he deserved to hear. Eddie kicked me out of the house to get Lola sober and spent two years doing fuck-all to do that. He didn’t even ask where I went to live after that. 

11 AM

I take the hood off my head, smile a fake smile to myself, and stand up. “I’m going up to Lola’s room. Haven’t seen it since… you know, so maybe it’ll give me so closure.”

“I – uh… I think it’s better if we… talk down here.” He stutters, suddenly shifting himself closer to the stairs. “Yeah, I feel better here.”
“Oh. Okay. You can stay here, then. I’ll go up on my own.” I blow it off and go up the first step.
“I dunno, man, I… think you’d be better not seein’ it. For your own sake, y’know?” His wry, unnatural smile makes me nervous and a little pissed off.
“Eddie, you can’t tell me to stay out of this house, invite me in, then tell me where I can and can’t go. Why the fuck would I not want to see our old room? I want to see how they left it.” I start ignoring his pleas and walk up the stairs.

Eddie’s house has an upstairs area that’s essentially a big oblong hallway with Lola and I’s old room, some closets, and a guest bedroom that was, for some reason, the only one with a connected bathroom. I walk to our door, where the stickers from basement shows and local music venues they would bring me to were now paper remnants stuck to the door. 

Boxes huddled on the side of the door marked “Old Stuff”. A strange purple glow emits from the bottom of the door. I try to open it, but the door clicks. 

The glow suddenly shuts off, and Eddie finally makes it up the stairs, suspiciously at the same time.

I pull at the door, jerking my head around to him. “Who the fuck is in our room?!” 
“Bo, you have to calm –”
“Eddie, open the door.”
“Bo, I can’t –”|
“You have an extra pair of keys for every room in this house. Open the fucking door.”
All he does is stand there, a look of guilt in his eyes.
“Okay. Fine. I’ll get them then.” I run back down the stairs.

Thunk, thunk. “Guys, just…” He grunts angrily. “…come out for a second.”
 The door finally opens, and some people walk out. I walk back to the room, now rushing up the middle of the steps and down the hallway.

…what…?

I’m frozen in place. My lungs zip open and start to deflate.

All of Lola’s stuff… is gone. All of it. Their posters, their CDs, their pictures – everything. Someone took the room.  Eddie gave someone the fucking room a week after they died. The smells of alcohol, weed, and a bunch of other shit cloud the smell of their old cologne. A lava lamp sits on the table holding up the TV at the foot of the bed. There’s some random fucks in the room I don’t pay attention to, even as they trip out of the room or struggle to stand off the floors. I just focus on the room. I don’t recognize anything.

I turn the light on. I can see their memory trapped behind the thinly painted grayish blue walls, a dim green me and them did together. It’s like Eddie stuffed them into the vents.

Eddie hates Lola. Eddie wanted them to die, didn’t they? Eddie was waiting for Lola to finally die so he could let his freeloader friends camp in their room and pretend they don't exist. My jaw clenches. But I feel nothing. I feel numb.

I slowly walk into]their room. I look behind one of Lola’s bureaus, digging for any sign of Lola in the room. I still see the familiar dust we never cleaned. I still see the gum they’d stick under any surface they could find. 

I see their pocket knife. It’s still nestled between the trash can. It’s got this cotton candy swirl design on the handle, and it has our initials etched into both its cover and its handle. Lola ordered it off the internet from some sketchy site that we were certain would either put us on a watch list or just take our money and run. Surprisingly – at least that I know of – we aren’t on any watch lists, and the knife’s right there. It’s definitely an illegal length, with stickers surrounding the place you’d grab it from.
 
“I’m… I’m so sorry, Bo. I thought you were… I couldn’t look at it anymore.” Eddie excuses.
I walk through him and grab one of the boxes, trying not to show my tears in front of him. “Fuck you, Ed.” I say, exasperated. “Fuck you.”
“Bo, you can’t—”
“What were you gonna do with this?” I ask.
“I don’t know, I was just—”
I nod, annoyed at the mess in front of me while I’m in the process of crying. I put the box down, twist the nob, and step out.
I walk back down the sidewalk with a knot tying in my throat, weights forming in my eyes as they continue to overflow with tears. Each tear dots the box full of Lola’s stuff, a dark brown color before drying and settling into an unremovable spot on the tape and cardboard. I turn a couple corners when I hear Eddie catching up to me, making his way in front of me – thankfully with a jacket over his boxers.
“Bo.”
“I don’t want to talk to you.” I pretend he isn’t there. “There’s nothing you can say to make this better. You don’t give a fuck about them. You don’t give a fuck about them, you don’t give a fuck about those people that died in the forest, you only care about yourself.”
“If that were true, why’d I let you stay for so long?”
“You kicked me out.”
“You were hurtin’ ‘em.”
“YOU were hurting them! You, not me.” I try to speed up, but the box is slightly too heavy for me to walk any faster. “Leave me alone.”

12:30 PM

Eddie doesn’t have much to say until we get to the restaurant that sits on the left side of my home.
“Where are you even goin’, Bo? You don’t have anywhere t—” 
He stops suddenly as I turn into an alleyway.
This is my home.

Ironically, the right side has an apartment complex that Lola and I wanted to get if either of us actually finished high school. It overlooks a plaza of small businesses, including a medication and liquor store a minute’s walk away. I’ve thought about going to those places almost every second since leaving Eddie’s house. I walk far into the back of it, back to the familiar dirty, greasy smell of moss and trash, and I put the box down in the cleanest section I can find.

I feel my knees crumble as I sit in a little space I had made for myself. I’m curled up in a pathetic little ball, crying into my jacket like a little girl. Memories come back sporadically, hitting me like jabs at my stomach that leave me shuddering and gasping for air. I claw at my throat to get it to just breathe normally.

I used to try to come up with some existential meaning as to why I deserve to be put here. It eventually made me a little spiritual, thinking of me being a product of such damaged people. It made me believe that, regardless of how much I deny it, I have a piece of my parents’ soul within my own. It was judgment, I would say. Eventually, I would either pass, become clean from their actions, and would be given an out, or I would fail and rot. After a few years, I realize I might have already failed my judgment.

I’ve come to one conclusion: if there is a creator, their ultimate goal is to filter people like me out, to filter the flawed and the product of the flawed to make the world pure. I find comfort in that.

I don’t know if that’s mercy or natural selection.

It’s not my place to know.
 
“How long have you been here?” Eddie shudders.
“You’d know better than me.” I shrug.
He moves in closer to me. “Bo, I didn’t know you were here.”
“Just get out.” I tuck myself in tighter.
“Let me help you. Please. You… you won’t have to see me anymore. I won’t bother you at all.”
“You boxed up their stuff.”
He sighs.
I continue. “You boxed up their stuff and you didn’t know what you were going to do with it.”
He paces around the entrance and puts his hand to his face. “What do you want me to tell you, man? My little sibling died out of fuckin’ nowhere. I didn’t know what to do.”
I scoff. “You didn’t give a fuck about Lola when they were alive. Clearly didn’t give a fuck about me either.”
“I was tryin’ to help them. I’m goin’ to protect them over you.”
“You didn’t protect them from shit.” I stand up. “You had parties in that house because you care about your damn social life more than you cared about them. If you cared about Lola – either of us, actually – you would have hauled your ass out to a bar and gotten the alcohol out the house. And you would have hauled our asses into rehab.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I lost some of my friends, too. Remember the guy I told you about? The one that helped me come out? That was one of them. In that forest thing. So I hope that makes you happy.” He winces a bit. “I don’t wanna talk about this right now. I just want you to have a place. Hell, you don’t have to stay there. Crash there. Sleep there. I dunno.”
“Here’s better than being stuck with you.” I murmur.
 

He stops, finally saying something that got under his skin enough to realize that I really mean it.
“You’re just like ‘em, y’know?” Eddie says, semi-silently.
“And that’s such a shit thing, right?”
“You’re puttin’ words in my mouth.”
“I know you by now. I finish your sentences.” I smile sarcastically, tears drying on my cheeks.
“Listen,” He pulls out his phone. “It’s either me or the police. Because I’m not lettin’ you stay here.”
“Oh, so you like the police now. Weird how as soon as they help you you’re suddenly buddies. Lucky.” I shrug and walk back to the box. "Whatever. Call them. Make me a felon. Fuck up my life more. I’ll stay here ‘till they come.”

I flick open the pocket knife and slit the sides of the poorly taped box. Immediately I see their old bed sheets and pillows, metal and Broadway musical posters they had in their room, socks, a bag of their old piercings – Eddie basically threw everything in a box and didn’t even have the decency to sort them. The box also still has the hint of Lola’s fresh clothes smell on it from their fabric softener, all spiced and fall-themed. Just smelling it makes me want to hold onto all of it, and holding it close to me makes me start crying again. I wanna sleep with the pillow and never wake up.

But I know how it is to be out in the public asleep. People steal. It makes sense that they steal, people need certain things to live and they’ll take it from someone if they have to. But they can’t steal this. I’d probably kill them with my bare fucking hands if they did.

I feel Eddie brush up beside me, sitting on the hard, rocky floor with me.

“I thought you were calling the cops on me.” I say without looking at him.
“Nah. Just said that cuz I was pissed. Still am. But I’m givin’ you somethin’.” He files through his jacket pocket.

He hands me Lola’s phone. It’s completely unlocked.

“I didn’t know what their password was for a while. But I figured it out ‘n took it off.”
“What was it?”
“5-2-5-6-0-0. Lola would always sing it out randomly.”
“Oh.” I clear my nose. “That’s from Rent.”
“From what?”
“It’s a line in a song from Rent. It’s a Broadway show.” I look through the box and find the Rent poster. “See?”
“Oh. Yeah, Never understood why they were into that shit.”
"Me neither. But they referenced it so much I learned some of the stuff.”

I open the phone and immediately begin looking at the pictures. I scroll down a bit to when we had first moved in, ignoring the pictures in the beginning of drunken stupors, tired eyes, and empty bottles once completely full. I find her pictures of her new piercings, Pinterest boards, having to scooch myself over to look at a nude they took or some lower half picture they took of me. Pictures of us kissing. Pictures of us covering the screen, from when I had shorter, well-kept hair, and pictures and videos of them playing the guitar. Pictures of us normal, or at least pretending to be while what was going to kill them crept up behind us.

A zip of anger began to cut through the memories. Why is he showing me this now, when Lola’s already gone. Why didn’t he remind me that this was something I could lose? What’s the point? Is he trying to bargain me into staying at his house?

Everything starts to crash down at once again. The hands itching and sweating, feeling cold, my breath and my heart beating loud enough to hear it through vibrations in my chest. My stomach starts to ache, not only for food, but for the burn of a drink acidifying it. Drinking overtakes every thought, every memory of Lola, every picture, every reasonable thing I should be doing but am too cowardly to do.

I stand up, grabbing Lola’s bed sheets and pillows, stuffing the phone in my pocket and walking off.
“You can take the rest back.” I say, rushed.
“Bo, where are you goin’ now?”
I feel the beer in my pocket and wince. “Somewhere. I don’t know.”

I’m not addicted. You’re not addicted to the medicine you need, you just need it. I got that from my Dad. He was wrong about a lot of things. Not that. I just need my medicine. Addicts drink because they want to drink. They want to feel drunk. They want to vomit over themselves like fucking infants. I don’t want that. I just want the numb.
“Where’s somewhere?”
“None of your fucking business.”
“Bo, what happened? We were fine—”
“NO.” I yell out, wiping sweat on the back of my hands. I start walking away. “We were never fine.”

I need to get out of here. I can’t stay here. I can’t stay near his house. I can’t stay near that store. I can’t be here anymore. I can’t do this.

I feel Eddie creep up on me. I feel him like some force pulling me backwards. I feel stared at. I feel out of my body. I feel my head warp around my own stress. I feel my soul stuck in the alley, stuck in the house.

Before I know it, I’m running.

“Bo! Fuck—” I hear him starting to run behind.

I think of what I should do. I think of what I said to myself as I sprint down the highway. About punishment. About souls. I have my parents’ soul. I’m fucked. I’m truly, truly fucked.

There’s no use in trying to help me. I just need to leave this place. Leave this earth. Leave this life.

I’m running past the park. I run through the long stretches of Stonebury. Grass. Open street. Grass again. I forget how long I’ve been running. I forget if I’m still running. I forget if Eddie’s even behind me. Maybe he gave up a while ago and I’m running from nothing. Regardless, I keep moving.

I realize I’m running to the forest, but I don’t stop myself. The sound around me sounds like I’m underwater. The honking horns from running across a highway without waiting for the light to turn green. The disappointment that none just continued to drive over me. Jumping over the railway into the bank of trees.

I drop the beer, and hesitate to drop the pillows and blanket. I look back, afraid of it being a mess of glass. It’s not. I pick it up and continue.

I go deeper and deeper into the forest, deep enough that I can’t see the street anymore. I don’t care where I’m going. I just want no one to see me. I don’t want anyone to see me and see what I did in my eyes. What I didn’t do in my eyes, as well. It’s embarrassing. It’s shameful.

I look behind me again, and Eddie is still not there. I probably lost him at the street. I collapse onto the floor for a moment. I don’t even know how I was able to run as fast as I did, considering I haven’t eaten anything since the food a night ago.

As I look in the forest, spanning tens of miles behind me and a little less than a mile in front of me, I can’t imagine anyone dying here. It feels too peaceful to house bodies, at least ones that haven’t decayed into the dirt. It’s surprisingly untouched for something investigated and looked through. I don’t see a single stump or section touched by any man-made things. It feels cut off from everything, even from my own head, but maybe that’s still me feeling outside of it. It’s drier than I’d expect because of the lack of rain, but it’s still fairly green despite the summer beginning to reach the final few weeks. The amount of trees seem to shade out the Sun enough to create patches of room-temperature feeling sections, where I find a log in good enough condition to sit on.

I look at the beer, now warm in my pocket. I feel the ridges of the bottle cap in my teeth as I pull it open. As I smell the grainy, sharp liquid, I remember how bad this shit actually is for me. But at the same time, it seems to help, at least temporarily. It comforts me during train and alleyway breakdowns where the conductor is too underpaid to kick me off, or parties where I want to forget I even exist. It shut me up like a pacifier whenever I’d whimper to myself that my parents were right and that I am just some useless sack of shit that deserved to be there. I could use it as a microphone where I could talk about anything and never remember how I ruined a party’s mood with it. 
 
And hopefully it will again.

However, I suddenly hear rustling in front of me, fast and sporadic in a way that told me Eddie somehow found where I am.

“Bo! What the fuck are you—” He sees the beer glass.
I try to think of something to say. “My withdrawals were getting bad. I’m not… I’m not ready yet. Especially now…” I shake my head. “No.”
Eddie’s face twists in a way where I know he’s trying to process this. “And you say I don’t care. I mean..." He puts out his fingers. "You stole a beer from me. You stole the box of Lola’s stuff from me. You stole Lola from me. Do you enjoy doin’ this to me? Just takin’ everythin’ for yourself?”
“At least you have something.” I glare at him.
“What didn’t you have, Bo? You had a home. You had a partner. You had basically a stepbrother. You had everythin’ you need and you killed all of it. Is that all y’know how to do?”
“You act like the alcohol’s my fault. And y’know what I didn’t have? Parents. You live in your parents’ house, you work for some delivery app, and you don’t pay for shit. 
“My parents barely speak to me!”
“My parents beat the fuck out of me! Would you rather that?”

Eddie looks horrified. I shake my head and smile.  “And you act like you haven’t heard this shit before. Why do you even think you can speak to me like I’m some misbehaving bitch? I’m sorry that all this is happening, but—”

“HEY!” Eddie yells out, causing me to jump a bit.

The yell was unnaturally strong for Eddie. He spoke loud and argued occasionally, but he never screamed out like that. I then realize he’s not even looking at me anymore. I look behind me.

There’s a person standing between the trees.
 
It stands on two skinny, bony, bear-like legs covered in dark brown fur. Its face is too skinny and sharp to be a bear or some kind of animal standing on its hind legs. It has a ghastly look to fit with its freakishly built body. I see an array of sharp teeth gleaming from the Sun, a messy selection of overbites and underbites in a crooked smile. The teeth that aren’t glowing are rotting or stained with blood. The eyes, black yet bright enough to emit some sort of glow, stare into mine, almost like it can sense my confusion and fear.

When it notices we’re both looking at it, it begins to move forward, walking in a slow but long-distanced pace.

“Hey! Who are you?” I try to yell out, but my voice is hoarse from fear. I hurriedly tap Eddie’s side to get him to move, but he looks too frozen to move, like a deer staring down a pair of headlights.

It continues to move forward, quicker than me moving backwards, but not so quickly for me to immediately feel the need to panic. It seems animalistic. calculated, experienced.

I grab my pocket knife and swing it open, hands shakily profusely as I point it at the figure. “No! Stay away from us!” All I get in response is a low, hungry, almost unimpressed growl.

I continue to yell at the top of my lungs to get it to think I’m something not worth eating, but it continues to move. Most normal animals don’t want to put up a fight for their food, but clearly this isn’t a normal animal.

“Eddie, we have to run.” I whisper in front of me, as if the thing could understand me.
He mumbles to himself.
“Eddie.”
Nothing.
“Eddie!” I yell out.
“Yeah. Yeah.” He snaps out of his nerve-driven stillness, moving alongside me.
“Stay behind me. Don’t let it see your back.”
“What the fuck are you gonna do to it?”
“Not sit here and turn into a charcuterie board with you. Get behind me.” I repeat.

 He is right, however. I have no idea what I would do. This blade wouldn’t do shit even if I got a good hit, so I put it back in my pocket.
“Bo…”
“Shhh.”

I slowly drop down to grab the glass. It follows my movement downward like it’s anticipating me running away. 

“I’m going to throw the glass, and we’re both going to run. As soon as you see me stand up straight, run. I’ll be right behind you.”

Eddie nods, continuing to move back as I stand still. It’s close enough that I can see the saliva running down its mouth and onto the grass, but far enough that I’m confident in running for at least a little.

I breathe in and out.
In.
Out.
One last sharp inhale.

2:30 PM

On queue of me even beginning to stand up, beer glass now in hand, Eddie begins to run wildly in the opposite direction. The monster in front of me juts forward, suddenly dropping on all fours with wild, primal eyes. I don’t think. I simply throw the glass at its face and run. The last thing I hear is a shatter before beginning the chase.

Somehow, all the strength in my legs came back in that moment. I don’t know why. I don’t know why my feet are moving by themselves, like I’m running to preserve a life I hadn’t lived yet. I don’t know why my eyes begin watering in fear of death despite the longing feeling of an end to the cycle of forty-eight hour days to no sleep in return. I don’t know why I refuse to look back despite the inner response of wanting to let whatever the beast was drag me to my death, rip me apart, and let my inedible remains dry on the dirt to eventually be turned to dust. Regardless, I run, trailing against the roots and branches sticking out from the lowering grass and dry dirt, scratching my legs and ripping my hoodie, twisting myself between the trees forcing myself to live as I see the highway getting closer and my relief continues to make me question if I ever wanted to die in the first place.

I see the outside of the forest, where Eddie sits staring behind me, but not long before I fall back on the grass a few feet away from him. The figure is standing right outside the forest, unprotected by the trees. I imagine how close it was to slicing me in two from where it stood. It covers its eye, blood running down its arm.

I suddenly feel like I ran a marathon. I don’t know whether I ran for half a minute or half an hour. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, but the euphoria running through me makes me laugh like a crazed madman. My eyes are wider than they have been in years. I was right. The beer saved my life. I feel this overwhelming feeling of happiness.  I feel like I’m on some crazy new drug high that I’ve never felt before. Somehow, through all this, I am happy to be alive.

Eddie starts to cry, still extremely winded. “They… they went in there. They’re… they gotta be dead. They’re fuckin’ dead. With that thing in there… what the fuck…”

I don’t have anything to say to him.
He fumbles the phone out of his pocket. “We have to call someone. The cops… yes, the cops.”
“What are they gonna do?” I muster. “They’re just gonna send more cops to die in there.”
He wheezes. “Yeah. Fuck.”
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry. About your friends, about putting you in there—”

Eddie’s eyes grow in size again, looking at my leg. I snap out of the adrenaline high and begin to feel something wet where he’s looking. I turn to look. My head drops with nausea, causing me to swallow my own vomit.

The back of my right arm and hand are gashed open so deep that I can see the yellow fat and joints sticking out. Five long, knife-like cuts pouring with blood swiftly travels from my wrist to my elbow. This is similar with my muscle from my thigh to my heel. It feels as though my leg slid through a potato peeler. My eyes begin clouding like contacts were placed on my eyes. I’ve never seen myself bleed like that, even when I cut myself so deep I could see the fat. I’m drenching the grass under me with blood.

“Shit, holy shit.” He starts to call an ambulance, putting it on speaker when he sees me trying to take off my sweatshirt to help. The friction of the sleeve against my arm causes me to scream out despite the painful clenching of my jaw. My whole body shudders, but my hoodie is off.
“Wait… take everything… out first.”

He nods and takes the slip of paper, as well as the phone out.
As he wraps it around my leg, and as I continue to scream and yelp more, I notice my chest moving, and a wave of discomfort adds to the pain.

I don’t usually have bad dysphoria since I rarely take off my clothes, but my voice and body always reminded me that I’m trans. I have around a B cup and feel uncomfortable wearing bras, so my chest usually sticks out like a sore thumb unless I have another shirt under it. It’s hard to describe my voice, but all I know is that it sounds really bored and tired most of the time. Maybe it’s more androgynous, but to me I sound like some emo 16 year old girl. I’m unable to move much because of the shock, but I try to cover myself as best as I can.

He finishes the call with the ambulance, and notices my attempts.

“Oh, I… I wasn’t tryna—”
“I know. I just don’t… did…” I laugh within a groan. “...I ever tell you Lola never saw my chest?” 
“Really?” He nervously laughs, probably confused as to why I said that to him. 
“Yeah. You’re...kind of one of the first. That wasn’t an accident or forced. Uh… grab the knife and...cut them to cover my arm.”

He nods, and cuts the left leg’s material into shorts. It doesn’t hurt as much as the bigger chunk of leg, but it still doesn’t necessarily feel nice either. Both the hoodie and the pants are immediately covered in blood, but at least I’m not bleeding out.
“Can you… get the phone and call the number in my hoodie?”
“Who is it?” His nosy ass asks.
I sigh. “Just call it.”

He begins dialing Kayla’s number in, and for some reason she answers it instantly.

“Kayla?”
“Bo? Is that you? Hiii, how are you?”
“Uhhh… I’ve been better. A little… very lightheaded.”
“Light-headed? Why? Are you sick?”
“I got attacked by… something. Probably a bear.”
“A BEAR?!” Kayla yelled into the phone. “Did you call an ambulance? How bad is it? Did you stop the bleeding? Are you in that forest?”
“Yes, pretty bad, but someone’s helping me, yes, and I was in the forest.”
I can hear her struggling to come up with an answer. “Okay. You stopped the bleeding, that’s good, that’s good. Do you want me to come over?”
“Aren’t you at work?”
“Yeah.” She nervously sighs. “I’ll probably hear about it soon. Just call me whenever you’re recovered enough, please.”
“Okay.”
I hang up the phone, and for some reason I feel a little pissed off. She makes me feel like her child. I had my chance to have a mother, and I don’t need anyone caring for me like that now.

I thankfully hear the loud sirens of the ambulance coming by, and a couple first responders run out and tend to my wounds.

“Are you hurt?” One of them asks Eddie, and he shakes his head.
“He ran out into the forest, I followed him, and somethin’ attacked us. He got me to run first, and he hit it, but it got him.
“Ma’am, you’re gonna be alright, okay?” The other tells me.
I nod, almost rolling my eyes from their misgendering of me despite Eddie’s specification on what it was. They bandage me up with large amounts of these large bandages, put me on a stretcher, and drag me onto the ambulance. Eddie asks if he can come with me, and since he was there when it happened, of course they allow it.

I feel myself begin to fall asleep again, and the ambulance’s wailing begin to muffle, like none of the sounds exist past a passive whisper. The last thing I see in my in-and-out-of-consciousness is a small room with a green curtain. I close my eyes again, and I’m surrounded by a hazy mist...

His ears, plated with fur, stands with every trace sound, every breeze leaning the grass into his senses. He stalks around the forest with a calculated pace of an animal and the undying hunger of a man, delirious and willing to eat the meat of his own skin to survive. He has seen every corner of this maze of trees and darkness, noticing every crease in the dirt under his clawed feet and following it to his meal.

His eye holds shattered glass and traces of beer, penetrating it deep enough to see blood gush down to the folds of his eyelids. He removes the pieces with limited accuracy, but eventually removes most of the broken residue. Regardless, all the eye sees now is large spots of black that cloud the rest of his vision.

His claws are covered in both his own and his missed kill’s blood.. It and another cries near the road, out in the light that he’s seen before. Only a few more feet towards the forest, and he would be able to walk from where he was and drag in in. His swiftness would cloak his prey like it had never existed. 

He grunts to himself. In frustration, he feels for his left eye, the one affected by the attack. 

He easily tears it from his face despite the best efforts by his body to keep it in. He loudly groans, dropping it to the ground for a second with a deep roar. He licks the blood from his hands.

He wants more. 

He picks up the eye. It is wet to the touch, dirtied by the grassy floor’s dirt. 

He sniffs it before placing it in his mouth, sighing from the temporary relief it gives him. 

He continues his hunt, slightly more hungry and violent then he was before.

August 14th, 2019
10 PM

Spaced out off pain killers, I am on a blue operating bed, no longer surrounded by the first responders and doctors from before. I am only near Kayla and Eddie on my left and a Cuban-looking woman on the right typing in my information. The room is much less wide from when I woke up from the alcohol stuff, just a bed and a few pieces of equipment around me with a white opaque curtain for some semblance of privacy.

What a fucking week. My partner’s dead, I almost caused an accident by running across the street, I almost got their brother and myself eaten by a fucked up looking bear. Alcohol got me into this mess, but technically not having it did as well. Strange, but I don’t know. I don’t know what to think of this, what to think of myself… I don’t know.  

“Weren’t you discharged from here recently? Or somewhere around here?”
“Intensive care unit, yeah.” I look at the date on the computer. Four days ago.” I groan out.
“Mmm, busy week, eh?” They chuckle.

Kayla laughs a little while looking at me. Eddie does not. 

“Seriously though, Bo,” The doctor says. “To put it simply, you are extremely lucky that the bear that attacked you did not cut your bone. It was less than a few millimeters away from slicing it enough to cut it in half. You could have lost your arm and your leg.”

The doctor hands Kayla, Eddie, and I a picture of my leg and arm before being operated. The groove from the wound in my leg and arm are almost directly where my bone is. Kayla looks back at me with a grim, definitely-trained-not-to-cry look, and Eddie looks slightly horrified. I’m personally pretty surprised myself. If I moved up or ran any slower, whatever was chasing us would have chopped – or at least nearly chopped – my leg and arm off. The idea of losing a limb, let alone two, doesn’t register in my head. I move my arm in astonishment, a bad mistake because it immediately starts stinging and burning with pain.

“Thankfully, lots of stitches were able to prevent us from needing surgery, but this will require you to rest for the entire period, more so than you have been now. Any unneeded stress on the wounds could cause more damage, which would cause more problems for the both of us.”

Kayla gives me this look and nod, which I think she’s using to tell me that I better be listening to her. Eddie seems lost in thought but doesn’t say anything. Maybe he’s still high from however many afternoons ago. Or maybe he was vaping all day while I was out. Or he’s traumatized from getting chased by a big freakish bear monster. One of those.

“The stitches we gave you dissolve since your wounds are so deep into your body, so no need for you to get them removed. They’ll dissolve as your wound heals as long as you stay put and don’t remove them. You’ll have to keep both casts on, too, since hanging your arm down can strain the wound too.”

I nod, barely able to keep my head up for more than a second. I’m surprised these doctors are still joking and happy with me despite taking up their time twice in the span of two weeks. Maybe it’s because Kayla’s with me and she’s a nurse, so they’re being cordial with me because of her. Does that make sense? I don’t know. 

11 PM

As I move with the cane and the cast on my arm, I already hate every second of it. A part of me genuinely thinks I could just deal with the pain of it being out in the open air, but being around Kayla, that would not fly for more than a second. We move down the elevator, and I notice Eddie continuing to look at me. It’s not eyes of worry – at least about my injury –  or eyes of anger from getting him into such a harrowing situation. It’s more confused. Sort of like the way he looked in the room with me. It’s like he wants to tell me something and is waiting for some moment to do so.

While we walk to the exit, some of the other patients seem to stare at me with this pitying look that makes me extremely angry. I already hate that I’m looked down upon for being shorter than average, and being in such a state makes people think I’m some weakling. They must think I was in some car accident or something. If they knew how I got into this situation, would they look at me the same? Would they be more pitying? More angered? Maybe they’d think I deserve this or worse. 

 “Hey Kayla,” Eddie stops Kayla. “We’ll catch up to ya. I wanna talk to Bo for a sec.”
 “Oh. Okay. Just make sure he stays off that leg.” She points two fingers at her eyes then at me, smiles, and walks off. 
 Eddie purposefully waits for her to completely leave the building before bringing me to a seat a bit further away from everyone else.

“That… wasn’t no bear, right?” Eddie whispers.
“Weird fucking bear if it was one.” I lean back a bit.
“Flashlight eyes… standin’ on two legs…” He puls out his vape and stares at it. “Either that was some fucked up demon thing or this vape’s doin’ things to both our heads.”
“Maybe it’s time to quit.” I raise my eyebrows and smile. “Might have to start buying cologne though, since that’s the only thing masking your… odors.”
“It’s natural musk. It’s manly.”
I chuckle a bit. “Yeah. Though that vape’s sort of your whole thing! You always look high… shit, you might have your eyes all the way open.”
“Speak for yourself. Though it’s mostly just reminding me of…”
It takes a few seconds for it to register. “Oh.”
“Yeah. I don’t wanna get too reliant on it.”
We both laugh awkwardly. When you almost get someone killed, I feel like your attitude towards them significantly shifts.

I sigh, struggling to stand but eventually turning to him. “This isn’t right.”
Eddie looks confused, blinking a bit. “What… what do you mean?”
“This. This conversation, this on-and-off shit. We talk like we’re normal, then we argue, then we talk like we’re normal… Lola wouldn’t want this.”
Eddie’s face shifts to being pissed off again. “It’s not like I’m tryin’ to start ‘em. You’re the one that causes it.”
“You’re the one that sparks them. You boxed all their stuff away and tried to hide it from me. You tried to blame me for becoming the way that I am when you damn well know my situation – you wanted to act all big about it when you argued with Lola because you saved me and that immediately means I have to ignore that you didn’t even like me to begin with. I argue because what you do to me is wrong.”
“You blamed me for Lola drinkin’ when you came up with all that.”
“You were alone with them for two fucking years while I sat in an alley and barely spoke with them. There was nothing stopping you – in fact there was more stuff pushing you – and you kept doing what you’re doing. I’m stuck with what I’m doing. You’re choosing what you’re doing.”
“I didn’t make ‘em do what they did.”
“They wouldn’t have done what they did if you didn’t keep waving it in their face and partying and – you see what’s happening? This is gonna happen constantly. Do you really want that?”
“….nah, nah, I don’t.” Eddie agrees.
“Then I feel like this should be it. We need to stop pretending we like each other for them.”

Eddie doesn’t answer, but we both get up to leave at the same time. We go through the automatic doors at the same time. He looks at me one more time.

“Just get better, man. Please. For them.”

I look at him with a blank, hopeless stare, one that peers right through him. He turns away, holding the corners of his eyes as he walks in the opposite direction.

Lola – and every person connected to them – is gone.

August 15th, 2019
12 AM

Since Kayla’s car is smaller, I can pretty easily slide into it without much issue. However, I can already tell the car ride’s going to be rough with my sour face being extremely visible despite the darkness of midnight.

“That’s my ex’s brother, by the way. I forgot to mention that to you.” I say.
“Huh. Things didn’t go well during your talk?”
“Nope. We’re not talking anymore. All we do is argue and pretend.”
“Pretend what?”
“That things are normal now with his sibling gone. They’ve lost more people than me, yet he’s so… functional.”
“Some people deal with it differently.” Kayla starts the car. “I’m gonna drive you back to my condo. Do you need anything before then?”
I remember the clothes in the alleyway. “Yeah, just one thing.”’

The first half of the drive over to the alley felt slow with quicker than normal Stonebury traffic, but speeding up through turning into the more residential and shopping areas. This place isn’t exactly a hub for designer fashion that Kayla looks like she wears to sleep or to swim in or something. She and her car stand out ridiculously among pretty normal low-quality vehicles.

I see the restaurant and apartment complex. “Here.” I tell her. “Right here.”
“Here? We could just order something if you want.” She says.
“I wasn’t going in there. It’s closed, anyway.” I shrug. “Can you help me with the box? I can’t exactly carry it with one arm.”

Rightfully confused, Kayla hesitates a bit as I get out of the car in the direction of the alley.

“Kayla’s clothes are in here, that and other stuff. I found it out here since it’s right next to their house.” I lie. “Eddie didn’t want it anymore, I guess.”

“Oh.” Kayla looks reasonably confused at that reaction. “Yeah, I’ll help you.”

We step into the alley, presumably for the last time for a while with Kayla offering her condo for me to stay in. As she lifts the box, I feel like I’m moving out of a home that, sure, doesn’t look wonderful, but holds enough important memories to be something I didn’t necessarily want to forget. I didn’t like being homeless – I’d wish it on only the most evil people I know. But I still had resources around me to keep me alive. In a way, I felt privileged to be here and not somewhere worse. I now feel even more privilege with this person starting to pass onto me. It’s a disgusting feeling, like if stomach acid resting right outside your throat was an emotion.

“Do you think you’ll fit in their clothes?” She asks, stepping back into the car with the box in the back seat.
“Oh, Lola was taller than me. If anything it’ll be too big. That’d be better for my chest. That and I’ve had these clothes for God knows how long.”

The traffic-filled car ride begins again, and periodically I catch Kayla looking at me. There’s a part of me that wants to think she’s wondering how I knew that exactly location but didn’t know I lived there. Then there’s the part of me that knows Kayla is only a little stupid and definitely knows I was at least there at some point. I just think she doesn’t want to ask. 

Kayla turns her car into a side section overlooking the forest nearing the exit into the highway, a line of white buildings with various flags and sports merchandise sticking out from the windows and lawns. It’s almost its own little secluded town that looks nothing like the suburban innards of Stonebury. It looks like it has three floors, with some having balconies with even more stuff hanging from it. Chairs, bikes, even a barbecue grill sit on them.

“Hey,” Kayla stops me before I leave the car. “Check the back after I get you out. Eddie said you left some things at the scene.”

I stubbornly try to step out of the car without Kayla’s assistance, but she makes it over before I fucked up my other leg. I grab my crutches and make my way over to the back of the car, eyes fluttering from the exhaustion of this whole shitshow of a day.

As it opens, my tired eyes widen a little.

The blanket lied folded in the corner of the trunk, with the pillows stacked behind it.

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When we get inside, use the elevator – I guess I’m gonna have to get used to these now – and walk into her condo, the amount of white in the room is in stark contrast to the darkness of the outside. The small kitchen combines with the living room, with a small white table and a white couch next to it. The rug under it is white, the walls are white, and the only things that aren’t white in the room is the dining table and the wooden floor. There’s so much empty space.

“There’s a few rooms you can sleep in. Just choose one and you should be set. You don’t need anything, right? No snacks, no food, nothing?”
“I… think I’m alright for right now, thanks. And, uhhh, thank you, I guess. For this. You didn’t have to. I’m just some stranger you let into your house.”
“I did.” She smiles. “And strangers don’t deserve to be out on the street.”
I nod. “You… don’t have anyone else living here, right?”
“Nope. My boyfriend’s online and he doesn’t come over often. He’s in Jersey.” She gives a cheeky smile like that’s some sort of accomplishment. I’d say it’s a deal-breaker, at least.
I give her a face that definitely says that out loud. “He works in New York, though! In Olean, though. He’s not in the middle of nowhere like us. And you saw the traffic, so…” 
“Yeah. I mean, if you’re happy, you’re happy.” I shrug with a smile. “You’re a grown woman.”
“Mmm, so you’re not a Regan fan?”
“His name is Regan?” I laugh. God, she’s giving me such good bullying material for this poor ass man.
“It’s a cute name!” She says defensively. I barely have time to hear the rest of her explanation before I continue into my room. I choose the smaller one to the left, one of her probably forty closets in the middle f the two rooms.

Thankfully, the room diversifies its colors with some gray-tinted walls and a gray rug floor. The walls are still white and vacant of anything except a small window barely low enough for me to see out of. I’m a good 5’3, average height, meaning that the window is simply too far up. Maybe I’m just short.

I struggle onto the bed, my first chance to calm down since I was inside the hospital. It also means I have time to think clearly.

The room begins slowly fading out of my view.

I almost died twice. I’ve lost every opportunity to make something more of myself other than some nineteen year old injured bum living in a stranger’s house. I have no way of getting a job. I have no way of doing anything, really. I left Lola to die. My body had a choice to be silent forever, let time exist without me, and let itself shut off, but something stopped it. Why? Why does my body want to keep going when I’ve already lost everything?

What would Lola say about all this? About me failing to do my own plan and the person I didn’t want to die ending up succeeding? They’d probably say it was ironic, or maybe just full on say that it’s funny. I open Lola’s phone and check their newer pictures, and all I see is a descent. Their clothes changed. The maintenance of their hair changed. Their energy dropped significantly. At some point, the pictures just become pictures of their tired face in their room with alcohol sprawled across the room.  

Lola had essentially become me. A more obvious, less meticulously hidden me.

This is all my fault, isn’t it?
 
The thought hits me like a bullet. It’s the first time I’ve thought about it. I always would throw something between me and the blame: my parents, my upbringing in general, my friends… if I had just dealt with things in my home, if I had just let them take me too… Lola would have never met me. Lola would have been a piercer. Them and their brother would have eventually made amends, or they would have separated in a less permanent way.

I lied to myself there. This isn’t the first time I’ve thought this. I think the better way of saying it is that it is the first time I’ve recognized that it’s true. Maybe that’s why whatever creator’s keeping me alive is doing this. Maybe they wanted me to realize it was my fault.

And now that I do, they want me to feel every second of that pain for myself.

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