Not As Bad As We Imagined

“Sandor Arpad? What sort of name is that? You’re not fucking with me, right?” Officer Marcus wrinkled his nose, flushed pink, still unused to the warmth of his southern transfer. “Why would I be fucking with you? That’s his name.” Detective Maria looks into the tiny portal of the heavy steel interrogation door onto the babbling fat man within. His long black hair is matted with restless sleep and grease, and his eyes are red and puffy. He sits a densely gray room, fitting tightly into the wrought iron chair that’s screwed into the floor. He slowly rubs his eyes.

“He turned himself in an hour ago. He says he killed his best friend.” Marcus says.

              “Not surprising. He looks like a crazy.”                                                                                              

“He seems real broken up about it.” Marcus replies.

Maria raises a dark eyebrow, “Sympathy won’t get you as far here as it did up north, Officer.”

He nods, his face is blank and focused into the window. Maria sighs and mumbles, “Let’s get at it. Figure out what’s going on.” She opens the door abruptly, snapping the fat man out of his eye-rubbing stupor. He looks at the entering officers with his mouth slightly agape. He stared noiselessly, watching as though watching a terrible car crash. Officer Marcus sat across from the man, in a parallel, nailed-down chair. Maria stood at the corner of the table on Marcus’ side, her hand on her hip and her mouth in a twisted pout. They take in the silence for a moment, giving each other a minute before the discomfort sure to follow. Maria punctures the thick, hushed coat that stains the grey, institutional walls of the interrogation cell. “So tell us what happened.”  The tearful man glares at her with an impotent blend of despair and distrust. He wipes his nose with a long, loose sleeve, once white, now a greyish yellow.

“Whenever you’re ready.” Marcus adds. Sandor turns his round, speckled face towards him and nods sheepishly, staring somewhere beyond the soft blue eyes of the aging northern officer. He begins to compose himself, the opera of his confession brewing steadily inside of him. Marcus tilts his head expectantly, but Sandor then broke from his apparent readiness to push strands of oily hair behind his ears and sniff persistently. He continued to futilely inhale snot until Detective Maria lost her patience and forcefully slide the available swamp green box of tissues across the table towards him. Maria pointed at it, her mouth hard and pressed shut and her eyes exasperated. Sandor’s gaze went from the box to her, and with a shake of his head, sniffed in one more time, harder than before, and swallowed. He breathed in and began.

“Me and him had been fighting a bit for a few days.”

“You and whom?” Marcus interjects, Maria kicks him sharply in the ankle and growls, “He just got fucking started talking! I do not want to listen to snot sucking again!”

Marcus grit his teeth and did what he could to ignore the young, impatient detective and asked again, keeping Sandor’s eyes in the view of his own, “You and whom, son?”

“My best friend. We’ve lived together for a long time. But recently we started fighting.”

Sandor paused, waiting for a signal that he may keep talking. Maria was quicker, “Keep talking.”

So he continued, “So we started fighting. At first it was about little things, you know, maybe we were both just in rotten old moods and were taking it out on each other. He started off eating a bunch of my favorite snacks while I slept. I’ve been going to sleep somewhat earlier lately because I saw on the news that you are more likely to be happy during the day if you go to sleep early at night. Anyway, I could hear him munching the first night, but didn’t think anything of it until I saw my pantry was missing my favorite snack the next morning. You know those jalapeno cheese-puffs?”

Sandor stopped his story to look around at the two officers. Maria sighed and took a seat next to Marcus, no longer able to stand the way she had been. She put her head in her hands and pulled them down her face. Marcus answered, “Yes. They’re pretty good.”

Sandor’s tone rang with excitement, “Yeah! So I was pretty mad when I saw that a whole new bag was gone! I looked around for it and found the empty bag in the trash can. So I asked my friend about it.”

                Maria cut Sandor off, “What’s this friend’s name?” This question brought Sandor’s mood back to its former bleak state, dragging his eyes to stare at the cold steel table in front of him. They welled with tears. Maria pushed, “Tell us.” Marcus added quickly, “We need to know bud. We just need to know.”

                Sandor whimpered out an answer, “Bennington.” “His last name?” Marcus and Maria said simultaneously. “No. Both of his names.” Maria and Marcus looked at each other, confused. Marcus asked hesitantly, “So his name is Bennington Bennington?” All they got from the sad fat man was a curt, “Yes.”

                “I’ll go look this guy up. See if there’s anything at all. I’ll be back.” Maria quickly excuses herself and scurries out of the room, glad to have an excuse to leave Marcus with the loon who killed his best friend. Marcus prompts Sandor again and Sandor continues.

                “So after I found that out, I confronted him and asked him very nicely not to do that and that if he wanted some, I would share some with him if he just asked. The first time he said that was fine, but he was very short about it and didn’t apologize. And I thought you know, whatever he’s just in a bad mood today, or something bad happened, and I figured I’d just drop it and leave it be. But the next night he did it again. He was very loud all night, so I didn’t sleep well and if I don’t sleep well and get to sleep early then what’s the point of having seen that thing on the news? So I was grumpy when I woke up and my stomach hurt a little for some reason and when I walked into the kitchen, I saw that it was destroyed.”

                Marcus muttered, “Huh.”

                Sandor didn’t lose a step, “Yeah, right? Everything was tossed, food was everywhere, the stove was still on, there was a really badly burnt pizza in the oven, I mean it looked like a warzone. So I got real mad and shouted for him to come in. And he did and I confronted him again and he got real mad at me. He-he…” Sandor stammers off, his speech turning to bubbling and his bubbling turning to tears. Sandor chokes on what was something between a burp and a sob. Marcus swallowed nervously and Maria opened the door, “Officer Marcus. Would you step out for a moment please?” Marcus responded quickly, “Yes. Excuse me one moment Sandor.” He stepped out of the room.

                The moment Marcus shut the heavy door behind him Maria said, “There’s nobody called Bennington Bennington anywhere. Just like I figured, and I’m sure you figured. I’m telling you, he’s just hungry for attention.” She spoke with frustrated speed and indignantly sharp eyes. Marcus peered through the looking glass into the cell. This strange fat man was holding his face in his over-long sleeves, which slowly darkened with tears. He shook sickeningly and Marcus wished to understand. He clenched his jaw and then spoke to Maria, “There’s something going on here. I think we need to figure it out. Before he hurts himself or someone else.” His gaze returned to Maria and fixed on her hazel eyes and he saw her hardness loosen, “Yeah. I guess we should.”  With that, they returned to the room together, sliding the heavy door open and dipping into the cell.

                As the two police sat down, Marcus saw that Maria was about to speak. “So we looked up your friend. We didn’t find him anywhere.” Sandor stared at the woman before him, tears running down his cheeks, his eyes red and weak. He balled his hands into fists that made a squish in his snotty sleeves. He answered slowly, “Well he never did any crime. Of course you wouldn’t find him.” Maria was quick with the rebuttal, “We found you. And your record is clean. You’ve never even had a parking ticket. But we found you in the system.” Sandor watched Maria’s unwavering face with the silence of a guilty toddler. There was no understanding in his blurry eyes, but there was a tinge of fear. Maria pressed on, “Did you give us the real name? Or is there no name to give?” In Maria’s mind, she hoped that he was simply a mad man who killed his cat. “Did you even kill anyone?”

                At the word ‘kill’ Sandor again returned to his persistent sobs. In hopes of curtailing the limitless whimpers and wails of the fat man before them, Marcus resumes the line of questioning that they had undertaken before checking the name of Sandor’s purported friend. He reaches out to Sandor, who is now slumped forward and dripping tears from his saturated sleeves onto the steel table and taps his shoulder. In his head, Marcus wonders if Sandor feels dehydrated. “Hey. Listen up.” Sandor lifts his head slowly, as though weighed down by heavy balls of lead attached to chains. “Keep telling us the story. The story of what happened. If you tell us, the guilt will go away.”

                Sandor stuttered, “R-r-really?” His face looked hopeful.

                “Really.”

                “O-Okay.”

                With that, Sandor finally took a sheet from the box of tissues that sat uselessly in front of him. He blew his nose feverishly, looked into the tissue to see what he had produced, balled it up and stuck it in his pocket. “What did he say when he got mad at you Sandor?”

                Sandor breathed in deeply and slowly, making both of the officers recoil slightly, in fear of another outburst. However, instead of more shed tears, he spoke, “He was just very mean. He called me fat, and it’s not like I don’t realize that, it’s just not something I really need to hear. I heard it a lot already and I don’t need that from someone I’m supposed to love and who’s supposed to love me. He said I was hopeless and that I was a failure. He said I didn’t have a future and I didn’t even have an interesting past. I didn’t know what to say, I was so stunned. It hurt so bad that I thought I was just going to cry, but I didn’t want to break down in front of him after that. I got lucky though because he stormed out when I didn’t answer. He said some word I didn’t understand and left.”

                “Tell me Sandor.” Marcus said, “What is it that you do? For work, for fun, what do you do?”

                Sandor seemed thrown off by the question, and Maria looked over at Marcus with an expression of befuddlement that bordered on accusation.

                The fat man began, “Well… Uuh, for work I make websites for people. I was into that stuff in high school when it all first started. I learned how to do it and since then I’ve just kept up with updates and stuff. For fun I like TV. When I was a kid I liked to play outside, make shootout scenes with sticks, but that stopped as I got older, you know?”

                Marcus then asked, “What would you and Bennington do together?”

                “Well, before he started being real cold we would go to the park and goof around together, sometimes we would play on the kid’s swings and stuff, or we would listen to music together. We both really liked Elvis Costello and-and we would listen to guys like Dean Martin in the dark for hours. We’d watch TV together. We always got a kick out of Ellen. She just seems like a wonderful lady. I’d like to meet her someday.”

                Marcus felt the familiar pang of a theory forming. He thought that he may have figured it out.

                “And do you have any family or friends? People you, you know, see regularly other than Bennington?”

                Sandor peered to his left, “My dad left when I was real little. My mom was pretty nice, but she died a few years ago. I spent a lot of time in my own brain, just thinking about stuff. I never really had any friends except for, you know.” With that, Sandor choked again and clamped his eyes shut, this time fighting back the tears that clearly welled behind his pink, raw eyelids.

                Marcus mulled over Maria’s theory that Sandor is doing this for attention. The man seemed lonely, that’s for sure, but he didn’t seem to be particularly hungry for approval or disapproval. He seemed to just be. Marcus then spoke, “So I assume Bennington came back after your fight with him. What happened then?”

                Sandor took a deep breath and began the second act, “When he came back he was angrier. But he didn’t break anything, he just came into the room where I was watching TV. Ellen was on. He stood in front of it for a minute and when I asked him to move, he turned it off. I got real mad then, you know, because he had been so rude to me earlier and he’s been acting like a cold jerk and I stood up and yelled. I-I yelled that I was going to kick his ass if he didn’t tell me why he was being such a jerk. He laughed at me then, and I never heard such a cruel laugh before, even in school, or even on TV. He said that I was too fat to fight him and that by the time I got up I’d be dying of diabetes. So that got me going and I stood up and I yelled about how he’s been so terrible lately and how he needs to respect the place we share and clean up after himself and not eat my stuff and not touch my stuff and how he needs to shut up every once in a while.”

                He was breathing quickly and heavily by now, worked up by the recollection. His tone was rapid and his eyes were made all the more intense by the cracks of red webbing slung over them. The officers glance quickly at each other, not sure of what to say during this pause. They both decide to wait the silence out. Sandor’s breathing normalizes a little and he continues, “So I told him to shut up and he gets this real angry face and he grinds his teeth all menacingly. So I egg him on, saying stuff like ‘what?’ and ‘you got something to say?’ and he screams at me at the top of his lungs, h-he says… He says…”

                Sandor breaks off again, a low and quiet wail coming from deep within him. He hangs his head and, as soon as the moan fully leaves his body he starts hyperventilating. He wraps his arms around himself, tears freely falling into his lap.

                “Oh jeez.” Maria exclaims. Marcus gets up and stands behind Sandor’s chair. He gently pats Sandor’s back and says, “Let it out, son. We want to know. We can help you if we know.”

                That comment makes the shivering fat man angry and he yells, “Help me? Help me how? Are you going to bring him back?” His hyperventilation becomes a loud and snotty snarl, in through the nose and out through an angry mouth. Ever the patient man, Marcus calmly says, “We can’t bring him back. But we can help you. You could be in a lot of trouble here. We can try to alleviate that.” Sandor slowly calmed down. Marcus stayed behind him, hand on his shoulder. Maria watched the two of them.

                “When he screamed at me...” Sandor trails off and starts again, “When he screamed at me he said he never really liked me. He said he only used me for my stuff and because I was also so willing to ‘be his b-bitch.’ He admitted some stuff to me, some real terrible stuff. He said he was the one who peed in my camp tent in fourth grade and that he was the one who drew gross stuff all over the school bathrooms and then convinced the other kids to say it was me to get me in trouble and then he told me th-that h-h-he’s the one who killed my puppy when I was a little kid! He leaned in real c-close to my face and with a big smile he told me! He said he fed it rat poison he found under a shelf! My mom hit me so much after that and she never ever let me have another puppy! She never believed me that it wasn’t me!”

                Sandor huffed frantically and tears streamed down his cheeks.

                “I-I had a rage tunnel. I don’t remember what I did or said, but when I came back, I was holding a knife and he was gone. I panicked and cried for a while and then I c-came here. I killed him… I killed my only and best friend.” Sandor slowly raised his head. His eyes had red rims and were wet. His hair, disheveled and greasy. His lips pouted in pain. He looked to the officers for something. Even Sandor was unsure of what. Perhaps it was sympathy, perhaps it was scorn. Marcus walked around the table to Maria and whispered in her ear. Her eyes lit up. Marcus was certain now. Then he said, “You came here right after the murder?”

                “Yes.”

                Marcus chewed the inside of his cheek. “You said he was gone. What did you mean by that?”

                “He disappeared. He was g-gone…”

                “Where did he get the name Bennington Bennington?”

                “I-I gave it to him when I met him.”

                “Where did you meet him Sandor?”

                “I asked him to come and be my friend when I was six. He came and he was nice to me. He was the first to ever be nice to me.”

                “Where did he come from?”

                “H-He…” Sandor broke off, the realization creeping over him. Tears streamed, but they were different now. Of a loss more profound than the death of a friend. Marcus pushed for an answer, “Where, son?”

                Resigned and heartbroken, Sandor gave the true answer, "A better place.”

                Maria stood out of her chair and spoke, “Alright Sandor. It’s time to go. We’re going to try to find some counselors to recommend to you. Let’s go. She reaches her hand out to him. He looks up at her for a moment and takes it. His hand is slick with sweat and tears. Maria cringes, but holds it in, showing no sign of disgust. As she leaves with him she looks at Marcus with a dual look of triumph and sorrow. Marcus gives her a little nod. As the cell door closes behind her, Marcus sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. What a day.

The Gerard Manley Hopkins Redux

            or Pointless Parodies of a Pedantic Poet

Deeeeeeply Dappled

Oh so confus'd am I, ever the intrepid Priest,

Behold conflict no other before,
Living or deceased,
Have ever experienced or known in their lives, such fruitless wail, my sordid cries,
Though Manley be my name, worship and poetry be my fame.

So I see, unlike those foolish, kings and queens around me,
The glory and beauty of dappled things,
Such as trout and gout,
Landscapes plotted and pierced,
And criminals fierce,
And preferably hanged.

The Hoover

About the chapel I scurry, mindful of Christ, mind full of worry,
For what do I do, what can I say, my heart, in pain, my eyes veiled,
With misty tears, whisper'd fears, not a spot of cheer,

Good Abbot refers to me, calls out,

Hopkins you fool, I would prefer,
Should you do your burden, rather than try learnin'

You task is simple, your calling mundane, you need not worry,
Of speaking on the parapet, of quoting from the bible,

Believe me, you are no starlet! And all I've asked of you,
Is to hoover the carpet!

My Grandeur

This world is charged with a grandeur of mine,
It will fan out, papers filled, men and women thrilled,
And Jesus too, will love my work, and even the Abbot,
That old jerk,

Will be forced to witness, my great ascension,
For my poems will bring lovers to new dimensions,

And to the peasant's market, I'll bring the carpet,
And toss it aside, or give it to a farmer's bride,

O can Christ hear? The Holy Ghost, is he near?

Poetry runs and broods with warm breast and with, ah!
The best.

[I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day]

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day,
Upon humble bed of hay and twine, I witness such hours of night,

Sharp sound, rings across the cell, from within I release,
A single sigh, though I must confess, following a shrill cry,
I sweat here, hope I'm blessed, that tis not the dead who stir.

Who would get up to ensure, for my heart is weak,
I cannot bear to take a peek,
For my flesh does leak and my legs, too shaken to sneak,

Another sound, heavy and mean,
I shout so hard I fear I've popped my spleen,
My door swings open, I pray for the visage of a rabbit,

But to my relief and surprise, twas only the Abbot.

Who, What?

As the snow tumbles from God's grey sky,
When ashen cold leaves me shaken, wet, and shy,

I ponder the validity of my choice to be a poet,
Because if you don't know it, I also believe in the Lord known as,
God, Christ, the Holy Ghost,
The biggest, greatest host, he who knows and owns the most,
Would He not smile on my labor, or would He be another hater?

I cannot know His will, bless'd or no, unknown to me He shall be,
Forever more,

But would my words still breed relief,
For peasant, warden, king, or chief,
And if they do, am I not obliged,
To craft them constant, as fleas or flies?

O but this chilled torment that dots my face,
God doth not speak in this frozen place.

Where on Earth
(God's Earth)
Upon which mountain,
Within which gilded fountain,
Would I find thee, my Lord?

Is there an oak I can climb,
Or a drink, imbibe,
Or even a poem to scribe,
That allows me to see Your most gracious and golden face?

O what would be the case,

In which You would reveal to me,
You shall peel away the mystery,

And shed light upon that which is told to be bright,
But makes this poor priest think more of night,

This eternal fight,

To witness that which is holy,
That which is solely,
Righteous.

Puzzle

Puzzled, I am,

Like a muzzled dog, I drool and bark,
Uneasy of writing, of praying,
Unable to bear fighting or slaying,

No king's man am I,
But for the man who is king of kings,

Am I worthy?

A poet, they all scoff,
How lowly,

A priest they exclaim,
In that there is no fame,

My own thoughts on the matter,
Drive me mad as a hatter,
And make my wallet and soul no fatter,

Christ I am puzzled,
And feel as though I've been hustled.

Eat Glass

             It's us, brought to be. Steel wool and a small battery
Waltz through troubling pain. Eat glass. Kiss. Smile, beautiful thing, and tie back that salt sea. Lipstick stains from bloodied gums.
            Bite and snarl, animals, non-hostile.
Lying still as the air, hot as the oven, waiting for something sweet. We have patience.
            Lounge,
                        Lounge,
                                    Lounge,
Other words for lazy and in no particular hurry.
            All these grand plans, great campaigns, dissolve into disarray,
                        A low hum,
                                    A smirk.
            Pool, dripping, dropping, words and touches. Misty eyes.
Breakfast,
Or maybe lunch,
Quite forgetting there's a train to town.
            Do not depart, tiny power. Do not allow me to drain you dry.
Head clicks into throat, fingers knowing.
            Thank you. Tell me now.
Thank you.


            Wearing a stolen blanket of stars.
Blue smoke, skin, laughs, laughs.
                        Time raided from those who deserve it more.
Celebrate, let's have a drink, celebrate, the end of the day, celebrate the start of a new one, celebrate.

            Hands soft, grass soft, breath soft.
There's a word for this feeling.
                        I'm sure.
Do you know it?
            Let's slow down, if we go too fast, though that's unlikely.
Teeth,
From under lips.
Cheeks,
Advance on eyes.
            Eyes. Green rolling hills.
            Eyes. Kinder, crueler,
Lovely,
Lovely.
            Door creaking. Steps fumbling. The airy impact of cushions. The sigh of our springs.
I feel this urge again. I must thank you.
Now you say it.

Fix-Me-Up

There was a woman who loved a broken house.


              She found it shattered and dilapidated, worn weak in its frame by the abuses of history. The paint was washed out by a single, or perhaps even a series of powerful storms, as paint is wont to do, when faced with the scorn of sky. She found the house distrustful of her. Unsure of her touch, it flinched back as she tried to lay her hand on its face. It was unsure to trust this woman to live within it, as the previous tenant had not been kind. They let it fall apart. They left it to face storms and time alone. How could it so easily trust a new human?


There was a woman who loved a broken house.


               This woman had a name, but this has chipped away, lost to time like old paint to a storm. Whether her name was Daria, or Alma, or even Frieda did not matter. Names matter not to a broken house. No matter your name, the windows are still punched in, the beams are still rotten and the ceiling still molded. The house worried that at any moment the roof would come tumbling down. That the rot in its beams would finally destroy it. Of the feelings the house was capable of, fear was its most intimately known. Of course, there was contempt, as it had never seen good treatment aside from those who built it long ago; it could not imagine being proper treatment as a possibility. There was sorrow, for being left in such a sorrowful state, and there was also a thick dollop of self-loathing, since if no one else had ever loved the house, then how could it love itself? But yes, fear was the most familiar of feelings for this house. Fear of the future, fear of the past, and fear of every woman that ever lived.


There was a woman who loved a broken house.


                When she first moved in, she did not stay with the house for long intervals. They were distant at first. The house knew she did not care, and this was acceptable, as it had expected this. Her heart, however, was warm, and slowly, almost unnoticeable at first, she began to piece the house back together. She started by marking down every broken place in a notebook. Every structural piece that needed adjusting and fixing. She vanished for some days, and the house did not see her and assumed that it had yet again been abandoned, but it was not. She returned and had its punched out windows replaced and tempered and sealed so that the elements could no longer enter freely.


There was a woman who loved a broken house.


               She began to spend more and more time with the house. She took to it and it took to her. She cleaned the floor of dust and spiders. They shared an afternoon together, painting the sides of the house and another afternoon painting the inside. The house watched as she built up coat after coat of protective paint and as she dusted away layer after layer of harsh times and spider-bitten memories. Though painful at first, the woman had the rotting beams replaced by sparkling new ones, and the molded ceiling redone in clean white tiles. The pain of removal quickly gave way to a new feeling, filling the house, as if a faucet had been left running. No longer did the fear of imminent collapse haunt this hearth.


There was a woman who loved a broken house.


               As she restored the strength of the house, she also restored its spirit. Its walls clean and its beams ready to carry the weight of an attic of new memories. When she smiled at the house, it smiled back, not with apprehension, but with confidence. She had delved into that secret place within the house that no one else had dared to go and she came back alive. She did not run from this house. She killed the spiders of the cellar, even the biggest and blackest. She tempered the windows against even the strongest storms. And yet. There was something in it that was unsure. Though it felt clean, it still did not feel warm. It remembered that in its childhood it had warmth in its soul. Something that kept it happy even when there was no clear reason. When the house made apparent to the woman how it felt, she knew what it meant and she fixed it, just as she had with everything before.


There was a woman who loved a broken house.


                It was like a magical ritual. She locked all the doors of this house, turned off all forms of communication with the outside and interned herself within the house. And it in turn did the same. Together they were locked in, with only each other to have as examples of how to breathe the air. The woman played her music aloud. She danced and sang and spun and burned. The house filled with her solar, august warmth. She had so much of it to spare, and the more she gave to it, the more she seemed to have had. At the end of the day, they watched the sun set and the moon rise. It grew dark and the hearth of this house yearned for a new fire. She built it for him. He lit it. He felt so alive again.


There was a woman who loved a broken man.


             But she no longer loved a broken man. Now, she simply loved a man. And he loved her.

At the end of my hall.
They see me.

I know it. I feel it.

I'm worried. It's frightening to be followed.

By someone else who sees these things. Someone else who knows the fear.

The rims of my eyes hurt. I've been watching too long. Awake too long.

I need to protect myself from them! They must know by now. I'm not as clever as I thought I was.

How could they know? No one, but me...

I hate it so much. So I did what I did! I did what I wanted to. As anyone would expect. It's not my fault.

But they can tell, can't they.

I need to pay attention.

I hope my neighbors don't stare.

I hope my father doesn't laugh.

They're all so angry at me, and I deserve it.

I don't want to be this alone! This isn't fair! I'm not the first and I won't be the last! It's natural!

Heart's beating too fast.

Too fast.

Too fast.

I need to calm down. I need a little more. Nothing bad has happened yet. I must be...

Overreacting.

Unless.

Unless this is a ploy.

Unless they want me to think they don't know.
Caught red-handed, they'll say.

I won't drop my guard.

I won't be tricked! I cannot be! For that, I'm sure I am too clever.

I know they're still coming. I know they know. I just need the comfort.

No. This can't be real.

Oh god it is.

It is.

Please.

I have to.

Stop.

Shut Up

 

  It was a funny thing, how the rain spoke like an old, long lost friend. It called to me in hushed, placid tones, familiar, yet frigid. Each protracted whisper a gentle reminder of a half-healed maiming. How dare this falling water presume to take her voice? How dare it speak to me? Have I not heard enough? Through this mocking noise I can clearly make out the shape of her mouth and the water dripping down my hair feels like fingers and her lips pressed to my ears, whispering, taunting, reminding me that she, my friend of old, is lost, gone. She fell out of the sky and into my hands and dripped through my fingers, all in a moment, leaving me cold and shocked and shivering. I stand here in the street, fuming at this calm rain, hoping it would explode into a furious storm. That it would scream and spew profanities and hate and anger, but it does not. It only speaks. Quiet, steady, it speaks.

I Wonder What Would Work

I wonder what would work. I can’t help but wonder. This would have to be a very delicate operation. Something new and fresh would need to be done! She’s experienced, been around the block, but in a good way! Sort of like a big colorful float made for Halloween or Macy’s or something. That experience and intelligence is sexy. I feel a faint shock in my heart and knew that I wanted her. I wonder what her lips taste like?

I can’t help but wonder what would work. I would sleep at her feet, like a dog for weeks upon weeks, but that wouldn’t work. No, for her I need more finesse. I can’t drive really her anywhere, it’s too early to presume on her desire to travel with me. She would want to have to get in the car with me first though, and for her to want that, I would need to find something that would work on her. I must find her formula. Or else how else will I ever see her hips swing in the moonlight?

I’ve been sitting on this bench in the park across from my building for three hours. I brought a book with me to look like I’m not vacantly staring. I’ve seen her pass by four times. I suppose I hoped that she would see me reading my big smart book and come talk to me about authors I’d never heard of and I could charm her in an intelligent, yet not well read way. But that did not work. I’ve always wanted to be a poet, but I’ve always been told I didn’t have the “constitution” for it, whatever that means. Maybe it would work if I were a poet. I could woo her at some swanky club that I’m sure she frequents. The fourth time she came back to the building she looked a mess, yet there was something in that. The air of a woman waiting to be loved. And how did I want that. I’ve always wanted that.
I do not know what will work. I think I might be in love with her. I think I did the right thing today. I watched her as she left her apartment through the little peephole in my door. I carefully followed to see where she would go. I was right! I knew someone who smelt of such intelligence would go to a coffee shop. It was a cheap one, but it was still a coffee shop. I sat in the booth behind hers, so she wouldn’t see. I listened to her slurps and thought that maybe if I ordered the same drink she ordered she would speak to me and fall for me. So I did and it did not work and the drink is disgusting. I left and instead opted to sit down at the bench in the park across my building. This time I did not have a book and instead tried to look thoughtful. I saw her enter the building with a man. I think she noticed me, but I may have just imagined that.

That’s it. I’ve decided I’m definitely in love with her. I’m going to write poetry about her and I’m doing to see her in a train seat next to me on the way to New York City, or Chicago and the golden light of the sunset will gleam in her eyes and illuminate her skin. And when that’s done I’ll treasure the memory forever. Well until I die. And I’ll die in her arms, because we will have grown old together. I’m sure she’s not like the others. She’s a rare one, I can tell already. I think it’s starting to work. I’ve seen her shoot glances at me when I walk into that shitty coffee shop and when I sit on the bench looking thoughtful. I think I’ve figured out where she works, but I’m not sure, yet. Her glances speak volumes. They hiss like hearty snakes into my ears. If only I could speak snake, then I might be able to tell what they were saying. Maybe they were telling me what would work.

All I want to do is to swing from the tangles in her hair. I saw her looking pretty tired today. She came home very late. She looked roughed up. Her make-up was a bit smeared and she had grey circles under her eyes. Not make-up circles, but natural ones. I can imagine her wearing one of my shirts and nothing else and looking at me with those eyes. Filled with longing, I think they were. I didn’t do much else. I stayed home today. I didn’t want to seem too needy. I was planning on staying in at night too, until I noticed that she was coming back home with that same man from earlier. That hurt me. I can’t believe that nothing thus far has worked. All my strenuous efforts and yet there is still nothing that works!

I still love her though. I forgive her. I left my apartment at the same time as she left hers today and sped my walk to meet her. I was going to talk to her. I think that would work. Maybe just saying hello and telling her I liked the weird gross coffee she likes would work. I thought I might be overthinking things and that that might be the reason nothing has worked. I wonder if she would appreciate that. When I sped my walk to meet with her she shot me one of her sultry looks and darted down the stairs. She didn’t run, but she sure was in a hurry. I figured she must be late for something, and since I’m quite understanding I let her go.

As it turns out, I did figure out where she works. She works at the waffle house on the edge of town, near the highway. A waitress is a cute job for her, though I think she can do so much better, a pretty young woman with her degree of intelligence and class. Maybe she likes it there. I decided I would try her venue’s food. Unluckily I did not get her as a server, but I do think she saw me. She looked nervous. I bet that she’s just as nervous about these feelings as I am! She must love me too. I’m happy that I’ve finally found someone who loves me back.

Today was the day. I thought about what I was going to do and about what would work. I knew that she tended to rush to places whenever she left her apartment, so I wouldn’t quite be able to catch her then, but I knew when she got off work and I would wait in the lobby of our building and hop in the elevator with her. She liked to take the elevator up the building, but would ways take the stairs on the way down. I thought that was a cute quirk. I think that’s another thing to write a poem about. Maybe I’ll get to it later. Maybe I’ll make a song out of it and sing it to her on a beach one summer in our twilight years. I finally got her in the elevator and I tried to civilly introduce myself. I’m sure I stuttered, but I believe I was clear and true. She did not react the way I thought she would.

She screamed at me and panicked. She told me to stay away from her. Her nerves were much worse than mine. I tried to explain my feelings for her. I tried to evoke poetic imagery, calling the feeling she gives me shivers and the desire burning in my heart as being an Elysium that I can retreat to at any moment. Finally I buckled, hoping this last ditch effort would work. I told her I loved her and that I wanted to see her hips sway in front of me in a hotel in Paris and that I wanted to see her dancing with me along to music only she and I could hear. I told her and she fell into silence. The ding of the elevator opening to the eighth floor ruptured her already nervous disposition. We stepped out of the elevator together, facing each other. With tears in her eyes, I expected an embrace and yet I got a spear in the gut. She told me she did not love me. She then turned around and ran into her apartment.

I decided not to go home. I walked the entire night. She does not love me. After all we have done? After all the times we shared? She dares not to love me! That’s unnatural, that’s not human! There is something wrong with her. I cannot believe that nothing has worked. I was so considerate too. I knew where she worked, where she liked to hang out and I knew she was lonely. I knew that all those times I was around her that she did not speak to anyone except for customers at the waffle house. There have been a few other men, but everyone slips! I knew that we would share our loneliness with each other and make it more bearable for the both of us. Loneliness is a terrible thing when you have to carry it by yourself. I must find something that works. I must find a way.

She had called the police. I’m getting so tired of these mind games she plays. I spoke to them the morning after her madness and gave them some excuses. I knew how to deal with this sort of thing. They told me to watch myself and that they hope I have a nice day. I told them the same. I reminisce. I wonder how many times I found women that did not work. Nothing ever really works on them. Untamable beasts, which will tear out your heart and run off with it. I think I’ll come up with a plan to make her love me. Actually, it’s not a matter of making her love me. I know that she does love me, she just simply doesn’t see, or perhaps comprehend it. Love is a complex and scary thing, but it is not all that hard to understand. She must be broken and I must be the one to fix her.

I know how she moves. Just because she hasn’t left home in two days does not mean that I do not know how she moves. I must confront her again, and this time I will fix her. I noticed that she resumed her regular schedule after four and a half days of isolation in her room. I prepare myself for Friday night, when she goes to her all-so-precious fucking coffee shop in the evening and stays late. I made sure she did not see me. I didn’t want her to run off and ruin my chance at finding something that works. She walked out of her shop and I was watching from the shadow of a pawnshop sign two buildings down. I knew her path, so I went around so as to cut her off. She would be fixed. I knew just the place.

She slept very peacefully. I figured she would. My bed is a very comfortable place. Though I suppose it isn’t technically my bed, as I only use it when I need it. It’s an old bed and it’s not exactly in my apartment, but this place is abandoned and no one seems to mind that I put a bed here, or that I use it sometimes. I stroked her hair and wondered where we had went wrong. I wondered why nothing worked. As she woke and realized her woeful error she began to act up again. I had put together a few tools that might help me in fixing her. I wished that I could take a long sweet draught from her lips, but I could not remove the tape yet.

I have failed her. I could not fix her. I saw the way that she looked at me. Her eyes never spoke of love. She never understood that I loved her more than any of the other women before. She never understood that I could sense a spark. That I could see us making sweet love on an upscale London balcony and that I needed to find what worked to get her to love me. I told her to stay calm and that I knew what I was doing, but she never did stop panicking and wailing. Perhaps that’s why I could not fix her. She was crazy. She didn’t think she needed fixing. But she did. I did get my taste of her lips, but it was bitter as she was no longer there.

It was some time before I was able to move past her, the love of my life. I think I finally was able to move on when the apartment she had lived in was cleaned out and rented to a pleasant old Indian man. That reminder was gone, so I suppose it let me move on. I hate that I’m this vulnerable.  I hate that any beautiful and intelligent woman can do this to me. I wish I wasn’t that soft, but as I look into the street from my favorite bench in the park across from my building I spot a young lady walking a tiny dog. She flips her hair to reveal a soft and nubile face. I longed for a lasting romance. I had the heart of a poet, after all. The rapid passion of these love affairs are beginning to wear thin on me. I smile to myself and wonder if I could stop falling in love. I sometimes wish I would. I think that might work, but then I remember that it is in my nature. Lions cannot stop killing antelope and I cannot stop trying to love.

And I Liked Chess

She came in, rushed and in a huff. It took her a minute to compose herself.

 In one trembling hand she held a chessboard, while in the other she confidently gripped a fist full of pieces. She placed the board down before me and scattered the pieces upon the checkered surface. 

With eyes hung low, she set the board up.

Her white pieces formed an ominous circle of bishops and rooks on my half of the board. In the center of this circle she placed a single black piece, my king.

We survey the obscene, instant checkmate for a moment.

Her look then snapped up to me, apologized and left.

The Pianist and the Fisherman

    Thomas Becket had been attending these lavish parties for a few weeks now, but this was undoubtedly the biggest and in the most impressive house he had visited thus far. His friend, a successful composer, had been dragging him along to these, in the hopes that Thomas would find himself a wife, or at least a lady that interests him. The composer believed Thomas to be far too reclusive for someone of his musical talent, and perhaps it was a woman that would give him the bravado needed to make it in these social circles. Everyone seemed to agree that Thomas was easily the most talented of their assembly of musicians. Everyone also agreed that Thomas was the poorest, quietest, and dullest. Though he is not quiet musically, but quiet in the way he spoke of his music. He referred to it as a common hobby rather than a burning artistic passion. There was no bluster in his tone and he spoke only passively about it, fearful of appearing vain or arrogant, the very things he needed to appear as to be considered a true artist. An artiste if you will. Evidently, his inability to laud himself to others has left him fairly lonely and impoverished, at least in comparison to whoever it was that owned this massive mansion.

    He felt caged, locked in a zoo. People mashed against one another and formed a single drunken, swaying organism. Thomas slipped and shoved his way through it, polite as he could, trying to avoid being trampled, but was unable to really regulate his direction in the crowd. After being processed by the conglomerate of revelry and apathy he found himself ejected onto a third floor balcony, looking out into the sea. At the edge of the balcony stood a grey-haired man, looking out into the fluttering waves, wearing a sun-faded blue cap and a thick and blocky jacket, the same faded blue color, hanging off of him like an executioner’s hood. Thomas was hesitant to say hello to the man, as he wasn’t one to make his presence known, if that was not already evident. Unturning, the man told Thomas to close the doors behind him. Thomas did as he was told and waited for the old man’s next words.

    The man kept staring off into the sea and Thomas grew increasingly uncomfortable at the silence between them, though the music and noise still pierced the thin sliding doors of the balcony. “Hello?” he muttered. However, he was an unheard man. Flustered, Thomas took a step forward and repeated that double syllable, just a little louder. It was the second time that the old man heard and again, without turning, greeted him flatly, “Yes boy? Never seen a man of the sea stare out to the sea?” Thomas blinked and left his mouth agape. “Don’t you see boy?” After a pause, Thomas clicked back to life, answering as best as he could, “See what, sir?” Without missing a beat the old man bellows, “I am a fisherman!” and swiftly, yet quietly followed with, “And I need another drink…”

    Thomas could see the man swaying gently, now that he paid attention. And he did have that certain slur to his words. Thomas thought for a brief moment and said, as kindly as he could, “I only ended up coming out here to try to get away from the crowd a little.” He caught himself, “I-I mean, don’t get me wrong! I love this place but I have a little trouble around crowds if I’m around them too long. It’s just a nervous thing that I’ve had since I was little.” The old man turned slightly, with his body still facing the sea, as if pulled to it by some aqueous magnet embedded in his chest. “Got any whiskey? Or am I going to have to throw me wife’s bag off this ledge?” He turned his body only slightly more and lifted a posh looking beige handbag up for Thomas to see. Unsure of how to respond, Thomas didn’t say a word. The old man went on, “I ain’t seen her in hours. Just as I ain’t seen the sea. I swear I’ll toss it!”

    Not wanting to see such a nice handbag belonging to some other person unceremoniously tossed from a balcony onto the beach below, Thomas tried to distract the drunkard in the only way he knew how, with his music. However, he couldn’t play him anything. Not with this racket and certainly not without a piano. He remembered the short pieces he carried in his internal jacket pocket and hastily pulled them out, “I don’t have any whiskey… I haven’t got anything with me, but my jacket. And there’s no liquor in there I promise, but there are piano arrangements, see, I’m a musician! My favorite instrument is piano. And you’re a sailor, right? A fisherman, I mean?” The old man responded with half closed eyes, “Aye, I fish for a living. It’s decent money.” He punctuated these two simple proclamations by calmly and casually dropping the handbag off the edge of the balcony. “Why did you do that?” Thomas exclaimed, followed by “Watch out below!” The fisherman turned back to fully face the sea once again and lethargically rambled, “I ain’t got need for this old thing, since you don’t got no more drink. You say you want to get away from the crowd yeah? Well I know this feeling. I don’t want a wife with a handbag. I only want a wife like the sea. With arms that embrace me and pretty to look at. Ain’t no luxury handbags with a woman like the sea. Ain’t no fancy crowded parties.”

    Thomas took pause. It seemed as though the man would continue, but he did not. The two of them watched the sea for a moment. It seemed calm and gentle. Finally Thomas spoke, saying, “I suppose I can say the same. My friends keep dragging me to things like this. They think I’ll meet a girl. But I don’t want one that parties like this. I just want one to sit with. And play music with. Someone who will be my friend, not a drunken accessory.” The fisherman snapped into life, swiveling his head to look the young pianist in the eye. He roared to match the increasing volume of the world behind those sliding doors, “Ah hah! A friend! I shall be your friend! You, my good man must play me some of your music some time!” He ended his request with a heaving sigh and a hiccup. Thomas smiled and started to say, “Of course!  I’d love to. I—” before being interrupted by the fisherman violently vomiting off of the edge of the balcony.

God Thinks

You are imagining Things
It’s like you’re betraying yourself

I am against the condition of this world
Where darkness would destroy darkness

It’s an oddly creepy delight to see you

Collapsing on my metal plate
With no glaring lights
Only exposed bulbs

I’ll be glad when at last,
My plate is empty.

War in the East

Orphan girl, age of three,

With nothing but her rabbit Bree,

And a brother left to Far Away,

To live and fight another day,

Under a tree she spent her days,

Alone and content with Bree and the spray,

Of dew on the moss that lived upon the bark,

She would stay under her tree until it grew dark,

This day, however was different,

For there was no sign of play under the huge oak tree,

And there was no sign of Bree,

For the orphan girl must face something new,

And her dean, to her must now explain,

Why brother won’t return from whence he came.

Us

 

A Man floats gently in the toy aisle, hanged with balloons.

Shortly afterwards, a little girl passes by unnoticing, smoking her cigarette. Her mother not far behind, holding a bloody sack of roiling bile and fat to her breast. The hanging man sways and softly rustles his balloons.

Skimming by on an old, worn bike, once painted blue comes a large toothed, large pored child with coffee streaks on his two front-most teeth. He pays little attention to the man’s high fashion sense. The child focuses not on the hanged man’s fine suit, but on handles of his bicycle.

Hairless, a tiny boy with acetic features and a long nose, the tip of which is flattened on a bright screen, wanders past the dead man, thinking far more about birds and candy than about the brown leather shoes on his large, dignified feet.

Oppressive in nature, the massive feet of this boy’s father intimidate and eclipse the pride of the hanged man’s shoes.  At least this hard-browed, bearded figure did not outdo the hanged man’s tie, as he had fastened it to his neck nearly as cozily and prestigiously as the balloons to which he was tied.

Lethargically an ancient, splotched woman meanders past, her mind brittle and riddled with holes. She searched for a gift most likely. She poured the entirely of her limited focus into it, missing out on seeing the glimmer of the hanged man’s silver watch. His father’s watch. A watch he had carried with him always.

Eardrums being pounded by violent noises and harsh twangs, a pockmarked and greasy-lipped teenager waddles past. He is fat, and thus does not respect the way that the hanged man’s jacket sculpts his chest and shoulders. The boy wears a hat, covering what is likely unkempt hair. The man's hair is superbly combed, disturbed only by the slight static of his balloons.

So the hanged man hangs unseen by his world. Maybe in life he felt ignored and unneeded, perhaps he had even felt abysmally alone and feared the permanence of his solitude. If he had, then in death he faced no change. If when he lived he believed that his death would result in no ripples then he was right. Alone he lived and alone he hung. Even after his peacockery and his flamboyant dress. His greatest and last effort, in vain.

THE LOST

          

He never much liked all these people. To make things even less enjoyable, he was essentially alone amongst them. Yes, he’d once gone to school with all these people and maybe, in conversation, referred to a few as his friends, but he never truly liked them too much. At least he didn’t bear the weight of pining for a woman. A girlfriend. “Ex-girlfriend.”, He remembered. “At least she had the common courtesy to break up with me before she died.”

Donnie found himself dwelling on her last words to him shortly before he watched life leave her. “I can’t stay with you like this. I don’t want to be a burden to you, and I don’t want you to be a burden to me.” she told him. He tried to tell her not to be stupid and that they could survive together, but she didn’t listen. She left him to find someone new in a group of strangers. Then he remembered watching silent tears fill her eyes and her choked mouth fill with blood.

So he was stuck. Now he was alone in his paltry group of survivors. Scraps more like. Lilah was his favorite. She was sultry looking, but quiet. He liked Jules too. Jules had a knack for cynicism and a certain bluntness that made him either thoroughly entertaining or miserably annoying. Unfortunately, Jules lacked tact and acute intelligence. He often talked in sweeping rhetoric, never backed by detail.

 Matt spoke up, snapping Donnie out of his thoughts, “We ought to stop for the night. We need to eat and sleep.” He always rubbed Donnie the wrong way. Every word of his was coated in a fine, nasally slime. His breath smelled oddly of garlic salt, despite the distinct lack of spices the group endured. Something in his voice seemed false, and this fakeness somehow survived through all the hell they’ve been through. Donnie remembered him from a class they shared. Matt loved speaking up, even if there was nothing to say.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Donnie sneered back as he set his bag on the dusty ground and pulled his blanket-turned-bedroll free from the clutches of the pack. Matt puckered his long face as if eating a sour candy (another thing sorely missing) and crinkled his nose at the remark. Donnie made sure to teach Matt his place on the group’s first day of walking. When Matt approached Donnie with a bizarre offer of mutual dictatorship over their somewhat large group (now whittled down to a group of nine). Donnie flashed his teeth (and perhaps a knife he had picked up off some tactical looking corpse) and made his warning of silence to Matt clear. Regardless, Matt still liked to act like he was in charge, when in reality it was Lou who held all the power. This was not because Lou was stronger, faster, or braver. He had the only gun in the group. Donnie had one, for a time, picked up along with his knife, which had long ago jammed and been thrown away in panic. Jules had one once as well, but it was lost when the group had found a stash of liquor in a ruined supermarket. Well, it was actually Marie who lost it, clumsily tossing it into a pool of grey water that was deeper than it looked after Jules had been drunkenly waving the thing around. Jules was awfully bitter about the loss of his little toy, but Marie is dead now, and Donnie figured that was some kind of twisted consolation. If Lou chose to speak up and issue a command, it would be wise to do as he said. He was arguably the smartest of all of them. He was supposed to be some kind of government employed engineer when he graduated. He got recruited by an exceptionally prestigious (read as ‘rich’) science lab place when he was still a sophomore at the university. Lou could be scary if he wanted, but he was decent most of the time.

Donnie set up his bedroll furthest from Lou, who was using his glasses and the last peering light of the day to start a fire. Donnie set up closer to Lilah’s bedroll then anyone else’s. He felt it was quieter near her. The others shifted restlessly or snored in their sleep, but she didn’t make a single sound. The quiet of it gave him an illusion of peace. He never saw her notice him, and never did she steal even a glance at him. “If she did, I would notice.” he thought, “I notice.” Though even he questioned why he still cared in a time and place like this. Perhaps it gave him something to do. He sat on his blanket-stuffed roll and observed the others. Lou was poking at the fire, Jules and Tom were setting up next to each other, as were Goldy and Frank, Matt was wasting his time trying to help with the fire, but getting no feedback from Lou, and the miraculous twins, Arya and Ryia were already bundled up on the ground, chatting noisily about absolutely nothing. Donnie noticed Lilah meandering about, looking at the shifting maroon clouds in the sky darken as night fell, and allowed his thoughts to drift back to her. That gallant way she walked and her thick black hair. He wanted her to gaze at him, and show him her face, but she never would look at him. He had to content himself with her slowly darkening silhouette against the setting sun.

They were all taking shelter under the canopy what had once been a gas station, “At least there’s a roof tonight. And at least the stink of gasoline outweighs the stink of rotting shit.” Donnie thought as he growled in his throat and spit into the darkness to his left.

When Lou had finished his fire, he summoned the attention of the group by banging the butt of his rifle against a steel pan that he carried in his bag. The ringing sounded flat and dead, which seemed fitting. “Eat up, everyone. We’ll get up at first light and see what we can find in the station. Goodnight.” he announced. He had always been concise, Donnie thought, as he peeled the top off a cold can of ravioli he’d been saving. Though before, he’d never been a fan of canned ravioli, Donnie had found it to be massively satisfying on the road. He had a collection of foods, occasionally slipping in an extra can or two during rationing whenever the group came across places that weren’t completely ransacked. The congealed red sauce made him remember his father’s meager cooking. I can’t stay with you like this. The memory panged in his mind. He saw that brilliant, running red sauce in her mouth. He considered throwing the can away, but the thought of wasting his meal made his stomach moan.  

By the time Donnie had finished his meal it had started to rain outside of the station. Thick black globs of filth burst from the clouds in erratic pulses, hitting the ground with a loud splat, like someone dropping frogs off of an overpass. He was used to the nightly storms now, and he was glad to be under the canopy, sheltered away from those cloudy pugilists. Lilah had was already bundled up from head to toe in her blanket. Matt was tasked with first watch tonight, and Donnie was second. The twins had already fallen asleep, as had Jules. Frank and Goldy were intertwined together. Lou seemed to be gone. “Most likely to piss in the bushes.” thought Donnie, “Or to rub one out quietly in the bushes. Must be stressful having to boss everyone around all the time.” Donnie smiled at his own little vulgarity and glanced at Lilah, hoping that by some miracle she’d acknowledge his mediocre private joke with a smile. She remained wrapped up, hidden from the world.

By the time Donnie fell asleep, the rain had slowed and Lou had returned to his bedroll. The fire had died down a little and all seemed as well as it possibly could be. Donnie slept fitfully, as he normally did. As everyone normally did. He relived the day of the end nearly every night and he was sure the others did too. He dreamt that he was sitting in the suite he shared with some other kid, staring out of their window at pulses of green-white light coming from a distant black cloud. He remembered the power going out, and seeing students wandering outside and talking to each other marveling at the distance aurora. He remembered that his roommate left too. Donnie stayed in, too lazy to move from his window perch. He remembered those peculiar pulses of light growing closer and he remembered the metallic twanging noise that accompanied them.  He remembered the shockwaves, cracking, then smashing windows and snapping trees. And he remembered the final impact, a loud bang followed by the ringing blackness of him losing consciousness.

Donnie woke with a start, with the ringing of his dream still loud in his ears. While still groggy from his weak attempt a sleep, Goldy screamed the need to survive violently jerked everyone fully awake. Goldy was screaming at a collapsed pool of blood and body that lay crippled near the door of the gas station’s convenience store and was trying to scrabble to her feet, but kept getting caught in her bedroll. Her beaten-gold hair was mussed from sleep and filthy from travel, her blue eyes were red and watery and the pale porcelain skin of her neck had turned a feverish red from her screams. She stumbled, struggling with her bedroll. It was the cruelest slapstick comedy Donnie had ever seen. Lou was the quickest, firing a round of his pet rifle towards the doorway of the store. Goldy had finally broken free from her divine comedy and clawed her way towards the body, wheezing, looking more like a flogged beast than the Golden Hanna Barret that Donnie had seen giggling gently the night before.

Donnie rubbed the sleep from his eyes and watched a crowd gather around Frank. Lou was strafing in a amusingly militant way towards the store with rifle in hand. Goldy had finally reached Frank’s corpse and pressed her face to it, screaming into its mangled chest. Arya and Ryia pulled her away after a feeble struggle and showered her with kind words and consolation. They had done for others who had lost friends and lovers before and it wasn’t surprising that they had to do it again. The twins had always been the most gentle of the group, which was good, since they seemed to have little use otherwise.

While Hanna shuddered forcefully and retched up whatever she ate the last night, Lilah took her time getting out of bed and gazed solemnly at the sunrise, watching thick grey clouds turn a meaty color against the sun and blinked sleepily. Donnie knew how she felt. He didn’t think much of the whole ordeal either. He still had his own life, and there were others left too. Lilah was still alive, for instance. Matt stirred from what looked like a comfortable sleep with a look of panicked confusion, having forgotten to pass on watch duty, an oversight that cost the group another member. “He should have woken me up.” Donnie thought, and with a calm, poisonous voice said, “If you hadn’t fallen asleep, and had just gotten me to take your place, Frank would be fine.” Matt didn’t hear him over the commotion and Lou disappeared into the store. Jules took it upon himself to drag the body behind the station, just to get it out of sight. The body moved easily. Frank had always been skinny, but traveling with the limited resources that they had had caused him to grow more gaunt. They were all gaunt and skinny now. Weak, tired, and weary of death.

The girls, sans Lilah, who was wandering around the station, slowly making her way towards the spot where Frank’s corpse was taken, were clustered together mumbling reassuringly while Jules sat near Donnie. “Lou said there’s some guy in there with a double barrel.” He whispered, “He thinks that there was a guy in there all night, waiting. I bet Lou’s gonna kill him.” “He probably will.” said Donnie, noticing that Lou closed the store’s door.

It had felt like hours since Lou went into the convenience store under the canopy. The group was down a member and Donnie was hoping that they would leave before Frank’s body started to smell. Jules muttered sardonically, “Gold Hanna and Dead Frank. What’s next, Fat Jules and Sexy Donnie?” Donnie couldn’t help, but snicker. Goldy was a shivering mess now, and she no longer shone like gold as she had before (despite all the filth of traveling). She was more pink instead of white now, and her hair seemed to have gone dull. She had finally stopped crying and instead opted to sniffle meekly and stare at the ground. When Lou emerged he carried a red can of gasoline and a grimace. “What’s the buzz, Lou?” Jules asked, as Lou approached the part of the station where he and Donnie were sitting. “Nothing much. There was some sick looking guy sitting there. He said he was there for a week, and judging by the smell, I’d say he was telling the truth. He only had two rounds and that shotgun, so there wasn’t even any more of a threat.”

“That’s great, but why did he just shoot to kill? He could have gotten more out of it all if he just stuck a gun in Frank’s face and demanded some stuff.”

“He said that there were some angry folk with guns who were harassing him a few nights ago. He said he was afraid that they came back.”

Donnie interjected, “He took us for raiders then?” Lou glanced at Donnie and said, calm as ever, “I suppose he did, though I can’t say I blame him. He said there should be some nearby. He said they came demanding gas for a car. He gave them enough to get them a good few miles out, but promised they would be far enough to not be a problem. Whatever else he said was, in my opinion, unreliable.”

“Gee, I wonder how he could of thought we were raiders. All we do is wander from place to place taking stuff and killing sick old people who live in the places we go.” Said Jules with harshness on his breath.

“I never said he was old.” said Lou. “And I said that I can’t blame him for thinking we were raiders.”

“I’m guessing you offed him then.” Jules said. Unblinking, Lou replied, “He won’t be camping near doors anymore.”

Donnie and Jules sat quietly as Lou went off to explain what had happened to the rest of them. The morning was turning into a cloudy and chilly one. It had been early autumn when the end came and the threat of the cold loomed over the group since the day they set out. It was Lou who suggested they travel south to try to avoid freezing to death. Donnie remembered when they first grouped together. They scavenged the shattered remains of their campus to look for warm blankets and tough bags, at the command of Lou, who, for whatever reason, had a rifle already. The group was larger then and if Donnie remembers correctly, Lilah wasn’t a part of it. She just kind of stuck to the group one day and no one seemed to question it.

 Donnie and Jules got up and Donnie started to pack up his bedroll as Jules went off to do the same. Upon stuffing the roll into his bag he took survey of what was going on around him. Time shifted, now going quickly and Donnie fell into a routine of sorts. He packed up his bed and found a quiet looking spot to take a piss. He then made a circle around “camp” to inspect what the others were up to. Lou was rummaging through the pack that Goldy and Frank shared to get rid of anything that might not be of use while Goldy was half comatose, slumped onto her knees, Jules was kicking a rock around. Lilah seemed to have disappeared, though she had a tendency to wander off when the group wasn’t moving and reappear when they started up again.

The twins sat together near Lou, waiting for him to finish his baggage dissection and Matt sat against his bedroll cradling his legs. Matt didn’t have his own bag until Marie died. He took hers, Donnie remembered. Lilah didn’t have one still; she seemed content on carrying her bedroll on a piece of rope. Donnie wasn’t sure whose bag she took food from.

Eventually, they had gotten their stuff together and they departed the station, following the road south, as they had been for weeks, Lou in the front, Donnie in the back. He didn’t think much of Frank’s death. To him, it was just another mouth they wouldn’t have to feed anymore. He wondered how Goldy would fare now. He watched Lilah walk her swaying walk. It struck him how clean she looked compared to the rest of them. Donnie tried to run his hand through his own hair, but gave up when his fingers caught in the tangles. They walked the day away, kicking up a trail of brownish-gray dust and not speaking much, unlike how they had when the group was fresh and large. As the evening approached, the sky began to turn dark and angry and the clouds gathered in thick droves and conspired to rain. Lou resolved that the group should keep marching, saying that it wasn’t yet night.

They walked through the rain for what felt like eternity. Again, time had shifted, now moving far too slowly for anyone’s liking. Donnie didn’t understand why Lou was so insistent of moving through it. Everyone was huddled and miserable in the wet, except Lilah, who seemed to almost step in between the raindrops.

It finally began to fall too dark to see ahead and Lou called an end to the walking. Everyone stiffly set up their beds and got ready for a rough night without cover. Donnie was up first on watch, and Matt was relieved from his duty for this night. Donnie found watch to be torturous. Time dragged on and on for him. The pounding rain gave him a headache and the occasional flashes of lightening hurt his eyes. The sky roiled in agony and bled its thick black blood. He wished he could slip into sleep, but it would not come to him. His head snapped up when he heard a loud roar. It was familiar, but not one he had heard in a long time. Bright lights ripped through the rain and squealing tires tore off of the road and into the hard, wet earth that the group had been resting on. Donnie heard yells coming from the massive Jeep that came to a stop a few yards away from the group. Donnie didn’t understand how someone had found them in the rain, but all the same, he jumped to his feet and bashed his knife against Lou’s metal pot. The camp, stirring from the engine sounds, now jolted to life, but they were too slow. The raiders spilled out of their car and began firing on their little group. As far as raiders went, some were well armed and ruthless and others were tired wanderers with one gun and a whole lot of psychological trauma. The stammering Jeep engine sounded like serpentine hissing through the rain. There were too many of them and they were too well armed. Donnie knew he had to run if he wanted a chance to stay alive. He decided to cut his losses with the group and ran.

Dawn came subtly, peeking out against the thick clouds. The rain had slowed, and was now a fine grey mist. He, Lilah, and Jules were the only ones left. Donnie stirred groggily from his unconsciousness to look about himself. He remembered passing out after sprinting away from camp. Somehow Jules was with him. And Lilah was too. He wondered what happened to the rest of the camp. He remembered the raiders descending on them. As he ran he saw one of them tearing at Ryia’s clothes in a flash of lightening while she kicked and screamed. There was lots of screaming. He remembered gunshots, but he couldn’t tell which were Lou’s doing and which weren’t. Somehow in his panic he remembered to snag his bag. He thought himself lucky. Looking over Jules and Lilah, he thought himself three times as lucky.

Jules stirred from his sleep next only to let of a groan. Donnie looked over to him and saw a pool of congealing, drying blood underneath him.  A bullet must have hit him when he was running. Donnie looked over him, saying nothing, until Jules looked up at Donnie with red-rimmed, brown eyes framed by a ghostly pale face. Perhaps Donnie wasn’t quite as lucky as he thought.

 “Hey.” He muttered.

“Hi.” Donnie replied. “What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m bleeding.” He grinned, “I didn’t notice until we stopped. I didn’t have the energy to worry about it after that.”

Jules wheezed painfully and gritted his pink stained teeth. He tried to stand, but was unable. Donnie wondered if he would have to leave him behind, remembering that that wouldn’t have been the first time someone was left behind. It would be easier for him just to go with Lilah. With her, at least, the whole group wouldn’t be lost. He’d still have one human life around him. Just as the thought went through his mind, Jules spoke as though he had heard what Donnie was thinking.

“Wait man, wait. I can get up, trust me.” Jules assured Donnie. He tried to get up again, straining and panting. Jules flexed, pushed, and ground his teeth together so hard that it was a surprise to Donnie that they didn’t shatter, but Jules didn’t have the strength left in him to lift his own legs. The wind sighed and a brief clarity came over the foggy world, just to be swallowed again when the wind stopped. “I just need to rest a little. I’m tired is all.” Jules muttered under his breath. Donnie couldn’t help but apologize to Jules. Jules had been one of the more enjoyable of the group. A potential friend, perhaps, but even with him gone, Donnie could still be with Lilah. “Don’t fucking apologize to me.” Jules barked. He tried to keep speaking, but his harsh tone crumbled into pitiful coughs and sobs. Donnie did his best to ignore them as he slung his bag over his shoulder. He looked around and wondered where he was. He couldn’t see far ahead of himself thanks to the soupy pool of gray fog that surrounded him. Jules continued to squirm on the ground grunting, whimpering and mumbling about not being left behind. Though Donnie got along well enough with Jules, he didn’t need him. Donnie had Lilah to keep him some company, and if they were the only two left, she couldn’t possibly ignore him.

Lilah had gotten up and packed up her own bedroll, swinging it over her back. Donnie stared at the back of her head, confused, “Did you get comfortable after that whole chase?” He asked. Still, now that he was the last person in the world, she ignored him. “Come on, answer me! How did you manage to have the energy to actually bed down after we ran?” He stepped towards her, angry and grabbed her by the arm. Her skin was clammy and covered by a fine, wet sheen of mist. She still would not face him and said not a word. “Well? Well?” His yelling did nothing to move her. Jules stirred again and asked who Donnie was talking to. “I’m talking to her! But she doesn’t answer me!” Jules’ response was an abrasive wheeze. “Whatever.” Donnie growled as he released her arm and stormed off to continue his increasingly meaningless hike for survival.

He had thought that he would be fine. He had his food and his life. The mist was almost pleasant in contrast to the rain he had suffered the night before. His steady walk slowed as a fear grew inside of him. Had he failed his comrades? They weren’t his friends, he knew, but he was part of something. He didn’t feel right there, but there was still a “there.” A place for him to be where he wouldn’t have to die alone. The others at least died together. And even if they didn’t they had Arya and Ryia to whisper sweetness into their ears. He shouldn’t have rushed off without Lilah. She may be strange, but maybe she was just trying to prove some kind of point to him.

He turned around to walk back to where he had woken up, but the fog was too thick. It began to feel dirty against his skin. He started forward, hoping that his 180 degree turn would lead him back to Lilah, but he could just end up walking in circles for all he knew. Donnie felt a flush of panic creep up his neck. He didn’t know if he could survive by himself. Lou always led them. Donnie had Matt as a punching bag and Jules was there to joke around with. “No.” Donnie whispered to himself. “They are not important. They never needed me. I never needed them.” After all, Donnie was still alive, and the others were probably dead by now.

Donnie turned around at the sound of the whistling wind. The fog cleared for a moment, and in that moment he spotted Lilah through the fog. She had been following him and when he turned to see her, he spotted her face. She had familiar eyes and long lost lips, stained a deep red. Almost brown. He surprised himself when he called out to her, but as soon as the wind died, she was swallowed by the fog yet again. Donnie called out to her, he told her to come to his voice. He begged her to stop hiding from him. He begged her not to be stupid. He begged her not to do it. He begged her not to leave him alone with a group of strangers.

Donnie felt as if he was drunk. He knew her. He always knew her. It was all too familiar. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t seen it earlier. She stepped towards him, cutting through the opaque mist and he gazed at her with strained eyes, knowing he failed. He would be alone, whether he survived alone, or died alone, he would still be completely and totally isolated. She walked to him and through him. He whispered, whether to her or to himself, he no longer knew, “I can’t stay with you like this.”

 He was an idiot. She just walked into our group and wasn’t questioned. She never left me. Donnie wanted to apologize. He wanted to explain he didn’t mean to leave her behind. That he was just angry. But something in Donnie knew that she wouldn’t hear. That she couldn’t hear. Nausea overcame him and he fell onto its knees. The wind sighed a clearing again and Lilah was gone. Donnie was alone.