“It’s too tight!”

Pearl’s on the other side of the dressing room door, and I’m scrabbling with the zipper of a silver shimmery dress. It has a $120 price tag, but Pearl and I aren’t planning on buying any of these things, anyway.

Pearl just cackles. “Come out, you have to see this!” she calls.

I yank the dress off, because you’d have to be made of sticks to fit into it. And it says medium on the tag. Yeah right.

The other dress I brought in with me is magenta and ruffly at the bottom and has a low neckline that I would never wear in public, so I put it on. Surprisingly, it zips. I step out of my dressing room.

In the tiny hallway between the rooms is a mirror, and Pearl’s facing it, wearing her own over-priced dress. I catch her eyes in the reflection and let out what can only be called a guffaw.

“Good gracious, what is that?” I exclaim, holding out my hands in her direction. Her dress is yellow, with fringe hanging off the asymmetrical skirt and the neckline as well. It looks more like Big Bird than a party dress.

She’s laughing at her reflection, and doing a silly dance, still facing the mirror. She turns to me. “Isn’t it hideous? Yours, though, is…”

I tip my head to the side, waiting for her to finish the thought, and she’s wearing that horrid dress, and she’s blinking at me, but no words have come out of her mouth. “It’s fine,” I fill in for her. “But it’s not worth--” I check the tag. “--ninety-five dollars.”

She shakes her head. “It might be,” she replies with a small smile.

“It’s not,” I inform her, glancing down at myself.

Pearl shrugs. “I like it.” She grins. “I like it a lot more than this.” Another shake of her hips, and the fringe swishes around her legs, and we’re both caught in a laughing fit.

. . .

It’s almost six o’clock, but there’s just one more store that we spot, then we'll have to get back to the library, because that’s where Pearl wants her parents to pick her up, to make it seem like we’ve been there this whole time.

We walk into the thrift shop, and Pearl points at a line of ceramic Santas. I pick up a statue of a dragon and show it to her, only to gasp in joy when I realize that it’s actually got a spout, and must be some kind of water pitcher.

It goes on like that, both of us pointing out random items, and eventually we move on and browse the racks of clothes. A lot of them are in terrible condition, to be honest, but Pearl is still somehow able to find things that she likes enough to try on.

She disappears into one of the changing rooms, and I skim over a nearby rack of sweaters. There’s a white one with scatters of rainbow stars, and I pick it up and hold it up to my chest, looking down at myself.

I get that feeling again, suddenly, like I’m being watched, and I almost drop the sweater as I look up. Standing with only the rack of clothes separating us, is that guy from Youth’s Road to Jesus. Chad? Chaz?

He looks the same, in a tight t-shirt and gym shorts, clearly an outfit meant to show off his muscles. He’s holding an armful of green and blue jerseys and sweatshirts, and it looked like he had been going through them until he noticed me staring at him.

He gives me a smile that is a little too self-satisfied, and I shove the sweater I’m holding back on the rack, planning on rushing to the other end of the store. Or maybe sinking into the floor, that would work too.

“Do I…” he starts.

Oh, please no. He’s spoken. To me. I freeze in place.

“Wait a minute, yeah! I recognize you…” He wags a finger at me, thinking for a second. “You must've been at Kayla’s party, right?”

He was at Abbey’s sister’s party?! No, wait, her name wasn’t Kayla. “Casey?” I say, but he’s already started talking again.

“Listen, ah, geez.” He half sighs, half laughs, and gives me a big lopsided grin, as if that’s supposed to mean something. “I’m really sorry about my friends. They’re usually way chiller than that. I mean, we all did some stuff we shouldn’t have, right?” He laughs loudly, and I probably just look confused.

He presses on. “I hope Megan isn’t mad. I mean, come on, she was asking for it, wearing that skirt! I’m just kidding. But you know us guys, we just say things like that sometimes. Doesn't mean a thing. But we should all hang out again. More ‘bible study’, am I right?” He winks, and I think I flinch a little.

On the one hand, I’m relieved he doesn’t actually remember me. On the other, who on earth is Megan and what did he and his friends say to her?

When I stand there not saying anything, like a fool, he shakes his head, his smile finally wavering. “I’m Chet, remember? And you’re… uh, it’s on the tip of my tongue…” He’s looking at me expectantly, but I don’t really want to provide him with my name.

“I actually–” I begin.

“Hey, can you help me with these?!” Pearl’s voice comes from the end of the row I’m in, and she’s practically yelling. I can see an employee not too far away turn her head in our direction, and I, at that moment, would like nothing more to sink into the floor and never return.

I lurch towards Pearl, hoping Chet will just forget about me. Pearl’s balancing a heaping stack of clothes in her arms, and peaking at me over the top of them. I’m not sure why.

“Oh, let me help,” Chet offers, discarding his own chosen garments onto the rack and heading in her direction. I can see a flash of panic in Pearl’s wide eyes as they meet mine. Clearly this was not the intention of this charade.

“Just hold these, will you?” she says to him, and she’s nodding her head at me, and it take me a second to realize she’s tipping her head at the door. A moment later, she ditches all the clothes into Chet’s arms, and is taking me by the arm and speed-walking out the door.

Outside, we thread our way through the stream of shoppers--it’s busy now that it’s later in the day. Pearl releases my arm, but I think she leaves dents, she was clutching me so hard.

“Oh my god,” she laughs, a little out of breath.

I join her. “I can’t believe you just did that,” I say. “Do you think he knew it was you?”

“As long as he can’t see through denim, I don’t think he got a good look at my face. And if he can see through denim, then we have bigger problems on our hands,” she replies.

I laugh, and she holds her hands out in front of her as we walk, still incredulous. “Who let Chet into this mall?”

“It’s an outdoor mall,” I remind her. “I’m not sure it’s possible to keep anyone out.”

She makes a popping noise with her lips. “They should build Chet-proof walls then. He shouldn’t be allowed out in the wild.”

. . .

My parents are waiting for me in the library parking lot, and I leave Pearl in the library to wait for her own to arrive.

“We called you,” my mom says when I get in the car.

I pull my phone out of my pocket. I forgot to switch it off silent. (I always set it to silent when I enter libraries, because I’m paranoid someone will call me and the ring will go off and the librarians will glare at me and it will be completely embarrassing.) “Oh, sorry,” I tell her, and my dad’s already pulling out of the parking lot, one hand turning the wheel and the other tipping back a travel mug of what I know must be coffee.

Mom twists in her seat to look at me. “I didn’t think you’d be that long. We have to pick up Rory for Easter.” I don’t look at her for a second, because I have missed notifications on my phone, but then my head pops up.

“He’s coming home for Easter?” My parents rarely talk about my brother, especially since they don’t approve of him living with his girlfriend--unmarried. And she’s not Christian, either.

“Desirae will be flying out to California to visit her family. And we haven’t seen Rory in so long…”

I just shake my head, not even bothering to ask why he can’t just drive himself. He lives two hours away. I also don’t know why I have to be in the car, either, if they’re wanting to pick him up.

But I’m too distracted to ask, because I’ve got a text from an unknown number, and it says:

hi Trin! this is Katherine. I changed the schedule for easter mon a bit. checked with mrs. Vena and she thinks its a great idea for you to read an excerpt of your story. I know it was supposed to be an essay but lets be real no one wants to hear some boring essay

And a second message:

super excited, everyone is going to love it!!! thnx for being flexible ur the best!!!

Oh no.

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(first part: https://theprose.com/post/432343/trinity)

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(previous part: https://theprose.com/post/462342/trinity-46)

(next part: https://theprose.com/post/463780/trinity-48)

I must admit that I am still 'growing up', but if I were to look back 50 years from now my answer to this question would be the same.

I was introduced to the show The Monkees the same month that Peter Tork, one of the actors, passed away. Ever since, it was a refuge for me. It was an escape from boring daily life into a world where good always won in the end, and no matter how terrible the characters' luck was, they always kept smiles on their faces - never failing to put one on mine, too.

The boys acted like a family to each other - exactly what a shy, lonely bookworm girl dreamt of having for her own. They helped ease the empty pit of friendship that not even the best family in the world could fill. They showed me what a family of friends looked like - a family that always has your back, but isn't afraid to push your limits. A second family, one not of blood, but one you can choose and in which you are chosen by others.

The best part about it was and still is the fact that they - Davy Jones, Micky Dolenz, Mike Nesmith, and Peter Tork - were so real. They kept their real names, their on-screen personalities were only slightly exaggerated from their own, and they laughingly broke the 4th wall more times than I can count.

The boys were so authentic I felt I knew them. And in watching that show, I felt I became one of their family. They became a family I will never forget, and for that I will always be grateful.

If I had ever met them, the first thing I would've told them would be:

Micky, Mike, Peter, and Davy:

Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Your past is always your past.

Even if you forget it, it remembers you.

― Sarah Dessen

We sit on a bench under the strong, thick branches of an old oak tree opposite a sturdy-looking, red brick building, soaking up the remaining sun's rays. The place seems to be standing there since before the first world war, slightly warned out but extremely solid. Safe. Reliable. Full of history and stories I think I would love to hear. The hour isn't late, but the nearing Winter had its own rules, forever eager to step into the shadows of the night even before bringing any traces of snow. I tilt my head to the side and inhale the air deeper. Charlie's grandmother had lived in a beautiful place. It seemed so peaceful, even in the middle of a busy city. Almost as if the greyness of the town didn't reach the five-story building or the street filled with old things and memories that you could breathe in if you just focused enough. I sit up more straight, hands deep in the pockets of my jacket, and then ask without turning right to face him. Instead, focusing on the rusty color bricks and their peculiar patterns.

So, should I look you up in the yellow pages under a healer or a health masseuse?

I can sense him tense a bit, even though my tone was meant to be light.

It's just a word, Nora.

Yes, and yet we are sitting here for a reason. It's okay, you know. In comparison with me, you are merely a toddler in aisle one of the madness market that I own. Trust me, anything you will say, won't cause that much effect on me. I'm immune to nearly everything by now.

Well, it's new to me.

Okay, then let's make it a bit more familiar. Tell me when you knew, or at least sensed something different about you. There must have been something.

Why? Are you asking me when the radioactive spider first bit me?

I can sense his gaze on me and smile a bit.

No, I already know you were sculptured by angles and the creators of "The house on the prairie"*.

You want to hear about it, or do you prefer mocking me instead?

I put two fingers across my heart and master a serious expression.

My natural bitter and sarcastic nature shall not intervene in your story. You have my word.

He looks at me doubtfully, eyebrow slightly lifted.

Nora.

I sigh and nod.

I mean it, you have my word. I really want to hear it and apologize for the always-present bad habits. You won't hear a sound from me until you are done.

I bite my lower lip, holding back any natural sarcastic response that could roll off my tongue if not monitored correctly. My voice turns gentle as I speak.

Charlie, I mean it. Please tell me. I'm here for you.

He nods slowly in response and stares into the distance. He's silent for a while, probably gathering his thoughts before he speaks. Unexpectedly, he turns back to me and searches for something in my eyes, causing me to blink faster, my cheeks flaming up without warning, God knows why. Finally, he smiles, satisfied, and then looks up at the building.

It happened when I was a kid. But I guess, over the years, I must have put it into the back of my head, not dwelling on it for a long time. Kids have a talent for quickly moving on to new things, that's just how it is.

I listen to his warm voice and feel myself sink into the story slowly, showing my hands deeper into the pockets.

There was this older woman living down the street from us. Polite, quiet, but you could see something was wrong in the way she carried herself. Her face always seemed so pained, as if the expression was stitched to her features permanently. Each wrinkle like a note that shouted, stay away. I was 9-years-old then. And for some reason, felt a need to help her out. Not a common trait at that age, but probably due to the way I was brought up.

He exhales slowly before continuing, remembering things I might never have access to.

So, I shoveled the snow from her front yard in Winter and mowed the lawn in the Spring and Summer. Once a week, I would do groceries for her and got paid four dollars for it, even when I said it wasn't necessary. Though being just a little brat, I did enjoy having some money of my own; it made me feel important, and more like a grown-up.

The corners of my lips lift at those words. A tiny grown-up, Charlie. Already the

responsible one.

I remember that at first, I was a bit scared of her, but my grandmother said never to judge someone by their appearance and focus on what's inside. At that time, I wasn't completely aware of what the 'inside' really meant, but I didn't want to upset her either. Therefore, I helped as much as my skinny hands and legs let me, at the age of just nine. And when the Summer came, I was slightly braver and no longer feared to say 'hi' to her or ask questions. I was just hoping to ease the permanent scowl on her face and maybe earn a bit to buy a used skateboard, so I could spend more time with my friends.

One day, and I think it was the end of June, I drove over to her on my bike to ask if she needed anything from the shop and saw her crying on the porch, tears slowly streaming down the deep lines of her face. I remember the sound of my bike falling to the ground. And how my trainers seemed to squeak on the pavement as I ran up to her, then just standing there, not sure what to do next. I couldn't just hug her like I did my mom or say the right words because I didn't know the right words to soothe her pain. Instead, I did the only thing that came into my mind. I took her hand and squeezed it tight. I remember her looking down at me, surprise painted on her face. As if she forgot that anyone else was still living and breathing on this Earth. She stared at my hand for a long moment, her expression finally changing. The lines on her forehead and on her cheeks seemed to loosen up, her lips no longer just a tight, thin line... And right then, at that moment, I saw it; the always present grimace seemed to disappear from her face. I could see her relax as she gave me a shy smile. It was like experiencing the sun finally emerging from the thick, heavy clouds. I don't think I will ever be able to forge the sight. No matter how long I will live.

I shift slightly and tense up on the wooden bench, thinking that's how it always felt for me when he helped me, when he eased the pain. As if gazing at my very own sun; meant just for me. Silently, I gaze down at my lap while playing with my fingers.

I recall asking her. "Are you alright, ma'am?" and her words "I am now, son, thank you" Neither of us spoke of that day ever again, but something changed since then. I was no longer scared of her as if I understood her better somehow. The words of my grandmother forever echoing in my head. "Never judge, Charlie. See what's on the inside, not just on the top, dusty layer". I never forgot that lesson, and I still try to use it now.

I look at him thoughtfully and take his hand, the warmth as always filling me up in such sweet ways, but that's wasn't the reason why I was holding it. Thanks to his words, his story, I saw the person that he was as a child. And it was the same wonderful person that was still looking at me now. I couldn't be more grateful to have in my life.

Is that why you helped me that day? Because you saw something more than the average Joe

would?

Yes, I think so. I focused on the inside and a feeling that made me compose a conscious decision to do everything to help you.

Thank you for that.

I knew you needed me.

I still do.

And I am here to help, as always.

My body moves closer to him, my side leaning in. I kiss him on the cheek and smile softly.

I'm glad that you saw it before it swallowed me up completely.

Well, it was hard to miss.

What can I say? When I do something, I do it in a big style, with no exceptions.

Yes, and I've even grown to like that about you.

Then you must be just as mad as I am. Or more.

Perhaps, Nora, perhaps. But there's nothing wrong with a little crazy, right?

In your humble way, sure. But let's face it, you wouldn't be able to handle all of this.

I joke, getting up and doing a few small spins, pointing to myself.

You would be surprised.

Hmm, I don't usually like to be surprised, but for you, I will make an exception, Mr.

Evans.

Looking forward to it, Ms. Walton.

I cringe from the sound of my last name because it always made me think about my dad and our bad relations, but for Charlie's sake, I brush it off.

I should have never told you my full name.

You didn't, I made that happen on my own.

It doesn't make it any easier for me.

I smile at him for a moment, then grab his hand and pull him up.

Come on, your lunch hour will soon be over. It's a good thing that this place isn't too far from your job.

He stands up and slides his hand out of mine, pushing both of his hands into the pocket of his thick grey coat, following me with some hesitation. I turn around and stare at him questioningly.

You're going to tell me later something about the man that visited you today. I didn't like him one bit, Nora. I just didn't.

I nod a few times and bite my lip again.

I will, promise. Even if the less you know about him, the better.

His eyes narrow a bit, but I smile nonetheless at him, gazing at his face for a moment.

It's not easy to put all of my shadows in your open hands, but believe me when I say: I'm

trying. I'm trying harder than I ever head with anyone.

_______

_____

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https://theprose.com/post/230936/with-all-my-senses ( the beginning )

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Previous chapters :

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45. https://theprose.com/post/451637/things-that-find-their-way-to-the-shore

46. https://theprose.com/post/460038/the-shadows-that-still-lurk-under-our-feet

47. https://theprose.com/post/463200/untangling-the-messy-structures-part-1

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*Little House on the Prairie (later known as Little House: A New Beginning in its sequel season) is an American Western historical drama television series, starring Michael Landon, Melissa Gilbert, Karen Grassle, and Melissa Sue Anderson, about a family living on a farm in Plum Creek near Walnut Grove, Minnesota, in the 1870s, 1880s, and 1890s.

Your past is always your past.

Even if you forget it, it remembers you.

― Sarah Dessen

Slowly, I somehow tear my eyes away from Alister and turn around to see Charlie watching the entire exchange with an unreadable stare. As if he was on constant alert, ready to intervene at any moment, if necessary. With some unsteadiness, I inhale deeper, needing his presence but knowing that some battles, were only meant for me. There was no room for guardian angles or small blessings this time around, only for this mangled-up, tattered soul of mine.

Do you mind giving us a moment?

I ask, too cold on the inside to make the words sound gentle. He gazes at the man in the dark coat with his rather bored expression that seems to lack in any form of interest or emotion, and then slowly back at me, his fingers rolling into tight fists. I nod at him.

It's okay. I'll be fine.

It doesn't seem like he's going to move anytime soon, so I point to his watch, focusing on logic and all the mundane things that I could still conjure up into life, despite the surreal situation we were in. Sometimes she thought it was a miracle and quite an achievement that she wasn't a drooling, straightjacket mess yet. Then again, it was probably just a matter of time. If the supernatural wasn't going to end her, then some mental state institution should do the trick.

Your break ended some time ago. You know you need to go.

The last words come out as a whisper, as my own fists tighten as well, mirroring his. I mouths please at him, and he looks down at my clenched hands for a moment and then nods shortly.

Alright, but I'll be around if you need me.

She knows the words aren't only meant for her, but also for the man that observes their little exchange, his irritation finally visible, the tension almost touchable around the three of them. I nod once more in reply, and hesitantly, he leaves. It makes me exhale both in relief and sadness. Oh, how she wished he could stay.

Such pathetic, little interactions. So dramatic and time-consuming. There are better things to do with your life, you know? Especially, when the time for some is particularly limited.

I look up at him, eyes narrowing slightly, things in me slowly hardening and becoming almost concrete-like structures.

Well. Then let's agree that I like the pathetic side of things. Some human cockroaches are like that. You shouldn't be surprised.

Mmm.

He tilts his head a bit and then walks closer to me, standing just a few feet away. I try not to think about how his near presence makes me feel. Nausea and the tramble of my muscles becoming louder, all of the symptoms suddenly increasing. He caused it. He was the illness itself. The whispers in my head, whimpering and at the same time reacting eagerly to his closeness. Like dogs with vengeful owners that treated them like shit but that still longed for their company. I can feel nausea spread and put a hand over my mouth, and he gives me a pitiful stare.

Don't worry; it usually subsides after a while. Animals of your kind tend to be rather

sensitive.

A low growl escapes my mouth as I straighten my back, the unexpected anger in me somehow calming down the symptoms. And damn, it felt good. So good to replace the illness with blazing things. So many blazing things.

You must remember, Eleonore. Your time is running out.

He smiles at me as his breath tickles my skin. He smells like cigar smoke, sandalwood, and ash. The smell is dangerously appealing, even if it also brings fear with it. The feeling of the independent doom filling the air and scraping at the throat as my lungs expand with power.

Each grain of the black sand tumbling down inside the hourglass that I hold in my hands. No use in fighting it.

I swallow and close my eyes, Alister's presence seeming to blur out everything around, reminding me of a snake that enthralls you slowly before going for the kill. Its venom slowly paralyzing every nerve in your body. Until you are just a useless toy, a future meal to the predator. Despite my head spinning, I take a few inches back and gaze up at him. His frame is tall but not as tall as Charlie's - a small fact that gives me a slight hint of satisfaction, and strangely enough, some courage as well. My pale grey eyes open wider as I try not to sink into that captivating but ruthless stare, the eyes so dark brown as if they were made of coal.

If you have it, then why should it really matter? It will eventually run out on its own, won't it?

His eyes narrow at me as he takes a step back, his energy heavy and thick. Destructive. Almost like the invisible smoke from the nightmares that still danced around my lungs. Becoming reality every time my body would beg for rest, the horror imprinted in shades of blue, lavender, and soft pinks under the tired eyelids. Forever tattooed into my hazy brain. Memories too vivid, too alive, the visions of the shadows slowly suffocating the life out of me, just before snapping a weak neck, the crunching sounds still echoing in my ears. Too real. I feel the hair on my arms stand up, and I stagger a bit back, noticing him nod with traces of satisfaction of his own. Yes, this behavior he was used to. The only behavior he approved.

Yes, it will. Like all mortal things, they usually fade out into oblivion.

Once more, he takes a few steps forward and lays a hand lightly on my waist, leaning in as if for a kiss. The nausea returns, the voices humming under the skull, touching and licking my veins with willingness, the fluorescent lamps above my head buzzing and threatening the brain to explode as I shield my eyes with one hand. Sickeningly aware of the grip on the waist becoming tighter as he whispers.

I'm not a patient man, beloved. I have never been, and the many endless decades spent in this rottening place that you call home had not made me any better. Count your life in days and no longer years. It's a piece of fair advice. Use it.

He whispers into my ear as his embrace around me leaves traces that speak of tenderness to everyone that passes us by but does not match the cruel smile that sticks to his lips. I sense the corners of his mouth lifted even as my eyes remain closed. My body wants to tremble, yet it is unable to move even by an inch as his presence looms over me. Sticky molasses, gasoline, and traces of brimstone, waiting for a match. Finally, he lets go of me and moves away gradually.

For a while, I still struggle to function right. Then suddenly, my lungs call for air, causing me to inhale deeper and cough. Hell lacks oxygen and good manners. I open my eyes and spin around, just at the right moment to see his silhouette disappear at the end of the hallway. On slightly shaky legs, I head in the opposite direction. Hands grabbing onto the counter as I move forward. A safe place. That was all she could think of. Just find a safe place to rest. For now, you don't have to think of anything else.

_______

I knock on the frame of the open door lightly. Watching calmly as she scribbles something in a notebook, head moving slowly to an unknown rhythm, earbuds visible in the exposed ears, her hair pulled up high in a messy bun of light brown hair.

Hey, do you mind me crashing here for a little while?

I cross my arms tightly, feeling chilled to the bone constantly since Alister left the hospital, his shadow still somehow attached to the structure of my skin. My stare follows her as she looks up, distracted, pulling out an earbud and gazing at me questioningly. I shake my head slowly and start to back away, suddenly feeling too tired for any tiresome interactions.

No, stay. Come on.

I turn around and look down at her as she pets the bed a few times. I exhale slowly and try to smile as I walk over and sit next to her. She points to my shoes.

Take those off; you look like you need a bit of a breather.

I look at her for a while but don't protest and do as told. She nods satisfied, and I lay on my side at the edge of the mattress, trying to take as little space as possible as she scoots over, making some extra room for me.

Mmm, do you think the hospital rules allow such horrendous activities?

I ask tiredly but with traces of a smile, and she shrugs her shoulders a bit.

I will just tell anyone that asks that you're family. Not a problem.

Morgan gazes at me with a calm stare and then returns to her notebook just before my mind takes in what she said exactly. A mix of complicated emotions, coloring my face. Surprise, shock, tenderness, sensations too overwhelming to even process. That you're family. A few little words. And yet, they manage to cause some of the chunks of ice in me to crumble. I almost see them falling to the ground, and melting into tiny puddles under her bed.

Thank you.

Mmm.

She makes a distracted sound and hands me one of the earbuds. I lift an eyebrow but put it in, soft piano music filling my ears.

Beethoven - Piano Sonata No. 8. Calming, soft, magical. Very soothing for the mind, I would say.

My eyes close slowly, and I sink into the music. For the first time in a long while sensing a shred of peace in my veins. My eyelids only speaking of blue, lavender, and the subtle pinks and with nothing else. I drift off to sleep before I can even notice, my body becoming deliciously heavy and finally giving in to rest. Maybe a little heaven on earth did exist after all.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1FP7NosLxkw

(Beethoven - Piano Sonata No. 8.)

______

After about 2 hours of blessed sleep, I wake up groggy and confused on the hospital bed. Watching Morgan's back slouched forward as she sits on the very end of the mattress with her legs crossed and writes down something in her notebook. My eyebrows furrow as just a few moments later, she starts to cough, first just sporadically and then with more force. Shoulder blades visible under the material of her long-sleeved, purple cotton shirt. My concern grows as she is unable to catch the air properly into her lungs. I sit up, still a bit stiff from sleep, and automatically reach for her back and rub the upper part of it.

Hey, hey, hey. You okay there? Alright, easy now, just try to slow down the breathing.

I pet her back a couple of times, then soothe it by moving my hand in wide, slow circles. And then I repeat. Eventually, she manages to catch some oxygen but still chokes a bit, her cheeks wet as she turns around to look at me.

I'm okay, it's fine. Just not all drugs go too awesome with a fucked up immune system and lungs with a slightly turbulent history and a possible expiration date. You know?

I furrow my eyebrows with worry but nod a few times, knowing that if she's anything like me, she will not want to get into the details.

Oh, all too well. It's not as much fun as everyone states to be run down daily by a bulldozer and a wracking ball in one. I blame bad commercial ads.

I shift slightly and slip my legs down, sitting there for a moment before I put my shoes back on, checking if all systems work in a more or less decent way. I didn't want to stand up and fall to the ground like a useless raggedy doll. I was exhausted by all my weaknesses being on display for everyone to see. Gradually, I get up, and despite my introverted self, ask anyway.

Are you going to be alright now, or should I call someone just to make sure?

She sighs and wraps her arms around her torso as if fighting some invisible wind.

No, I will be fine. If anything is truly out of order, one of the nurses will check up on me. I believe Joan has her shift on me today. Plus, mom is around, once again checking off a long list of all my health quirks with the doctor. I swear, sometimes I wonder if she actually enjoys doing that. I think it calms her down to have everything on paper.

I nod a few times, taking it all in for a while, and then slip a hand into my pocket and look around for any holy grail that I might find. I smile and slip something into her hand. She looks at it with raised eyebrows. I just shrug.

Five bucks?

I heard the nurses are nicer with delicate encouragement.

Nor, I don't need...

No, no, just in case. Once you get famous and irreplaceable in the artistic world, I will make sure to come for my share of the deal.

You're impossible.

Her tone is meant to be disapproving, but I hear her smile as I walk up to the door.

Nor?

Yeah?

I turn around and gaze at her.

Your male nurse was looking for you.

And?

And we both enjoyed the full display of drull and groans while you were sleeping.

Morgan.

I say, slightly agitated.

Relax. He was just looking for you and made sure to tell you that he would be waiting next to the entry to the hospital at around 3 o'clock. If you will be awake, of course. He said he's up for lunch outside the old walls.

I lift my eyebrows a bit.

Okay, noted. And thanks for letting me crash with you.

No problem.

She nods, making it quite visible that she wants to be alone now, and I give her the space, my mind already downstairs with Charlie. I think he might have something to share with me too. I guess we all had a past beneath the smooth surface layers that we displayed to others.

_____

_____________

.

.

https://theprose.com/post/230936/with-all-my-senses ( the beginning )

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Previous chapters :

.

44. https://theprose.com/post/444836/eventually-everything-resurfaces

45. https://theprose.com/post/451637/things-that-find-their-way-to-the-shore

46. https://theprose.com/post/460038/the-shadows-that-still-lurk-under-our-feet

.

watching the side, the tide, the goodbye

this time, no time

re-rhyme

currently currents corralling the driftwood

rocking the boat, boating in a sea of rocks

tall, sharp, harbor stones

roll

three feet down and thirty feet away

a million miles of waves left today

under and over and

sink

faucet leak ship abandoned water works

under the sail, flapping, afloat

horizon

watching the sun, the gulls, the g'day

ocean spray, no delay

relay

I’m folding the laundry like Darren taught me to. I pluck my sweater Darren bought me last week on from the clothesline, fold it into quadrants, and plop it into the laundry basket alongside the rest of my clothes.

One fold, two fold, three fold, four! Darren had exclaimed excitedly when he trusted me to go outside and do laundry by myself. I parrot his singsong voice as I reach up to fold a shirt.

A bunny prances a few feet away from me in the tall grass, its dead eyes staring ahead into the creamsicle horizon. A grin spreads across my face as if I’m seeing an old friend. My hands furl like I could feel its fur between my fingers, rubbing the hairs between my pointer and thumb finger in a gesture familiar only to me. I almost run toward it before I remember I can’t go past the clothesline or else Darren pulls a mean face and gives me more vegetables than meat at dinner, and I don’t want to test what else he’s capable of. I wouldn’t dare to, anyway. Before, my landscape consisted of skyscrapers, towering beings that never left my sight. Now, in the golden countryside where the horizon stretches uninterrupted, I’ve never felt more alone.

So, I finish my folding and walk back inside the warehouse that Darren makes me call home. I find myself calling it home, too, sometimes, but I don’t like when I hear myself say that.

I set down the laundry basket near my bed that creaks too much whenever I move. It scares me at night, even though Darren plugged in a nightlight for me so that I don’t have to walk to the bucket in the dark when I have to pee. The creaking reminds me of the crows that populate the tin roof and squawk at me when I go out to collect my rocks, and even though I like birds, I don’t like those birds.

Just as I begin to load my folded clothes into the battered dresser with one drawer that squeaks when opened, Darren opens the warehouse door as if on cue.

“Connor, I’m home!” he announces proudly, setting down a couple grocery bags on the floor and opening his arms. “How are you doing, son?”

I’m not Connor, and I’m not your son, I want to say every time he says that, but I had given up a long time ago.

“Hi, Dad,” I reply, the word splintering inside me like the wood chips I played with where Darren goes to chop wood for the back boiler.

His footsteps are heavy, his work boots probably weighing more than I do. One thing I hate more than my creaky bed is the cracked concrete ground that sucks up my coins when I roll them on the floor and allows bugs to crawl inside. Darren tries to kill the bugs for me, but when he is doing whatever he does on the outside, I’m alone with the spiders and roaches that also want to call this warehouse home. I want to scream at the bugs, Fine! Take it! It’s yours! I don’t even want to be here! But all they do is stare back at me with beady eyes or tickle my neck when I sleep. That’s when I really don’t need the bucket to pee. I have to sit in my mess all night until Darren comes and silently cleans it up and kills the bugs surrounding me.

He hugs me and does that thing where he buries his nose in my hair so deeply, I can feel the hairs in his nostrils tickling my scalp. All I do is pat him on the back and wait for it to be over. The first few times he did it, the humid moisture of his breath in my hair caused me to lash out and hit him. That reflex has since worn off, and my body is limp like a ragdoll in his arms.

His hand is as big as me, his thumb resting on one shoulder blade and his pinky stretching to the other. I notice then that I’m getting taller—I used to measure up to his hips, but now I can rest my face against his chest, hear the steady beat underneath the warmth of his muscles. I find myself flattening my hand against his back, pressing myself closer.

“Good job folding the laundry.” Before I can process that the hug is over, Darren is already over by the dresser, taking a look at my handiwork. “Just like I taught you. I’m proud of you, kiddo.”

I don’t deny the warmth I feel in my chest, the radiating feeling similar to when I’d wet myself in bed. I walk over to the grocery bags and take a peek, seeing my favorite snack, Pirate’s Booty, in one of them. I breathe in eagerly and jump, shaking my hands as Darren walks over to see what the fuss is.

“You got the big bag this time!” I yell, grabbing it out of the bag and sitting down with it on the floor. “Thanks, Dad!”

“Hey—Connor, you can’t have that before dinner,” Darren says as he begins to reach down to take the bag from me. But something—perhaps the combination of me thanking him and calling him Dad in the same breath—must have changed his mind. “Okay, you can have one.”

He sighs and opens the box, tossing me a bag before taking the rest to the cupboard we call a pantry near the makeshift kitchen toward the middle of the warehouse. I eat my snack gratefully until he calls my name, and I run to the dinner table. I eat my dinner with even more gratitude. It’s steak and potatoes night, my favorite.

“It’s only fair for my growing boy,” Darren says in a fond voice. He never eats with me. He sits at the table and watches me eat. Sometimes I wish he’d eat with me.

But that hope is dashed when he reaches over, and I flinch out of habit, and I remember why I keep my distance. A look of pain crosses Darren’s face, and he haltingly retracts his hand like a machine out of oil, resting it on the table and keeping his eyes on the swirls in the wood.

Then comes nighttime where he sets out my pajamas and turns around while I change. When he hears the shuffling of clothes stop, he sits on my bed and pats the spot next to him. I crawl up next to him, his arm settling on the curve of my waist as he digs in the bedside table through the stack and pulls out a book I don’t recognize.

“The Mysterious Benditch Society?” I ask, raising a brow as I look up at Darren.

He chuckles and leafs through the pages as he corrects me, “The Mysterious Benedict Society. It’s a more challenging book, but I think you can do it. It’s about time you move up a reading level.”

I smile at the thought that Darren thinks I’m smart enough to get through this giant book and understand what’s going on. But the length of a book never intimidates me after we read Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone together a few months ago. I lean my head against his shoulder, my eyes dancing across the dedication page.

“I saw a rabbit today,” I say as he tries to find the first page. “A really cute one.”

Darren tucks his chin to look down at me, that same nice smile on his lips. “Oh? What color was it?”

“White and pretty, like the one from Alice in Wonderland,” I reply. I purse my lips. “Sometimes I want to go to where Alice went.”

Darren’s face hardens, his eyes going dead like the rabbit in the field. I don’t like when they do that, and they almost never do. But whenever I do something wrong, he gives me that look where I can see my reflection in the dullness of his eyes, see the panic in my own face, and all I want to do is hug him until the look is gone. But I don’t have to do that since Darren clears his throat before I get the chance to and turns back to the book, finally reaching the first page.

“Sometimes where we are is the best place to stay,” he says. “It’s where you’re safest.”

He starts to read, but I don’t listen very much at all. I pretend to doze off, and Darren slowly lays me back onto the mattress and tucks me in. He leans over to kiss me on the forehead. The vulnerable squish of my temples makes the perfect landing spot for his lips. After he leaves, I pull the covers up to my neck, my fingers lingering on my temple as my sleeping aid.

I dream that night of when I was Evan in my previous life, in my Before. I dream of the regular snapshots: a flash of my mother’s pink bathrobe, a cigarette dying a painful death in an ashtray, my father’s veiny hands as he reached out to me. Their faces are blurred—I tried to remember them after four years, but my drawing skills from eight to now haven’t improved all too much. I stare at the stick figures, and they stare back at me, unrecognizable except for the beauty mark underneath my mom’s nose in Eggplant from my Crayola set.

I turn in my sleep and hear a screeching in my nightmare that I chalk up to my bed springs. A red car pulls up as I walk home from school. The tires screech as it comes to a sudden stop, catching my attention. A man sits inside, a nervous smile on his face as he stares at me, lowering the window. “Hey, kiddo,” he says, his voice wavering as his eyes bounce around outside. “I have something caught in my tailpipe. Mind helping me getting it out?” I don’t know anything about cars, but I look around the car and see black smoke coming from the tailpipe. I shrug and walk over, and before I know it, I’m blinded by black smoke and restrained, the backpack on my back replaced with the leather cushion of a car’s backseat.

I don’t have the nightmare often, but when I do, it’s usually when I almost forget the beating I received on my arrival…or was it before? I was beat until the memory became a haze, until the man’s face looming over me blurred. Sometimes, when Darren wasn’t looking, I’d cut out the faces of the ugly villains in my picture books and hold them up to him when he’d be making me breakfast or reading the newspaper at the dining table. I stopped when he questioned why I was cutting up the pages.

I awake when the creaking of the door, which has been a neutral sound these past few years, strikes me with fear. My chest tightens to the point that I grip the front of my shirt, the firetrucks printed on the fabric sucked into my fist. However, the movement indicates that I’m awake, and I scrunch up when I hear the slow intake of air and metered exhale get closer until the heavy breathing is above me. I wonder: if Darren sees that I’m faking, will he attack me again? He hasn’t once beaten me since our first encounter, but that one time is enough to make me tiptoe whenever he is near. The breathing continues for a few beats: I’ve discovered that he likes to watch me sleep for a few minutes before waking me up. Sometimes he touches me, traces my eyebrows and my nose bridge, caresses my cheeks and strokes my hair, and I’d feign waking up so he’d stop. But I let it happen until he says, “Connor, time to wake up,” and I raise my head in response to the name as if he had said Evan.

He makes me breakfast, and either he doesn’t notice my solemnness, or he pretends everything is normal. After he feeds me and does the dishes, he bids farewell and leaves. I could make a run for it. He’d long since stopped locking the door. But I attempted that once before, and after wandering around hopelessly for an hour, I broke down sobbing on the dirt road until Darren came to find me and swaddled me in a quilt he made for me—for Connor.

I leave the house and go on my usual rock collecting journey, finding a particularly smooth black stone when a rustling pricks my ear and causes me to whip around. I spot a rabbit’s figure hopping into the clearing, but this one isn’t the one I saw yesterday. This one has brown spots, a heart-shaped one on the ear.

Bunny! I cry, my pet rabbit’s corpse laying limply in my hands, which are coated in its sticky blood. The blood stains the brown mark on its ear, leaving it an ugly mahogany. I scream until somebody tells me to shut up.

I blink, blink again to rid myself of the horrible image. My chin dimples from how hard I’m holding back my tears, and I get up and run off to seek refuge at home. I curl next to my bed, rocking with my head held in my hands until Darren comes home and sinks to his knees to comfort me. These flashbacks are not new. They’re rare, but when they happen, they are raw. They started about a year after I was taken, but time here is a sludge that is hard to measure. There’s a clock on the wall, but Darren didn’t teach me how to read it until a few days after my—Connor’s—ninth birthday. My only sense of time is how often the flashbacks come.

The simple sound of Darren’s jacket zipper was enough to set me off once, equating the zipper to the feeling of heaviness on my body, so much so that I couldn’t breathe and clawed at my shirt for relief. Darren bought a new brand of dish soap, and I reflexively covered my eyes and bowed my head to the floor. Darren taught me how to cook when Connor turned eleven, but when I turned toward him with the knife and began to walk, he cried “Stop!” and I froze, my grip slackening and causing the knife to hit the edge of the counter and tumble to the floor, narrowly missing my feet. A large purple bruise on my leg appeared after I grazed the side of the dining table, and I wore long pants until it healed even though it was the middle of summer and a hundred degrees at home because the sight of it would send me into a crisis.

I’m eating lunch when Darren’s gaze on me is more searing than usual, and he reaches out to slip a hand over my wrist. “I love you,” he says. “More than anybody else in the world. My love is pure and unconditional. Do you know what unconditional means?”

“Yes,” I reply, even though I don’t. His grip on my wrist is constricting, confining me, and that’s the last straw. A burst of images, an accumulation of all the flashbacks that had taunted my being all these years, dot my vision in fragments. Still frames and videos flood my vision like when I had a fever and could only see stars when I stood up.

My father’s face materializes over Darren’s, his wiry eyebrows, gnarled scowl, and veiny hand reaching out to me. I feel the pressure on my neck while my father’s other hand grasps my wrist, my eyes looking over my father’s shoulder to see my mother watching the scene in her pink bathrobe, her arms crossed with a cigarette hanging loosely from her lips. Her beauty mark is tucked underneath her thick smile lines, the same shade as Crayola’s Eggplant. You’re gonna kill him, my mom says with as much nonchalance as somebody talking about the weather.

I’m just gonna teach him a lesson for eating my fucking chips, my dad replies, grabbing me by the hair and taking me into his room. The scene fades to black until I stand up after my bruised legs stop trembling and see Darren’s face through the window. He was making the same face he’s making now—one of aghast and torment—his grip on my wrist long gone and replaced with a worried shaking of my shoulders.

“Connor! Connor!” he shouts, but I cannot hear him. All I hear is the blood pounding in my ears, my father’s grunts, the squawking of the crows as my mother dug a shallow grave for my pet rabbit.

I accept the name, wholeheartedly enjoy the sound of it rolling off my dad’s tongue, and renounce my old name. Yes, I am Connor. I am Connor Ackers! I fling myself at my father, bury my face in his chest and cling onto his shirt as if being removed would kill me. He collects me in his arms, his hug full of the same love he’d been giving me these past four years. Only now do I accept it, let myself fall into it, allow myself to press my heart to his. Only then do I understand the meaning of unconditional. I sink under the weight of knowledge.

I live life as Connor Ackers for two blissful months. Dad begins to teach me how to ride a bike outside. Settling into our newfound roles must have lowered our defenses because I’m wearing nothing but a T-shirt and shorts as a jogger comes toward us. She slows in her steps, takes out her earphones, a curious expression on her face. The crunch of gravel elongates as her footsteps get more hesitant. I feel Dad stiffen behind me, his fingers digging into my shoulder.

“Connor,” he says, and I look up at the sound of my name. He’s staring ahead at the jogger, whose eyes never leave me as her expression morphs into shock. “Turn around. Now.”

When we get home, Dad grabs a folder with his passport and other papers. He calls his friend Mike, asks for a favor. Dad packs a few bags, his foot tapping by the fax machine as he waits for documents to come in. It’s sundown by the time that eerie sound of crunching gravel under tires echoes throughout our home. He pauses, and that’s the first time I see my father cry. His tears are silent as the police ram the door down, but mine are wailing, roaring, scalding the ears of anybody near me. I wrap myself around Dad’s leg like a koala as the silver cuffs seal my father’s fate. I scream his name, refuse to move, but when I look up, I see Dad’s face gazing down at me through the tears that blur my vision. His face is oddly calm, a bittersweet smile on his lips. His eyebrows are pulled tightly as if somebody had sewn them too close together, his eyes wet and soft. I know that if his hands were free, he’d reach down and pet my head. I already long for his touch.

“It’s going to be okay, Connor,” he says. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” Then he’s gone, leaving me splayed out on the floor with burning lungs and bloodied lips. My wails die in my throat, and I’m only capable of a pathetic weeping.

“Poor kid,” one of the cops says in the car, his eyes staring me down from the rearview mirror. They allowed me to take one thing from home: my quilt, that is currently wrapped around me. I look out the window and see the countryside grow into skyscrapers and concrete replace any sort of nature I had grown used to. These powerful steel beings used to be my friends, but now they are my enemies. I’m dropped off at the police station, where two people from Before come forth and hug me. But they’re nothing like Dad’s hugs. These are loose, performative. I see Helen look around at all the reporters before she hugs me, flipping her hair over her shoulder to make sure they get her good side. Bill glares down at me disdainfully. My body, which had been clean of bruises for the past four years, except for the ones I got from playing, is littered with them by the end of the month. They had given me a grace period after my kidnapping, but things resumed as normal soon enough. By the end of the next month, I’m in a foster home because a woman in a suit came to our door and took me by the shoulder and told me I’d be staying with an older lady named Barbara who had crow’s feet and a saccharine smile.

The cycle continues for two arduous years until I amass enough money to take a bus to San Quentin State Prison. I had made an appointment earlier that week when nobody was home, my voice still low in case they had cameras installed in the living room. I’m wearing a jacket made from the quilt he gave me, and I hope he can recognize it after all these years. It’s tattered from so much usage; from all the nights I fell asleep with it. But it still smells like him.

The officer leads me to a line of people talking to men clad in orange jumpsuits behind thick glass, their hands curled around telephones like in the movies. I sit down, buzzing with excitement, until a muscular arm reaches around the partition and grips the counter, orange flooding my vision as I look up and see him. He looks worn out, older—a two-year trial and prison will do that. But his essence is the same: the same salt-and-pepper hair, the kind wrinkles that line his face, albeit deeper, and that smile that still hasn’t deteriorated in four years. I pick up the phone, my hand trembling as the tears crawling down my cheek match his.

“Hey, Dad,” I whisper. “It’s Connor.”

Fuck 3 years on, this virus is rampant,

All we hear, see, and speak is about COVID- 19,

Why not speak of more interesting things,

What about the way the world is going &

How about climate change and the fact,

That we live on a world where we are never satisfied,

We created a system which benefits,

A corrupt system based on wealth rather than,

lives of humans, who suffer because of peoples greed,

Yes,

but Instead I am paraylsed by the fact climate change could be what kills me,

Which rears it's ugly head like some digital nightmare, Before you know it,

They have claimed your minds, destroyed any hope of thinking of a more efficient system,

Instead I am plugged into the system, CAPATALISM, fed billions of information, One thing in common consumeeeeeeee,

I

Have been reprogrammed to respond accordingly to this future, Which won't exist if we don't sort our differences and work together, One world, what you do on the other side of the planet will effect here & We are all going to die eventually, why not come together instead of throwing ourselves towards extinction because we are more concerned of the wealth we have, than the world that actually keeps us alive.... Think for a moment of the course we travel.

The morning’s gray. The kettle whistles steam

into the dullness, stillness, piercing through

another winter dawn. Unshaken dreams

still cling to me, my sight and skin, like dew.

The pages hide unfound, unwritten, out

beyond my fingers’ reach. Uncertainly,

I try to catch a scent beside the doubt

I’ve woken with and this still-steeping tea.

But when all’s said and done, that’s what I’ve got:

a foggy dream, this doubt, a morning hope

to hold alongside tea. (That line is not

a real insight: I wrote another trope.)

Stop. Breathe and smell, and sip my morning tea—

my anchor, thing that’s real. Thing to taste, see.