Felix Fractured

3: torch

Song: "Cold Pizza" by Purple Cat

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SCOUT

The floor creaks under my weight as I ascend the rickety staircase. Not paying much mind to the cooler in my hands, my pace is quick as I take the steps two at a time. Each groan in the wood is familiar to me from all the times before. I dart to the left at the top of the staircase and slip under a fallen supporting beam, riling up dust behind me. More of the dried paint flakes off of the window as I force it open and step onto the roof.

Though the rest of the house is dilapidated, the roof has somehow remained in decent condition. It is an old house, one that has embraced the sun and weathered many storms. Since everyone who lived here has passed on, it is the only one left with memories: its own collection of events, that time will slowly chip away from existence.

I set the cooler down, grab a beer, and lie down to look up at the luminous sky.

I've been drawn to this place since I was young. The curiosity to explore an unknown space was a factor, but I also had an initial attachment to this place. It wasn't something that developed and layered over a long period like the Grand Canyon, rather it was instantaneous. I was drawn to it, and that was that. I've spent many years adding my collection of memories to this battered expanse, helping it remain relevant in a small respect, giving it a reason to exist.

A satellite slowly moves in the distance, and I follow its path with my eyes.

In anticipation of this turning point in my life, I realize now, more than ever, that time cannot be contained. Even if it is desired, its relevancy to you cannot be stripped away. I don't believe that time defines you, however, but it exists without consent. And I suppose, to that end, time is robbing all of us.

"You're late," I state, once he's in earshot.

Eli sets foot on the roof and gets himself a beer before joining me. "If you expected me to be on time, then you set yourself up to be disappointed."

His jokes have the same air as always: light-hearted with something truthful hidden underneath, like the shades opening on a secret window. He cracks open the can, "Damn, I can't believe it's tomorrow."

It's my turn to open my beer. I take a generous sip and feel it glide down.

"What's the plan?" He knows I have an idea of how I'd like things to proceed. I always do.

I tell him my decision to let mom and dad continue to guide me with the ways of the pack. He seems relieved, "Thank goodness. I know I'm still getting a grasp on things." He takes another swig and thinks a moment before saying, "You gonna look for him, Girl Scout?"

"You can't call me that in eight hours," I grumble, hoping the abruptness of my response masks how much I'm spooked by the change of topic. "If I'm meant to, I'll run into him."

"Right..." He trails off, sifting a hand through his curly hair. "Promise me that you'll give him a fair chance."

"I don't owe you anything," We get locked in a serious stare for all of ten seconds before he busts out laughing, and I crack a smile. I owe him my childhood.

He raises his eyebrows at me expectedly, and I roll my eyes, tossing a pinecone into the distance. One of these days, we are going to hit someone. I don't know what sparked our twelve-year-old minds back then, but every time we make a promise on this roof, we throw a pinecone. It's lame, I know, but Eli is strangely sentimental about traditions.

Dad mind-links me before either one of us continues the conversation. I trek down the stairs and meet him outside. He asks if we can take a walk together, and I shrug, falling into step beside him. After a few moments of silence, I crack the ice, "Did mom put you up to this?"