I have a persistent dream where I'm on the upper floor of a skyscraper as it sways. The rays of sunshine spill onto the rooftop, splitting shadows from parched concrete. Pat blocks the fire escape to my left. He is two-hundred pounds of lean, angered muscle and is unrecognizable to me.
Unlike normal nightmares, I don't wake drenched in sweat at the moment the girders weaken and the structure collapses—I free-slam the sidewalk.
There is a silence after this happens—a gut-wrenching absence of noise where nobody comes. It's impossible to distinguish between legs, arms, or the peculiar jutting contortion of what resembles elbows. When lack of sound or sensation becomes enviable—that's the shit that terrifies me most—that's when my eyes fly open. And in the hysteria that accompanies my waking screams, I miss the quiet.
Pat and his goddamn skyscraper always visited when I had a choice to make because he syncs with my indecision, and for the last two nights in a row, I'd avoided him by attempting to become nocturnal.
Sitting on the hood of Chuck's car, I gazed skywards, spinning his keys on my finger. I yawned and once again rubbed the tiredness out of my eyes. The haze was lifting to reveal an expanse of stars; they were fierce tonight. The shifting coolness within the air helped to stave off the sudden drop of my head as my eyes threatened to close with it.
A cough sounded from across the street. It broke free over the melodic hum of distant traffic on the freeway, higher than the chirp of crickets. I followed the sound across the street to where Heather's cigarette ember glowed. Even at dusk, her eyes would be cloudless summer skies.
She smiled. "Those Chuck's keys? He'll kill you." She shook her head and tutted.
"So will your cigarettes," I replied.
Heather grinned at the same time I did.
She pushed off the hood of her dad's Honda Civic onto her feet. The disused vehicle was now a staple in her front yard, as was the old rubber bike tire twisted into a figure of eight and the scattering of bricks that had once been her garden wall. The hardy dandelions masked the tufts of grass that sprung up through the cracked pavement that led to her porch.
Curious if she'd been watching me, I asked, "Have you been out here long?"
Her lips twitched up into a grin. "Longer than you."
Heather and I used to lie on our backs in the yard and name constellations. We grew up together, pranked Chuck together, and when Heather turned eighteen, she went on dates—with other boys. She was the sole person who got my brother Chuck as I did. But I wished she got me instead.
Heather squinted up the street to the tiny one-story house. Trees rustled in a sudden breeze, and the same wind blew strands of artificial plum-streaked hair in front of her face.
"Still stalking Mr. Thompson, huh?"
Reginald lived five doors down. He owned a pesticide company and had slaughtered thousands of vegans under the radar. The first time I posted something through his mailbox was the day dad planned ahead for his funeral.
"Don't worry. I haven't sent him anything new." I emphasized the word new, but the way Heather scrunched her nose told me she disapproved of how I'd handled my fourth of July firecrackers.
She nodded. "I see." We're both quiet for a minute before she added. "How's your dad? You don't share much with me anymore."
"Already gone."
Heather straightened. "Gone? Like dead?"
It was too dark for her to see my eyes as they rolled. "No. Dad's gone to the hospital; they're going to remove his prostate three Sundays from now after more testing."
YOU ARE READING
Thorns
Teen Fiction[COMPLETED] Adrian's headed for a collision. He doesn't know when; he just knows that he is. With his father ill and his mother devout at his hospital bedside, Adrian is left navigating the world of grief, microwave meals, and first love alone. The...
