Saving Sylvia

Chapter 2

Coiled up into a tight ball on my bed, I reached up to press my fingertip against the screw exposed by a weak spot in the drywall. It wasn’t cold like I expected, but lukewarm, and I withdrew my hand, mad at it. Couldn’t one thing make sense?

                Thinking about it though, nothing did. The wall I was staring at didn’t. I didn’t. The air didn’t. Existence didn’t.

                I let a large gust of air blow out of my lips, releasing it into the air around me. My mind struggled, wandering around the landscape of my consciousness to find something to concentrate on other than whatever it didn’t want me to. A fuzzy idea came up.

                I wanted to make brownies.

                I vaguely remember stumbling over a bag on my way out of the room. My feet carried me down the stairs. I needed something to eat. Every step bounced my head around so much that I got dizzy.

                Eyes, hands, legs. They worked together to get the ingredients in a small group on the kitchen counter, then into a bowl. Transferred to a greased pan. Suddenly the oven was on and baking them.

                I sat next to the oven, my bare feet cold on the tile floor, to wait. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it’d be, because soon the timer was going off. I stood and opened the oven.

                The giant brownie sitting there looked perfect. I smiled and reached for the pan.

                The pain didn’t register until after I’d set the pan down on the over to cool. It clicked in my mind that I was supposed to use oven mitts to get that out, and then I looked at my now blistered fingertips and realized they hurt.

                “Ow,” I said aloud, stupidly. It was weird, seeing they hurt and feeling them yell in pain but not caring at all. Something wasn’t right.

                “Oh, honey!” My mother suddenly rushed over to me, shutting the oven and guiding me to the sink, soon putting my fingers in a semi-warm bath of water. “I’ll be right back, don’t move.” She hurried out of the kitchen.

                Why was she wearing a nightgown? Wasn’t it daytime? I looked out of the window above the sink. Oh. It was dark. She must have been sleeping before.

                She was back soon enough and treated my hands, looking very worried the whole time. I couldn’t understand why.

                “What on earth were you doing making brownies at three in the morning?” She looked up at me.

                “I wanted to.” Duh.

                “…Palmer? Are you okay?”

                “My hands hurt,” I told her.

                “Well, yes, I imagine they do, but I was talking about… I was talking about Sylvia.”

                “Sylvia.” Right before my lips formed the word, my brain shrieked at me to stop, but I felt like I needed to. And suddenly, my dulled senses came to life.

                My hands were screaming, but worse than that, something in my chest exploded. I flinched, trying to fine my way back into whatever state of mind I was in before, but it didn’t work. This was target practice, and I was the bullseye. Mrs. Langston’s face came up, the memory of it from earlier, and then the knowledge seeped back into my brain.

                Sylvia, my best friend, the girl that I wanted to be with more than anything in the world, was gone. No. She was dead. Dead dead dead.

                My throat closed up, and I choked on the sudden sobs. My mother drew me into her arms as I expelled the bullets from my soul.

-

She left me to my brownies after a while. I assured her that I would be okay, I just wanted to eat something.

                Instead, I went straight to the fridge and grabbed the one thing I wouldn’t even have dared to touch the day before.

                My father had a strange fondness for vodka and kept a huge thing of it in here. I held the mouth of the bottle to my lips, took a breath, and downed as much as I could at once.

                It wasn’t long before I’d had most of it. I’d heard of other people feeling bubbly and like everything was funny. I just felt worse.

                “Palmer.” A firm voice spoke to me, one that was a woman’s but not my mother’s. I looked up. A woman was standing there, kind of blurry and glowing, but she looked solid.

                “Oh great, what now?” I took another gulp out of the bottle in my hand.

                “Palmer, you need to stop this.” She waved one of her hands and the bottle disappeared from my hand.

                “Wha the… hey!”

                “You need to listen to me. Sylvia needs your help.”

                I laughed. “Oh, you’re funny, lady. Didja miss the news? She’s dead.”

                She didn’t seem to listen. “Sylvia needs your help. It’s up to you to save her.”

                Tears started stinging my eyes, falling down over my cheeks. “Hey, shuddup. I don’t need you remindin me the girl I love’s gone.”

                “Sylvia needs your help. It’s up to you to save her.”

                “Stop!” I shrieked, crying harder. “Stop it!”

                “Sylvia needs your help. It’s up to you, Palmer.”

                The fight left me, and I stared up at her. “How? How can I possibly help her now? She’s gone, she’s dead.” I was a total mess, blubbering to some fake woman standing here brought on by alcohol and my own deluded mind.

                “You will see,” is all she said. Then I felt my eyes closing.

                “Hey,” I mumbled. “No fair…”