folklore: the novel

11. hoax

Time flies while simultaneously dragging. September moves into November. James didn't call Augustine when they got back to school following fall break's end. He didn't call Betty, either. He didn't call... anyone. The only thing he seemed capable of doing anymore was destroying every good thing in his life, so why bother at all if he already knows the outcome?

In the aftermath of the vitriol he'd spewed all over his and Augustine's... whatever they were, he was just tired. Exhausted, actually.  It was all he could do to force himself to keep going to school, to convince himself to finish out his senior year. His grades were a lost cause—he'd long since fallen behind all of his classmates'—but he was still trying to hold out on attendance.

Most of his free time is spent burrowed under his covers in the hopes that he might escape his mind in the unconscious, but nearly all his nights prove sleepless; the thoughts turn into nightmares he can't run from, and it shows in the dark circles under both green eyes. He can't hold anyone's stare long enough for them to realize; he can hardly even stand looking at himself in the mirror.

November passes too, dragging in the chilly winds of December. Still, the dropping temperature doesn't compare to the icy glare he's faced with whenever he happens to pass Augustine at school. Her fiery anger has turned into cold resentment, a reaction he doesn't bother fighting because he knows he's earned it.

He's unsure whether he should be grateful he sees more of her than he does of Betty—though, from what he's heard, she's faring much better than him and Augustine combined. No anger, no sadness. It's almost like things... went back to normal for her.

The one glimpse he did catch of her mid-November was her and Inez giggling at their lockers. Betty didn't even notice him, too immersed in the other girl.

It hurt, seeing her happy without him. But, he reasons, that's much better than her sharing his ache. Better than her hurting because he is.

Almost mid-December, the day before Betty's seventeenth birthday, James wakes from a bad dream and immediately knows it's going to be an awful day. If not for the headache already forming right behind his eyes, then because of the clanging and thumping he can hear from another room of the house.

Dad's drunk enough to be stumbling into furniture... at nine in the morning on a Saturday. Great, James sighs, debating whether he should just roll back over and pretend to still be asleep. Maybe pretending will be enough to convince his head that he should get some rest—

A massive clatter sounds. It reminds James of the cookware aisle that got knocked over at the store when he was younger; the metal pots and pans knocking against each other was nearly deafening.

"I swear, if the old man is drunk and messing with the stove again..."

The thought alone is enough to have James out of his bedroom and into the living room that opens into the kitchen in a few seconds flat. Sure enough, his father is moving things around in the cabinets, barely mindful of the metal pot and spilled pasta sauce covering most of the floor.

Hearing James' approach, his dad turns to look at him... only... He's bashfully grinning. Nothing like the twisted sneer that usually accompanies these drunken escapades. One of his rare alcohol-free days, then.

They're almost as excruciating as dealing with the drunk asshole, the knowledge of what could've been if he wasn't an addict. The way things might've been every single day in another life, in another reality.

But James had spent most of his childhood grieving the future that would never come. He was under no illusions how this would end.

"Paper towels?" his father asks and it's said in such a way that makes it clear this wasn't his first time voicing the question.