Awake [ L.T Short Story ]

sinning on my mind

        Brooks and I had driven for a while. About twenty minutes or so if someone were to ask. He'd been rambling nothings concerning Jay Gatsby ever since I explained how he bared resemblance to him for nearly ten. The counterpart was the breaking of silence and Ed Sherran's X. We were winding and circling around mountainous terrain. Therefore, the stereo's service was cutting in and out every now and again. 

        I was on the verge of questioning him about our destination when "Bloodstream" crackled and writhed from within the suffocating static. Brooks gradually twisted the dial upwards. 

        "Do you like this song?" I asked while tapping my stout fingers to the rhythm.

        "It might possibly be my favorite from his album." 

        I pursed my lips and nodded in understanding. "How come?"

        He paused for a moment or so as if to reach the depths of his mind's memory to explain his love for "Bloodstream." 

        "Um . . . I mean  . . . It reminds me of my parents, you see. Not to sound like a pitiful charity case by asking for your sympathy, however it's like I try to drown out their screams by listening to music."

        I squinted my eyes into slits and stared from the window awaiting for his continuation. I knew he was silently begging to do so. 

        "And. Well. I refuse to put out false information, but I drink heavily as well."

        "As in a shit ton?" I'm not going to lie either, but I expected as much.

        "A shit ton."

        A mutual quietness arose as we felt his habits shouldn't be up to my ridicule. Not for now at the least.

        -

        Apparently, Fitz was grasping for the slightest bit of attention. Our set place he so desperately and sporadically asked for an accompanist on, was an over ledge leading to the ocean where he approached me with napkins. It also happened to be the location of his father's proposal.

        I watched blankly while the waves crashed recklessly as they smothered the rocks with a foam covered aftermath. My eyes were beginning to droop, but I was determined to stay awake. I wouldn't dare fall asleep. Not as along as it would lead to the horrific, repetitive dream.

        Brooks seemed to be doing the same. He appeared excruciatingly exhausted. 

        His cell phone began to chime. He hesitantly answered it after scanning over the screen. The moment it reached his ear, his face proved his instant regret. 

        "Mom. Yes, I know. God, I'm almost nineteen years old. I can drive to the beach on my own. Well, if you and Dad weren't barking down each others damned throats, I wouldn't have left."

        He hung up the phone as quick as he answered. Hesitant, but knowing it was the correct handling of the situation at hand. 

        Brooks sighed a long and ghostly type that proved to be at the cause of a problematic situation. We've all heard one, it's only I never expected it from the blue eyed, napkin sporting boy I met previously.

        "He hit her once, ya know."

        "What?" I said rhetorically. Knowing good and well what he said.

        "She was screaming and flailing her arms all about accusing him -" His phone rang a couple of times before he silenced it's continuous beeping. "Accusing him of cheating with a girl at the casino he gambles at." 

        "Then, he slapped her and shoved her into a bookshelf."  His eyes began to water and glaze over his pupils. "And. Once he found she had collapsed to the floor in a distraught heap, he called the paramedics. Told them she was sleep walking and busted her head open by running into one of the uncased brick walls in our apartment."

        "Has he done this again?"

        "No. Not to my knowledge. He's not an abusive man. She's not a snotty bitch. They're both just a bit lost and looking for a cover up."

        "Why are you saying that now? I figured you despised the very ground they walked upon?" I questioned. Slightly confused by his switching of sides.

        "I dunno. Coming here reminds me there was a before. A time of happiness and care and purity. There's a before to every after, Malia. Always remember that."

        "I'm still raking over your compatibly with that fortune cookie . . ."

        He laughed like a child. A happy, care-filled, pure child. With an even purer bloodstream.

        "Thank you for that, North. I appreciate it." 

        "It's what randomized friendships are for."

        "Precisely."

        I placed a clenched hand underneath my jawline rubbing the flesh against bone as I awaited a sentence to initiate another conversation. However, with Brooks next to me in the same position as when he sat with me that morning, I realized he deserved peace and reserve for the slightest moment. We both did. 

        It's impossible to have your sleep hindered by the loudest disturbances whether within a conscience (or not) without asking for a minute of serenity. Everyone deserved that much. Especially Brooks Fitzgerald.

-

This is dedicated to my dear friend, Anna. Mainly due to my constant nagging if she's seen the "Bloodstream" music video. 

Anyhow, I got this idea when we saw Cinderella on your birthday. 

I promise I will give you your gift(s) soon, by the way. You're well deserving of them in likeness of Brook's and Malia's need of silence. x