The Side Effects

Chapter 4

Dear Cassie,
I realize I have never put more thought into the complexity of a human until this girl, Adeline. There are approximately 7.125 billion people in the world. There are about 318.9 million people in the United States. In my town of St. Petersburg, Florida, there is a population of around 249,688. Two-hundred-forty-nine-thousand six-hundred-eighty-eight people are crammed into my town. Adeline makes up approximately one person, however judging from the fact that she seems to be more than what a human should be, I would consider her at least making up 1.7 people in herself. No one mentions Cassie anymore unless they are trying to console me. Adeline, the girl with the book, and the plan, and the grass. The girl who is known by many but admired by few. The girl with the grey eyes filled with fog hiding so much more than a coincidental appearance on a park bench one Thursday night. This girl, Adeline, was looking for me. She said "looking" as if I was lost. She also said it as if she hadn't found me. In all honesty, I do not believe anyone will be able to find me. I believe she is traveling a map looking for too many destinations to follow all at once, and I have become interlaced in the path. The only thing is that I am not a destination.

I'm not sure when I decided to walk back to my house, but I realized that it would be an alarming thought for an old man to come out and see a dark haired teenage boy flayed out in the middle of his yard. Considering this matter, I got up and shoved my hands in my pockets and I walked, and I cried, but I made it to my house.

The next morning, being a Friday morning, I woke up around 10:47. I sat up in my bed, and I rubbed my hands through my hair and pulled on the ends and stretched my back. I looked over at my phone, and I saw there was a message. I did not know the number, and I did not open it because I of course was stupid enough to allow people to see when they read my messages. [

I start wandering who this person is, and my mind wanders to the possibilities. Usually, the only person who texts me is Joe. He used to live down my street, and we used to ride our bikes down the road when it was quiet and dark at night. I'm not sure why we did this because we really couldn't see anything, and we could have wrecked on numerous occasions. But I did like riding my bike at night and he was good company. However, now he lives in Illinois because his dad got a better paying job which seems to be the excuse for everyone who moves away. Needless to say, I usually don't say much to Joe over a text, because I realize in the end, I probably will not see him again which makes the whole "keeping the friendship" pointless in my mind. Someday, if not already, I will be removed from his mind along with everyone else's to make room for all the others to come. Space is limited when it comes to remembering people. It's a competition, and I don't see the need in participating.

I ran my hand through my hair again, and I slowed down my thoughts, and I listened. It was raining, and the rain was soft, and the thunder would make loud whispering rumble. When the thunder would quiet, I could hear my clock, and the rain, and the clock, and the thunder, and the deafening silence harmonized in my room, and it was quite soothing. I closed my eyes, and I picked up my phone and slid open the message. I do not believe in pass codes for my phone because honestly, my life is about as interesting as the local news in the mornings when everyone is half awake, so someone decided to put them on television to make corny jokes and forced laughs.
Hello James Luckey, it's Adeline.

My eyes froze and my mind felt numb as if it were half asleep and not working properly.
I dropped my phone in my bed, and I got up and stumbled to the door. My vision was intruded with black spots, and I closed my eyes and steadied myself with my hand on the door nob. I usually count to seven when this happens so I begin my count now. I never decided on why other than the fact that I liked the number seven and my vision is always normal when I open my eyes again.

My mom is sitting criss crossed on the couch grading papers, and Paula Deen is shouting about how the this Butter Cream Pie could never have enough butter. Mom has all the episodes recorded constantly watches reruns.
"Mornin mom," I started before being interrupted by a yawn.

She nodded her head and finished her last thought of criticism before replying with a, "Good morning how'd you sleep?"
I replied with my usual, "Okay" response before continuing to the kitchen. I wish she wouldn't teach in the summer honestly. She teaches english to juniors at Northeast High School which happens to be where I go to school. During the summer she teaches a college class at night, so she usually isn't here late.

I open my mason jar which I have splattered with glow paint where I keep my pills. I always put my pills in something other than the little yellow bottles. I don't like seeing it as if I need extra help to treat some disease. I am perfectly normal in some perspectives, and changing the appearance of the pills makes me believe that.
I throw the pills in my mouth, and fill a glass with water and swallow them.
I walk back to my room away from Paula shouting about butter. I grab my phone, and see there's another message from the same number. I open it and read.

Tonight is a half moon, and seeing that most people do not appreciate the moon in it's half full state, I will be sitting at the park bench by the school at approximately 8:34 pm.

I close my eyes and I listen to the quiet, and my clock is still ticking on it's continuous loop. I listen to each tick and with each second that goes by, I imagine every other second that I have endured. I have so much to regret. I have so many seconds I wasted. I have so many seconds I could've used that I didn't. I begin counting the seconds that are signaled by my clock. My eyes close on number nine. Ten, eleven, twelve, there's so many seconds I didn't use for her. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, so many seconds I could've used on myself. Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, this entire world survives on seconds that are misused and misplaced. Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, I remember this is where you paused, after thirty-three seconds. Forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, and then I stop counting, because this is where you stopped, and this is where I'll begin.
My fingers hover over the keys, and before I can tell myself no, I've clicked send.

Full moons are cliché anyway in my opinion.