When The Time Comes

chapter 8; Lib

His name is Omar, the bald guy with a tattoo creeping out of the collar of his jacket. I can't tell what it is but it looks big. It makes me consider the one on my left wrist, a rose with a stem. It doesn't mean anything. It's just kind of pretty looking.

Now that I've cleaned the blood off me, I feel a little less rattled. Ben is nice enough to loan me a sweater but he seems a little stand offish. I'm not sure if it's just how he is or if it's because of Andrew. Tonight has been way more than what either of us bargained for. And none of it has been my fault.

There's fuzz on the ends of the sleeves which I pull at, sitting opposite the boys who are both arched over Omar's phone screen.

Ben doesn't have any furniture except a mattress on the floor and some cushions. I've taken a cushion under me, adjusting them into some sort of make shift chair while the boys sit on the mattress. I suspect he won't be filling the room with anything other than what is already here. After all, there is no point.

"People say all sorts of stuff on the internet," Ben leans away. "That's probably fake."

"Well, I looked the guy up and apparently he's a real person," Omar explains. "He was a bioinformatics college professor in Baltimore, worked there fifteen years before he got his stag letter."

"Okay and..?" Ben shrugs.

"Charles Stewart Jr. He was all the rave three years ago when he was supposed to die," Omar pauses for dramatic effect. "But he didn't."

"And how do we know he's still alive?" I ask the obvious.

He looks at me almost like he forgot I was in the room. "There's this news report that was published by a local agency, with witness reports about people seeing Stewart days after he was supposed to die. His family moved away, yeah, but they never sold the house. Weird thing is that, nobody knows where he was buried, nobody was called to attend his funeral either. His wife made a statement when things were getting out of hand that they had a private funeral for family but nobody ever collaborated her story."

"Don't you think someone would've seen him if he was living in his old house?"

"I never said he was. Not back then, at least but why else wouldn't you put your empty place up for rent or sale?"

"Well, rich people might not feel the need to do anything about their empty house," Ben replied.

"Stewart worked in academia, he wasn't as rich as you think," Omar responded. "He had four kids and a wife, too."

"That's still not enough reason to believe he's alive," I say, pulling one of the threads from the sweater between my fingers.

He sighs before trying again, "The news article that I mentioned? It was why they called back the entire issue of the paper. Pulling back published newspapers just because of one article is strange. And the guy who wrote it never accepted that Stewart was dead, he was fired because of how adamant he was. He claimed to know where Stewart was but obviously, he was written off as a mad man."

"I get where your trying to twist this into a conspiracy but," I pause. "This isn't as solid as you think it sounds in your head."

He's quiet for a moment, staring at me with annoyance. I can tell the truth tastes bitter but it's better he realizes what he's doing before he really is out of time.

"The whole thing about stag mail," Ben rejoins the conversation. "Is that they are reliable and that they are never wrong."

"That's exactly why Stewart has gone into hiding," he clicks his tongue. "Imagine if you were the only known person who didn't die when they were supposed to. Imagine the panic it would create. The doubts and questions. If it ain't so reliable, what determines the odds? Does that mean people don't need to say goodbye to their kids or resign their jobs as soon as they get the letter?"