A Beautiful Life

Say I [Creed]

When Aiden was young, he liked to try to count the trees on his street. Walking down the block, mentally calculating each individual tree until he neared the main intersection. He never finished, something always distracting him. A sign at the corner grocery, squirrels chasing each other. Most of the time it was the cars that passed by. And he always remembered that he lived in the city, despite how many trees barricaded them from that intersection.

Aiden thought he preferred the city. The noise, the bustle, having the option of being able to do something at any hour of the day. But when he realized he didn't do much, he also understood he didn't like the city. Only the idea of it. The thought of freedom, experiences, the exploitation. He only liked the noise, how it distracted him from a place he hated more than the city: his own fucking head.

When he parked his motorcycle on the street, he looked down at the leaves that embellished the cement. Orange and brown petals from the trees he could never count.

Everyone admired the beauty of autumn, its colors gently embellishing streets, sidewalks, and grass. But Aiden saw only decay, like dead body parts dripping from the trees and filling the earth with its rot. Why were dead leaves considered so pretty? They were dead. The ground, the concrete, all covered in death.

And he held his helmet against his chest, curling into the seat of his bike as the wind teased him, blowing against the stray tendrils of hair that peppered his face.

He felt the stiffness of his leather jacket against his elbow while shifting his backpack over his shoulder. When he reached the front door, he faltered, key in hand, a nervous jitter to his wrist. Early afternoon, and he could already see the colorful swirls of the sunset envelope the sky. It was almost the same color as the rot of tree guts that dirtied the ground.

And as he slipped inside his home, he was greeted with a warm smell. Something cozy, inviting. But it left him unaffected. Even when he looked down at the tile that was once covered in linoleum, observed the bland décor that he had years to get used to (but never quite did). When he saw his brother and dad seated together at that same fucking table—no typewriter, but a similar newspaper unfolded—

The turbulent eighties soundtrack that played in his head in preparation for this moment came to a screeching halt. No glam rock, synths, everything that he liked to imagine when he thought of home.

Because this wasn't the eighties, but worse. It was fucking Y2K.

~oOo~

"The Y2K problem is causing a lot of concern among the hospital staff."

Aiden groaned into his palms. A faint, almost inaudible sound resonated, yet his irritation was unmistakable. He leaned on the table, pressing his elbows against the glass, his face veiled by the refuge of his hands. He could feel the pulsing of his forehead, pattering against his fingertips. Why did they need to talk? Couldn't they all just eat in fucking silence?

But Aiden wasn't eating, just picking at his food as an excuse to indulge in the wine glass planted beside him. It wasn't his preferred poison, but it would do. He sought discretion, pressing the glass to his lips, savoring the gentle splash of warm liquid. And he elongated it, wanted to taste the sharpness of it, to feel the bitter journey down his throat until it flooded warmly into his belly.

His dad had been the one to bring up the subject, sitting across from him, slicing neatly into a piece of turkey on his plate. He sat up straight, the collar of his button up crisp and folded.

Aiden slumped in his seat, his oversized navy sweater draping over him, sweeping aside unruly strands of hair that obstructed his view. He had tied half of it into a ponytail, leaving the rest of his hair down.