For Shits and Giggles [2024]

AFTERMATH

Camilo was the first of several to commit suicide.

Some suicides were accidental, as those who saw the curse as a way of life continued their habits, unable to accept that life had returned to normal.

Camilo's suicide, however, was very intentional. The trauma and the weight of his actions were too heavy to carry for a lifetime. Gracie had forgiven him for everything he'd done and said; she knew it was all because of the curse (at least that's what she'd chosen to believe). But she never told him that. She never wanted to see him again. He died believing she hated him.

At his funeral, no one cried. There was no one left to cry. Those who hadn't already taken their own lives had moved far away from Pleasantwood, never looking back. Funerals had become a foreign concept. After being obsolete for so long, the remaining townsfolk had forgotten how to organize one.

Gracie was somewhere near the back, behind black-vailed faces she couldn't see. There were a lot of flowers, as if the only thing necessary for a successful funeral were flowers. So many goddamned flowers; lilies, carnations, orchids. She couldn't see them, but she could smell them. The smell brought her back to that day under the Tree where Camilo asked her out for the first time; they were surrounded by the same flowers then too. The smell was nauseating.

She thought back to their first kiss, the subtle excitement she felt in her soul and the hope bubbling inside of her. She thought back to the time he'd taught her to ride his skateboard. He'd been a great teacher. When she fell and twisted her ankle, Camilo held her with such fervency that it'd shocked her; the love and safety she felt in his arms. In that moment, she wanted to be held by him forever, she convinced herself it was true love. But that was then, and this was now.

She wanted to weep for him, but she couldn't—physically nor emotionally. His death didn't feel real to her. Tomorrow, she would wake up and that pale, hollow face in his casket would be there, smiling, trying to hold her hand just a little bit too tightly. That tomorrow never came.

"You made it," Gracie heard from behind her. She recognized Tommy's voice. He had an obituary pamphlet clenched tightly in his fist. Tommy was wearing a black, fitted suit. He looked polished, put together; even his facial features were different. He had never worn such an aged, weathered expression on his face, even before the Tree.

"I didn't think you'd come."

"I wasn't going to," she said.

"He... wanted you to have this back," Tommy reached into his pant pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. It had been taped together sloppily, pieces of it still missing. She felt the frayed edges with her finger tips, caressing them gently. Carefully.

Gracie recognized the piece of paper immediately.

"This is the letter I wrote to the outside. I actually... I thought someone would find it," she laughed dryly, unfolding it in her hands. Running her fingers down the flat side.

Tommy looked at the black bandages around her eyes.

"He really did love you, Gracie."

"I know," she said softly.

"He was sorry. You know, the Tree it–"

"I know."

They stood in silence for the rest of the service, side by side.

Gracie had already decided to leave Pleasantwood. She'd decided a long time ago. The miserable amount of money she had saved was at least enough for a one-way bus ticket and a couple of weeks in a hotel. She'd given the Café back to Paola. Completely. She could sell it now, do whatever she wanted with it. And Paola was happy to—except no one wanted to buy a Café in the middle of a ghost town. People were moving away in droves. The Café would go under soon. Henry's business would follow suit, leaving them both nearly bankrupt and swimming in loans.

At least they would have their baby. A beautiful, healthy baby girl, born seven months after the curse had broken, and four years after Paola first became pregnant. They named her Faith.

Several townsfolk tried to come forward and tell the police, the FBI, anyone who would listen, what had happened in Pleasantwood in those three years. There were blog posts and podcasts and religious sermons.

When enough people came forward, their stories were finally taken seriously. They were professionally examined—first physically, then mentally. Their bodies, of course, were completely fine. There were no scars, no missing limbs or ruptured organs. No proof. Nothing. Soon, even local papers were writing about it: "The peculiar case of Pleasantwood, New York. A quaint town suffering from the same delusion – one of the worst cases of mass hysteria since the Dancing Plague of 1518."

There were more suicides after that.

Gracie's bus left the morning after the funeral. She wore fresh bandages around her eyes and fumbled clumsily with her walking stick, an overstuffed dufflebag hugged underneath the opposite arm. People shoved past her on the bus with reckless abandon, wanting only to get to their own seats; genuine empathy had become a foreign concept to the survivors of Pleasantwood. Compassion was replaced with urgency, self preservation.

Someone bumped into Gracie's shoulder. Her aid stick flew out of her hand, and she lunged for it blindly. She grabbed at nothing, instead hearing it clatter onto the ground. It rolled somewhere unbeknownst to her. Without warning, the bus lurched forward. Gracie lost her footing, gripping the side of the pleather seat to keep herself standing. She took a deep breath and continued.

With a second, deeper breath, Gracie hauled the duffelbag above her head. She tried shoving it into the space reserved above her seat, but the bag wouldn't go in. She shoved harder, with both hands, struggling to keep her balance as the bus jerked and skipped along. It was a losing battle; she felt helpless, overwhelmed, tired. A second body squeezed past her; but this time, she recognized the perfume.

Hints of jasmine and wisteria. Gracie felt the woman's body stretch beside her, her hands grasping the duffelbag firmly. Between the two of them, they thrusted the bag securely into place in the compartment above Gracie's seat. Without a word, the woman walked away, leaving Gracie on her own once more.

But the woman didn't need to speak. Gracie recongized her smell, her slender, cold hands. It was Fior's final act of forgiveness. An acknowledgment of Gracie's humanity. That was the last time Gracie and Fior were ever seen together again.

Gracie slumped into her seat and rested her head against the cool, bus window. She thought of everyone.

Henry and Paola, and their blooming child; their decision to stay in the town and try to rebuild a life.

Liam and Scotty who were milking the town's brief infamy for all it was worth. Paid interviews, merch, the works.

Dr. Sny completely disappeared. He never answered for his crimes. Sheriff Lotto quickly resigned.

Gracie closed her eyes and allowed her mind to continue wandering; she'd gotten an interstate bus ticket to the last stop. Soon, the town would disappear behind them and so would all of the memories.

Except, not really. Not fully. Her mind had wandered to the happiest moment of her life: the day she'd almost married the love of her life. Santiago.

She hadn't seen him since that day, since the Church. Maybe it was better that way; easier to leave it all behind. A part of her still wanted him. A part of her knew she might stay if he asked her to. But she couldn't. She wouldn't.

That decision belonged to her. The conscious and active choice, no matter how painful, to never set foot inside of Pleasantwood again.