RED PARALLEL

Chapter 72: Make My Concrete Soft

A week later

Song: Blinded, by Emmit Fenn.

(Owen)

The room had crevices, letting a smell of plastic come about. The air was rarefied, due to the frail ability of his lungs, the sore pulse in his head, and so many fragments of images flipping over and over like an album, like a song. His eyelids fluttered weakly, unwilling to open but curious to see what kind of prison had wrapped its cold arms around him this time. The beeping body somewhere near counted the seconds to another unworthy moment, a flimsy interval of breath that just proved the burden of being solo, of being a forever incomplete entity, a body without its lovely soul.

Owen tried to peer around but there was iron and lead inside his brain. A catatonic piece of science engraved in his neurons, clutching both hemispheres as if that could bring life relief. Owen lost his death; it had slipped through his fingers. He longed for the angel that fell in front of his eyes, yet he wanted to the be one that fell first. Not even his nightmares were coming true. This reality was inconceivable, inconsiderate, loaded with a grief he couldn't read, decipher or ponder.

So many things awaited him. Everything but hope. His only infallible plan had been ruined by the hands he despised. All these doctors, hanging about with their efficiency and beautiful stigma. He dreaded their scent, he dreaded their gait, he adored how sickly familiar it was to hate the one he loved, he adored how confusing this had turned out to be. Because he was alive. Ready to die again. Ready to try one more time. Ready to dismantle the whole world, piece by piece.

He just wasn't expecting mercy and forgiveness to knock on the doors to his heaven. Owen had just shut his eyes again, acquiescing to the pain, when a strong voice spoke.

"Owen. Can you talk?"

He could. But he didn't want to talk to a person that shouldn't be alive, either. 

What followed suit tore him apart for being so blunt and void of toxicity. Void of anything that felt like home. He just couldn't understand. He couldn't understand what home was, but having a glimpse of it made him wish he was worthier than that.

He sobbed on the hospital sheets, a hand pressing his chest and gently warming his lungs as he tried so hard to breathe. Owen now understood what Troy meant by having a real father. The safety, the reassurance, the faith in a broken son. And the belief that there was a world in which they could live freely, a place where nobody would judge them, nobody would hurt them. Nobody would chafe their souls with acidity.

"And I trust that you can do this," G.klo' continued. "I see a beautiful soul inside that concrete you paved. Traviz sees it too. Nobody as wonderful as him could ever connect to someone less worthy. You, Owen, are capable of great things. I believe in you. I forgive you. I love you. I know you don't understand much of these words. They might seem unsettling, insulting. But I want you to know that I have no hard feelings. What you did nobody else will know. I will forgive and forget. This boy you love so much saved our lives. I was told he called the emergency right away, and now he needs our help. Traviz is in pain, Owen. I want us to recover as fast as possible so we can rejoin him and start everything from scratch. What do you say?"

Owen couldn't say a thing. He had never cried so much in such a short period of time. Life had never flashed before his eyes like that. Maybe he had truly died, because none of that made sense. Why would G.klo' forgive him? Why would Troy even try to rescue him? Owen concluded that he didn't understand that part of human nature.

And he wanted to.

Owen was considering how impaired his balance was in order to get up and run to whichever room Troy was in, when something made him lose every balance, every shred of strength in his body. 

They let Troy walk in the room as if he was a visitor. Owen had never welcomed someone so desperately.

"You're alive," Troy said. Owen could hear a symphony of life inside that voice. An orchestra of pain and relief that filled his clamped lungs and allowed him to finally inhale. "My God, you're fucking alive."

Owen expected him to run over to his father, to hug him, to cry, to breathe in his neck and thank heavens, but Troy chose a different target. And the boy who was no longer a boy but a dashing young man didn't run, didn't crush his bones, didn't suffocate him with toxic sugar. Troy drew near almost as if in slow motion, carrying the lightness of a world on his shoulders, a world that seemed perfectly tailored to a guy called Phants. Troy stopped near the bed, leaned over and touched the side of Owen's numb face. And the face flushed up with life. The fragility and briefness of that moment scared him so much he felt a tear streaming down, already grieving that memory, that memory he would desperately clung to.

But Troy didn't let go; he smiled instead. "Hey, Phants."

Owen gulped. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do?

Troy leaned closer even more, making Owen's skin more sensitive to the air particles between their faces. "Phants, you're a warrior. I heard the chances of surviving a headshot are close to like, four percent. Aren't you something?"

Owen frowned. Where did that man come from and why did he speak so elegantly? Was that a consequence of trauma or an impractical upgrade that happened without his supervision? Owen chose not to think about that.

"Troy..."

The sound of his nickname made the young man smile even more. Owen wanted to melt. "Yes, Phants?"

"Why... Just why?"

"Hmm..." Troy looked to the ceiling and then down at Owen. "I don't know. Sometimes it happens. Sometimes an asshole fucks up with his friend's mind and soul and leaves the world under flames. Sometimes I'm so fucking sorry for everything I did to you that... For days I thought I'd killed you. Maybe I did, and right now I'm talking to his ghost."

Owen wanted to chuckle, but he was too emotional to blurt a dangerous sound. "I'm... I've always been a ghost to you."

"Wrong." Troy sat on the edge of the bed and Owen felt the mattress yielding to his perfect weight. "You've been a big someone to me. Would you be someone if you died, Phants? Of course. You'll always be someone to me."

That was unbearable.

A thumb gently ran across Owen's cheek. Troy whispered. "It's okay. We'll cry together. Always. From now on."