Peroxide (Peterick)

I thought I escaped hell already

I'm in a vacuum that very well may be outer space with the lack of anything that could signal me to a location, but anyone would assure me that I'm only in front of the Caribou home, that I should know this information, yet it's apparent that I don't, for I'm wandering aimlessly with my feet contradicting that idea as they evolve towards the structure, but maybe this is where I need to be.

The note is still a fleck in the snow, and I stoop to discard it, tossing the scrap into my pocket without bothering to dry it off and trekking to the house, where the windows drip with soot.

Once left and once right the knob twirls, and the car keys are placed upon the table to the side of the entrance with a prompt click and a nervous spin of the head.

A figure reclines on the couch, a dazzling smile valuing the mirth on him as he stares up at the vast ceiling without a clue as to what he's doing, but perhaps that's why he's so jocular. The man doesn't know what doom awaits him, and even that doesn't dampen his mood, because all he understands is that the melancholy isn't present at the current moment, so he is content.

It's so different from how it used to be, because in earlier years, looking at him was like looking at a corpse who was persistent on living, but to anyone else, to anyone who didn't grieve with him, who didn't suffer with him, who didn't tear their heart out for him in the hopes that he would do the same, this man appeared as happy as it gets. And perhaps he could've been, deep down in that unpredictable soul of his, but that was a while ago, because yes, you may have found him a cheerful person, and I wished I could believe it, too, but against the other odds, there was still the undeniable notion that he was dying, and I couldn't do a thing about it.

I'm not sure whether it's refreshing or troubling to see him so jovial, but it's a shock nevertheless, and my gait languishes in the dimness of the room because of it.

Upon hearing the noise of my ordeal, however faint, Dallon pivots from his position on the settee to identify the intruder, his smile dissolving along with his fun. "Where were you?" he catechizes, standardizing a governmental approach to someone whom he would never want to harm in any way (oh, how the tides have turned).

"That's none of your business."

Dallon turns completely upright, legs dangling off the edge of the sofa with a matter of fact demeanor to his posture. "For all I know, you could be shooting up on drugs, which can kill you, by the way."

"I don't do drugs. You know that." My voice is flat and dull like the pencils I run dry trying to document the possibilities of everything I see while avoiding the people who tell me that they don't mean anything, and Dallon frowns at the lack of life.

"I wish I could be certain of that." My old friend's words are excruciating, fermenting a darkness upon the area as the ambiguity floods back.

"Did you ever even trust me at all?"

"Of course I did," he heartens, tone suddenly brighter, though it's clear that it's all just a passive-aggressive scheme. "But as you said, we're not the same people as we were two years ago."

I rock back onto my hips, a breathy laugh being harvested in my lungs. "Sometimes I feel like we use that term to further our stances, but what does it mean?"

"It's perhaps the only truthful maxim we've stumbled upon to describe this woe." Dallon commences a ponderous silence, and eventually he rises. "I'm going to bed. You deserve a reprieve from me."

I nod, exculpating a rush of air in relief as my old friend vanishes from the room, and I follow the same direction he had taken, feeling tired myself.