Sing Me To Sleep

Chapter 8

I focus all of my energy on the empty space that surrounds me in all directions. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly and try again. 

Parade. The big floats, decorated with blue and red and white ribbons that hung loosely from the frame. The marching band, dressed in dark and elegant uniforms, moving swift and graceful through the streets. The leader, a tall lanky man, his uniform seeming even more exquisite than the rest. The way he carried himself, his head held high in radiating confidence. His hair was an electrifying white, untouched of all other color that might have seemed tainting to the pure alabaster. His face was old, wrinkles folding across his skin, seeming to absorb the face paint that spread across his features in a white and black skeletal disguise, but the happiness shone through like a light. 

This was not the skeleton boy, but I imagined the old man was my basis for the illusion. Like the angel said, he was a mixture of formation and memory. Replaying his words in my head a million times, I tried to make sense of what they meant. 

Memory; The skeleton boy was someone I knew, probably seeing him enough to bring him forth in subconscious manifestation. Who, I was not sure. The parade was one of my favorite memories, taking place long before my father became an alcoholic, before I made a move on Todd. Back when everything around me seemed so innocent. 

Formation; I assumed this meant I had taken some memories and somehow mashed them together, forming something completely new. The skeleton boy.

"You have to relax," The voice jerks me out of my thoughts and my eyes snap open. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, feeling my body become less tense. "You're trying too hard."

The skeleton boy emerges from the shadows, stepping toward me and becoming illuminated by an unseen light. "You're too focused," He continues. "When you become too focused, your mind begins to wander."

I feel his hands move around my own, placid warmth seeming to slowly course through my body at the touch. His eyes meet mine at only a few inches distance. "You're paying too much attention to small details, which is making you distracted." He lets go of my hand and takes a small step back. "Close your eyes," He commands. I don't want to at first, afraid he'll disappear, but, after a hesitation, abide. "Good. Keep your breathing even." His voice moves as he speaks and I imagine him walking closer to me but I don't feel him anywhere. I'm about to open my eyes to make sure he's still with me just when he speaks again. His voice is right next to my ear. "What do you want to see, Frank?" He asks me. His breath tickles my ear, making the skin tingle. "Tell me what you want."

I want to turn around and kiss him. I want to feel his hands once again on my body, whether on my own hands or my hips. I hate even the narrow distance between us. But I know what he means and I remember what he said; keep your breathing even. Just imagining his hands on me is making my breaths become shallow. I inhale slowly before letting the air out. "A parade," I say, finally finding the words. 

"Good," He says again and I hear the slight smile in his voice. I feel his hands on my hips once more, sighing in content. "Open your eyes."

I force my body to obey, peeling my eyelids up to the astonishing sight. The whole scene seems to unfold before me. The street stretches out in both directions, the toes of my shoes even with the asphalt's edge. There are crowds of people, their faces seeming blurred as the memory is fogged. They gather around the moving floats, some cheering while others merely watch in awe. Music fills my ears, my heart beating in time with the drum as the marching band comes into view. I look to my left, straining to see the skeletal leader. 

"I can't see!" The voice leads my eyes away from the big balloons in the distance, coming closer with each passing second, nearly blocking out the sun, to a small kid. "Daddy, I can't see it!"

"You're right up front, son." The older man next to the child laughs. My heart seems to freeze in my chest, refusing to move as I watch the pair before me. 

"Daddy!" The kid whines again. He tugs on the man's dark denim pants, stomping his foot.

"Alright, alright," The man laughs. "Come on, Frank." The man picks up the child, heaving him onto his shoulders for a better view. 

"That's me," I realize. The pair in front of me; That is five year old me with my father. The day that he took me to see the parade. I feel paralyzed, unable to move my gaze away from the smaller, younger version of myself. God, I look so happy. I bouce excitedly on my father's shoulders. Even my father looks happy, a grin spread across his face as his hands lock my legs in place. 

I shake my head, turning around to face the skeleton boy. "I don't get it," I say. "Why is it like this?"

"Like what, Frank?" He asks. "I thought this is what you wanted."

"It's different," I explain. "Before, it was like I was re-living it all. Now... it's like I'm watching my life play on a screen. Why did it change?" 

"Because this is a conscious memory," He says softly. He tilts his head to one side, watching me curiously. "You know exactly what you wanted to see. This is it."

I feel my eyebrows crease, even more confused by his answer. "That doesn't make sense," I say. 

He turns me gently, moving me so I'm once again facing the street. The marching band is right in front of us now and my eyes land on the leader. His smile, broad and ecstatic as he brings his legs up, reveals nothing more than pure happiness. I feel the angel's arms as they wrap around my waist, his chin resting upon my shoulder. "Why did you choose this memory, Frank?" He asks me. 

I shrug, feeling his head carried as an extra weight with my movement. "It was when I was happy," I admit. "Before my dad died, before he started beating me, before he started drinking. It was before the depression and the parties and everything."

With my answer comes a realization. This time, I didn't need to relive anything. I didn't care about the parade in front of me. I didn't need to see the marching band or the leader. I needed to see myself happy. I needed to see what my dad and I once were. 

"Help me again," I demand suddenly, pulling away from the skeleton boy, yearning to feel his touch but knowing that I needed to see his face. "Help me see another memory."

The skeleton boy looks upset, saddened by my order. For the first time, he actually looks nervous, reluctant to do something. "I don't know..." He mumbles and I can tell he knows just what memory I want to see again.

"Help me," I repeat. This time, I take a small step forward, finding the courage within myself to take his hands in mine. "Please."

The skeleton boy sighs, looking defeated. "Okay," He finally agrees.

I smile. The electricity that seems to be pulled through my veins at this second is more than the effect of his touch. It's fear and excitement and anxiety balled into one massive emotion, one drug that seems to be running through my body at full speed, making my nerves feel wired.

The skeleton boy was going to help me remember the night my father died.