Grayson's Body

Avant-Garde

Chapter 29: Avant-Garde

avant-garde

[uh-vahnt-gahrd, uh-vant-, av-ahnt-, ah-vahnt-; French a-vahn-gard]

noun

the advance group in any field, especially in the visual, literary, or musical arts, whose works are characterized chiefly by unorthodox and experimental methods.

I couldn't believe it.

I was trying, but my brain wasn't processing it correctly, it seemed.

Grayson hadn't said that.

He hadn't, he couldn't.

But he had.

"You are a literal monster!" I screamed. I felt it tear through me, the sound. It was deafening even in my own ears. I wasn't used to freezing in some God awful pool and then screaming my head off all in the same night. My throat felt like someone had rubbed sandpaper in it, scratching it all up, and I shook.

I was so cold.

He didn't respond to that. I could feel his eyes on my body as I kicked through the water, as I swam to the side.

Grayson Clark was watching as still as a statue, glaring lightly at me like I was being irrational.

The tile was smooth under my wet palms. It was hard to move upwards and out because my clothes were so soaked through and heavy, but I managed to pull myself up. My arms were shaking, the cold numbing my skin, and I panted, trying to catch my breath.

On the tile, I could feel the bits of grime and the overwhelming sense of the oldness that I grasped onto. I rolled against it.

It was like they were infinite.

"Ethan, Ethan, Ethan."

She was whispering it speedily, as though my eyes weren't only for hers. But mine had been on her since I had pulled up, though. Her voice sounded stained, exhausted, and that was all I could hear besides the blood rushing in my ears. It wasn't like hers.

It was there on the tile.

"Ethan, listen to me," came Grayson's voice, and it echoed against the plaster of the building's filthy walls.

The blood was a glaring thing: a scarlet horror show, a tragedy on some avant-garde stage.

But this wasn't a stage of some foreign director.

This wasn't a performance.

We weren't actors.

This was my girlfriend.

And that was my best friend.

And that was my best friend saying he was madly in love with me.

Chip was looking at me, her head turned slightly to the side, her eyes as wet as I felt. Her hand was on her throat, and all I saw was red. I saw it against the tile, between her slim pale fingers, and on the tear in her neck when she pulled her palm slightly away.

The green grandeur of her eyes bore into mine: frightened yet resilient. It was just like her. She was trying to sit up, inhaling and exhaling. Her free hand landed on her side as she rose, and she leaned her weight against her arm.

And I made my way to her quickly, the water dripping off of my body, trailing behind me. I gently brought my hands to her shoulders and laid her back down again.