The Degeneration of Gwen Weaver

Progress

"Okay, but the only names I remember are first names. Besides Weaver."

"You said there was a house fire, right? Why don't we start by looking for the name Weaver and fires in the past fifteen years." Faust replies.

"So we're just assuming this happened in our town?"

"Yeah."

"That's a dumb idea."

"You being born was a dumb idea."

"Fine. We can try. But I don't think it'll work." I pull my laptop out of my backpack and flip it open. He snatches it from me and turns away, typing furiously.

"FAUST! Give it back!" He doesn't respond. "You better not be looking at porn or so help me-"

He turns around and hands the computer to me, his face infuriatingly smug. "Here ya go, Weaver."

On the screen is an article about a house fire that occurred in Marshall, a town about half an hour away. I scan it quickly, eyes widening.

"House fire... Daughter and mother dead." My stomach curdles.

In the back of my mind I realize that I think of the woman in my dream as my mother, and that every time I'd seen my mom, the real one, the one who'd raised me and fed me and cared for me... I'd felt a weird disconnect. A sense of surreality washes over me, dizzying my head in blind panic as the true scope my doubt is fully comprehended. Doubting myself is one thing-- God knows I do that enough as it is-- but...

A second wave of dizziness causes dots to speckle my vision. I feel bile rise in my throat and I bury my head in a throw pillow. A nagging image persists in my mind-- my small dusty, mousy mom, side by side with the tall, dark-haired, green-eyed woman, the one who unconciously I had begun to know as my mother.

"WEAVER!" Faust's hand bats at my hair. "Covering your face won't hide the ugly."

"I don't feel well."

"Good."

"No, 'well' is grammatically correct."

"No, it's good that you feel sick."

I sigh meekly.

"You were serious?" I feel his fingertips gently rest on my forearm, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

"Yeah."

"What's going on?"

"I'm just doubting everything."

"Ah, you angsty."

"Stop."

He pulls away the pillow that covers my face and looks at me, expression soft. "I want to help you. That's why I'm here. Don't be afraid to tell me the truth. It'll help with the, um, investigation..." he trails off.

"Um." I say, more as a way to diffuse the silence than anything.

"Um, yeah..." he giggles nervously, "That was a little weird..."

"Yup." We sit side by side like wooden boards for thirty seven excruciating seconds. I watch my sock-covered feet, conscious of every motion, every breath that either one of us makes. Finally, I snatch a pillow and smack him across the face, feeling the room instantly relax when he laughs.

"Hey, Faust?"

"What, Weaver Beaver?"

"You still up for a trip to a cemetary?"

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"Hey, Ma." Faust speaks into his phone, fingers drumming on the armrest. "Yeah. Can you drive me and Gwen somewhere? Where? Uh..."

I look up from my phone's screen, stomach clenching unconsciously.

"A graveyard. For a school project."

I sigh. He blew it. There's no way in hell his mom would actually--

"Really? Great! See you in ten."

And sure enough, his mom's battered van pulls into the driveway minutes later. I grab my purse and stuff in a notepad and pen, hastily wriggling my feet into my boots. I lock the door behind me, attempting to text my mom as I rush out to the car.

Me: hey mom can I go to a student council thing with Carly?

Mom: what is it?

Me: it's a dance planning meeting thing. for homecoming. she can give me a ride.

Mom: Is your homework done?

Me: Yeah

Mom: okay. let me know if you need a ride. when will you be home?

Me: couple hours

Mom: alright

I look up to see Faust watching me, a concerned expression on his face. I grin. "It's a go!"

We climb into the backseat of the car, clambering over boxes of dusty books and bags of dreamcatchers, weird gemstones, and various knick-knacks. I squeeze next to a box of incense, trying to avoid picking at the stuffing that's leaking out of the cushion. His mom, a tall, lean woman whose shriveled, tanned arms clatter with beaded jewelry, calls to us without turning around.

"Hey! Faust! Careful, that's stuff for the shop."

She starts up the car, the engine making a pathetic wheezing noise like a cigarette-smoking cat. The van strains, immobile, before backfiring like a pistol and shooting forward.

"What even is this?" Faust holds up a pungent ball of what looks like cerulean garlic.

"Oligarthy root. It has mind expanding properties."

Faust examines it, nose wrinkling in distaste. "Mom, the paint's flaking off of it."

His mom waves off this remark, jerking into a sharp left turn. A mammoth-sized glass eye rolls towards my foot, gold-flecked iris staring judgmentally.

Next to me, Faust's phone lights up with a picture of a middle-aged woman with a brown bob and lipstick in an unflattering shade of red. He silences it quickly, only for the woman to call back a minute later. Groaning, he answers it.

"Yeah, Carol?" He sighs, "I'm-- yeah. I got a school project... Have a school project." He rolls his eyes. "I was at a friend's house... Why, does it matter? My mom's driving us. My mom...Tell Dad I'll be home late...Bye."

He mouths "step-mom" in response to my questioning glance.

"Was that Carol?" His mom calls back.

"Yeah."

"How is she?" is what his mom responds, but her voice fills the car with a tension that doesn't abate until we reach the cemetery.

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A/N HEY! I'm back. I'm really sorry. This is a hard part to get through, and while it's certainly flawed, I'm finding direction again! Hooray for existential crises! I'm busy right now, but I'll try to make updates more frequent. I came, I wrote, I conquered. Here ya go-- enjoy.