The Payback or The Adventures and Pranks of Zachary O'Connor

Chapter Eighteen: Acceptance

"Zach," my dad said, poking his head into my room.

I was startled and I turned to face him, tears pouring lightly out of my eyes.

"Dinnertime," he said.

"Oh ok... I'll be out in a minute," I replied, rapidly wiping away the saltwater from my face.

"Take your time, son."

Once Dad had returned back to the kitchen, I moved to the edge of my bed and sat there. Anyone who has ever cried but not wanted anyone to see them crying knows that you have to wait a moment before seeing people. Your face is red, your eyes are puffy, your nose is runny. I sat there sniffling for a few minutes then stood. I entered the hallway but before entering the communal space, I ducked into the restroom. Inspected myself in the mirror.

Face sufficiently less red. Evidence of tears gone. Shirt still nerdy, jeans still wrinkled, glasses scratched as ever. Still Zachary O'Connor. Just not the same Zachary O'Connor as the one that started his senior year the past fall. Definitely not him anymore. And my hair wasn't spiky anymore. It made me look different. Older.

And it wasn't just the obvious mental and psychological changes. I also carried myself differently. I noticed my posture. I used to have a terrible slouch, made only slightly better by marching band. I used to pretty much stretch out my 6 foot, 5 self as far as possible into the aisles between desks in class. Now I sit with proper posture. I feel more impervious to things. Also, my face is different. Hardened. Sure, I still smile, but I certainly wish I did it more often.

I sighed and headed into the kitchen.

I knew that Dad hadn't told my mom about me crying simply because that was the kind of guy he was. If he thought that I wouldn't want Mom to know, and Mom didn't absolutely need to know, she wouldn't. She smiled at me. Dad smiled too, but it was more of a sad smile. I sat down for dinner.

That night, I had the dream. It was a dream I would eventually become very familiar with. I was driving down the road. Empty bottles of cheap alcohol littered the floor of my car. My fingers were drumming nervously on the steering wheel. I was just driving through Adrian, an adjacent town to Walkerhall, probably heading back home. I started to swerve, my hands not keeping the wheel steady. I went straight into oncoming traffic, and I slammed headfirst into a blue sports-car. I didn't feel the impact.

I simply sat there, my heart beating quickly. I opened my car door and tried to step out, but my legs were pinned between the dashboard and my seat, destroyed. The alcohol in my system prevented me from feeling anything. Blood was everywhere. I saw the door to the sports-car open. Keegan stepped out. A large shard of glass from the windshield was protruding from his head. His entire right hand had been ripped off. Blood covered him. The coppery smell of it made everything hazy. Keegan continued to limp over. I was lying partway on the ground. He came over. I could see the muscles and bones in his face where the skin was gone. He bent over me and spit blood onto my face.

"You're the reason this happened to me," he muttered.

His dead body collapsed onto me.

I started laughing.

Everything was red.

I pushed Keegan off me, and beat my fist on the car, laughing maniacally. Then I saw my reflection, blurry on the not-so-clean car door. I could only see the reflection through the blood that was on the door, shiny for the moment, but slowly drying. My whole body wasn't there. My legs were still pinned in the car. I looked up into the sky. Nothingness. The sky wasn't blue. But it wasn't black or the color of the rising or setting sun or overcast or anything. It was a featureless gray, but not from clouds. It was an encasing gray, meant to steal life from out of you.