Night of the dead

Jasper Dent never knew that he was clustraphobic. He shoudln't have been surprised, not really. But for some reason, he was. Jasper –Jazz as he was classified by his one and only friend– found that he didn’t like crowds. He couldn’t stand being in them. Being in a crowd, full of all them prospects was like being hung by his feet over a flaming fire pit. Jazz had his issues with people, (didn’t everybody?) but his issues were probably more complicated and more obscure than most peoples. Still, in all the twelve years that he’d been alive...Jasper had never had a claustrophobia attack. Had never fainted in public or thrown a fit because his bubble was popped.  Had never vocally complained. Yet, as it was, Jazz found himself standing in a line of at least twenty people.

All in all, twenty wasn’t a bad number. Twenty was a good number of people. Not too many people, and not too little. It was just the circumstance of which those people were that bothered Jazz. He was standing in line with Howie, his too-stupid-to-be-of-any-harm friend, as they waited to get into the almost legendary Lobo’s Nod Haunted House. It was put on twice a year, once at Halloween and once during Christmas season. The age limit for the house was twelve. Why, Jazz didn’t know. Nothing inside that sorry excuse for a haunted house had to be scary, nothing. But yet, Jazz and Howie had not been allowed to go inside until this year.

Howie was practically vibrating from the excitement, his face was broken into a wide smile and he kept hopping from foot to foot, looking like an absurdly tall bunny rabbit. The best he could tell, Howie was happy. Jovially, and looking forward to going into the up until now banned haunted house. Jazz longed to be happy with Howie, longed to share Howie’s excitement, but his discomfort proved to be distracting. Being shoved in a line with all the people, most of them in awkward costumes that consisted of painful cut-outs and whatnot, reminded Jazz of wearing shoes two sizes too small. Bearable, but painful.

Howie had stated, before they headed to the Haunted house, that he lived for Halloween. That the night of fantasy based monsters and just general stupidity drove Jazz insane. Still, Howie liked the holiday, and in expressing his love for Halloween, had dragged Jazz outside to celebrate. Howie was dressed up, wearing a ridicules costume that was probably handmade. It was supposed to be Batman, but it just looked like Howie was wearing underwear. It was too tight on Howie; his gangly figure looked more like a skeleton in the getup. Jazz guessed, by the time Howie went home, his friend would have massive bruises from where the fabric hugged a little too hard. Howie was a type A hemophilic, which meant, in a nutshell, that he bled a lot.

He had complained when he saw Jazz’s costume. Which was black pants, and black shirt. Had started to make a list of why not wearing a costume on Halloween was a sin when Jazz pointed out that he was, in fact, wearing a costume.

“And what are you supposed to be, exactly?” He’d demanded, placing his hands on his hips, giving Jazz what looked to be the worst stare down in the history of stare downs. To his question, Jazz had just smiled. Grinned the ‘charmer’ that he’d been taught from his father. Howie still bugged Jazz about his costume, now and then, but Jazz never told him what he was dressed as.

When Jazz had told his father that he needed to dress up for Halloween, that he needed to look scary, Billy Dent had just laughed.

“You don’t need all them’ bells and whistles to look scary, Jasper.” He’d drawled. Jazz had insisted, protesting that Howie wanted him to dress up. And Billy had brought Jazz the black pants and black shirt. Told him that the black outfit was all he needed. And Jazz had done what his father asked, because he always did what his father asked, and had gone out trick or treating with Howie. Only now, standing in line with twenty other Halloween enthusiasts did Jazz realise that maybe his costume wasn’t the best one.