Long Story Short by Robert Bielling

Long Story Short - by Robert Bielling

“So why are you smiling?” she asked me. I wasn’t aware I was smiling.

“Because I’m looking at you,” I said.

“That’s not true. This is why we can’t keep doing this.”

I was unsure how to respond. I never really expected any of this. I never expected to find myself at her door step and not be allowed in.

“You always say what I want to hear, not what you really feel. I’m tired of hearing everything I don’t really have.” She said with a sigh. Her hair was dark and long, shining against the yellow porch light. It reminded me of the wet street I drove on to get here. The concrete was shining with the yellow street lights accenting certain pieces of the cement strip. I always thought yellow was a happy color.

“You just let me talk while you stare into my eyes. I always thought you were listening, but it turns out you’re just a statue that’s running around in your own head. You don’t care about what I say.”

Yellow is happy, unless it gets dirty. It is happy sunshine until it trips and falls into a murky puddle of dirty water. Then it becomes that depressed light that hangs over our heads.
“…and somehow I’m still surprised when I catch you ignoring me. Goodbye Derik.” She said as she slowly closes the door.

“When did we fall into a dirty puddle?” I asked.

“No. No Derik, I’m not letting this work...I mean, I’m not gonna try and fix it again.”

“Then let me fix it,” I said. Behind me a cat rustled in the bushes.

“Derik, you’ve never fixed anything.”

“That’s not true. What about your window screen?”

“Do you know how to argue, or do you just assume a joke trumps two years of mistakes?”

“I thought you wanted to go get food? Why are you so upset?”

“No, that’s what you were going to talk me into doing when you got here. I told you when you when I opened the door Derik, I’m breaking-”

“Then I’ll try harder. Amy, don’t do this. I really really really want to make this better. Just tell me everything I do wrong. Make a list. I’ll start at the top and check my way down until I’ve done everything wrong right.”

“No Derik. I’m done. We’re done. Now just leave,” Her eyes started to slip behind the door frame like two rain drops collecting water on a leaf’s edge. “Please.”

And then the door was shut. Immediately, I wanted it to open again. I stood there, drenched in dirty yellow light and tried to piece back together the conversation I missed. All I could come up with was that I made a mistake that I coundn’t unmake. I reached my hands up to the wooden door, not touching it, but only centimeters away. I willed the door to open because I knew I was not allowed to open it myself. Only Amy could open it now.
I had to leave. I had to make my legs work and carry all these pieces to my car. I fished in my pockets for the keys as I began to walk. I didn’t notice that they made no sound as they rattled together. Amy was gone. I didn’t notice the leaves not crunching under my rubber sole or the faint whistle of the cold wind. Amy was gone. I heard only my breath as it puffed out of my mouth in thin clouds. My fingers juggled with the keys. I had to look twice to find my reflection. There I was; a tall young man with no lips and tears rolling down his clean face. I looked at myself and thought, why bother? Let the tears freeze on my face, no one needs to see them anymore, or my even my dry face; not in the morning, or before they fall asleep. If I could shake off this body and start again, I would have Amy. She was just tired of this person. If I looked different, talked different, liked different music, then Amy would open the door for me. If I looked like the man who stood behind me now, staring at the same sad eyes that I stared at, then maybe I could…

The sound of his nylon jacket was all I heard before I felt the sharp pain in my side. My keys flew backwards, out of my hand as I arched in agony. Nothing matters now. Amy is gone. There’s nothing left now except blood and tears.

It’s still dark outside. There aren’t any stars, but I can still hear the wind. Then I see Amy above me, screaming. Then bursts of bright flashing red light. Now a man and a woman are moving very quickly and asking questions, but I’m too tired to answer them. I try very hard to close my eyes, but something keeps prying them open until I finally triumph and retreat into a dark room. Everything is finally quiet and still. I’m just floating in my dark room. The darkness is so thick it folds into the surroundings, layers and layers of black pitched absence. I’m afraid to move because I can’t see what’s in front of me. So I keep as still as the room, as still as the body was, trying to be nothing too. Then a voice creeps into the nothingness. It is deep and monotone; the lifeless voice to my lifeless room. I can’t make out what he’s saying. I want him to speak louder and clearer. So I tell him to, or at least try to.

“mmhhhm…” I sputter. The voice stops.

“…hm…” says the voice.

“wh…m…ew?” I try to say. I want my eyes to open again. Blurry white light is flooding my dark locale and now I’m in a whole universe of whiteness. There stands one wall of black blur looming in the sea of light. It’s moving, crinkling leaves. It’s him, the man in my window reflection. I hear my heart rate increase, sounding in high pitch pings, like it’s an appliance being programmed. I want to move, but my stomach screams with sharp pain. I’m laying down. I can start to make out the wallpaper pattern of my shirt that stretches down to my feet. The man is making more noise, the breaking leaves and his monotone voice; each making the other hard to separate.

“Who are you?” I say, finding my voice. I stretch my eyes as large as dinner plates and then squish them back to knife slits to try to focus.

“Oh my!” says the blur, “Ah, my son. I seem to…I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake. Just ignore I was here, yes? I’m sure you’ll be fine. Lord be with you.”

Death is now moving away from me, his black frame shrinking into the white universe until he disappears completely into the bright abbess. I close my eyes again, returning to the womb of my black room. And then I hear more voices, lots of voices, coming from the belly of some unseen beast. Their ruckus is getting louder. Soon they’ll be on top of me. I can imagine their voices smothering my quite black room away.

I opened my eyes again, this time my vision clears much faster. The blurs sharpen; the white universe turns out to be a hospital room. I was in a hospital once when I fell off of a roof. I used to watch the heart monitor as I purposely sped up my breathing. I wanted see how fast I could make the tempo change. Now my heart monitor is steady, short rhythmic blips reminded me I’m not in control of this metronome. I looked to my hand and begin to study the needle that is bandaged into it when the door ruptures open. Cameras flashed like a string of Black Cat fireworks. There are eager questions being shouted from a hallway full of mouths, their words smashing into each other like fifty-seven trains meeting at full speed. I see flashes of red light and hear the siren again, feel the blood on my stomach. I shake my head to clear up the confusion.

“Goddamn scum of the earth! “ A women yells as she pushes her way in, “That’s what you are, all of you! Go chase some other bleeding story, you God damn reporters! ”

The fireworks reach their full crescendo as the hallway digs deep to sing from its diaphragm. But before the apocalyptic sound wave comes flooding in, a dusty rag of a man slips past them all and promptly pushes the door, closing it with a lethargic heave. The last flashes dry away under the door frame and the room hums with silence.

“Denise, don’t shout now. We’re in the room,” He takes off his coat and lays it across a nearby chair. “Let’s just have a seat until Derik wakes up.”

“Here’s a quote,” My Mother says as she paces towards the window. She slides it open. “‘FUCK YOU!’ Try and print that you blood thirsty bastards!”

My mother closes the window sharply and begins to take stock of herself. She is in her usual professional attire: a business suit with sharp starched creases, a cell phone at the ready in one hand, her face fixed in her normal tight expression, and her blonde hair pulled rigid with a professional looking hair tie. This is her causal look.

“Denise, stop yelling, please. You’ll wake Der…oh, oh look. He’s awake!” my Dad says. He’s in the same sweater he’s worn for three years, with dingy worn in khakis and loafers that came apart at the seams. His face is surprisingly strong for his frail appearance, but the skin under his eyes is bloated and tired. Among circles who can appreciate a piece of stone centuries old that may or may not have come from a prehistoric animal or ancient emperor, My dad is very successful. However, I can never understand where all his money wonders off to; most likely he spends it on the books that line every room of his four level house.

“God damn reporters,” My mother says as she takes off her coat. “What was that Jake? You say he’s awake?”

They move over to my bed side, my mother on my left, my dad on my right.

“Hey dad,” I say.

“Hello Der-bear, how ya feeling?” asked my Dad.

“I’m not sure. I don’t know what’s going on. I think Death tried to kill me.”

“Great, he’s delirious! What kind of medication have they got him on? Where is his doctor? Where’s the nurse button?” rattles my mother.

“I’m not delirious. I just don’t remember much of what happened. I know I was hurt. I know I hurt someone else. But I didn’t mean to. I don’t think.” My head began mixing images from the night. There was a knife and a man and Amy and blood and pain and mistakes and more blood.

“Well son, from what the police have made out, you’ve done a great thing.” My Dad said as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t be so vague Jack. Tell him what’s happened,” snipped my mother in her firm, familiar way.

“Well, Der-Bear, last night, when you were leaving Kelly’s, you killed a man,” said Dad.

“Kimberly, Jack. Her name is Kimberly,” corrected my mother.

“It’s Amy. I thought I might have,” I said, “Although I don’t think you can really say I killed him. It was more of an accident.”

“Now Derik, there’s no need for that. At the very least it was self-defense. God knows what would have happened to you or Kimberly had you not fought back,” said my mother.

“It’s Amy. And I didn’t fight back,” I corrected.

“Who’s Amy?” my Dad asked.

“My girlfriend. At least she was.”

“Amy? When did you start dating an Amy?” asked my mother

“Two years ago,” I said.

“What happened to Kimberly?”

“I never dated a girl named Kimberly”

“Her name was Kelly, Denise,” smiled my dad.

“I’m quite sure it was Kimberly,” corrected my Mother

“It was Amy,” I said, “Who did I kill?”

“Denise, please. Now is not the time for this sort of talk. Please, just let things be what they are now, don’t worry about the past.”

“I’m not worrying about the past, he’s still dating Kimberly.” I could hear their voices getting hotter, like water on the stove for tea. Soon they’d be ready to drink.

“It’s Amy” I said.

“He just said he’s not dating her anymore. Where you even listening?”

“I listen very well, Jack. Two consecutive terms isn’t given away,” said my mother, leaning against her side of my bed.

“Who did I kill?” I ask brightly.

“Not now Der-Bear,” said my dad, “Consecutive terms? You mean that handful of people who voted for you? Did you forget your apposition died of pneumonia two days before the election?”

“So?”

“He still got thirty-four percent of the vote!” wheezed my Dad.

“Don’t raise your voice in here Jack, this is a hospital for Christ sakes!” shouted my mother.

“I’m aware Denise. Are you?”

“What?”

They’d go on like this for a while unless one of them notices I’m still bleeding in the bed between them when they catch their breath. As I watched them fight, I eased my eyes shut and fell back into the dark room. I began to remember my mother’s first day in office. She was always working long hours to help get the word out that she was running. She’d take Adderall to help keep her moving through the day and up all night long. She swears they’re prescribed, although the scandalous truth is she gets them from one of her lobbyist in the health industry. Big perk for just being in congress.

I was visiting after her victory night to congratulate her. I would have been there to see her win, however she forgot to send someone to pick me up from the airport the night before and I missed her victory party. I slept on a terminal bench by the women’s bathroom.

“Big day today!” said my mother as she zipped into the kitchen. Her business suit was crisp and vibrant, most likely bought for this very occasion.

“You excited for me?” she asked. I had a mouth full of toast, which saved me the trouble of saying no. I just nodded.

“Today’s going to be the first day of a string of great days that will follow,” She said as picked up a banana and an on-the-go coffee. “See, it says it right there on the back of my coffee.” She took a gulp, “I’m coasting on so much momentum from last night’s party, I could run for president. How long are you staying Derik?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow. I didn’t want to be a burden in your busy time,” or life.

“Oh, don’t be silly. Stay as long as you’d like. You know where everything is. Help yourself.”

“Well, I was hoping to have lunch with you tomorrow before I left,” I said dripping with insincerity.

“Oh, well, I’ll be in meetings all day. I won’t be able to make it. But you’re welcome to anything you want. I’m sure I’ll see you during the week.”

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” I said. She was already halfway out the door.

“Ok, I’ll see you then. Goodbye Der-y, wish me luck!”

I went up stairs and finished packing my bag. The cab would be here soon and I didn’t want to miss my flight. I looked around the room, surveying its contents to make sure none were my own. Then I caught sight of myself in the bed room mirror. My face had a puzzled look on it. I began to breathe heavily, feeling a slight pain in my side start to tingle. I noticed my hair was not only styled different but it was a different color all together. The man looking back at me was shorter and cleaner looking than I was. He had bunny rabbit eyes and an approachable facial structure. I could see him more clearly than last night. His reflection in my mirror was now a pain that screamed through my body.

“Why?” I asked the reflection, trembling. The rabbit eyes didn’t blink and his lips didn’t part. He just pulls out his knife, thirteen inches in length, and lets it shimmer in his hand. The blade starts through the right and misses my spine, misses my kidneys, comes in the fleshy part of my side and swims past my appendix, past my intestines, till it pokes out of the other side for air, making a squirting sound, like a ketchup packet being run over by a bike. I didn’t scream. I didn’t think. In that dirty yellow drive way I only bled, seeing nothing else, feeling nothing but the steel in my skin. There is nothing else. Amy is gone.

“Derik? Der-Bear? Can you hear me?”

My dad’s coos came to me from a lengthy distance. I was back in my black room, and I didn’t want to come out. I’ve pulled this routine before, when I was younger. They’d come home together, grumpy and arguing and I’d pretend to fall asleep wherever I stood; just plop down on the carpet, the kitchen tile, the back porch. They thought I was narcoleptic.

“I think we should have let him rest,” I heard dad say.

“I think you should have had a vasectomy, but such is life,” I heard mother say.

She always thinks I can’t hear, even when I’m standing in front of her.
“Denise! He’s right here. I’m sure he can hear you, he’s just dozed off again.”

“Just like you just ‘dozed off’ with his nanny.”

Bulldozed is more like it.

“We only took a nap together. Is that so wrong?”

“Well you were only dozing off with me for the first ten years of our marriage.”

“Before you got into politics, when you actually had time for a nap.”

Listening to them arguing was like watching an episode of Spy V.S. Spy.

“After your third child, they say you start to lose interest in a career outside the home. So I wanted to get back into an active life style, is that so wrong?”

I hated that show.

“What about my life style? What was I suppose to do while you were out getting the black vote?”

I hate this show too.

“I don’t know, take up a hobby. Learn Spanish. Maybe raise a child or two.”
“We only had one left in the house!”

And then I decided to change the channel.

“Dad?...” I struggled to say, reprising my own role.

“Yeah, son. I’m here,” my dad said as he put his hand to my forehead.

“I killed someone,” I said, ringing the bell to end the round.

His eyes met mine and focused. “…Yes son. You did. But it’s ok,” he said as he brushed my hair with his fingers, “He was a very bad man.”

“He was more than just a bad man Jack, don’t patronize him,” said my mother. For a second I thought she was talking to me.

“Why were all those people outside?” I asked him.

“They were reporters,” said my mother turning to me, “They came to interview you.”

My dad leans closer. “The man you killed, his name was Patrick Duffy. Do you know who that is?”

I looked at them both, their eyes both beamed with pride.

“He was a serial killer,” came a voice from behind their fulsome faces. I forgot how calm my brother’s voice sounded.

“Harold?” I asked stretching to see past my parents.

“Hey little bear,” said Harold as he came around my mother and rested his hand on my arm.

He smirked at me, which is his way of smiling. “I heard about it on the cab ride over.”

“Hello Harold,” said my mother, giving him a pick on his check and a smile.

“Hello Mom, I mean Mrs. President.”

“Oh come on,” laughed my mother, “I haven’t even begun to think about that. It’s just a silly thing some silly reporter said on their silly radio show.”

“But it sure did catch a lot of attention,” said Harold, “I saw the fit O’Riley went into last night. He must really be worried about you running.”

My mother laughed. “Bill’s always said if a Republican woman ran, it’d be a sure sign the world was going somewhere very unpleasant in something very much resembling a hand basket.”
Now they both were laughing. It was another familiar scene to me. But I could tolerate this better. My brother came by his love for mother honestly. Favorite sons tend to.
“Hey Harold,” said my dad.

Harold’s smirk turned into a slight grin. “Hello father.”

“Oh come on,” laughed my dad, “Come give your old man a hug, eh?” said dad as he stretched out his arms.

“Maybe later, I’m pretty tired from the trip,” said my brother as he pulled up a chair.
I looked over at my dad with his arms still stretched out. His smile was so innocent, like he really saw no harm in giving his oldest son a hug. His arms sank like cruise ships before slumping to his side. My mother and Harold began catching each other up on the current events of life. As they jabbered away, I kept my eyes on dad. His head had tilted slightly down and his eyes were glassy and extra dark underneath. The dark room was calling again and I had no choice but to answer.

“Der-bear?”

I had been on my way out to meet up with some school friends to play baseball. My dad was sitting at his old desk in his office. He had been a professor of archeology at the state college for thirteen years before he was forced to resign. Behind him was a wall of books, each one either read or written by Dad. From an adjacent window the sun was setting, casting large black puddles across his office. The strips of light accented the cracks in his favorite worn in leather chair, matching the dusty look of my dad’s face, despite still being a relatively middle aged man.

“Der-bear? Is that you?” stammered my father.

“Yeah, dad. It’s me,” As I walked further into his office, punching my hand into my new leather baseball glove. I could barely make out the dozens of orange prescription bottles riddled across his old desk. I guess the therapy wasn’t helping; he’s upped his daily Zoloft dosage.

“Oh…Hey Der-bear,” he said without moving a single muscle, “Whatcha got there?”

“The new glove you bought me,” I said, trying to avoid his eyes, “I’m going to go play some baseball.”

“Baseball…” he said dreamily.

“Yeah dad. I’ll see you lat-”

“Baseball…” he said again. “I love baseball…I bought you a glove...Do you like it?”

“Yeah dad, it’s great.” I took a few steps towards the door.

“I was gonna show you how to…to play catch.”

I couldn’t help it, I had to see if he was in there at all. His eyes swam around the room, dropping into a puddle, then diving into the next. Dad had checked out to drown in his office.

“No, it’s ok dad. Harold all ready showed me how…”

“No.” he said, “I’m was gonna…I am gonna show…” He tried lifting himself, his skinny arms shaking under his frail frame.

“Dad it’s not a big deal…” I tried.

“No…I…” he strained, “I will…teach.”

I watched as he gave one last heave, trying to lock his knees underneath himself before gravity took all his strength away. He’s chair gave a gentle huff as his body sank back into the wrinkled leather. He sat for a moment trying to catch his breath.

“Well…” he huffed, out of breath, “how about I…take a rain check…” he said with a Harold-like smirk.

“Sure dad,” I said.

“You go have fun, alright?” he said while his eyes stayed fixed on his desk. “Hit a homer for the old man, yeah?”

“Yeah dad. I’ll see you later.” And I turned and walked out the doorway. I stopped just outside the office entrance where his wondering eyes couldn’t find me. I stood and listened to the quite whimpers float from the puddle filled room into my strained ears. I listen to his tears fall until they began to fall down my own checks. I closed my eyes and fell backwards into one of the black puddles.

“Der-Bear?”

My eyes snapped open. The white room slapped my eyes with sharp pain, punishing them back into tiny slits. Everything was blurry again.

“Derick?” I felt Harold’s hand on my arm again. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah,” I say, “My eye’s just hurt.”

“Here,” say’s my mother as she hands me a tissue.

“Oh, thanks.” I say as I wipe the moisture from my face.

“Been through a lot, haven’t ya Der-Bear?” said Dad.

“Maybe he just needs some time alone,” Harold walks over to his briefcase and shuffles through it for a bit until his hands resurface with a big tattered black book bound with thick pieces of twine. “Here”.

I had recognized it before it was pulled out.

“You remember when Uncle Derik bought this for you?” asked Dad.

“Yes,” I say as I flip through the pages.

“He said he wanted to support the arts,” laughed Harold.

“Ok, then,” he said as he stood, “I think we should head on out for a bit. Derik, try to get some sleep. We’re going to have to let those reporters in at some point.” He gestured towards the door.

“Ok Harold dear,” said Mother as she stood up. Her cell phone begins to ring. “Go ahead and rest Derik. I will be right outside the door.” She runs out the room, phone in hand talking quickly about why Florida is the only state that matters. I hate Florida.

“Sleep tight Der-bear.” said Dad as he gave a weak smile and shuffled out the door.

“I’ll be outside if you need me Bud. Don’t know if I can say the same for those two.” He says giving a smirk.

“Thanks Harold,” I say.

“You’re welcome bud.”

I watch Harold leave, making sure the door fits into place quietly, slowly. I look down at the black scrap book in front of me. I flip to the middle part. Each page has nine Polaroid’s of pictures I took of my art.

What started as an attempt to teach me the importance of a dollar, my mother sent me out into the neighborhood with a lawn mower and a sales pitch for the best lawn care from a nine year old in a forty block radius. Having never mowed a lawn before, I gave it my best attempt, ending up with an expansive back yard that had no symmetry or design, just a random slew and slaloms of uneven lawn. The home owners where so taken by my job that they gave me a Polaroid camera and sent me up a ladder to their roof to take a picture for my parents. When I brought the picture back home and showed it to my dad, my Uncle Derik saw what I had done and was very impressed. He said I had a great artistic gift and should try to develop it. Having never been considered good at anything, I took great pride in what he told me. So he gave me money for a scrapbook, some film, and a camera and told me to fill it up and send it to him. And I did. And I was good at it.

While on another average roof trying to find the right lighting for my thirty-fourth ‘Lawnscape’, the home owner’s daughter snuck up the ladder like a ninja into my dojo.

“HEY!” she shouted as she jumped up beside me.

“Wha?!...” I shouted and promptly lost my balance. With only a spring t-shirt and cut off jeans to protect me, the rough shingles took little pieces of my skin as I skidded down the roof. When I ran out of roof, I felt a temporary feeling of weightlessness as I hung in the air over the edge. Then I reached out, stretching every muscle in my ever changing body for that metal gutter that had already sliced a thick cut into the right arm when I went airborne, though I hadn’t noticed. I felt the metal tickle my left hand’s fingers, taunting their attempt to get back to safety. Just as my body began to feel that sinking feeling, I felt a firm yet smooth hand clutch onto mine. I remember being surprised by the strength of her grasp while it still remained gentle and comforting. As I dangled in the air, I felt the blood tickle down my right hand’s fingers. I looked to see the blood drip and fall for days before it disappeared inside the merciless blades of the air conditioning unit below me. When I tore my eyes away from the terror below, I looked up and saw her silhouetted long hair ignited in the dusk sunlight.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hey,” she strained.

“You’re beautiful.”

“You’re heavy, what’s your name?”

“Derik.”

“Hello Derik. My name is…”

“Amy…” I sighed as I opened my eyes. It was dark but the dirty yellow light made it hard to pick out any stars. I kept looking up, too afraid to look in any other direction. Down would mean facing the thirteen inch blade that was protruding out of my side. Left would give me false hope that the couple walking off in the distance would hear me yell. Right would flare up my neck ache from earlier. Straight ahead would put me face to face with myself in the window reflection and seeing my expression would only further confirm the fact I had been stabbed. That only leaves behind me. Maybe if I turn around quick enough, he’ll lose his grip on the knife and I could try to run away. At the very least I can try to look him in the eyes. They say that’s a pretty noble thing to do when someone is killing you.
I take a deep breath. My eyes slid shut. I cringe at the thought of moving quickly, but I push it out of my mind. I could feel every centimeter he twisted the blade, like he was turning a door knob.

Like a band-aid.

I’ll need a band-aid.

“I’m going to pull it out now,” I heard him say casually.

“Ok.” I stammered.

I felt him put his free hand on the middle of my back and heard his feet shuffle to find a firm foundation. “Deep breath now, you ready?”

“Yeah,” I gasped.

“Ok, One…Two…”

I swing my body around, trying to pull the knife out of his hand with my pitiful frame. I feel the blade exit the same way it came in, but with a fiercer bite, like it was getting the last word in on an argument. I go numb as my back finishes its turn and rest against my car. I open my eyes. His bunny eyes are wide with fright. His arms are flailing around, desperately seeking a metal gutter to cling to. He topples backward falling towards the cement, knife in hand. I heard a solid crack, like when a heavy door is slammed shut. He was lying on the ground, as still as the breeze. At any moment I expected him to roll over and find his feet, but his body remained lifeless. Everything was quite, nothing moved. I didn’t hear the leaves crunch under my feet as I shuffled towards his body. The blood looked like a big silk pillow under his head; his bunny eyes still open, still wide with fright. He was breathing. I could see his chest move. A very faint gurgling sound came out of his mouth and crept into my ears when his chest filled up. I heard a playful splash and I looked at my feet to see my own blood pooling around me. I took the knife from his hand; I was surprised his grip was so weak. I stagger to my knees, blood rinsing over my pants and took the knife in both my hands, raising it towards the black sky. There’s a dirty yellow glint coming off of the blade. I look down into the bunny eyes, still fixed in fear. The blade was very heavy in my bloody hands and all I wanted to do is put it down. So I do. I didn’t have any energy left to stand and walk, so I crawled towards Amy’s door. If I can just get her to see me, get her to see what’s happened, then she’ll have to take me back. I just have to make it to her door…I just have to knock and she’ll come answer it…she’ll open it…She’ll see the blood and know she still loves me…Amy…The dirty yellow light was showering on top of me. It was all I could see. Its source was draining all the light to it, like the last sips of dirty water in the bath tub, down the drain. Amy…I need…you….

I…need…

Amy…

“Amy” I exhale.

I pulled the plugs off of my chest and finger and got out of the hospital bed, starting for the door. The tile floor was an ice lake below me feet and I felt a sharp pain pulling at my hand. I looked down to see I was still attached to the I.V. I tried to pull it out, but the pain was too much, so I opted to take the ivy off the hook and with me. I opened the door and began walking down the hall.

“Hey…HEY! It’s the guy! He’s out of his room,” Shouted a stranger hunched on the floor. Soon a whole room full of strangers were shouting and taking pictures. I ignored their questions and their microphones; all I cared about was finding Amy.

“Mr. Well, what happened last night?” Flash.

“Who attacked who first?!”

“Did you know who you were fighting?!” Flash. Flash.

I ignore the sea of bodies and their siren songs. Why hadn’t she come to the hospital?

Flash. Flash. “Did you know Patrick Duffy before last night?!”

Flash. Maybe she’s caught up right now, busy. Flash.

“Mr. Well! Where are you going?” Flash.

“Amy” I said trudging down the hall. I began to feel the wave behind me swell and soon I’d need to pattle hard if I didn’t want to drawn.

“Der-Bear?” I heard my dad ask as I walked past him.

“Derick? Derick! Where are you going?!” Harlod called out.

“Amy,” I said again. I began to jog.

“Mr. Well! What did he say? Kamie?”

“Amy,” I said again, louder. I saw the sunlight barricaded behind glass. It reminded me of Amy.

“Derick, wait!”

The sliding doors opened with no buttons. Then a second set of sliding doors opened.

“Mr. Well! Who’s Kamie!?”

“It’s Kimberly!” shouted my Mother as I passed her outside. “Sorry Johnathan, I lost you for a second. No, we have to win both Iowa and Florida or we might as well…”

“It’s AMY!” I yelled and I broke into a run. Past the drop-off loop I hopped over a man in a wheel chair. Through the parking lot I grazed a Priest trying to find his keys. Soon the questions and flashes were fading behind me. The concrete was hot cast iron under my feet, but the wind was cool and relaxed. I feel it flow under my medical gown, still the only thing covering my body.

I’m down the street now. She can’t be too far. I know she’s on her way, I’ll just meet her while she drives in. I’ll just say her name and there she’ll be there. Just say her name.

Amy…

Amy…

“Amy.”

 

Long Story Short - Zero Draft

Short Story #1
Zero Draft

2 parts:
1) Opening Scene, physical altercation
2) Hospital afterwards

1)
•Opens w/ dialogue
•Boy shut out
•Lingers
•Goes to car, hears noise behind him
•Switch from 1st person-boy to 1st person girl
•Opens door, sees blood
•Cut to boy opening eyes, hearing voice (priest’s voice)

2)
•Quick dialogue (may cut)
•Priest leaves, enter family (Mom and Dad, dysfunctional. Brother and sister, normal…ish)
•Push back flashing cameras and reporters
•Begin dialogue
•Leads to arguments between parents
•Boy closes eyes, tunes parents out, has flashback. 1st of father, developes father
•Resurfaces, mother says something sends him back to flashback
•2nd of mother, develops mother
•Resurfaces, parents refer to the boys’s “art” Boy closes eyes again, remembers his “art”, slowly leading to his meeting the girl from the beginning
•Wakes up saying her name
•Gets out of bed, hugs his mother and father, tells them to love the children that love them back, and runs out of the hospital
•Ending: boy running down the street in medical gown thinking in flashes of the girl.

 

Long Story Short _ Draft 1

So why are you smiling?” she asked me. I wasn’t aware I was smiling.

“Because I’m looking at you.” I said.

“That’s not true. This is why we can’t keep doing this.”

I was unsure how to respond. I never really expected any of this. I never expected to find myself at her door step and not be allowed in.

“You always say what I want to hear, not what you really feel. I’m tired of hearing everything I don’t really have.” She said with a sigh. Her hair was dark and long, shining against the yellow porch light. It reminded me of the wet street I drove on to get here. The concrete was shining with the yellow street lights accenting certain pieces of the cement strip. I always thought yellow was a happy color.

“You just let me talk while you stare into my eyes. I always thought you were listening, but it turns out you’re just a statue that’s running around in your own head. You don’t care about what I say.”

Yellow is happy, unless it gets dirty. It is happy sunshine until it trips and falls into a murky puddle of dirty water. Then it becomes that depressed light that hangs over our heads.

“…and somehow I’m still surprised when I catch you ignoring me. Goodbye Derik.” She said as she slowly went to close the door.

“When did we fall into a dirty puddle?” I asked.

“No. No Derik, I’m not letting this work...I mean, I’m not gonna try and fix it again.”

“Then let me fix it.” I said. Behind me a cat rustled in the bushes.
“Derik, you’ve never fixed anything.”

“That’s not true. What about your window screen?”

“Do you know how to argue, or do you just assume a joke trumps two years of mistakes?”
“I thought you wanted to go get food? Why are you so upset?”

“No, that’s what you were going to talk me into doing when you got here. I told you when you when I opened the door Derik, I’m breaking up with yo-”

“Then I’ll try harder. Amy, don’t do this. I really really want to make this better. Just tell me everything I do wrong. Make a list. I’ll start at the top and check my way down until I’ve done everything wrong right.”

“No Derik. I’m done. We’re done. Now just leave, Derik.” Her eyes started to slip behind the door frame.

“Please.”

And the door was shut. Immediately, I wanted it to open again. I stood there, drenched in dirty yellow light and try to piece back together the conversation I missed. All I could come up with is I made a mistake that I can’t unmake. I reached my hands up to the wooden door, not touching it, but only centimeters away. I willed the door to open because I knew I was not allowed to open it myself. Only Amy could open it now.

I had to leave. I had to make my legs work and carry my defeated self to my dirty car. I fished in my pockets for the keys. I didn’t notice that they made no sound as they rattled together. Amy was gone. I didn’t notice the leaves not crunching under my dirty sole or the faint whistle of the cold wind. Amy was gone. I heard only my breath as it puffed out of my mouth in thin clouds. I arrived at my car door and caught me reflection as my fingers juggled with the keys. This is me; a tall young man with straight dark hair and tears rolling down his scruffy face. I looked at myself and thought, why bother? Let the tears freeze on my face, no one needs to see it when they wake up anymore. Or see it before they fall asleep. If I could shake off this body and start again, I could have Amy. If I looked different, talked different, liked different music, then maybe Amy would open the door again. If I looked like the man who stood behind me now, staring at the same sad eyes that I stared at, then maybe I could…

The sound of his nylon jacket was all I heard before I felt the sharp pain in my side. My keys flew backwards, out of my hand as I arched in agony. Nothing matters now. Amy is gone. There’s nothing left now except blood and tears.

It’s still dark outside. There aren’t any stars, but I can still hear the wind. Then I see Amy above me, screaming. Then I see a bright flashing red light. Now a man and a woman are moving very quickly and asking questions, but I’m too tired to answer them. I try very hard to close my eyes, but something keeps prying them open until I finally triumph and retreat into a dark room. Everything is finally quiet and still. I’m just floating in my dark room. The darkness is so thick it folds into the surroundings, layers and layers of black pitched absence. I’m afraid to move because I can’t see what’s in front of me. So I keep as still as the room, trying to be nothing too. Then a voice creeps into the nothingness. It’s deep and monotone; the lifeless voice to my lifeless room. I can’t make out what he’s saying. I want him to speak louder and clearer. So I tell him to, or at least try to.

“mmhhhm…” I sputter. The voice stops.

“…hm…” says the voice.

“wh…m…ew?” I try to say. I want my eyes to open again. Blurry white light is flooding my dark locale and now I’m in a whole universe of whiteness. There stands one wall of black blur looming in the sea of light. It’s moving, crinkling leaves, like the leaves I didn’t hear under my feet. It’s him, the man in my window reflection. I hear my heart rate increase, sounding in high pitch pings, like it’s an appliance being programmed. I want to move, but my stomach screams with sharp pain. I’m laying down. I can start to make out the wallpaper pattern of my shirt that stretches down to my feet. The man is making more noise, the breaking leaves and his monotone voice; each making the other hard to separate.

“Who are you?” I say, finding my voice. I stretch my eyes as large as dinner plates and then squish them back to knife slits to try to focus.

“Oh my!” says the blur, “Ah, my son. I seem to…I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake. Just ignore I was here, yes? I’m sure you’ll be fine. Lord be with you.”

Death is now moving away from me, his black frame shrinking into the white universe until he disappears completely into the bright abbess. I close my eyes again. It feels better to be in my little black room. And then I hear more voices, lots of voices, coming from the belly of some unseen beast. Their ruckus is getting louder. Soon they’ll be on top of me. It’d better go back out into that white universe.

I opened my eyes again, this time my vision clears much faster. The blurs sharpen; the white universe turns out to be a just another room. It’s still white, as hospital rooms tend to be. My heart monitor is steady again, short rhythmic blips to remind me I’m in a real world where heart monitors flat line when hearts stop. I looked to my hand and begin to study the needle that is bandaged to it when the door bursts open. Cameras flashed like a string of Black Cat fireworks. There are eager questions that come to close together to make out. I see flashes of red light and hear the siren again. I shake my head to clear it out.

“Goddamn scum of the earth! “ Flash. “That’s what you are, all of you! Go chase some other bleeding story, you God damn reporters! ” Flash. Flash.

“Denise, don’t shout now. We’re in the room.” Flash. “Let’s just have a seat until Derik wakes up.” Flash Flash Flash.

“Here’s a quote. Flash. Flash. “‘FUCK YOU!’” Flash. “Try and print that you blood thirsty bastards!”
My parents always had a way of making an entrance. My mother in her usual professional attire, a business suit with sharp starched creases, a cell phone at the ready in one hand, and a cup of coffee in her other.
“Denise, stop yelling, please. You’ll wake Der…oh, oh look. He’s awake!” my dad says. He’s in the same sweater he’s worn for three years, with dingy worn in khakis and loafers that came apart at the seams. I can never understand where all his money wonders off to; most likely to the bookshelves that line every room of our four level house.

“God damn reporters.” My mother says as she takes off her coat. “What was that Jake? You say he’s awake?”
They move over to my bed side, my mother on my left, my dad on my right.

“Hey dad” I say

“Hello Der-bear, how ya feeling?” asked my dad.

“I’m not sure. I don’t know what’s going on. I think Death tried to kill me”

“Great, he’s delirious. What kind of medication have they got him on? Where is his doctor? Where’s the nurse button.” rattles my mother.

“I’m not delirious. I just don’t remember much of what happened. I know I was hurt. I know I hurt someone else. But I didn’t mean to. I don’t think.” My head began mixing images from the night. There was a knife and a man and Amy and blood and pain and mistakes and more blood.

“Well son, from what the police have made out, you’ve done a great thing.” My father said as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t be so vague Jack. Tell him what’s happened.” Snipped my mother

“Well, Der-Bear, last night, when you were leaving Kelly’s, you killed a man.” Said dad

“Kimberly, Jack. Her name is Kimberly” corrected my mother.

“I thought I might have.” I said, “Although I don’t think you can really say I killed him. It was more of an accident.”

“Now Derik, there’s no need for that. At the very least it was self-defense. God knows what would have happened had you not fought back.” said my mother.

“It’s Amy. And I didn’t fight back.” I corrected

“Who’s Amy?” my dad asked.

“My girlfriend. At least she was.”

“Amy? When did you start dating an Amy?” asked my mother

“Two years ago” I said.

“What happened to Kimberly?”

“I never dated a girl named Kimberly”

“Her name was Kelly, Denise.” Said my dad proudly.

“I’m quite sure it was Kimberly.”

“It was Amy. Who did I kill?”

“Denise, please. Now is not the time for this sort of talk. Please, just let things be what they are now, don’t worry about the past.”

“I’m not worrying about the past, he’s still dating Kimberly.”

“It’s Amy” I try.

“He just said he’s not dating her anymore. Where you even listening?”

“I listen very well, Jack. How else would I get votes?” said my mother, leaning against her side of my bed.

“Who did I kill?”

“Not now Der-Bear.” Said my dad, “Votes? You mean that handful of people who voted for you? Did you forget your apposition died of pneumonia two days before the election?”

“So?”

“He still got thirty-four percent of the vote!” squealed my dad.

“Don’t raise your voice in here Jack, this is a hospital for Christ sakes!” shouted my mother

“I’m aware Denise. Are you?”

“What?”

They’d go on like this for a while longer until they remember I’m still bleeding in the bed between them. As I watched them fight, I closed my eyes and remembered my mother’s first day in office. She was always working long hours to help get the word out that she was running. She’d take these uppers to help keep her moving all day and night long. I was visiting after her victory night to congratulate her. I would have been there to see her win, however she forgot to send someone to pick me up from the airport the night before and I missed her victory party. I slept on a terminal bench by the women’s bathroom.

“Big day today!” said my mother as she zipped into the kitchen. Her business suit was crisp and vibrant, most likely bought for this very occasion.

“You excited for me?” she asked. I had a mouth full of toast, which saved me the trouble of saying no. I just nodded.

“Today’s going to be the first day of a string of great days that will fallow.” She said as picked up a banana and an on-the-go coffee.

“I’m coasting on so much momentum from last nights party, I could run for president. How long are you staying Derik?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow. I didn’t want to be a burden in your busy time.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. Stay as long as you’d like. You know where everything is. Help yourself”

“Well, I was hoping to have lunch with you tomorrow before I left.” This was a lie.

“Oh, well, I’ll be in meetings all day. I won’t be able to make it. But you’re welcome to anything you want. I’m sure I’ll see you during the week.” This is why I lied.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.” I said. She was already halfway out the door.

“Ok, I’ll see you then. Goodbye Deary, wish me luck!”

I went up stairs and finished packing my bag. I didn’t want to miss my flight.

“Derik? Der-Bear? Can you hear me?”

My dad’s coos came to me from a lengthy distance. I was back in my black room, and I didn’t want to come out. I’ve pulled this routine before, when I was younger. They’d come home together, grumpy and arguing and I’d pretend to fall asleep wherever I stood; just plop down on the carpet, the kitchen tile, the back porch. They thought I was narcoleptic.

“I think we should have let him rest.” I heard him say.

“I think you should have had a vasectomy, but such is life.” I heard mother say.

She always thinks I can’t hear, even when I’m standing in front of her. Like when she decides to say something about me, my ears turn off and I become the deaf and dumb boy she assumes me to be.

“Denise! He’s right here. I’m sure he can hear you, he’s just dozed off again.”

“Just like you just ‘dozed off’ with his nanny.”

Bulldozed is more like it.

“We took a nap together. Is that so wrong?”

“Well you were only dozing off with me for the first ten years of our marriage.”

“Before you got into politics, when you actually had time for a nap.”

Listening to them arguing was like watching an episode of Spy V.S. Spy.

“After your third child, they say you start to lose interest in a career outside the home. So I wanted to get back into an active life style, is that so wrong?”

I hated that show.

“What about my life style? What was I suppose to do while you were out getting the black vote?”
I hated this show too.

“I don’t know, take up a hobby. Maybe raise a child or two.”

“You we only had one left in the house.”

And then I decided to change the channel.

“Dad?...” I struggled to say. I had to play my part too.

“Yeah, son. I’m here.” My dad said as he put his hand to my forehead.

“I killed someone.” I said, hoping this ring the bell to end the boxing round.

“…Yes son. You did. But it’s ok.” He said as he brushed my hair with his fingers, “He was a very bad man.”

“He was more than just a bad man Jack, don’t patronize him.” Said my mother. For a second I thought she was talking to me.

“Why were all those people outside?” I asked.

“I’m not patronizing him.” Said my dad turning to my mother.

“They were reporters,” Said my mother, “They came to interview you.”

My dad leaned closer. “You killed a man named Patrick Duffy.”

I looked at them both, their eyes both beaming with pride.

“He was a serial killer.” Came a voice from behind the fulsome faces. I knew that voice.

“Harold?” I asked stretching to see past my parents.

“He little bear.” Said Harold as he came around my mother and rested his hand on my arm.

He smirked at me, which is his way of smiling. “I heard it on the cab ride over.”

“Hello Harold.” Said my mother, giving him a pick on his check and a smile.

“Hello mom. I mean Mrs. President.”

“Oh come on,” laughed my mother, “I haven’t even begun to seriously think about running. It’s just a silly thing some silly reporter said on their silly radio show.”

“But it sure did catch a lot of attention.” Said Harold, “I saw the fit O’Riley went into last night. He must really be worried about you running.”

My mother laughed. “Bill’s always said if a Republican women ran, it’d be a sure sign the world has progressed far past it’s means.”

Now they both were laughing. It was another familiar scene to me. But this one didn’t make me want to run off into my black room again. My brother came by his love for my mother honestly. Favorite sons tend to.
“Hey Harold.” Said my dad.

Harold’s smirk turned into a slight grin. “Hello father.”

“Oh come on,” laughed my dad, “Come give your old man a hug, eh?” said dad as he stretched out his arms.
“Maybe later, I’m pretty tired from the trip.” said my brother as he pulled up a chair.

I looked over at my dad with his arms still stretched out. His smile was so innocent, like he really saw no harm in giving his oldest son a hug. His arms sank like cruise ships before slumping to his side. My mother and Harold began catching each other up on what the other has missed since the last time they spoke. As they caught up to my left, I kept my eyes on my dad. He’s head had tilted slightly down and his eyes were glassy. I closed my eyes, slipping back into my black room.

“Der-bear?”

I had been on my way out to meet up with some school friends to play baseball. My dad was sitting at his old desk in his office. He had been a professor of archeology at the state college for thirteen years before he was forced to resign. Behind him was a wall of books, each one either read or written by dad. From an adjacent window the sun was setting, casting large black puddles across his office. The cracks in his favorite worn in leather chair matched the dusty look of my dad’s face, despite still being a relatively middle aged man.

“Der-bear? Is that you?” stammered my father.

“Yeah, dad. It’s me.” As I walked further into his office, punching my hand into my new leather baseball glove.

“Oh…Hey Der-bear,” he said without moving a single muscle, “Whatcha got there?”

“The new glove you bought me. I’m going to go play some baseball.”

“Baseball…” he said dreamily.

“Yeah dad. I’ll see you lat…”

“Baseball…” he said again. “I bought you a glove. Do you like it?”

“Yeah dad, it’s great.” I took a few steps towards the door.

“I was gonna show you how…to play catch.” His eyes swam around the room, dropping into a puddle, then diving into the next.

“No, it’s ok dad. Harold all ready showed me how…”

“No.” he said, “I’m was gonna…I am gonna show…” He tried lifting himself, his skinny arms shaking under his frail frame.

“Dad…it’s not a big deal…” I tried.

“No…I…” he strained, “I will…teach…”

I watched as he gave one last heave, trying to lock his knees underneath himself before allowing gravity to take all his strength away. He’s chair gave a gentle huff as his body sank back into the wrinkled leather. He sat for a moment trying to catch his breath.

“Well…how about I…take a rain check…” he said with Harold’s smirk.

“Sure dad.” I said.

“You go have fun, eh?” he said while his eyes stayed fixed on his desk. “Hit a homer for the old man, yeah?”

“Yeah dad. I’ll see you later.” And I turned and walked out the doorway. I stopped just outside the door frame where he couldn’t see me if he lifted his eyes. I stood and listened to the quite whimpers float from the black puddle room. I listen to his tears fall until they began to fall down my checks. I closed my eyes and everything was black again.

“Der-Bear?”

My eyes snapped open. The white room slapped my eyes with sharp pain, punishing them back into tiny slits. Everything was blurry again.

“Derick?” I felt Harold’s hand on my arm again. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah, “ I say, “My eye’s just hurt.”

“Here” say’s my mother as she hands me a tissue.

“Oh, thanks.” I say as I wipe the moisture from my face.

“Been through a lot, haven’t ya Der-Bear?” said Dad.

“Maybe he just needs some time alone.” Harold walks over to his briefcase and pulls out a big tattered black book bound with three thick pieces of twine. “Here.”

I had recognized it before it was pulled out.

“You remember when Uncle Joe bought this for you?” asked Dad.

“Yes.” I say as I flip threw the pages.

“He said he wanted to support the arts.” laughed Harold. “Ok, well I think we should head on out for a bit. Derik, try to get some sleep. We’re going to have to let those reporters in at some point.”
“Ok Harold dear” said Mother, “Go ahead and rest Derik. I will be…” my mother begins, but is interrupted by her cell phone. “Hold that thought.” She says as she runs out the room, phone in hand talking quickly about Florida is where they should focus their campaigning.

“Sleep tight Der-bear.” Said Dad as he gave a weak smile and shuffled out the door.

“I’ll be outside if you need me bud. Don’t know if I can say the same for those two.” He says giving a smirk.

“Thanks Harold.” I say.

“You’re welcome bud.” He says before he shuts the door.

I look down at the black scrap book in front of me. I flip to the middle part. Each page has nine Polaroid’s of pictures I took of my art. What started as an attempt to teach me the importance of a dollar, my mother sent me out into the neighborhood with a lawn mower and a sales pitch for the best lawn care from a nine year old. Having never mowed a lawn before, I gave it my best attempt and ended up with a expansive back yard with no symmetry or design, just a random slew of uneven lawn. The home owners where so appalled by my job that they gave me a Polaroid camera and sent me up their roof to take a picture of what I’ve done for my parents. When I brought the picture back home and showed it to my dad, my Uncle Joe saw what I had done and was very impressed. He said I had a great artistic gift and should try to develop it. Having never been considered good at anything, I took great pride in what he told me. So he bought me a scrapbook and some film and a camera and told me to fill it up and send it to him. So I set out to do that.

One day, while on yet another roof trying to find the right lighting for my thirty-fourth lawn picture, I was surprised by a young girl who had followed me up the ladder.

“HEY!” she asked.

“Wha?!...” I shouted and promptly lost my balance. The rough shingles took little pieces of my skin as I skidded down the roof. When I ran out of roof, I felt the temporary feeling of weightlessness as I hung in the air over the edge. Then I reached out, stretching every muscle in my tiny body for that metal gutter that had already sliced a thick cut into the right arm when I went airborne. I felt the metal tickle my left hand’s fingers, taunting their attempt to get back to safety. Just as my body began to feel that sinking feeling, I felt a soft hand clutch onto mine. I remember being surprised by the strength of her grasp while it still remained gentle and comforting. As I dangled in the air, I felt the blood tickle my right hand’s fingers. I looked down and saw the blood drip and fall for days before it disappeared inside the spinning blades of the air conditioning unit below me. When I tore my eyes away from the terror below, I looked up and saw silhouetted long hair ignited in the dusk sunlight.

“Hello.” I said.

“Hey” she strained.

“You’re beautiful.”

“You’re heavy, what’s your name?”

“Derik.”

“Hello Derik. My name is…”

“Amy…” I sighed as I opened my eyes. I pulled the plugs off of my chest and finger and got out of the hospital bed, starting for the door. The tile floor was an ice lake below me feet and I felt a sharp pain pulling at my hand. I looked down to see I was still attached to the ivy. I tried to pull it out, but the pain was too much, so I opted to take the ivy off the hook and with me. I opened the door and began walking down the hall.

“Hey…HEY! It’s the guy! He’s out of his room.” Shouted a stranger hunched on the floor. Soon a whole room full of strangers were shouting and taking pictures. I ignored their questions and their microphones, all I cared about was finding Amy.

“Mr. Well, what happened last night?” Flash.

“Who attacked who first?!”

“Did you know who you were fighting?!” Flash. Flash.

Why hadn’t she come to the hospital? I asked myself.

Flash. Flash. “Did you know Patrick Duffy before last night?!”

Flash. Maybe she’s caught up right now, busy. Flash.

“Mr. Well! Where are you going?” Flash.

“Amy” I said trudging down the hall.

“Der-Bear?” I heard my dad ask as I walked past him.

“Derick? Derick! Where are you going?!” Harlod called out.

“Amy” I said again. I began to jog.

“Mr. Well! What did he say? Kamie?”

“Amy” I said again, louder.

“Derick, wait!”

The sliding doors opened with no buttons. Then a second set of sliding doors opened.

“Mr. Well! Who’s Kamie!?”

“It’s Kimberly!” Shouted my Mother as I passed her outside. “Sorry Johnathan, I lost you for a second. No, we have to win both Iowa and Florida or we might as well…”

“It’s AMY!” I yell and I break into a run. Soon the questions and flashes are behind me. The concrete is hot under my feet, but the wind is cool and relaxed. I feel it flow under my medical gown and titillate my bare body.

Why didn’t she come to the hospital? I think.

Amy…Amy… “Amy.”

“Derik?”

 

Long Story Short _ Draft 2

“So why are you smiling?” she asked me. I wasn’t aware I was smiling.

“Because I’m looking at you.” I said.

“That’s not true. This is why we can’t keep doing this.”

I was unsure how to respond. I never really expected any of this. I never expected to find myself at her door step and not be allowed in.

“You always say what I want to hear, not what you really feel. I’m tired of hearing everything I don’t really have.” She said with a sigh. Her hair was dark and long, shining against the yellow porch light. It reminded me of the wet street I drove on to get here. The concrete was shining with the yellow street lights accenting certain pieces of the cement strip. I always thought yellow was a happy color.

“You just let me talk while you stare into my eyes. I always thought you were listening, but it turns out you’re just a statue that’s running around in your own head. You don’t care about what I say.”

Yellow is happy, unless it gets dirty. It is happy sunshine until it trips and falls into a murky puddle of dirty water. Then it becomes that depressed light that hangs over our heads.

“…and somehow I’m still surprised when I catch you ignoring me. Goodbye Derik.” She said as she slowly went to close the door.

“When did we fall into a dirty puddle?” I asked.

“No. No Derik, I’m not letting this work...I mean, I’m not gonna try and fix it again.”

“Then let me fix it.” I said. Behind me a cat rustled in the bushes.

“Derik, you’ve never fixed anything.”

“That’s not true. What about your window screen?”

“Do you know how to argue, or do you just assume a joke trumps two years of mistakes?”

“I thought you wanted to go get food? Why are you so upset?”

“No, that’s what you were going to talk me into doing when you got here. I told you when you when I opened the door Derik, I’m breaking up with yo-”

“Then I’ll try harder. Amy, don’t do this. I really really want to make this better. Just tell me everything I do wrong. Make a list. I’ll start at the top and check my way down until I’ve done everything wrong right.”

“No Derik. I’m done. We’re done. Now just leave, Derik.” Her eyes started to slip behind the door frame.

“Please.”

And the door was shut. Immediately, I wanted it to open again. I stood there, drenched in dirty yellow light and try to piece back together the conversation I missed. All I could come up with is I made a mistake that I can’t unmake. I reached my hands up to the wooden door, not touching it, but only centimeters away. I willed the door to open because I knew I was not allowed to open it myself. Only Amy could open it now.

I had to leave. I had to make my legs work and carry my defeated self to my dirty car. I fished in my pockets for the keys. I didn’t notice that they made no sound as they rattled together. Amy was gone. I didn’t notice the leaves not crunching under my dirty sole or the faint whistle of the cold wind. Amy was gone. I heard only my breath as it puffed out of my mouth in thin clouds. I arrived at my car door and caught me reflection as my fingers juggled with the keys. This is me; a tall young man with straight dark hair and tears rolling down his scruffy face. I looked at myself and thought, why bother? Let the tears freeze on my face, no one needs to see it when they wake up anymore. Or see it before they fall asleep. If I could shake off this body and start again, I could have Amy. If I looked different, talked different, liked different music, then maybe Amy would open the door again. If I looked like the man who stood behind me now, staring at the same sad eyes that I stared at, then maybe I could…

The sound of his nylon jacket was all I heard before I felt the sharp pain in my side. My keys flew backwards, out of my hand as I arched in agony. Nothing matters now. Amy is gone. There’s nothing left now except blood and tears.

It’s still dark outside. There aren’t any stars, but I can still hear the wind. Then I see Amy above me, screaming. Then I see a bright flashing red light. Now a man and a woman are moving very quickly and asking questions, but I’m too tired to answer them. I try very hard to close my eyes, but something keeps prying them open until I finally triumph and retreat into a dark room. Everything is finally quiet and still. I’m just floating in my dark room. The darkness is so thick it folds into the surroundings, layers and layers of black pitched absence. I’m afraid to move because I can’t see what’s in front of me. So I keep as still as the room, trying to be nothing too. Then a voice creeps into the nothingness. It is deep and monotone; the lifeless voice to my lifeless room. I can’t make out what he’s saying. I want him to speak louder and clearer. So I tell him to, or at least try to.

“mmhhhm…” I sputter. The voice stops.

“…hm…” says the voice.

“wh…m…ew?” I try to say. I want my eyes to open again. Blurry white light is flooding my dark locale and now I’m in a whole universe of whiteness. There stands one wall of black blur looming in the sea of light. It’s moving, crinkling leaves, like the leaves I didn’t hear under my feet. It’s him, the man in my window reflection. I hear my heart rate increase, sounding in high pitch pings, like it’s an appliance being programmed. I want to move, but my stomach screams with sharp pain. I’m laying down. I can start to make out the wallpaper pattern of my shirt that stretches down to my feet. The man is making more noise, the breaking leaves and his monotone voice; each making the other hard to separate.

“Who are you?” I say, finding my voice. I stretch my eyes as large as dinner plates and then squish them back to knife slits to try to focus.

“Oh my!” says the blur, “Ah, my son. I seem to…I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake. Just ignore I was here, yes? I’m sure you’ll be fine. Lord be with you.”

Death is now moving away from me, his black frame shrinking into the white universe until he disappears completely into the bright abbess. I close my eyes again, returning to the womb of my black room. And then I hear more voices, lots of voices, coming from the belly of some unseen beast. Their ruckus is getting louder. Soon they’ll be on top of me. It’d better go back out into that white universe.

I opened my eyes again, this time my vision clears much faster. The blurs sharpen; the white universe turns out to be a just another room. It’s still white, as sterile rooms tend to be. My heart monitor is steady again, short rhythmic blips to remind me I’m in a real world where heart monitors flat line when hearts stop. I looked to my hand and begin to study the needle that is bandaged to it when the door ruptures open. Cameras flashed like a string of Black Cat fireworks. There are eager questions being shouted from a hallway full of mouths, their words smashing into each other like twelve trains meeting at full speed. I see flashes of red light and hear the siren again. I shake my head to clear up the confusion.

“Goddamn scum of the earth! “ A women yells as she pushes her way in, “That’s what you are, all of you! Go chase some other bleeding story, you God damn reporters! ”

The fireworks reach their full crescendo as the hallway digs deep to sing from its diaphragm. But before the apocalyptic sound wave comes flooding in, a dusty rag of a man comes slipping past them and promptly shuts the door with a lethargic heave. Slowly the last flash dries away and the room hums with silence.

“Denise, don’t shout now. We’re in the room.” Muffled disappointment futilely attacks the door. “Let’s just have a seat until Derik wakes up.”

“Here’s a quote.” My Mother says as she pushes my father from the door. “‘FUCK YOU!’ Try and print that you blood thirsty bastards!”

My parents always had a way of making an entrance. My mother in her usual professional attire: a business suit with sharp starched creases, a cell phone at the ready in one hand, and a cup of coffee in her other.
“Denise, stop yelling, please. You’ll wake Der…oh, oh look. He’s awake!” my Dad says. He’s in the same sweater he’s worn for three years, with dingy worn in khakis and loafers that came apart at the seams. I can never understand where all his money wonders off to; most likely he spends it on the books that line every room of our four level house.

“God damn reporters.” My mother says as she takes off her coat. “What was that Jake? You say he’s awake?”
They move over to my bed side, my mother on my left, my dad on my right.

“Hey dad.” I say.

“Hello Der-bear, how ya feeling?” asked my Dad.

“I’m not sure. I don’t know what’s going on. I think Death tried to kill me”

“Great, he’s delirious! What kind of medication have they got him on? Where is his doctor? Where’s the nurse button.” rattles my mother.

“I’m not delirious. I just don’t remember much of what happened. I know I was hurt. I know I hurt someone else. But I didn’t mean to. I don’t think.” My head began mixing images from the night. There was a knife and a man and Amy and blood and pain and mistakes and more blood.

“Well son, from what the police have made out, you’ve done a great thing.” My Dad said as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t be so vague Jack. Tell him what’s happened.” snipped my mother in her firm, familiar way.

“Well, Der-Bear, last night, when you were leaving Kelly’s, you killed a man.” said Dad.

“Kimberly, Jack. Her name is Kimberly” corrected my mother.

“It’s Amy. I thought I might have.” I said, “Although I don’t think you can really say I killed him. It was more of an accident.”

“Now Derik, there’s no need for that. At the very least it was self-defense. God knows what would have happened to you or Kimberly had you not fought back.” said my mother.

“It’s Amy. And I didn’t fight back.” I corrected.

“Who’s Amy?” my Dad asked.

“My girlfriend. At least she was.”

“Amy? When did you start dating an Amy?” asked my mother

“Two years ago.” I said.

“What happened to Kimberly?”

“I never dated a girl named Kimberly”

“Her name was Kelly, Denise.” said my Dad, smiling.

“I’m quite sure it was Kimberly.”

“It was Amy.” I said, “Who did I kill?”

“Denise, please. Now is not the time for this sort of talk. Please, just let things be what they are now, don’t worry about the past.”

“I’m not worrying about the past, he’s still dating Kimberly.”

“It’s Amy” I said.

“He just said he’s not dating her anymore. Where you even listening?”

“I listen very well, Jack. Two consecutive terms isn’t given away.” said my mother, leaning against her side of my bed.

“Who did I kill?” I ask brightly.

“Not now Der-Bear.” Said my dad, “Consecutive terms? You mean that handful of people who voted for you? Did you forget your apposition died of pneumonia two days before the election?”

“So?”

“He still got thirty-four percent of the vote!” wheezed my Dad.

“Don’t raise your voice in here Jack, this is a hospital for Christ sakes!” shouted my mother.
“I’m aware Denise. Are you?”

“What?”

They’d go on like this for a while until they remember I’m still bleeding in the bed between them. As I watched them fight, I closed my eyes and fell back into the dark room. I began to remember my mother’s first day in office. She was always working long hours to help get the word out that she was running. She’d take Adderall to help keep her moving all day and night long. She swears they’re prescribed, although the scandalous truth is she gets them from one of her lobbyist in the health industry. I was visiting after her victory night to congratulate her. I would have been there to see her win, however she forgot to send someone to pick me up from the airport the night before and I missed her victory party. I slept on a terminal bench by the women’s bathroom.

“Big day today!” said my mother as she zipped into the kitchen. Her business suit was crisp and vibrant, most likely bought for this very occasion.

“You excited for me?” she asked. I had a mouth full of toast, which saved me the trouble of saying no. I just nodded.

“Today’s going to be the first day of a string of great days that will follow.” She said as picked up a banana and an on-the-go coffee.

“I’m coasting on so much momentum from last night’s party, I could run for president. How long are you staying Derik?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow. I didn’t want to be a burden in your busy time.” Or life, I thought.

“Oh, don’t be silly. Stay as long as you’d like. You know where everything is. Help yourself.”

“Well, I was hoping to have lunch with you tomorrow before I left.” I said apathetically.

“Oh, well, I’ll be in meetings all day. I won’t be able to make it. But you’re welcome to anything you want. I’m sure I’ll see you during the week.”

“I’m leaving tomorrow.” I said. She was already halfway out the door.

“Ok, I’ll see you then. Goodbye Deary, wish me luck!”

I went up stairs and finished packing my bag. I didn’t want to miss my flight. As I looked around for my watch I caught sight of myself in the bed room mirror. The man looking back at me was shorter and cleaner looking than I was. He had bunny rabbit eyes and an approachable facial structure. I could see him more clearly than last night. His reflection in my window was now an alarm that screamed through my body.

“Why?” I asked the reflection, trembling. The rabbit eyes didn’t blink and his lips didn’t part. He just pulled out his knife, thirteen inches in length, and let it shimmer in his hand. The blade started, through the right and missed my spine, missed my kidneys, came in the fleshy part of my side and swam past my appendix, past my intestines, till it poked out of the other side for air, making a squirting sound, like a ketchup packet being run over by a bike. I didn’t scream. I didn’t think. In that dirty yellow drive way and I only bled, seeing nothing else, feeling nothing else. There is nothing else. Amy is gone.

“Derik? Der-Bear? Can you hear me?”

My dad’s coos came to me from a lengthy distance. I was back in my black room, and I didn’t want to come out. I’ve pulled this routine before, when I was younger. They’d come home together, grumpy and arguing and I’d pretend to fall asleep wherever I stood; just plop down on the carpet, the kitchen tile, the back porch. They thought I was narcoleptic.

“I think we should have let him rest.” I heard dad say.

“I think you should have had a vasectomy, but such is life.” I heard mother say.

She always thinks I can’t hear, even when I’m standing in front of her. Like when she decides to talk about me, my ears turn off and I become a regrettable deaf and dumb boy.

“Denise! He’s right here. I’m sure he can hear you, he’s just dozed off again.”

“Just like you just ‘dozed off’ with his nanny.”

Bulldozed is more like it, I thought.

“We took a nap together. Is that so wrong?”

“Well you were only dozing off with me for the first ten years of our marriage.”

“Before you got into politics, when you actually had time for a nap.”

Listening to them arguing was like watching an episode of Spy V.S. Spy.

“After your third child, they say you start to lose interest in a career outside the home. So I wanted to get back into an active life style, is that so wrong?”

I hated that show.

“What about my life style? What was I suppose to do while you were out getting the black vote?”
I hated this show too.

“I don’t know, take up a hobby. Maybe raise a child or two.”

“We only had one left in the house!”

And then I decided to change the channel.

“Dad?...” I struggled to say, reprising my own role.

“Yeah, son. I’m here.” My dad said as he put his hand to my forehead.

“I killed someone.” I said, hoping this rings the bell that ends the boxing round.

“…Yes son. You did. But it’s ok.” He said as he brushed my hair with his fingers, “He was a very bad man.”

“He was more than just a bad man Jack, don’t patronize him.” Said my mother. For a second I thought she was talking to me.

“Why were all those people outside?” I asked.

“I’m not patronizing him.” Said my dad turning to my mother.

“They were reporters,” Said my mother, “They came to interview you.”

My dad leaned closer. “The man you killed, his name was Patrick Duffy. Do you know who that is?”
I looked at them both, their eyes both beaming with pride.

“He was a serial killer.” Came a voice from behind their fulsome faces. I knew that voice.

“Harold?” I asked stretching to see past my parents.

“He little bear.” Said Harold as he came around my mother and rested his hand on my arm.

He smirked at me, which is his way of smiling. “I heard it on the cab ride over.”

“Hello Harold.” Said my mother, giving him a pick on his check and a smile.

“Hello mom. I mean Mrs. President.”

“Oh come on,” laughed my mother, “I haven’t even begun to seriously think about running. It’s just a silly thing some silly reporter said on their silly radio show.”

“But it sure did catch a lot of attention.” Said Harold, “I saw the fit O’Riley went into last night. He must really be worried about you running.”

My mother laughed. “Bill’s always said if a Republican woman ran, it’d be a sure sign the world was going somewhere very unpleasant in something very much resembling a hand basket.”

Now they both were laughing. It was another familiar scene to me. But I could tolerate this better. My brother came by his love for mother honestly. Favorite sons tend to.

“Hey Harold.” Said my dad.

Harold’s smirk turned into a slight grin. “Hello father.”

“Oh come on,” laughed my dad, “Come give your old man a hug, eh?” said dad as he stretched out his arms.

“Maybe later, I’m pretty tired from the trip.” said my brother as he pulled up a chair.

I looked over at my dad with his arms still stretched out. His smile was so innocent, like he really saw no harm in giving his oldest son a hug. His arms sank like cruise ships before slumping to his side. My mother and Harold began catching each other up on what the other has missed since the last time they spoke. As they jabbered away, I kept my eyes on dad. His head had tilted slightly down and his eyes were glassy. I closed my eyes, slipping back into my black room.

“Der-bear?”

I had been on my way out to meet up with some school friends to play baseball. My dad was sitting at his old desk in his office. He had been a professor of archeology at the state college for thirteen years before he was forced to resign. Behind him was a wall of books, each one either read or written by dad. From an adjacent window the sun was setting, casting large black puddles across his office. The cracks in his favorite worn in leather chair matched the dusty look of my dad’s face, despite still being a relatively middle aged man.

“Der-bear? Is that you?” stammered my father.

“Yeah, dad. It’s me.” As I walked further into his office, punching my hand into my new leather baseball glove. I could barely make out the dozens of orange prescription bottles riddled across his old desk. I guess the therapy wasn’t helping; he’s upped his daily Zoloft dosage.

“Oh…Hey Der-bear,” he said without moving a single muscle, “Whatcha got there?”

“The new glove you bought me.” I said, trying to avoid his eyes, “I’m going to go play some baseball.”

“Baseball…” he said dreamily.

“Yeah dad. I’ll see you lat-”

“Baseball…” he said again. “I love baseball…I bought you a glove...Do you like it?”

“Yeah dad, it’s great.” I took a few steps towards the door.

“I was gonna show you how…to play catch.” I couldn’t help it, I had to see if he was in their at all. His eyes swam around the room, dropping into a puddle, then diving into the next. Dad had checked out for the day.

“No, it’s ok dad. Harold all ready showed me how…”

“No.” he said, “I’m was gonna…I am gonna show…” He tried lifting himself, his skinny arms shaking under his frail frame.

“Dad…it’s not a big deal…” I tried.

“No…I…” he strained, “I will…teach.”

I watched as he gave one last heave, trying to lock his knees underneath himself before gravity took all his strength away. He’s chair gave a gentle huff as his body sank back into the wrinkled leather. He sat for a moment trying to catch his breath.

“Well…” he huffed, out of breath, “how about I…take a rain check…” he said with a Harold-like smirk.
“Sure dad.” I said.

“You go have fun, yeah?” he said while his eyes stayed fixed on his desk. “Hit a homer for the old man, yeah?”

“Yeah dad. I’ll see you later.” And I turned and walked out the doorway. I stopped just outside the door frame where his wondering eyes couldn’t find me. I stood and listened to the quite whimpers float from the black puddle room into my strained ears. I listen to his tears fall until they began to fall down my own checks. I closed my eyes and dived into one of the black puddles.

“Der-Bear?”

My eyes snapped open. The white room slapped my eyes with sharp pain, punishing them back into tiny slits. Everything was blurry again.

“Derick?” I felt Harold’s hand on my arm again. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah, “ I say, “My eye’s just hurt.”

“Here” say’s my mother as she hands me a tissue.

“Oh, thanks.” I say as I wipe the moisture from my face.

“Been through a lot, haven’t ya Der-Bear?” said Dad.

“Maybe he just needs some time alone.” Harold walks over to his briefcase and pulls out a big tattered black book bound with three thick pieces of twine. “Here.”

I had recognized it before it was pulled out.

“You remember when Uncle Joe bought this for you?” asked Dad.

“Yes.” I say as I flip threw the pages.

“He said he wanted to support the arts.” laughed Harold. “Ok, well I think we should head on out for a bit. Derik, try to get some sleep. We’re going to have to let those reporters in at some point.”

“Ok Harold dear” said Mother, “Go ahead and rest Derik. I will be…” my mother begins, but is interrupted by her cell phone. “Hold that thought.” She says as she runs out the room, phone in hand talking quickly about Florida is where they should focus their campaigning.

“Sleep tight Der-bear.” Said Dad as he gave a weak smile and shuffled out the door.

“I’ll be outside if you need me bud. Don’t know if I can say the same for those two.” He says giving a smirk.

“Thanks Harold.” I say.

“You’re welcome bud.” He says before he shuts the door.

I look down at the black scrap book in front of me. I flip to the middle part. Each page has nine Polaroid’s of pictures I took of my art. What started as an attempt to teach me the importance of a dollar, my mother sent me out into the neighborhood with a lawn mower and a sales pitch for the best lawn care from a nine year old. Having never mowed a lawn before, I gave it my best attempt and ended up with a expansive back yard with no symmetry or design, just a random slew of uneven lawn. The home owners where so appalled by my job that they gave me a Polaroid camera and sent me up their roof to take a picture of what I’ve done for my parents. When I brought the picture back home and showed it to my dad, my Uncle Joe saw what I had done and was very impressed. He said I had a great artistic gift and should try to develop it. Having never been considered good at anything, I took great pride in what he told me. So he bought me a scrapbook and some film and a camera and told me to fill it up and send it to him. So I set out to do that.

One day, while on yet another roof trying to find the right lighting for my thirty-fourth lawn picture, I was surprised by a young girl who had followed me up the ladder.

“HEY!” she asked.

“Wha?!...” I shouted and promptly lost my balance. The rough shingles took little pieces of my skin as I skidded down the roof. When I ran out of roof, I felt the temporary feeling of weightlessness as I hung in the air over the edge. Then I reached out, stretching every muscle in my tiny body for that metal gutter that had already sliced a thick cut into the right arm when I went airborne. I felt the metal tickle my left hand’s fingers, taunting their attempt to get back to safety. Just as my body began to feel that sinking feeling, I felt a soft hand clutch onto mine. I remember being surprised by the strength of her grasp while it still remained gentle and comforting. As I dangled in the air, I felt the blood tickle my right hand’s fingers. I looked down and saw the blood drip and fall for days before it disappeared inside the spinning blades of the air conditioning unit below me. When I tore my eyes away from the terror below, I looked up and saw silhouetted long hair ignited in the dusk sunlight.

“Hello.” I said.

“Hey” she strained.

“You’re beautiful.”

“You’re heavy, what’s your name?”

“Derik.”

“Hello Derik. My name is…”

“Amy…” I sighed as I opened my eyes. I pulled the plugs off of my chest and finger and got out of the hospital bed, starting for the door. The tile floor was an ice lake below me feet and I felt a sharp pain pulling at my hand. I looked down to see I was still attached to the ivy. I tried to pull it out, but the pain was too much, so I opted to take the ivy off the hook and with me. I opened the door and began walking down the hall.

“Hey…HEY! It’s the guy! He’s out of his room.” Shouted a stranger hunched on the floor. Soon a whole room full of strangers were shouting and taking pictures. I ignored their questions and their microphones, all I cared about was finding Amy.

“Mr. Well, what happened last night?” Flash.

“Who attacked who first?!”

“Did you know who you were fighting?!” Flash. Flash.

Why hadn’t she come to the hospital? I asked myself.

Flash. Flash. “Did you know Patrick Duffy before last night?!”

Flash. Maybe she’s caught up right now, busy. Flash.

“Mr. Well! Where are you going?” Flash.

“Amy” I said trudging down the hall.

“Der-Bear?” I heard my dad ask as I walked past him.

“Derick? Derick! Where are you going?!” Harlod called out.

“Amy” I said again. I began to jog.

“Mr. Well! What did he say? Kamie?”

“Amy” I said again, louder.

“Derick, wait!”

The sliding doors opened with no buttons. Then a second set of sliding doors opened.
“Mr. Well! Who’s Kamie!?”

“It’s Kimberly!” Shouted my Mother as I passed her outside. “Sorry Johnathan, I lost you for a second. No, we have to win both Iowa and Florida or we might as well…”

“It’s AMY!” I yell and I break into a run. Soon the questions and flashes are behind me. The concrete is hot under my feet, but the wind is cool and relaxed. I feel it flow under my medical gown and titillate my bare body.

Why didn’t she come to the hospital? I think.

Amy…Amy… “Amy.”

“Derik?”

 

Long Story Short _ Draft 3

“So why are you smiling?” she asked me. I wasn’t aware I was smiling.

“Because I’m looking at you.” I said.

“That’s not true. This is why we can’t keep doing this.”

I was unsure how to respond. I never really expected any of this. I never expected to find myself at her door step and not be allowed in.

“You always say what I want to hear, not what you really feel. I’m tired of hearing everything I don’t really have.” She said with a sigh. Her hair was dark and long, shining against the yellow porch light. It reminded me of the wet street I drove on to get here. The concrete was shining with the yellow street lights accenting certain pieces of the cement strip. I always thought yellow was a happy color.

“You just let me talk while you stare into my eyes. I always thought you were listening, but it turns out you’re just a statue that’s running around in your own head. You don’t care about what I say.”

Yellow is happy, unless it gets dirty. It is happy sunshine until it trips and falls into a murky puddle of dirty water. Then it becomes that depressed light that hangs over our heads.

“…and somehow I’m still surprised when I catch you ignoring me. Goodbye Derik.” She said as she slowly closes the door.

“When did we fall into a dirty puddle?” I asked.

“No. No Derik, I’m not letting this work...I mean, I’m not gonna try and fix it again.”

“Then let me fix it.” I said. Behind me a cat rustled in the bushes.

“Derik, you’ve never fixed anything.”

“That’s not true. What about your window screen?”

“Do you know how to argue, or do you just assume a joke trumps two years of mistakes?”

“I thought you wanted to go get food? Why are you so upset?”

“No, that’s what you were going to talk me into doing when you got here. I told you when you when I opened the door Derik, I’m breaking-”

“Then I’ll try harder. Amy, don’t do this. I really really want to make this better. Just tell me everything I do wrong. Make a list. I’ll start at the top and check my way down until I’ve done everything wrong right.”

“No Derik. I’m done. We’re done. Now just leave, Derik.” Her eyes started to slip behind the door frame. “Please.”

And then the door was shut. Immediately, I wanted it to open again. I stood there, drenched in dirty yellow light and tried to piece back together the conversation I missed. All I could come up with is that I made a mistake that I can’t unmake. I reached my hands up to the wooden door, not touching it, but only centimeters away. I willed the door to open because I knew I was not allowed to open it myself. Only Amy could open it now.

I had to leave. I had to make my legs work and carry all these pieces to my car. I fished in my pockets for the keys. I didn’t notice that they made no sound as they rattled together. Amy was gone. I didn’t notice the leaves not crunching under my rubber sole or the faint whistle of the cold wind. Amy was gone. I heard only my breath as it puffed out of my mouth in thin clouds. My fingers juggled with the keys. I had to look twice to find my reflection. This is me; a tall young man with no lips and tears rolling down his scruffy face. I looked at myself and thought, why bother? Let the tears freeze on my face, no one needs to see them anymore. Or my face, even dry, even in the morning, or even before they fall asleep. If I could shake off this body and start again, I would have Amy. She’s just tired of this person. If I looked different, talked different, liked different music, then maybe Amy would open the door for me. If I looked like the man who stood behind me now, staring at the same sad eyes that I stared at, then maybe I could…

The sound of his nylon jacket was all I heard before I felt the sharp pain in my side. My keys flew backwards, out of my hand as I arched in agony. Nothing matters now. Amy is gone. There’s nothing left now except blood and tears.

It’s still dark outside. There aren’t any stars, but I can still hear the wind. Then I see Amy above me, screaming. Then I see bursts of bright flashing red light. Now a man and a woman are moving very quickly and asking questions, but I’m too tired to answer them. I try very hard to close my eyes, but something keeps prying them open until I finally triumph and retreat into a dark room. Everything is finally quiet and still. I’m just floating in my dark room. The darkness is so thick it folds into the surroundings, layers and layers of black pitched absence. I’m afraid to move because I can’t see what’s in front of me. So I keep as still as the room, trying to be nothing too. Then a voice creeps into the nothingness. It is deep and monotone; the lifeless voice to my lifeless room. I can’t make out what he’s saying. I want him to speak louder and clearer. So I tell him to, or at least try to.

“mmhhhm…” I sputter. The voice stops.

“…hm…” says the voice.

“wh…m…ew?” I try to say. I want my eyes to open again. Blurry white light is flooding my dark locale and now I’m in a whole universe of whiteness. There stands one wall of black blur looming in the sea of light. It’s moving, crinkling leaves, like the leaves I didn’t hear under my feet. It’s him, the man in my window reflection. I hear my heart rate increase, sounding in high pitch pings, like it’s an appliance being programmed. I want to move, but my stomach screams with sharp pain. I’m laying down. I can start to make out the wallpaper pattern of my shirt that stretches down to my feet. The man is making more noise, the breaking leaves and his monotone voice; each making the other hard to separate.
“Who are you?” I say, finding my voice. I stretch my eyes as large as dinner plates and then squish them back to knife slits to try to focus.

“Oh my!” says the blur, “Ah, my son. I seem to…I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake. Just ignore I was here, yes? I’m sure you’ll be fine. Lord be with you.”

Death is now moving away from me, his black frame shrinking into the white universe until he disappears completely into the bright abbess. I close my eyes again, returning to the womb of my black room. And then I hear more voices, lots of voices, coming from the belly of some unseen beast. Their ruckus is getting louder. Soon they’ll be on top of me. I can imagine their voices smothering my quite black room away.
I opened my eyes again, this time my vision clears much faster. The blurs sharpen; the white universe turns out to be a hospital room. I was in a hospital once when I feel off of a roof. I used to watch the heart monitor as I purposely speeding up my breathing. I wanted see how fast I could make the tempo change. Now my heart monitor is steady, short rhythmic blips remind me I’m not in control of this metronome. I looked to my hand and begin to study the needle that is bandaged to it when the door ruptures open. Cameras flashed like a string of Black Cat fireworks. There are eager questions being shouted from a hallway full of mouths, their words smashing into each other like twelve trains meeting at full speed. I see flashes of red light and hear the siren again, feel the blood on my stomach. I shake my head to clear up the confusion.

“Goddamn scum of the earth! “ A women yells as she pushes her way in, “That’s what you are, all of you! Go chase some other bleeding story, you God damn reporters! ”

The fireworks reach their full crescendo as the hallway digs deep to sing from its diaphragm. But before the apocalyptic sound wave comes flooding in, a dusty rag of a man comes slipping past them all and promptly pushes the door, closing it with a lethargic heave. The last flashes dry away under the door frame and the room hums with silence.

“Denise, don’t shout now. We’re in the room.” He takes off his coat and lays it across a nearby chair. “Let’s just have a seat until Derik wakes up.”

“Here’s a quote.” My Mother says as she paces towards the window. She opens it and yells down, “‘FUCK YOU!’ Try and print that you blood thirsty bastards!”

My mother closes the window sharply and begins to take stock of herself. She is in her usual professional attire: a business suit with sharp starched creases, a cell phone at the ready in one hand, her face fixed in her normal tight expression, and her blonde hair pulled rigid with a professional looking hair tie. This is her causal look.

“Denise, stop yelling, please. You’ll wake Der…oh, oh look. He’s awake!” my Dad says. He’s in the same sweater he’s worn for three years, with dingy worn in khakis and loafers that came apart at the seams. I can never understand where all his money wonders off to; most likely he spends it on the books that line every room of our four level house.

“God damn reporters.” My mother says as she takes off her coat. “What was that Jake? You say he’s awake?”
They move over to my bed side, my mother on my left, my dad on my right.

“Hey dad.” I say.

“Hello Der-bear, how ya feeling?” asked my Dad.

“I’m not sure. I don’t know what’s going on. I think Death tried to kill me”

“Great, he’s delirious! What kind of medication have they got him on? Where is his doctor? Where’s the nurse button.” rattles my mother.

“I’m not delirious. I just don’t remember much of what happened. I know I was hurt. I know I hurt someone else. But I didn’t mean to. I don’t think.” My head began mixing images from the night. There was a knife and a man and Amy and blood and pain and mistakes and more blood.

“Well son, from what the police have made out, you’ve done a great thing.” My Dad said as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t be so vague Jack. Tell him what’s happened.” snipped my mother in her firm, familiar way.

“Well, Der-Bear, last night, when you were leaving Kelly’s, you killed a man.” said Dad.

“Kimberly, Jack. Her name is Kimberly” corrected my mother.

“It’s Amy. I thought I might have.” I said, “Although I don’t think you can really say I killed him. It was more of an accident.”

“Now Derik, there’s no need for that. At the very least it was self-defense. God knows what would have happened to you or Kimberly had you not fought back.” said my mother.

“It’s Amy. And I didn’t fight back.” I corrected.

“Who’s Amy?” my Dad asked.

“My girlfriend. At least she was.”

“Amy? When did you start dating an Amy?” asked my mother

“Two years ago.” I said.

“What happened to Kimberly?”

“I never dated a girl named Kimberly”

“Her name was Kelly, Denise.” said my Dad, smiling.

“I’m quite sure it was Kimberly.”

“It was Amy.” I said, “Who did I kill?”

“Denise, please. Now is not the time for this sort of talk. Please, just let things be what they are now, don’t worry about the past.”

“I’m not worrying about the past, he’s still dating Kimberly.”

“It’s Amy” I said.

“He just said he’s not dating her anymore. Where you even listening?”

“I listen very well, Jack. Two consecutive terms isn’t given away.” said my mother, leaning against her side of my bed.

“Who did I kill?” I ask brightly.

“Not now Der-Bear.” Said my dad, “Consecutive terms? You mean that handful of people who voted for you? Did you forget your apposition died of pneumonia two days before the election?”

“So?”

“He still got thirty-four percent of the vote!” wheezed my Dad.

“Don’t raise your voice in here Jack, this is a hospital for Christ sakes!” shouted my mother.
“I’m aware Denise. Are you?”

“What?”

They’d go on like this for a while until they remember I’m still bleeding in the bed between them. As I watched them fight, I closed my eyes and fell back into the dark room. I began to remember my mother’s first day in office. She was always working long hours to help get the word out that she was running. She’d take Adderall to help keep her moving all day and night long. She swears they’re prescribed, although the scandalous truth is she gets them from one of her lobbyist in the health industry. I was visiting after her victory night to congratulate her. I would have been there to see her win, however she forgot to send someone to pick me up from the airport the night before and I missed her victory party. I slept on a terminal bench by the women’s bathroom.

“Big day today!” said my mother as she zipped into the kitchen. Her business suit was crisp and vibrant, most likely bought for this very occasion.

“You excited for me?” she asked. I had a mouth full of toast, which saved me the trouble of saying no. I just nodded.

“Today’s going to be the first day of a string of great days that will follow.” She said as picked up a banana and an on-the-go coffee.

“I’m coasting on so much momentum from last night’s party, I could run for president. How long are you staying Derik?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow. I didn’t want to be a burden in your busy time.” Or life, I thought.

“Oh, don’t be silly. Stay as long as you’d like. You know where everything is. Help yourself.”

“Well, I was hoping to have lunch with you tomorrow before I left.” I said apathetically.

“Oh, well, I’ll be in meetings all day. I won’t be able to make it. But you’re welcome to anything you want. I’m sure I’ll see you during the week.”

“I’m leaving tomorrow.” I said. She was already halfway out the door.

“Ok, I’ll see you then. Goodbye Deary, wish me luck!”

I went up stairs and finished packing my bag. I didn’t want to miss my flight. As I looked around for my watch I caught sight of myself in the bed room mirror. The man looking back at me was shorter and cleaner looking than I was. He had bunny rabbit eyes and an approachable facial structure. I could see him more clearly than last night. His reflection in my window was now an alarm that screamed through my body.

“Why?” I asked the reflection, trembling. The rabbit eyes didn’t blink and his lips didn’t part. He just pulled out his knife, thirteen inches in length, and let it shimmer in his hand. The blade started, through the right and missed my spine, missed my kidneys, came in the fleshy part of my side and swam past my appendix, past my intestines, till it poked out of the other side for air, making a squirting sound, like a ketchup packet being run over by a bike. I didn’t scream. I didn’t think. In that dirty yellow drive way and I only bled, seeing nothing else, feeling nothing else. There is nothing else. Amy is gone.

“Derik? Der-Bear? Can you hear me?”

My dad’s coos came to me from a lengthy distance. I was back in my black room, and I didn’t want to come out. I’ve pulled this routine before, when I was younger. They’d come home together, grumpy and arguing and I’d pretend to fall asleep wherever I stood; just plop down on the carpet, the kitchen tile, the back porch. They thought I was narcoleptic.

“I think we should have let him rest.” I heard dad say.

“I think you should have had a vasectomy, but such is life.” I heard mother say.

She always thinks I can’t hear, even when I’m standing in front of her. Like when she decides to talk about me, my ears turn off and I become a regrettable deaf and dumb boy.

“Denise! He’s right here. I’m sure he can hear you, he’s just dozed off again.”

“Just like you just ‘dozed off’ with his nanny.”

Bulldozed is more like it, I thought.

“We took a nap together. Is that so wrong?”

“Well you were only dozing off with me for the first ten years of our marriage.”

“Before you got into politics, when you actually had time for a nap.”

Listening to them arguing was like watching an episode of Spy V.S. Spy.

“After your third child, they say you start to lose interest in a career outside the home. So I wanted to get back into an active life style, is that so wrong?”

I hated that show.

“What about my life style? What was I suppose to do while you were out getting the black vote?”
I hated this show too.

“I don’t know, take up a hobby. Maybe raise a child or two.”

“We only had one left in the house!”

And then I decided to change the channel.

“Dad?...” I struggled to say, reprising my own role.

“Yeah, son. I’m here.” My dad said as he put his hand to my forehead.

“I killed someone.” I said, hoping this rings the bell that ends the boxing round.

“…Yes son. You did. But it’s ok.” He said as he brushed my hair with his fingers, “He was a very bad man.”

“He was more than just a bad man Jack, don’t patronize him.” Said my mother. For a second I thought she was talking to me.

“Why were all those people outside?” I asked.

“I’m not patronizing him.” Said my dad turning to my mother.

“They were reporters,” Said my mother, “They came to interview you.”

My dad leaned closer. “The man you killed, his name was Patrick Duffy. Do you know who that is?”
I looked at them both, their eyes both beaming with pride.

“He was a serial killer.” Came a voice from behind their fulsome faces. I knew that voice.

“Harold?” I asked stretching to see past my parents.

“He little bear.” Said Harold as he came around my mother and rested his hand on my arm.

He smirked at me, which is his way of smiling. “I heard it on the cab ride over.”

“Hello Harold.” Said my mother, giving him a pick on his check and a smile.

“Hello mom. I mean Mrs. President.”

“Oh come on,” laughed my mother, “I haven’t even begun to seriously think about running. It’s just a silly thing some silly reporter said on their silly radio show.”

“But it sure did catch a lot of attention.” Said Harold, “I saw the fit O’Riley went into last night. He must really be worried about you running.”

My mother laughed. “Bill’s always said if a Republican woman ran, it’d be a sure sign the world was going somewhere very unpleasant in something very much resembling a hand basket.”

Now they both were laughing. It was another familiar scene to me. But I could tolerate this better. My brother came by his love for mother honestly. Favorite sons tend to.

“Hey Harold.” Said my dad.

Harold’s smirk turned into a slight grin. “Hello father.”

“Oh come on,” laughed my dad, “Come give your old man a hug, eh?” said dad as he stretched out his arms.
“Maybe later, I’m pretty tired from the trip.” said my brother as he pulled up a chair.

I looked over at my dad with his arms still stretched out. His smile was so innocent, like he really saw no harm in giving his oldest son a hug. His arms sank like cruise ships before slumping to his side. My mother and Harold began catching each other up on what the other has missed since the last time they spoke. As they jabbered away, I kept my eyes on dad. His head had tilted slightly down and his eyes were glassy. I closed my eyes, slipping back into my black room.

“Der-bear?”

I had been on my way out to meet up with some school friends to play baseball. My dad was sitting at his old desk in his office. He had been a professor of archeology at the state college for thirteen years before he was forced to resign. Behind him was a wall of books, each one either read or written by dad. From an adjacent window the sun was setting, casting large black puddles across his office. The cracks in his favorite worn in leather chair matched the dusty look of my dad’s face, despite still being a relatively middle aged man.

“Der-bear? Is that you?” stammered my father.

“Yeah, dad. It’s me.” As I walked further into his office, punching my hand into my new leather baseball glove. I could barely make out the dozens of orange prescription bottles riddled across his old desk. I guess the therapy wasn’t helping; he’s upped his daily Zoloft dosage.

“Oh…Hey Der-bear,” he said without moving a single muscle, “Whatcha got there?”

“The new glove you bought me.” I said, trying to avoid his eyes, “I’m going to go play some baseball.”

“Baseball…” he said dreamily.

“Yeah dad. I’ll see you lat-”

“Baseball…” he said again. “I love baseball…I bought you a glove...Do you like it?”

“Yeah dad, it’s great.” I took a few steps towards the door.

“I was gonna show you how to…to play catch.” I couldn’t help it, I had to see if he was in their at all. His eyes swam around the room, dropping into a puddle, then diving into the next. Dad had checked out for the day.

“No, it’s ok dad. Harold all ready showed me how…”

“No.” he said, “I’m was gonna…I am gonna show…” He tried lifting himself, his skinny arms shaking under his frail frame.

“Dad…it’s not a big deal…” I tried.

“No…I…” he strained, “I will…teach.”

I watched as he gave one last heave, trying to lock his knees underneath himself before gravity took all his strength away. He’s chair gave a gentle huff as his body sank back into the wrinkled leather. He sat for a moment trying to catch his breath.

“Well…” he huffed, out of breath, “how about I…take a rain check…” he said with a Harold-like smirk.

“Sure dad.” I said.

“You go have fun, yeah?” he said while his eyes stayed fixed on his desk. “Hit a homer for the old man, yeah?”

“Yeah dad. I’ll see you later.” And I turned and walked out the doorway. I stopped just outside the door frame where his wondering eyes couldn’t find me. I stood and listened to the quite whimpers float from the black puddle room into my strained ears. I listen to his tears fall until they began to fall down my own checks. I closed my eyes and dived into one of the black puddles.

“Der-Bear?”

My eyes snapped open. The white room slapped my eyes with sharp pain, punishing them back into tiny slits. Everything was blurry again.

“Derick?” I felt Harold’s hand on my arm again. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah, “ I say, “My eye’s just hurt.”

“Here” say’s my mother as she hands me a tissue.

“Oh, thanks.” I say as I wipe the moisture from my face.

“Been through a lot, haven’t ya Der-Bear?” said Dad.

“Maybe he just needs some time alone.” Harold walks over to his briefcase and pulls out a big tattered black book bound with thick pieces of twine. “Here”.

I had recognized it before it was pulled out.

“You remember when Uncle Joe bought this for you?” asked Dad.

“Yes.” I say as I flip threw the pages.

“He said he wanted to support the arts.” laughed Harold. “Ok, well I think we should head on out for a bit. Derik, try to get some sleep. We’re going to have to let those reporters in at some point.” He stood and gestured towards the door.

“Ok Harold dear” said Mother as she stood up. Her cell phone begins to ring. “Go ahead and rest Derik. I will be right outside the door.” She runs out the room, phone in hand talking quickly about why Florida is the only state that matters.

“Sleep tight Der-bear.” Said Dad as he gave a weak smile and shuffled out the door.

“I’ll be outside if you need me bud. Don’t know if I can say the same for those two.” He says giving a smirk.

“Thanks Harold.” I say.

“You’re welcome bud.” He says before he shuts the door.

I look down at the black scrap book in front of me. I flip to the middle part. Each page has nine Polaroid’s of pictures I took of my art.

What started as an attempt to teach me the importance of a dollar, my mother sent me out into the neighborhood with a lawn mower and a sales pitch for the best lawn care from a nine year old. Having never mowed a lawn before, I gave it my best attempt, ending up with an expansive back yard that had no symmetry or design, just a random slew and slaloms of uneven lawn. The home owners where so taken by my job that they gave me a Polaroid camera and sent me up a ladder to their roof to take a picture for my parents. When I brought the picture back home and showed it to my dad, my Uncle Joe saw what I had done and was very impressed. He said I had a great artistic gift and should try to develop it. Having never been considered good at anything, I took great pride in what he told me. So he gave me money for a scrapbook, some film, and a camera and told me to fill it up and send it to him. And I did.

One day, while on another roof trying to find the right lighting for my thirty-fourth “Lawnscape”, the home owners daughter snuck up the ladder.

“HEY!” she shouted as she jumped up beside me.

“Wha?!...” I shouted and promptly lost my balance. With only a spring t-shirt and cut off jeans to protect me, the rough shingles took little pieces of my skin as I skidded down the roof. When I ran out of roof, I felt a temporary feeling of weightlessness as I hung in the air over the edge. Then I reached out, stretching every muscle in my ever changing body for that metal gutter that had already sliced a thick cut into the right arm when I went airborne, though I hadn’t noticed. I felt the metal tickle my left hand’s fingers, taunting their attempt to get back to safety. Just as my body began to feel that sinking feeling, I felt a firm yet smooth hand clutch onto mine. I remember being surprised by the strength of her grasp while it still remained gentle and comforting. As I dangled in the air, I felt the blood tickle my right hand’s fingers. I looked down and saw the blood drip and fall for days before it disappeared inside the spinning blades of the air conditioning unit below me. When I tore my eyes away from the terror below, I looked up and saw her silhouetted long hair ignited in the dusk sunlight.

“Hello.” I said.

“Hey” she strained.

“You’re beautiful.”

“You’re heavy, what’s your name?”

“Derik.”

“Hello Derik. My name is…”

“Amy…” I sighed as I opened my eyes. It was dark but the dirty yellow light made it hard to pick out any stars. I kept looking up, too afraid to look in any other direction. Down would mean facing the thirteen inch blade that was protruding out of my side. Left would give me false hope that the couple walking off in the distance would hear me yell. Right would flare up my neck ache from earlier. Straight ahead would put me face to face with myself in the window reflection and seeing my expression would only further confirm the fact I was being murdered. That only leaves behind me. Maybe if I turn around quick enough, he’ll lose his grip on the knife and I could try to run away. At the very least I can try to look him in the eyes. They say that’s a pretty noble thing to do when someone is killing you.

I take a deep breath. My eyes slid shut. I cringe at the thought of moving quickly, but I push it out of my mind. I could feel every centimeter he twisted the blade, like he was turning a door knob.

Like a band-aid, I thought.

I’ll need a band-aid.

“I’m going to pull it out now.” I heard him say.

“Ok.” I stammered.

I felt him put is free hand on the middle of my back and hear his feet shuffle to find a firm foundation. “Deep breath now, you ready?”

“Yeah” I choke out.

“Ok, One…Two…”

I swing my body around, trying to pull the knife out of his hand with my body. I feel the blade exit the same way it came in, but with a fiercer bite, like it was getting the last word in on an argument. I go numb as my back finishes its turn and rest against my car. I open my eyes. His bunny eyes are wide with fright. His arms are flailing around, desperately seeking a metal gutter to cling to. He topples backward, knife in his had still. I hear a solid crack, like when a heavy door is slammed shut. He’s laying on the ground. At any moment I expect him to roll over and find his feet, but his body is as still as the night. Everything is quite, nothing moves. I don’t hear the leaves crunch under my feet as I shuffle towards his body. The blood looks like big silk pillow under his head. His bunny eyes are still open, still wide with fright. He’s breathing. I can see his chest move. A very faint gurgling sound comes out of his mouth when his chest fills up. I look down at the cement and see my own blood pooling around me. I take the knife from his hand, it didn’t have much of a grip left. I stagger to my knees and raise the knife towards the black sky. There’s a dirty yellow glint coming off of the blade. I look down into the bunny eyes, still fixed in fear. The blade is very heavy in my lifted hands and all I want to do is put it down. So I do. I don’t have any energy left to stand and walk, so I crawl towards Amy’s door. If I can just get her to see me, get her to see what’s happened, then she’ll have to take me back. I just have to make it to her door…I just have to knock and she’ll come answer it…she’ll open it…She’ll see the blood and know she still loves me…Amy…The dirty yellow light is showering on top of me. It’s all I see. Its glow is draining away, like the last puddle of dirty water after a bath. Amy…I need…you….

I…need…

Amy…

“Amy” I exhale.

I pulled the plugs off of my chest and finger and got out of the hospital bed, starting for the door. The tile floor was an ice lake below me feet and I felt a sharp pain pulling at my hand. I looked down to see I was still attached to the IV. I tried to pull it out, but the pain was too much, so I opted to take the ivy off the hook and with me. I opened the door and began walking down the hall.
“Hey…HEY! It’s the guy! He’s out of his room.” Shouted a stranger hunched on the floor. Soon a whole room full of strangers were shouting and taking pictures. I ignored their questions and their microphones; all I cared about was finding Amy.

“Mr. Well, what happened last night?” Flash.

“Who attacked who first?!”

“Did you know who you were fighting?!” Flash. Flash.

I ignore the sea of bodies and their siren songs. Why hadn’t she come to the hospital? I asked myself.

Flash. Flash. “Did you know Patrick Duffy before last night?!”

Flash. Maybe she’s caught up right now, busy. Flash.

“Mr. Well! Where are you going?” Flash.

“Amy” I said trudging down the hall.

“Der-Bear?” I heard my dad ask as I walked past him.

“Derick? Derick! Where are you going?!” Harlod called out.

“Amy” I said again. I began to jog.

“Mr. Well! What did he say? Kamie?”

“Amy” I said again, louder. I saw the sunlight barricade behind glass. It reminded me of Amy.

“Derick, wait!”

The sliding doors opened with no buttons. Then a second set of sliding doors opened.

“Mr. Well! Who’s Kamie!?”

“It’s Kimberly!” Shouted my Mother as I passed her outside. “Sorry Johnathan, I lost you for a second. No, we have to win both Iowa and Florida or we might as well…”

“It’s AMY!” I yell and I break into a run. Past the drop-off loop I hop over a man in a wheel chair. Through the parking lot I graze a Priest trying to find his keys. Soon the questions and flashes are fading behind me. The concrete is hot cast iron under my feet, but the wind is cool and relaxed. I feel it flow under my medical gown, still the only thing covering my body. I’m down the street now. She can’t be too far. I know she’s on her way, I’ll just meet her while she drives in. I’ll just say her name and there she’ll be. Just say her name.

Amy…

Amy…

“Amy.”