reality as if I fell out of the sky and just hit the ground. The swing comes to a screeching halt, and I look up to see who’s there. The streetlights are too dim to make out who it is, but I see the slight outline of a man.
“Hello? Who is that?”
He doesn’t answer. I feel the faint notion of fear quiver through my spine. I watch enough horror films to know how these situations end up for skinny guys like me.
“I said, who is that?” I try to hide the fear in my voice, but I know that my question came out shaky instead of with the confidence I want to pretend I have. I feel like I’m the victim in a slasher film, just waiting to get stabbed to death by Jason Voorhees with his machete. And here I am just calling out who’s there instead of running. If I am going to die, I want it to be by my own hands. I don’t like the idea of not controlling my own life.
“D-d-d-don’t worry, i-it’s me….” The stranger comes into sight.
Three times in one day? This is impossible. Is this fate, or am I dreaming? I don’t believe in fate, so I must be asleep in my bed. I slightly pinch my leg, and when the stinging pain shoots through me, I know I’m awake.
“Oh, hi,” I say in my usually awkward manner, followed by silence, because nothing else comes to mind.
Adam comes into sight and motions his head toward the swing next to mine. I shrug and say it’s fine. He sits down beside me, and he pushes off the ground. We start to swing in silence.
Well, this is interesting.
“So, what are you doing out here?” I’m the first one to break the silence on this weird moment we’re having.
“Just w-w-w-walking,” he stutters. “How about you?”
I nod. “Yeah. Me too. I couldn’t sleep.”
“N-n-neither c-c-could I.”
“Are you cold?” I ask.
“I’m okay. W-w-why do y-you ask?”
“You’re stuttering, so I thought you might be cold.”
I stop my swinging and look over to see his cheeks grow red in the faint light of the streetlights and underneath the half-moon. He looks away.
“It’s n-not the c-c-c-cold.”
Oh. Shit.
“I’m so sorry. Damn, I didn’t know.”
Adam lets out an awkward laugh. “I-it’s fine. You d-d-didn’t know.”
The seeds of guilt, which have been planted inside me, begin to grow. The vines plant themselves into the cores of my body.
“I’m sorry again,” I apologize once more.
Adam gives me a small, embarrassed smile and just waves my apology off, as if what I said was no big deal. Meanwhile the seed of guilt has now turned into a full-blown tree in my stomach.
I want to change the subject, but not a thought comes to mind, so I do the most reasonable thing I can think of.
“I have to go,” I tell him. “Good night.”
He gives me a smile and tells me good night, and I rush home as quick as I can, hoping to leave my mortification behind me, for it to just stay in the playground.
Sneaking back into my house is as easy as it is to sneak out. Once my parents are asleep, they are asleep. Not even the apocalypse could wake those two up. I make my way up to my bedroom, and I grab my medication. After stripping down to my underwear, I down three small white round pills. Trazodone is great for falling asleep. Not so great for depression, to be honest.
A COUPLE of days later, and I haven’t seen Adam again. I don’t know whether I’m happy or saddened by that. It’s funny how I can feel so many opposing feelings at once, each battling one another out.
On Saturday morning I wake up to the sounds of a car pulling up the driveway. I wipe the sleep from my eyes, and after opening my curtains, I see a small silver car sitting outside. The motor is turned off and a beautiful twenty-two-year-old woman, with wavy light brown hair, steps outside. She holds a suitcase in hand, and a duffel bag hangs off one shoulder. Clara Holbrooke, my older sister.
I quickly dress, and I make my way downstairs, just in time to see my dad bringing her into a tight hug. He
“Hello? Who is that?”
He doesn’t answer. I feel the faint notion of fear quiver through my spine. I watch enough horror films to know how these situations end up for skinny guys like me.
“I said, who is that?” I try to hide the fear in my voice, but I know that my question came out shaky instead of with the confidence I want to pretend I have. I feel like I’m the victim in a slasher film, just waiting to get stabbed to death by Jason Voorhees with his machete. And here I am just calling out who’s there instead of running. If I am going to die, I want it to be by my own hands. I don’t like the idea of not controlling my own life.
“D-d-d-don’t worry, i-it’s me….” The stranger comes into sight.
Three times in one day? This is impossible. Is this fate, or am I dreaming? I don’t believe in fate, so I must be asleep in my bed. I slightly pinch my leg, and when the stinging pain shoots through me, I know I’m awake.
“Oh, hi,” I say in my usually awkward manner, followed by silence, because nothing else comes to mind.
Adam comes into sight and motions his head toward the swing next to mine. I shrug and say it’s fine. He sits down beside me, and he pushes off the ground. We start to swing in silence.
Well, this is interesting.
“So, what are you doing out here?” I’m the first one to break the silence on this weird moment we’re having.
“Just w-w-w-walking,” he stutters. “How about you?”
I nod. “Yeah. Me too. I couldn’t sleep.”
“N-n-neither c-c-could I.”
“Are you cold?” I ask.
“I’m okay. W-w-why do y-you ask?”
“You’re stuttering, so I thought you might be cold.”
I stop my swinging and look over to see his cheeks grow red in the faint light of the streetlights and underneath the half-moon. He looks away.
“It’s n-not the c-c-c-cold.”
Oh. Shit.
“I’m so sorry. Damn, I didn’t know.”
Adam lets out an awkward laugh. “I-it’s fine. You d-d-didn’t know.”
The seeds of guilt, which have been planted inside me, begin to grow. The vines plant themselves into the cores of my body.
“I’m sorry again,” I apologize once more.
Adam gives me a small, embarrassed smile and just waves my apology off, as if what I said was no big deal. Meanwhile the seed of guilt has now turned into a full-blown tree in my stomach.
I want to change the subject, but not a thought comes to mind, so I do the most reasonable thing I can think of.
“I have to go,” I tell him. “Good night.”
He gives me a smile and tells me good night, and I rush home as quick as I can, hoping to leave my mortification behind me, for it to just stay in the playground.
Sneaking back into my house is as easy as it is to sneak out. Once my parents are asleep, they are asleep. Not even the apocalypse could wake those two up. I make my way up to my bedroom, and I grab my medication. After stripping down to my underwear, I down three small white round pills. Trazodone is great for falling asleep. Not so great for depression, to be honest.
A COUPLE of days later, and I haven’t seen Adam again. I don’t know whether I’m happy or saddened by that. It’s funny how I can feel so many opposing feelings at once, each battling one another out.
On Saturday morning I wake up to the sounds of a car pulling up the driveway. I wipe the sleep from my eyes, and after opening my curtains, I see a small silver car sitting outside. The motor is turned off and a beautiful twenty-two-year-old woman, with wavy light brown hair, steps outside. She holds a suitcase in hand, and a duffel bag hangs off one shoulder. Clara Holbrooke, my older sister.
I quickly dress, and I make my way downstairs, just in time to see my dad bringing her into a tight hug. He
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