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April fourth.
Toby knew not to bother Tim and Brian on that date. Something about an old friend’s birthday.
They would leave the house, trusting the other not to burn it down while they were gone, and not come back until well after sunset. Every year like clockwork, they would head out at six in the morning in the same outfits as every year before. Tim in his old red flannel and a specific pair of jeans with paint on the cuffs, and Brian in that ratty yellow hoodie he swore he’d get rid of eventually and a messenger bag that sounded like it was filled with hollow pieces of plastic whenever it was moved. Toby wasn’t allowed to touch it. But Tim and Brian weren’t allowed to touch that dark blue sweater he kept on his bed, so it was even.
They all learned the hard way to not touch certain things that belonged to the others. Tim’s go pro was a great example. He always left it on the kitchen table next to the oil lamp they kept for emergencies in case the power went out. There was a stack of batteries for it on the other side of the lamp. Neither moved besides on April fourth. The camera itself was still strapped into a harness with a chest mount, and hadn’t been removed (to Toby’s knowledge) since the first day it was put there. When Toby accidentally knocked it over during a bad tic day, Tim threw him into a wall and broke his nose, then didn’t speak to him for a week. Toby’s nose was somehow more crooked than before and there was still a hole in the wall. The camera was fine.
Once when Toby had an episode and was curled up under his bed (the Hands couldn’t get him there, the Eyes couldn’t see him) he clutched onto that sweater like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the real world. Brian had tried everything to coax him out. It had been a week and the kid needed to eat something, at least have some water. The Boss would be pissed if it wanted to send them for a mission and Toby’s body worked like a rusted toy car because he couldn’t get out of his head. Brian had tried to grab the other, accidentally getting a handful of the sweater, and before he could pull away his hand was being bitten like a rabid dog. It took another week for Toby to crawl out, and Brian’s hand had a scar in the shape of Toby’s teeth. Toby didn’t remember who the sweater belonged to. All he knew was that whoevers it was, they had meant a lot to him at some point. He hoped they were okay.
The bag was the worst of them. It was hidden the other three hundred sixty four days of the year, a place Toby had yet to find. Must be a good hiding place if the King of Hiding Things hadn’t found it. The first time he saw Tim and Brian leave the house with it and then couldn’t find where they later hid it, he resorted to asking Brian. Was it empty pill bottles? Old tupperwares they needed to get rid of? The thousand yard stare Brian gave made him shut up. It was almost the same as when Brian was under the static. Brian was scary when he was Hoodie. If asking about it made Brian, the man who gutted and deboned people like he would a chicken, give a look like that, Toby was fine never knowing, even if curiosity gnawed at his brain every time the bag came out.
Toby was never invited to join on this little outing every year. Not that he cared, it was a day with the house to himself where he could lay on the kitchen floor and not get yelled at for being in the way. Usually the day was spent either on said kitchen floor or lounging on the porch with one of Brian’s vape pens and a sketchbook. Once he was sent on a mission the night before and didn’t get back until noon, forgot the date, and thought Tim and Brian left him. They were the only stability he had, and if they were gone, he knew he would actually lose it. By the time they got back, Toby had chewed through the web-like skin between his thumb and pointer finger again and was perched on the railing of the porch like a gargoyle. He didn’t let either of them out of his sight for a week, sitting in the hallway where he could see into both of their rooms, barely sleeping, needing to make sure they didn’t leave again.
Five forty three AM, April fourth, ten years since the first time he saw his housemates leave until dark. Brian shook Toby awake, telling him to get dressed and grab his sketchbook. He did as he was told, confused by how cold and blunt the orders were. He didn’t fight back. He opted for a blue and black striped crew neck and a pair of khaki cargo shorts instead of his usual hoodie and jeans. This outfit felt right, he didn’t know why, it just did.
Tim was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with the window open, smoking a cigarette. Early start today, if the butts in the ashtray said anything. Toby knew that the tray was empty last night. He was the one that cleaned it. Tim’s gaze lingered on Toby’s shirt for a moment before taking a long drag, burning up the rest of his smoke, and stubbing it out along with the others in the tray. Brian had the bag again. Tim had an extra pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Toby had one of his sketchbooks in his backpack.
They piled into the car, Toby in the back like usual while Tim drove and Brian was in the passenger seat. Tim went through another five cigarettes during the three hour drive. Brian made him slow down and not blow through both packs before they even got where they were going. Tim’s window was open, blowing smoke from his mouth into the open air instead of into the car. Brian stared at the open road ahead of them, no music playing, completely zoned out. He wasn’t high or stoned in any way, he was just dissociating as hard as he could. Toby didn’t put in his earbuds, even though he had his MP3 player with him. This wasn’t the time for screamo.
The roads they took ranged from skinny one ways where they were the only car as far as they could see to highways with five lanes and traffic ten miles long. Toby still didn’t know where they were going. He saw a sign that said “Welcome to Sweet Home Alabama” somewhere along the way, which meant they were a good ways away from the cabin. It was relieving to be out of the state and remember it for once. Usually when they were out of Tennessee, they were on a mission and didn’t remember it besides maybe a blip in the static. Toby didn’t know the last time he stepped outside the state of Jack Daniel’s.
It looked greener here, more trees and people walking around. Music was everywhere, but that was probably because it was seventy in April and people were finally leaving the house again. They passed what Toby assumed was once a college campus, now devoid of any students walking around or cars in the lots. The doors were chained closed, signs all over stating that it was private property and not to cross it. Tim sped up.
Still they never talked. There was no noise besides the wind rushing past and the occasional couple chatting as they passed, kids playing basketball in the street and teenagers laughing over some stupid joke. And Toby’s tics. It was tense, but not uncomfortable.
Tim pulled into a Winn-Dixie parking lot, taking the key out of the ignition and walking inside. He flicked the remains of his cigarette under a random car as he passed, not caring about what happened to it once it left his hand. Toby and Brian sat in silence, watching people coming in and out of the store. Families with full carts and jumpy kids, elderly couples with a small bag of groceries to share, a college kid who was obviously high and was eating a resealable bag of Sour Patch kids by the handful.
It was weird to see so many people at once, all happy and dressed in bright colors, going about their daily lives without being jumped by this little trio. Toby watched as a mother picked her son up and spun him around as they walked across the parking lot, the boy giggling and the mother with the biggest smile on her face. Something about them made his chest hurt.
Tim was back in less than ten minutes with a bag of whatever he had bought, placing it in the empty seat next to Toby before they hit the road again. It wasn’t long before they pulled into another parking lot, Brian’s shoulders visibly sagging and Tim rubbing his eyes before they both stepped out of the car. Toby stayed put, unsure as to if he was allowed to follow. There was a park across a field of grass, clearly not well taken care of and empty despite the warm weather. The colors of the playground were dulled from years of being in the elements, but Toby was sure they had once been vibrant and full of life. A few broken wooden benches were around the woodchipped area, spray paint visible even from where he was sat.
“Get the bag,” Tim said, making Toby jump at the sudden instructions.
He did as he was told, climbed out of the vehicle, and closed the door behind him. Brian locked the car, and they walked in the opposite direction of the playground, instead heading towards the woods. Paths that used to be loved by bikers and walkers alike were now overgrown and crackly with every step, uncared for by locals and avoided by tourists. It looked haunted. It probably was.
Following his housemates into the woods was a normal thing to do. That was over half of their job, plus they lived in the middle of nowhere. Need firewood? Woods. Need a walk to get rid of that anxiety? Woods. The world is loud and you need some natural loud instead of artificial loud? Woods. Dumping remains? Woods. That was the answer to a lot of problems. But it was only normal if it was the woods by the cabin. This was not the woods by the cabin. This was the woods in Alabama, five hours away from the cabin.
Toby picked at the skin around his nails, needing something to do with his hands. He peeled away at hangnails and cuticles, skin raw and torn wherever he touched. Within minutes his hands were slick with blood, not that he noticed. Before he could reach his hand to his mouth to chew at his nails, Tim grabbed his wrist to make him stop.
There was a tunnel. A concrete half pipe tunnel filled with graffiti and built to extend out from both sides of a hill. Small dandelions grew in cracks in the concrete, moss over the lip of the tunnel itself, ivy wherever it could reach. It was oddly beautiful.
Tim took the first step inside, slow and deliberately placed, like he was scared the entire thing would disappear if he was too loud or too fast. Brian waited until his friend was a good few feet inside until he followed, Toby on his tail. Toby was paranoid about this place, it set off alarms in his head more than the old college campus did when they passed, and that place had his head aching with how off it felt for the few seconds it took to pass. Now he had no way to escape the weird feeling that crept over his skin.
Cross legged on the floor, Tim lit another cigarette and beckoned Toby to sit with him. Brian took a moment to set the bag down before he sat, the contents clinking together with that stupid plastic sound they always did when it was moved. Toby fought his brain to let him sit, sliding the bag over to Tim with a whistle and jerk of his head. Tim pulled out a plain white box from the bag, tearing the masking tape keeping it closer with his fingernail. He unfolded the box, making it lay flat.
A cake.
A chocolate cake.
Toby’s eyebrows furrowed as Tim lit a candle and stuck it in the dark frosting, looking like he wanted to tear out his esophagus rather than be there. Brian took a drag from a pen, blowing it off to the side. He looked…not relaxed, but he sat less rigid than Tim did. His body drooped with the weight of itself, like it was too much for his muscles to hold up.
“Happy fortieth, Alex. Wish you hadn’t been crazy.”