Chapter Text
The day after the 4th of July always feels hollow. After the fireworks have been lit, the fairgrounds have been closed, and the crowds have dispersed, everything feels that little more barren. The following morning, there’s a sluggish feeling to everyone’s movements, staggering through the streets, and a vibrancy sucked from faces, leaving only their skin flushed by sunburnt flesh. What stores are open lay vacant, devoid of the buzz of the previous weeks. At a brief glance, they appear almost deserted.
But this day is different. It’s not an ordinary quiet. There’s a suffocating silence. A choking ambience, stifling any possible clamour or murmurs from seeping through. An intangible grip, twisting and churning. It swallows up the gusts of wind, the melodic chirping of wildlife, the revving of engines, ingesting the sound before it can even reach your ears.
All that Will can hear is his own breathing, continuous and steady.
His first attempt to stagger out of bed is more of a trembling quiver than a concerted effort from his muscles to hoist himself up. A faint ache weighs down his body, as if heavy weights are strapped to his wrists and ankles. He tries again. This time, he’s able to overcome the strain in his arms and props himself up against the headboard. He rubs his eyes, unable to fully peel them open at the sight of the bars of sunlight cracking through the curtains. He titls his head to the side, craning his eyes away from the beams of light. As he does, a twinge of pain shoots through his head before quickly settling into a soft throb. He’s woken up with a headache.
He glances down at himself, still adorning his dirtied clothes from last night. Slowly, he grasps his collar and brings it up to his nose, taking in the odour. A hint of smoke still clings to the fabric.
He goes on to scan his room. He finds himself oddly surprised at how nothing appears out of place, or rather, that a snarling monster isn’t lying at the foot of his bed. His figurines stand in a straight line across his desk and old stuffed toys remain piled up in the corner beside his closet. No clothes haphazardly hang off cabinets or socks idly lie beside the door.
He eventually slips out of bed but before he can even let his feet touch the ground, the sight of a bloody nose materialises behind his eyes.
El.
As he desperately clung onto his mother, nails digging into the fabric of her clothing, he felt her grasp slip. A choked gasp warmed his neck. He attempted to grip onto her tighter as her hands slowly slid down his back, feeling her weight lean on his. He pulled back to match her gaze. She was no longer looking back at him. There was something beyond him. He craned his head to follow his mother’s eyeline, pushing past fiery embers and swirls of smoke, only to find El at the other end. Her face was scrunched up, bruised and battered, a trail of dried blood leaking from her nose. His eyes shot back to his mother. Her expression was hollow, eyes glossy and lips quivering. Like slotting in the final puzzle piece, it finally clicked in his head what had happened. A lump formed in his throat, clogging his airways.
A trembling hand rose from his mother’s side. Her fingers stretched out, grasping out for the girl, trying to bring her forward. El stood still. Unmoving.
He clenches his eyes shut at the memory. Fresh. A scab too soft to pick at.
Slowly, he hoists himself up and wanders to his closet. On his way he catches himself in his mirror leaning against the wall. Bob had meant to screw it to the wall. He never got around to it.
The mirror reflects his lanky frame and ruffled hair. His hands rise up his arms, one reaching his collarbone. He wants to squirm looking at himself. The longer he stares at his image, the more out of proportion he appears. Long legs and short arms. Denim shorts that dig into his skin and sleeves which scrunch around his shoulders. Shoes that are size too big and socks that he’s worn since he was nine. A sudden surge of rage shoots through his body. His hands claw at his scalp, tugging at his hair, his breath becoming laboured. Flimsily, he kicks off his shoes, chucking them across the room. When he goes to peel off his shirt, his head gets caught around the collar. He tugs and tugs, fists clenching the fabric tighter and tighter. Finally, with a hard yank he frees himself and discards it somewhere in his room. He’s sure he’s teared his shirt somehow but any regret eludes him as his eyes catch something. His back is half-turned away from the mirror.
A rash-like pattern tattoos his back, engulfing across his shoulder blades and trickling down his spine. The pattern sprawls across his back like bulging veins, however, it don’t rise from the skin in their typical fashion. His fingers tremble as he curves his arm around his torso, reaching out to trace along the markings. His hand shoots back. He tries to swallow down his terror.
It’s rough. Like dry skin.
The pattern seems to congregate around the centre of his back, just above his hips, as if emanating from it. He finds himself unable to look away.
A thought festers at the back of his mind. Initially, it’s just a spark. Lit before it can even breathe. It flickers again. The embers grow.
Something is very wrong.
Suddenly, he hears a reverberating clatter echo from outside his room, twisting his head in its direction. A new smell grips his attention, an oily sizzle filling up his nostrils. He’s able to finally pull his gaze away from his reflection as the distraction of his rumbling stomach overcomes him. Gathering up a fresh set of clothes, he steals one last glance at the mesh of sprawling vines across his spine. He feels his jaw tighten.
Will peers down the hallway, feet gently gliding across the floorboards. As he reaches the kitchen, he hears a pop sound release from around the corner. There’s a sharp wince. He finds Jonathan hovering by the stove, frying something on a pan with his right hand pressed against his lips. He takes in a deep breath and hunches over the stove.
“You okay?”
A jolt shoots through his brother, spinning around to face Will. He lets out an exasperated sigh before immediately returning the side of his hand to his lips.
“Yeah, yeah I’m fine.” He responds, his voice muffled against his thumb.
His brother’s eyes dart back to the stove before grabbing the metal spatula beside him, scooping a fried egg off the pan. After plating it alongside a stray piece of toast, he motions over to Will.
“How about you take this. I’ll make myself another.”
Hesitantly, Will accepts his brother’s offer. He pauses as he watches Jonathan dig through the fridge. He hears the shuffling of half-empty cartons and near finished jars of jam, his brother eventually letting out a quiet sigh. He hangs onto the handle of the fridge before retreating back over to the toaster.
Will finally sits himself down at the table, prodding away at his breakfast. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots his brother leaning against the counter, watching him. If it was any other day, Will might snap at him for his obvious overbearing behaviour but any energy reserved for that has been drained out of him. He can barely bring himself to open his mouth.
Jonathan eventually joins him at the table. The crunching of burnt toast and the scraping of cutlery fills the air. His brother takes a swig from his mug before scarfing down the rest of his toast. His eyes flutter close before attempting to shake himself awake again.
Will stares.
He notices the cut along his brother’s forehead, hardened into a long scab just above his right eyebrow. No longer shadowed by his hair, his fringe has been pushed back to reveal the mark. Will’s eyes remain transfixed on the soon-to-be scar. Jonathan’s gaze flits over to his.
“How was… how’d you sleep?”
“Fine.”
Jonathan nods as if to reassure himself of his brother’s response.
The room is silent again.
Will glances back down toward his plate, met with a gooey mix of egg yolk and bread crumbs. As he lifts his fork to his mouth, the taste that hits his tongue makes him grimace. The image of a bellowing monster flashes behind his eyelids. Oozing flesh and pulsating veins. He screws his eyes shut. Saliva fills the inside of his mouth. The lump of food congeals at the back of his throat. With each squelch of food chewed between his teeth, his stomach churns. With a final gulp, he lets the food slide down his oesophagus.
Will eventually pipes up. “Do you know how the others are?”
His brother’s gaze flicks over to his. He scrunches his brow, digging through his brain to peel back a response. “I think Nance… came up with some crap about picking up something from the mall. Mike tagged along.” He pauses for a moment before adding, “I don’t know about your friends though.”
It doesn’t do much to settle the queasy feeling in his stomach but he sends a grateful look in Jonathan’s direction anyways. Once he finally finishes his plate, his brother immediately leans over to scoop it up and heads over to the sink.
He doesn’t linger long, wondering back down the hallway. As he approaches his mother’s room, he softens his pace, slowly lifting one foot after the other. The door is cracked open. Will pauses. A searing sense of shame washes over him as his curiosity intensifies. His gaze remains on the sliver of carpet unsheathed by the entryway. He tilts his head inside. He finds the room enveloped in shadow, barely able to make out a single shape. Squinting his eyes, he finally spots the scraggly nest of brown hair which rests atop the pillow. Curled in beside his mother is another tuft of hair of a shorter length. El. Hands shield the crown of her head, gently tucked away under strands of hair.
The regret is overwhelming.
A soft breeze runs through his hair. It’s a cold release from the overbearing heat, rinsing off the beads of sweat on his forehead. A whistle sings through the trees, branches slapping against each other with every airy breeze. As he pedals, Gusts of dust brush his legs. The wheels of his bike trample over gravel and pinches of pebbles as the path becomes more and more uneven.
He begins to soften his peddling as the widening gasp of blue comes into view. He cycles just up to the dirt path as the ground transitions from luscious green to rocky earth. Stray bottles and abandoned hand-held flags litter the trail, swept under blades of grass.
Will pauses. His eyes linger on the blue expanse, highlighted by blinding white. Shuffling off his bike, he approaches the edge.
Far off near the centre of the lake, he spots a trio of ducks. A mother and two babies. Bursts of water splash behind them as the mother sways around her two ducklings. As she guides them, she never strays too far, always remaining rigidly beside them. Whenever there’s a stray branch or piece of trash, she hurriedly ushers them along, making sure to shield her offspring. The little ones meander along, occasionally nipping at one another or sticking their head below the surface. They continue to glide off into the distance.
There’s someone else here.
Will snaps his head round to face the disturbance.
A stiff expression meets his gaze.
It’s Mike.
The first thing that grabs his attention is the fresh stitches littered across his face. It curves over the bridge of his nose and settles just above his upper lip. Just below his right eye there’s also some residue bruising in which splotches of yellow and purple have blossomed.
The sight twists a twinge of guilt in his heart. Aside from a few aches and pains, Will has no bruises, no gashes or scars. He can walk around unfettered by injury and bypass ogling stares. He’s unscathed. Whole. Safe.
The pair stare at one another for what seems like forever, a never ending gaze blending into one.
Mike takes a step forward.
He seems to pause to assess Will’s reaction, eyes ever so slightly narrowing. Will doesn’t shift from his position. Mike’s posture relaxes, his shoulders dropping. He continues to etch closer until he joins Will’s side. Seemingly trying to make as little noise as possible, he slowly crouches down before settling alongside him. There’s a feet or two of distance between them, far enough to maintain appearances but close enough to earn Will’s scrutiny.
His mind wanders back to a stormy night, rain pelleting down on him. The chilly sensation of droplets creeping down his neck, his shirt sticking to his back like a second skin, the pool of water slowly filling his shoes.
Mike seems to shift beside him. He fiddles with a stray rock with the end of his shoe, eventually kicking it into the water. At the edge of his gaze, he sees Mike’s head tilt toward him before hastily turning away.
Will faces him head on.
He screws his face into a steely expression. He doesn’t furrow his brow or curve his mouth into a snarl, simply remains firm in his gaze, unyielding. He waits for the other boy’s response.
With a stiff turn, Mike finally matches his gaze. This time, he isn’t hiding behind a sheepish glance, rather his face is tight with anguish.
There are things Will wants to say. So many things. Words he wants to spit with acidic venom and let sizzle on Mike’s skin. Insults he wants to sharpen and cleave through his heart. Memories he wants to cram down his throat and make him choke on.
But what he wants is not always possible.
He settles for silence.