Chapter Text
~Start with a doctor. The bottom of his eyes are puffy and wrinkled like wilted flower petals. The blood on his hands, chest and lap remind him of that painting he pretended to be infatuated with while on a date with a girl old enough to be his youngest daughter. And like then, he's asking himself, what's the point of anything?
He sits there in front of them for another second before removing the red gloves that'd first been yellow. He gives orders to stunned nurses so young but no longer cushioned by fantasy and thinks that maybe this time, maybe this time he'll really quit.
"I'm sorry," He said. He doesn't remember changing out of dirty scrubs or walking to the waiting room where there's only a single other person that hadn't known the bodies, "I'm sorry."
A man, raised the way millions of men are raised, rebels against tradition and wails. His face, handsome as it might've been, breaks into shards that the doctor has seen only a handful of other times before. These shards pierce his spirit, tearing him wider into blackness that only knows how to take, and take, and take.
This will stay splintered onto his skin for years, but he won't quit. He knows he won't really quit. The darkness will fade to gray and then into a foggy white and he'll be able to move on, move on eventually because thank goodness this never happened to him and never will.
~Start with a three year old boy. He's wearing Winnie the Pooh slippers, his favorite Scooby-Doo pajamas and is wrapped around a blanket that came before he was born. He tugs at his father's shirt to say he's still cold, but he can't properly talk yet so he whines.
Mucus starts running down his nostrils because the blanket unfolded from the top of his little shoulder. His Dad doesn't have the strength to pay him any attention, he doesn't know why, but he knows better than to keep asking when Dad's face looks that way.
The doctor that went to go take care of his Mom comes out of a corner quietly, he's short and wrinkly and although he's got the same look of frustration all grown ups wear, the doctor scares him
"Ma?" The boy whispered. His throat is dry from the cold and no one hears him.
He really wants to see her. She would have fixed his blanket. She would have held him and known that that's how you keep each other warm. But his Dad said she was working hard right now after all his crying got quiet. His Mom always said he was a good boy and so he didn't throw a fit again.
"I'm sorry," The scary man said. He says it like the way his Dad does when the sky is dark and the food is cold and his Mom is dressed pretty but isn't talking anymore, "I'm sorry."
"No... awe God no. No, no, no, NO!"
The yelling makes the boy jump in his seat. His Dad is gone, but somehow someone else – a complete stranger – has quickly taken his spot. The Mister is shaking and he's crying and Marco pats his back with plump hands all toddlers have. He's going to be a good boy until his Mom and new baby sister come back.
~ . ~
"Hey, brat, quit runnin' down the aisle before you trip on your laces again! Don't think I can't see ya when I've got this big ol' mirror right here!"
Connie plops down in his seat with a whoosh, passing right across from me and not really caring about what the bus driver has to tell him, "Yeah, my bad, my bad!"
"Heh! My bad he says. Damn good for nothing sons of—," She shuts the double doors with a hiss from both her lips and the machine, burping a curse as we start moving, "And you in the back sit'dan before I leave ya here ta rot!"
What are summers without the sense of being able to be as rowdy as possible when the sweet chime of the last bell rings?
The one's walking home have their sweaters swinging in the air or tied around their hips, popping, chewing and smacking gum that usually goes unnoticed during class. They're enjoying the heat from the sun on their shiny, greasy, unwashed hair, but no one cares if they smell because they all do.
The teenagers who already have their license are long gone, not wanting to have waited until the dragging buses got moving. But they feel that maybe they should have because then their classmates could've seen how grown up and cool they look with their windows rolled down and with their music obnoxiously high.
Behind car drivers are the car riders. They're waiting on the friends who've already graduated, or dropped out, to come pick them up with their college caps, exposed shoulders or working uniforms on and celebrate the beginnings of summer vacation. They yell and laugh to make sure everyone sees them get in only to wait in line with the rest of the unlicensed.
"Scoot over a bit, Marco, there's barely any room," Reiner tells me after hopping from his seat in the back to ours. I don't think he knows how big he is because he's always sharing a seat with me and Connie. How funny we look, three seventeen year old's in one seat that also carries the hinds of elementary children.
"If I scoot any further, I'll be sittin' on Connie's lap. Why don't you ever stick to your seating partner? He's ain't that bad to be around."
Reiner looks back, along with me and our other friend. Marlowe isn't mean or anything, he's just a little weird, but who isn't? His hairs the shape of a coconut and he sits so straight someone could probably iron their clothes on his back if they bent him over. He likes to randomly quote things from books or poems that I don't think mean anything, which is probably why people find him annoying, but sometimes it's nice to listen.
"Naw, he's not bad, but he's not my buddy either … Now scoot your tiny ass, half of mine is falling off!"
"Why the hell didn't you two stay after school today?" Connie squawks, I do too. Our hip bones were meshing into one another.
"Because," I groan, "Rei didn't want to and neither did any of the girls. They kicked me out and locked the door before I could even plead my case."
"Ngh, why didn't you just take the damn key then?"
"Sasha … Sasha shoved it down her panties."
"That girl, I swear. I feel bad for the sucker that's gotta tame her."
"And I feel bad for the sucker that ends up with the two of you. Quit being selfish and sit on top of the other before I just spread myself like butter on your laps."
I look at Connie and he looks back. His face is pink and dripping with the season's heat, having no help from the open windows slapping our skin. His hair is stiffly gelled up like an angry lovebird's Mohawk, but soon enough he'll shave it all off for his summer survival.
"Rock, paper, scissors?" He asks.
"Rock, paper, scissors." I agree.
I lose.
"C'mere little lady," He laugh, Reiner sighs with relief.
"Next year, I think I'll stick to the front of the bus."
"Sure you will—ouch!" Connie shoves me against the front of our seat the second my behind touches his legs, "You got knives in your pockets or are you really that skinny?"
I dig into the back of my jeans and pull out one of the wood shop knives our teacher had thrown away. It had been wasted into a dull knob, but I can fix it, "Yeah, I got a knife in my pocket."
Reiner laughs an old man laugh, taking over where I had been as I sit on my friend. I think I'll only be okay doing this with them because they've been in my life longer than seven years. You can't do this with complete strangers.
"You almost killed Connie Jr, you jerk. At least let me use 'em first."
"Yeah, my bad, my bad."
He catches the way I'd echoed him and digs a knuckle between my shoulder blades. I don't know why book bags are prohibited on the last few days of school, but it feels like it's its last betrayal as I do nothing to defend myself against him.
Like most kids in Jinae, I met all of my friends early in my childhood. I have no siblings so I was always nice to everyone I met and did what good boys do and shared my things. We're all raised similarly since we live in a tight-knit town, so they were nice to me in return.
"Are you guys goin' to Eren's house today?" I ask, looking out the window. I count one Golden Retriever, three Golden Retrievers, four Golden Retrievers … There's lots of joggers around this area.
"I dunno," Reiner sounds sleepy, "we're having a cook out tonight so I might just invite all of you guys over."
"Your dad get that raise?"
"Yep."
"Nice," Connie slurps, "that means you'll be having premium steak. Marco, make that that thing you always do when we eat meat."
"I'm not goin'."
"And why, might I ask, not?"
"Ladies and gentlemen of the class of two-thousand-nine, wear sunscreen—"
Connie sighs, "Oh there he goes. I was beginning to wonder if he was gonna make a speech today. Someone needs to tell 'im the two seniors in our bus haven't been here for the past three days."
"—If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it—"
I rest my forehead against the swamp green seat. I'm too tall for it and it aches my neck fast, but I don't move. The wind blowing through dries the moisture on my skin and it feels like it could be someone's breath instead. I don't mind the vibrations from the bus making my teeth rattle, making my cheeks jiggle, making the bun on my head wobble.
I'm good at not minding things, and professional at distracting myself.
Every year during the Fourth of July, the town gets together in City Hall to celebrate. They host a half hour parade with homemade floats by the locals who put too much time and money into it, and the school's band gets paid in raffle tickets to march with them in the afternoon heat.
"—The long term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience—"
"You're fifteen years old, you've got no experience!" A kid in seat twelve shouts.
Nothing ever really changes. Volunteers still put up a fair grounds in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot – so far there's been no accidents and that's a miracle I'm sure someone's always praying for. Mothers build food stands, farmers charge half a limb and soul for horse carriage rides, coaches throw baseball games, football games, soccer games.
There's singing outside where your stage is made out of hay, people drink, people dance, and you watch grown ups throw up when all their good times don't stay in their bellies. But I think the best part of our celebration is the soap box derby race.
"— Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth, oh, never mind. You will never understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in twenty years you will look back at photos of yourself—"
I want to be part of that tradition. I was too young before, actually I still am, but I'm hoping who's ever at the sign up office doesn't think there's much of a difference between eighteen and seventeen. I've only got one plan on what I'd do if they say I can't join and it's not a very good one.
"—And recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine. Don't worry about the future or worry that know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum—"
"Don't go saying math words! We just got out of school!"
I really need to join that race.
"—The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind – the kind that blindsides you at four PM on some idle Tuesday—"
A group of kids throw balled up paper at Marlowe, finally getting him quiet. The bus driver doesn't appreciate the trash and promise of extra work given to her, and pulls us over to stomp her way to the source of the canon balls.
Her necks goes red and I can see the veins popping from it like a strummed guitar. She's always this mad, and you'd think that by now we'd be used to her scornful flashes, but I'm still scared of her because she takes comfort in putting us on the spot. But I don't blame her too much, we've all been suffering for nine long months together and even I've gotten tired of some of the kids in here.
Because I don't want to accidentally make eye contact, I look out the window to see where we've stopped.
“Not again,” I whisper with fear.
This woman really must hate us. We're sitting ducks in the middle of moving traffic! And like before, the light ahead of us is as green as as the sun is yellow, but nobody's moving. Nobody's trying to pass a stopped bus carrying a load of whiny kids. A load that some fathers probably wish they hadn't shot.
Smart people, I think, tinkering with the knife in my hands to calm me down.
Well, I think that until a horn starts blaring from behind. Way behind. We all look back to see who it is, even Ms. Bunny who was busy shoving her sausage finger up some guys nose snaps her head up. It wasn't hard to find the culprit, the car stuck out like a sore thumb.
No. A silver thumb. A silver Lexus. We hear – and see – the tires screech as it backs up, almost hitting the truck behind them that could've demolished their expensive behind. The car snaps forwards and shoves itself onto the next lane.
"This asshole's got some death wish or something?" Reiner yawns.
But I don't answer. I watch as the stupidly brave and impatient Lexus rider passes us by with a middle finger hiding their face – flashing a silver ring on it to tell us he's too important to wait. Ms. Bunny just about pisses her pants right then and there.