window. I am full of sharp memories and nervous visions. I head deeper into the apartment, undressing in the bathroom, the lights off, no need to remind myself of what I am, what I’ve become. In the hot water, my tears are lost, buried under the water. I’m sobbing, beating the sides of the shower with my fists, leaning over, my arms on the wall, the steam filling up the dark space. There is only so much I can do to protect Natalie, only so much I can do to change my own past. A smoky shadow twists and curls at the center of my being—I curse it, and cast it out.
It never listens.
This will be my undoing, my dark traveler. I pound the walls, bellow into the wetness, and clench my fists in pain.
And in the apartment next door, I imagine Natalie coming home, letting herself into the quiet, empty space. I see her head tilting in my direction, a finger at her lips in question, her eyebrows scrunched, her lips pursed. She will knock, I think, and again I will not answer.
Chapter 14
I hole up for days, lost in a gloom of my own creation, and it’s that lack of milk that gets me out of the house. No Count Chocula without milk. No Lucky Charms, or Frosted Flakes, or Honeycomb. And if I make those chocolate chip cookies I’ve been eyeballing, that sleeve sitting by itself in the center of the fridge—the one thing that cheers me up—then I need ice-cold milk to go with it.
Natalie did knock, not sure what day that was, but she knocked several different times. Between those knocks—between those moments where she stood outside my door, biting her lip, wrinkling up her nose, bopping from side to side, a song in her head—what happens? What is she thinking, where does she go, who are her friends?
There’s a little market up the street that closes at 10 P.M. , but I’m waiting until the last minute, hoping the crystal ball next door is asleep. I turn the lock to the right quietly, open the door, turn around, and key it shut. Dressed almost entirely in black, I ease down the steps like a spreading oil slick, chuckling to myself over the way I avoid a fifteen-year-old girl.
I don’t want to be just one more person that lies to her, so I avoid her lingering gaze, her questions, or spending any length of time in her presence. But I also don’t want to be one more adult that ignores her—that helps her to disappear.
The cold air whips around the streetlamps. Every other bulb is broken—shot out, hit with a rock, the kids around here bored so easily. One block it’s all blue-collar—men in dirty chambray shirts and jeans, work boots, driving old Chevy Novas and rusted Ford Explorers. On the next, it’s slick black Beamers and shiny Mercedes behind metal fences, stonework, and glass that won’t stop any bullets.
The illusions they hold.
“Hey, Holmes,” a kid says to me, sitting on the hood of his car. I keep walking. Two more lean on an iron fence, smoking weed and cigarettes, their heads wrapped in blue rags, long hair hanging down their backs, ink in script under their necks and dotting their temples. Plenty of light right here, it seems. Better to scope the hoochies, I guess. Three sets of coal-black eyes follow me, the sound of a bottle shattering on the ground to my right. I’ve seen them around, black teardrop tattoos at the edge of their eyes signifying years in prison, the loss of a loved one, or people they’ve killed.
“Fucking Casper don’t play,” one of them says. I keep on. But I feel it building, this thing inside me, my lower back tensing, spasms running up my spine. I hear footsteps.
“Where you headed?” one asks, the three of them sniffing around me, up on my heels. Like they don’t see me out here, don’t even care about my size, eager to get into something, see what happens, mix it up. Death wish, I suppose, nothing at home worth living for, no girl, no job, no life to really speak of. I’ve seen them smacking their girls around, pimping or just showing who’s in charge.
“Your
It never listens.
This will be my undoing, my dark traveler. I pound the walls, bellow into the wetness, and clench my fists in pain.
And in the apartment next door, I imagine Natalie coming home, letting herself into the quiet, empty space. I see her head tilting in my direction, a finger at her lips in question, her eyebrows scrunched, her lips pursed. She will knock, I think, and again I will not answer.
Chapter 14
I hole up for days, lost in a gloom of my own creation, and it’s that lack of milk that gets me out of the house. No Count Chocula without milk. No Lucky Charms, or Frosted Flakes, or Honeycomb. And if I make those chocolate chip cookies I’ve been eyeballing, that sleeve sitting by itself in the center of the fridge—the one thing that cheers me up—then I need ice-cold milk to go with it.
Natalie did knock, not sure what day that was, but she knocked several different times. Between those knocks—between those moments where she stood outside my door, biting her lip, wrinkling up her nose, bopping from side to side, a song in her head—what happens? What is she thinking, where does she go, who are her friends?
There’s a little market up the street that closes at 10 P.M. , but I’m waiting until the last minute, hoping the crystal ball next door is asleep. I turn the lock to the right quietly, open the door, turn around, and key it shut. Dressed almost entirely in black, I ease down the steps like a spreading oil slick, chuckling to myself over the way I avoid a fifteen-year-old girl.
I don’t want to be just one more person that lies to her, so I avoid her lingering gaze, her questions, or spending any length of time in her presence. But I also don’t want to be one more adult that ignores her—that helps her to disappear.
The cold air whips around the streetlamps. Every other bulb is broken—shot out, hit with a rock, the kids around here bored so easily. One block it’s all blue-collar—men in dirty chambray shirts and jeans, work boots, driving old Chevy Novas and rusted Ford Explorers. On the next, it’s slick black Beamers and shiny Mercedes behind metal fences, stonework, and glass that won’t stop any bullets.
The illusions they hold.
“Hey, Holmes,” a kid says to me, sitting on the hood of his car. I keep walking. Two more lean on an iron fence, smoking weed and cigarettes, their heads wrapped in blue rags, long hair hanging down their backs, ink in script under their necks and dotting their temples. Plenty of light right here, it seems. Better to scope the hoochies, I guess. Three sets of coal-black eyes follow me, the sound of a bottle shattering on the ground to my right. I’ve seen them around, black teardrop tattoos at the edge of their eyes signifying years in prison, the loss of a loved one, or people they’ve killed.
“Fucking Casper don’t play,” one of them says. I keep on. But I feel it building, this thing inside me, my lower back tensing, spasms running up my spine. I hear footsteps.
“Where you headed?” one asks, the three of them sniffing around me, up on my heels. Like they don’t see me out here, don’t even care about my size, eager to get into something, see what happens, mix it up. Death wish, I suppose, nothing at home worth living for, no girl, no job, no life to really speak of. I’ve seen them smacking their girls around, pimping or just showing who’s in charge.
“Your
Similar Books
