The Wisherman

by Danielle

  And so begun his new routine. Oliver couldn't entirely say that he disapproved of it all. There was the added bonus of avoiding robbery, as he'd began taking his studies at home several days a week. He enjoyed the people watching, but resented his invalid state. It was as if his second chance at life had come and gone, but by his own hand.

  Oliver made his way back over to his window, the spot he sat in so often that his seat cushion had a permanent indentation in the shape of his bottom. The street was clear now, with a few stragglers who walked home appearing at the base of the hill across from the bus stop.

  "What does he mean he can't tell us?" His father's voice rose from the kitchen below, interrupting his thoughts and sending him barreling back to the present day. He imagined the look on his mother’s face, and he felt pangs in his chest. He wondered if he could tell her, if she would do anything anyway.

  "Bring him down here."

  His father snarled, and he imagined his father’s face all screwed up and his mustache fluttering from the hot air coming from his nose. He was all worked up, again. The words struck immediate fear into Oliver's heart. His heartbeat slid to his ears. He shut the curtain, plunging the entirety of his room into darkness, hoping that he might be, conveniently awarded some skill with invisibility.

  "Oliver?" His mother's voice came floating up from downstairs. In it, was a hint of uncertainty and something else that Oliver couldn't quite place.

  It took a few minutes for his brain to register that it was him they were referring to. He imagined it was because deep down inside, he hoped that it was not actually him who was being called. In his fantasies, he would go downstairs, tell them “Oliver”, whoever that was, wasn’t in at the time and he would get back to them as soon as possible. The thought brought a brief smile to his face, although it was quickly interrupted by his name, once more. Oliver rose from his chair, and walked slowly towards the staircase, the dread in his stomach growing by the second. He hobbled down the stairs, feeling strangely as if his body was acting of its own accord. He entered the kitchen, and couldn't help but notice that on any other day the scene may have been pleasant. The Donovan kitchen was quaint and inoffensive. The walls were plastered with yellow paisley wallpaper. One could stand at the small island near the stove and look out onto the comfortable wooden circle table in the center of the kitchen. Fake plants hung in twine baskets from the ceiling, looking freshly watered. Oliver's mother would sometimes move the plants around, to give the impression that they were growing. On this day, the long green tendrils hung loosely from the baskets, giving the entire kitchen the appearance of a small, suburban greenhouse. His mother and father sat on opposite sides of the table, avoiding eye contact.

  As he chose his seat in the middle, Oliver felt his stomach begin to cramp. He doubled over and slid into a seat next to his mother. His stomach gnawed at him like it had spontaneously decided to feast upon itself.

  "Now, don't start faking again. It won't work this time." His father's hot breath found the side of Oliver's face.

  "Nathan!"

  "It's true. It's true." His father's bellowing sounded far away, and his mother's soft voice felt closer, as if it were in his head. Both voices swirled in his head like yin and yang signs, although he was unsure which was darkness and which was light. Oliver's stomach clenched again of its own will, and his vision blurred.

  "Are you okay?" His mother grabbed his hand and held on tight.

  "Of course he's okay. He's faking, as usual. Don't fall for it. We go through this every week Missy, for Christ's sake! When is it going to end? When are we going to do what needs to be done?" His father spat.

  As his mother squeezed his hand, Oliver felt the familiar cold air envelope him. Panic rose in his throat while the cold wind picked up around him, sweeping papers from the table and eliciting a foul complaint from his father.

  "The draft in here is unbelievable…"

  SMACK.

  Abruptly as it had begun, the wind died down, and his father lay slumped over the kitchen table. His mother's screams pierced his ears, and Oliver fell back in his seat, too stunned to react.

  "Call 911, call 911. Nathan, wake up. NATHAN." His mother shook his father violently, whose head only flopped back and forth uncontrollably. His tongue lolled from his mouth and his skin had taken on a faint red color. Oliver looked back and forth between his mother and father, terrified not only because of the events unfolding in front of him, but because he wasn’t certain if he had made such a wish.

  Chapter 2

  The cop kneeled down and peered into Oliver's eyes, his face stony. Oliver felt the weight of his stare in his bones, and his knees began to wobble uncontrollably. The cop's mustache was less than an inch away from Oliver's face. He could see the emergence of gray hairs in between the smooth, jet black ones.

  "Whoa there, son. Don't be so nervous. We just want to take you down to the station and ask you a few questions. What's your name?" The cop reached down to put his hand on his shoulder, and Oliver lurched backwards.

  Son? Oliver cringed at the word, and he stepped back several paces. The cop righted himself and gave him a long look before excusing himself to speak with the paramedics. They were swarming the house, and had been since earlier that evening.

  The kitchen had become the scene of a television drama, the kind that Oliver never watched because he found them to be too scary. His mother stood talking to two cops, who each looked over at him at alternating intervals, while she wiped her eyes with a tissue they supplied. She was the weeping widow, claiming to know nothing. The paramedics stood in orchestrated positions, playing the role of somber guardians from this world to the next. And then, there was his father. The role he played, that of the deceased, seemed one that he was terribly miscast for.

  Oliver dared a look at him, and his eyes grew blurry at the sight. His father still lay slumped over the table, and he was alone. His fingers were still curled in a ball, from when he'd slammed down on the table moments before his death. The longer he looked at his father, the more uncomfortable he became.

  His mother was walking over, and she was wringing her hands, a habit of hers that reappeared in only the most stressful of situations. "Oliver…" She hesitated. "Why don't you head upstairs? We're going down to the station in a few days. I want to be sure you're rested." He nodded his head, although he was fairly certain someone else was doing it for him as it felt almost involuntary. The walk upstairs almost took everything out of him. Each time he lifted his leg, he felt his strength wane. And each time he lifted his leg, he thought of his father and how he would never lift his again.

  Once in his room, Oliver collapsed on his bed, his mind spinning from the events of the last few hours. He replayed the events in his head again like a film on repeat, and his heart thudded each time as if he did not know how this particular movie ended. He certainly didn't know how to feel. Fuzzy accusations floated around in his mind, each one more pointed than the last. Oliver couldn't determine how it had happened, but he knew without a doubt that he'd had a hand in killing his father.

  He drifted into a fitful sleep, awaking later only to find himself in the midst of a dream. Oliver stood in a cornfield. All around him, as far as the eye could see, corn rose uniformly from the ground. The sky was streaked with the purple tones of an evening palette. It was a peaceful scene, and he felt himself relax into it. Oliver walked forward, parting his way through the corn plants as if he were Moses parting the Red Sea. The corn stalks felt almost like gentle hands, guiding him through the sea, their touch delicate on his body. He walked further, although he wasn't sure how far.

  Eventually, the edge of the cornfield came into view. The seemingly endless rows of corn ended, and far in the distance a forest rose up from the ground, its sudden presence startling Oliver. The trees rose up like tiny sprouts at first, then grew taller and taller until he could no longer see the top. He walked closer, and he peered in. His eyes met nothing but hypnotic darkness. It drew him in, and if he st
rained hard enough, Oliver thought he could hear a low, tantalizing whisper. Oliver. He looked around, and the voice called him again. Oliver. I see you. He felt a chill run slowly down his spine, and he found his feet beginning to carry him backward. Then suddenly, out of the spiraling darkness a cloud of bats rushed out, throwing him to the ground. As he cowered under the swelling flock, he cracked open an eye, and he noticed something that made his skin crawl right off his body. The bats were not bats, but instead black hands flapping together. Thousands of pairs of hands clapped around Oliver, the collective noise sending more chills down his spine. It sounded like one million cars crashing. The swarm grew closer, and a particularly large pair emerged from the group, clapping in time to "Ring around the Rosie". The other hands began diving towards Oliver, as if they were hawks that'd just spotted a family of hares. The big hands loomed ever closer, clapping less than an inch from Oliver's face. At the moment in which he was sure that the hands would simply consume him, he awoke with a start and a sweat laden brow.

  ~

  Two days later, Oliver was fidgeting in the interrogation room at the police station. The ride down with his mother had been a silent one. He would have given anything to know what she was thinking. Occasionally, she would look through the rearview mirror, perhaps to see if he was still in the backseat. He wanted to assure her that he was, but he said nothing, instead giving in to the hypnotic sounds of highway driving. He closed his eyes for the remainder of the trip.

  He stared at the complimentary glass of water that a somewhat cheery deputy had given him minutes earlier, even though his throat was suddenly drier than the desert outside. The interrogation room was a small box with windows at every corner. Oliver imagined that the cops were looking in at that very moment, analyzing his every move. He grabbed the water cup and took a lengthy sip. The water ran down his throat, warm and sticky. The taste was metallic, and felt unfamiliar. He felt bile rise up in his throat, and he forced it back down. Outside of the interrogation room, dozens of officers shuffled by. A few stopped to peer into the room before going on their way.

  "Oliver Donovan?"

  The door to the interrogation room opened, and two officers entered. The first, a lady cop with short, cropped brown hair smiled at Oliver. He tried to smile back, but his face was frozen. The cop behind her was one of the male cops on the scene the day before. Oliver caught his eye as they recognized one another, and he felt his cheeks burning. The male cop smiled as well, but his gaze didn't waver and Oliver felt like he was under a sudden, hot spotlight. He was suddenly seized by the uncontrollable urge to run. It was only tempered by the shiny black gun sitting at the waist of the male cop.

  The cops settled down in front of him, and the lady cop cleared her throat. "Sorry, I've come down with a terrible cold. And in the summer too, isn't that a shame?" She smiled again, and Oliver supposed that this was the moment where he was supposed to smile back. It was always the first test on TV crime dramas. The friendly cop goes first, to try and draw the suspect out of his shell, and then the bad cop goes in for the kill. Depending on how the suspect reacted, that's how they knew they had their man. Oliver swallowed hard.

  As soon as he'd thought it, the word suspect boomeranged back around his mind, and wedged itself deeply in his conscious. He had in fact, just referred to himself as a suspect in his own father's death. How could they know?

  The female cop coughed lightly, bringing Oliver back to the present. Oliver nodded solemnly in response. The female cop studied him for a moment, before her smile gently faded and a harder look replaced it.

  "Oliver, your mom tells us you've been struggling in school. Tell us about it."

  He felt his shoulders rise of their own accord, into a half-hearted shrug. "There's nothing really to tell."

  "Your mother says she suspects you're being bullied, and that you won't tell her. It's okay to tell us, we won't tell her. We’re just trying to help you. I expect you’re going through a difficult time right now."

  Oliver looked down at the glossy table that separated him and the cops. The female cop coughed again, although Oliver was certain this time that it was more pointed than before.

  "Do you feel angry often, Oliver?" The male cop spoke this time, and Oliver felt his need to continue staring at the table intensify. The table was glass, and he found himself staring into a face he barely recognized.

  "No." Oliver said.

  "Your mother tells us that you fought with your father after coming home from the doctor's office. What was that fight about?"

  "Come on son, level with us."

  "Did you and your father have a violent relationship?"

  Oliver found it easy to ignore questions, it was a skill he had mastered over the years, but this one startled him. He quickly shook his head no, his eyes now absolutely glued to the table in front of him.

  The female cop leaned forward and touched his hand. "It's okay, you can tell us. My father was a pretty hands on guy, too. Sometimes, I had violent thoughts towards him too." Oliver recoiled sharply, and before he could understand what was happening, his feet were carrying him towards the door.

  In the moments that followed, Oliver experienced more thoughts and emotions in rapid succession than he ever thought possible, at once. As his legs carried him towards the door, he felt time slow down. The male cop's face contorted, but no words came out. His fingers closed around the door knob, and he threw the door back, eyes steadfastly focused on the "exit" sign at the end of the hall. A chorus of "STOP" rose from behind him, but Oliver kept going, his feet carrying him closer and closer to the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.

  The exit sign came closer in view--he could see the gentle glow of the red letters, when his entire body was consumed in a cramp. The cramp spread from its nucleus in his back to his limbs. The cramp spread through to his fingers tips, causing them to stiffen. He looked up at the exit sign once more before blackness consumed his vision.

  ~

  Oliver's focus slowly came into view. He was lying face down and as his vision slowly regained its clarity, he found himself staring at the cold hard tile floor. From behind, a hand abruptly bent his arm behind his back. "You are now being detained for resisting arrest." The voice, although it spoke directly in his ear, sounded far away and impossible to understand.

  He found himself being lifted up from the ground with two sturdy hands and being carried away. The only thought that Oliver could process is how his mother would never let him move in, now.

  Chapter 3

  "Resisting arrest? In a police station? Dog, you weren't even under arrest yet. Are you stupid?" Oliver's cellmate looked pointedly at him, his head hanging over the top bunk.

  The holding cell was small, ancient, and windowless. If someone told him that the cell had been built pre-Civil war era, Oliver would have no trouble believing that. He had been alone for several hours, but a short while ago, the cell door had creaked open, and in shuffled a boy about his own age. An officer had come in briefly to deposit a tiny meal for them both, a sandwich, soup and water.

  "Shut up."

  "No really. What the hell were you thinking? Why'd you run?"

  "I don't know." Oliver mumbled, and he said the words, he realized the truth in them. It had all happened so quickly. His mind had barely registered what his legs were doing before they were off running at Olympian speeds while his mind lagged behind.

  "You did it?" His cellmate was still looking down at him, his curly hair hanging limply from his head. It looked as if it hadn’t been washed in days, Oliver noted. His eyes were wide with disbelief, and something else.

  "I didn't kill him." Oliver said.

  His cellmate raised his hands up defensively. "Whoa dude, I didn't say what you did. I was just asking. That's the only reason people run, because they know there's no way out. I'm not blaming you if you did, I'm just saying. I've seen a lot of runners."

  Oliver's cellmate peered down at him curiously, eyes squinted. Oliver averted his eyes,
but there was nowhere to look. All four walls of the cell were an impossibly dull grey. The longer Oliver stared, the more he felt the walls were enclosing in on him. He looked back up at his cellmate.

  "Stop looking at me. Don't you have something to do?" Oliver snapped.

  His cellmate laughed. "I wish. I'm going to be in here until my mom comes and gets me. Which will be never, by the way." He paused and swung his legs over the top of the bed, before hopping down. He landed with a thump on the floor in front of Oliver.

  "Paul." His hair was curly and brown, and his skin had a slight ashy quality to it. To Oliver, he looked like the kind of kid that most mothers would never want hanging around. Paul stuck his hand out, and Oliver shook it, absentmindedly. As soon as he did, the lights in the cell dimmed briefly and Oliver felt his heart catch in his throat. When the lights came back on, he was concerned, but when he looked around, nothing seemed to have changed.

  "Bad lights too? This really is hell. And you didn't actually specify what you were in here for…. You know, what you did, or who." Paul said.

  "You didn't tell me, either."

  The two boys stood across the cell from each other, arms folded, at a standstill. They sized each other up like two roosters in a cockfight.

  "I didn't do anything" Oliver insisted. "I was in the wrong place at the wrong time." The understatement of the year, he muttered under his breath.

  "I could say that too. I don't know if I'm always in the wrong place, or the stuff they think I stole is." Paul leaned back on the stone wall, and huffed. He looked down at his folded arms.

  "What?" Oliver asked.

  "My mother never believes me, and why would she? I swear, stuff just comes to me. My teacher accused me of stealing her really rare vintage hand watch, her grandfather gave it to her." Paul said.