by Danielle
Robert shook his head, the look in his eyes growing more resigned. "You have to go." The panic crept up into Oliver's shoulders, paralyzing him with a shrug. "I can't come with you. I don't have the energy."
"No, you do. You do. You can do it." As soon as the words came out of his mouth, Oliver knew they were a lie. Robert's body was failing him, and anyone with working eyes could see that. Oliver had so many questions, he didn't know where to begin.
"You have to go" Robert repeated.
"I can't just leave without you." Oliver sat firmly planted in the hospital chair besides Paul's bed all the meanwhile realizing that his time was running out. Surely, it would be any moment before the nurses began flooding the hallways once more.
"Don't worry about me. It's fine. I never expected to go anywhere else." Oliver's quizzical look prompted Robert to continue, though he paused for a moment to release a dry, rattling cough. "This was enough for me. All of it. The good, the bad. I just wanted a new place to go. This isn't enough for you, and I know that. You know that. That's why you have to go. I think your gifts were meant to be somewhere else other than Delafontaine." Robert stopped talking suddenly, as if the effort had become too much and had overwhelmed him.
Oliver stared at him, unsure of what to do while he composed himself. When he'd caught his breath again, Robert made a sudden movement for a small crumpled object by his bed side. His fingers closed around the object and he placed it in Oliver's outstretched hand.
"Here, keep this with you. As a reminder." The object was soft, cotton and rolled up. Oliver delicately took one finger and unrolled it. He blinked, and then look back up at Robert, recognizing it as the item found in his pocket during their room search. "Out of the darkness comes light." Robert traced the outer black circle and then the inner white circle. “The Delafontaine official motto?” Oliver asked, confused.
“It is, but I figured that it could work in many ways. Show it to everyone else.” Robert coughed again. “Do you like it? It’s our flag. You said you wanted them to know that they didn’t own us. Fly it.” Oliver looked down at Robert, unable to keep tears from flooding his eyes. His face was eager and for a moment it was like nothing had happened, like he was just showing Oliver something interesting on any ordinary day.
“I love it.” Oliver said, and he leaned over, clasped his hands behind Robert’s head and hugged him. They stayed like that for who knows how long, before Robert said in a stronger voice, “You have to go.”
And then, the fire alarm suddenly started blaring in the building once more, sending Oliver flying out of his seat. "You have to go now!" Robert mouthed. Oliver rushed over to the door. He pressed his ear up against it, hearing frantic voices outside. He started to open the door, but Robert mouthed “Wait”.
As he did, he heard the sound of footsteps hurrying past. The voices began to die down, and Oliver cracked the door, peering through the sliver in the hallway. The hallway was a ghost town once more. Oliver nodded at Robert before slipping through the door.
He closed it gently behind him, staring at Robert's silhouette within, hunched over and unmoving. And then, he ran. He ran down the corridor as fast as he could. Not just so he could escape before he was found, but so that Robert’s story would a blip in the past, because he didn’t want to think about it anymore. Oliver didn't wonder if this was goodbye, he knew it was. He didn't know if Robert was gravely ill or not---they would probably never discuss what happened to him. For many reasons, Oliver didn't entirely want to know. But, this was most certainly a goodbye, a diverging of paths so distinct that they could only reunite in death. Because death is the only stop that everyone gets off at.
He jumped at the window, unable to reach it. The window sill was just a little too tall. Oliver figured he could probably get it with a running start, and he turned around to start back down the hallway, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw Paul standing there before him. His fists were balled up like he was about to punch Oliver.
“Paul…?”
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re still here. You always did want to play the hero.” Oliver stared, flabbergasted. Paul stepped closer and Oliver lurched backwards.
“I know about it. I know about it all. Oh, don’t play dumb. “I know about you too.”
“How?” Oliver croaked.
“I mean, you told me.” Paul opened his fist and inside it was the familiar, crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out and cleared his throat.
“A Disciple is always discreet.” He said, in a high pitched voice. Oliver stepped backwards, colliding with the wall behind him. “A Disciple knows that his gifts are nothing to be ashamed of. A Disciple knows that there is nothing more terrifying than being normal.” Paul shrieked with laughter. “You know, this really is funny. It’s funny because you can think you’re getting the same opportunity in life that everyone else is, but really, you’re not even playing the game, because the game is already over. It must be nice to be special. What is that like? You see me, I worked hard to make a difference in my life. And you have to do is wish for it, right? That’s your gift, if that’s what we’re calling it?”
“No, it’s not like that at all.” Oliver protested. “A Disciple is owned by no one.” Paul rubbed his chin as if he were thinking deeply. “This line is particularly interesting to me. You have been special your entire life, and you come to a perfectly good school where you’re treated normally, and you can’t take it.”
“We aren’t treated normally here.” Oliver said. “Last time I checked, we were all criminals. Or do you think that doesn’t apply to you? Would you prefer the word ‘special criminal’? Does that have more of a ring to it? You killed your father. You’re lucky they’ll never be able to prove it.” Paul inched even closer. “You have blood on your hands now, and forever.” Oliver’s heart thudded to a stop. “Not just your father’s. People you haven’t even met yet. You know why. Because it’s a curse. See, your problem is this, Oliver.” He said Oliver’s name like it was a filthy word. “Your problem is you act like a god when you are really just a man. The Disciples, was it? Good god.” Paul laughed and laughed and Oliver felt his cheeks burning. “Wasn’t much of a secret, now was it? I tried to help you, you know. I tried to tell you what would happen. I thought the graffiti would scare you.”
Oliver guffawed in surprise. “You? That was you? Why?”
Paul rolled his eyes like a teacher who had grown tired of explaining the same concept over and over again. “I told you, I was trying to help you.” He shrugged. “They’re going to find you, you know.” Oliver looked at the window just above him. “Your stunt ruined a perfectly good festival. Dean Tenbrook is pretty upset.”
Oliver looked back at the window again. “I don’t intend to discuss it with her.” At this, Oliver leaped for the window. He grasped on the window sill, while his lower body dangled above the floor below. He inched forward, elbows slipping on the tile, and tried to swing his legs around the side, but they were suddenly caught. Oliver turned back to see Paul grabbing at his legs.
“He’s over here!”
The sound of many footsteps speeding up sent shockwaves through Oliver. He kicked back his foot as hard as he could, and he heard a crunch when it connected with Paul’s nose. Paul screamed out and blood poured from his nostrils. Oliver swung his foot around and connected with the top of the ledge.
“Over here, over here!” Dean Tenbrook and a number of armed guards suddenly slid around the corner. “Get him!” Dean Tenbrook’s face was red and a vein pulsed in her forehead. Oliver kicked back his other leg again, grazing Paul’s shoulder. He swung his foot around and crouched on the ledge.
The guards approached, five of them, with their hands at their waists. “Oliver. We don’t want to make this any more difficult than it needs to be. Get off the ledge, and there will be no need for us to harm you.” Dean Tenbrook walked forward stepped forward slowly. “We only want to talk to you.” Oliver laughed. He had had enough. A cool b
reeze floated in from the window, and Oliver found himself, despite the protests of his conscious, wishing hard for something. The breeze grew colder---icy, even---and the fluorescent lights in the hallway flickered twice, and then every light in the building exploded.
“Don’t let him escape.” Dean Tenbrook’s voice came from somewhere in the blackness, shortly followed by the bang of gunfire. Oliver scrambled out of the window, just as the glass shattered.
It took Oliver a minute to realize where he was. With a shock, he realized he was standing near the admissions office, right outside the plain building he’d asked Dean Tenbrook about on the tour. Gunshots rang out once more and Oliver ran. He sprinted down the main quad and towards the safety of the dark forest before him. The gunshots continued, soon followed by the sound of barking dogs. Oliver narrowly avoided the long path of the flashlights but he looked back to see snapping German Shepherds trailing close behind. The cover of the forest was within in his grasp and within seconds he slid in, collapsing in a mound of earth and leaves. He ducked behind a tree, and silently cursed the fact that the tree was nearly barren from the changing seasons.
“We have entered the forest. I’m sending the dogs forward. Will report back within the hour.” A guard spoke into his walkie talkie, too close for comfort. Oliver squeezed his eyes shut trying to remember where exactly the pothole was. Damien’s map showed up in pieces in his mind and he desperately tried to connect the dots. A guard walked by him and he held his breath so that it, along with the cold night air, didn’t betray him. When the guard passed, Oliver darted through the trees on a path he only hoped was right. He ran until he could no longer hear the angry growls, each sound from the forest sending him scurrying deeper into the night. After what seemed like forever, Oliver stopped to catch his breath. He put his hands on his knees, wheezing, and making big o shaped steam. He rubbed his hands together, as the cold had finally gotten to him. The ends of his fingers were bright red and stinging. He reached into his backpack and almost cried with relief when he felt sheepskin gloves beneath his swollen finger tips.
Oliver looked up at the moon. It was clearly visible through the bare forest canopy. He sat down---or rather, collapsed---at the trunk of a particularly skinny pine while the previous events of the night caught up to him. He fished around in his bag and withdrew two hundred dollars, a change of clothes, a jacket, several cans and packs of food, a canteen, a Swiss army knife, and his watch. He tilted the watch towards the moonlight and read “11:42pm.” His stomach rumbled, but he put away the food. Oliver leaned his head back against the pine and curled his hands up at the base, at a genuine loss for what came next. His fingers closed around a small, folded piece of paper. He opened it. The writing was blurred by dew, but he could still make out some of the words.
“Keep going north for another three miles. Then, east. You’ll see it.” The name at the bottom was blotchy, but with only four letters, Oliver knew that it said Owen.
He wobbled to his feet and set off again. Oliver walked and walked. The sounds of barking dogs soon became secondary to the rustling and chirping of night animals. He walked for as long as his legs would allow before settling besides a fallen log. He balled up the jacket from his bag and used it as a makeshift pillow before drifting into a sleep that was more like temporary death.
Oliver woke with a start the next day, as the sunlight poured down directly upon him. A fawn stood two trees over, watching him with large, unblinking eyes. He felt around for the note again, not sure if it was simply a mirage made up by his desperate mind, and sighed when he found it once more. Oliver peeled open his can of beans and gobbled it down, feeling a bit sad as he felt the can grow lighter.
He walked on and on, alternating between loving the silence and being afraid of it. This was the way he told himself continuously because he liked to believe that the universe would hear him. Oliver continued on, descending deeper into the forest, where searchlights could no longer touch him. On the third day, he slept stiffly underneath a giant oak, though he was grateful for the protection from the rain. Along with him slept the creepy crawlers of the night, and Oliver awoke at least twice to find centipedes resting on top of him. Something furry ran across his foot, but he found that he was too exhausted to investigate. On the fourth day, he set a fire, warming his hands around it and watching as the sparks danced up to the sky only to be turned into steam if they got too high. His thoughts drifted to the seniors, and he wondered if the pothole led somewhere they all wanted to go, or somewhere worse. He considered leaving the fire to burn, to keep him company, but instead stomped it out as soon as he had warmed the last of his soup. The ashes from the fire fizzled out, casting Oliver back in the darkness he had come to know as a close friend.
When the pothole came into his line of vision, Oliver nearly cried. He ran up to it and hugged it like a long lost friend. Down he went, descending into even more darkness. He landed at the bottom and he stood in the middle of two tunnels. Uncertainty rose within him, before he spotted another note on the ground near the leftmost tunnel. It was wet with sewer water and read “This way---Malachi” Oliver ran eagerly forward, splashing dirty water up all around him and never more conscious of how light his bag was feeling. The tunnel was dimly lit, the lights a sickly green color. Every so often they would flicker, and Oliver had to ask himself if it was of his own doing.
After some time, the end of the tunnel came into sight, and Oliver sped up, despite the protests from his legs. He grasped as the ladder and climbed, his elbows and knees cracking at every moment they could. He threw open the pothole and climbed out. Before him stood, perhaps, the longest, most empty stretch of road he had ever seen. He turned left and right, and saw nothing but smooth, paved road and grass for miles. A rusty bench sat close to the highway, a little too close Oliver thought, but he sat anyway. He didn’t know what day it was anymore. Cars zoomed close by, sending his jacket fluttering but his limbs refused to move.
Eventually, a bus rolled up to the bench. The doors cranked open, but Oliver sat unmoving. “Are you going to get on?” The bus driver yelled.
Oliver shook his head, exhausted. “This is the last bus going west for today. Where are you headed?”
“New Hampshire.” Oliver said, realizing he had no idea where he was currently.
“The main bus station isn’t too far from here. You can connect from there. I can drop you.” The bus driver was an older man with a beard that looked like it hadn’t been combed in days, although Oliver wasn’t exactly in any position to discuss one’s hygiene.
“Come on, now. I have to keep time.”
Oliver wasn’t even sure how his arms and legs were still working at this point, but he managed to board the bus and the first seat he could find, he collapsed into it. He could feel the other occupants of the bus staring. A woman with children in the seat next to him kept sneaking sly glances, while her children simply stared outright. Oliver pulled his coat tighter. He might have asked for a mirror, but he wasn’t sure that he wanted to see what he looked like.
The bus pulled into a station, filled with hordes of people and other terminals. Oliver stopped at the front before stepping off.
“How much?” He asked.
The bus driver shook his head. “I know trouble when I see it. You don’t need anymore. Good luck, son.” He thanked the bus driver and then wandered through the crowd of people before stopping at a terminal that connected to New Hampshire.
“I’m trying to get to the Meadow Treatment Center in New Hampshire.” He told the driver.
“The hospice?”
Oliver jerked backwards. “Um. Um Yeah.” Oliver stuttered.
“Yeah, this is the bus. About a two hour drive. $35 for a one way. You need a round trip? It’s only $55.”
“No, no. Just one way.”
“Any luggage?”
“No, just this.” The bus driver narrowed his eyes but waved him onto the bus.
Oliver collapsed into the seat and slept until he felt the
bus stop moving for good.
~
Oliver stood across the street from the Meadows Treatment Center, suddenly feeling very conscious about his appearance. He sniffed under his arms and wrinkled his nose at the smell. Well, Oliver thought, there’s nothing you can do about it now. He gripped his backpack tighter and walked through the parking lot and towards the center. A few well-dressed ladies carrying bouquets walked by and immediately burst into whispers, but Oliver continued on as if he did not hear.
He had arrived inside the center soaked, smelling and paranoid. You have to be a member of the family. The nurse remarked, taking a long, judgmental look at his person. I'm going to need to see some I.D. Oliver fished his Delafontaine School I.D out of his pocket, taking a moment to gaze at his picture. He looked young, naïve even. There was so much he hadn't known. He wondered if there was a higher power laughing somewhere, as he sat on his throne made of galaxies, bemused by the happenings of the Earth below.
Oliver kneeled by the hospital bed, hot tears rolling down his cheek. The nurse had told him that this was the room his mother would be in, but the woman in the bed was not her. She's not even going to hear you. The nurse said coldly, as Oliver rushed into the room. Indeed, his mother did not acknowledge his presence. The room was dark---the paisley curtains were shut, and the sun cast strange light patterns over the tile floor. The air smelled like metal and disinfectant. Oliver breathed in and he felt his lungs cringe from the dirty air. Before him, his mother lay in a crumpled heap that was barely discernible from a pile of dirty laundry. Her hospital gown was twice her size and cascaded off her frail body like waves. A mess of wires ran from her body to bags and machines behind her. There were so many wires and tubes that Oliver lost count. He reached forward to touch her, but at the last moment he stopped, and looked down at his gloved hands. Tears rushed forth and his vision became an unprepared windshield on the day of a monsoon. His mother's eyes were closed. If he had not seen her slow intakes of breath, he would have thought that she had already passed on. An ugly voice inside Oliver's mind reminded him that he was lucky that she was sedated. He hadn't prepared anything, because he didn't know how to say goodbye to someone he wasn't ready to leave. He watched as her chest moved up and down slowly, wondering if she knew.