by J D Jacobs
“What are you doing here?” I hurriedly ask the faceless, not having time for any of his games right now. I haven’t seen this Grim in a month–since my first day in Tryton–yet he picks now to show up, at the most annoyingly-inconvenient time.
“What was that?” I hear my dad call out from behind me, and I turn around to see him and Jenkins throwing baffled looks at me.
“Dammit, Starfoxx,” the Grim begins, and I know what he’s going to say before he says it. “Don’t you remember that nobody except for you can see or hear Grims? Your dad thinks you’re talking to yourself right now, which makes you look dumber than you actually are. And trust me, that’s a hard task.”
I turn back and stare at the Grim with malice, knowing I can’t say anything to him without further proving his point. “Take this paper before they lock you back up in this hospital and throw you in a straitjacket.” He extends his hand for me to grab the paper, and I snatch it out from him. He then swipes his forehead–about where his eyebrow would be–and disappears.
“I, uhh… I found it,” I tell my dad and Jenkins as I put the paper in my pants’ pocket. I’m not sure if they saw me grab the floating piece of paper, but their looks signify that my actions in the last twenty seconds are just as questionable as they are dangerous to my health. Apparently, when Tryton was watching me while I was alone in Westwood, my conversations with Grims were instead interpreted as conversations with myself, which brings back the whole mental instability issue that the Grim mentioned.
“As long as you have it,” Dad breaks the worried silence and blows the entire ordeal off for now. There’s a much more important situation to bother with at the moment.
“Yeah,” Jenkins cautiously responds, eyeing me as if I spewed voodoo hymns and cursed him. “Gerard, Keaton, we’re ready. Lead the way.”
The two muscular men, who haven’t averted from their stern, emotionless look behind their dark sunglasses, give a slight nod and head toward the door. The two men stand shoulder to shoulder as I stay between my dad and Jenkins, and I focus on the back of the bodyguards’ jackets as I walk. As the automatic doors of the hospital glide open and my foot steps off the shining floors of the hospital and onto the concrete that marks the beginning of the outside, I’m left breathless at the eruption I’m met with.
The crowd explodes in an uproar, yelling cheers and screaming for joy at the sight of the five of us making our way down the roped off strip. The sound of the cheers is deafening in itself, and the fact that I can hear my name continuously being yelled from the crowd is a lot more unpleasant than I had assumed.
I can’t do it, I repeat in my head. Dad must sense my uneasiness, as he rubs my shoulder and gives me a soft smile.
I try to keep my head down and avoid looking out into the sea of people, but the sun is bouncing off the streets just as violently as it was on the bleached skyscrapers. Tired of being blinded by the ground, I turn to my left to get a glimpse of the people who are yelling for me as I walk by them. A middle-aged man with a broad smile claps in my direction. A woman holds her hands in the creases between her eyes and nose to try to prevent from crying tears of joy. The look bares resemblance to the gesture my faceless Grandmother made to me back in Westwood when I found her dead body. I swiftly turn my head away from her and look to my right side.
My eyes skim down the row of overexcited people until I notice one kid in particular. The kid is shorter than the ropes that have him blocked off, but he still grasps on to it as he reaches out for me with his other free hand.
And I’m suddenly reminded of something I had forgotten about: the first nightmare I had in Westwood after the Cozmin left me abandoned. I’m reminded of the first time I felt alone while being surrounded by thousands of unfamiliar people. I’m reminded of the blinding bleach surroundings, the horde of people that have no identity to me, screaming my name with outstretched arms reaching for me.
But the last quality I notice from the kid is more important than any of the others, and it doesn’t register until I pass by him. I turn my head around to confirm what I saw. The kid holding on to the ropes has no face.
I instantly become nauseated as sweat starts traveling down my jawline. My breaths become heavier and harder to find. I remain focused on the men in front of me, praying I don’t start hearing “murderer” or “traitor” being yelled at me from the crowd. “Dad, I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can,” he reassures me.
“No, I mean I physically cannot do this. I’m light-headed. I…” I look over his shoulder toward the crowd to see another Grim–a young woman–cupping her hands around her mouth to cheer me on. No telling what the words she’s yelling are. “Dad, take me back right now.”
“Sorry, Jaden, but it’s a little too late for that,” he tells me with a chuckle to ease my nervousness. As he finishes, one of the guards in front of us takes a step to the side as the other climbs up the stairs to the stage.
As we make our way up the stage, the crowd begins universally chanting my name. It takes every ounce of strength in me to prevent my hands from clamping against my ears. I don’t know if it’s the citizens or the Grims that are chanting, but I want them to quit. Quit praising me. Quit haunting me. I want everybody–the people and the Grims–all to leave. I want to be back in Westwood, alone. I shouldn’t have let them take me in here.
Dad and I make our way to the only two chairs on the stage, and the other bodyguard heads to the stairs on the opposite side of the stage. Jenkins strides up to the podium to begin this punishment of a ceremony I’m granted with.
“Citizens of Tryton, good evening!” Jenkins fervently bellows into the microphone. His cracked voice explodes from the speakers that surround all sides of the stage, and the crowd responds to his greeting with even more idiotic yelling.
“It’s good to see the entire city gathered here together again. I hope all of you are having a marvelous day, and if not, I ensure that you soon will, as we would like to cordially introduce to you a very special person!”
Please shut up already, I think to myself. I can’t look out into the crowd without seeing a mixture of eager citizens that await their deathbeds or the blankness from the Grims that don’t seem to want to leave me alone.
“This person has endured this dreaded disease much longer than anybody else has ever dreamt of. He was found in the small town of Westwood, Mississippi, where he had been for five months after the spread of the Cozmin.” Jenkins continues babbling on about me, telling my life’s story and throwing compliments that he himself doesn’t actually feel. I disregard his insincere comments, as I’m too busy losing myself in the endless multitude of bodies all looking in my direction. Not looking at the plump man at the podium, but at me. All of them soaking up every minor detail about me, enjoying their first actual glimpse of me in person instead of through a camera.
Their eyes grow unbearably heavy on me. I spot Grant in the front row with Abbi on his shoulder, and he shoots me a quick thumbs-up, but his appearance does nothing to ease my agitation. I can’t look out in the crowd anymore. All these smiling, cheerful faces have no reason to be smiling or cheerful. I’m just going along with this lie of false hope.
“…and without further ado,” Jenkins concludes, “here he is! Jaden Foxx!”
And with that, the crowd goes completely berserk. The sudden uproar startles me, even though I was expecting it. People spread out as far as my eyes can see, all deliriously cheering my name. As Jenkins steps away from the podium for me to take his place, I can’t help but hesitate. I don’t want to go up there, but I have to. These people need me to pretend to be their savior.
I unwillingly stand up from my seat, my legs shaking. I carefully step across the stage and up to the podium. I’m awfully slow at this process, but despite the fact that it takes me half a minute to reach the podium, the crowd never ceases their cheers. As I put my mouth to the microphone, they instantly become calm, waiting to be showered with whatever crap this paper has to throw a
t them.
The transition from roaring to silent, again, reflects my first dream, but I try my best to rid of the comparisons and focus instead on getting this speech over with. I put the piece of paper in front of me and begin unfolding it, which takes longer than I wished since my hands are shaking so badly.
The sound of me clearing my throat must be the only sound on the planet. It also sounds vexatious to hear blaring from the heavy speakers behind me. “Good afternoon…” I remember the first words of the speech and nervously say them into the microphone as I continue trying to unfold the paper. I finally get the paper unfolded, but what I find written on the paper is nothing close to the speech I was expecting, and I read it to myself:
Dearest Jaden,
I am sorry for having swapped out your speech with my lovely handwriting, but I’m not sorry enough not to do it. Instead, I leave you with a poem that is far more important than your original speech. I spent hours writing these heartfelt rhymes, so you better enjoy them:
Your purple eyes glisten with every blink
They leave me transfixed like a tune.
And don’t worry, I know what you think:
That you are the only one immune.
But alas, my dear Foxx, you are not alone,
So never believe that “it’s only me”
Because marked with purple and immune from the Cozmin,
You are one of three.
XOXO,
Your Favorite Grim
Oh no. I can’t believe it. That damn Grim stole my speech. That piece of…
What do I do now? I look back into the crowd, with everybody’s excitement slowly fading from their faces and being replaced with my same confusion. I honestly have no clue what to do right now. Why would he steal my speech and hand me this? What does this poem he gave me even mean?
I debate on turning back to my seat and sitting down since I can’t muster up the courage or thoughts to improvise a speech. I don’t want to be here right now. I want to…
And my eyes lose their sight as the crowd in front of me is replaced with sudden black.
4.
Sepia.
Thank God I found a way to escape that situation. Well, for now, that is. I want to be angry at the talking Grim for replacing my speech, and I want to ponder on what the poem he left me with even meant, but I don’t want to worry about that right now. I check my surroundings to see that I’m in a very small bedroom. There’s an old-timey feel to the room; I’m not sure if that’s because the house is old or because this specific flashback has taken me back to the 1950’s.
Lying in a bed low to the ground is a person that I’ve seen before: Phil. I’ve only seen him through flashbacks, but he and Grant were friends when the Cozmin spread. Phil was there by Grant when Dad and my friends left Roaksville, and he was there with Grant when there was only seventeen people left in Roaksville. From what I interpreted from the flashbacks I’ve had before, Grant looked up to Phil like a mentor. However, in this particular scene, Phil is lying in his bed, rolled over on his side and groaning through the mask that, along with his long, silver hair, covers his face. The mask also has a tube that runs out from it and connects to his oxygen tank that sits on the floor.
A door bursts open, and two people appear, wearing identical masks to the one Phil is wearing. A lady that I don’t recognize slowly follows behind Grant, who has already fallen to his knees and crawled to Phil’s bedside to check on his friend.
“Phil, come on buddy, speak to me!” Grant apprehensively tells Phil as he looks him in the eyes, waiting for Phil to return the favor. Phil remains still, quietly moaning in agony.
“He’s been in pain like this for ten minutes,” the lady standing behind Grant tells him. “I know people egotone in different ways, but I’m not sure how much longer he has.”
I had forgotten about the atrocity that is egotoning. Egotoning happens after an infected person has died from the Cozmin. When someone egotones, they’re brought back to life, but are deliriously insane until they’re killed for good. According to what the talking Grim told me, once a person egotones, any characteristics and feelings the person once had are completely gone, but their body isn’t officially dead. With how mercilessly violent and dangerous the egotoned become, it’d be much better if they simply remained dead.
“He’s not going to egotone!” Grant barks at the lady. “He’s made it this far. There’s only four people left in Roaksville, and he’s not going to make it three. He promised me that he would fight until the end, and it’s not the end yet. He’s going to make it out okay.” Grant rubs his nose to keep it from running. “He’s the strongest guy left on this planet.”
The lady looks at Grant not with hope but with pity. She gives him a brutally honest look, one that doesn’t give Phil any chance of making it another minute. The lady’s eyes show that she has had hope ripped from her spirit multiple times, and that holding on to it is useless. Once Grant turns around and looks at her for assurance, he immediately catches the reality of the situation.
“Please… get out,” Grants lowly tells her as his head falls to the bed in front of him. The woman slowly backs out of the door she came in and shuts it behind her.
Grant waits in silence with his forehead near Phil’s mask. I feel like Grant is no longer waiting for Phil to talk back to him but instead waiting for him to quit breathing. “You’re my only friend I have left,” Grant says as a tear falls onto the bed. “You were the closest thing to a father that I ever had. You were so… so positive.” Grant’s voice cracks; he can no longer stop himself from sobbing. “You were honest but always saw a silver lining in things. Even when you knew there wasn’t one.” Grant can barely be understood, so he pauses for a second to regain his composure. In his silence, he listens in to make sure Phil is still breathing, then continues.
“You said that our outcomes were already planned for us,” he says, much clearer now. “You said that it’s not about changing the outcome, but it’s about the fight we give. And you’ve given one hell of a fight.”
Grant lifts his forehead off the bed to face Phil. “You’ve fought enough already. So rest.”
And as if he were following orders, Phil stops breathing. I wait for Grant’s reaction, but he doesn’t give one. His eyes focus on nothing in particular, his face with a solemnness that looks contagious. He doesn’t care anymore. He now has lost the last person in his life he remotely cared about.
Grant reaches in his pocket, pulls out two zipties, and tightens Phil’s wrists together. A few more silent seconds pass by before Phil’s breathing suddenly starts back, very heavy and loud. Grant knows, though, that this isn’t Phil anymore, so he stands up and braces himself for the egotoned version of his friend to attack him.
Phil promptly springs up out of his bed, maliciously howling as he runs at the wall in front of him and slams his head against it. “PAIN!” Phil screams in his thick Cajun accent. He continues bashing his head over and over into the wall until the wood splinters and leaves a caved-in dent.
Grant stands across the room, his fists balled up. Phil, with blood gushing from his forehead, sees Grant and lunges at him. Prepared for the move, Grant punches Phil squarely in the face, sending him to the floor and nearly knocking his mask off.
“Come on, Phil!” Grant yells at his psychotic friend. “You wanted a fight, so here you go. One last fight, for both of us.”
“WORTHLESS! No one ever loved you!” Saliva and blood drips down from Phil’s mask as he tries to free his locked wrists. Frustrated, Phil shoves his fingers in his eyes, then charges at Grant again. This time, Grant kicks him square in the chest, sending him further across the room than before.
“You were my only friend!” Grant yells, the tears again falling from his eyes as he hops back and forth in a boxer’s stance. “I never fought for myself. I fought for you! I fought to keep you alive; you were my hero!”
As Phil remains on the ground, Grant runs across and kicks Phil in the face, sendin
g Phil’s mask flying off and throwing the small oxygen tank it was connected to against the wall. “I owed you everything,” Grant angrily says, kicking Phil each time he tries to get up. “My only job was to keep you alive, and now I’ve failed you! I failed you, Phil! If you can hear me in there, I’m sorry!”
Grant stops kicking Phil and walks over to pick up the oxygen tank. Phil loudly yells more seditious jargon, his words gurgling in his throat along with his blood. Grant stands above Phil, waiting for him to stand back up. “You never deserved to egotone. I always thought you would be the only survivor left. Nothing could stop you, especially not a damn virus.”
Phil raises his bloodied head. The compressed anger from egotoning is still in his eyes, but his body has become too weak to carry through with his rage. Phil’s mouth trembles, but Grant pulls back the tank and swings it as hard as he can before Phil can muster anything else out. The tank meets Phil on the jaw, and Phil is sent back to the floor, face first, motionless.
Grant stares at Phil, waiting for any movement, any retaliation. The bloodied and now deformed tank slowly falls from Grant’s grip, and anguish fills Grant’s face. “You were all I had left.” His chest heaves with every second that passes. He’s so distraught, his face exhausted from the tears that he can’t control.
His sadness is slowly overcome by anger. Grant lets out a loud, tormented yell, one like I’ve never heard. So much heartbreak in this yell, so much loss of any will. It shivers down my spine and gives me goosebumps. This yell is his first realization that there is no more reason for fighting. He said it himself: he was fighting to keep Phil alive. Now what is there to fight for?
Grant turns to the wooden wall next to him and punches it, forcing his hand through it and leaving a hole. He pulls his hand out and repeats the action along the wall, each punch accompanied with a disheartening groan, until his hand is no longer strong enough to break into the wall. His knuckles dripping with blood, he reaches his other hand up to his mouth and yanks the mask on his face off, stripping the tank hooked to his back off with it.