by Amanda Miga
I think about all the times I wasn’t as careful as I should’ve been. What was I doing wrong? I’ve gotten too comfortable. How could I fix this? I can't—I can only hope I'm wrong.
"What do you wanna watch tonight?" Josh asks.
Since when did it matter? He turned the TV off anyway. "I don't know. I'm pretty tired. I'll end up falling asleep." I play with a loose string. Josh is watching me too closely, and then leans in too closely. His energy heats my left side like a growing fire.
I get up.
"What's up with you today?" Josh says.
"Nothing, I'm just tired," I massage my neck. The heat is stuck to my skin like a lingering kiss.
"All day you've been acting weird. And I’m not talking about Eric Anderson." Josh stands.
My insides are starting to boil and my skin is vibrating. It feels good and I want to feel more, but Josh is my friend.
He steps closer examining my face for something.
I exhale deeply from the burning sensation. Josh shouldn’t be this close. My hands want to reach out, but I clench them at my sides.
"I knew it. You can feel it too." Josh steps closer.
"What?" I try to look surprised, but I'm a terrible liar.
"Oh, come on, Gabriel, every time I get close, you automatically back away. There's a feeling. It isn't just about being touched is it?"
I avoid his gaze. Backing away every time Josh approaches until my back hits the bathroom door.
“Gabriel. What is this?” Josh’s voice shakes.
I feel my friend’s heat wash over me.
“It’s like my skin is being pulled and my blood rushes forward. It’s you. Isn’t it?”
It’s unavoidable. I'm about to lose another friend. Josh’s breathing picks up and I watch my friend’s eyes search mine.
"Gabriel, you know what this is, don't you?"
I don't know how to answer, my body is starting up and I can feel Josh invading.
“You’re doing it. You're making this feel—"
“Josh, please—"
The sound of his voice doesn't sound friendly, it sounds erotic. I hate it.
This unwanted arousal increases like a volcano ready to erupt. He's watching me too closely. I have to look away. It’s hard to hold back as tears flooding my eyes. I'm praying Josh doesn't touch me. Oh God, please not him.
Josh touches me shoulder. The magnetic force is hard to hold back, like a tsunami it's about to force itself on my best friend’s body.
Josh jumps back at the sudden knock at the door, and I slip into the bathroom. I hear Josh's mom tell him my clothes are clean and if we wanted any snacks.
I sit on the floor with the door locked. After hearing Mrs. Masterson leave, Josh attempts the doorknob.
“Please let me in. I want to—"
I feel something. With the door between them, Josh stays on the other side quietly. But I know he’s basking in a chemical cocktail of curiosity and desire. Delighted in it, I lean against the door where I can feel Josh more intensely without hurting him. A rush of excitement almost makes me open the door, but I wrestle with it. I know Josh wants sexual contact. It's a physical reaction to me Josh has no control over.
My legs won’t stop moving, a need for the sexual fix is making my body protest the separation. I've never cut-off the cycle when it starts. I'll have to open the door at some point. As I wrestle my urges, Josh giving in to his. I'm making Josh touch himself. My guilt begins to overtake the sexual desire and I move into the tub away from the door. The space between us will give them both a chance to collect ourselves.
An hour passes before I approach the door to feel if Josh’s presence still lurks on the other side. I don't sense him. Opening the bathroom door, I see Josh sitting on the floor, in the shadows. He has his arms resting on his knees, his face an undefinable in the dark.
My clothes are just outside the bathroom, so I grab them and dress. I leave the bathroom while Josh's eyes follow me. I decide that staying here will be wrong, so I grab my backpack and leave.
Chapter Four
Gabriel
I'm relieved to see my stepfather's truck in the driveway. Garden cherubs and flowers make the house look innocent enough for anyone to call home—not me. This place holds hurtful memories.
Walking into the house, more religious angels, crosses and Jesus invade every surface. This isn't my home. My God fearing mother believes heart and soul that I'm not her son, but something evil. Often spitting random prayers under her breathe when I'm in the house. There have been multiple incidences she'd invited priests over to exorcise me. She claims I'm possessed with demons. I remember vividly at eight years old, strapped to a chair as they poured holy water and shoved crosses in my face assuming it would drive out whatever was inside of me.
At this point in my life, I wish my mother was right. If only the burden could be removed. I know it’s my fault. She feels and thinks unnatural things for me. Unnatural schizoid thoughts about your son will lead you to think he's a demon. Maybe I am. I don't feel bad for her. I don't feel anything for her. She’s ignored what has been happening under her roof with me for years; things that cannot be undone.
I'm older now, coming and going as I please. I'm rarely home. If an unfamiliar car is in the driveway then I have to find another place to sleep for the night. Tonight I have nowhere to sleep.
My mother immediately starts her praying ritual, following me around the house at a safe distance, splashing holy water, holding her rosary tight enough to leave an impression in her palm. My foot hits the stairs and she backs away. She never follows. She knows the devil's room is upstairs.
My bedroom is peaceful without her presence, but it still isn't what I'd call heaven. Terrible things happened to me there. Things that happened in my bed are the worst; I’ll never sleep in it again. The nest of dingy pillows and unwashed blankets on the floor is my new bed, but even the floor is tainted.
My stepfather loathes me, wishing I was more like Daniel, my older brother, but it didn’t stop him from comparing my beautiful eyes to my brother's. Daniel left; leaving me alone to fend off my stepfather.
I lock the door with a deadbolt. Now-a-days my stepfather doesn't bother me; he’s never home. When he is, it’s time to leave.
I look at myself in the mirror. My piercing green eyes are tired; I can't bear to look at them too long. Beautiful eyes are what my stepfather liked about Daniel, a characteristic he and I share. My jet black hair is damp and my skin clean for now from Josh's house.
I settle on the unwashed pile. The musty smell of a blanket that hasn’t seen the washer in years is draped across my clothed body. My legs curl and my sneakers stay on to keep my feet warm.
I'm still wearing Josh’s underwear.
I stuff my face in a bunched shirt I'm using as a pillow. The crying tires me to thoughtlessness until my eye lids are too heavy and my breathing evens out to sleep.
***
Gabriel
Without my backpack, and more importantly without my hoodie, I brace myself. I'm standing on Main Street well aware that I'm without the one thing that usually protects me from prying eyes—but there are no people.
The sun is a little past its peak. The street is empty of the usual lunchtime hustle and bustle.
I habitually stuff my hands in my pockets and my shoulders hunch in attempt to hide even though there seems to be no one to hide from. I glance up at a shop window only to see my reflection doing just the opposite.
My mirror image stands tall with his shoulders confidently back. The green in his eyes are too bright for it to be mine and the sinister grin doesn’t display correctly my own quivering lips. My reflection's hand rubs his chest and digs his fingernails where his heart is.
I look down at my own body in which my hands have not moved from my pockets.
My reflection's hand breaks flesh and reaches into his chest. My hands retreat from my pockets and touch the area over my rapidly beating heart. My reflection pulls out his c
oated black hand. The blood-like substance oozes out of my reflection’s chest until his blue jeans are dyed in the unnatural shade of black.
Instinctively, my feet move away from the window of illusion to notice that black blood is seeping out around the window frame, dripping onto the pavement at my feet.
I stumble back as the blackness pools quickly. It creeps toward me. My mirror image's black blood is endlessly flooding out of his chest. His mouth opens and more of the evil liquid seeps out.
I run.
A brief look behind me, the blood paints the walkway into tar. My own shadow is following me. The other shop windows are blackening as if the reflection is also chasing me.
I reach an intersection. All of the stores close their doors and shut their blinds. I walk into the street to watch the sidewalks change from pavement to black tar. The sun is veiled in dark clouds; the warm afternoon turns to a cold night in an instant. There’s nowhere else to run without stepping into the fearsome shadows.
Everything is painted in darkness—except one door. An antique shop is untainted and the path to it unchanged. I walk to it with the dark substance pulsing at the edges of the path; frightened of the light casting from the shop's lamp.
I go into the shop and immediately feel relief in the atmosphere. Nothing is oozing anywhere. I peek out of the door window. It seems night has fallen and Main Street looks normal for the exception of no people; nothing is going on outside. All traces of the nightmarish scene have disappeared. I'm not taking any chances and decide to hang out in the shop for a bit.
A pile of bowls wobbles when my elbow hits them. A deer horn coat rack nearly takes out an eye. I'm used to places like this; often browsing to delay the time before having to go home. It’s seems like an ordinary place, yet it feels not—maybe because it isn’t contaminated with the black stuff.
I follow a narrow path among the disarray of items. The labyrinth of stuff leads to the back of the store where the shop keeper catches my eye. All shop keepers tend to look the same; cookie cutter old men with reading glasses, but this one is different. He looks too young and too attractive to fit the mold.
I usually avoid the counter where the shopkeeper sits. They usually watch me browse, thinking I might steal their junk. Right now all I want to do is go to the counter to take a closer look at the handsome man.
The shopkeeper is tending to another boy, so I wait patiently at the very far end of the counter. As I get closer to listen, I get a good look at the man behind the counter. His simple black clothes, black hair is a lot like mine. His eyes are the most striking—gray, no wait blue. No. I swear that they’re changing color. It’s so fast I miss the transition from one to the next. What's even stranger than the rainbow eyes is the attraction I feel toward him; a need to know this man like I would a pretty girl.
I approach the counter and overhear the boy's name—Alex. He reminds me of Josh with the dirty blond hair, only taller. I can tell from the way he looks, he's one of those popular boys girls seem to naturally flock too. He has an older look and a more defined jaw than boys my age. The way he stands shows he's a confident guy; probably plays sports. Yes, this Alex is the ones girls want. Alex browses at the various weaponry and war collectibles displayed in the counter case.
Alex points to a dark green helmet.
The shopkeeper smiles and opens the case to retrieve it.
"It's an M1 helmet; it was standard to the American military for forty years. This one is from 1941 to '42. Check the shell liner," the shopkeeper smiles. I like his voice and I want him to keep talking. The register of his voice is just as pleasing as the sight of him.
Alex flips the helmet over. I see on the fiber liner a faint double “A”. Alex places it on his head. The boy's face lights up.
“I don't hear a thing. It’s finally quiet.”
"It should do the trick,” the shopkeeper smiles.
"How much?" Alex digs into his pockets.
"You've already paid." The man hands him a photo. "Here's your receipt."
"Oh," Alex stares at the photo.
It isn't a receipt. I catches a glimpse of the photo—a girl’s face. Alex seems content with his transaction and leaves.
The man behind counter looks at me, forcing my unworthy eyes to shy away. My scalp begins to prickle as he approaches. I feel weak, like crashing after a sugar rush, but I'm not sleepy. My heart is pumping a little faster and a strange sensation in the front of my body makes me want to get closer to the shopkeeper. I never wanted to obey a bodily craving before—it's a terrible thing, but this is different. This is the opposite of what I usually feel with the force between myself and another. The man has an overwhelming gravity. His beautiful eyes flicker from one color to the next like a kaleidoscope, luring me closer.
"I'm sorry, Gabriel." The man's voice is sincere, but there is an attractive quality in it that matches the personal gravity that tugs my body.
How does he know my name?
The invisible tension subsides. I know this feeling is like my own lure, but how is it suddenly diminished? If he's like me, how come the gravity stops without him moving away?
"I'm Red,” he holds out his hand for a shake. I'm afraid.
"You don't have to be frightened." His voice still has a character that makes me want Red to keep talking. My eyes switch from the shopkeeper's lips to his eyes. It’s hard not to stare at such a handsome face and such other-worldly eyes. I look at his out stretched hand and shake it.
The touch is not at all what I was expecting. It feels like... nothing—a first for me and a relief. I want to ask how he made the sensation go away and how I don’t feel anything at all now.
“You remind me of me.” Red smiles and his eyes settle on a sapphire color.
How can that be? I know I'm ugly inside and dirty outside. My actions are perverted and so is my history as a human being. I can’t even keep from losing a friend. I'm nothing. My mouth closes and tightens at my own self-loathing. Red is mistaken.
“No need to beat yourself up. You are just the opposite what you think you are.” Red’s eyes blink and this simple, yet natural bodily habit is beyond beautiful. “Like you, I used to think I can only be one way. But for you, Gabriel, you can be many ways. Take a garden for instance, in each season, it changes with the climate; cold and dormant; warm and blossomed.
My mouth parts, but not a word comes out. No one has ever said something so kind and something so beautiful about him in all my life. I can’t be a garden. I'm more of a weed in a pretty garden.
“You know better about weeds, Gabriel." Red's brow lifts.
He's right. How does he know that? Weeds are not what they seem, yet people are always quick to pull them out of their garden. I hate that.
"I know you’ve adapted—survived,” Red’s forehead creases, “without any help. For that I’m deeply sorry. But I can see that you're strong, brave and beautiful.”
Before I can oppose, Red turns away to climb a step stool.
"I have something for you." He reaches for a small wooden box on top of a book case full of strange masks. One of them is black with a strange grin that looks like the reflection I ran from. He places the box on the counter. Black birds with ornate leaves and vines carved all around it. Red pushes the box to me. For me? I open the box and see a golf ball sized orb glowing like a light bulb. Upon touching it, the ball disintegrates into my fingertips. A tingling sensation rides through my hand and up my arm until the feeling is gone.
“I’m sorry.” I look up to Red. “I didn’t mean to kill it.”
“Those are funny first words,” Red laughs.
First words? I haven't said a word until now.
"You seem to understand that it's living. It’s not dead, Gabriel. It's alive inside you. For now it will ensure your seasonal transition from one way to another more quickly. You'll keep it until you don't need it. When you understand who you really are, you can give it away.
"Give it away? But it's inside me." How can somethi
ng be sucked into me like that? People are lured to me; I take and take but never give. Giving means getting close, it means...
"Don't be afraid to let your true self out."
The thought is frightening. Being close is the worst thing I could ever do. I can't burden anyone ever again, especially because of what I did to mom and Josh. Red is mistaken; he can't possibly understand what it's like to only take.
Blood drips down Red's forehead. His fingers touch the blood and Red looks at it with a worrisome expression.
"You're bleeding."
Red fakes a smile as if the bleeding didn't matter. "One more thing, Gabriel—" in an instant, a girl comes to my mind. An older girl with thick brown wavy hair, brown eyes and a smile to die for brings a strange feeling that I care for her, but can't place a single memory of ever meeting her. How can I care for someone I don't know?
The light in the shop flickers.
"She'll be looking for you." Red shuts his eyes. More blood drips from his forehead. "Trust her, Gabriel."
I suddenly feel sick. Something about the atmosphere changed. I look behind him. The black substance is suddenly covering everything in the shop, inching closer like black lava. Red's nose bleeds. He falls back against the bookcase.