trips to my mouth, choking back sobs that no one but she could hear in that when.
When my future self placed a guitar pick on the coffin and touched it, he looked up for a moment, and in those eyes, I saw everything that I knew I must end. What tragic cycle, what series of events could inspire such madness in those once-forever eyes? The then-gaunt frame sweating under a gray suit suddenly entirely too big, the sun-burned nose a red foil to those pools of teared ash, hands and wrists shaking, scarred with
He was the madness I must end.
Other friends would have asked if I wanted to talk about it. He knew better. He started playing the guitar again and
bonfire, scorching the leaves of the ice storm-tilted tree that was now entirely too close to the pit and the wind was entirely too cold for the early-summer night I knew it was from the taut skin on my nose and arms and neck, the slivers of chaff now roiling beneath the surface of my forearms, placed there not tenderly by hundreds of bales of hay stacked mindlessly into the mow.
His song never changed, never faltered. He hummed along sometimes.
“I miss you.”
A string snapped. His hand went to his neck, found the speck of blood and wiped it away, red from flesh too lifeless, too gray. I thought color back into him.
“Miss you, too, dude.” He pulled the broken string from the guitar and threw it into the fire. He kept playing; he could do that.
There were so many things I wanted to ask: the hows and whys of his hanging, those last moments. What happened after the electricity had flickered away? But I knew that there were no answers in this place. No one within the Judith or Judas programs had any idea what happened when we died. I guess I’d written it that way for a reason. I didn’t really want to know.
“We’ll have to get together the next time you’re home. I should be around.”
The broken string crimped and danced as it burned.
“Yeah.” From that side of the fire, he couldn’t see eyebrows furrow, lips twitch, two lines of tear slip down stubbled cheeks. “I should be home again soon.”
“It’s easier when nowhere feels like home.”
Jagged exhalation. I struggled to maintain.
“Well, the bed is looking pretty good right now.” He placed the guitar back in its battle-scarred case: stickers, newspaper clippings, scatter of plectrums. Snapped the snaps, stood up, brushing ash and bark from his knee-holed jeans.
“Damn, I want some eggnog.” He smiled that sly, shy smile. “Goodnight.” He started to walk down the driveway.
“Jake?”
“Yeah?”
“What do I—How do I—What am I supposed to do?”
He frowned. “Huh?”
I forced a smile. “Want me to drive you home?”
“Oh. Nah. I’ll walk. Stars are out.”
“Be careful.”
“Yeah.”
He walked down the driveway and the image faded to nothing: bubble.
I sat there for a long time.
midsagittal plane breached
it’s spread into
ready lesioning probe on my
physiologic confirmation of the target location
initial pass in three
two
but if i take a few days between sleeping, my dreams have answers in them, and
a pain so great and sudden that he dropped his cup of coffee to the table.
“Paul?” Hope’s voice: confusion and concern.
He felt tissues give way as blood surged from his nose. He coughed in reflex, a fine mist of red spattering his hand as he clamped off the flow with a napkin entirely too flimsy to contain it all.
“Jesus, boy.” West pulled more napkins from the dispenser at the table’s center. “You okay?”
He waved away the extra napkins. His eyebrows furrowed, and the blood was gone as he thought it away. “Don’t know where that came from.”
Benton’s eyes met West’s.
“You need to sleep. You can’t stay awake like this.”
“I don’t need sleep.”
“That wasn’t normal, kid. Nosebleeds don’t just happen like that. Maybe you have high blood—”
“Cardiac shield’s not beeping, is
When my future self placed a guitar pick on the coffin and touched it, he looked up for a moment, and in those eyes, I saw everything that I knew I must end. What tragic cycle, what series of events could inspire such madness in those once-forever eyes? The then-gaunt frame sweating under a gray suit suddenly entirely too big, the sun-burned nose a red foil to those pools of teared ash, hands and wrists shaking, scarred with
He was the madness I must end.
Other friends would have asked if I wanted to talk about it. He knew better. He started playing the guitar again and
bonfire, scorching the leaves of the ice storm-tilted tree that was now entirely too close to the pit and the wind was entirely too cold for the early-summer night I knew it was from the taut skin on my nose and arms and neck, the slivers of chaff now roiling beneath the surface of my forearms, placed there not tenderly by hundreds of bales of hay stacked mindlessly into the mow.
His song never changed, never faltered. He hummed along sometimes.
“I miss you.”
A string snapped. His hand went to his neck, found the speck of blood and wiped it away, red from flesh too lifeless, too gray. I thought color back into him.
“Miss you, too, dude.” He pulled the broken string from the guitar and threw it into the fire. He kept playing; he could do that.
There were so many things I wanted to ask: the hows and whys of his hanging, those last moments. What happened after the electricity had flickered away? But I knew that there were no answers in this place. No one within the Judith or Judas programs had any idea what happened when we died. I guess I’d written it that way for a reason. I didn’t really want to know.
“We’ll have to get together the next time you’re home. I should be around.”
The broken string crimped and danced as it burned.
“Yeah.” From that side of the fire, he couldn’t see eyebrows furrow, lips twitch, two lines of tear slip down stubbled cheeks. “I should be home again soon.”
“It’s easier when nowhere feels like home.”
Jagged exhalation. I struggled to maintain.
“Well, the bed is looking pretty good right now.” He placed the guitar back in its battle-scarred case: stickers, newspaper clippings, scatter of plectrums. Snapped the snaps, stood up, brushing ash and bark from his knee-holed jeans.
“Damn, I want some eggnog.” He smiled that sly, shy smile. “Goodnight.” He started to walk down the driveway.
“Jake?”
“Yeah?”
“What do I—How do I—What am I supposed to do?”
He frowned. “Huh?”
I forced a smile. “Want me to drive you home?”
“Oh. Nah. I’ll walk. Stars are out.”
“Be careful.”
“Yeah.”
He walked down the driveway and the image faded to nothing: bubble.
I sat there for a long time.
midsagittal plane breached
it’s spread into
ready lesioning probe on my
physiologic confirmation of the target location
initial pass in three
two
but if i take a few days between sleeping, my dreams have answers in them, and
a pain so great and sudden that he dropped his cup of coffee to the table.
“Paul?” Hope’s voice: confusion and concern.
He felt tissues give way as blood surged from his nose. He coughed in reflex, a fine mist of red spattering his hand as he clamped off the flow with a napkin entirely too flimsy to contain it all.
“Jesus, boy.” West pulled more napkins from the dispenser at the table’s center. “You okay?”
He waved away the extra napkins. His eyebrows furrowed, and the blood was gone as he thought it away. “Don’t know where that came from.”
Benton’s eyes met West’s.
“You need to sleep. You can’t stay awake like this.”
“I don’t need sleep.”
“That wasn’t normal, kid. Nosebleeds don’t just happen like that. Maybe you have high blood—”
“Cardiac shield’s not beeping, is
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