Greyhound by Steffan Piper

He was quiet and stared off into space. For a few moments I thought he might say something, but he didn’t. When he looked down at his hands, I had the urge to speak.
    “What’s your cousin’s name?” I thought it was the best thing to ask. He looked up at me again.
    “His name was Elias.” His response was cold. “The two of us used to spend a lot of time together, but it’s been a long time since I’ve laid eyes on him. He’s thirty-five now. I haven’t seen him in seven years.”
    “What happened to him?”
    “Take a guess, but let’s see if you get it right.” Marcus began folding up his jacket, getting ready to close his eyes for a while. I was starting to feel sleep catching up to me as well.
    “He went to ja…I mean prison.”
    Marcus nodded, made himself comfortable, and yawned. “Yep. You got it, chief.”
    “What did he go to prison for?”
    “You really want to know?”
    “I do,” I said steadfastly.
    “Well, Sebastien…he killed a man. It wasn’t his fault though.” He shook his head. “The man had broken into my mom’s house in the middle of the night. My cousin was there…” Marcus seemed reluctant to tell the story. “He hit the man across the head with a lamp. He fell quick. They said the blow had killed him instantly.”
    “He went to prison for that?” I asked, surprised.
    “The man he killed was white.”
    “What does that matter?” I answered.
    Marcus grinned and eased back into his seat. “Well, unfortunately, life is a little more complicated than you may realize. But that’s another story.” He yawned and slowly began to disappear into the darkness of the bench seat, his clothes and the wood laminate wall behind him.
    “Did your cousin…stop stuttering?” I asked.
    “Why do you want to know?” His eyes were still closed as he answered, and he shifted around a little, trying to find the sweet spot on the seat.
    “I don’t know,” I answered absently. “I sometimes wonder if it will go away.”
    “How long have you stuttered? Since you could first talk?”
    “No,” I rejoined. “Just two years ago.”
    Marcus opened his eyes and glanced over at me sideways. “Two years ago?” He seemed surprised as he repeated my words. “Usually kids who stutter start young, pick it up early. You were, what, ten years old then? Something happened, didn’t it?” His words seemed sharper, more direct. His tone was crisp and had an edge to it. I didn’t know what to say to Marcus about that. Maybe he knew. I wanted to say something, but I realized I was having one of those moments where my mouth wouldn’t function without falling to pieces.
    “Stuttering is often the result of something really bad, something traumatic, that happens. Why don’t you tell me what happened to you two years ago?” he continued. He spoke just above a whisper.
    I turned my face away toward the window, feeling a little ashamed and a little upset. I didn’t have any way to explain it to him, and my brain was telling me that my mouth wouldn’t have a way to speak the words without fumbling all over them.
    “Can…we…” I tried slowly.
    “What? Can we what?” he asked, concerned.
    “Nothing. Can we not talk about it?” I cut myself short, satisfied with what I was able to get out. I felt light-headed, and my throat went dry and began to constrict, as if someone was choking me. The grip felt unbearable. I closed my eyes and did my best to shut down. I was becoming convinced that I was slowly turning into one of those mannequins. I was absolutely useless. They probably wanted to speak but couldn’t, their throats wooden and closed, unable to articulate the personal hell that they were trapped in. It was a life of constant manipulation, with no ability to respond. I feared for myself and what was up ahead. Slowly, I slipped away, letting go of it and everything else. Sleep was the only thing that I had any reasonable control over. Lately, I hadn’t had much of it either. When it