Flash Fiction Day 2018
When Lilian returned her gaze to him, there was an emptiness in her eyes. Al didn’t like feeling like he had been dismissed. He started to rise when her fingers scorched his wrist. The hairs on Al’s arms bristled and he jerked back, but Lilian didn’t loosen her hold. He found it both impressive and terrifying the cold fury that emanated from her.
“We aren’t done.” She hissed.
6:32: He hadn’t noticed the sun dipping down beneath the trees. He shoved his hands into his pockets. There was a chill in the air even though it was still early evening. The light cast an amber glow upon the lake and the red leaves reflected across it surface were pierced by its rays. It reminded Bruce of marbles. Even though it should’ve been beautiful, he shuddered. It hadn’t been an easy decision coming home. He felt neither its soundness nor its security.
It was that damn dream. It came back to haunt him. How long ago had he and Michael sat beside these same waters? They had thrown pebbles into them and watched the ripples spread until they eventually disappeared. This same sky hung above them. Nothing seemed to change, even after Mikey mysteriously vanished. Except everything did. The waters seemed sinister. How often did Bruce dream about the bones? Where had Mikey gone? Did they bury him here? How could they have?
9:42: Tom hated that the image of the gun came to mind. It gave him something to fall back on, an idea as terrifying as it was exciting. What if he didn’t want to die? His thoughts contradicted each other. It was like being trapped inside a vacuum cleaner. He couldn’t separate the good from the bad. The gun was one of many small particles intermingled with his will to survive, to see it through another day and, even when he wound down and went to sleep, Tom sensed them lying in wait.
10:09: I didn’t know that there was something wrong with me, but then they began treating me differently, as if I had a disease that only affected one in one thousand people. They spoke in whispers. I grew up with the idea that I was “bad” and I “didn’t try hard enough.” The medication made it worse. It’s one thing to believe there’s something so terribly wrong with you that you’re sent out of class every day and another to feel like this pill is the only thing that makes you normal.
Even more so if it doesn’t help. When you go from simply being bad to being a problem child, your emotions begin spinning out of control. You don’t know what’s wrong with you. Why can’t you remember to raise your hand? Why are you always interrupting? What drives you to keep gong long after everybody else has given up? I didn’t notice how much their words hurt me. It’s strange. I feel like the world is in fast forward. My mind moves much too quickly. But, at the same time, it’s as if everything’s frozen and I’m always a step behind everybody else.
I walk through the halls with my head down. It’s impossible to make yourself invisible when you’ve grown from a loud child into a louder and unruly teenager. There’s an elbow in your ribcage. Snickers. You’re no longer the class clown. You’re a laughing stock. You don’t try hard enough. Your friends have gone from two or three to none. Avoid eye contact. Don’t say anything stupid. When I walk through those hallways, I wish I was dead. They can give you a pill to slow you down and make you more like everybody else but not one to make you likable. And this is the only time when I can say, yes, I really have given up trying.
10:42: “It’s exhausting trying to remember whose memories belong to who. I feel like they’re forcing me to choose between the two but, if I tell them I feel more comfortable as Augustus, they won’t believe me. They’ll think something is wrong.” Beau smiled sadly. “The problem with having a past life is I feel it more strongly. Those thoughts and feelings have always been there, but I have to pretend that now is all there is.”
He could tell that neither of his friends wanted to believe him. He saw it in their eyes. They exchanged a quick glance, as if wondering whether or not to interrupt. It didn’t help that he had come to them barefoot and bleeding. There were glass splinters still tearing at his hands. He gestured at them helplessly.
Beau’s parents were holding him in his old room. They tried erasing Augustus. No matter how hard he tried explaining it, the night terrors he had as a child and memories that trickled in and made it difficult to distinguish past from present, they refused to believe Beau. But he wasn’t crazy. He hadn’t made it up. He just hoped that Al and Lilian saw that. He couldn’t go back. Not now, when he had done everything in his power to escape. How could he prove he was telling the truth?
(6:32) I need a lot of practice, but one day I intend to be able to write any genre I should so choose. Bruce and Michael were supposed to be the story for last year's Camp NaNoWriMo, but Mitch took over.
(9:42) But what is a day without Tom Matt?
(10:09) Aaron in his true to self format, journal style. Apparently, nothing eventful is going on in my head today. As usual. I may need to borrow somebody's brain.